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21228	----	White Lilac, by Amy Walton ________________________________________________________________ Mrs White had had several children before the birth of this one, but they had all died. This makes her quite determined to make sure that this one survives. She was telling a visitor that she thought of calling the baby Annie, in honour of the visitor, but she had just been saying how much she loved white lilacs, and her husband had brought a branch of it over from a nearby village. So the visitor said, call her Lilac White, as there were already too many Annie Whites in the village. Unfortunately the father dies shortly after, and the mother has to bring the child up on her own. Now she is twelve, and a pretty child. A visiting artist asks if he may put her in one of his pictures. Lilac goes off with her cousin Agnetta, who believes she needs a new hair-do. Needless to say, the result is not attractive to the artist, who now refuses to put her in the picture. Other characters in the story are Uncle Joshua, who is a good and well-loved man, and Peter, probably in his late teens, who is a farm worker, well-intentioned but clumsy. A big event in the village is May Day, and there is rivalry among the girls about which of them shall be Queen of the May. It is Lilac. Yet that very day her mother is taken ill and dies. She is taken to their home by a farmer and his wife, and taught the dairymaid arts such as butter and cheese making. In those days a girl such as Lilac would hope to be taken into domestic service and trained up to such high levels as house-keeper or cook. Lilac has some opportunities--will she or won't she take them up? A lovely book that takes us back to long-gone days in the pastoral England of the 1850s. NH ________________________________________________________________ WHITE LILAC, BY AMY WALTON CHAPTER ONE. A BUNCH OF LILAC. "What's in a name?"--_Shakespeare_. Mrs James White stood at her cottage door casting anxious glances up at the sky, and down the hill towards the village. If it were fine the rector's wife had promised to come and see the baby, "and certainly," thought Mrs White, shading her eyes with her hand, "you might call it fine--for April." There were sharp showers now and then, to be sure, but the sun shone between whiles, and sudden rays darted through her little window strong enough to light up the whole room. Their searching glances disclosed nothing she was ashamed of, for they showed that the kitchen was neat and well ordered, with bits of good substantial furniture in it, such as a long-bodied clock, table, and dresser of dark oak. These polished surfaces smiled back again cheerfully as the light touched them, and the row of pewter plates on the high mantelshelf glistened so brightly that they were as good as so many little mirrors. But beside these useful objects the sunlight found out two other things in the room, at which it pointed its bright finger with special interest. One of these was a large bunch of pure white lilac which stood on the window sill in a brown mug, and the other was a wicker cradle in which lay something very much covered up in blankets. After a last lingering look down the hill, where no one was in sight, Mrs White shut her door and settled herself to work, with the lilac at her elbow, and the cradle at her foot. She rocked this gently while she sewed, and turned her head now and then, when her needle wanted threading, to smell the delicate fragrance of the flowers. Her face was grave, with a patient and rather sad expression, as though her memories were not all happy ones; but by degrees, as she sat there working and rocking, some pleasant thought brought a smile to her lips and softened her eyes. This became so absorbing that presently she did not see a figure pass the window, and when a knock at the door followed, she sprang up startled to open it for her expected visitor. "I'd most given you up, ma'am," she said as the lady entered, "but I'm very glad to see you." It was not want of cordiality but want of breath which caused a beaming smile to be the only reply to this welcome. The hill was steep, the day was mild, and Mrs Leigh was rather stout. She at once dropped with a sigh of relief, but still smiling, into a chair, and cast a glance full of interest at the cradle, which Mrs White understood as well as words. Bending over it she peeped cautiously in amongst the folds of flannel. "She's so fast, it's a sin to take her up, ma'am," she murmured, "but I _would_ like you to see her." Mrs Leigh had now recovered her power of speech. "Don't disturb her for the world," she said, "I'm not going away yet. I shall be glad to rest a little. She'll wake presently, I dare say. What is it," she continued, looking round the room, "that smells so delicious? Oh, what lovely lilac!" as her eye rested on the flowers in the window. Mrs White had taken up her sewing again. "I always liked the laylocks myself, ma'am," she said, "partic'ler the white ones. It were a common bush in the part I lived as a gal, but there's not much hereabouts." "Where did you get it?" asked Mrs Leigh, leaning forward to smell the pure-white blossoms; "I thought there was only the blue in the village." "Why, no more there is," said Mrs White with a half-ashamed smile; "but Jem, he knows I'm a bit silly over them, and he got 'em at Cuddingham t'other day. You see, the day I said I'd marry him he gave me a bunch of white laylocks--and that's ten years ago. Sitting still so much more than I'm used lately, with the baby, puts all sorts of foolishness into my head, and when you knocked just now it gave me quite a start, for the smell of the laylocks took me right back to the days when we were sweetheartin'." "How _is_ Jem?" asked Mrs Leigh, glancing at a gun which stood in the chimney corner. "He's _well_, ma'am, thank you, but out early and home late. There's bin poaching in the woods lately, and the keepers have a lot of trouble with 'em." "None of _our_ people, I _hope_?" said the rector's wife anxiously. "Oh dear, no, ma'am! A gipsy lot--a cruel wild set, to be sure, from what Jem says, and fight desperate." There was a stir amongst the blankets in the cradle just then, and presently a little cry. The baby was _awake_. Very soon she was in Mrs Leigh's arms, who examined the tiny face with great interest, while the mother stood by, silent, but eager for the first expression of admiration. "What a beautifully fair child!" exclaimed Mrs Leigh. "Everyone says that as sees her," said Mrs White with quiet triumph. "She features my mother's family--they all had such wonderful white skins. But," anxiously, "you don't think she looks weakly, do you, ma'am?" "Oh, no," answered Mrs Leigh in rather a doubtful tone. She stood up and weighed the child in her arms, moving nearer the window. "She's a little thing, but I dare say she's not the less strong for that." "It makes me naturally a bit fearsome over her," said Mrs White; "for, as you know, ma'am, I've buried three children since we've bin here. Ne'er a one of 'em all left me. It seems when I look at this little un as how I _must_ keep her. I don't seem as if I _could_ let her go too." "Oh, she'll grow up and be a comfort to you, I don't doubt," said Mrs Leigh cheerfully. "Fair-complexioned children are very often wonderfully healthy and strong. But really," she continued, looking closely at the baby's face, "I never saw such a skin in my life. Why, she's as white as milk, or snow, or a lily, or--" She paused for a comparison, and suddenly added, as her eye fell on the flowers, "or that bunch of lilac." "You're right, ma'am," agreed Mrs White with a smile of intense gratification. "And if I were you," continued Mrs Leigh, her good-natured face beaming all over with a happy idea, "I should call her `Lilac'. That would be a beautiful name for her. Lilac White. Nothing could be better; it seems made for her." Mrs White's expression changed to one of grave doubt. "It do _seem_ as how it would fit her," she said; "but that's not a Christian name, is it, ma'am?" "Well, it would make it one if you had her christened so, you see." "I was thinking of making so bold as to call her `Annie', and to ask you to stand for her, ma'am." "And so I will, with pleasure. But don't call her Annie; we've got so many Annies in the parish already it's quite confusing--and so many Whites too. We should have to say `Annie White on the hill' every time we spoke of her. I'm always mixing them up as it is. _Don't_ call her Annie, Mrs White, Lilac's far better. Ask your husband what he thinks of it." "Oh! Jem, he'll think as I do, ma'am," said Mrs White at once; "it isn't _Jem_." "Who is it, then? If you both like the name it can't matter to anyone else." "Well, ma'am," said Mrs White hesitatingly, as she took her child from Mrs Leigh, and rocked it gently in her arms, "they'll all say down below in the village, as how it's a fancy sort of a name, and maybe when she grows up they'll laugh at her for it. I shouldn't like to feel as how I'd given her a name to be made game of." But Mrs Leigh was much too pleased with her fancy to give it up, and she smilingly overcame this objection and all others. It was a pretty, simple, and modest-sounding name, she said, with nothing in it that could be made laughable. It was short to say, and above all it had the advantage of being uncommon; as it was, so many mothers had desired the honour of naming their daughters after the rector's wife, that the number of "Annies" was overwhelming, but there certainly would not be two "Lilac Whites" in the village. In short, as Mrs White told Jem that evening, Mrs Leigh was "that set" on the name that she had to give in to her. And so it was settled; and wonderfully soon afterwards it was rumoured in the village that Mrs James White on the hill meant to call her baby "Lilac." This could not matter to anyone else, Mrs Leigh had said, but she was mistaken. Every mother in the parish had her opinion to offer, for there were not so many things happening, that even the very smallest could be passed over without a proper amount of discussion when neighbours met. On the whole they were not favourable opinions. It was felt that Mrs White, who had always held herself high and been severe on the follies of her friends, had now in her turn laid herself open to remark by choosing an outlandish and fanciful name for her child. Lilies, Roses, and even Violets were not unknown in Danecross, but who had ever heard of Lilac? Mrs Greenways said so, and she had a right to speak, not only because she lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish, but because her husband was Mrs White's brother. She said it at all times and in all places, but chiefly at "Dimbleby's", for if you dropped in there late in the afternoon you were pretty sure to find acquaintances, eager to hear and tell news; and this was specially the case on Saturday, which was shopping day. Dimbleby's was quite a large shop, and a very important one, for there was no other in the village; it was rather dark, partly because the roof was low-pitched, and partly because of the wonderful number and variety of articles crammed into it, so that it would have puzzled anyone to find out what Dimbleby did not sell. The air was also a little thick to breathe, for there floated in it a strange mixture, made up of unbleached calico, corduroy, smockfrocks, boots, and bacon. All these articles and many others were to be seen piled up on shelves or counters, or dangling from the low beams overhead; and, lately, there had been added to the stock a number of small clocks, stowed away out of sight. Their hasty ceaseless little voices sounded in curious contrast to the slowness of things in general at Dimbleby's: "Tick-tack, tick-tack,--Time flies, time flies", they seemed to be saying over and over again. Without effect, for at Dimbleby's time never flew; he plodded along on dull and heavy feet, and if he had wings at all he dragged them on the ground. You had only to look at the face of the master of the shop to see that speed was impossible to him, and that he was justly known as the slowest man in the parish both in speech and action. This was hardly considered a failing, however, for it had its advantages in shopping; if he was slow himself, he was quite willing that others should be so too, and to stand in unmoved calm while Mrs Jones fingered a material to test its quality, or Mrs Wilson made up her mind between a spot and a sprig. It was therefore a splendid place for a bit of talk, for he was so long in serving, and his customers were so long in choosing, that there was an agreeable absence of pressure, and time to drink a cup of gossip down to its last drop of interest. "I don't understand myself what Mary White would be at," said Mrs Greenways. She stood waiting in the shop while Dimbleby thoughtfully weighed out some sugar for her; a stout woman with a round good-natured face, framed in a purple-velvet bonnet and nodding flowers; her long mantle matched the bonnet in stylishness, and was richly trimmed with imitation fur, but the large strong basket on her arm, already partly full of parcels, was quite out of keeping with this splendid attire. The two women who stood near, listening with eager respect to her remarks, were of very different appearance; their poor thin shawls were put on without any regard for fashion, and their straight cotton dresses were short enough to show their clumsy boots, splashed with mud from the miry country lanes. The edge of Mrs Greenways' gown was also draggled and dirty, for she had not found it easy to hold it up and carry a large basket at the same time. "I thought," she went on, "as how Mary White was all for plain names, and homely ways, and such-like." "She _do say_ so," said the woman nearest to her, cautiously. "Then, as I said to Greenways this morning, `It's not a consistent act for your sister to name her child like that. Accordin' to her you ought to have names as simple and common as may be.' Why, think of what she said when I named my last, which is just a year ago. `And what do you think of callin' her?' says she. `Why,' says I, `I think of giving her the name of Agnetta.' `Dear me!' says she; `whyever do you give your girls such fine names? There's your two eldest, Isabella and Augusta; I'd call this one Betsy, or Jane, or Sarah, or something easy to say, and suitable.'" "_Did_ she, now?" said both the listeners at once. "And it's not only that," continued Mrs Greenways with a growing sound of injury in her voice, "but she's always on at me when she gets a chance about the way I bring my girls up. `You'd a deal better teach her to make good butter,' says she, when I told her that Bella was learning the piano. And when I showed her that screen Gusta worked-- lilies on blue satting, a re'lly elegant thing--she just turned her head and says, `I'd rather, if she were a gal of mine, see her knit her own stockings.' Those were her words, Mrs Wishing." "Ah, well, it's easy to talk," replied Mrs Wishing soothingly, "we'll be able to see how she'll bring up a daughter of her own now." "I'm not saying," pursued Mrs Greenways, turning a watchful eye on Mr Dimbleby's movements, "that Mary White haven't a perfect right to name her child as she chooses. I'm too fair for that, I _hope_. What I do say is, that now she's picked up a fancy sort of name like Lilac, she hasn't got any call to be down on other people. And if me and Greenways likes to see our girls genteel and give 'em a bit of finishing eddication, and set 'em off with a few accomplishments, it's our own affair and not Mary White's. And though I say it as shouldn't, you won't find two more elegant gals than Gusta and Bella, choose where you may." During the last part of her speech Mrs Greenways had been poking and squeezing her parcel of sugar into its appointed corner of her basket; as she finished she settled it on her arm, clutched at her gown with the other hand, and prepared to start. "And now, as I'm in a hurry, I'll say good night, Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing, and good night to you, Mr Dimbleby." She rolled herself and her burden through the narrow door of the shop, and for a moment no one spoke, while all the little clocks ticked away more busily than ever. "She's got enough to carry," said Mrs Pinhorn, breaking silence at last, with a sideway nod at her neighbour. "She have _so_," agreed Mrs Wishing mildly; "and I wonder, that I do, to see her carrying that heavy basket on foot--she as used to come in her spring cart." Mrs Pinhorn pressed her lips together before answering, then she said with meaning: "They're short of hands just now at Orchards Farm, and maybe short of horses too." "You don't say so!" said Mrs Wishing, drawing nearer. "My Ben works there, as you know, and he says money's scarce there, very scarce indeed. One of the men got turned off only t'other day." "Lor', now, to think of that!" exclaimed Mrs Wishing in an awed manner. "An' her in that bonnet an' all them artificials!" "There's a deal," continued Mrs Pinhorn, "in what Mrs White says about them two Greenways gals with their fine-lady ways. It 'ud a been better to bring 'em up handy in the house so as to help their mother. As it is, they're too finnicking to be a bit of use. You wouldn't see either of _them_ with a basket on their arm, they'd think it lowering themselves. And I dare say the youngest 'll grow up just like 'em." "There's a deal in what Mrs Greenways's just been saying too," remarked the woman called Mrs Wishing in a hesitating voice, "for Mrs James White _is_ a very strict woman and holds herself high, and `Lilac' is a fanciful kind of a name; but _I_ dunno." She broke off as if feeling incapable of dealing with the question. "I can't wonder myself," resumed Mrs Pinhorn, "at Mrs Greenways being a bit touchy. You heard, I s'pose, what Mrs White up and said to her once? You didn't? Well, she said, `You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, and you'll never make them girls ladies, try all you will,' says she. `Useless things you'll make 'em, fit for neither one station or t'other.'" "That there's plain speaking!" said Mrs Wishing admiringly. Mr Dimbleby had not uttered a word during this conversation, and was to all appearance entirely occupied in weighing out, tying up parcels, and receiving orders. In reality, however, he had not lost a word of it, and had been getting ready to speak for some time past. Neither of the women, who were well acquainted with him, was at all surprised when he suddenly remarked: "It were Mrs Leigh herself as had to do with the name of Mrs James White's baby." "Re'lly, now?" said Mrs Wishing doubtfully. "An' it were Mrs Leigh herself as I heard it from," continued Dimbleby ponderously, without noticing the interruption. "Well, that makes a difference, don't it now?" said Mrs Pinhorn. "Why ever didn't you name that afore, Mr Dimbleby?" "And," added Dimbleby, grinding on to the end of his speech regardless of hindrance, like a machine that has been wound up; "and Mrs Leigh herself is goin' to stand for the baby." "Lor'! I do wish Mrs Greenways could a heard that," said Mrs Pinhorn; "that'll set Mrs White up more than ever." "It will so," said Mrs Wishing; "she allers did keep herself _to_ herself did Mrs White. Not but what she's a decent woman and a kind. Seems as how, if Mrs Leigh wished to name the child `Lilac', she couldn't do no other than fall in with it. But _I_ dunno." "And how does the name strike you, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Pinhorn, turning to a newcomer. He was an oldish man, short and broad-shouldered, with a large head and serious grey eyes. Not only his leather apron, but the ends of his stumpy fingers, which were discoloured and brown, showed that he was a cobbler by trade. When Mrs Pinhorn spoke to him, he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, took off his hat, and passed his hand over his high bald forehead. "What name may you be alludin' to, ma'am?" he enquired very politely. "The name `Lilac' as Mrs James White's goin' to call her child." "Lilac--eh! Lilac White. White Lilac," repeated the cobbler musingly. "Well, ma'am, 'tis a pleasant bush and a homely; I can't wish the maid no better than to grow up like her name." "Why, you wouldn't for sure wish her to grow up homely, would you now, Mr Snell?" said Mrs Wishing with a feeble laugh. "I _would_, ma'am," replied Mr Snell, turning rather a severe eye upon the questioner, "I _would_. For why? Because to be homely is to make the common things of home sweet and pleasant. She can't do no better than that." Mrs Wishing shrank silenced into the background, like one who has been reproved, and the cobbler advanced to the counter to exchange greetings with Mr Dimbleby, and buy tobacco. The women's voices, the sharp ticking of the clocks, and the deeper tones of the men kept up a steady concert for some time undisturbed. But suddenly the door was thrown violently back on its hinges with a bang, and a tall man in labourer's clothes rushed into their midst. Everyone looked up startled, and on Mrs Wishing's face there was fear as well as surprise when she recognised the newcomer. "Why, Dan'l, my man," she exclaimed, "what is it?" Daniel was out of breath with running. He rubbed his forehead with a red pocket handkerchief, looked round in a dazed manner at the assembled group, and at length said hoarsely: "Mrs Greenways bin here?" "Ah, just gone!" said both the women at once. "There's trouble up yonder--on the hill," said Daniel, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and speaking in a strange, broken voice. "Mary White's baby!" exclaimed Mrs Pinhorn. "Fits!" added Mrs Wishing; "they all went off that way." "Hang the baby," muttered Daniel. He made his way past the women, who had pressed up close to him, to where the cobbler and Dimbleby stood. "I've fetched the doctor," he said, "and she wants the Greenways to know it; I thought maybe she'd be here." "What is it? Who's ill?" asked the cobbler. "Tain't anyone that's ill," answered Daniel; "he's stone dead. They shot him right through the heart." "Who? Who?" cried all the voices together. "I found him," continued Daniel, "up in the woods; partly covered up with leaves he was. Smiling peaceful and stone dead. He was always a brave feller and done his dooty, did James White on the hill. But he won't never do it no more." "Poachers!" exclaimed Dimbleby in a horror-struck voice. "Poachers it was, sure enough," said Daniel; "an' he's stone dead, James White is. They shot him right through the heart. Seems a pity such a brave chap should die like that." "An' him such a good husband!" said Mrs Wishing. "An' the baby an' all as we was just talking on," said Mrs Pinhorn; "well, it's a fatherless child now, anyway." "The family ought to allow the widder a pension," said Mr Dimbleby, "seeing as James White died in their service, so to speak." "They couldn't do no less," agreed the cobbler. The idea of fetching Mrs Greenways seemed to have left Daniel's mind for the present: he had now taken a chair, and was engaged in answering the questions with which he was plied on all sides, and in trying to fix the exact hour when he had found poor James White in the woods. "As it might be here, and me standing as it might be there," he said, illustrating his words with the different parcels on the counter before him. It was not until all this was thoroughly understood, and every imaginable expression of pity and surprise had been uttered, that Mrs Pinhorn remembered that the "Greenways ought to know. And I don't see why," she added, seizing her basket with sudden energy, "I shouldn't take her up myself; I'm goin' that way, and she's a slow traveller." "An' then Dan'l can go straight up home with me," said Mrs Wishing, "and we can drop in as we pass an' see Mrs White, poor soul. She hadn't ought to be alone." Before nightfall everyone knew the sad tidings. James White had been shot by poachers, and Daniel Wishing had found him lying dead in the woods. As the days went on, the excitement which stirred the whole village increased rather than lessened, for not even the oldest inhabitant could remember such a tragical event. Apart from the sadness of it, and the desolate condition of the widow, poor Jem's many virtues made it impressive and lamentable. Everyone had something to say in his praise, no one remembered anything but good about him; he was a brave chap, and one of the right sort, said the men, when they talked of it in the public-house; he was a good husband, said the women, steady and sober, fond of his wife, a pattern to others. They shook their heads and sighed mournfully; it was strange as well as pitiful that Jem White should a been took. "There might a been _some_ as we could mention as wouldn't a been so much missed." Then came the funeral; the bunch of white lilac, still fresh, which he had brought from Cuddingham, was put on Jem's newly-made grave, and his widow, passing silently through the people gathered in the churchyard, toiled patiently back to her lonely home. They watched the solitary figure as it showed black against the steep chalky road in the distance. "Yon's an afflicted woman," said one, "for all she carries herself so high under it." "She's the only widder among all the Whites hereabouts," remarked Mrs Pinhorn. "We needn't call her `Mrs White on the hill' no longer, poor soul." "It's a mercy she's got the child," said another neighbour, "if the Lord spares it to her." "The christening's to be on Sunday," added a third. "I do wonder if she'll call it that outlandish name _now_." There was not much time to wonder, for Sunday soon came, and the Widow White, as she was to be called henceforth, was at the church, stern, sad, and calm, with her child in her arms. It was an April morning, breezy and soft; the uncertain sunshine darted hither and thither, now touching the newly turned earth of Jem's grave, and now peering through the church window to rest on the tiny face of his little daughter in the rector's arms at the font. All the village had come to see, for this christening was felt to be one of more than common interest, and while the service went on there was not one inattentive ear. Foremost stood Mrs Greenways, her white handkerchief displayed for immediate use, and the expression in her face struggling between real compassion and an eager desire to lose nothing that was passing; presently she craned her neck forward a little, for an important point was reached-- "Name this child," said the rector. There was such deep silence in the church that the lowest whisper would have been audible, and Mrs Leigh's voice was heard distinctly in the farthest corner, when she answered "Lilac." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Not that it matters," said Mrs Greenways on her way home afterwards, "what they call the poor little thing--Lilac White, or White Lilac, or what you will, for she'll never rear it, never. It'll follow its father before we're any of us much older. You mark my words, Greenways: I'm not the woman to discourage Mary White by naming it to her now she's so deep in trouble, but you mark my words, she'll _never_ rear that child." CHAPTER TWO. THE COUSINS. "For the apparel oft proclaims the man."--Shakespeare. But Mrs Greenways was wrong. Twelve more springs came and went, cold winds blew round the cottage on the hill, winter snow covered it, summer sun blazed down on its unsheltered roof, but the small blossom within grew and flourished. A weak tender-looking little plant at first, but gathering strength with the years until it became hardy and bold, fit to face rough weather as well as to smile in the sunshine. It was twelve years since James White's death, twelve years since he had brought the bunch of lilac from Cuddingham which had given his little daughter her name--that name which had once sounded so strangely in Mrs White's ears. It had come to mean so much to her now, so many memories of the past, so much sweetness in the present, that she would not have changed it for the world, and indeed no one questioned its fitness, for as time went on it seemed to belong naturally to the child; it was even made more expressive by putting the surname first, so that she was often called "White Lilac." For the distinguishing character of her face was its whiteness--"A wonderful white skin", as her mother had said, which did not tan, or freckle, or flush with heat, and which shone out in startling contrast amongst the red and brown cheeks of her school companions. This small white face was set upon a slender neck, and a delicately-formed but upright little figure, which looked all the straighter and more like the stalk of a flower, because it was never adorned with any flounces or furbelows. Lilac was considered in the village to be very old-fashioned in her dress; she wore cotton frocks, plain in the skirt with gathers all round the waist, long pinafores or aprons, and sunbonnets. This attire was always spotless and freshly clean, but garments of such a shape and cut were lamentably wanting in fashion to the general eye, and were the subject of constant ridicule. Not in the hearing of the widow, for most people were a good deal in awe of her, but Lilac herself heard quite enough about her clothes to be conscious of them and to feel ashamed of looking "different." And this was specially the case at school, for there she met Agnetta Greenways every day, and Agnetta was the object of her highest admiration; to be like her in some way was the deep and secret longing in her mind. It was, she knew well, a useless ambition, but she could not help desiring it, Agnetta was such a beautiful object to look upon, with her red cheeks and the heavy fringe of black hair which rested in a lump on her forehead. On Sundays, when she wore her blue dress richly trimmed with plush, a long feather in her hat, and a silver bangle on her arm, Lilac could hardly keep her intense admiration silent; it was a pain not to speak of it, and yet she knew that nothing would have displeased her mother so much, who was never willing to hear the Greenways praised. So she only gazed wistfully at her cousin's square gaily-dressed figure, and felt herself a poor washed-out insignificant child in comparison. This was very much Agnetta's own view of the case; but nevertheless there were occasions when she was glad of this insignificant creature's assistance, for she was slow and stupid at her lessons, books were grief and pain to her, and Lilac, who was intelligent and fond of learning, was always ready to help and explain. This service, given most willingly, was received by Agnetta as one to whom it was due, and indeed the position she held among her schoolfellows made most of them eager to call her friend. She lived at Orchards Farm, which was the biggest in the parish; her two elder sisters had been to a finishing school, and one of them was now in a millinery establishment in London, where she wore a silk dress every day. This was sufficient to excuse airs of superiority in anyone. It was natural, therefore, to repay Lilac's devotion by condescending patronage, and to look down on her from a great height; nevertheless it was extremely agreeable to Agnetta to be worshipped, and this made her seek her cousin's companionship, and invite her often to Orchards Farm. There she could display her smart frocks, dwell on the extent of her father's possessions, on her sister Bella's stylishness, on the last fashion Gusta had sent from London, while Lilac, meek and admiring, stood by with wonder in her eyes. Orchards Farm was the most beautiful place her imagination could picture, and to live there must be, she thought, perfect happiness. There was a largeness about it, with its blossoming fruit trees, its broad green meadows, its barns and stacks, its flocks of sheep and herds of cattle; even the shiny-leaved magnolia which covered part of the house seemed to Lilac to speak of peace and plenty. It was all so different from her home; the bare white cottage on the hillside where no trees grew, where all was so narrow and cold, and where life seemed to be made up of scrubbing, sweeping, and washing. She looked longingly down from this sometimes to the valley where the farm stood. But other eyes, and Mrs White's in particular, saw a very different state of things when they looked at Orchards Farm. She knew that under this smiling outside face lay hidden care and anxiety; for her brother, Farmer Greenways, was in debt and short of money. Folks shook their heads when it was mentioned, and said: "What could you expect?" The old people remembered the prosperous days at the farm, when the dairy had been properly worked, and the butter was the best you could get anywhere round. There was the pasture land still, and a good lot of cows, but since the Greenways had come there the supply of butter was poor, and sometimes the whole quantity sent to market was so carelessly made that it was sour. Whose fault was it? Mrs Greenways would have said that Molly, the one overworked maid servant, was to blame; but other people thought differently, and Mrs White was as usual outspoken in her opinions to her sister-in-law: "It 'ull never be any different as long as you don't look after the dairy yourself, or teach Bella to do it. What does Molly care how the butter turns out?" But Bella tossed her head at the idea of working, as she expressed it, "like a common servant", or indeed at working at all. She considered that her business in life was to be genteel, and to be properly genteel was to do nothing useful. So she studied the fashion books which Gusta sent from London, made up wonderful costumes for herself, curled her hair in the last style, and read the stories about dukes and earls and countesses which came out in the _Family Herald_. The smart bonnets and dresses which Mrs Greenways and her daughters wore on Sundays in spite of hard times and poor crops and debt were the wonder of the whole congregation, and in Mrs White's case the wonder was mixed with scorn. "Peter's the only one among 'em as is good for anything," she sometimes said, "an' he's naught but a puzzle-headed sort of a chap." Peter was the farmer's only son, a loutish youth of fifteen, steady and plodding as his plough horses and almost as silent. It was April again, bright and breezy, and all the cherry trees at the farm were so white with bloom that standing under them you could scarcely see the sky. The grass in the orchard was freshly green and sprinkled with daisies, amongst which families of fluffy yellow ducklings trod awkwardly about on their little splay feet, while the careful mother hens picked out the best morsels of food for them. This food was flung out of a basin by Agnetta Greenways, who stood there squarely erect uttering a monotonous "Chuck, chuck, chuck," at intervals. Agnetta did not care for the poultry, or indeed for any of the creatures on the farm; they were to her only troublesome things that wanted looking after, and she would have liked not to have had anything to do with them. Just now, however, there was a week's holiday at the school, and she was obliged to use her leisure in helping her mother, much against her will. Agnetta had a stolid face with a great deal of colour in her cheeks; her hair was black, but at this hour it was so tightly done up in curl papers that the colour could hardly be seen. She wore an old red merino dress which had once been a smart one, but was now degraded to what she called "dirty work", and was covered with patches and stains. Her hands and wrists were very large, and looked capable of hard work, as indeed did the whole person of Agnetta from top to toe. "Chuck, chuck, chuck," she repeated as she threw out the last spoonful; then, raising her eyes, she became aware of a little figure in the distance, running towards her across the field at the bottom of the orchard. "Lor'!" she exclaimed aloud, "if here isn't Lilac White!" It was a slight little figure clothed in a cotton frock which had once been blue in colour, but had been washed so very often that it now approached a shade of green; over it was a long straight pinafore gathered round the neck with a string, and below it appeared blue worsted stockings, and thick, laced boots. Her black hair was brushed back and plaited in one long tail tied at the end with black ribbon, and in her hand she carried a big sunbonnet, swinging it round and round in the air as she ran. As she came nearer the orchard gate, it was easy to see that she had some news to tell, for her small features worked with excitement, and her grey eyes were bright with eagerness. Agnetta advanced slowly to meet her with the empty basin in her hand, and unlatched the gate. "Whatever's the matter?" she asked. Lilac could not answer just at first, for she had been running a long way, and her breath came in short gasps. She came to a standstill under the trees, and Agnetta stared gravely at her with her mouth wide open. The two girls formed a strong contrast to each other. Lilac's white face and the faded colour of her dress matched the blossoms and leaves of the cherry trees in their delicacy, while about the red-cheeked Agnetta there was something firm and positive, which suggested the fruit which would come later. "I came--" gasped Lilac at last, "I ran--I thought I must tell you--" "Well," said Agnetta, still staring at her in an unmoved manner, "you'd better fetch your breath, and then you'll be able to tell me. Come and sit down." There was a bench under one of the trees near where she had been feeding the ducks. The two girls sat down, and presently Lilac was able to say: "Oh, Agnetta, the artist gentleman wants to put me in a picture!" "Whatever do you mean, Lilac White?" was Agnetta's only reply. Her slightly disapproving voice calmed Lilac's excitement a little. "This is how it was," she continued more quietly. "You know he's lodging at the `Three Bells?' and he comes an' sits at the bottom of our hill an' paints all day." "Of course I know," said Agnetta. "It's a poor sort of an object he's copyin', too--Old Joe's tumble-down cottage. I peeped over his shoulder t'other day--'taint much like." "Well, I pass him every day comin' from school, and he always looks up at me eager without sayin' nothing. But this morning he says, `Little gal,' says he, `I want to put you into my picture.'" "Lor'!" put in Agnetta, "whatever can he want to paint _you_ for?" "So I didn't say nothing," continued Lilac, "because he looked so hard at me that I was skeert-like. So then he says very impatient, `Don't you understand? I want you to come here in that frock and that bonnet in your hand, and let me paint you, copy you, take your portrait. You run and ask Mother.'" "I never did!" exclaimed Agnetta, moved at last. "Whatever can he want to do it for? An' that frock, an' that silly bonnet an' all! He must be a crazy gentleman, I should say." She gave a short laugh, partly of vexation. "But that ain't all," continued Lilac; "just as I was turning to go he calls after me, `What's yer name?' And when I told him he shouts out, `_What_!' with his eyes hanging out ever so far." "Well, I dare say he thought it was a silly-sounding sort of a name," observed Agnetta. "He said it over and over to hisself, and laughed right out--`Lilac White! White Lilac!' says he. `What a subjeck! What a name! Splendid!' An' then he says to me quieter, `You're a very nice little girl indeed, and if Mother will let you come I'll give you sixpence for every hour you stand.' So then I went an' asked Mother, and she said yes, an' then I ran all the way here to tell you." Lilac looked round as she finished her wonderful story. Agnetta's eyes were travelling slowly over her cousin's whole person, from her face down to the thick, laced boots on her feet, and back again. "I can't mek out," she said at length, "whatever it is that he wants to paint you for, and dressed like that! Why, there ain't a mossel of colour about you! Now, if you had my Sunday blue!" "Oh, Agnetta!" exclaimed Lilac at the mention of such impossible elegance. "And," pursued Agnetta, "a few artificials in yer hair, like the ladies in our _Book of Beauty_, that 'ud brighten you up a bit. Bella's got some red roses with dewdrops on 'em, an' a caterpillar just like life. She'd lend you 'em p'r'aps, an' I don't know but what I'd let you have my silver locket just for once." "I'm afraid he wouldn't like that," said Lilac dejectedly, "because he said quite earnest, `_Mind_ you bring the bonnet'." She saw herself for a moment in the splendid attire Agnetta had described, and gave a little sigh of longing. "I must go back," she said, getting up suddenly, "Mother'll want me. There's lots to do at home." "I'll go with you a piece," said Agnetta; "we'll go through the farmyard way so as I can leave the basin." This was a longer way home for Lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing Agnetta's decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. It was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. Nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and Turk's head lilies, and lilac bushes. There was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. The edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. It had a mixed border of forget-me-not and London pride. "How pretty your flowers grow!" said Lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration. "Oh, that's Peter's bed," said Agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. "He's allays mucking at it in his spare time--not that he's got much, there's so much to do on the farm." The house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. Between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad. Lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. She stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw. "Oh, Agnetta!" she exclaimed, "you've got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!" "I can't abide pigs," said Agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; "no more can't Bella, we neither of us can't. Nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things." Lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as Agnetta said so, but still she _did_ like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. It was often puzzling to her that Agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior. "Here, Peter!" exclaimed Agnetta suddenly. A boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. "Just take this into the kitchen," said his sister in commanding tones. "Now," turning to Lilac, "we can go t'other way across the fields. The lane's all in a muck." Peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. He was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground. "No one 'ud think," said Agnetta as the girls entered the meadow again, "as Peter was Bella's and Gusta's and my brother. He's so dreadful vulgar-lookin' dressed like that. He might be a common ploughboy, and his manners is awful." "Are they?" said Lilac. "Pa won't hear a word against him," continued Agnetta, "cause he's so useful with the farm work. He says he'd rather see Peter drive a straight furrow than dress himself smart. But Bella and me we're ashamed to be seen with him, we can't neither of us abide commoners." Common! there was the word again which seemed to mean so many things and yet was so difficult to understand. Common things were evidently vulgar. The pigs were common, Peter was common, perhaps Lilac herself was common in Agnetta's eyes. "And yet," she reflected, lifting her gaze from the yellow carpet at her feet to the flowering orchards, "the cherry blossoms and the buttercups are common too; would Agnetta call them vulgar?" She had not long to think about this, for her cousin soon introduced another and a very interesting subject. "Who's goin' to be Queen this year, I wonder?" she said; "there'll be a sight of flowers if the weather keeps all on so fine." "It'll be you, Agnetta, for sure," answered Lilac; "I know lots who mean to choose you this time." "I dessay," said Agnetta with an air of lofty indifference. "Don't you want to be?" asked Lilac. The careless tone surprised her, for to be chosen Queen of the May was not only an honour, but a position of importance and splendour. It meant to march at the head of a long procession of children, in a white dress, to be crowned with flowers in the midst of gaiety and rejoicing, to lead the dance round the maypole, and to be first throughout a day of revelry and feasting. To Lilac it was the most beautiful of ceremonies to see the Queen crowned; to join in it was a delight, but to be chosen Queen herself would be a height of bliss she could hardly imagine. It was impossible therefore, to think her cousin really indifferent, and indeed this was very far from the case, for Agnetta had set her heart on being Queen, and felt tolerably sure that she should get the greatest number of votes this year. "I don't know as I care much," she answered; "let's sit down here a bit." They sat down one each side of a stile, with their faces turned towards each other, and Agnetta again fixed her direct gaze critically on her cousin's figure. Lilac twirled her sunbonnet round somewhat confusedly under these searching glances. "It's a pity you wear your hair scrattled right off your face like that," said Agnetta at last; "it makes you look for all the world like Daisy's white calf." "Does it?" said Lilac meekly; "Mother likes it done so." "I know something as would improve you wonderful, and give you a bit of style--something as would make the picture look a deal better." "Oh, what, Agnetta?" "Well, it's just as simple as can be. It's only to take a pair of scissors and cut yer hair like mine in front so as it comes down over yer face a bit. It 'ud alter you ever so. You'd be surprised." Lilac started to her feet, struck with the immensity of the idea. A fringe! It was a form of elegance not unknown amongst the school-children, but one which she had never thought of as possible for herself. There was Agnetta's stolid rosy face close to her, as unmoved and unexcited as if she had said nothing unusual. "Oh, Agnetta, _could_ I?" gasped Lilac. "Whyever not?" said her cousin calmly. Lilac sat down again. "I dursn't," she said. "I couldn't ever bear to look Mother in the face." "Has she ever told you not?" "N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "leastways she only said once that the girls made frights of themselves with their fringes." "Frights indeed!" said Agnetta scornfully; "anyhow," she added, "it 'ull grow again if she don't like it." So it would. That reflection made the deed seem a less daring one, and Lilac's face at once showed signs of yielding, which Agnetta was not slow to observe. Warming with her subject, she proceeded to paint the improvement which would follow in glowing colours, and in this she was urged by two motives--one, an honest desire to smarten Lilac up a little, and the other, to vex and thwart her aunt, Mrs White; to pay her out, as she expressed it, for sundry uncomplimentary remarks on herself and Bella. "And supposing," was Lilac's next remark, "as how I _was_ to make up my mind, I couldn't never do it for myself. I should be scared." This difficulty the energetic Agnetta was quite ready to meet. _She_ would do it. Lilac had only to run down to the farm early next morning, and, after she was made fashionable, she could go straight on to the artist. "And won't he just be surprised!" she added with a chuckle. "I don't expect he'll hardly know you." "You're _quite_ sure it'll make me look better?" said Lilac wistfully. She had the utmost faith in her cousin, but the step seemed to her such a terribly large one. "Ain't I?" was Agnetta's scornful reply. "Why, Gusta says all the ladies in London wears their hair like that now." After this last convincing proof, for Gusta's was a name of great authority, Lilac resisted no longer, and soon discovered, by the striking of the church clock, that it was getting very late. She said good-bye to Agnetta, therefore, and, leaving her to make her way back at her leisure, ran quickly on through the meadows all streaked and sprinkled with the spring flowers. After these came the dusty high-road for a little while, and then she reached the foot of the steep hill which led up to her home. The artist gentleman was there as usual, a pipe in his mouth, and a palette on his thumb, painting busily: as she hurriedly dropped a curtsy in passing, Lilac's heart beat quite fast. "Me in a picture with a fringe!" she said to herself; "how I do hope as Mother won't mind!" That afternoon, when she sat quietly down to her sewing, this great idea weighed heavily upon her. It would be the very first step she had ever taken without her mother's approval, and away from the influence of Agnetta's decided opinion it seemed doubly alarming--a desperate and yet an attractive deed. Now and then for a moment she thought it would be better to tell her mother, but when she looked up at the grave, rather sad face, bent closely over some needlework, she lacked courage to begin. It seemed far removed from such trifles as fringes and fashions; and though, as Lilac knew well, it could have at times a smile full of love upon it, just now its expression was thoughtful, and even stern. She kept silence, therefore, and stitched away with a mind as busy as her fingers, until it was time to boil the kettle and get the tea ready. This was just done when Mrs Wishing, who lived still farther up the hill, dropped in on her way home from the village. She was an uncertain, wavering little woman, with no will of her own, and a heavy burden in the shape of a husband, who, during the last few years, had taken to fits of drinking. The widow White acknowledged that she had a good deal to bear from Dan'l, and when times were very bad, often supplied her with food and firing from her own small store. But she did not do so without protest, for in her opinion the fault was not entirely on Dan'l's side. "Maybe," she said, "if he found a clean hearth and a tidy bit o' supper waitin' at home, he'd stay there oftener. An' if he worked reg'lar, and didn't drink his wages, you'd want for nothin', and be able to put by with only just the two of you to keep. But I can't see you starve." Mrs Wishing fluttered in at the door, and, as she thought probable, was asked to have a dish of tea. Lilac bustled round the kitchen and set everything neatly on the table, while her mother, glancing at her now and then, stood at the window sewing with active fingers. "Well, you're always busy, Mrs White," said the guest plaintively as she untied her bonnet strings. "I will say as you're a hard worker yourself, whatever you say about other folks." "An' I hope as when the time comes as I can't work that the Lord 'ull see fit to take me," said Mrs White shortly. "Dear, dear, you've got no call to say that," said Mrs Wishing, "you as have got Lilac to look to in your old age. Now, if it was me and Dan'l, with neither chick nor child--" She shook her head mournfully. Mrs White gave her one sharp glance which meant "and a good thing too", but she did not say the words aloud; there was something so helpless and incapable about Mrs Wishing, that it was both difficult and useless to be severe with her, for the most cutting speeches could not rouse her from the mild despair into which she had sunk years ago. "I dessay you're right, but _I_ dunno," was her only reply to all reproaches and exhortations, and finding this, Mrs White had almost ceased them, except when they were wrung from her by some unusual example of bad management. "An' so handy as she is," continued Mrs Wishing, her wandering gaze caught for a moment by Lilac's active little figure, "an' that's all your up-bringing, Mrs White, as I was saying just now to Mrs Greenways." Mrs White, who was now pouring out the tea, looked quickly up at the mention of Mrs Greenways. She would not ask, but her very soul longed to know what had been said. "She was talkin' about Lilac as I was in at Dimbleby's getting a bunch of candles," continued Mrs Wishing, "sayin' how her picture was going to be took; an' says she, `It's a poor sort of picture as she'll make, with a face as white as her pinafore. Now, if it was Agnetta,' says she, `as has a fine nateral bloom, I could understand the gentleman wantin' to paint _her_.'" "I s'pose the gentleman knows best himself what he wants to paint," said Mrs White. "Lor', of course he do," Mrs Wishing hastened to reply; "and, as I said to Mrs Greenways, `Red cheeks or white cheeks don't make much differ to a gal in life. It's the upbringing as matters.'" Mrs White looked hardly so pleased with this sentiment as her visitor had hoped. She was perfectly aware that it had been invented on the spot, and that Mrs Wishing would not have dared to utter it to Mrs Greenways. Moreover, the comparison between Lilac's paleness and Agnetta's fine bloom touched her keenly, for in this remark she recognised her sister-in-law's tongue. The rivalry between the two mothers was an understood thing, and though it had never reached open warfare, it was kept alive by the kindness of neighbours, who never forgot to repeat disparaging speeches. Mrs White's opinions of the genteel uselessness of Bella and Gusta were freely quoted to Mrs Greenways, and she in her turn was always ready with a thrust at Lilac which might be carried to Mrs White. When the widow had first heard of the artist's proposal, her intense gratification was at once mixed with the thought, "What'll Mrs Greenways think o' that?" But she did not express this triumph aloud. Even Lilac had no idea that her mother's heart was overflowing with pleasure and pride because it was _her_ child, _her_ Lilac, whom the artist wished to paint. So now, though she bit her lip with vexation at Mrs Wishing's speech, she took it with outward calmness, and only replied, with a glance at her daughter: "Lilac never was one to think much about her looks, and I hope she never will be." Both the look and the words seemed to Lilac to have special meaning, almost as though her mother knew what she intended to do to-morrow; it seemed indeed to be written in large letters everywhere, and all that was said had something to do with it. This made her feel so guilty, that she began to be sure it would be very wrong to have a fringe. Should she give it up? It was a relief when Mrs Wishing, leaving the subject of the picture for one of nearer interest, proceeded to dwell on Dan'l and his failings, so that Lilac was not referred to again. This well-worn topic lasted for the rest of the visit, for Dan'l had been worse than usual. He had "got the neck of the bottle", as Mrs Wishing expressed it, and had been in a hopeless state during the last week. Her sad monotonous voice went grinding on over the old story, while Lilac, washing up the tea things, carried on her own little fears, and hopes, and wishes in her own mind. No one watching her would have guessed what those wishes were: she looked so trim and neat, and handled the china as deftly as though she had no other thought than to do her work well. And yet the inside did not quite match this proper outside, for her whole soul was occupied with a beautiful vision--herself with a fringe like Agnetta! It proved so engrossing that she hardly noticed Mrs Wishing's departure, and when her mother spoke she looked up startled. "Yon's a poor creetur as never could stand alone and never will," she said. "It was the same when she was a gal--always hangin' on to someone, always wantin' someone else to do for her, and think for her. Well! empty sacks won't never stand upright, and it's no good tryin' to make 'em." Lilac made no reply, and Mrs White, seizing the opportunity of impressing a useful lesson, continued: "Lor'! it seems only the other day as Hepzibah was married to Daniel Wishing. A pretty gal she was, with clinging, coaxing ways, like the suckles in the hedge, and everyone she come near was ready to give her a helping hand. And at the wedding they all said, `There, now, she's got the right man, Hepzibah has. A strong, steady feller, and a good workman an' all, and one as'll look after her an' treat her kind.' But I mind what I said to Mrs Pinhorn on that very day: `I hope it may be so,' I says, `but it takes an angel, and not a man, to bear with a woman as weak an' shiftless as Hepzibah, and not lose his temper.' And now look at 'em! There's Dan'l taken to drink, and when he's out of himself he'll lift his hand to her, and they're both of 'em miserable. It does a deal o' harm for a woman to be weak like that. She can't stand alone, and she just pulls a man down along with her." The troubles of the Wishings were very familiar to Lilac's ears, and, though she took her knitting and sat down on her little stool close to her mother, she did not listen much to what she was saying. Mrs White, quite ignorant that her words of wisdom were wasted, continued admonishingly: "So as you grow up, Lilac, and get to a woman, that's what you've got to learn--to trust to yourself; you won't always have a mother to look to. And what you've got to do now is, to learn to do your work jest as well as you can, and then afterwards you'll be able to stand firm on yer own two feet, and not go leaning up against other folk, or be beholden to nobody. That's a good thing, that is. There's a saying, `Heaven helps them as helps themselves'. If that poor Hepzibah had helped herself when she was a gal, she wouldn't be such a daundering creetur now, and Dan'l, he wouldn't be a curse instead of a blessin'." When Lilac went up to her tiny room in the roof that night, her head felt too full of confusing thoughts to make it possible to go to bed at once. She knelt on a box that stood in the window, fastened back the lattice, and, leaning on the sill, looked out into the night. The greyness of evening was falling over everything, but it was not nearly dark yet, so that she could see the windings of the chalky road which led down to the valley, and the church tower, and even one of the gable windows in Orchards Farm, where a light was twinkling. Generally this last object was a most interesting one to her, but to-night she did not notice outside things much, for her mind was too busy with its own concerns. She had, for the first time in her life, something quite new and strange to think of, something of her own which her mother did not know; and though this may seem a very small matter to people whose lives are full of events, to Lilac it was of immense importance, for until now her days had been as even and unvaried as those of any daisy that grows in a field. But to-morrow, two new things were to happen--she was to have her hair cut, and to have her picture painted. "A poor sort of picture," Mrs Greenways had said it would be, and, no doubt, Lilac agreed in her own mind Agnetta would make a far finer one--Agnetta, who had red cheeks, and a fringe already, and could dress herself so much smarter. Would a fringe really improve her? Agnetta said so. And yet--her mother--was it worth while to risk vexing her? But it would grow. Yes, but in the picture it would never grow. The more she thought, the more difficult it was to see her way clear; as the evening grew darker and more shadowy, so her reflections became dimmer and more confused; at last they were suddenly stopped altogether, for a bat which had come forth on its evening travels flapped straight against her face under the eaves. Thoroughly roused, Lilac drew in her head, shut her window, and was very soon fast asleep in bed. Night is said to bring counsel, and perhaps it did so in some way, although she slept too soundly to dream, for punctually at eleven o'clock the next morning she was at the meeting-place appointed by Agnetta at the farm. This was a loft over the cows' stables, the only place when, at that hour, they could be sure of no interruption. "The proper place 'ud be my bedroom," Agnetta had said, "where there's a mirror an' all; but it's Bella's too, you see, an' just now she's making a new bonnet, and she's forever there trying it on. But I'll bring the scissors and do it in a jiffy." And here was Agnetta armed with the scissors, and a certain authority of manner she always used with her cousin. "Tek off yer bonnet and undo yer plaits," she said, opening and shutting the bright scissors with a snap, as though she longed to begin. Lilac stood with her back against a truss of hay, rather shrinking away, for now that the moment had really come she felt frightened, and all her doubts returned. She had the air of a pale little victim before her executioner. "Come," said Agnetta, with another snap. "Oh, Agnetta, do you really think they'll like it?" faltered Lilac. "What I really think is that you're a ninny," said the determined Agnetta; "an' I'm not agoin' to wait here while you shilly-shally. Is it to be off or on?" "Oh off, I suppose," said Lilac. With trembling fingers she took off her bonnet, and unfastened her hair from its plait. It fell like a dark silky veil over her shoulders. "Lor'!" said Agnetta, "you have got a lot of it." She stood for a second staring at her victim open-mouthed with the scissors upraised in one hand, then advanced, and grasping a handful of the soft hair drew it down over Lilac's face. "Oh, Agnetta," cried an imploring voice behind the screen thus formed, "you'll _be_ careful! You won't tek off too much." "Come nearer the light," said Agnetta. Still holding the hair, she drew her cousin towards the wide open doors of the loft. "Now," she said, "I can see what I'm at, an' I shan't be a minute." The steel scissors struck coldly against Lilac's forehead. It was too late to resist now. She held her breath. Grind, grind, snip! they went in Agnetta's remorseless fingers, and some soft waving lengths of hair fell on the ground. It certainly did not take long; after a few more short clips and snips Agnetta had finished, and there stood Lilac fashionably shorn, with the poor discarded locks lying at her feet. It was curious to see how much Agnetta's handiwork had altered her cousin's face. Lilac's forehead was prettily shaped, and though she had worn her hair "scrattled" off it, there were little waving rings and bits which were too short to be "scrattled", and these had softened its outline. But now the pure white forehead was covered by a lump of hair which came straight across the middle of it, and the small features below looked insignificant. The expression of intelligent modesty which had made Lilac look different from other girls had gone; she was just an ordinary pale-faced little person with a fringe. "There!" exclaimed Agnetta triumphantly as she drew a small hand-glass from her pocket; "now you'll see as how I was right. You won't hardly know yerself." Lilac took it, longing yet fearing to see herself. From the surface of the glass a stranger seemed to return her glance--someone she had never seen before, with quite a different look in her eyes. Certainly she was altered. Was it for the better? She did not know, and before she could tell she must get more used to this new Lilac White. At present she had more fear than admiration for her. "Clump! clump!" came the sound of heavy feet up the loft ladder. Lilac let the glass fall at her side, and turned a terrified gaze on Agnetta. "Oh, what's that?" she cried. "Let me hide--don't let anyone see me!" Agnetta burst into a loud laugh. "Well, you _are_ a ninny, Lilac White. Are you goin' to hide from everyone now you've got a fringe? You as are goin' to have your picture took. An' after all," she added, as a face and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. "It's only Peter." Peter's rough head and blunt, uncouth features were framed by the square opening in the floor of the loft. There they remained motionless, for the sight of Agnetta and Lilac where he had been prepared to find only hay and straw brought him to a standstill. His face and the tips of his large ears got very red as he saw Lilac's confusion, and he went a step lower down the ladder, but his eyes were still above the level of the floor. "Well," said Agnetta, still giggling, "we'll hear what Peter thinks of it. Don't she look a deal better with her hair cut so, Peter?" Peter's grey-green eyes, not unkindly in expression, fixed themselves on his cousin's face. In her turn Lilac gazed back at them, half-frightened, yet beseeching mutely for a favourable opinion; it was like looking into a second mirror. She waited anxiously for his answer. It came at last, slowly, from Peter's invisible mouth. "No," he said, "I liked it best as it wur afore." As he spoke the head disappeared, and they heard him go clumping down the ladder again. The words fell heavily on Lilac's ears. "Best as it wur afore." Perhaps everyone would think so too. She looked dismally first at the locks of hair on the ground and then at Agnetta's unconcerned face. "Well, you've no call to mind what _he_ says anyhow," said the latter cheerfully. "He don't know what's what." "I most wish," said Lilac, as she turned to leave the loft, "that I hadn't done it." As she spoke, the distant sound of the church clock was heard. There was only just time to get to the foot of the hill, and she said a hurried good-bye to Agnetta, tying on her bonnet as she ran across the fields. She generally hated the sun-bonnet, but to-day for the first time she found a comfort in its deep brim, which sheltered this new Lilac White a little from the world. She almost hoped that the artist would change his mind and let her keep it on, instead of holding it in her hand. CHAPTER THREE. "UNCLE JOSHUA." "Let each be what he is, so will he be good enough for man himself, and God."--_Lavater_. Whilst all this was going on at the farm, Mrs White had been busy as usual in the cottage on the hill--her mind full of Lilac, and her hands full of the Rectory washing. It was an important business, for it was all she and her child had to depend on beside a small pension allowed her by Jem's late employers; but quite apart from this she took a pride in her work for its own sake. She felt responsible not only for the unyielding stiffness of the Rector's round collars, but also for the appearance of the choristers' surplices; and any failure in colour or approach to limpness was a real pain to her, and made it difficult to fix her attention on the service. This happened very seldom, however; and when it did, was owing to an unfortunate drying day or other accident, and never to want of exertion on her own part. There was nothing to complain of in the weather this morning--a bright sun and a nice bit of wind, and not too much of it. Mrs White wrung out the surplices in a very cheerful spirit, and her grave face had a smile on it now and then, for she was thinking of Lilac. Lilac sweetened all her life now, much in the same way that the bunch of flowers from which she took her name had sweetened the small room with its fragrance twelve years ago. As she grew up her mother's love grew too, stronger year by year; for when she looked at her she remembered all the happiness that her life had known--when she spoke her name, it brought back a thousand pleasant memories and kept them fresh in her mind. And she looked forward too, for Lilac's sake, and saw in years to come her proudest hope fulfilled--her child grown to be a self-respecting useful woman, who could work for herself and need be beholden to no one. She had no higher ambition for her; but this she had set her heart on, she should not become lazy, vain, helpless, like her cousins the Greenways. That was the pitfall from which she would strain every muscle to hold Lilac back. There were moments when she trembled for the bad influence of example at Orchards Farm. She knew Lilac's yielding affectionate nature and her great admiration for her cousins, and kept a watchful eye for the first unsatisfactory signs. But there were none. No one could accuse Lilac of untidy ways, or want of thoroughness in dusting, sweeping, and all branches of household work, and even Mrs White could find no fault. "After all," she said to herself, "it's natural in young things to like to be together, and there's nothing worse nor foolishness in Agnetta and Bella." So she allowed the visits to go on, and contented herself by many a word in season and many a pointed practical lesson. The Greenways were seldom mentioned, but they were, nevertheless, very often in the minds of both mother and daughter. This morning she was thinking of a much more pleasant subject. "How was the artist gentleman getting along with Lilac's picture? He must be well at it now," she thought, looking up at the loud-voiced American clock, "an' her looking as peart and pretty as a daisy. White-faced indeed! I'd rather she were white-faced than have great red cheeks like a peony bloom. What will he do with the picture afterwards?" Joshua Snell, through reading the papers so much, knew most things, and he had said that it would p'r'aps be hung up with a lot of others in a place in London called an exhibition, where you could pay money and go to see 'em. "If he's right," concluded Mrs White, wringing out the last surplice, "I do really think as how I must give Lilac a jaunt up to London, an' we'll go and see it. The last holiday as ever I had was fifteen years back, an' that was when Jem and me, we went--Why, I do believe," she said aloud, "here she is back a'ready!" There was a sound of running feet, which she had heard too often to mistake, then the click of the latch, and then Lilac herself rushed through the front room. "Mother, Mother," she cried, "he won't paint me!" Mrs White turned sharply round. Lilac was standing just inside the entrance to the back kitchen, with her bonnet on, and her hands clasped over her face. To keep her bonnet on a moment after she was in the house struck her mother at once as something strange and unusual, and she stared at her for an instant in silence, with her bands held up dripping and pink from the water. "Whatever ails you, child?" she said at length. "What made him change his mind?" "He said as how I was the wrong one," murmured Lilac under her closed hands. "The _wrong_ one!" repeated her mother. "Why, how could he go to say such a thing? You told him you was Lilac White, I s'pose. There's ne'er another in the village." "He didn't seem as if he knew me," said Lilac. "He looked at me very sharp, and said as how it was no good to paint me now." "Why ever not? You're just the same as you was." "I ain't," said Lilac desperately, taking away her hands from her face and letting them fan at her side. "I ain't the same. I've cut my hair!" It was over now. She stood before her mother a disgraced and miserable Lilac. The black fringe of hair across her forehead, the bonnet pushed back, the small white face quivering nervously. But though she knew it would displease her mother, she had very little idea that she had done the thing of all others most hateful to her. A fringe was to Mrs White a sort of distinguishing mark of the Greenways family, and of others like it. Not only was it ugly and unsuitable in itself, but it was an outward sign of all manner of unworthy qualities within. Girls who wore fringes were in her eyes stamped with three certain faults: untidiness, vanity, and love of dressing beyond their station. Beginning with these, who could tell to what other evils a fringe might lead? And now, her own child, her Lilac whom she had been so proud of, and thought so different from others, stood before her with this abomination on her brow. Bitterest of all, it was the influence of the Greenways that had triumphed, and not her own. All her care and toil had ended in this. It had all been in vain. If Lilac "took pattern" by her cousins in one way she would in another--"a straw can tell which way the wind blows." She would grow up like Bella and Agnetta. Swiftly all this rushed into Mrs White's mind, as she stood looking with surprise and horror at Lilac's altered face. Finding her voice as she arrived at the last conclusion, she asked coldly: "What made yer do it?" Lilac locked her hands tightly together and made no answer. She would not say anything about Agnetta, who had meant kindly in what she had done. "I know," continued her mother, "without you sayin' a word. It was one of them Greenways. But I did think as how you'd enough sense and sperrit of yer own to stand out agin' their foolishness--let alone anything else. It's plain to me now that you don't care for yer mother or what she says. You'll fly right in her face to please any of them at Orchards Farm." Still Lilac did not speak, and her silence made Mrs White more and more angry. "An' what do you think you've got by it?" she continued scornfully. "Do those silly things think it makes 'em look like ladies to cut their hair so and dress themselves up fine? Then you can tell 'em this from me: Vulgar they are, and vulgar they'll be all their lives long, and nothing they can do to their outsides will change 'em. But they might a left you alone, Lilac, for you're but a child; only I did think as you'd a had more sense." Lilac was crying now. This scolding on the top of much excitement and disappointment was more than she could bear, but still she felt she must defend the Greenways from blame. "It was my fault," she sobbed. "I thought as how it would look nicer." "The many and many times," pursued Mrs White, drying her hands vigorously on a rough towel, "as I've tried to make you understand what's respectable and right and fitting! And it's all been no good. Well, I've done. Go to your Greenways and let them teach you, and much profit may you get. I've done with you--you don't look like my child no longer." She turned her back and began to bustle about with the linen, not looking towards Lilac again. In reality her eyes were full of tears and she would have given worlds to cry heartily with the child, for to use those hard words to her was like bruising her own flesh. But she was too mortified and angry to show it, and Lilac, after casting some wistful glances at the active figure, turned and went slowly out of the room with drooping head. Pulling her bonnet forward so that her forehead and the dreadful fringe were quite hidden, she wandered down the hill, hardly knowing or caring where she went. All the world was against her. No one would ever look pleasantly at her again, if even her mother frowned and turned away. One by one she recalled what they had all said. First, Peter: "I liked it best as it wur afore." Then the artist--he had been quite angry. "You stupid little girl," he had said, "you've made yourself quite commonplace. You're no use whatever. Run away." And now Mother--that was worst of all: "You don't look like my child." Lilac's tears fell fast when she remembered that. How very hard they all were upon her! She strayed listlessly onwards, and presently came to a sudden standstill, for she found that she was getting near the bottom of the hill, where the artist was no doubt still sitting. That would never do. At her right hand there branched off a wide grass-grown lane, one of the ancient roads of the Romans which could still be traced along the valley. It was seldom used now, for it led nowhere in particular; but here and there at long distances there were some small cottages in it, and in one of these lived the cobbler, Joshua Snell. Now, Uncle Joshua, as she called him, though he was no relation to her, was a great friend of Lilac's, and the thought of him darted into her forlorn little mind like a ray of comfort. He would perhaps look kindly at her in spite of her fringe. There was no one else to do it except Agnetta, and to reach her the artist must be passed, which was impossible. Lilac could not remember that Joshua had ever been cross to her, even in the days when she had played with his bits of leather and mislaid his tools--those old days when she was a tiny child, and Mother had left her with him "to mind" when she went out to work. And besides being kind he was wise, and would surely find some way to help her in her present distress. Perhaps even he would speak to Mother, who thought a deal of what he said, and that would make her less angry. A little cheered by these reflections Lilac turned down the lane, quickened her pace, and made straight for the cobbler's cottage. It was a very small abode, with such a deep thatch and such tiny windows that it looked all roof. At right angles there jutted out from it an extra room, or rather shed, and in this it was possible, by peering closely through a dingy pane of glass, to make out the dim figure of Joshua bending over his work. This dark little hole, in which there was just space enough for Joshua, his boots and tools and leather, had no door from without, but could only be approached through the kitchen. As he sat at work he could see the fire and the clock without getting up, which was very convenient, and he was proud of his work-shed, though in the winter it was both chilly and dark. Joshua lived quite alone. He had come to Danecross twenty years ago from the north, bringing with him a wife, a collection of old books, and a clarionet. The wife, whose black bonnet still hung behind the kitchen door, had now been dead ten years, and he had only the books and the clarionet to bear him company. But these companions kept him from being dull and lonely, and gave him besides a position of some importance in the village. For by dint of reading his books many times over, and pondering on them as he sat and cobbled, he had gained a store of wisdom, or what passed for such, and a great many long words with which he was fond of impressing the neighbours. He was also considered a fine reader, and quite a musical genius; for although he now only played the clarionet in private, there had been a time, he told them, when he had performed in a gallery as one of the church choir. It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and he sat earnestly intent on making a good job of a pair of boots which had been brought to him to sole. He was also anxious to make the most of the bright spring sunshine, a stray beam of which had found its way in at his little window and helped him greatly by its cheerful presence. All at once a shadow flitted across it, and glancing up he saw a well-known figure run hurriedly in at the cottage door. "It's White Lilac," he said to himself with a smile but without ceasing his work, for Lilac was a frequent visitor, and he could not afford to waste his time in welcoming his guests. He did not even look round, therefore, but listened for her greeting white his hammer kept up a steady tack, tack, tack. It did not come. Joshua stopped his work, raised his head, and listened more intently. The kitchen was as perfectly silent as though it were empty. "I cert'nly did see her," said he, almost doubting his eyesight; "maybe she's playing off a game." He got up and looked cautiously round the entrance, quite expecting Lilac to jump out from some hiding-place with a laugh; but a very different sight met his eyes. Lilac had thrown herself into a large chair which stood on the hearth, her head was bent, her face buried in her hands, and she was crying bitterly. "My word!" exclaimed Joshua, suddenly arrested on the threshold. He rubbed his hands in great perplexity on his leather apron. It was quite a new thing to see Lilac in tears, and they fell so fast that she could neither control herself nor tell him the cause of her distress. In vain he tried to coax and comfort her: she would not even raise her head nor look at him. Joshua looked round the room as if for counsel and advice in this difficulty, and fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the tall clock for some moments; then he winked at it, and said softly, as though speaking in confidence: "Best let her have her cry out; then she'll tell me." "See here," he continued, turning to Lilac and using his ordinary voice. "You've come to get Uncle's tea ready for him, I know, and make him some toast; that's what you've come for. An' I've got a job as I must finish afore tea-time, 'cause the owner's coming for 'em. So I'll go and set to and do it, and you'll get the tea ready like a handy maid as you are, and then we'll have it together, snug and cosy." When he had settled himself to his work again, and the sound of his hammer mingled with the ticking of the tall clock as though they were running a race, Lilac raised her head and rubbed her wet eyes. There was something very soothing and peaceful in Uncle Joshua's cottage, and his kind voice seemed to carry comfort with it. She had a strong hope that he would help her in some way, though she could not tell how, for he had never failed to find a remedy for all the little troubles she had brought to him from her earliest years. Her faith in him, therefore, was entire, and even if he had proposed to make her hair long again at once, she would have believed it possible, because he knew so much. Gradually, as she remembered this, she ceased crying altogether, and began to move about the room to prepare the tea, a business to which she was well used, for she had always considered it an honour to get Uncle Joshua's tea and make toast for him. The kettle already hung on its chain over the fire, and gave out a gentle simmering sound; by the time the toast was ready the water would boil. Lilac got the bread from the corner cupboard and cut some stout slices. Uncle liked his toast thick. Then she knelt on the hearth, and shielding her face with one hand chose out the fiercest red hollows of the fire. It was an anxious process, needing the greatest attention; for Lilac prided herself on her toast, and it was a matter of deep importance that it should be a fine even brown all over--neither burnt, nor smoked, nor the least blackened. While she was making it she was happy again, and quite unconscious of the fringe, for the first time since she had felt Agnetta's cold scissors on her brow. It was soon quite ready on a plate on the hearth, so that it might keep hot. Uncle Joshua was ready also, for he came in just then from his shed, carrying his completed job in his hand: a pair of huge hobnailed boots, which he placed gently on the ground as though they were brittle and must be handled with care. "Them's Peter Greenways' boots," he said, looking at them with some triumph, "and a good piece of work they be!" It was a great relief to Lilac that neither then nor during the meal did Uncle Joshua look at her with surprise, or appear to notice that there was anything different about her. Everything went on just as usual, just as it had so often done before. She sat on one side of the table and poured out the tea, and Uncle Joshua in his high-backed elbow chair on the other, with his red-and-white handkerchief over his knees, his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, and a well-buttered slice of toast in his hand. He never talked much during his meals; partly because he was used to having them alone, and partly because he liked to enjoy one thing at a time thoroughly. He was fond of talking and he was fond of eating, and he would not spoil both by trying to do them together. So to-night, as usual, he drank endless cups of tea in almost perfect silence, and at last Lilac began to wish he would stop, for although she feared she yet longed for his opinion. She felt more able to face it now that she had eaten something, for without knowing it she had been hungry as well as miserable, and had quite forgotten that she had had no dinner. She watched Uncle Joshua nervously. Would he ask for more tea. No. He wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, looked straight at Lilac, and suddenly spoke: "And how's the picture going forrard then?" After this question it was easy to tell the whole story, from its beginning to its unlucky end. During its progress the cobbler listened with the deepest attention, gave now a nod, and now a shake of the head or a muttered "Humph!" and when it was finished he fingered his cheek thoughtfully, and said: "And so he wouldn't paint you--eh? and Mother was angry?" "She's dreadful angry," sighed Lilac. "Did you think it 'ud please her, now?" asked Uncle Joshua. "N-no," answered Lilac hesitatingly; "but I never thought as how she'd make so much fuss. And after all no one don't like it. Do you think as how it looks _very_ bad, Uncle?" The cobbler put his spectacles carefully straight and studied Lilac's face with earnest attention. "What I consider is this here," he said as he finished his examination and leant back in his chair. "It makes you look like lots of other little gells, that's what it does. Not so much like White Lilac as you used to. I liked it best as it wur afore." "Peter, he said that too," said Lilac. "No one likes it except Agnetta." "Ah! And what made Agnetta and all of 'em cut their hair that way?" asked Uncle Joshua. "Because Gusta Greenways told Bella as how all the ladies in London did it," answered Lilac simply. "That's where it is," said Uncle Joshua. "My little maid, there's things as is fitting and there's things as isn't fitting. Perhaps it's fitting for London ladies to wear their hair so. Very well, then let them do it. But why should you and Agnetta and the rest copy 'em? You're not ladies. You're country girls with honest work to do, and proud you ought to be of it. As proud every bit as the grandest lady as ever was, who never put her hand to a useful thing in her life. I'm not saying you're better than her. She's got her own place, an' her own lessons to learn, an' she's got to do the best she can with her life. But you're different, because your life's different, an' you'll never look like her whatever you put on your outside. If a thing isn't fit for what it's intended, it'll never look well. Now, here's Peter's boots--I call 'em handsome." He lifted one of them as he spoke and put it on the table, where it seemed to take up a great deal of room. Lilac looked at it with a puzzled air; she saw nothing handsome in it. It was enormously thick and deeply wrinkled across the toes, which were turned upwards as though with many and many a weary tramp. "I call 'em handsome," pursued Joshua. "Because for why? Because they're fit for ploughin' in the stiffest soil. Because they'll keep out wet and never give in the seams. They're fit for what they're meant to do. But now you just fancy," he went on, raising one finger, "as how I'd made 'em of shiny leather, and put paper soles to 'em, and pointed tips to the toes. How'd they look in a ploughed field or a muddy lane? Or s'pose Peter he went and capered about in these 'ere on a velvet carpet an' tried to dance. How'd he look?" The idea of the loutish Peter capering anywhere, least of all on a velvet carpet, made Lilac smile in spite of Uncle Joshua's great gravity. "Why, he'd look silly," he continued; "as silly as a country girl, who's got to scrub an' wash an' make the butter, dressed out in silks an' fandangoes. She ought to be too proud of being what she is, to try and look like what she isn't. Give me down that big brown book yonder an' I'll read you something fine about that." Lilac reached the book from the shelf with the greatest reverence; it was the only one amongst Joshua's collection that she often begged to look at, because it was full of curious pictures. It was Lavater's Physiognomy; having found the passage he wanted, Joshua read it very slowly aloud: "In the mansion of God there are to his glory vessels of wood, of silver, and of gold. All are serviceable, all profitable, all capable of divine uses, all the instruments of God: but the wood continues wood, the silver silver, the gold gold. Though the golden should remain unused, still they are gold. The wooden may be made more serviceable than the golden, but they continue wood. Let each be what he is, so will he be sufficiently good, for man himself, and God. The violin cannot have the sound of the flute, nor the trumpet of the drum." He had just finished the last line, and still held one knotty brown finger raised to mark the important words, when there was a low knock at the door, and immediately afterwards it opened a little way and a head appeared, covered by a rusty-black wideawake. It was the second time that day that Lilac had seen it, for it was Peter Greenways' head. In a moment all the events of the unlucky morning came back to her, and his gruffly unfavourable opinion. Why had he come? This awkward Peter was always turning up when he was not wanted, and thrusting that large uncouth head in at unexpected places. She turned her back towards the door in much vexation, and Peter himself remained stationary, with his eyes fixed where he had first directed them--on his own boot, which still stood on the table by Joshua's elbow. His first intention had evidently been to come in, but suddenly seized with shyness he was now unable to move. "Why, Peter, lad," said the cobbler, "come in then; the boots is ready for you." Thus invited Peter slowly opened the door a very little wider and squeezed himself into the room. He was indeed a very awkward-looking youth, and though he was broad-shouldered and strongly made, he was so badly put together that he did not seem to join properly anywhere, and moved with effort as though he were walking in a heavy clay soil. Everything about Peter, and even the colour of his clothes, made you think of a ploughed field, and he generally kept his eyes fastened on the ground as though following the course of a furrow. This was a pity, for his eyes were the only good features in his broad red face, and had the kindly faithful expression seen in those of some dogs. As he stood there, ill at ease, with his enormous hands opening and shutting nervously, Lilac thought of Agnetta's speech: "Peter's so common." If to be common was to look like Peter, it was a thing to be avoided, and she was dismayed to hear Uncle Joshua say: "Well, now, if you're not just in time to go home with Lilac here, seein' as how we've done our tea, and her mother'll be looking for her." "Oh, Uncle, I'd rather not," said Lilac hastily. Then she added, "I want you to play me a tune before I go." Joshua was always open to a compliment about his playing. "Ah!" he said, "you want a tune, do you? Well, and p'r'aps Peter he'd like to hear it too." As he spoke he gave the boots to Peter, who was now engaged in dragging up a leather purse from some great depth beneath his gaberdine. This effort, and the necessity of replying, flushed his face to a deeper red than ever, but he managed to say huskily as he counted some coin into Joshua's hand: "No, thank you, Mr Snell. Can't stop tonight." Nevertheless it was some moments before he could go away: he stood clasping his boots and staring at Joshua. "The money's all right, my lad," said the latter. "Well," said Peter, "I must be goin'." But he did not move. "Well, good night, Peter," said Joshua, encouragingly. "Good night, Mr Snell." "Good night, Peter," said Lilac at length, nodding to him, and this seemed to rouse him, for with sudden energy he hurled himself towards the door and disappeared. "Yon's an honest lad and a fine worker," remarked the cobbler, "but he do seem a bit tongue-tied now and then." And now, after the tune was played, there was no longer any excuse to put off going home. For the first time in her life Lilac dreaded it, for instead of a smile of welcome she had only a frown of displeasure to expect from her mother. It was such a new thing that she shrank from it with fear, and found it almost as difficult to say goodbye as Peter had done. If only Uncle Joshua would go with her! Her face looked so wistful that he guessed her unspoken desire. "Now I shouldn't wonder," he said, carefully thrusting the clarionet into its green baize bag, "as how you'd like me to go up yonder with you. And it do so happen as how I've got a job to take back to Dan'l Wishing, so I shall pass yours without goin' out of my way." Accordingly, the door of the cottage being locked, the pair set out together a few moments later, Lilac walking very soberly by the cobbler's side, with one hand in his. Joshua's hand was rough with work, so that it felt like holding the bough of a gnarled elm tree, but it was so full of kindness that there was great comfort and support in it. How would Mother receive them? Lilac hardly dared to look up when they got near the gate and saw her standing there, and hardly dared to believe her own ears when she heard her speak. For what she said was: "Run in, child, and get yer tea. I've put it by." She stayed a long time at the gate talking to Uncle Joshua, and Lilac, watching them through the window, felt little doubt that they were talking of her. When her mother came in, and was quite kind and gentle, and behaved just as usual, she felt still more sure that it was Uncle Joshua's wonderful wisdom that had done it all. But if she could have heard the conversation she would have been surprised, for they dwelt entirely on the cobbler's rheumatics and the chances of rain, and said no word of either Lilac or her fringe. Mrs White had had time to repent of her harsh words, and when the hours went by, and Lilac did not come back, she had pictured her receiving comfort and encouragement from the Greenways--the very people she wished her to avoid. Now she had driven her to them. "I could bite my tongue out for talking so foolish," she said to herself as she ran out to the gate, over and over again. When at last she saw the two well-known figures approaching, she could only just restrain herself from rushing out to meet Lilac and covering her with kisses. The relief was almost too great to bear. In her own home, therefore, Lilac heard nothing further on the unlucky subject. But this was not by any means the case in the village, where nothing was too small to be important. The fact of the Widow White's Lilac wearing a fringe was quite enough to talk of, and more than enough to stare at, for it was something new. Unfortunately everyone knew Lilac, and Lilac knew everyone, so there was no escape. Her acquaintances would draw up in front of her and gaze steadily for an instant, after which the same remarks always came: "My! you have altered yerself. I shouldn't never have known you, I do declare! And so you didn't have yer picter done after all?" Lilac wished she could hide somewhere until her hair had grown long again. And worst of all, when Mrs Leigh next saw her in school, she looked quite startled and said: "I'm so sorry you've cut your hair, Lilac; it looked much nicer before." It was the same thing over and over again, no one approved the change but Agnetta, and Lilac's faith in her cousin was by this time a little bit shaken. She should not be so ready, she thought, the next time to believe that Agnetta must know best. One drop of comfort in all this was that the artist gentleman no longer sat painting at the bottom of the hill. He had packed up all his canvases and brushes and gone off to the station, so that Lilac saw him no more. She was very glad of this, for she felt that it would have been almost impossible to pass him every day and to see his keen disapproving glance fixed upon her. Slowly the picture that was to have been painted was forgotten, and Lilac White's fringe became a thing of custom. There were more important matters near at hand; May Day was approaching, an event of interest and excitement to both young and old. CHAPTER FOUR. WHO WILL BE QUEEN? "When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight."--_Shakespeare_. On the top of the ridge of hills which rose behind Mrs White's cottage there was a great beech wood, which could be reached in two ways. One was by following a rough stony road which got gradually steeper and was terribly hard for both man and beast, and the other was to take a chalky track which led straight across the rounded shoulder of the downs. This last was considerably shorter, and by active people was always preferred to the road, although in summer it was glaring and unshaded. But the scramble was soon over, and in the deep quiet shelter of the woods it was cool on the hottest day, for the trees held their leaves so thickly over your head that it was better than any roof. The sun could not get through to scorch or dazzle, but it lit up the flickering sprays on the low boughs, so that looking through them you saw a silvery shimmering dance always going on. In the valley there had not perhaps been a breath of air, but up here a little ruffling breeze had its home, and was ready to fan you gently and hospitably directly you arrived. Under your feet a red-and-brown carpet of last year's leaves was spread, stirred now and then with sudden mysterious rustlings as the small wild creatures darted away at the sound of your step. These and the birds shared the woods in almost complete solitude, disturbed now and again by the woodcutters, or boys from the village. But there was one day in the year when this quiet kingdom was strangely invaded, when its inhabitants fled to their most retired corners and peeped out with terrified eyes upon a very altered scene--and this was the first of May. Then everything was changed for a little while. Instead of the notes of the birds there were human voices calling to each other, laughing, singing, shouting, and the music of a band; instead of great silent spaces, there were many brightly-coloured figures which ran and danced. In the midst, where a clearing had been made and the oldest trees stood solemnly round, there appeared the slim form of a maypole decked with gay ribbons; near it a throne covered with hawthorn boughs, on which, dressed in white with garland and sceptre, was seated the Queen of the May. There with great ceremony she was crowned by her court, and afterwards led the dance round the maypole. Songs and feasting followed until the sun went down, and then the gay company marched away to the sounds of "God save the Queen." Quietness reigned in the woods again, and once more the wild creatures which lived there could roam and fly at their pleasure until next May Day. Now this holiday, which was fast approaching again, was not only looked forward to with interest and excitement by the children, but was an event of importance to everyone in the village. The very oldest made shift somehow to get up to the woods and join in the rejoicing, and the most careworn and sorrowful managed to struggle out of their gloom for that one day, and to leave behind the dulness of their daily toil. Many, coming from distant parts of the parish, met for the only time throughout the year in the woods on May Day, and found the keenest pleasure in comparing the growth of their children, and talking of their neighbours' affairs. It was a source of pride and satisfaction, too, to fathers as well as mothers, to point out some child in the procession so bedecked with flowers that the real Johnnie was hardly visible, and say with a grin of delight: "Why, it's our Johnnie, I do declare! Shouldn't never a known him." As the time came round again, therefore, it was more or less in everyone's mind in some way. For one thing: Would it be fine? That affected everyone's comfort, for a cold wet May Day could be nothing but a miserable failure. Mr Dimbleby at the shop had his own anxieties, for it was his business to provide tea, bread and butter, and cake for the whole assembly, and to get it all up to the top of the hill--no small matter. To do this it was necessary to keep his mind steadily fixed on May Day for a whole week beforehand, and not to allow it to relax for an instant. The drum-and-fife band, who felt themselves the pride and ornament of the occasion, had to practise new tunes and polish up "God save the Queen" to a great pitch of perfection, and the children thought themselves busier than anyone. Not only had they to wonder who would be Queen, but they must meet in the Vicarage garden and learn how to dance round the maypole, singing at the same time. Not only must they present themselves at all sorts of odd hours to have some wonderful costume "tried on" by Miss Ellen and Miss Alice, but above all they had to gather the flowers for the wreaths and garlands. Sometimes, if the season were cold and backward, it was difficult to get enough; but this year, as Lilac had noticed with delight, it had been so bright and mild that the meadows were thick with blossoms and there was no fear of any scarcity. She was always amongst the children chosen "to gather"; and there was more in this office than might at first appear, for there were good gatherers and bad gatherers. It might be done carelessly and in a half-hearted manner, or with full attention and earnest effort, and these results were evident when each child brought her own collection to the school room on May morning. The contents of the baskets were very different, for some showed plainly that as little trouble as possible had been taken. These flowers were picked anyhow, with short stalks or long stalks, in bud or too fully blown, faded or fresh, just as they happened to grow and could be most easily got. Others, again, you could see at the first glance, had been gathered with care and thought, the finest specimens chosen just at the right stage of blossoming, and tied in neat bunches with the stalks all of one length. You might be sure that the flowers in these baskets were quite as good at the bottom as those on the top. Now, Lilac White was a gatherer on whom you might depend, and the ladies at the Rectory who made the wreaths, and dressed the Queen, and arranged the festivities, considered her their best support in the matter of flowers. For, by reason of having had her eye upon them for weeks beforehand, she knew every spring where the finest grew, whether they were early or late, and whether they would be ready for the great occasion. When they had to be gathered she spared no trouble, but would get up at any hour so that they might be picked before the sun scorched them, walk any distance or climb the steepest hills to get the very finest possible. She was always appealed to when any question arose about the flowers. "We must ask Lilac White whether the king-cups are out," Miss Ellen would say; and Lilac was always able to tell. She filled, therefore, a very pleasant and important post at these times, and took great pride in it; but her Cousin Agnetta looked at this part of the affair differently. To her there was neither pleasure nor profit in "mucking" about in the damp fields, as she said, getting her feet wet, and spoiling her frock in stooping about after the flowers. She wished Mrs Leigh would let them wear artificials, which were quite as pretty to look at, and did not fade or get messy, and were no bother at all. You could wear 'em time after time. Agnetta felt quite sure she should be Queen this year, and although she did not like the trouble beforehand she looked forward to the event itself very much indeed. There were many agreeable things about it: the white dress, the crown, the crowd of people looking on, and the fact of being first amongst her companions. It was a little vexing that Lilac was quicker to learn the steps of the dance Miss Ellen was teaching them, and could sing the May-Day song better than she could. Agnetta always sang out of tune, and tumbled over her own feet in the dance; but she consoled herself by remembering how well she should look as Queen dressed all in white, with her red cheeks and frizzy black hair. Meanwhile the Queen was not yet chosen, but would be voted for in the school a week beforehand. Who would be chosen? It was a question which occupied a good many minds just then, and amongst them one which was not supposed to trouble itself about such matters, or to have anything to do with merry-making. This was Peter Greenways' mind. He was so dull and silent, and worked so very hard all the year, that it was an ever fresh surprise to see him appear with the rest on May Day, and came natural to say, "What, you here, Peter!" although he had never missed a single occasion. He expressed no pleasure, and showed no outward sign of enjoyment; but he always went, to the great vexation of his sisters, who were heartily ashamed of him. His face was red, his figure was loutish--it was impossible to smarten him up or make him look like other folks; he continued, in spite of all their efforts, to be just plain Peter--"dreadful vulgar" in his appearance. And the worst of it was, that you could not overlook him in the crowd. This might have been the case if he had been allowed to wear his ordinary working-clothes, but Peter in his "best" was an object which seemed to stand out from all others, and to be present wherever the eye turned. On the day which was to decide the important question, Peter had been ploughing in a part of his father's land called the High Field. All the rest lay level on the plain round about the farm, but this one field was on the shoulder of the downs, so that from it you looked far over the distant valley, with its little clusters of villages dotted here and there. Immediately below was the grey church of Danecross, the rectory, the school-house, and a group of cottages all nestling sociably together; farther on, Orchards Farm peeped out from amongst the trees, which were still white with blossom, and above all this came the cold serious outline of the chalk hills, broken here and there by the beech woods. Peter never felt so happy as when he was looking at this from the High Field, with his dinner in his pocket and the prospect of a long day's work before him. It was so far away from all that disturbed and worried; no one to scold, no one to call him clumsy, no one to look angrily at him, no sounds of dispute. Only the voice of the wind, which blew so freshly up here and seemed to cheer him on, and the song of the larks high above his head, and for companions his good beasts with no reproof in their patient eyes, but only obedience and kindness. Peter was master in the High Field. No one could do a better day's work or drive a straighter furrow, and he was proud of it, and proud of his team--three iron-greys, with white manes and tails, called "Pleasant", "Old Pleasant", and "Young Pleasant." Yet though he did his ploughing well, it by no means occupied all his mind. As he trudged backwards and forwards with bent head, and hands grasping the handles, with now and then a shout to his horses, and now and then a pause for rest, his thoughts were free as the wind, flying about to an sorts of subjects. For this silent Peter had always something to wonder about. He never asked questions now as he had done at school: he had been laughed at so much then, that he knew well enough by this time that he only wondered so much because he was more stupid than other folks; it must be so, for the most common things which he saw every day, and which wise people took as a matter of course, were enough to puzzle him and fill his mind with wonder. The stars, the flowers, the sunset, the sound of the wind, the very pebbles turned up by the ploughshare, gave him strange feelings which he did not understand and which he carefully hid. They would have been explained, he knew, if he had expressed them, by the sentence, "Peter's not all there"; and he was sometimes quite inclined to think that this was really the case. To-day his thoughts had been fixed on the approaching holiday, and on all the delights of the past one. It was to him a most beautiful and even solemn occasion, and he could recall the very smallest detail of it from year to year: even the uncertain squeaks and flourishes of the drum and fife band were something to be remembered with pleasure. As his eye rested on the school-house, a small red dot in the distance, he wondered if they had settled on the Queen yet, and whether Agnetta would be chosen. "She'll be rarely vexed if she ain't," he thought seriously. So the day went by, and after five o'clock had sounded from the church tower Peter and his beasts left off work and went leisurely down the hill towards home; two of the Pleasants in front with their harness clanking and flapping loosely about them, and their master following, seated sideways on the back of the third. Peter had done a long day's work and was hungry, but he did not go into the house till he had seen his horses attended to by Ben Pinhorn, who was in the yard when they arrived. Even after this he was further delayed, for as he was crossing the lane which separated the farm buildings from the house an ugly cat ran to meet him, rubbed against his legs, and mewed. "Jump, then, Tib," said Peter encouragingly; and Tib jumped, arriving with outspread claws on the front of his waistcoat and thence to his shoulder. Thus accompanied he went to the kitchen window and tapped softly, which signal brought Molly the servant girl with a saucer of skim milk. "There's your supper, Tib," said Peter as he set it on the ground, and stood looking heavily down at the cat till she had lapped up the last drop. And in this there was reason; for Sober the sheepdog, lying near, had his eye on the saucer, and only waited for Tib to be undefended to advance and finish the milk himself. Being now quite ready for his own refreshment Peter made his way through the back kitchen into the general living-room of the family, which also, much to Bella's disgust, had the appearance of a kitchen. It was large and comfortable, with three windows in it, looking across the garden to the orchard, but, alas! it had a great fireplace and oven, where cooking often went on, and an odious high settle sticking out from one corner of the chimney. This was enough to deprive it of all gentility, without mentioning the long deal table at which in former times the farmer had been used to dine with his servants. They were banished now to the back kitchen, but this was the only reform Bella and Gusta had been able to make. Nothing would induce their father to sit in the parlour, where there was a complete set of velvet-covered chairs, a sofa, a piano, a photograph-book, and a great number of anti-macassars and mats. All these elegances were not enough to make him give up his warm corner in the settle, where he could stretch out his legs at his ease and smoke his pipe. Mrs Greenways herself, though she was proud of her parlour, secretly preferred the kitchen, as being more handy and comfortable, so that except on great occasions the parlour was left in chilly loneliness. When Peter entered there were only his mother and Bella in the room. The latter stood at the table with a puzzled frown on her brow, and a large pair of scissors in her hand; before her were spread paper patterns, fashion-books, and some pieces of black velveteen, which she was eyeing doubtfully, and, placing in different ways so that it might be cut to the best advantage. Bella was considered a fine young woman. She had a large frame like all the Greenways, and nature had given her a waist in proportion to it. She had, however, fought against nature and conquered, for her figure now resembled an hour-glass--very wide at the top, and suddenly very small in the middle. Like Agnetta she had a great deal of colour, frizzy black hair, and a good-natured expression, but her face was just now clouded by some evident vexation. "Lor', Bella," said her mother, turning round from the hearth, "put away them fal-lals--do. Here's Peter wanting his tea, and your father'll be along from market directly." Bella did not answer, partly because her mouth was full of pins, and Mrs Greenways continued: "You might hurry and get the tea laid just for once. I'm clean tired out." "Where's Molly?" muttered Bella indistinctly. "Molly indeed!" exclaimed her mother impatiently. "It's Molly here and Molly there. One 'ud think she had a hundred legs and arms for all you think she can do. Molly's scrubbing out the dairy, which she ought to a done this morning." "It won't run to it after all!" exclaimed Bella, dashing her scissors down on the table; "not by a good quarter of a yard." "An' you've been and wasted pretty nigh all the afternoon over it," said Mrs Greenways. "I do wish Gusta wouldn't send you them patterns, that I do." "I've cut up the skirt of my velveteen trying to fashion it," said Bella, looking mournfully at the plate in Myra's Journal, "so now I'm ever so much worse off than I was afore. Lor', Peter!" she added, as her eye fell on her brother, "do go and take off that horrid gaberdine and them boots. You look for all the world like Ben Pinhorn, there ain't a pin to choose between you." "You oughtn't to speak so sharp," said her mother, as Peter slouched out of the room. "I know what it is to feel spent like that after a day's work. You just come in and fling down where you are and as you are, boots or no boots." As she spoke the rattle of wheels was heard outside, and then the click of a gate. "There now!" she exclaimed, starting up; "there _is_ yer father. Back already, and a fine taking he'll be in to see all this muss about and no tea ready. He's short enough always when he's bin to market, without anything extry to vex him." She swept Bella's scraps, patterns, and books unceremoniously into a heap, and directly afterwards the tramp of heavy feet sounded in the passage, and the farmer entered. His first glance as he threw himself on the settle was at the table, where Bella was hurriedly clearing away her confused mass of working materials. "Be off with all that rubbish and let's have tea," he said crossly. "Why can't it be ready when I come in?" "You're a bit earlier than usual, Richard," said his wife; "but you'll have it in no time now. The kettle's on the boil." She made anxious signs to Bella to quicken her movements, for she saw that the farmer was in a bad humour. Things had not gone well at market. "And what did you see at Lenham?" she asked, as she began to put the cups and saucers on the table. "Nawthing," answered Mr Greenways, staring at the fire. "What did you hear then?" persisted his wife. "Nawthing," was the answer again. Mother and daughter exchanged meaning looks. The farmer jerked his head impatiently round. "What I want to see is summat to eat, and what I want to hear is no more questions till I've got it. So there!" He thrust out his legs, pushed his hands deep down in his pockets, and with his chin sunk on his breast sat there a picture of moody discontent. After a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for Molly, the tea was ready at last--a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served--and Peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. It was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. At last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked: "Who made the butter this week?" "Why, Molly, as always makes it," answered Mrs Greenways. "Wasn't it good. I thought it looked beautiful." "Well, all I know is," said the farmer moodily, "that Benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn't take no more." "Lor', Richard, you don't really mean it!" said Mrs Greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. "Whatever shall we do if Benson won't take the butter?" "You can't expect him to take it if it ain't good," answered the farmer. "I don't blame him; he's got to sell it again." "It's that there good-for-nothing Molly," said Mrs Greenways. "I'm always after her about the dairy, yet if my head's turned a minute she'll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste." "All I know is, it's a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can't be made so as it's fit to sell," said Mr Greenways, hitting the table with his fist. "What's the use of Bella and Agnetta, I should like to know?" Bella tossed her head and smiled. "Lor', Pa, how you talk!" she said mincingly. "They've never been taught nothing of such things," said Mrs Greenways; "and besides, Agnetta's got her schooling yet awhile." "Fancy me," said Bella with a giggle, "making the butter with my sleeves tucked up like Molly. I hope I'm above that sort of thing. I didn't go to Lenham finishing school to _learn_ that." "I can't find out what it was you did learn there," growled her father, "except to look down on everything useful. I'll not have Agnetta sent there, I know. Not if I had the money, I wouldn't. It's bad enough to have bad seasons and poor crops to do with out-of-doors, without having a set of dressed-up lazy hussies in the house, who mar more than they make. Where to turn for money I don't know, and there's going on for three years' rent owing to Mr Leigh." He got up as he spoke and left the room, followed by Peter. Bella continued her tea placidly. Father was always cross on market days, and it did not impress her in the least to be called lazy; she was far more interested in the fate of her velveteen dress than in the quality of the butter. But this was not the case with Mrs Greenways. To hear that Benson had threatened not to take the butter was a real as well as a new trouble, and alarmed her greatly. The rent owing and the failing crops were such a very old story that she had ceased to heed it much, but what would happen if the butter was not sold? The dairy was one of their largest sources of profit, and, as the farmer had said, the pasture was good and the cows were good. There was no fault out-of-doors. Whose fault was it? Molly's without doubt. "But then," reflected Mrs Greenways, "she have got a sight to do, and you can't hurry butter; you must have care and time." She sighed as she glanced at Bella's strong capable form. Perhaps it would have been better after all, as Mrs White had so often said, to bring up her girls to understand household matters, instead of being stylishly idle. "I did it for their good," thought poor Mrs Greenways; "and anyhow, it's too late to alter 'em now. They'd no more take to it than ducks to flying." She was startled out of these reflections by the sudden entrance of Agnetta, who burst into the room with a hot excited face, and flung her bag of books into a corner. "Well," said Bella, looking calmly at her, "I s'pose you're to be Queen, ain't you?" "No!" exclaimed Agnetta angrily, "I ain't Queen; and it's a shame, so it is." "Why, whoever is it, then?" asked Bella, open-mouthed. "They've been and chosen Lilac White; sneaking little thing!" said Agnetta. "Well, now, surely, I am surprised," said her mother. "I made sure they'd choose you, Agnetta; being the oldest, and the best lookin', and all. I do call it hard." "It's too bad," continued Agnetta, thus encouraged; "after I've been such a friend to her, and helped her cut her hair. It's ungrateful. She might have told me." "Why, I don't suppose she knew it, did she?" said Bella. "She went all on pretending she wanted me Queen," said Agnetta, "as innocent as you please. And she must a known there were a lot meant to vote for her. I call it mean." "Never you mind, Agnetta," said her mother soothingly; "come and get yer tea, and here's a pot of strawberry jam as you're fond of. She'll never make half such a good Queen as you, and I dessay you'll look every bit as fine now, when you're dressed." "I don't want no strawberry jam," said Agnetta sullenly, kicking at the leg of the table. "Mercy me!" said poor Mrs Greenways with a sigh, "everything do seem to go crossways today." CHAPTER FIVE. MAY DAY. "But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May!" --_Tennyson_. Agnetta had been quite wrong in saying that Lilac had any idea of being Queen. At the school that afternoon, when amidst breathless silence the Mistress had counted up the votes and said: "Lilac White is chosen Queen", it had been such a surprise to her that she had stood as though in a dream. Her companions nudged her on either side. "It's you that's Queen," they whispered; and at length she awoke to the wonderful fact that it was not Agnetta or anyone else who had the most votes, but she herself, Lilac White. She was Queen! Looking round, still half-puzzled to believe such a wonderful thing, she saw a great many pleased faces, and heard Mrs Leigh say: "I think you have chosen very well, and I am glad Lilac will be Queen this year." It was, then, really true. "How pleased Mother'll be!" was her first thought; but her second was not so pleasant, for her eye fell on Agnetta. It was the only sullen face there; disappointment and vexation were written upon it, and there was no answering glance of sympathy from the downcast eyes. Lilac was an impulsive child, and affection for her friend made her forget everything else for the moment. She left her place, went up to Mrs Leigh, who was talking to the schoolmistress, and held one arm out straight in front of her. "Well, Lilac," said Mrs Leigh kindly, "what is it?" "Please, ma'am," said Lilac, dropping a curtsy, "if they don't mind, I'd rather Agnetta Greenways was Queen." "Oh, that's quite out of the question," said Mrs Leigh decidedly; "when the Queen's been once chosen it can't be altered. Why, I should have thought you would have been pleased." Lilac hung her head, and went back to her place rather abashed. She was pleased, and she did not like Mrs Leigh to think she did not care. Her whole heart was full of delight at receiving such an honour, but at the same time it was hard for Agnetta, who had so set her mind on being Queen. If only she could be Queen too! That being impossible, Lilac had done her best in offering to give it up, and it was disappointing to find that her friend, far from being grateful, was cross and sulky with her and quite out of temper. When the other children crowded round Lilac with pleased faces Agnetta held back, and had not one kind word to say, but refusing an advances flung herself away from her companions and rushed home full of wrath. Lilac looked after her wistfully; it hurt her to think that Agnetta could behave so. "After all," she said to herself, "I couldn't help them choosing me, and I did offer to give it up." Everyone else was glad that she was Queen, and ready with a smile and a nod when they met her. If Agnetta had only been pleased too Lilac's happiness would have been perfect, but that was just the one thing wanting. However, even with this drawback there was a great deal of pleasure to look forward to, and when she went to the Rectory to have the white dress fitted on she was almost as excited as though it was really a royal robe. "It's a pity about the fringe, Lilac," said Miss Ellen as she pinned and arranged the long train; "it's not nearly so becoming." Then seeing the excited face suddenly downcast she added: "Never mind; I dare say the crown will partly hide it." Her arrangements finished, she called her sister, and they both surveyed Lilac gravely, who, a little abashed by such business-like observation, stood before them shyly in her straight white gown, with the train fastened on her shoulders. "I think she'll do very nicely," said Miss Alice, "when she gets the flowers on. They make all the difference. What will she wear?" Miss Ellen's opinion was decided on that point. "It ought to be white lilac, and plenty of it," she said, "nothing would suit the Queen so well." Then came a difficulty: there was none nearer than Cuddingham. Could it be got in time? Lilac was doubtful, for Cuddingham was a long way off, but she promised to do her best, and Miss Ellen's last words to her were: "Bring moon daisies if you can't get it, but remember I should like white lilac much the best." Lilac herself thought the moon daisies would be prettier, with their bright yellow middles; but Miss Ellen's word was law, and as she had set her heart on white lilac, some way of going to Cuddingham must be found since it was too far to walk. There were only two days now to the great event, and during them Lilac did her best to make her wants known everywhere. In vain, however. No one was going to or coming from that place; always the same disappointing answers: "Cuddingham! No, thank goodness; I was there last week. I don't want to see that hill again yet a while." Or, "Well now, if I'd known yesterday I might a suited you." And so on. Lilac began to despair. She thought of Orchards Farm, but she had not courage to ask any favour there while Agnetta was so vexed with her. Even Uncle Joshua, who had always helped her at need, had nothing to suggest now, and did not even seem to think it of much importance. He dropped in to see Mrs White on the evening before May Day, and with her usual faith in him Lilac at once began to place her difficulty before him. But for once he was not ready to listen, and she was obliged to wait impatiently while he carried on a long conversation with her mother. They had a great deal to talk of, and it was most uninteresting to Lilac, for it was all about things of the past in which she had had no share. She might have liked it at another time, but just now she was full of the present, and she became more and more impatient as Uncle Joshua went on. He had to call back the first celebration of May Day which he "minded", and the smallest event connected with it; and when he had done Mrs White took up the tale, dwelling specially on Jem's musical talent, and how he had been the very soul of the drum-and-fife band. "They're all at sixes and sevens now, to my thinking," she said. "Jem, he kep' 'em together and made 'em do their best." "Aye, that's where it is," said the cobbler with an approving nod; "that's what we've all on us got to do." His eye rested as he spoke on Lilac's eager face, and seizing the opportunity of a pause she rushed in with what she had so much on her mind: "Oh, Uncle Joshua! to-morrow's the day, and I can't get no white lilac for Miss Ellen to make my garland with. What shall I do?" But Joshua was in a moralising mood, and though Lilac's question gave him another subject to discourse on, he was more bent on hearing himself talk than in getting over her difficulty. He raised one finger and began to speak slowly, and when Mrs White saw that, she paused with the kettle in her hand and stood quite still to listen. Joshua was going to say something "good." "It don't matter a bit," he said, "what you make your garland of. Flowers is all perishin' things and they'll be dead next day, and wear what you will, they won't make you into a real Queen. But there's things as will always make folks bow down when they see 'em, May Day or no May Day, and them's the things you ought to seek for, early and late till you find 'em. You take a lot of pains to get flowers to deck your outsides, but you don't care much for the plants I'm thinking of; you leave 'em to chance, and so sometimes they're choked out by the weeds. An' yet they're worth takin' trouble for, and if you once get 'em to take root and grow they're fit to crown the finest Queen as ever was; and they won't die either, but the more you use 'em the fresher and sweeter they'll be. There's Love now; you can't understand anyone, not the smallest child, without that. There's Truth; you can't do anything with folks unless they trust you. There's Obedience; you can't rule till you know how to serve. There's three plants for you, and there's a whole lot more, but that's enough for you to bear in mind, and I must be going along." Joshua departed much satisfied with his eloquence, leaving Mrs White equally impressed. "Lor'!" she exclaimed, "there's a gifted man. It's every bit as good as being in church to hear him. And I hope, Lilac, as how you'll lay it to heart and mind it when you get to be a woman." But Lilac did not feel in the least inclined to lay it to heart. She was vexed with Uncle Joshua, who had not been the least help in her perplexity; for once he had failed her, and she was glad he had gone away so that she could think over a plan for to-morrow. It was of no use evidently to reckon on white lilac any longer, the only thing to be done now was to get up very early the next morning and pick the best moon daisies she could find for Miss Ellen. This determination was so strong within her when she fell asleep, that she woke with a sudden start next morning as the daylight was just creeping through her lattice. Had she overslept herself? No, it was beautifully early, it must be an hour at least before her usual time. She dressed herself quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb her mother in the next room, and then pushing open her tiny window gave an anxious look at the weather. Would it be fine? At present a thin misty grey veil was spread over everything, but she could see the village below, which looked fast, fast asleep, with no smoke from its chimneys and nothing stirring. There was such a stillness everywhere that it seemed wrong to make a noise, as though you were in church. And the birds felt it too, for they twittered in a subdued manner, keeping back their full burst of song to greet someone who would come presently. Lilac knew who that was. She knew as well as the birds that very soon the sun would thrust away the misty veil and show his beaming face to the valley. It would be fine. It was May Day, and she was Queen! She drew a deep breath of delight, went downstairs on tiptoe, found a basket and a knife, tied on her bonnet, and unlatched the door; but there she stopped short, checked on the threshold by a sight so surprising that for a moment she could not move. For at her feet, on the doorstep, lying there purely white as though it had fallen from the clouds, was a great mass of white lilac. There were branches and branches of it, so that the air was filled with its gentle delicate scent, and it was so fresh that all its leaves were moist with dew. Someone had been up earlier even than herself. The question was--who? Uncle Joshua of course; he had not failed after all, though how even such a very clever man could have got to Cuddingham and back since last night was more than Lilac could tell. That did not matter. There it was, and what a fine lot of it! "He must have brought away nigh a whole bush," she said to herself. "Miss Ellen will be rare and pleased, surely." She gathered up the sweet-smelling boughs at last, and put them into one of her mother's washing-baskets. There was no need to pick moon daisies now, and as she swept and dusted the room and lit the fire she gave many looks of admiration at her treasure, and many grateful thoughts to Uncle Joshua. Mrs White also had no doubt that he had managed it somehow; and she was so moved by the fact of his kindness, and by Lilac being Queen, and by a hundred past memories, that her usual composure left her, and she threw her apron over her head and had a good cry. "There!" she said when it was over, "I can't think what makes me so silly. But Jem he would a been proud to have seen you--he always liked the laylocks." But now came the question as to how it was to be carried down the hill to the school room. Lilac could not lift the great basket, and it was at last found best to pile up the branches in her long white pinafore, which she held by the two corners. When all was ready she looked seriously across the fragrant burden, which reached up to her chin, and said: "You'll be sure and be up there in time, won't you, Mother, or you won't see me crowned?" "No fear," said Mrs White as she held the gate open. "Mind and walk steady or you'll drop some, and you can't pick it up if you do." Lilac nodded. She was almost too excited to speak. If it felt like this to be Queen of the May, she wondered what it must be like to be a real Queen! It was a glorious morning. The mist had gone, the sun had come, and all the birds were singing their best tunes to welcome him. To Lilac they sounded more than usually gay, as though they were telling each other all sorts of pleasant things. "The sun is here--it is May Day--Lilac is Queen." All the trees too, as they bent in the breeze, seemed to talk together with busy murmurs and whisperings: they tossed their heads and threw up their hands as if in surprise at some news, and then bowed low and gracefully before her, for what they had heard was--"Lilac White is Queen!" Her heart danced so to listen to them that it was quite difficult to keep her feet to a measured step, but when she reached the turn of the hill something made her feel that she must look back. She turned slowly round. There was Mother waving her hand at the gate. When they next met it would be up in the woods, and Lilac would wear crown and garland. She could not wave her hand or even nod in return, but she made a sort of little curtsy and went on her way. At the bottom of the hill she met Mrs Wishing, who, bent nearly double by a heavy bundle, was crawling up from the village. "Well, you look happy anyhow, Lilac White," she said mournfully. "And you haven't forgotten to bring enough flowers with you either." "I can't stop," said Lilac, "I've got to go and put these on Father first. It's so far for Mother to come." She gave a movement of her chin towards the primrose wreath which Mrs White had added at the last moment to the heap of flowers. "Ah! well," sighed Mrs Wishing, "in the midst of life we are in death. I haven't much heart for junketing myself, but I shall be up yonder this afternoon if I'm spared." Lilac passed quickly on, nodding and smiling in return to the greetings which met her. At the door of the shop stood Mr Dimbleby, his face heavier than usual with importance, and a little farther on she saw her Uncle Greenways' wagon and team waiting in charge of Ben, who leant lazily against one of the horses. Mr Greenways always lent a wagon on May Day so that the very old people and small children might drive up the worst part of the hill. Certainly it was there in plenty of time, for it would not be wanted till the afternoon; but it is always well not to be hurried on such occasions, and many of the people had to walk from outlying hamlets. Lilac laid her primroses on her father's grave, and turned back towards the school-house just as the clock struck twelve. There were now many other little figures hurrying in the same direction with businesslike step, and all carrying flowers. Primroses, daisies, buttercups, cowslips, and honeysuckle were to be seen, but there was nothing half so beautiful as the heap of white lilac. Agnetta saw it as she passed into the school room, and gave an astonished stare and a sniff of displeasure: she had only brought a basket of small daisies, and had taken no trouble about them, so that her offering was not noticed or praised at all. Then Lilac advanced, and dropping her little curtsy stood silently in front of Miss Ellen and Miss Alice holding out her pinafore to its widest extent. There were exclamations of admiration and surprise from everyone, and Agnetta stamped her foot with vexation to hear them. "It's _exquisite_!" said Miss Ellen at last. "Where did you get such a beautiful lot of it?" "Please, ma'am, I don't know," said Lilac. "I found it on the doorstep." Agnetta's wrath grew higher every moment. No one paid her any attention, and here was her insignificant cousin Lilac the centre of everyone's interest. She overheard a whisper of Miss Alice's: "She'll make far the loveliest Queen we've ever had." What could it be they admired in Lilac? Agnetta stood with a pout on her lips, idle, while all round the busy work and chatter went on. "Now, Agnetta," said Miss Ellen, bustling up to her, "there's plenty to do. Get me some twine and some wire, and if you're very careful you may help me with the Queen's sceptre." It was a hateful office, but there was no help for it, and Agnetta had to humble herself in the Queen's service for the rest of the morning. To kneel on the floor, pick off small sprays from the bunches of lilac, and hand them up to Miss Ellen as she wove them into garland and sceptre. While she did it her heart was hot within her, and she felt that she hated her cousin. The work went on quickly but very silently inside the schoolroom. There was no time to talk, for the masses of flowers which covered table, benches, and floor had all to be changed into wreaths and garlands before one o'clock, for the Queen and her court. Outside it was not so quiet. An eager group had gathered there long ago, composed of the drum-and-fife band, which broke out now and then into fragments of tunes, the boy with the maypole on his shoulder, and bearers of sundry bright flags and banners. To these the time seemed endless, and they did their best to shorten it by jokes and laughter; it was only the close neighbourhood of the schoolmaster which prevented the boldest from climbing up to the high window and hanging on by his hands to see how matters were going on within. But at last the latch clicked, the door opened wide: there stood the smiling little white Queen with her gaily dressed court crowding at her back. There was a murmur of admiration, and the band, gazing open-mouthed, almost forgot to strike up "God save the Queen." For there was something different about this Queen to any they had seen before. She was so delicately white, so like a flower herself, that looking out from the blossoms which surrounded her she might have been the spirit of a lilac bush suddenly made visible. The white lilac covered her dress in delicate sprays, it bordered the edge of her long train, it twined up the tall sceptre in her hand, it was woven into the crown which was carried after her. At present the Queen's head was bare, for she would not be crowned till she reached her throne in the woods. Then the procession began its march, band playing, banners fluttering bravely in the wind, through the village first, so that all those who could not get up the hill might come to their doors and windows to admire. Then leaving the highroad it came to the steep ascent, and here the wind blowing more freshly almost caught away the Queen's train from the grasp of her two little pages. The band, in spite of gallant struggles, became short of breath, so that the music was wild and uncertain; and the smaller courtiers straggled behind unable to keep up with the rest. It made its way, however, notwithstanding these difficulties, and from the top of the hill where crowds of people had now gathered it was watched by eager and interested eyes. First it looked in the distance like a struggling piece of patchwork on the hillside, then it took shape and they could make out the maypole and the flags, then, nearer still, the sounds of the three tunes which the band played over and over again were wafted to their ears, and at last the small white figure of the Queen herself could plainly be distinguished from the rest. It did not take long after this to reach level ground, and as the procession moved along with recovered breath and dignity to the music of "God save the Queen", it was followed by admiring remarks from all sides: "See my Johnnie! Him in the pink cap. Bless his 'art, how fine he looks!" Or "There's Polly Ann with the wreath of daisies!" "Well now," said Mrs Pinhorn, "I will say Lilac looks as peart and neat as a little bit of waxworks." "She wants colour, to my thinking," said Mrs Greenways, to whom this was addressed. The Greenways stood a little aloof from the general crowd, dressed with great elegance. Bella rather looked down on the whole affair. "It's so mixed," she said; "but we have to go, because Papa don't wish to offend Mr Leigh." "I call that a real pretty sight," said Joshua Snell, turning to his neighbour, who happened to be Peter Greenways. "They've dressed her up very fitting in all them lilac blooms. But wherever did they get such a sight of 'em?" Peter had been forced into a shiny black suit of clothes, a stiff collar, and a bright blue necktie, that he might not disgrace the stylish appearance of his mother and sisters. In this attire he felt even less at his ease than usual, and his arms hung before him as helplessly as those of a stuffed figure. Perhaps it was owing to this state of discomfort that he made no other answer to Joshua's remark than a nervous grin. "I don't see the Widder White anywheres," continued Joshua, looking round; "but there's such a throng one can't tell who's who." Lilac, too, had been looking in vain for her mother amongst the groups of people she had passed through, and as she took her seat on the hawthorn-covered throne she gazed wistfully to right and left. No, Mother was not there. Plenty of well-known faces, but not the one she wanted most to see. "She _promised_ to be in time," she said to herself, "and now she'll miss the crowning." It was a dreadful pity, for Lilac could only be Queen once in her life, and it seemed to take away the best part of the pleasure for Mother not to be there. She had been looking forward to it for so long. What could have kept her away? The Queen's eyes filled with tears of disappointment, and through them the form of Peter Greenways seemed to loom unnaturally large, his face redder than ever above his blue neckcloth, his mouth and eyes wide open. Lilac checked her tears and remembered her exalted position. She must not cry now; but directly the crowning and the dance were over she resolved to search for her mother, and if she were not there to go home and see what had prevented her coming. This determination enabled her to bear her honours with becoming dignity, and to put aside her private anxiety for the time like other royal personages. She danced round the maypole with her court, and led the May-Day song as gaily as if her pleasure had been quite perfect. But it was not; for all the while she was wondering what could possibly have become of her mother. At last, her public duties over, the Queen found herself at liberty. The crowd had dispersed now, and was broken up into little knots of people chatting together and waiting for the next excitement--tea-time. Through these Lilac passed with always the same question: "Have you seen Mother?" Sometimes in the distance she fancied she saw a shawl of a pattern she knew well, but having pursued it, it turned out to belong to someone quite different. She had just made up her mind to go home, when one of her companions ran up to her with an excited face: "Come along," she cried; "they're just agoin' to start the races." Lilac hesitated. "I can't," she said; "I've got to go and look after Mother." "Well, it'll be on your way," said the other; "and you needn't stop no longer nor you like. Come along." She seized Lilac's arm and they ran on together to the flat piece of ground on the edge of the wood, where the races were to take place. The steep side of the down descended abruptly from this, and Lilac knew that by taking that way, which was quite an easy one to her active feet, she could very quickly reach home. So she stayed to look first at one race and then at another, and they all proved so amusing that the more she saw the more she wanted to see, though she still said to herself: "I'll go after this one." She was laughing at the struggling efforts of the boys in a sack race, when suddenly, amidst the noise of cheers and shouting which surrounded her, she heard her own name spoken in an urgent entreating voice: "Lilac--Lilac White!" "Who is it wants me!" she said, starting up and trying to force her way through the crowd. "I'm here; what is it?" The people stood back to let her pass. "It's Mrs Leigh wants you," said a woman. "She's standing back yonder." It was strange to see Mrs Leigh's beaming face look so grave and troubled, and it gave Lilac a sense of fear when she reached her. "Is Mother here, ma'am?" was her first question. "Does she want me, please?" Mrs Leigh did not answer quite at once, then she said very seriously: "Your mother is at home, Lilac. You must go with me at once. She is ill." Self-reproach darted through Lilac's heart. Why had she put off going home? But she must do the best she could now, and she said at once: "Hadn't I best send someone for the doctor first, ma'am?" "He is there," answered Mrs Leigh. "He was sent for some time ago; Daniel Wishing went." The next thing was to get back to Mother as quickly as possible, and Lilac turned without hesitation to the way she had meant to take-- straight down the side of the hill. But Mrs Leigh stopped aghast. "You're not going down there, surely?" she said. "It's as nigh again as going round, ma'am," said Lilac eagerly; "and it's not to say difficult if you do it sideways." Mrs Leigh still hesitated. It was very steep; the smooth turf was slippery. There was not even a shrub or anything to cling to, and a slip would certainly end in an awkward tumble. At another time she would have turned from it with horror, but she looked at Lilac's upturned anxious face and was touched with pity. "After all," she said, grasping her umbrella courageously, "if you can help me a little, perhaps it won't be so bad as it looks." So they started, hand in hand, Lilac a little in front carefully leading the way; but she was soon sorry that they had not gone round by the road. This was a short distance for herself, but it proved a long one now that she had Mrs Leigh with her. A slip, a stop, a slide, another stop--it was a very slow progress indeed. As they went jerking along the flowers fell off Lilac's dress one by one and left a white track behind her. She had taken off her crown and held it in her hand; its blossoms were drooping already, and its leaves folded up and limp. How short a time it was since they had been fresh and fair, and she had marched up the hill so bravely, full of delight. Now, poor little discrowned Queen, she was leaving her kingdom of mirth and laughter behind her with every step, and coming nearer to the shadowy valley where sadness waited. After many a sigh and gasp Mrs Leigh and her guide reached the bottom in safety. They were on comparatively level ground now, with gently sloping fields in front of them and the sharp shoulder of the hill rising at their back. There, within a stone's throw stood the Wishings' cottage, and a little farther on Lilac's own home. How quiet, how very still it all looked! Now and then there floated in the calm air a shout or a sudden burst of laughter from the distant merry-makers, but here, below, it was all utterly silent. The two little white cottages had no light in their windows, no smoke from their chimneys, no sign of life anywhere. "Mother's let the fire out," said Lilac. Mrs Leigh came to a sudden standstill. "Lilac," she said, "my poor child--" Lilac looked up frightened and bewildered. Mrs Leigh's eyes were full of tears, and she could hardly speak. She took Lilac's hand in hers and held it tightly. "My poor child," she repeated. "Oh, please, ma'am," cried Lilac, "let's be quick and go to Mother. What ails her?" "Nothing ails her," said Mrs Leigh solemnly; "nothing will ever ail her any more. You must be brave for her sake, and remember that she loves you still; but you will not hear her speak again on earth." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The revels on the hill broke up sooner than usual that night, and those who had to pass the cottage on their way home trod softly and hushed their children's laughter. For ill news travels fast, and before nightfall there was no one who did not know that the Widow White was dead. And thus Lilac's May-Day reign held in its short space the greatest happiness and the greatest sorrow of her life. Joy and smiles and freshly-blooming flowers in the morning; sadness and tears and a withered crown at night. CHAPTER SIX. ALONE. "The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?"--_Proverbs_. A few days after this Lilac sat on her little stool in her accustomed corner, listening in a dreamy way to the muffled voices of Mrs Pinhorn and Mrs Wishing. They spoke low, not because they did not wish her to hear, but because, having just come from her mother's funeral, they felt it befitted the occasion. As they talked they stitched busily at some "black" which they were helping her to make, only pausing now and then to glance round at her as though she were some strange animal, shake their heads, and sigh heavily. Lilac had not cried much since her mother's death, and was supposed by the neighbours to be taking it wonderful easy-like. For the twentieth time Mrs Wishing was entering slowly and fully into every detail connected with it--of all the doctor had said of its having been caused by heart disease, of all she had said herself, of all Mr Leigh had said; and if she paused a moment Mrs Pinhorn at once asked another question. For it was Mrs Wishing, who, running in as usual to borrow something, had found Mrs White on May morning sitting peacefully in her chair, quite dead. "And it do strike so mournful," she repeated, "to think of the child junketing up on the hill, and May Queen an' all, an' that poor soul an alone." "It's a thing one doesn't rightly understand, that is," said Mrs Pinhorn, "why both Lilac's parents should have been took so sudden." She gave a sharp glance round the room--"I suppose," she added, "the Greenways'll have the sticks. There's a goodish few, and well kep'. Mary White was always one for storing her things." "I never heard of no other kin," said Mrs Wishing. "Lilac's lucky to get a home like Orchards Farm. But there! Some is born lucky." The conversation continued in the same strain until Mrs Wishing discovered that she must go home and get Dan'l's supper ready. "An' it's time I was starting too," added Mrs Pinhorn. "I've got a goodish bit to walk." They both looked hesitatingly at Lilac. "You'll come alonger me and sleep, won't you, dearie?" said Mrs Wishing coaxingly. "It's lonesome for you here." But Lilac shook her head. "I'd rather bide here, thank you," was all she said; and after trying many forms of persuasion the two women left her unwillingly and took their way. Lilac stood at the open door and watched them out of sight, but she was not thinking of them at all, though she still seemed to hear Mrs Wishing's words: "It's lonesome for you here." Her head felt strange and dizzy, almost as though she had been stunned, and it was stranger still to find that she could not cry although Mother was dead. She knew it very well, everyone had talked of it to her. Mr Leigh had spoken very kind, and Mrs Leigh had given her a black frock, and all the neighbours at the church that morning had groaned and cried and pitied her; but Lilac herself had hardly shed a tear, though she felt it was expected of her, and saw that people were surprised to see her so quiet. She tried every now and then to get it into her head, and to understand it, but she could not. It seemed to be someone else that folks spoke of, and not Mother. As she stood by the open door, each thing her eye rested on seemed to have something to do with her and to promise her return. There was the hill she had toiled up so often: surely she would come again with a tired footstep, but always a smile for Lilac. There was the little garden and the sweet-peas she had sown, just showing green above the earth: would she never see them bloom? There on the window sill were her knitting-pins and a half-finished stocking: was it possible that Lilac would never hear them click again in her busy fingers? There, most familiar object of all, was the clothes line. Lilac could almost fancy she saw her mother's straight active figure, as she had done scores of times, stretching up her arms to fasten the clothes with wooden pegs, her skirt tucked up, her arms bare, her sunbonnet tilted over her eyes. No--it was quite impossible to feel that she would really never come back; it seemed much more likely that by and by she would walk in at the door and sit down by the window in her high-backed Windsor chair, and take up the unfinished knitting. As Lilac was thinking thus, a figure did really appear at the top of the hill, a short square figure with a gaily trimmed hat on its head--her cousin Agnetta. For the first time in all her life Agnetta was feeling not superior to Lilac as usual, but shy of her. She did not know what to say to her nor even whether she should be welcome, for she was conscious of having been very ill-tempered lately. Now that Lilac was in trouble, cast down from her high position as Queen, she no longer felt angry with her, and would even have liked to make herself pleasant--if she could. As she came near, however, and stood staring at her cousin, she felt that somehow there was a great difference in her, something which she could not understand. There was a look in Lilac's small white face which made it impossible to speak to her in the old patronising tone; it was as though she had been somewhere and seen something to which Agnetta was a stranger, and which could never be explained to her. It made her uncomfortable, and almost afraid to say anything; and yet, she remembered, Lilac was very low down in the world now--there was less reason than ever to stand in awe of her. She was only poor little Lilac White, with nothing in the world she could call her own, an orphan, and dependent for a home on Agnetta's father. So after these reflections she took courage and spoke: "Mamma said I was to tell you that she'll be up to-morrow morning to look at the furniture, and you must be ready in the afternoon to come down alonger Ben when he brings the cart." Lilac nodded, and the two girls stood silently on the doorstep for a moment; then Agnetta spoke again: "I s'pose you're glad you're coming to live at the farm, ain't ye?" "No," answered Lilac, "I don't know as I be. I'd rather bide here." Agnetta had recovered her courage with her voice. She stepped uninvited past Lilac into the room and cast a curious look round. "Lor'!" she said, "don't it look mournful! I should think you'd be glad to get away." Lilac did not answer. "What's this?" asked Agnetta, pouncing on the needlework which the two women had left on the table. "It's a frock for me," said Lilac. "Mrs Leigh give it to me." Agnetta held the skirt out at arm's length and looked at it critically. "Well!" she exclaimed with some scorn in her voice, "I should a thought you'd a had it made different now." "Different?" said Lilac enquiringly. "Why, there's no reason you shouldn't have it cut more stylish, is there, now there's no one to mind?" No one to mind! Lilac looked at her cousin with dazed eyes for a moment, as if she hardly understood--then she took the stuff out of her hand. "I'll never have 'em made different," she cried with a sudden flash in her eyes; "I never, never will." And then to Agnetta's great surprise she suddenly burst into tears. Agnetta stood staring at her, puzzled. She was sorry, only what had made Lilac cry just now when she had been quite calm hitherto? "Don't take on so," she ventured to say presently; "and you'll spoil your black. It'll stain dreadful." But Lilac took no more notice than if she had not been there, and soon, feeling that she could do nothing, Agnetta left her and took her way home. She had accomplished something by her visit, though she did not know it, for she had made Lilac feel now that it really was true. Mother would not come back. She was alone in the world. There was no one, as Agnetta had said, "to mind." She began to understand it now, and the clearer it was the harder it was to bear. So she bowed her head on the table, amongst the black stuff in spite of Agnetta's caution, and cried on. And presently another thing, which she had not realised till now, stood out plainly before her. She was to go away to-morrow and live at Orchards Farm. Orchards Farm, which she had always fancied the most beautiful place in the world, and beside which her own home had seemed poor and small! Now all that had changed, and the more she thought of it the more she felt that she did not want to leave the cottage. It had suddenly become dear and precious; for all the things in it, even the meanest and smallest, seemed full of her mother's voice and presence. Orchards Farm was a strange country now, with nothing in it that her mother had loved or that loved her, and to go there would be like going still farther from her. Raising her eyes she looked round at the familiar room, at her mother's chair, at her own little stool, at the plants in the window. They all seemed to say: "Don't go, Lilac. It is better to stay here." Must she go? Then suddenly she caught sight of the lilac crown lying dusty and withered in a corner. It reminded her of a friend. "I'll ask Uncle Joshua," she said to herself; "I'll go early to-morrow morning and ask him. _He'll_ know." Joshua had a very decided opinion on the question placed before him next day: Could Lilac live alone at the cottage and take in the washing as her mother used to do? "I can reach the line quite easy if I stand on a stool," she said anxiously; "and Mrs Wishing, she'd help me wring." "Bless you, my maid," he said, "you're not old enough to make a living, or strong enough, or wise enough yet. The proper place for you is your Uncle Greenways' house, till such time as you come to be older." "Mother, she always said, `Don't be beholden to no one. Stand on your own feet.' That's what she said ever so often," faltered Lilac. The cobbler smiled as he looked at the slight little figure. "Well, you must wait a bit. If Mother could speak to you now, she'd say as I do. And you won't be no farther from her at the farm; wherever and whenever you think of her and mind what she said, and how she liked you to act, that's her voice talking to you still. You listen and do as she bids, and that'll make her happier and you too." Joshua set to work again with feverish haste as he finished. He did not like parting with Lilac, and it was difficult to say goodbye. She lingered, looking wistfully at him. "You'll come and see me down yonder, won't you, Uncle Joshua?" "Why, surely, surely," replied Joshua hastily; "and you'll come and see me. It ain't so far after all. Bless me!" he added with a testy glance at the dusty pane in front of him, "what ails the window this morning? It don't give no light whatever." In a moment Lilac had fetched a duster and rubbed the little window bright and clear. It was a small office she had often performed for the cobbler. "It wasn't, not to say very dirty," she said; "but you'll have to do it yourself next time, Uncle Joshua." When she got back to the cottage, she felt a little comforted by the cobbler's words, although he had not fallen in with her plan. What could she do at once, she wondered, that would please her mother? She looked round the room. It had a forlorn appearance. The doorstep, trodden by so many feet lately, was muddy, there was dust on the furniture, and the floor had not been swept for days. Mother certainly would not like that, and Lilac felt she could not leave it so another minute. With new energy she seized broom, brushes, and pail and went to work, going carefully into all the corners, and doing everything just as she had been taught. Very soon it all looked like itself again, bright and orderly, and with a sigh of satisfaction she went upstairs to put herself "straight" before her aunt came. When there another idea struck her, for the moment she looked at the glass she remembered how Mother had hated the fringe. Surely she could brush it back now that her hair had grown longer. No, brush as hard as she would it fell obstinately over her forehead again. But Lilac was not to be conquered. She scraped it back once more, and tied a piece of ribbon firmly round her head; then she nodded triumphantly at herself in the glass. It was ugly, but anyhow it was neat. She had just finished this arrangement when a noise in the room below warned her of Mrs Greenways' approach, and running downstairs she found her seated breathless in the high-backed chair. One foot was stretched out appealingly in front of her, and she was so fatigued that at first she could only nod speechlessly at Lilac. "I'm fairly spent," she said at last, "with that terr'ble hill. I can't wonder myself that your poor mother was taken so sudden with her heart, though she was always a spare figure." Lilac said nothing; the old feeling came back to her that it was someone else and not Mother who was spoken of. Mrs Greenways looked thoughtfully round the room; her eye rested on each piece of furniture in turn. "They're good solid things, and well kept," she said. "I will say for Mary White as she knew how to keep her things. We can do with a good many of 'em at the farm," she went on after a pause; "but I don't want to be cluttered up with furniture, and the rest we must sell as it stands." Lilac's heart sank. She could not bear to think of any of Mother's things being sold, but she was too much in awe of her aunt to say anything. "So I've come up this morning," pursued Mrs Greenways, producing an old envelope and a stumpy pencil; "just to jot down what I want to keep. And when I've done here, and fetched my breath a little, I'll go upstairs and have a look round." Mrs Greenways made her list, and then with a businesslike air tied pieces of tape on all the things she had chosen. Lilac saw with dismay that her own little stool and the high-backed chair were left out. It was almost like leaving two old friends behind. "Have you packed your clothes?" asked Mrs Greenways. "No, Aunt, not yet," said Lilac. "Well, I shall have to send Ben up with the cart this afternoon for your box, so you may as well come alonger him. And mind this, Lilac. Don't you go bringin' any litter and rubbish with you. Jest your clothes and no more, and your Bible and Prayer Book. And now I'll go upstairs." Mrs Greenways went upstairs, followed meekly by Lilac. She watched passively while her aunt punched all the mattresses, placed a searching finger beneath every sheet and blanket, sat down in the chairs, and finally examined every article of Mrs White's wardrobe. "'Tain't any of it much good to me," she said, holding up a cotton gown to the light. "They're all cut so antiquated, and she was never anything of a figure. You may as well keep 'em, Lilac, and they'll come in for you later." It made Lilac's heart ache sorely to see her mother's clothes in Mrs Greenways' hands turned about and talked over. There was one gown in particular, with a blue spot. Mrs White had worn it on that last May morning when she had stood at the gate, and it seemed almost a part of her. When her aunt dropped it carelessly on the ground after her last remark, Lilac picked it up and held it closely to her. "And her Sunday bonnet now," continued Mrs Greenways discontentedly. "All the ribbons is fresh and it's a good straw, but I don't suppose I shall look anything but a scarecrow in it." She perched it on her head as she spoke, and turned about before the glass. "'Tain't so bad," she murmured, with a glance at Lilac for approval. There was no answer; for to her great surprise Mrs Greenways found that her niece had hidden her face in the blue cotton gown she held to her breast, and was sobbing quietly. Mrs Greenways was a kind-hearted woman in spite of her coarse nature. She could not exactly see what had made Lilac cry just now, but she went up to her and spoke soothingly. "There, there," she said, "it's natural to take on, but you'll be better soon, when you get down to the farm alonger Agnetta. You must think of all you've got to be thankful for. And now I should relish a cup o' tea, for I started away early; so we'll go down and you'll get it for me, I dessay. I brought a little in my pocket in case you should be out of it. I shouldn't wonder if Bella was able to give this a bit of style,"--taking off the bonnet. "She's wonderful clever with her fingers." Mrs Greenways drank her tea, made Lilac take some and eat some bread and butter, which she wished to refuse but dared not. "Now you feel better, don't you?" she said good-naturedly. "And before I start off home, Lilac, I've got a word to say, and that is that I hope you're proper and thankful for all your uncle's going to do for you." "Yes, Aunt," said Lilac. "If it wasn't for him, you know, there'd only be the house for you to go to. Just think o' that! What a disgrace it 'ud be! It's a great expense to have an extry mouth to feed and a growing girl to clothe in these bad times, but we must put up with it." "I can work, Aunt," said Lilac. "I can do lots of things." "Well, I hope you'll do what you can," replied Mrs Greenways. "Because, as you haven't a penny of your own, you ought to do summat in return for your uncle's charity. That's only fair and right, isn't it?" Her mother's words came into Lilac's mind: "Don't be beholden to no one." "I don't mind work, Aunt," she repeated more boldly. "I'd rather work. Mother, she always taught me to." "Well, that's a good thing," said Mrs Greenways. "Because, now you're left so desolate, you've got nothing to look to but your own hands and feet. But as to being any help--you're small and young, you see, and you can't be anything but a burden to us for years to come." A burden! That was a new idea to Lilac. "And so," finished Mrs Greenways, rising, "I hope as how you'll be a good gal, and grateful, and always remember that if it wasn't for us you'd be on the parish, instead of at Orchards Farm." She made her way out of the door, and stopped at the garden gate to call back over her shoulder: "Mind and bring no rubbish along with you. Nothing but clothes." Lilac's tears dropped fast into the painted deal box as she packed her small stock of clothes. But she felt that she must not wait to cry; she must be ready by the time Ben came, and her aunt's visit had been so long that it was already late. When she had finished she went downstairs to take a last look round. There stood all the well-known pieces of furniture, dumb, yet full of speech; they had seen and heard so much that was dear to her, that it seemed cruel to leave them to strangers. Above all she looked wistfully at a small twisted cactus in a pot standing on the window ledge. Mrs White had been fond of it, and had given it much care and attention. Might she venture to take it with her? How pleased Mother had been, she remembered, when the cactus had once rewarded her by producing two bright-red blossoms. That was long ago, and it had never done anything so brilliant again. Content with its one effort it had since remained unadorned, yet as it stood there, with its fat green leaves and little bunches of prickles, it had the air of saying to itself, "I have done it once, and if I liked I could do it a second time." Even now as she bent tenderly over it Lilac thought she could make out the faint beginning of a bud. "I do wish I could take it," she said to herself. "If it was only in bloom maybe they'd like it." But the cactus was very far from blooming, and perhaps had no intention of doing so; in its present condition it would certainly be considered "rubbish" at Orchards Farm. Lilac turned from it with a sigh, and glancing through the window was startled to see that the cart with Ben sitting in it was already at the gate. Ben looked as though he might have been waiting there for some hours, and was content to wait for any length of time. She ran out in alarm. "Oh, Ben!" she cried, "I never heard you. Have you been here long?" "Not I," said Ben; "on'y just come. Missus she give orders as how I was to fetch down some cheers alonger you, so as to lighten the next load a bit." By the time he had slowly stacked the chairs together, and disposed them round Lilac's box in the cart, which cost him much painful thought, there was not much room left. "Now then, missie," he said at length, "that's the lot, ain't it?" "Where am I to sit, Ben?" asked Lilac doubtfully. Ben took off his hat to scratch his head. He had a perfectly round, foolish face, with short dust-coloured whiskers. "That's so," he said. "I clean forgot you was to go too." A corner was at last found amongst the chairs, and Ben having hoisted himself on to the shaft they started slowly on their way. Lilac kept her eyes fixed on the cottage until a turn of the road hid it from her sight. It was just there she had turned to look at Mother on May Day. What a long, long time ago, and what a different Lilac she felt now! Grave and old, with all manner of cares and troubles waiting for her, and no one to mind if she were glad or sorry. No one to want her much or to be pleased at her coming. A burden instead of a blessing. She clung to the hope that Agnetta at least would not think her so, but would welcome her to her new home and be kind to her; but she was the only one of whom she thought without shrinking. Her aunt and uncle, Bella and Peter, above all the last, were people to be afraid of. "Here's the young master," said Ben, suddenly turning his face round to look at her. "He be coming up to fetch the rest of the sticks." Lilac peeped out through the various legs of chairs which surrounded her; towards her, crawling slowly up the hill, came a wagon drawn by three iron-grey horses, and by their side a broad-shouldered, lumbering figure. It was her Cousin Peter. Of course it was Peter, she thought impatiently, turning her head away. No one else would walk up the hill instead of riding in the empty wagon. The descent now becoming easier Ben whipped up his horse, and they soon jolted past Peter and his team. "There's been a sight o' deaths lately in the village," he resumed cheerfully, having once broken the silence. "I dunno as I can ever call to mind so many. The bell's forever agoin'. It's downright mournful." He was kindly disposed towards Lilac, and having hit upon this lucky means of entertaining her he dwelt on it for the rest of the way, fortunately requiring no answering remarks. It seemed long before they reached the farm, and Lilac was cramped and tired in her uneasy position when they had at last driven in at the yard gate. There was no one to be seen; but presently Molly, the servant girl, having spied the arrival from the back kitchen, came and stood at the door. When she discovered Lilac almost hidden by the chairs, she hastened out and held up a broad red hand to help her down from the cart. "You've brought yer house on yer back like a hoddy-dod," she said with a grin. Lilac clambered down with difficulty, and stood by the side of the cart uncertain where to go. A forlorn little figure in her straight black frock, clasping her mother's large old cotton umbrella. She wished she could see Agnetta, but she did not appear. Soon her aunt and Bella came into the yard, but their attention was immediately fixed on the chairs, which Ben had now unloaded and placed in a long row by Lilac's side. "Where were they to go?" asked Molly. In the living-room, Mrs Greenways thought, where they were short of chairs. "In the bedrooms," said Bella contemptuously. "Common-looking things like them." "We could do with 'em in the kitchen," added Molly. The dispute continued for some time, but in the end Bella carried the day, and Mrs Greenways found time to notice the newcomer. "Well, here you are, Lilac," she said. "Come along in, and Agnetta shall show where you've got to sleep." Agnetta led the way up the steep stairs to the top of the house. She had rather a condescending manner as she threw open the door of a small attic in the roof. "This is it," she said; "and Mamma says you've got to keep it clean yerself." "I'd rather," said Lilac hastily. "I've always been used to." She looked round the room. It was very like her old one at the cottage, and its sloping ceiling and bare white walls seemed familiar and homelike; it was a comfort, too, to see that its tiny window looked towards the hills. As she observed all this she took off her bonnet, and was immediately startled by a loud laugh from Agnetta. "Well!" she exclaimed, "You have made a pretty guy of yourself." Lilac put her hand quickly up to her head. "Oh, I forgot--my hair," she said. "Whatever made you do it?" asked Agnetta, planting herself full in front of her cousin and staring at her. "It's neater," said Lilac, avoiding the hard gaze. "I shall wear it so till it gets longer. I'm not agoin' to have a fringe no more." "Well!" repeated Agnetta, lost in astonishment; then she added: "You do look comical! Just like a general servant. If I was you I'd wear a cap!" With this parting thrust she clattered downstairs giggling. So this was Lilac's welcome. She went to the window, leant her arms on the broad sill, and looked forlornly up at the hill. There was not a single person who wanted her here, or who had taken the trouble to say a kind word. How could she bear to live here always? "Li-lack!" shrieked a voice up the stairs, "you're to come to tea." Through the meal that followed Lilac sat shyly silent, feeling that every morsel choked her, and listening to the clatter of voices and teacups round her but hardly hearing any words. The farmer had noticed her presence by a nod, and then resumed his newspaper. He meant to do his duty by Mary's girl until she was old enough to go to service, but no one could expect him to be glad of her arrival. Another useless member of the family to support, where there were already too many. Peter was not there at first, but when the meal was nearly over Lilac heard the wagon roll heavily into the yard, and soon afterwards its master came almost as heavily into the room and took his place at the table. When there he eat largely and silently, taking huge draughts of tea out of a great mug. This was one of his many vulgarities, which Bella deplored but could not alter, for he required so much tea that a cup was a ridiculous and useless thing to him, and had to be filled so often that it gave a great deal of trouble--in this therefore he was allowed to have his way. When Lilac got into her attic that night she found that her deal box had been carried up and placed in one corner, and as she began to undress in the half-light she caught sight of something else which certainly had not been there before. Something standing in the window twisted and prickly, but to her most pleasant to look upon. Could it really be the cactus? She went up to it, half afraid to find that she was mistaken. No, it was not fancy, the cactus was there, and Lilac was so pleased to see its ugly friendly face that tears came into her eyes. She had found a little bit of kindness at last at Orchards Farm, and it no longer felt quite so cold and strange. Peter no doubt had brought the plant down from the cottage, but who had told him to do it? Her aunt, or Agnetta, or perhaps after all it was Uncle Joshua as usual. Whoever it was Lilac felt very grateful, and went to sleep comforted with the thought that there was something in the room which had lived her old life and known her mother's care, though it was only a cactus plant. CHAPTER SEVEN. ORCHARDS FARM. "For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal where there is no love."--_Bacon_. "I like this one best," said Lilac. She was looking in at the shed where Ben was milking the cows at Orchards Farm. Inside it was dusky and cool. There was a sweet smell of hay and new milk, and it was very quiet, the silence only disturbed when an impatient cow stamped her foot or swished her tail at the flies, and was reproved by Ben's deep-toned, "Woa then, stand still." But outside it was very different, for the afternoon sun was still hot and dazzling, and all the farmyard creatures were conversing cheerfully together in many keys and voices. A tall white cock had perched himself tiptoe on a gate, crowing in a shrilly triumphant manner, the ducks were quacking in a sociable chorus, and Chummy, the great black sow, lying stretched on her side in the sun, kept up an undertone of deeply comfortable grunts. Lilac leant against the doorpost, now looking in at Ben and his cows, and now at the sunshiny strawyard. She felt tired and languid, as she very often did at the end of the day, although the work at Orchards Farm was no harder than she had always been used to at home. There, however, it had been done in peace and quietness, here all was hurry and confusion. It was a new and distracting thing to live in the midst of wrangling disputes, to be called here, shouted after there, to do bits of everyone's business, and to be scolded for leaving undone what she had never been told to do. Altogether a heavy change from her old peaceful life, and she could not settle her mind to it with any comfort. "'Tain't the work, it's the worry I mind," she said once to Agnetta; but Agnetta only stared and laughed. There was no consolation at all to be found in her, and all Lilac's hopes concerning her were disappointed as time went on. She was the same and Orchards Farm was the same as they had been in the old days when Lilac had worshipped them from a distance; but somehow, seen quite near this glory vanished, and though the stylish Sunday frocks and bangles remained, they were worth nothing compared to a little sympathy and kindness. Alas! these were not to be had. Lilac must stand on her own feet now, as her mother had told her: everyone was too full of their own troubles and interests and enjoyments to have any thought for her. What could she need beyond a roof over her head, food to eat, and clothes to wear? Mrs Greenways and all the neighbours thought her a lucky child, and told her so very often; but Lilac did not feel lucky, she felt sad and very lonely. After one or two attempts to talk to Agnetta, she resolved, however, to keep her troubles to herself, for Agnetta did not "understand." Who was there now to understand? None in the wide world but Uncle Joshua, and from him she felt as far distant as though he were in another country. She became in this way, as time went on, more silent, graver, and more what her cousins called "old-fashioned"; and though at heart she was far more childlike than they, she went about her work with serious application like one of twice her years. Mrs Greenways did not disapprove of this, and though she lost no occasion of impressing upon Lilac her smallness and uselessness, she soon began to find her valuable in the house: it was a new thing to have someone there who was steady and thorough in her work, and might be depended on to do it without constant reproof. She was satisfied, too, that Lilac had quite got over her grief, and did not seem to miss her mother so much as might have been expected. It would be troublesome to see the child fret and pine, and as no sign of this appeared she concluded it was not there. Mrs Greenways was accustomed to the sort of sorrow which shows itself in violent tears and complaints, and she would have been surprised if she could have known how Lilac's lonely little heart ached sometimes for the sound of her mother's voice or the sight of her face; how at night, when she was shut safely into her attic, she would stretch out her arms towards the cottage on the hill, and long vainly for the days to come back which she had not loved half well enough while they were passing. But no one knew this, and amidst the turmoil and bustle of the day no one guessed how lonely she was or thought of her much in any way. She was only little Lilac White, an orphan who had been fortunate enough to get a good home. So she lived her own life, solitary, although surrounded by people; and while she worked her mind was full of her mother's memory--sometimes she even seemed to hear her words again, and to see her smile of pleasure when she had done anything particularly well. She was careful, therefore, not to relax her efforts in the least, and though she got no praise for the thoroughness of her work, it was a little bit of comfort at the end of the day to think that she had "pleased Mother." It began soon to be a pleasure, too, when work was finished, to go out amongst the creatures in the farmyard. Here she forgot her troubles and her loneliness for a little while, and made many satisfactory friendships in which there were no disappointments. True, there was plenty of noise and bustle here as well as indoors, and family quarrels were not wanting amongst the poultry; but unlike the sharp speeches of Bella and Agnetta they left no bad feeling behind, and were soon settled by a few pecks and flaps. Lilac was sure of a welcome when she appeared at the gate to distribute the small offerings she had collected for her various friends during the day; bits of bread, sugar, or crusts--nothing came amiss, and even the great lazy Chummy would waddle slowly across to her from the other end of the yard. By degrees Lilac began to look forward to the end of the day, when she should meet these friends, and found great comfort in the thought that they expected her and looked out for her coming. Especially she liked to be present at milking-time, and as often as she possibly could she stole out of the house at this hour to spend a few quiet moments with Ben and his cows. On this particular afternoon she saw that there was one among them she had not noticed before--a little cream-coloured Alderney, with slender black legs and dark eyes. "I like that one best of all," she said, pointing to it. Ben's voice sounded hollow as he answered, and seemed to come out of the middle of the cow, for his head was pressed firmly against her side. "Ah, she's a sort of a little fancy coo, she is," he said; "she belongs to the young master. He thinks a lot of her. `We'll call this one None-so-pretty,' says he, when he brung her home." "Why does it belong to him," asked Lilac, "more than the other cows?" "Well, it were like this 'ere," said Ben, who was fond of company and always willing to talk. "This is how it wur. None-so-pretty she caught cold when she'd bin here a couple of weeks, and the master he sent for coo-doctor. And coo-doctor come and says: `She's in a pretty plight,' says he; `information of the lungs she's got, and you'll never get her through it. A little dillicut scrap of a animal like that,' he says; 'she ain't not to say fit for this part of the country! An' so he goes away, and the coo gets worse, so as it's a misery to see her." Ben stopped so long in his story to quiet None-so-pretty, who wanted to kick over the pail, that Lilac had to put another question. "How did she get well?" "It wur along of the young master," answered Ben, "as sat up with her a week o' nights, and poured her drink down her throat, and poletissed her chest, and cockered her up like as if she'd bin a human Christian. And he brung her through. Like a skilliton she wur at fust, but she picked up after a bit and got saucy again. An' ever sin that she'll foller him and rub her head agin' him, and come to his whistle like a dog. An' so the old master, he says: `The little cow's yer own now, Peter, to do as you like with,' he says; `no one else'd a had the patience to bring her through. An' if you'll take my advice you'll sell her, for she'll never be much good to us.'" "But Peter wouldn't sell her, I suppose?" asked Lilac eagerly. "No fear," replied Ben's muffled voice; "he's martal fond of None-so-pretty." Lilac looked with great interest at the little cow. An odd pair of friends--she and Peter--and as unlike as they could possibly be, for None-so-pretty was as graceful and slender in her proportions as he was clumsy and awkward-limbed. It was a good thing that there was someone to admire and like Peter, even if it were only a cow; for Lilac had not been a month at the farm without beginning to feel a little pity for him. He was uncouth and stupid, to be sure, but it was hard, she thought, that he should be so incessantly worried and jeered at. From the moment he entered the house to the moment he left it, there was something wrong in what he said or did. If he sat down on the settle and wearily stretched out his long legs, someone was sure to tumble over them: "Peter, how stupid you are!" If he opened his mouth to speak he said something laughable, and if to eat, there was something vulgar in his manners which called down a sharp reproof from Bella, who considered herself a model of refinement and good taste. He took all this in unmoved silence, and seldom said a word except to talk to his father on farming matters; but Lilac, looking on from her quiet corner, often felt sorry for him, as she would have done to see any large, patient animal ill-treated and unable to complain. "Anyhow," she said to herself as she stood with her eyes fixed on None-so-pretty after Ben had done his story, "if he is common he's kind." Her reflections were disturbed by Ben's voice making another remark, which came from the side of a large red cow named Cherry: "There's not a better lot of coos, nor richer milk than what they give, this side Lenham." Lilac made no answer. "An' if so be as the dairy wur properly worked they'd most pay the rent of this 'ere farm, with the poultry thrown in." Lilac glanced at the various feathered families outside; they were supposed to be Bella's charge, she knew, but she generally gave them over to Agnetta, who looked after them when she was inclined, and often forgot to search for the eggs altogether. "They wants care," continued Ben, "as well as most things. I don't name no names, but the young broods had ought to be better looked after in the spring. And they're worth it. There's ducks now--chancy things is early ducks, but they pay well. Git 'em hatched out early. Feed 'em often. Keep 'em warm and dry at fust. Let 'em go into the water at the right time. Kill 'em and send 'em up to Lunnon, and there you are--a good profit. Why, you'll git 15 shillings the couple for ducklings in March! That's not a price to sneeze at, that isn't. I name no names," he repeated mysteriously, "but them as don't choose to take the pains can't expect the profit." At supper that night Lilac remembered this conversation with Ben, and examined Peter's countenance curiously as he sat opposite to her with his whole being apparently engrossed by the meal. She could not, however, discover any kind or pleasant expression upon it. If it were there at all, it was unable to struggle through the thick dull mask spread over it. Bella meanwhile had news to tell. She had heard at Dimbleby's that afternoon that there was to be a grand fete in Lenham next week. Fireworks and a balloon, and perhaps dancing and a band. Charlotte Smith said it would be splendid, and she was going to have a new hat on purpose. "Well, I haven't got no money to throw away on new hats and suchlike," said Mrs Greenways, "but I s'pose you and Agnetta'll want to go too." "How'll we get over there?" asked Bella, looking fixedly at Peter, who did not raise his eyes from his plate. Mrs Greenways turned her glance in the same direction, and said presently: "Well, perhaps Peter he could drive you over in the spring cart." "Hay harvest," muttered Peter, deep down in his mug; "couldn't spare time." "Oh, bother," said Bella. "Then we must do with Ben." "Couldn't spare him neither," was Peter's answer. "Heavy crop. Want all the hands we can get." Bella pouted and Agnetta looked on the edge of tears. Mrs Greenways, anxious to settle matters comfortably, made another suggestion. "Well, you must just drive yourselves then, Bella. The white horse is quiet. I've drove him often." "Couldn't spare the horse neither," said Peter, "nor yet the cart," and having finished both his meal and the subject he got up and went out of the room. The farmer, roused by the sound of the dispute from a nap in the window seat, now enquired what was going on, and was told of the difficulty. "What's to prevent 'em walking?" he asked; "it's only five miles. If they're too proud to walk they'd better stop at home," and then he too left the room. "You don't catch _me_ walking!" exclaimed Bella; "if I can't drive I shan't go at all. Getting all hot and dusty, and Charlotte Smith driving past us on the road with her head held up ever so high." "No more shan't I," said Agnetta, with a toss of her head. "Well, there, we'll see if we can't manage somehow," said Mrs Greenways coaxingly. "If the weather's good for the hay harvest your father'll be in a good temper, and we'll see what we can do. Lilac!" she added, turning sharply to her niece, "Molly's left out some bits of washing in the orchard, jest you run and fetch 'em in." Lilac picked up her sunbonnet and went out, glancing at Agnetta to see if she were coming too, but she did not move. It was a cool, still evening after a very hot day, and all the flowers in the garden were holding up their drooping heads again, and giving out their sweetest scent as if in thankfulness for the change. There were a great many in bloom now, for it was June, more than a whole month since that happy, miserable day when Lilac had been Queen, and as she passed Peter's own little bit of ground she stopped to look admiringly at them. They seemed to grow here better than in other places--with a willing luxuriance as though in return for the affection and care which was evidently spent on them. Pansies, columbines, white-fringed pinks, and sweet-peas all mixed up together, and yet keeping a certain order and not allowed to intrude upon each other. Lilac passed on through a little gate which led into the kitchen garden, and as she did so became aware that the owner of the flowers was quite near. She paused and considered within herself as to whether she should speak to him. He was sitting on the stump of a cherry tree, which had been cut down to a convenient height from the ground; on this was placed a square piece of turf, so that it formed a cushion, and was evidently a customary seat. Near him was a row of beehives, under a slanting thatch, and their busy inhabitants, returning in numbers from their day's labour, hummed and buzzed around him, much to the annoyance of Sober, the old sheep dog, who lay stretched at his feet. Tib, the ugly cat, had taken up a discreet position at a little distance from the hives, and sat very wide awake, with the only eye she possessed on the alert for any stray game that might pass that way. Neither Peter nor his companions saw Lilac; they all appeared absorbed in their own reflections, and the former had fixed his gaze vacantly on the copse beyond the orchard. A little while ago she would have passed quickly on without a moment's hesitation, but now she felt a sort of sympathy with Peter. She was lonely, and he was lonely; besides, he had been kind to None-so-pretty. So presently she made a little rustle, which roused Sober from his slumbers. He raised his head, and finding that it was a friend wagged his bushy tail and resumed his former position; but this roused Peter too, and he slowly turned his eyes upon Lilac and stared silently. Knowing that it would be useless to wait for him to speak, she said timidly: "How pretty your pinks grow!" Peter got up from his seat and looked seriously over the railing at the pinks. "They're well enough," he said; "but the slugs and snails torment 'em so." "I think they're as pretty as can be," said Lilac; "and that sweet you can smell 'em ever so far. We had some up yonder," she added, with a nod towards the hills, "but they never had such blooms as yours." "Maybe you'd like a posy," said Peter, suddenly blurting out the words with a great effort. Receiving a delighted answer in the affirmative he fumbled for some time in his pocket, and having at last produced a large clasp knife bent over his flower bed. The conversation having got on so far, Lilac felt encouraged to continue it, and looked round her for a subject. "This is a nice, pretty corner to sit in," she said; "but don't the bees terrify you?" Peter straightened himself up with the flowers he had cut in one hand, and stared in surprise. "The bees!" he repeated. He strode up to the hives, took up a handful of bees and let them crawl about him, which they did without any sign of anger. "Why ever don't they sting yer?" asked Lilac, shrinking away. "They know I like 'em," answered Peter, returning to his flowers. "They know a lot, bees do." "I s'pose they're used to see you sitting here?" said Lilac. Peter nodded. "They're rare good comp'ny too," he said, "when you can follow their carryings on, and know what they're up to." Lilac watched him thoughtfully as his large hand moved carefully amongst the flowers, cutting the best blossoms and adding them to the nosegay, which now began to take the shape of a large fan. While he had been talking of the bees his face had lost its dullness; he had not looked stupid at all, and scarcely ugly. She would try and make him speak again. "The blossoms is over now," she remarked, looking at the trees in the orchard; "but there's been a rare sight of 'em this year." "There has so," answered Peter. "It'll be a fine season for the fruit if so be as we get sun to ripen it. The birds is the worst," he went on. "I've seen them old jaypies come out of the woods yonder as thick as thieves into the orchard. I don't seem to care about shootin' 'em, and scarecrows is no good." What a long sentence for Peter! "Do they now?" said Lilac sympathisingly. "An' I s'pose," stroking Tib on the head, "they don't mind Tib neither?" "Not they," said Peter, with something approaching a chuckle. "They're altogether too many for _her_." "She's not a _pretty_ cat," said Lilac doubtfully. "Well, n-no," said Peter, turning round to look at Tib with some regret in his tone. "She ain't not to say exactly pretty, but she's a rare one for rats. Ain't ye, Tib?" As if in reply Tib rose, fixed her front claws in the ground, and stretched her long lean body. She was not pretty, the most favourable judge could not have called her so. Her coat was harsh and wiry, her head small and mean, with ears torn and scarred in many battles. Her one eye, fiercely green, seemed to glare in an unnaturally piercing manner, but this was only because she was always on the lookout for her enemies--the rats. To complete her forlorn appearance she had only half a tail, and it was from this loss that her friendship with Peter dated, for he had rescued her from a trap. He seemed now to feel that her character needed defence, for he went on after a pause: "She'll sit an' watch for 'em to come out of the ricks by the hour, without ever tasting food. Better nor any tarrier she is at it." "Ben says the rats is awful bad," said Lilac. "They're that bold they'll steal the eggs, and scare off the hens when they're setting." "They do that," replied Peter, shaking his head. "The poultry wants seeing to badly; but Bella she don't seem to take to it, nor yet Agnetta, and our hands is full outside." "I like the chickens and ducks and things," said Lilac. "I wish Aunt'd let me take 'em in hand." Peter reared himself up from his bent position, and holding the big nosegay in one hand looked gravely down at his cousin. It was a good long distance from his height to Lilac, and she seemed wonderfully small and slender and delicately coloured as she stood there in her straight black frock and long pinafore. She had taken off her sun bonnet, so that her little white face with all the hair fastened back from it was plainly to be seen. It struck Peter as strange that such a small creature should talk of taking any more work "in hand" besides what she had to do already. "You hadn't ought to do hard work," he said at length; "you haven't got the strength." "I don't mind the work," said Lilac, drawing up her little figure. "I'm stronger nor what I look. 'Taint the work as I mind--" She stopped, and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. Peter saw them with the greatest alarm. Somehow with his usual stupidity he had made his cousin cry. All he could do now was to take himself away as quickly as possible. He went up to Sober and touched him gently with his foot. "Come along, old chap," he said. "We've got to look after the lambs yonder." Without another word or a glance at Lilac he rolled away through the orchard with the dog at his heels, his great shoulders plunging along through the trees, and Lilac's gay bunch of flowers swinging in one hand. He had quite forgotten to give it to her. She looked after him in surprise, with the tears still in her eyes. Then a smile came. "He's a funny one surely," she said to herself. "Why ever did he make off like that?" There was no one to answer except Tib, who had jumped up into a tree and looked down at her with the most complete indifference. "Anyway, he means to be kind," concluded Lilac, "and it's a shame to flout him as they do, so it is." CHAPTER EIGHT. ONLY A CHILD! "Who is the honest man? He who doth still and strongly good pursue, To God, his neighbour and himself most true, Whom neither force nor fawning can Unpin or wrench from giving all his due." _G. Herbert_. Joshua Snell had by no means forgotten his little friend Lilac. There were indeed many occasions in his solitary life when he missed her a great deal, and felt that his days were duller. For on her way to and from school she had been used to pay him frequent visits, if only for a few moments at a time, dust his room, clean the murky little window, and bring him a bunch of flowers or a dish of gossip. In this way she was a link between him and the small world of Danecross down below; and in spite of his literary pursuits Joshua by no means despised news of his neighbour's affairs, though he often received it with a look of indifference. Besides this, her visits gave him an opportunity for talking, which was a great pleasure to him, and one in which he was seldom able to indulge, except on Saturdays when he travelled down to the bar of the "Three Bells" for an hour's conversation. He was also fond of Lilac for her own sake, and anxious to know if she were comfortable and happy in her new home. He soon began, therefore, to look out eagerly for her as he sat at work; but no little figure appeared, and he said to himself, "I shall see her o' Sunday at church." But this expectation was also disappointed, and he learned from Bella Greenways that Lilac and Agnetta were to go in the evenings, it was more convenient. Joshua could not do that; it had been his settled habit for years to stay at home on Sunday evening, and it was impossible to alter it. So it came to pass that a whole month went by and he had not seen her once. Then he said to himself, "If so be as they won't let her come to me, I reckon I must go and see her." And he locked up his cottage one evening and set out for the farm. Joshua was a welcome guest everywhere, in spite of his poverty and lowly station; even at the Greenways', who held their heads so high, and did not "mix", as Bella called it, with the "poor people." This was partly because of his learning, which in itself gave him a position apart, and also because he had a certain dignity of character which comes of self-respect and simplicity wherever they are found. Mrs Greenways was indeed a little afraid of him, and as anxious to make the best of herself in his presence as she was in that of her rector and landlord, Mr Leigh. "Why, you're quite a stranger, Mr Snell," she said when he appeared on this occasion. "Now sit down, do, and rest yourself, and have a glass of something or a cup of tea." Joshua being comfortably settled with a mug of cider at his elbow she continued: "Greenways is over at Lenham, and Peter's out on the farm somewheres, but I expect they'll be in soon." The cobbler waited for some mention of Lilac, but as none came he proceeded to make polite enquiries about other matters, such as the crops and the live stock, and the chances of good weather for the hay. He would not ask for her yet, he thought, because it might look as though he had no other reason for coming. "And how did you do with your ducks this season, Mrs Greenways, ma'am?" he said. "Why, badly," replied Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone; "I never knew such onlucky broods. A cow got into the orchard and trampled down one. Fifteen as likely ducklings as you'd wish to see. And the rats scared off a hen just as she'd hatched out; and we lost a whole lot more with the cramp." "H'm, h'm, h'm," said the cobbler sympathisingly, "that was bad, that was. And you ought to do well with your poultry in a fine place like this too." "Well, we don't," said Mrs Greenways, rather shortly; "and that's all about it." "They want a lot of care, poultry does," said Joshua reflectively; "a lot of care. I know a little what belongs to the work of a farm. Years afore I came to these parts I used to live on one." "Then p'r'aps you know what a heart-breaking, back-breaking, wearing-out life it is," burst out poor Mrs Greenways. "All plague an' no profit, that's what it is. It's drive, drive, drive, morning, noon, and night, and all to be done over again the next day. You're never through with it." "Ah! I dessay," said Joshua soothingly; "but there's your daughters now. They take summat off your hands, I s'pose? And that reminds me. There's little White Lilac, as we used to call her,--you find her a handy sort of lass, don't you?" "She's well enough in her way," said Mrs Greenways. "I don't never regret giving her a home, and I know my duty to Greenways' niece; but as for use--she's a child, Mr Snell, and a weakly little thing too, as looks hardly fit to hold a broom." "Well, well, well," said Joshua, "every little helps, and I expect you'll find her more use than you think for. Even a child is known by its doings, as Solomon says." Mrs Greenways interposed hastily, for she feared the beginning of what she called Joshua's "preachments." "You'd like to have seen her, maybe; but she's gone with Agnetta to the Vicarage to take some eggs. Mrs Leigh likes to see the gals now and then." Joshua made his visit as long as he could in the hope of Lilac's return, but she did not appear, and at last he could wait no longer. "Well, I'll go and have a look round for Peter," he said; "and p'r'aps you'll send Lilac up one day to see me. She was always a favourite of mine, was Lilac White. And I'd a deal of respect for her poor mother too. Any day as suits your convenience." "Oh, she can come any day as for that, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways with a little toss of her head. "It doesn't make no differ in a house whether a child like that goes or stays. She's plenty of time on her hands." "That's settled then, ma'am," said Joshua, "and I shall be looking to see her soon." He made his farewell, leaving Mrs Greenways not a little annoyed that no mention had been made of Agnetta in this invitation. "Not that she'd go," she said to herself, "but he might a asked her as well as that little bit of a Lilac." It was quite a long time before she found it possible to allow Lilac to make this visit, for although she was small and useless and made no differ in the house, there were a wonderful number of things for her to do. Lilac's work increased; other people beside Mrs Greenways discovered the advantage of her willing hands, and were glad to put some of their own business into them. Thus the care of the poultry, which had been shuffled off Bella's shoulders on to Agnetta, now descended from her to Lilac, the number of eggs brought in much increasing in consequence. Lilac liked this part of her daily task; she was proud to discover the retired corners and lurking-places of the hens, and fill her basket with the brown and pink eggs. Day by day she took more interest in her feathered family, and began to find distinguishing marks of character or appearance in each, she even made plans to defeat the inroads of the rats by coaxing her charges to lay their eggs in the barn, where they were more secure. "Hens is sillier than most things," said Ben, when she confided her difficulties to him; "what they've done once they'll do allers, it's no good fightin' with 'em." He consented, however, to nail some boards over the worst holes in the barn, and by degrees, after infinite patience, Lilac succeeded in making some of the hens desert their old haunts and use their new abode. All this was encouraging. And about this time a new interest indoors arose which made her life at Orchards Farm less lonely, and was indeed an event of some importance to her. It happened in this way. Ever since her arrival she had watched the proceedings of Molly in the dairy with great attention. She had asked questions about the butter-making until Molly was tired of answering, and had often begged to be allowed to help. This was never refused, although Molly opened her eyes wide at the length of time she took to clean and rinse and scour, and by degrees she was trusted with a good deal of the work. The day came when she implored to be allowed to do it all--just for once. Molly hesitated; she had as usual a hundred other things to do and would be thankful for the help, but was such a bit of a thing to be trusted? On the whole, from her experience of Lilac she concluded that she was. "You won't let on to the missus as how you did it?" she said. And this being faithfully promised, Lilac was left in quiet possession of the dairy. She felt almost as excited about that batch of butter as if her life depended on it. Suppose it should fail? "But there!" she said to herself, "I won't think of that; I will make it do," and she set to work courageously. And now her habits of care and neatness and thoroughness formed in past years came to her service, as well as her close observation of Molly. Nothing was hurried in the process, every small detail earnestly attended to, and at last trembling with excitement and triumph she saw the result of her labours. The butter was a complete success. As she stood in the cool dark dairy with the firm golden pats before her, each bearing the sharply-cut impression of the stamp, Lilac clasped her hands with delight. She had not known such a proud moment in all her life, except on the day when she had been Queen. And this was a different sort of pride, for it was joy in her own handiwork-- something she herself had done with no one to help her. "Oh," she said to herself, "if Mother could but see that, how rare an' pleased she'd be!" Maybe she did, but how silent it was without her voice to say "Well done", and how blank without her face to smile on her child's success. There was no one to sympathise but Molly, who came in presently with loud exclamations of surprise. "So you've got through? Lor'-a-mussy, what a handy little thing it is! And you won't ever let on to missus or any of 'em?" Lilac never did "let on." She kept Molly's secret faithfully, and saw her butter packed up and driven off to Lenham without saying a word. And from this time forward the making up of the butter, and sometimes the whole process, was left in her hands. It was not easy work, for all the things she had to use were too large and heavy for her small hands, and she had to stand on a stool to turn the handle of the big churn. But she liked it, and what she lacked in strength she made up in zeal; it was far more interesting than scrubbing floors and scouring saucepans. Molly, too, was much satisfied with this new arrangement, for the dairy had always brought her more scolding from her mistress than any part of her work, and all now went on much more smoothly. Lilac wondered sometimes that her aunt never seemed to notice how much she was in the dairy, or called her away to do other things; she always spoke as if it were Molly alone who made the butter. In truth Mrs Greenways knew all about it, and was very content to let matters go on as they were; but something within her, that old jealousy of Lilac and her mother, made it impossible for her to praise her niece for her services. She could not do it without deepening the contrast between her own daughters and Lilac, which she felt, but would not acknowledge even to herself. So Lilac got no praise and no thanks for what she did, and though she found satisfaction in turning out the butter well for its own sake, this was not quite enough. A very small word or look would have contented her. Once when her uncle said: "The butter's good this week," she thought her aunt must speak, and glanced eagerly at her, but Mrs Greenways turned her head another way and no words come. Lilac felt hurt and disappointed. It was a busier time than usual at the farm just now, though there was always plenty for everyone to do. It was hay harvest and there were extra hands at work, extra cooking to do, and many journeys to be made to and from the hayfield. Lilac was on the run from morning till night, and even Bella and Agnetta were obliged to bestir themselves a little. In the big field beyond the orchard where the grass had stood so tall and waved its flowery heads so proudly, it was now lying low on the ground in the bright hot sun. The sky was cloudless, and the farmer's brow had cleared a little too, for he had a splendid crop and every chance of getting it in well. "To-morrow's Lenham fete," said Agnetta to Lilac one evening. "It's a pity but what you can go," answered Lilac. "We are going," said Agnetta triumphantly, "spite of Peter and Father being so contrary; and we ain't a-going to walk there neither!" "How are you goin' to get there, then?" asked Lilac. "Mr Buckle, he's goin' to drive us over in his gig," said Agnetta. "My I shan't we cut a dash? Bella, she's goin' to wear her black silk done up. We've washed it with beer and it rustles beautiful just like a new one. And she's got a hat turned up on one side and trimmed with Gobelin." "What's that?" asked Lilac, very much interested. "It's the new blue, silly," answered Agnetta disdainfully. Then she added: "My new parasol's got lace all round it, ever so deep. I expect we shall be about the most stylish girls there. Won't Charlotte Smith stare!" "I s'pose it's summat like a fair, isn't it?" asked Lilac. "Lor', no!" exclaimed Agnetta; "not a bit. Not near so vulgar. There's a balloon, and a promnarde, and fireworks in the evening." All these things sounded mysteriously splendid to Lilac's unaccustomed ears. She did not know what any of them meant, but they seemed all the more attractive. "You've got to be so sober and old-fashioned like," continued Agnetta, "that I s'pose you wouldn't care to go even if you could, would you? You'd rather stop at home and work." "I'd like to go," answered Lilac; "but Molly couldn't never get through with the work to-morrow if we was all to go. There's a whole lot to do." "Oh, of course you couldn't go," said Agnetta loftily. "Bella and me's different. We're on a different footing." Agnetta had heard her mother use this expression, and though she would have been puzzled to explain it, it gave her an agreeable sense of superiority to her cousin. In spite of soberness and gravity, Lilac felt not a little envious the next day when Mr Buckle drove up in his high gig to fetch her cousins to the fete. She could hear the exclamations of surprise and admiration which fell from Mrs Greenways as they appeared ready to start. "Well," she said with uplifted hands, "you do know how to give your things a bit of style. That I _will_ say." Bella had spent days of toil in preparing for this occasion, and the result was now so perfect in her eyes that it was well worth the labour. The silk skirt crackled and rustled and glistened with every movement; the new hat was perched on her head with all its ribbons and flowers nodding. She was now engaged in painfully forcing on a pair of lemon-coloured gloves, but suddenly there was the sound of a crack, and her smile changed to a look of dismay. "There!" she exclaimed, "if it hasn't gone, right across the thumb." "Lor', what a pity," said her mother. "Well, you can't stop to mend it; you must keep one hand closed, and it'll never show." Agnetta now appeared. She was dressed in the Sunday blue, with Bella's silver locket round her neck and a bangle on her wrist. But the glory of her attire was the new parasol; it was so large and was trimmed with such a wealth of cotton lace, that the eye was at once attracted to it, and in fact when she bore it aloft her short square figure walking along beneath it became quite a secondary object. Lilac watched the departure from the dairy window, which, overgrown with creepers, made a dark frame for the brightly-coloured picture. There was Mr Buckle, a young farmer of the neighbourhood, in a light-grey suit with a blue satin tie and a rose in his buttonhole. There was Bella, her face covered with self-satisfied smiles, mounting to his side. There was Agnetta carrying the new parasol high in the air with all its lace fluttering. How gay and happy they all looked! Mrs Greenways stood nodding at the window. She had meant to go out to the gate, but Bella had checked her. "Lor', Ma," she said, "don't you come out with that great apron on--you're a perfect guy." When the start was really made, and her cousins were whirled off to the unknown delights of Lenham, leaving only a cloud of dust behind them, Lilac breathed a little sigh. The sun was so bright, the breeze blew so softly, the sky was so blue--it was the very day for a holiday. She would have liked to go too, instead of having a hard day's work before her. "Where's Lilac?" called out Mrs Greenways in her high-pitched worried voice. "What on earth's got that child? Here's everything to do and no one to do it. Ah! there you are," as Lilac ran out from the dairy. "Now, you haven't got no time to moon about to-day. You must stir yourself and help all you can." "Bees is swarmin'!" said Ben, thrusting his head in at the kitchen door, and immediately disappearing again. "Bother the bees!" exclaimed Mrs Greenways crossly. But on Molly the news had a different effect. It was counted lucky to be present at the housing of a new swarm. She at once left her occupation, seized a saucepan and an iron spoon, and regardless of her mistress rushed out into the garden, making a hideous clatter as she went. "There now, look at that!" said Mrs Greenways with a heated face. "She's off for goodness knows how long, and a batch of loaves burning in the oven, and your uncle wanting his tea sent down into the field. Why ever should they want to go swarmin' now in that contrairy way?" She opened the oven door and took out the bread as she spoke. "Now, don't you go running off, Lilac," she continued. "There's enough of 'em out there to settle all the bees as ever was. You get your uncle's tea and take it out, and Peter's too. They won't neither of 'em be in till supper. Hurry now." The last words were added simply from habit, for she had soon discovered that it was impossible to hurry Lilac. What she did was well and thoroughly done, but not even the example which surrounded her at Orchards Farm could make her in a bustle. The whole habit of her life was too strong within her to be altered. Mrs Greenways glanced at her a little impatiently as she steadily made the tea, poured it into a tin can, and cut thick hunches of bread and butter. "I could a done it myself in, half the time," she thought; but she was obliged to confess that Lilac's preparations if slow were always sure, and that she never forgot anything. Lilac tilted her sunbonnet well forward and set out, walking slowly so as not to spill the tea. How blazing the sun was, though it was now nearly four o'clock. In the distance she could see the end of her journey, the big bare field beyond the orchard full of busy figures. As she passed the kitchen garden, Molly, rushing back from her encounter with the bees, almost ran against her. "There was two on 'em," she cried, her good-natured face shining with triumph and the heat of her exertions; "and we've housed 'em both beautiful. Lor'! ain't it hot?" She stood with her iron weapons hanging down on each side, quite ready for a chat to delay her return to the house. Molly was always cheerfully ready to undertake any work that was not strictly her own. Lilac felt sorry, as they went on their several ways, to think of the scolding that was waiting for her; but it was wasted pity, for Molly's shoulders were broad, and a scolding more or less made no manner of difference to them. There were all sorts and sizes of people at work in the hayfield as Lilac passed through it. Machines had not yet come into use at Danecross, so that the services of men, women, and children were much in request at this busy time. The farmer, remembering the motto, was determined to make his hay while the sun shone, and had collected hands from all parts of the neighbourhood. Lilac knew most of them, and passed along exchanging greetings, to where her uncle sat on his grey cob at the end of the field. He was talking to Peter, who stood by him with a wooden pitchfork in his hand. Lilac thought that her uncle's face looked unusually good-tempered as she handed up his meal to him. He sat there eating and drinking, and continued his conversation with his son. "Well, and what d'ye think of Buckle's offer for the colt?" "Pity we can't sell him," answered Peter. "_Can't_ sell him!" repeated the farmer; "I'm not so sure about that. Maybe he'd go sound now. He doesn't show no signs of lameness." "Wouldn't last a month on the roads," said Peter. The farmer's face clouded a little. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "that's Buckle's business. He can look him over, and if he don't see nothing wrong--" "We hadn't ought to sell him," said Peter in exactly the same voice. "He's not fit for the roads. Take him off soft ground and he'd go queer in a week." "He might or he mightn't," said the farmer impatiently; "all I know is I want the cash. It'd just pay that bill of Jones's, as is always bothering for his money. I declare I hate going into Lenham for fear of meeting that chap." Peter had begun to toss the hay near him with his pitchfork. He did not look at his father or change his expression, but he said again: "Knowing what we do, we hadn't ought to sell him." The farmer struck his stirrup-iron so hard with his stick that even the steady grey pony was startled. "I wish," he said with an oath, "that you'd never found it out then. I'd like to be square and straight about the horse as well as anyone. I've always liked best to be straight, but I'm too hard up to be so particular as that comes to. It's easy enough," he added moodily, "for a man to be honest with his pockets full of money." "I could get the same price for None-so-pretty," said Peter after a long pause. "Mrs Grey wants her--over at Cuddingham. Took a fancy to her a month ago." "I'll not have her sold," said the farmer quickly. "What's the good of selling her? She's useful to us, and the colt isn't." "She ain't not exactly so _useful_ to us as the other cows," said Peter. "She's more of a fancy." "Well, she's yours," answered the farmer sullenly. "You can do as you like with her of course; but I'm not going to be off my bargain with Buckle whatever you do." He shook his reins and jogged slowly away to another part of the field, while Peter fell steadily to work again with his pitchfork. Lilac was packing the things that had been used into her basket, and glanced at him now and then with her thoughts full of what she had just heard. Her opinion of Peter had changed very much lately. She had found, since her first conversation with him, that in many things he was not stupid but wise. He knew for instance a great deal about all the animals on the farm, their ways and habits, and how to treat them when they were ill. There were some matters to be sure in which he was laughably simple, and might be deceived by a child, but there were others on which everyone valued his opinion. His father certainly deferred to him in anything connected with the live stock, and when Peter had discovered a grave defect in the colt he did not dream of disputing it. So Lilac's feeling of pity began to change into something like respect, and she was sure too that Peter was anxious to show her kindness, though the expression of it was difficult to him. Since the day when he had gone away from her so suddenly, frightened by her tears, they had had several talks together, although the speech was mostly on Lilac's side. She shrank from him no longer, and sometimes when the real Peter came up from the depths where he lay hidden, and showed a glimpse of himself through the dull mask, she thought him scarcely ugly. Would he sell None-so-pretty? She knew what it would cost him, for since Ben's history she had observed the close affection between them. There were not so many people fond of Peter that he could afford to lose even the love of a cow--and yet he would rather do it than let the colt be sold! As she turned this over in her mind Lilac lingered over her preparations, and when Peter came near her tossing the hay to right and left with his strong arms, she looked up at him and said: "I'm sorry about None-so-pretty." Peter stopped a moment, took off his straw hat and rubbed his hot red face with his handkerchief. "Thank yer," he answered; "so am I." "Is it _certain sure_ you'll sell her?" asked Lilac. Peter nodded. "She'll have a good home yonder," he said; "a rare fuss they'll make with her." "She'll miss you though," said Lilac, shaking her head. "Well," answered Peter, "I shouldn't wonder if she did look out for me a bit just at first. I've always been foolish over her since she was ill." "But if Uncle sells the colt I s'pose you won't sell her, will you?" continued Lilac. "He _won't_ sell him," was Peter's decided answer, as he turned to his work again. Now, nothing could have been more determined than Mr Greenways' manner as he rode away, but yet when Lilac heard Peter speak so firmly she felt he must be right. The colt would not be sold and None-so-pretty would have to go in his place. She returned to the farm more than ever impressed by Peter's power. Quiet, dull Peter who seemed hardly able to put two sentences together, and had never an answer ready for his sisters' sharp speeches. That evening when Bella and Agnetta returned from Lenham, Lilac was at the gate. She had been watching for them eagerly, for she was anxious to hear all about the grand things they had seen, and hoped they would be inclined to talk about it. As they were saying goodbye to Mr Buckle with a great many smiles and giggles, the farmer came out. "Stop a bit, Buckle," he said, "I want a word with you about the colt. I've changed my mind since the morning." Lilac heard no more as she followed her cousins into the house; but there was no need. Peter had been right. During supper nothing was spoken of but the fete--the balloon, the band, the fireworks, and the dresses, Charlotte Smith's in particular. Lilac was intensely interested, and it was trying after the meal was over to have to help Molly in taking away the dishes, and lose so much of the conversation. This business over she drew near Agnetta and made an attempt to learn more, but in vain. Agnetta was in her loftiest mood, and though she was full of private jokes with Bella, she turned away coldly from her cousin. They had evidently some subject of the deepest importance to talk of which needed constant whispers, titters from Bella, and even playful slaps now and then. Lilac could hear nothing but "He says--She says," and then a burst of laughter, and "go along with yer nonsense." It was dull to be left out of it all, and she wished more than ever that she had gone to the fete too. "Lilac," said her aunt, "just run and fetch your uncle's slippers." She was already on her way when the farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and looked round. He had been moody and cross all supper-time, and now he glanced angrily at his two daughters as they sat whispering in the corner. "It's someone else's turn to run, it seems to me," he said; "Lilac's been at it all day. You go, Agnetta." And as Agnetta left the room with an injured shrug, he continued: "Seems too as if Lilac had all the work and none of the fun. You'd like an outing as well as any of 'em--wouldn't you, my maid?" Lilac did not know what to make of such unexpected kindness. As a rule her uncle seemed hardly to know that she was in the house. She did not answer, for she was very much afraid of him, but she looked appealingly at her aunt. "I'm sure, Greenways," said the latter in an offended tone, "you needn't talk as if the child was put upon. And your own niece, and an orphan besides. I know my duty better. And as for holidays and fetes and such, 'tisn't nateral to suppose as how Lilac would want to go to 'em after the judgment as happened to her directly after the last one. Leastways, not yet awhile. There'd be something ondacent in it, to my thinking." "Well, there! it doesn't need so much talking," replied the farmer. "I'm not wanting her to go to fetes. But there's Mr Snell--he was asking for her yesterday when I met him. Let her go tomorrow and spend the day with him." "If there is a busier day than another, it's Thursday," said Mrs Greenways fretfully. "Why, as to that, she's only a child, and makes no differ in the house, as you always say," remarked the farmer; "anyhow, I mean her to go to-morrow, and that's all about it." Lilac went to bed that night with a heart full of gratitude for her uncle's kindness, and delight at the promised visit; but her last thought before she slept was: "I'm sorry as how None-so-pretty has got to be sold." CHAPTER NINE. COMMON THINGS. "...Find out men's wants and will And meet them there, all earthly joys grow less To the one joy of doing kindnesses." _George Herbert_. Lilac could hardly believe her own good fortune when nothing happened the next morning to prevent her visit, not even a cross word nor a complaint from her aunt, who seemed to have forgotten her objections of last night and to be quite pleased that she should go. Mrs Greenways put a small basket into her hand before she started, into which she had packed a chicken, a pot of honey, and a pat of fresh butter. "There," she said, "that's a little something from Orchards Farm, tell him. The chick's our own rearing, and the honey's from Peter's bees, and the butter's fresh this morning." She nodded and smiled good-naturedly; Joshua should see there was no stint at the farm. "Be back afore dusk," she called after Lilac as she watched her from the gate. So there was nothing to spoil the holiday or to damp Lilac's enjoyment in any way, and she felt almost as merry as she used to be before she came to live in the valley, and had begun to have cares and troubles. For one whole day she was going to be White Lilac again, with no anxieties about the butter; she would hear no peevish voices or wrangling disputes, she would have kindness and smiles and sunshine all round her, and the blue sky above. In this happy mood everything along the well-known road had new beauties, and when she turned up the hill and felt the keener air blow against her face, it was like the greeting of an old friend. The very flowers in the tall overgrown hedges were different to those which grew in the valley, and much sweeter; she pulled sprays of them as she went along until she had a large straggling bunch to carry as well as her basket, and so at last entered Joshua's cottage with both hands full. "Now, Uncle Joshua," she said, when the first greetings over he had settled to his work again, "I've come to dinner with you, and I've brought it along with me, and until it's ready you're not to look once into the kitchen. You couldn't never guess what it is, so you needn't try; and you mustn't smell it more nor you can help while it's cooking." It was a proud moment for Lilac when, the fowl being roasted to a turn, the table nicely laid, and the bunch of flowers put exactly in the middle, she led the cobbler up to the feast. Even if Joshua had smelt the fowl he concealed it very well, and his whole face expressed the utmost astonishment, while Lilac watched him in an ecstasy of delight. "My word!" he exclaimed, "its fit for a king. I feel," looking down at his clothes, "as if I ought to have on my Sunday best." Lilac was almost too excited to eat anything herself, and presently, when she saw Joshua pause after his first mouthful, she enquired anxiously: "Isn't it good, Uncle?" "Fact is," he answered, "it's _too_ good. I don't really feel as how I ought to eat such dillicate food. Not being ill, or weak, or anyway picksome in my appetite." "I made sure you'd say that," said Lilac triumphantly; "and I just made up my mind I'd cook it without telling what it was. You've got to eat it now, Uncle Joshua. You couldn't never be so ungrateful as to let it spoil." "There's Mrs Wishing now," said Joshua, stilt hesitating, "a sickly ailing body as 'ud relish a morsel like this." It was not until Lilac had set his mind at rest by promising to take some of the fowl to Mrs Wishing before she returned, that he was able to abandon himself to thorough enjoyment. Lilac knew then by his silence that her little feast was heartily appreciated, and she would not disturb him by a word, although there were many things she wanted to say. But at last Joshua had finished. "A fatter fowl nor a finer, nor a better cooked one couldn't be," he said, as he laid down his knife and fork. "Not a bit o' dryness in the bird: juicy all through and as sweet as a nut." Ready now for a little conversation, he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe while Lilac stood near washing the dishes and plates. "It's thirty years ago," he said, speaking in a jerky voice so as not to interfere with the comfort of his pipe, "since I had a fowl for dinner-- and I mind very well when it was. It was my wedding-day. Away up in the north it was, and parson gave the feast." "Was that when you used to play the clar'net in church, Uncle?" asked Lilac. Joshua nodded. "We was a clar'net and a fiddle and a bass viol," he said reflectively. "Never kept time--the bass viol didn't. Couldn't never get it into his head. He wasn't never any shakes of a player--and he was a good feller too." "Did they play at your wedding?" asked Lilac. "They did that," he answered; "in church and likewise after the ceremony. Lor'! to hear how the bass viol did tag behind in _Rockingham_. I can hear him now. 'Twas like two solos being played, as one might say. No unity at all. I never hear that tune now but what it carries me back to my wedding-day and the bass viol; and the taste of that fowl's done the same thing. It's a most pecooliar thing, is the memory." Lilac liked to hear Joshua talk about old days, but she was eager too to tell her own news. There was so much that he did not know: all about hay-harvest, and her butter-making, about Lenham fete, and her cousins, and, finally, all about None-so-pretty and Peter. "I do think," she added, "as how I like him best of any of 'em, for all they say he's so common." "Common or uncommon, they'd do badly without him," muttered Joshua. "He's the very prop and pillar of the place, is Peter; if a wall's strong enough to hold the roof up, you don't ask if it's made of marble or stone." "Are common things bad things?" asked Lilac suddenly. Joshua took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at her in some surprise. "Common things--eh?" he repeated. "Yes, Uncle," said Lilac hesitatingly, and trying to think of how to make it clear. But she could only add: "They call the pigs common too." "Well, as to pigs," said Joshua, "I wish they was commoner still. I don't despise a bit of bacon myself. I call that a good thing anyhow. When one comes to look at it," he continued after a few puffs at his pipe, "the best things of all is common. The things as is under our feet and nigh to our hand and easy to be got. There's the flowers now-- the common ones which grow so low as any child can pick 'em in the fields, daisies and such. There's the blue sky as we can all see, poor as well as rich. There's rain and sunshine and air and a heap else as belongs to all alike, and which we couldn't do without. The common things is the best things, don't you make any mistake about that. There's your own name now--Lilac. It's a common bush lilac is; it grows every bit as well in a little bit of garden nigh the road as in a grand park, and it hasn't no rare colours to take the eye. And yet on a sunshiny day after rain the folks passing'll say, `Whatever is it as smells so beautiful?' Why it's just the common lilac bush. You ought to be like that in a manner of speaking--not to try and act clever and smart so as to make folks stare, but to be good-tempered and peaceful and loving, so as they say when you leave 'em, `What made the place so pleasant? Why, it was Lilac White. She ain't anything out of the common, but we miss her now she's gone--'" The frequent mention of her name reminded Lilac of something she wanted to say, and she broke in suddenly: "Why, I've never thought to thank you, Uncle, for all that bloom you got me on May Day. What a long way back it do seem!" Joshua looked perplexed. "What's the child talking on?" he said. "I didn't get no flowers." "Whoever in all the world could it a been then?" said Lilac slowly. "You're sure you haven't forgotten, Uncle Joshua?" "Sartain sure!" "You didn't ask no one to get it?" "Never mentioned a word to a livin' bein'." Lilac stared thoughtfully at the cobbler, who had now gone back to his little shed and was hard at work. "P'r'aps, then," she said, "'twarn't you neither who sent Mother's cactus down to the farm?" "Similarly," replied he, "it certainly was _not_; so you've got more friends than you reckoned for, you see." Lilac stood in the doorway, her bonnet dangling in one hand, her eyes fixed absently on Joshua's brown fingers. "I made sure," she said, "as how it was you. I couldn't think as there was anybody else to mind." It was getting late. Without looking at the clock she knew that her holiday would soon be over, because through Joshua's little window there came a bright sun beam which was never there till after five. She tied on her bonnet, prepared a choice morsel of chicken for Mrs Wishing, and set out on her further journey after a short farewell to the cobbler. Joshua never liked saying goodbye, and did it so gruffly that it might have sounded sulky to the ear of a stranger, but Lilac knew better. She had a "goodish step" before her, as she called it to herself, and if she were to get back to the farm before dusk she must make haste. So she hurried on, and soon in the distance appeared the two little white cottages side by side, perched on the edge of the steep down. The one in which she had lived with her mother was empty, and as she got close to it and stopped to look over the paling into the small strip of garden, she felt sorry to see how forlorn and deserted it looked. It had always been so trim and neat, and its white hearthstone and open door had invited the passer-by to enter. Now the window shutters were fastened, the door was locked, the straggling flowers and vegetables were mixed up with tall weeds and nettles--it was all lifeless and cold. It was a pity. Mother would not have liked to see it. Lilac pushed her hand through the palings and managed to pick some sweet-peas which were trailing themselves helplessly about for want of support, then she went on to the next gate. Poor Mrs Wishing was very lonely now that her only neighbour was gone; very few people passed over that way or came up so far from Danecross. Sometimes when Dan'l had a job on in the woods he was away for days and she saw no one at all, unless she was able to get to the cobbler's cottage, and that was seldom. Lilac knocked gently at the half-open door, and hearing no answer went in. Mrs Wishing was there, sitting asleep in a chair by the hearth with her head hanging uncomfortably on one side; her dress was untidy, her hair rough, and her face white and pinched. Lilac cast one glance at her and then looked round the room. There were some white ashes on the hearth, a kettle hanging over them by its chain, and at Mrs Wishing's elbow stood an earthenware teapot, from which came a faint sickly smell; and when Lilac saw that she nodded to herself, for she knew what it meant. The next moment the sleeper opened her large grey eyes and gazed vacantly at her visitor. "It's me," said Lilac. "It's Lilac White." Mrs Wishing still gazed without speaking; there was an unearthly flickering light in her eyes. At last she muttered indistinctly: "You're just like her." Not in the least alarmed or surprised at this condition, Lilac glanced at the teapot and said reproachfully: "You've been drinking poppy tea, and you promised Mother you wouldn't do it no more." Mrs Wishing struggled feebly against the drowsiness which overpowered her, and murmured apologetically: "I didn't go to do it, but it seemed as if I couldn't bear the pain." Lilac set down her basket, and opened the door of a cupboard near the chimney corner. "Where's your kindlin's?" she asked. "I'll make you a cup of real tea, and that'll waken you up a bit. And Uncle Joshua's sent you a morsel of chicken." "Ha'n't got no kindlin's and no tea," murmured Mrs Wishing. "Give me a drink o' water from the jug yonder." No tea! That was an unheard-of thing. As Lilac brought the water she said indignantly: "Where's Mr Wishing then? He hadn't ought to go and leave you like this without a bit or a drop in the house." Mrs Wishing seemed a little refreshed by the water and was able to speak more distinctly. She sat up in her chair and made a few listless attempts to fasten up her hair and put herself to rights. "'Tain't Dan'l's fault this time," she said; "he's up in the woods felling trees for a week. They're sleeping out till the job's done. He did leave me money, and I meant to go down to the shop. But then I took bad and I couldn't crawl so far, and nobody didn't pass." "And hadn't you got nothing in the house?" asked Lilac. "Only a crust a' bread, and I didn't seem to fancy it. I craved so for a cup a' tea. And I had some dried poppy heads by me. So I held out as long as I could, and nobody didn't come. And this morning I used my kindlin's and made the tea. And when I drank it I fell into a blessed sleep, and I saw lots of angels, and their harps was sounding beautiful in my head all the time. When I was a gal there was a hymn--it was about angels and golden crownds and harps, but I can't put it rightly together now. So then I woke and there was you, and I thought you was a sperrit. Seems a pity to wake up from a dream like that. But _I_ dunno." She let her head fall wearily back as she finished. Lilac was not in the least interested by the vision. She was accustomed to hear of Mrs Wishing's angels and harps, and her mind was now entirely occupied by earthly matters. "What you want is summat to eat and drink," she said, "and I shall just have to run back to Uncle Joshua's for some bread and tea. But first I'll get a few sticks and make you a blaze to keep you comp'ny." Mrs Wishing's eyes rested an her like those of a child who is being comforted and taken care of, as having collected a few sticks she knelt on the hearth and fanned them into a blaze with her pinafore. "You couldn't bide a little?" she said doubtfully, as Lilac turned towards the door. "I'll be back in no time," said Lilac, "and then you shall have a nice supper, and you mustn't take no more of this," pointing to the teapot. "You know you promised Mother." "I didn't _go to_," repeated Mrs Wishing submissively; "but it seemed as if I couldn't bear the gnawing in my inside." It did not take long for Lilac, filled with compassion for her old friend, to run back to the cobbler's cottage; but there she was delayed a little, for Joshua had questions to ask, although he was ready and eager to fill her basket with food. The return was slower, for it was all uphill and her burden made a difference to her speed, so that it was long past sunset when she reached Mrs Wishing for the second time. Then, after coaxing her to eat and drink, Lilac had to help her upstairs and put her to bed like a child, and finally to sit by her side and talk soothingly to her until she dropped into a deep sleep. Her duties over, and everything put ready to. Mrs Wishing's hand for the next morning, she now had time to notice that it was quite dusk, and that the first stars were twinkling in the sky. With a sudden start she remembered her aunt's words: "Be back afore dusk," and clasped her hands in dismay. It was no use to hurry now, for however quickly she went the farm would certainly be closed for the night before she reached it. Should she stay where she was till the morning? No, it would be better to take the chance of finding someone up to let her in. Mrs Wishing would be all right now that Joshua knew about her; "and anyway, I'm glad I came," said Lilac to herself, "even if Aunt does scold a bit." With this thought to console her, she stepped out into the cool summer night, and began her homeward journey. It was not very dark, for it was midsummer--near Saint Barnabas Day, when there is scarcely any night at all-- "Barnaby Bright All day and no night!" Lilac had often heard her mother say that rhyme, and she remembered it now. It was all very, very still, so that all manner of sounds too low to have been noticed amongst the noises of the day were now plainly to be heard. A soft wind went whispering and sighing to itself in the trees overhead, carrying with it the sweetness of the hayfields and the honeysuckle in the hedges, owls hooted mysteriously, and the frogs croaked in some distant pond. Creatures never seen in the daytime were now awake and busy. As Lilac ran along, the bats whirred close past her face, and she saw in the grass by the wayside the steady little light of the glow-worms. It was certainly very late; there was hardly a glimmer of hope that anyone would be up at the farm. It was equally certain that, if there were, a scolding waited for Lilac. Either way it was bad, she thought. She wanted to go to bed, for she was very tired, but she did not want to be scolded to-night; she could bear that better in the morning. When she reached the house, therefore, and found it all silent and dark, with no light in any window and no sound of any movement, she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. But presently, as she stood there forlornly, with only the sky overhead full of stars blinking their cold bright eyes at her, she began to long to creep in somewhere and rest. Her limbs ached, her head felt heavy, and her hard little bed seemed a luxury well worth the expense of a scolding. Should she venture to knock at the door? She had almost determined on this bold step, when quite suddenly a happy idea came to her. There would perhaps be some door open in the outbuildings, either in the loft or the barn or the stables, where she could get in and find shelter for the night. It was worth trying at any rate. With renewed hope she ran across the strawyard and tried the great iron ring in the stable door. It was not locked. Here were shelter and rest at last, and no one to scold! She crept in, and was just closing the heavy door when towards her, across the rickyard, came the figure of a man. His head was bent so that she could not see his face, but she thought from his lumbering walk that it must be Peter, and in a moment it flashed across her mind that he had just got back from Cuddingham. While she stood hesitating just within the door the man came quite close, and before she could call out the key rattled in the lock and heavy footsteps tramped away again. Then it was Peter. But surely he must have seen her, and if so why had he locked her in? Anyhow here she was for the night, and the next thing to do was to find a bed. She groped her way past the stalls of the three Pleasants, whose dwelling she had invaded, to the upright ladder which led to the loft. The horses were all lying down after their hard day's work, and only one of them turned his great head with a rattle of his halter, to see who this small intruder could be. Lilac clambered up the ladder and was soon in the dark fragrant-smelling loft above, where the trusses of hay and straw were mysteriously grouped under the low thick beams. There was no lack of a soft warm nest here, and the close neighbourhood of the Pleasants made it feel secure and friendly; nothing could possibly be better. She took off her shoes, curled herself up cosily in the hay, and shut her weary eyes. Presently she opened them drowsily again, and then discovered that her lodging was shared by a companion, for on the rafters just above her head, her single eye gleaming in the darkness, sat Peter's cat Tib. Lilac called to her, but she took no notice and did not move, having her own affairs to conduct at that time of night. Lilac watched her dreamily for a little while, and then her thoughts wandered on to Peter and became more and more confused. He got mixed up with Joshua, and the cactus and None-so-pretty and heaps of white flowers. "The common things are the best things," she seemed to hear over and over again. Then quite suddenly she was in Mrs Wishing's cottage, and the loft was filled with the heavy sickly smell of poppy tea: it was so strong that it made her feel giddy and her eyelids seemed pressed down by a firm hand. After that she remembered nothing more that night. CHAPTER TEN. THE CREDIT OF THE FARM. "Many littles make a mickle."--_Scotch Proverb_. She was awakened the next morning by trampling noises in the stable below, and starting up could not at first make out where she was. The sun was shining through a rift in the loft door, Tib was gone, cocks were crowing outside, all the world was up and busy. She could hear Ben's gruff voice and the clanking of chains and harness, and soon he and the three horses had left the stable and gone out to their day's work. It must be late, therefore, and she must lose no time in presenting herself at the house. Perhaps it might be possible, she thought, to get up to her attic without seeing anyone, and tidy herself a bit first; she should then have more courage to face her aunt, for at present with her rough hair and pieces of hay and straw clinging to her clothes, she felt like some little stray wanderer. She approached the house cautiously and peeped in at the back door before entering, to see who was in the kitchen. Bella was there talking to Molly, whose broad red face was thrust eagerly forward as though she were listening to something interesting. They were indeed so deeply engaged that Lilac felt sure they would not notice her, and she took courage and went in. "It's a mercy she wasn't killed," Molly was saying. "She's no light weight to fall, isn't the missus." "It's completely upset me," said Bella in a faint voice, with one hand on her heart. "I tremble all over still." "And to think," said Molly, "as it was only yesterday I said to myself, `I'll darn that carpet before I'm an hour older'." "Well, it's a pity you didn't," said Bella sharply; "just like your careless ways." Molly shook her head. "'Twasn't to _be_," she said. "'Twasn't for nothing that I spilt the salt twice, and dreamt of water." "The doctor says it's a bad sprain," continued Bella; "and it's likely she'll be laid up for a month. Perfect rest's the only thing." "_I_ had a cousin," said Molly triumphantly, "what had a similar accident. A heavy woman she was, like the missus in build. Information set in with _her_ and she died almost immediate." Lilac did not wait to hear more; she made her escape safely to her attic, and soon afterwards found Agnetta and learnt from her the history of the accident. Mrs Greenways had had a bad fall; she had caught her foot in a hole in the carpet and twisted her ankle, and the doctor said it was a wonder she had not broken any bones. Everyone in the house had so much to say, and was so excited about this misfortune, that Lilac's little adventure was passed over without notice, and the scolding she had dreaded did not come at all. Poor Mrs Greenways had other things to think of as she lay groaning on the sofa, partly with pain and partly at the prospect before her. To be laid up a month! It was easy for the doctor to talk, but what would become of things? Who would look after Molly? Who would see to the dairy? It would all go to rack and ruin, and she must lie here idle and look on. Her husband stood by trying to give comfort, but every word he said only seemed to make matters worse. "Why, there's Bella now," he suggested; "she ought to be able to take your place for a bit." "And that just shows how much you know about the indoors work, Greenways," said his wife fretfully; "to talk of Bella! Why, I'd as soon trust the dairy to Peter's cat as Bella--partikler now she's got that young Buckle in her head. She don't know cream from buttermilk." "Why, then, you must just leave the butter to Molly as usual, and let the girls see after the rest," said Mr Greenways soothingly. "Oh, it's no use talking like that," said his wife impatiently; "it's only aggravating to hear you. I suppose you think things are done in the house without heads or hands either. Girls indeed! There's Agnetta, knows no more nor a baby, and only that little bit of a Lilac as can put her hand to anything." Finding his efforts useless, Mr Greenways shrugged his shoulders and went out, leaving his wife alone with her perplexities. The more she thought them over the worse they seemed. To whom could she trust whilst she was helpless? Who would see that the butter was ready and fit for market? Not Bella, not Agnetta, and certainly not Molly. Really and truly there was only that little bit of a Lilac, as she called her, to depend on--she would do her work just as well whether she were overlooked or not, Mrs Greenways felt sure. It was no use to shut her eyes to it any longer, Lilac White was not a burden but a support, not useless but valuable, only a child, but more dependable than many people of twice her years. It was bitter to poor Mrs Greenways to acknowledge this, even to herself, for the old jealousy was still strong within her. "I s'pose," she said with a groan, "there was something in Mary White's upbringing after all. I'm not agoin' to own up to it, though, afore other folks." When a little later Lilac was told that her aunt wanted her, she thought that the scolding had come at last, and went prepared to bear it as well as she could. It was, however, for a surprisingly different purpose. "Look here, Lilac," said Mrs Greenways carelessly, "you've been a good deal in the dairy lately, and you ought to have picked up a lot about it." "I can make the butter all myself, Aunt," replied Lilac, "without Molly touching it." "Well, I hope you're thankful for such a chance of learning," said Mrs Greenways; "not but what you're a good child enough, I've nothing to say against you. But what I want to say is this: Molly can't do everything while I'm laid by, and I think I shall take her from the dairy-work altogether, and let you do it." Lilac's eyes shone with delight. Her aunt spoke as though she were bestowing a favour, and she felt it indeed to be such. "Oh! thank you, Aunt," she cried. "I'm quite sure as how I can do it, and I like it ever so much." "With Agnetta to help you I dessay you'll get through with it," said Mrs Greenways graciously, and so the matter was settled. Lilac was dairymaid! No longer a little household drudge, called hither and thither to do everyone's work, but an important person with a business and position of her own. What an honour it was! There was only one drawback--there was no mother to rejoice with her, or to understand how glad she felt about it. Lilac was obliged to keep her exultation to herself. She would have liked to tell Peter of her advancement, but just now he was at work on some distant part of the farm, and she saw him very seldom, for her new office kept her more within doors than usual. The good-natured Molly was, however, delighted with the change, and full of wonder at Lilac's cleverness. "It's really wonderful," she said; "and what beats me is that it allus turns out the same." With this praise Lilac had to be content, and she busied herself earnestly in her own little corner with increasing pride in her work. Sometimes, it is true, she looked enviously at Agnetta, who seemed to have nothing to do but enjoy herself after her own fashion. Since Lenham fete Bella and she had had some confidential joke together, which they carried on by meaning nods and winks and mysterious references to "Charlie." They were also more than ever engaged in altering their dresses and trimming their hats, and although Lilac was kept completely outside all this, she soon began to connect it with the visits of young Mr Buckle. She thought it a little unkind of Agnetta not to let her into the secret, and it was dull work to hear so much laughter going on without ever joining in it; but very soon she knew what it all meant. "Heard the news?" cried Agnetta, rushing into the dairy, then, without waiting for an answer, "Bella's goin' to get married. Guess who to?" "Young Mr Buckle," said Lilac without a moment's hesitation. "As soon as ever Ma's about again the wedding's to be," said Agnetta exultingly. "I'm to be bridesmaid, and p'r'aps Charlotte Smith as well." Lilac, who had stopped her scrubbing to listen, now went on with it, and Agnetta looked down at her kneeling figure with some contempt. "What a lot of trouble you take over it!" she said. "Molly used to do it in half the time." "If I ain't careful," answered Lilac, "the butter'd get a taste." "I'll help you a bit," said her cousin condescendingly. "I'll rinse these pans for you." Lilac was glad to have Agnetta's company, for she wanted to hear all about Bella's wedding; but Agnetta's help she was not so anxious for, because she usually had to do the work all over again. Agnetta's idea of excellence was to get through her work quickly, to make it look well outside, to polish the part that showed and leave the rest undone. Speed and show had always been the things desired in the household at Orchards Farm--not what _was_ good but what _looked_ good, and could be had at small expense and labour. Beneath the smart clothing which Mrs Greenways and her daughters displayed on Sundays, strange discoveries might have been made. Rents fastened up with pins, stains hidden by stylish scarves and mantles, stockings unmended, boots trodden down or in holes. A feather in the hat, a bangle on the arm, and a bunched-up dress made up for these deficiencies. "If it don't show it don't matter," Bella was accustomed to say. Agnetta paused to rest after about two minutes. "Bella won't have nothing of this sort to do after she's married," she said. "Charlie says she needn't stir a finger, not unless she likes. She'll be able to sit with her hands before her just like a lady." "I shouldn't care about being a lady if that's what I had to do," said Lilac. "I should think it would be dull. I'd rather see after the farm, if I was Bella." "You don't mean to tell me you _like work_?" said Agnetta, staring. "You wouldn't do it, not if you weren't obliged? 'Tain't natural." "I like some," said Lilac. "I like the dairy work and I like feeding the poultry. And I want to learn to milk, if Ben'll teach me. And in the spring I mean to try and get ever such a lot of early ducks." "Well, I hate all that," said Agnetta. "Now, if I could choose I wouldn't live on a farm at all. I'd have lots of servants, and silk gownds and gold bracelets and broaches, and satting furniture, and a carridge to drive in every day. An' I'd lie in bed ever so late in the mornings and always do what I liked." Time went on and Mrs Greenway's ankle got better, so that although still lame she was able to hobble about with a stick, and find out Molly's shortcomings much as usual. During her illness she had relied a good deal on Lilac and softened in her manner towards her, but now the old feeling of jealousy came back, and she found it impossible to praise her for the excellence of the dairy-work. "I can't somehow bring my tongue to it," she said to herself; "and the better she behaves the less I can do it." One day the farmer came back from Lenham in a good humour. "Benson asked if we'd got a new dairymaid," he said to his wife; "the butter's always good now. Which of 'em does it?" "Oh," said Mrs Greenways carelessly, "the girls manage it between 'em, and I look it over afore it goes." Lilac heard it, for she had come into the room unnoticed, and for a second she stood still, uncertain whether to speak, fixing a reproachful gaze on her aunt. What a shame it was! Was this her reward for all her patience and hard work? Never a word of praise, never even the credit of what she did! On her lips were some eager angry words, but she did not utter them. She turned and ran upstairs to her own little attic. Her heart was full; she could see no reason for this injustice: it was very, very hard. What would they do, she went on to think, if she left the butter to Bella and Agnetta to manage between them? What would her aunt say then? Trembling with indignation she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. At first she was too angry to cry, but soon she felt so lonely, with such a great longing for a word of comfort and kindness, that the tears came fast. After that she felt a little better, rubbed her eyes on her pinafore, and looked up at the small window through which there streamed some bright rays of the afternoon sun. What was it that lighted the room with such a glory? Not the sunshine alone. It rested on something in the window, which stood out in gorgeous splendour from the white bareness of its surroundings--the cactus had bloomed! Yes, the cactus had really burst into two blossoms, of such size and brilliancy that with the sunlight upon them they were positively dazzling to behold. Lilac sat and blinked her red eyes at them in admiration and wonder. She had watched the two buds with tender interest, and feared they would never unfold themselves. Now they had done it, and how beautiful they were! How Mother would have liked them! Her next thought was, as she went closer to examine them, that she must tell Peter. She remembered now, that, occupied with her own affairs and interests, she had never thanked him for two kind things he had done. She was quite sure that he had got the flowers for her on May Day, and had brought the cactus down from the cottage, yet she had said nothing. How ungrateful she had been! She knew now how hard it was not to be thanked for one's services. Did Peter mind? He must be pretty well used to it, for certainly no one ever thanked him for anything, and as for praise that was out of the question. If, as Uncle Joshua had said, he was the prop of the house, it was taken for granted, and no one thought of saying, "Well done, Peter!" Yet he never complained. He went patiently on in his dull way, keeping his pains and troubles to himself. How seldom his face was brightened by pleasure, and yet Lilac remembered when he had been talking to her about his animals or farming matters, that she had seen it change wonderfully. Some inner feeling had beamed out from it, and for a few minutes Peter was a different creature. It was a pity that he did not always look like that; no one at such times could call him stupid or ugly. "Anyway," concluded Lilac, "he's been kind, and I'll thank him as soon as ever I can." Her sympathy for Peter made her own trouble seem less, and she went downstairs cheerfully with her mind bent on managing a little talk with him as soon as possible. Supper-time would not do, because Bella and Agnetta were there, and afterwards Peter was so sleepy. It must be to-morrow. As it happened things turned out fortunately for Lilac, and required no effort on her part, for Mrs Greenways discovered the next day that someone must do some shopping in Lenham. There were things wanted that Dimbleby did not keep, and the choice of which could not be trusted to a man. "I wonder," she said, "if I could make shift to get into the cart--but if I did I couldn't never get in and out at the shops." She looked appealingly at her elder daughter. "The cart's _going_ in with the butter," she added. But Bella was not inclined to take the hint. "You don't catch me driving into Lenham with the cart full of butter and eggs and such," she said. "Whatever'd Charlie say? Why shouldn't Lilac go? She's sharp enough." There seemed no reason against this, and it was accordingly settled that Lilac should be entrusted with Mrs Greenways' commissions. As she received them, her mind was so full of the dazzling prospect of driving into Lenham with the butter that it was almost impossible to bring it to bear on anything else. It would be like going into the world. Only once in her whole life had she been there before, and that was when her mother had taken her long ago. She was quite a little child then, but she remembered the look of it still, and what a grand place she had thought it, with its broad market square and shops and so many people about. When her aunt had finished her list, which was a very long one, Bella was ready with her wants, which were even more puzzling. "I want this ribbon matched," she said, "and I want a bonnet shape. It mustn't be too high in the crown nor yet too broad in the brim, and it mustn't be like the one Charlotte Smith's got now. If you can't match the ribbon exactly you must get me another shade. A kind of a sap green, I think--but it must be something uncommon. And you might ask at Jones's what's being worn in hats now--feathers or artificials. Oh, and I want some cream lace, not more than sixpence a yard, a good striking pattern, and as deep as you can get for the money." Agnetta having added to this two ounces of coconut rock and a threepenny bottle of scent, Lilac was allowed to get ready for her expedition. The cart was waiting in the yard with the baskets packed in at the back, and Ben was buckling the last strap of the harness. She expected that he was going with her, and it was quite a pleasant surprise when Peter came out of the house with a whip in his hand and took the reins. Nothing could have happened more fortunately, she thought to herself as they drove out of the gate, for now there would be no difficulty at all in saying what she had on her mind. This and the excitement of the journey itself put her in excellent spirits, so that though some people might have called the road to Lenham dull and flat, it was full of charms to Lilac. It was indeed more lively than usual, for it was market day, and as they jogged along at an easy pace they were constantly greeted by acquaintances all bent in the same direction. Some of these were on foot and others in all kinds of vehicles, from a wagon to a donkey cart. Mr Buckle presently dashed by them in a smart gig, and called out, "How's yourself, Peter?" as he passed; and farther on they overtook Mrs Pinhorn actively striding along in her well-known checked shawl. Peter answered all greetings in the same manner--a wag of the head towards the right shoulder--but Lilac felt so proud and pleased to be going to Lenham with her own butter that she sat up very straight, and smiled and nodded heartily to those she knew. It seemed a wonderfully short journey, and she saw the spire of Lenham church in the distance before she had said one word to Peter, or he had broken silence except to speak to his horse. This did not disturb her, for she was used to his ways now, and she made up her mind that she would put off any attempt at conversation until their return. And here they were at Lenham, rattling over the round stones with which the marketplace was paved. It was full of stalls, crowded together so closely that there was scarcely room for all the people passing up and down between them. They struggled along, jostling each other, pushing their way with great baskets on their arms, and making a confusion of noises. Scolding, laughter, shouting filled the air, mixed up with the clatter of crockery, cracking of whips, and the shrill cries of the market women. Such a turmoil Lilac had never heard, and it was almost a relief when Peter turned a little away from it and drew up at the door of Benson's shop, where the butter was to be left. It was a large and important shop, and though the entrance was down a narrow street it had two great windows facing the market square, and there was a constant stream of people bustling in and out. Lilac's heart beat fast with excitement. If she had known that the butter was to be displayed in such a grand beautiful place as this, and seen by so many folks, she would hardly have dared to undertake it. Sudden fear seized her that it might not be so good as usual this time: there was perhaps some fault in the making-up, some failure in the colour, although she had thought it looked all right when she packed up at the farm. She followed Peter into the shop with quite a tremor, and was glad when she saw Mr Benson could not attend to them just yet, for he and his boy were both deeply engaged in attending to customers. Lilac had plenty of time to look round her. Her eye immediately fell on some rolls of butter on the counter, and she lifted a corner of the cloth which covered her own and gave an anxious peep at it, then nudged Peter and looked up at him for sympathy. "It's a better colour nor that yonder," she whispered. Peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. Mr Benson caught sight of him and bustled up. "Morning, Peter," he said briskly. "How's your mother?" "Middling, thank you," said Peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter. "Butter--eh?" said the grocer. "Well, I hope it's as good as the last." He unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time. "It's an odd thing to me how your butter varies. Now, the last month it's been as good again as it used to be. Of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, I can understand that; but I can't see why it shouldn't be always the same in the summer. I don't mind telling you," he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, "that I'd made up my mind at one time to give it up. People won't buy inferior butter, and I don't blame 'em." "It's good this time, anyhow," said Peter. "It's prime," said Mr Benson. "Is it the cows now, that you've got new, or is it the dairymaid?" "The cows isn't new, nor yet the dairymaid," said Peter. "Well, whichever it is," said the grocer, "the credit of the farm's coming back. Orchards Farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. I remember my father talking of it when I was a boy." Mrs Pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in: "They _do_ say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted." "That's a curious superstition, ma'am," said the grocer politely. "There's folks in Danecross who give credit to it still," continued Mrs Pinhorn. "Old Grannie Dunch'll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on." "Well, if we didn't live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation," said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, "we might think you'd got him back again at the farm. What do you say to that, Peter?" Everyone knew that Peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when Mr Benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it. Lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. That would be a triumph indeed. At any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. She had heard Grannie Dunch's stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them--Lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. It was therefore with dismay that she saw Peter's face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, "I don't know nothing about it." Moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an Mr Benson's round face, she ventured to give Peter's sleeve a sharp pull. No more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop. "Well, well," said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, "never you mind, Peter. If you've got him you'd better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate." Everyone laughed, as they always did at Mr Benson's speeches, and in the midst of it Peter gathered up his money and left the shop with Lilac. She felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. They were an ironmonger's, a linendraper's, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour's time. Lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. She was angry with Mr Benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with Peter. No wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. And yet he knew twice as much as all of 'em put together. Only that morning when Sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was Peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. But in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? It was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that Lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on Bella's ribbons and her aunt's pots and pans. When she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. Could it be possible that Peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales? Grannie Dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. When Grannie Dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. On one point Lilac was determined. Peter's mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. What had Mr Benson said about it? "The credit of the farm's coming back." She repeated the words to herself in a whisper. What a grand thing if she, Lilac White, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm! At this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and Lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. Very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of Lenham, and on the quiet country road again. She took a side glance at her companion. He looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse's ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. It made Lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say. "Why ever did you let 'em go on so silly about the brownie?" she said. "You looked for all the world as if you believed in it." Peter flicked his horse thoughtfully. "There's a many cur'ous things in the world," he said; "cur'ouser than that." "There ain't no such things as brownies, though," said Lilac, with decision; "nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as Grannie Dunch tells about." Peter was silent. "_Is_ there?" she repeated with another nudge of the elbow. "I don't says as there is," he answered slowly. "Of course not!" exclaimed Lilac triumphantly. "And I don't say as there isn't," finished Peter in exactly the same voice. This unexpected conclusion quite took Lilac's breath away. She stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse's ears: "It's been a wonderful lucky year, there's no denying. Hay turned out well, corn's going to be good. More eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early." "But," put in Lilac, "Aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell None-so-pretty. That wasn't lucky. Why didn't the brownie hinder that?" Peter shook his head. "I don't say as there _is_ a brownie at the farm," he said. "But you think he helps make the butter," said Lilac scornfully. Peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt. "Well, then, who _does_?" he asked. But Lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with Peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him. Conscious that he was in disgrace, Peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak: "I'd sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but I'll tell you something if I can put it together. Words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. Maybe you'll only think me stupider after I'm done, but this is how it was--" He stopped short, and Lilac said gently and encouragingly, "How was it, Peter?" "I've had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there's something different at the farm. Something that runs through everything, as you might say. The beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there's a kind of a pleasantness about the place. I can't set it down to anything, any more than I know why the sky's blue, but it's there all the same. So I thought over it a deal, and one day I was up in the High field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what Grannie Dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. `Maybe,' I says to myself, `he's come back.' So I didn't say nothing, but I took notice, and things went on getting better, and I got to feel there was someone there helping on the work--but I wasn't not to say _certain_ sure it was the brownie, till one night--" "When?" said Lilac eagerly as Peter paused. "It was last Saint Barnaby's, and I'd been up to Cuddingham with None-so-pretty. It was late when I got back, and I remembered I hadn't locked the stable door, and I went across the yard to do it--" "Well?" said Lilac with breathless interest. "So as I went, it was most as light as day, and I saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. 'Twasn't so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. So then I thought, `Surely 'tis the brownie, for night's his working time,' and I'd half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. But they say if you look him in the face he'll quit, so I just locked the door and left him there. When Benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, I knew who we'd got to thank. Howsomever," added Peter seriously, "you mustn't thank him, nor yet pay him, else he'll spite you instead of working for you." As he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for Lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily. "I thought maybe you'd laugh at me," he said, turning his head away ashamed. Lilac checked her laughter. "Here's a riddle," she said. "The brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. He isn't never thanked nor yet paid, but you've looked him in the face scores of times." Peter gazed blankly at her. "You're doing of it now!" she cried with a chuckle of delight; "you're looking at the brownie now! Why, you great goose, it's me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on Saint Barnaby's!" It was only by very slow degrees that Peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. Even when Lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again: "But how _could_ you do it? You didn't know before you came, and there's Bella and Agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn't know now. Wonderful quick you must be, surely. And so little as you are--and quiet," he went on, staring at his cousin. "You don't make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse." "'Tisn't only noisy big things as is useful," said Lilac with some pride. "It's harder to believe than the brownie," went on Peter, shaking his head; "a deal more cur'ous. I thought I had got hold of him, but I don't seem to understand this at all." He fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again. "The smallest person in the farm," he said slowly, "has brought back the credit of the farm. It's downright amazing. I'm not agoin' to say `thank you,' though," he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate. A sudden thought flashed into Lilac's mind. "Oh, Peter," she cried, "the flowers was lovely on May Day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! Was it the brownie as sent 'em, do you think?" Peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. Lilac laughed as she ran into the house. What a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day's holiday she had been having! CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE CONCERT. "But I will wear my own brown gown And never look too fine." Months came and went. August turned his beaming yellow face on the waving cornfields, and passed on leaving them shorn and bare. Then came September bending under his weight of apples and pears, and after him October, who took away the green mantle the woods had worn all the summer, and gave them one of scarlet and gold. He spread on the ground, too, a gorgeous carpet of crimson leaves, which covered the hillside with splendour so that it glowed in the distance like fire. Here and there the naked branches of the trees began to show sharply against the sky--soon it would be winter. Already it was so cold, that although it was earlier than usual Miss Ellen said they must begin to think of warming the church, and to do this they must have some money, and therefore the yearly village concert must be arranged. "It was the new curate as come to me about it," said the cobbler to Mr Dimbleby one evening. "`You must give us a solo on the clar'net, Mr Snell,' says he." "He's a civil-spoken young feller enough," remarked Mr Dimbleby, "but he's too much of a boy to please me. The last was the man for my money." "Time'll mend that," said Joshua. "And what I like about him is that he don't bear no sort of malice when he's worsted in argeyment. We'd been differing over a passage of Scripture t'other day, and when he got up to go, `Ah, Mr Snell,' says he, `you've a deal to learn.' `And so have you, young man,' says I. Bless you, he took it as pleasant as could be, and I've liked him ever since." He turned to Bella Greenways, who had just entered. "And what's _your_ place in the programme, Miss Greenways?" Bella always avoided speaking to the cobbler if she could, for while she despised him as a "low" person, she feared his opinion, and knew that he disapproved of her. She now put on her most mincing air as she replied: "Agnetta and me's to play a duet, the `Edinburgh Quadrilles,' and Mr Buckle accompanies on the drum and triangle." "Why, you'd better fall in too with the clar'net, Mr Snell," suggested Mr Dimbleby. "That'd make a fine thing of it with four instruments." Joshua shook his head solemnly. "Mine's a solo," he said. "A sacred one: `Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea.' That'll give a variety." "Mr Buckle's going to recite a beautiful thing," put in Bella: "`The Dream of Eugene Aram'. He's been practising it ever so long. He's going to do it with action." "I don't know as I can make much of that reciting," said Joshua doubtfully. "Now a good tune, or a song, or a bit of reading, I can take hold of and carry along, but it's poor sport to see a man twist hisself, and make mouths, and point about at nothing at all. I remember the first time the curate did it. He stares straight at me for a second, and then he shakes his fist and shouts out suddenly: `Wretch!' or `Villain!' or summat of that sort. I was so taken aback I nearly got up and went out. Downright uncomfortable I was." "It's all the fashion now. But of course," said Bella disdainfully, "it isn't everybody as is used to it. I'm sure it's beautiful to hear Charlie! It makes your blood run cold. There's a part where he has to speak it in a sort of a hissing whisper. He's afraid the back seats won't hear." "And a good thing for 'em," muttered Joshua. "It's bad enough to see a man make a fool of hisself without having to hear him as well." "But after all," continued Bella, without noticing this remark, "it's only the gentry as matter much, and they'll be in the two front rows. Mrs Leigh's going to bring some friends." "And what's Lilac White going to do?" said Joshua, turning round with sudden sharpness. "She used to sing the prettiest of 'em all at school." "Oh, I dare say she'll sing in the part songs with the other children," said Bella carelessly. "They haven't asked her for a solo." But although this was the case Lilac felt quite as interested and pleased as though she were to be the chief performer at the concert. When the programme was discussed at the farm, which was very often, she listened eagerly, and was delighted to find that Mrs Leigh wished her to sing in two glees which she had learnt at school. The concert would be unusually good this year, everyone said, and each performer felt as anxious about his or her part as if its success depended on that alone. Mr Buckle, next to his own recitation, relied a good deal on the introduction of a friend of his from Lenham, who had promised to perform on the banjo and sing a comic song--if possible. "If you can get Busby," he repeated over and over again, "it'll be the making of the thing, and so I told Mrs Leigh." "What did she say?" enquired Bella. "Well, she wanted to know what he would sing. But, as I said to her, you can't treat Busby as you would the people about here. He moves in higher circles and he wouldn't stand it. You can't tie him down to a particular song, he must sing what he feels inclined to. After all, I don't suppose he'll come. He's so sought after." "Well, it is awkward," said Bella, "not being certain--because of the programme." "Oh, they must just put down, _Song, Mr Busby_, and leave a blank. It's often done." Each time Mr Buckle dropped in at the farm just now he brought fresh news relating to Mr Busby. He could, or could not come to the concert, so that an exciting state of uncertainty was kept up. As the day grew nearer the news changed. Busby would certainly _come_, but he had a dreadful cold so that it was hardly probable he would be able to sing. Lilac heard it all with the greatest sympathy. The house seemed full of the concert from morning till night. As she went about her work the strains of the "Edinburgh Quadrilles" sounded perpetually from the piano in the parlour. Sometimes it was Agnetta alone, slowly pounding away at the bass, and often coming down with great force and determination on the wrong chords; sometimes Bella and Agnetta at the same time, the treble dashing along brilliantly, and the bass lumbering heavily in the distance but contriving to catch it up at the end by missing a few bars; sometimes Mr Buckle arriving with his drum and triangle there was a grand performance of all three, when Lilac and Molly, taking furtive peeps at them through the half-open door, were struck with the sincerest admiration and awe. It was indeed wonderful as well as deafening to hear the noise that could be got out of those three instruments; they seemed to be engaged in a sort of battle in which first one was triumphant and then another. "It's a _little_ loud for this room," observed Mr Buckle complacently, "but it'll sound very well at the concert." Bella felt sure that it would be far the best thing in the programme, not only because the execution was spirited and brilliant but on account of the stylish appearance of the performers. Mr Buckle had been persuaded to wear his volunteer uniform on the occasion, in which, with his drum slung from his shoulders and the triangle fastened to a chair, so that he could kick it with one foot, he made a very imposing effect. Agnetta and Bella had coaxed their mother into giving them new dresses of a bright blue colour called "electric", which, being made up by themselves in the last fashion, were calculated to attract all eyes. These preparations, whilst they excited and interested Lilac, also made her a little envious. She began to wish she had something pretty to put on in honour of the concert, and even to have a faint hope that her aunt might give her a new dress too. But this did not seem even to occur to Mrs Greenways, and Lilac soon gave up all thoughts of it with a sigh. Her Sunday frock was very shabby, but after all just to stand up amongst the other children it would not show much. She took it out of her box and looked at it: perhaps there was something she could do to smarten it up a little. It certainly hung in a limp flattened manner across the bed, and was even beginning to turn a rusty colour; nothing would make it look any different. Would one of her cottons be better, Lilac wondered anxiously. But none of the children would wear cottons, she knew--they all put on their Sunday best for the concert. The black frock must do. She could put a clean frill in the neck, and brush her hair very neatly, but that was all. There was no one she remembered to take much notice what she wore, so it did not matter. The evening came. Everyone had practised their parts and brought them to a high pitch of perfection; and except Mr Busby, whose appearance was still uncertain, everyone was prepared to fill their places in the programme. "You won't find two better-looking girls than that," said Mrs Greenways to her husband, looking proudly at her two daughters. "That blue does set 'em off, to be sure!" "La!" said Bella with a giggle, "I feel that nervous I know I shall break down. I'm all of a twitter." "Well, it's no matter how you _play_ as long as you look well," said Mrs Greenways; "with Charlie making all that noise on the drum, you only hear the piano now and again. But where's Lilac!" she added. "It's more than time we started." Lilac had been ready long ago, and waiting for her cousins, but just before they came downstairs she had caught sight of Peter looking into the room from the garden, and making mysterious signs to her to come out. When she appeared he held towards her a bunch of small red and white chrysanthemums. "Here's a posy for you," he said. "Stick it in your front. They're a bit frost-bitten, but they're better than nothing." Lilac took the flowers joyfully; after all she was not to be quite unadorned at the concert. "You ain't got a new frock," he continued, looking at her seriously when she had fastened them in her dress. "You look nice, though." "Ain't you coming?" asked Lilac. She felt that she should miss Peter's friendly face when she sang, and that she should like him to hear her. "Presently," he said. "Got summat to see to first." When the party reached the school-house it was already late. The Greenways were always late on such occasions. The room was full, and Mr Martin, the curate, who had the arrangement of it all, was bustling about with a programme in his hand, finding seats for the audience, greeting acquaintances, and rushing into the inner room at intervals to see if the performers had arrived. "All here?" he said. "Then we'd better begin. Drum and fife band!" The band, grinning with embarrassment and pleasure, stumbled up the rickety steps on to the platform. The sounds of their instruments and then the clapping and stamping of the audience were plainly heard in the green room, which had only a curtain across the doorway. "Lor'!" said Bella, pulling it a little on one side and peeping through at the audience, "there _is_ a lot of people! Packed just as close as herrings. There's a whole row from the Rectory. How I do palpitate, to be sure! I wish Charlie was here!" Mr Buckle soon arrived with vexation on his brow. No sign of Busby! He was down twice in the programme, and there was hardly a chance he would turn up. It was too bad of Busby to throw them over like that. He might at least have _come_. "Well, if he wasn't going to sing I don't see the good of that," said Bella; "but it _is_ a pity." "It just spoils the whole thing," said Mr Buckle, and the other performers agreed. But to Lilac nothing could spoil the concert. It was all beautiful and glorious, and she thought each thing grander than the last. Uncle Joshua's solo almost brought tears to her eyes, partly of affection and pride and partly because he extracted such lovely and stirring sounds from the clar'net. It made her think of her mother and the cottage, and of so many dear old things of the past, that she felt sorrowful and happy at once. Next she was filled with awe by Mr Buckle's recitation, which, however, fell rather flat on the rest of the assembly; and then came the "Edinburgh Quadrilles", in which the performers surpassed themselves in banging and clattering. Lilac was quite carried away by enthusiasm. She stood as close to the curtain as she could, clapping with all her might. The programme was now nearly half over, and Mr Busby's first blank had been filled up by someone else. Mr Martin came hurriedly in. "Who'll sing or play something?" he said. "We must fill up this second place or the programme will be too short." His glance fell upon Lilac. "Why, you're the little girl who was Queen? You can sing, I know. That'll do capitally--come along." Lilac shrank back timidly. It was an honour to be singled out in that way, but it was also most alarming. She looked appealingly at her cousin Bella, who at once came forward. "I don't think she knows any songs alone, sir," she said; "but I'll play something if you like." "Oh, thank you, Miss Greenways," said Mr Martin hastily, "we've had so much playing I think they'd like a song. I expect she knows some little thing--don't you?" to Lilac. Lilac hesitated. There stood Mr Martin in front of her, eager and urgent, with outstretched hand as though he would hurry her at once to the platform; there was Bella fixing a mortified and angry gaze upon her; and, in the background, the other performers with surprise and disapproval on their faces. She felt that she _could_ not do it, and yet it was almost as impossible to disoblige Mr Martin, the habit of obedience, especially to a clergyman, was so strong within her. Suddenly there sounded close to her ear a gruff and friendly voice: "Give 'em the `Last Rose of Summer', Lilac. You can sing that very pretty." It came from Uncle Joshua. "The very thing!" exclaimed Mr Martin. "Couldn't possibly be better, and I'll play it for you. Come along!" Without more words Lilac found herself hurried out of the room, up the steps, and on to the platform, with Mr Martin seated at the piano. Breathless and frightened she stood for a second half uncertain whether to turn and run away. There were so many faces looking up at her from below, and she felt so small and unprotected standing there alone in front of them. Her heart beat fast, her lips were as though fastened together, how could she possibly sing? Suddenly in the midst of that dim mass of heads she caught sight of something that encouraged her. It was Peter's round red face with mouth and eyes open to their widest extent, and it stood out from all the rest, just as it had done on May Day. Then it had vexed her to see it, now it was such a comfort that it filled her with courage. Instead of running away she straightened herself up, folded her hands neatly in front of her, and took a long breath. When Mr Martin looked round at her she was able to begin, and though her voice trembled a little it was sweet and clear, and could be heard quite to the end of the room. Very soon she forgot her rears altogether, and felt as much at her ease as though she were singing in Uncle Joshua's cottage as she had done so often. The audience kept the most perfect silence, and gazed at her attentively throughout. It was a very simple little figure in its straight black frock, its red and white nosegay, and thick, laced boots, and it looked all the more so after the ribbons and finery of those which had come before it; yet there was a certain dignity about its very simplicity, and the earnest expression in the small face showed that Lilac was not thinking of herself, but was only anxious to sing her song as well as she could. She finished it, and dropped the straight little curtsy she had been taught at school. "After all it had not been so bad," she thought with relief, as she turned to go away in the midst of an outburst of claps and stamps from the audience. But she was not allowed to go far, for it soon became evident that they wanted her to sing again; nothing in the whole programme had created so much excitement as this one little simple song. They applauded not only in the usual manner but even by shouts and whistling, and through it all was to be heard the steady thump, thump, thump of a stick on the floor from the middle of the room where Peter sat. Lilac looked round half-frightened at Mr Martin as the noise rose higher and higher, and made her way quickly to the steps which led from the platform. "They won't leave off till you sing again," he said, following her, "though we settled not to have any encores. You'd better sing the last verse." So it turned out that Lilac's song was the most successful performance of the evening; it was impossible to conceal the fact that it had won more applause than anything, not even excepting the "Edinburgh Quadrilles." This was felt to be most unjust, for she had taken no trouble in preparing it, and was not even properly dressed to receive such an honour. "I must own," said Mrs Greenways in a mortified tone, "that I did feel disgraced to see Lilac standing up there in that old black frock. I can't think what took hold of the folks to make so much fuss with her. But there! 'Tain't the best as gets the most praise." "I declare," added Bella bitterly, "it's a thankless task to get up anything for the people here. They're so ignorant they don't know what's what. To think of passing over Charley's recitation and encoring a silly old song like Lilac's. It's a good thing Mr Busby _didn't_ come, I think--he wouldn't 'a been appreciated." "'Twasn't only the poor people though," said Agnetta. "I saw those friends of Mrs Leigh's clapping like anything." "Ah, well," said Mrs Greenways, "Lilac's parents were greatly respected in the parish, and that's the reason of it. She hasn't got no cause to be set up as if it was her singing that pleased 'em." Lilac had indeed very little opportunity of being "set up." After the first glow of pleasure in her success had faded, she began to find more reason to be cast down. Her aunt and cousins were so jealous of the applause she had gained that they lost no occasion of putting her in what they called her proper place, of showing her that she was insignificant, a mere nobody; useless they could not now consider her, but she had to pay dearly for her short triumph at the concert. The air just now seemed full of sharp speeches and bitterness, and very often after a day of unkind buffets she cried herself to sleep, longing for someone to take her part, and sore at the injustice of it all. "'Tain't as if I'd wanted to sing," she said to herself. "They made me, and now they flout me for it." But her unexpected appearance in public had another and most surprising result. About a week after the concert, when the excitement was lessening and the preparations for Bella's wedding were beginning to take its place, Mrs Greenways was sent for to the Rectory--Mrs Leigh wished to speak to her. "I shouldn't wonder," she said to her husband before she started, "if it was to ask what Bella'd like for a present. What'd you say?" "I shouldn't wonder if it was nothing of the kind," replied Mr Greenways. "More likely about the rent." But Mrs Greenways held to her first opinion. It would not be about the rent, for Mrs Leigh never mentioned it to her. No. It was about the present; and very fitting too, when she called to mind how long her husband had been Mr Leigh's tenant. To be sure he had generally owed some rent, but the Greenways had always held their heads high and been respected in spite of their debts. On her way to the Rectory, therefore, she carefully considered what would be best to choose for Bella and Charlie. Should it be something ornamental--a gilt clock, or a mirror with a plush frame for the drawing-room? They would both like that, but she knew Mrs Leigh would prefer their asking for something useful; perhaps a set of tea-things would be as good as anything. These reflections made the distance short, yet an hour later, when, her interview over, Mrs Greenways reappeared at the farm, her face was lengthened and her footstep heavy with fatigue. What could have happened? Something decidedly annoying, for she snapped even at her darling Agnetta when she asked questions. "Don't bother," she said, "let's have tea. I'm tired out." During the meal her daughters cast curious glances at her and at each other, for it was a most unusual thing for their mother to bear her troubles quietly. As a rule the more vexed she was the more talkative she became. It must therefore be something out of the common, they concluded; and before long it appeared that it was the presence of Lilac that kept Mrs Greenways silent. She threw angry looks at her, full of discontent, and presently, unable to control herself longer, said sharply: "When you've finished, Lilac, I want you to run to Dimbleby's for me. I forgot the starch. If you hurry you'll be there and back afore dusk." CHAPTER TWELVE. LILAC'S CHOICE. "A stone that is fit for the wall will not be left in the way."--_Old Proverb_. As the door closed on Lilac, the news burst forth from Mrs Greenways in such a torrent that it was difficult at first to follow, but at length she managed to make clear to her astonished hearers all that had passed between herself and Mrs Leigh. It was this: A lady staying at the Rectory had seen Lilac at the concert, and asked whom she was. Whereupon, hearing her history and her present occupation at Orchards Farm, she made the following suggestion. She wanted a second dairymaid, and was greatly pleased with Lilac's appearance and neat dress. Would Mrs Leigh find out whether her friends would like her to take such a situation? She would give her good wages, and raise them if she found her satisfactory. "It's a great opportunity for a child like Lilac," Mrs Leigh had said to Mrs Greenways; "but I really think from what I hear of her that she is quite fit to take such a place." "Well, as to that," said Mr Greenways slowly when his wife paused for breath, "I suppose she is. If she can manage the dairy alone here, she can do it with someone over her there." "Now I wonder who _could_ 'a told Mrs Leigh that Lilac made our butter," said Mrs Greenways; "somehow or other that child gets round everyone with her quiet ways." "Most likely that interfering old Joshua Snell," said Bella, "or Peter maybe, or Ben. They all think no end of Lilac." "Well, I don't see myself what they find in her," said Mrs Greenways; "though she's a good child enough and useful in her way. I should miss her now I expect; though, of course," with a glance at her husband, "she wouldn't leave us, not so long as we wanted her." "That's for _her_ to say," said the farmer. "I'm not going to take a chance like that out of her mouth. She's a good little gal and a credit to her mother, and it's only fair and right she should choose for herself. Go or stay, I won't have a word said to her. 'Tain't every child of her age as has an offer like that, and she's deserved it." "And who taught her all she knows?" said Mrs Greenways wrathfully. "Who gave her a home when she wanted one, and fed and kep' her? And now as she's just beginning to be a bit of use, she's to take herself off at the first chance! I haven't common patience with you, Greenways, when you talk like that. It's all very well for you; and I s'pose you're ready to pay for a dairymaid in her place. But I know this: If Lilac's got a drop of gratitude in her, and a bit of proper feeling, she'll think first of what she owes to her only relations living." "Well, you ought to 'a told her how useful she was if you wanted her to know it," said Mr Greenways. "You've always gone on the other tack and told her she was no good at all. I shouldn't blame her if she wanted to try if she could please other folks better." There was so much truth in this, that in spite of Mrs Greenways' anger it sank deeply into her mind. Why had she not made more of Lilac? What should she do, if the child, with the consent of her uncle and encouraged by Mrs Leigh, were to choose to leave the farm? It was not unlikely, for although she had not been actively unkind to Lilac she had never tried to make her happy at the farm; her jealousy had prevented that. And then, the money--that would be a great temptation; and the offer of it seemed to raise Lilac's value enormously. In short, now that someone else wanted her, and was willing to pay for her services, she became twice as important in Mrs Greenways' eyes. One by one the various duties rose before her which Lilac fulfilled, and which would be left undone if she went away. She sat silent for a few minutes in moody thought. "I didn't say nothing certain to Mrs Leigh," she remarked at length, "but I did mention as how we'd never had any thought of Lilac taking service, no more nor Agnetta or Bella." "Lor', Ma!" said Bella, "the ideer!" "All the same," said the farmer, "when we first took Lilac we said we'd keep her till she was old enough for a place. The child's made herself of use, and you don't want to part with her. That's the long and the short of it. But I stand by what I say. She shall settle it as she likes. She shall go to Mrs Leigh and hear about it, and then no one shan't say a word to her, for or against. When's she got to decide?" "In a week," answered his wife. "But you're doing wrong, Greenways, you hadn't ought to put it on the child's shoulders; it's us as ought to decide for her, us as are in the place of her father and mother. She's too young to know what's for her good." "I stand by what I say," repeated the farmer, and he slapped the table with his hand. Mrs Greenways knew then that it was useless to oppose him further, and the conversation came to an end. Now, when the matter was made known to Lilac, it seemed more like a dream than anything real. She had become so used to remain in the background, and go quietly on at her business without notice, that she could not at first believe in the great position offered to her. She was considered worth so much money a year! It was wonderful. After she had seen Mrs Leigh, and heard that it really was true and no dream, another feeling began to take the place of wonder, and that was perplexity. The choice, they told her, was to remain in her own hands, and no one would interfere with it. What would be best? To go or stay? It was very difficult, almost impossible, to decide. Never in her short life had she yet been obliged to choose in any matter; there had always been a necessity which she had obeyed: "Do this," "Go there." The habit of obedience was strong within her, but it was very hard to be suddenly called to act for herself. And the worst of it was that no one would help her; even Mrs Leigh only said: "I shan't persuade you one way or the other, Lilac, I shall leave it to you and your relations to consider." Uncle Joshua had no counsel either. "You must put one against the other and decide for yourself, my maid," he said; "there'll be ups and downs wherever you go." She studied her aunt's face wistfully, and found no help there. Mrs Greenways kept complete and gloomy silence on the question. Thrown back upon herself, Lilac's perplexity grew with each day. If she went to sleep with her mind a little settled to one side of the matter, she woke up next morning to see many more advantages on the other. To leave Orchards Farm, and the village, and all the faces she had known since she could remember anything, and go to strangers! That would be dreadful. But then, there was the money to be thought of, and perhaps she might find the strangers kinder than her own relations. "It's like weighing out the butter," she said to herself; "first one side up and then t'other." If only someone would say you _must_ go, or you _must_ stay. During this week of uncertainty many things at the farm looked pleasanter than they had ever done before, and she was surprised at the interest everyone in the village took in her new prospects. They all had something to say about them, and though this did not help her decision but rather hindered it, she was pleased to find that they cared so much for her. "And so you're goin' away," said poor Mrs Wishing, fluttering into the farm one day and finding Lilac alone. "Seems as if I was to lose the on'y friend I've got. But I dunno. There was your poor mother, she was took, and now I shan't see you no more. 'Tain't as I see you often, but I know you might drop in anywhen and there's comfort in that. Lor'! I shouldn't be standing here now if you hadn't come in that night--I was pretty nigh gone home that time. Might a been better p'r'aps for me and Dan'l too if I had. But you meant it kind." "Maybe I shan't go away after all," said Lilac soothingly. "You're one of the lucky ones," continued Mrs Wishing. "I allers said that. Fust you get taken into a beautiful home like this, and then you get a place as a gal twice your age would jump at. Some gets all the ups and some gets all the downs. But _I_ dunno!" She went on her way with a weary hitch of the basket on her arm, and a pull at her thin shawl. Then Bella's voice sounded beseechingly on the stairs: "Oh, _do_ come here a minute, Lilac." Bella was generally to be found in her bedroom just now, stitching away at various elegancies of costume. She turned to her cousin as she entered, and said with a puzzled frown: "I'm in ever such a fix with this skirt. I can't drape it like the picture do what I will, it hangs anyhow. And Agnetta can't manage it either." Agnetta stood by, her face heated with fruitless labour, and her mouth full of pins. Lilac examined the skirt gravely. "You haven't got enough stuff in it," she said. "You'll have to do it up some other way." "Pin it up somehow, then, and see what you can do," said Bella. "I'm sick and tired of it." Lilac was not quite without experience in such things, for she had often helped her cousins with their dressmaking, and she now succeeded after a few trials in looping up the skirt to Bella's satisfaction. "_That's_ off my mind, thank goodness!" she exclaimed. "You're a neat-fingered little thing; I don't know what we shall do without you." It was a small piece of praise, but coming from Bella it sounded great. Lilac's affairs, her probable departure from the farm and how she would be much missed there, were much talked of in the village just now. The news even reached Lenham, carried by the active legs and eager tongue of Mrs Pinhorn, who, with many significant nods, as of one who could tell more if she chose, gave Mr Benson to understand that he might shortly find a difference in the butter. It was not for _her_ to speak, with Ben working at the farm since a boy, but--So even the great and important Mr Benson was prepared to be interested in Lilac's choice. She often wondered, as day after day went by so quickly and left her still undecided, what her mother would have advised her to do. But then, if her mother had been alive, all this would not have happened. She tried nevertheless to imagine what she would have said about it, and to remember past words which might be of help to her now. "Stand on your own feet and don't be beholden to anyone." Certainly by taking this situation she would follow that advice, and child though she was, she knew it might be the beginning of greater things. If she filled this place well she might in time get another, and be worth even more money. But then, could she leave the farm? the home which had sheltered her when she had been left alone in the world. Who would take her place? No one could deny now that she would leave a blank which must be filled up. She could hardly bear to think of a stranger standing in her accustomed spot in the dairy, handling the butter, looking out of the little ivy-grown window, taking charge of the poultry. "They'll feed 'em different, maybe," she thought; "and they won't get half the eggs, I know they won't." How hard it would be, too, to leave the faces she had known from childhood, all so familiar, and some of them so dear: not human faces alone, but all sorts of kind and friendly ones, belonging to the dumb animals, as she called them. She would miss the beasts sorely, and they would miss her: the cows she was learning to milk, the great horses who jingled their medals and bowed their heads so gently as she stood on tiptoe to feed them, the clever old donkey who could unfasten any gate and let all the animals out of a field: the pigs, even the sheep, who were silliest of all, knew her well and showed pleasure at her coming. She looked with affection, too, at the bare little attic, out of whose window she had gazed so often with eyes full of tears at the white walls of her old home on the hillside. How hard it had been to leave it, and now it made her almost as sad to think of going away from the farm. But then--there was the money, and although Mrs Leigh said nothing in favour of her going to this new place, Lilac had a feeling that she really wished it, and would be disappointed if she gave it up. Everyone said it was such a chance! It was not altogether a fancy on Lilac's part that everyone at the farm looked at her kindly just now, for the idea of losing her made them suddenly conscious that she would be very much missed. Mrs Greenways watched her with anxiety, and there was a new softness in her way of speaking; her old friends, Molly and Ben, were eager in showing their goodwill, and Agnetta, in spite of the approaching excitement of Bella's wedding, found time to enquire many times during the day if Lilac "had made up her mind." "Of course you meant to go from the first," she said at length. "Well, I don't blame you, but you might 'a said so to an old friend like me." The only person at the farm who was sincerely indifferent to Lilac's choice was Bella. "It won't make any matter to me whether you're here or there," she said candidly; "but there's no doubt it'll make a difference to Ma. There's some as would call it demeaning to go out to service, but I don't look at it like that. Of course if it was me or Agnetta it wouldn't be thought of; but I agree with Pa that it's right you should choose for yourself." So no one helped Lilac, and the days passed and the last one came, while she was still as far as ever from deciding. Escaping from the chatter and noises inside the house she went out towards evening into the garden for a little peace and quietness. She wanted to be alone and think it over for the last time; after that she would go to Mrs Leigh and tell her what she meant to do, and then all the worry would be over. She strolled absently along, with the same tiresome question in her mind, through the untidy bushy garden, past Peter's flower bed, gay with chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daisies, until she came to the row of beehives, silent, deserted-looking dwellings now with only one or two languid inhabitants to be seen crawling torpidly about the entrances. Lilac sat down on the cherry-tree stump opposite them, and, for a moment leaving the old subject, her mind went back to the spring evening when Peter had cut the bunch of flowers for her, and let the bees crawl over his fingers. She smiled to herself as she remembered how suddenly he had gone away without giving her the nosegay at all. Poor Peter! she understood him better now. As she thought this there was a click of the gate leading into the field, she turned her head, and there was Peter himself coming towards her with his dog Sober at his heels. During this past week Peter as well as Lilac had been turning things over a great deal in his mind. Not that he was troubled by uncertainty, for he felt sure from the first that she would go away from the farm. And it was best she should. From outward ill-treatment he could have defended her: he was strong in the arm, but with his tongue he was weaker than a child. Many a time he had sat in silence when hard or unkind speeches had been cast at her, but none the less he had felt it sorely. After the concert, when she had sung as pretty as a bird, how they had flouted her. It was a hard thing surely, and it was best she should go away to folks as would value her better. But he felt also that he must tell her he was sorry. That was a trial and a difficulty. How should he frame it? Though he could talk more easily to Lilac than anyone else in the world, speech was still terribly hard, and when he suddenly came upon her this evening his first instinct was to turn and go back. Sober, however, pricked his ears and ran forward when he saw a friend, and this example encouraged Peter. "As like as not," he said to himself, "I shall say summat quite different the minute I begin, but I'll have a try at it;" so he went on. There was a touch of frost in the air, and the few remaining leaves, so few that you could count them, were falling every minute or so gently from the trees. A scarlet one from the cherry tree overhead had dropped into Lilac's lap, and lay there, a bright red spot on her white pinafore. As Peter's eye fell on it it occurred to him to say gruffly: "The leaves is nearly all gone." "Pretty nigh," said Lilac, looking up into the bare branches of the cherry tree. "We'll soon have winter now." There was silence. Peter took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with his coat sleeve. "There's lots will be sorry when you go," he burst out suddenly. "The beasts'll miss you above a bit." Lilac did not answer. She saw that he wanted to say something more, and knew that it was best not to confuse his mind by remarks. "Not but what," he went on, "you're in the right. Why should you work for nothing here and get no thanks? You're worth your wages, and there you'll get 'em. There's justice in that. Only--the farm'll be different." "There's only the dairy," said Lilac. "Someone else'll have to do that if I go. And I should miss the beasts too." She put her hand on Sober's rough head as he sat by her. "It's a queer thing," said Peter after another pause, "what a lot I get in my head sometimes and yet I can't speak it out. You remember about the brownie, and me saying the farm was pleasanter and that? Well, what I want to say now is, that when you're gone all that'll be gone--mostly. It'll be like winter after summer. Anyone as could use language could say a deal about that, but I can't. I don't want you to stay, but I've had it in my mind to tell you that I shall miss you as well as the beasts--above a bit. That's all." Sober now seemed to think he must add something to his master's speech, for he raised one paw, placed it on Lilac's knee, and gazed with a sort of solemn entreaty into her face. She knew at once what he wanted, for though he could not "use language" any more than Peter, he was quite able to make his meaning clear. In the course of many years' faithful attention to business he had become rheumatic, and this paw, in particular was swollen and stiff at the joint. Lilac had found that it gave him ease to rub it, and Sober had got into the habit of calling her attention to it in this way at all times and seasons. Now as she took it in her hand and looked into his wise affectionate eyes, it suddenly struck her that here were two people who would really miss her, and want her if she were far away. No one would rub Sober's paw, no one would take much notice of her other dumb friend, Peter. She could not leave them. She placed the dog's foot gently on the ground and stood up. "I'm not going away," she said, "I'm going to bide. And I shall go straight in and tell Aunt, and then it'll be settled." Indoors, meanwhile, the same subject had been discussed between different people. In the living room, where tea was ready on the table, Mrs Greenways and her two daughters waited the coming of the farmer, Agnetta eyeing a pot of her favourite strawberry jam rather impatiently, and Bella, tired with her stitching, leaning languidly back in her chair with folded arms. "Lilac ain't said nothing to either of you, I s'pose?" began Mrs Greenways. "I know she means to go, though," said Agnetta. "Well, I must look about for a girl for the dairy, I s'pose," said Mrs Greenways sadly. "I won't give it to Molly again. And a nice set they are, giggling flighty things with nothing but their ribbons and their sweethearts in their heads." "Lor'! Ma, don't fret," said Bella consolingly; "you got along without Lilac before, and you'll get along without her again." "I shan't ever replace her," continued her mother in the same dejected voice; "she doesn't care for ribbons, and she's not old enough for sweethearts. I do think it's not acting right of Mrs Leigh to go and entice her away." "If here isn't Mr Snell coming in alonger Pa," said Agnetta, craning her neck to see out of the window. "He's sure to stay to tea." She immediately drew her chair up to the table and helped herself largely to jam. "And of all evenings in the week I wish he hadn't chosen this," said Mrs Greenways. "Poking and meddling in other folks' concerns. Now mind this, girls,--don't you let on as if I wanted to keep Lilac, or was sorry she's going. Do you hear?" It did not at first appear, however, that this warning was necessary, for Joshua said no word of Lilac or her affairs; he seemed fully occupied in drinking a great deal of tea and discussing the events of the neighbourhood with the farmer, and it was not till the end of his meal that he looked round the table enquiringly, and asked the dreaded question. "And what's Lilac settled to do about going?" "You know as much about that as we do, Mr Snell," replied Mrs Greenways loftily. "There's no doubt," continued the cobbler, fixing his eye upon her, "as how Mrs Leigh's friend is going to get a prize in Lilac White. She's only a child, as you once said, ma'am, but I know what her upbringing was: `As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined'. There's the making of a thorough good servant in her. Well worth her wages she'll be." "She's been worth more to us already than ever I knew of, or counted on, till lately," put in the farmer. "Just now, I met Benson, and says he: `You're losing your dairymaid by what I hear, and I can but wish you as good a one.'" "That's not so easy," said Joshua, shaking his head. "Good workers don't grow on every bush. It's a pity, too, just when your butter was getting back its name." "I'd half a mind," said the farmer, "to offer the child wages to stop, but then I thought it wouldn't be acting fair. She ought to have the chance of bettering herself in a place like that. If she goes she's bound to rise, and if she stays she won't, for I can't afford to give her much." "And what's your opinion, ma'am?" asked Joshua politely of Mrs Greenways. "Oh, it isn't worth hearing, Mr Snell," she replied with a bitter laugh; "its too old-fashioned for these days. I should 'a thought Lilac owed summat to us, but my husband don't seem to take no count of that at all. Not that it matters to me." As she spoke, with the colour rising in her face and a voice very near tears, the door opened and Lilac came quickly in. The conversation stopped suddenly, all eyes were fixed on her; perhaps never since she had been Queen had her presence caused so much attention: even Agnetta paused in her repast, and looked curiously round to see what she would do or say. Without giving a glance at anyone else in the room, Lilac walked straight up to where Mrs Greenways sat at the head of the table: "Aunt," she said rather breathlessly, "I've come to say as I've made up my mind." Mrs Greenways straightened herself to receive the blow. She knew what was coming, and it was hard to be humiliated in the presence of the cobbler, yet she would put a brave face upon it. With a great effort she managed to say carelessly: "It don't matter just now, Lilac. Sit down and get your tea." But Mr Greenways quite spoilt the effect of this speech. "No, no," he called out. "Let her speak. Let's hear what she's got to say. Here's Mr Snell'd like to hear it too. Speak out, Lilac." Thus encouraged, Lilac turned a little towards her uncle and Joshua. "I've made up my mind as I'd rather bide here, please," she said. The teapot fell from Mrs Greenways' hands with such a crash on the tray that all the cups rattled, the air of indifference which she had struggled to keep up vanished, her whole face softened, and as she looked at the modest little figure standing at her side tears of relief came into her eyes. Uncle Joshua and her old feelings of jealousy and pride were forgotten for the moment as she laid her broad hand kindly on the child's shoulder: "You're a good gal, Lilac, and you shan't repent your choice," she said; "take my word, you shan't." "And that's your own will, is it, Lilac?" said her uncle. "And you've thought it well over, and you won't want to be altering it again?" "No, Uncle," said Lilac. "I'm quite sure now." Her aunt's kind manner made her feel more firmly settled than before. "It's a harassing thing is a choice," said Mr Greenways. "I know what it is myself with the roots and seeds. Well, I won't deny that I'm glad you're going to stop, but I hope you've done the best for yourself, my maid." "Lor', Greenways, don't worry the child," interrupted his wife, who had recovered her usual manner. "She knows her own mind, and I'm glad she's shown so much sense. You sit down and get your tea, Lilac, and let's be comfortable and no more about it." Lilac slipped into the empty place between the cobbler and Agnetta, rather abashed at so much notice. Agnetta pushed the pot of jam towards her. "I'm glad you're going to stop," she said. "Have some jam." Joshua had not spoken since Lilac's entrance, but Mrs Greenways, eyeing him nervously, felt sure he was preparing to "preachify." She went on talking very fast and loud in the hope of checking this eloquence, but in vain; Joshua, after a few short coughs, stood upright and looked round the table. "Friends," he said, "I knew Lilac's mother well, and I call to mind this evening what she often said to me: `I want my child to grow up self-respecting and independent. I want to teach her to stand alone and not to be a burden on anyone.' And then, poor soul, she died sudden, and the child was left on your hands. And she couldn't but be a burden at first, seeing how young she was and how little she knew. And now look at it! How it's all changed. 'Tain't long ago, and she isn't much bigger to speak of, and yet she's got to be something as you value and don't want to part with. She's made her own place, and she stands firm in it on her own feet, and no one would fill it as well. It's wonderful that is, how small things may help big ones. Look at it!" said Joshua, spreading out the palms of his hands. "You take a little weak child into your house and think she's of no count at all, either to help or to hinder; she's so small and the place is so big you hardly know she's there. And then one day you wake up to find that she's gone quietly on doing her best, and learning to do better, until she's come to be one of the most useful people on the farm. Because for why? It's her mother's toil and trouble finding their fruit; we oughtn't to forget that. When folks are dead and gone it's hard on 'em not to call to mind what we owe 'em. They sowed and we reap. Lilac's come to be what she is because her mother was what she was, and I expect Mary White's proud and pleased enough to see how her child's valued this day. And so I wish the farm luck, and all of you luck, and we'll all be glad to think as we're not going to lose our little bit of White Lilac as is growing up amongst us." Lilac's eyes had been fixed shyly on her plate. It was like being Queen a second time to have everyone looking at her and talking of her. As Joshua finished there was a sound at the door of gruff assent, and she looked round. It came from Peter, who stood there with all his features stretched into a wide smile of pleasure. "They're all glad I'm going to bide," she said to herself, "and so am I." 
45755	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) THE BURNING SECRET BY STEFAN ZWEIG LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C.1 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE PARTNER 9 II QUICK FRIENDSHIP 21 III THE TRIO 34 IV THE ATTACK 44 V THE ELEPHANTS 55 VI SKIRMISHING 64 VII THE BURNING SECRET 75 VIII SILENT HOSTILITY 86 IX THE LIARS 99 X ON THE TRAIL 114 XI THE SURPRISE ATTACK 127 XII THE TEMPEST 134 XIII DAWNING PERCEPTION 147 XIV DARKNESS AND CONFUSION 156 XV THE LAST DREAM 164 THE BURNING SECRET CHAPTER I THE PARTNER The train, with a shrill whistle, pulled into Summering. For a moment the black coaches stood still in the silvery light of the uplands to eject a few vivid human figures and to swallow up others. Exacerbated voices called back and forth; then, with a puffing and a chugging and another shrill shriek, the dark train clattered into the opening of the tunnel, and once more the landscape stretched before the view unbroken in all its wide expanse, the background swept clean by the moist wind. One of the arrivals, a young man pleasantly distinguished by his good dress and elastic walk, hurried ahead of the others and entered one of the hotel 'buses. The horses took the steep road leisurely. Spring was in the air. Up in the sky floated the white shifting clouds of May and June, light, sportive young creatures, playfully coursing the blue path of heaven, suddenly dipping and hiding behind the mountains, embracing and running away, crumpling up like handkerchiefs, elongating into gauzy scarfs, and ending their play by roguishly perching white caps on the mountain tops. There was unrest below, too, in the wind, which shook the lean trees, still wet from the rain, and set their limbs a-groaning softly and brought down a thousand shining drops. Sometimes a cool breath of snow descended from the mountains, and then there was a feel in the air both balmy and cutting. All things in the atmosphere and on the earth were in motion and astir with the ferment of impatience. The horses tossed their heads and snorted as they now trotted down a descent, the sound of their bells jingling far ahead of them. On arriving at the hotel, the young man made straight for the registry and looked over the list of guests. He was disappointed. "What the deuce have I come here for?" he thought in vexation. "Stuck 'way up here on top of the mountain all alone, no company; why it's worse than the office. I must have come either too early or too late. I never do have luck with my holidays. Not a single name do I know. If only there was a woman or two here to pick up a flirtation with, even a perfectly innocent one, if it must be, just to keep the week from being too utterly dismal." The young man, a baron not very high up in the country's nobility, held a government position, and had secured this short vacation not because he required it particularly, but because his colleagues had all got a week off in spring and he saw no reason for making a present of his "week off" to the government. Although not without inner resources, he was a thoroughly social being, his sociability being the very quality for which his friends liked him and for which he was welcomed in all circles. He was quite conscious of his inability to stay by himself and had no inclination to meet himself, as it were, but rather avoided his own company, feeling not the least urge to become intimately acquainted with his own soul. He knew he required contact with other human beings to kindle his talents and stir up the warmth and exuberance of his spirits. Alone he was like a match in a box, frosty and useless. He paced up and down the hall, completely out of sorts, stopping now and then irresolutely to turn the leaves of the magazines, or to glance at the newspapers, or to strike up a waltz on the piano in the music-room. Finally he sat down in a sulk and watched the growing dusk and the gray mist steal in patches between the fir-trees. After a long, vain, fretful hour he took refuge in the dining-room. As yet only a few of the tables were occupied. He took them in at a swift glance. No use. No one he knew, except--he responded to the greeting listlessly--a gentleman to whom he had spoken on the train, and farther off a familiar face from the metropolis. No one else. Not a single woman to promise even a momentary adventure. He became more and more impatient and out of sorts. Being a young man favored with a handsome face, he was always prepared for a new experience. He was of the sort of men who are constantly on the lookout for an opportunity to plunge into an adventure for the sake of its novelty, yet whom nothing surprises because, forever lying in wait, they have calculated every possibility in advance. Such men never overlook any element of the erotic. The very first glance they cast at a woman is a probe into the sensual, a searching, impartial probe that knows no distinction between the wife of a friend or the maid who opens the door to her house. One rarely realizes, in using the ready-made word "woman-hunter," which we toss in contempt at such men, how true the expression is and how much of faithful observation it implies. In their watchful alertness all the passionate instincts of the chase are afire, the stalking, the excitement, the cruel cunning. They are always at their post, always ready and determined to follow the tracks of an adventure up to the very brink of the precipice, always loaded with passion, not with the passion of a lover, but with the cold, calculating, dangerous passion of a gambler. Some of them are doggedly persevering, their whole life shaping itself, from this expectancy, into one perpetual adventure. Each day is divided for them into a hundred little sensual experiences--a passing look, a flitting smile, an accidental contact of the knees--and each year into a hundred such days, in which the sensual experience constitutes the ever-flowing, life-giving and quickening source of their existence. There was no partner for a game here--that the baron's experienced eye instantly detected. And there is nothing more exasperating than for a player with cards in his hands, conscious of his ability, to be sitting at the green table vainly awaiting a partner. The baron called for a newspaper, but merely ran his eyes down the columns fretfully. His thoughts were crippled and he stumbled over the words. Suddenly he heard the rustling of a dress and a woman's voice saying in a slightly vexed tone: "_Mais tais toi donc, Edgar._" Her accent was affected. A tall voluptuous figure in silk crackled by his table, followed by a small, pale boy in a black velvet suit. The boy eyed the baron curiously, as the two seated themselves at a table reserved for them opposite to him. The child was making evident efforts to be correct in his behavior, but propriety seemed to be out of keeping with the dark, restless expression of his eyes. The lady--the young man's attention was fixed upon her only--was very much betoiletted and dressed with conspicuous elegance. She was a type that particularly appealed to the baron, a Jewess with a somewhat opulent figure, close to, though not yet arrived at, the borderline of overmaturity, and evidently of a passionate nature like his, yet sufficiently experienced to hide her temperament behind a veil of dignified melancholy. He could not see her eyes, but was able to admire the lovely curve of her eyebrows arching clean and well-defined above a nose delicate yet nobly curved and giving her face distinction. It was her nose that betrayed her race. Her hair, in keeping with everything else about her, was remarkably luxuriant. Her beauty seemed to have grown sated and boastful with the sure sense of the wealth of admiration it had evoked. She gave her order in a very low voice and told the boy to stop making a noise with his fork, this with apparent indifference to the baron's cautious, stealthy gaze. She seemed not to observe his look, though, as a matter of fact, it was his keen, alert vigilance that had made her constrained. A flash lit up the gloom of the baron's face. His nerves responded as to an underground current, his muscles tautened, his figure straightened up, fire came to his eyes. He was not unlike the women who require a masculine presence to bring out their full powers. He needed the stimulation of sex completely to energize his faculties. The hunter in him scented the prey. His eyes tried to challenge hers, and her glance crossed his, but waveringly without ever giving an occasional relaxation of the muscles round her mouth, as if in an incipient smile, but he was not sure, and the very uncertainty of it aroused him. The one thing that held out promise was her constant looking away from him, which argued both resistance and embarrassment. Then, too, the conversation that she kept up with her child encouraged him, being obviously designed for show, while her outward calm, he felt, was forced and quite superficial, actually indicating the commencement of inner agitation. He was a-quiver. The play had begun. He made his dinner last a long while, and for a full half-hour, almost steadily, he kept the woman fixed with his gaze, until it had travelled over every line of her face and touched, unseen, every spot of her body. Outside the darkness fell heavily, the woods groaned as if in childish fear of the large, rain-laden clouds stretching out gray hands after them. The shadows deepened in the room, and the silence seemed to press the people closer together. Under the dead weight of the stillness, the baron clearly noted that the mother's conversation with her son became still more constrained and artificial and would soon, he was sure, cease altogether. He resolved upon an experiment. He rose and went to the door slowly, looking past the woman at the prospect outside. At the door he gave a quick turn, as if he had forgotten something, and caught her looking at him with keen interest. That titillated him. He waited in the hall. Presently she appeared, holding the boy's hand and paused for a while to look through some magazines and show the child a few pictures. The baron walked up to the table with a casual air, pretending to hunt for a periodical. His real intention was to probe deeper below the moist sheen of her eyes and perhaps even begin a conversation. The woman instantly turned away and tapped the boy's shoulder. "_Viens, Edgar. Au lit._" She rustled past the baron. He followed her with his eyes, somewhat disappointed. He had counted upon making the acquaintance that very evening. Her brusque manner was disconcerting. However, there was a fascination in her resistance, and the very uncertainty added zest to the chase. At all events he had found a partner, and the play could begin. CHAPTER II QUICK FRIENDSHIP The next morning, on entering the hall, the baron saw the son of the beautiful Unknown engaged in an eager conversation with the two elevator boys, to whom he was showing pictures in a book by Du Chaillu. His mother was not with him, probably not having come down from her room yet. The baron took his first good look at the boy. He seemed to be a shy, undeveloped, nervous little fellow, about twelve years old. His movements were jerky, his eyes dark and restless, and he made the impression, so often produced by children of his age, of being scared, as if he had just been roused out of sleep and placed in strange surroundings. His face was not unbeautiful, but still quite undecided. The struggle between childhood and young manhood seemed just about to be setting in. Everything in him so far was like dough that has been kneaded but not formed into a loaf. Nothing was expressed in clean lines, everything was blurred and unsettled. He was at that hobbledehoy age when clothes do not fit, and sleeves and trousers hang slouchily, and there is no vanity to prompt care of one's appearance. The child made a rather pitiful impression as he wandered about the hotel aimlessly. He got in everybody's way. He would plague the porter with questions and then be shoved aside, for he would stand in the doorway and obstruct the passage. Apparently there were no other children for him to play with, and in his child's need for prattle he would try to attach himself to one or other of the hotel attendants. When they had time they would answer him, but the instant an adult came along they would stop talking and refuse to pay any more attention to him. It interested the baron to watch the child, and he looked on smiling as the unhappy little creature inspected everything and everybody curiously, while he himself was universally avoided as a nuisance. Once the baron intercepted one of his curious looks. His black eyes instantly fell, when he saw himself observed, and hid behind lowered lids. The baron was amused. The boy actually began to interest him, and it flashed into his mind that he might be made to serve as the speediest means for bringing him and his mother together. He could overcome his shyness, since it proceeded from nothing but fear. At any rate, it was worth the trial. So when Edgar strolled out of the door to pet, in his child's need of tenderness, the pinkish nostrils of one of the 'bus horses, the baron followed him. Edgar was certainly unlucky. The driver chased him away rather roughly. Insulted and bored, he stood about aimlessly again, with a vacant, rather melancholy expression in his eyes. The baron now addressed him. "Well, young man, how do you like it here?" He attempted a tone of jovial ease. The child turned fairly purple and looked up in actual alarm, drawing his arms close to his body and twisting and turning in embarrassment. For the first time in his life a stranger was the one to address him and not he the stranger. "Oh," he managed to stammer out, choking over the last words, "thank you. I--I like it." "You do? I'm surprised," the baron laughed. "It's a dull place, especially for a young man like you. What do you do with yourself all day long?" Edgar was still too confused to give a ready answer. Could it be true that this stranger, this elegant gentleman, was trying to pick up a conversation with him--with him, whom nobody had ever before cared a rap about? It made him both shy and proud. He pulled himself together with difficulty. "I read, and we do a lot of walking. Sometimes we go out driving, mother and I. I am here to get well. I was sick. I must be out in the sunshine a lot, the doctor said." Edgar spoke the last with greater assurance. Children are always proud of their ailments. The danger they are in makes them more important, they know, in the eyes of their elders. "Yes, the sun is good for you. It will tan your cheeks. But you oughtn't to be standing round the whole day long. A fellow like you ought to be on the go, running, jumping, playing, full of spirits, and up to mischief, too. It strikes me you are too good. With that big fat book under your arm you look as though you were always poking in the house. By jingo, when I think of the kind of fellow I was at your age, I used to raise the devil, and every evening I came home with torn knickerbockers. Don't be so good, whatever you are." Edgar could not help smiling, and the consciousness of his own smile removed his fear. Now he was anxious to say something in reply, but it seemed self-assertive and impudent to answer this affable stranger, who spoke to him in such a friendly way. He never had been forward and was easily abashed, so that now he was in the greatest embarrassment from sheer happiness and shame. He would have liked to continue the conversation, but nothing occurred to him. Luckily the great yellow St. Bernard belonging to the hotel came up and sniffed at both of them and allowed himself to be petted. "Do you like dogs?" asked the baron. "Oh, very much. Grandma has one in her villa at Bains. When we stop there he stays with me the whole time. But that's only in the summer when we go visiting." "We have a lot of dogs at home on our estate, a full two dozen, I believe. If you behave yourself here I'll make you a present of one, brown with white ears, a pup still. Would you like to have it?" The child turned scarlet with joy. "I should say so." The words fairly burst from his lips in an access of eagerness. Then he caught himself up and stammered in distress and as if frightened: "But mother won't allow me to have a dog. She says she won't keep a dog in the house. It's too much of a nuisance." The baron smiled. The conversation had at last come round to the mother. "Is your mother so strict?" The child pondered and looked up for an instant as if to find out whether the stranger was to be trusted on such slight acquaintance. "No," he finally answered cautiously, "she's not strict, and since I've been sick she lets me do anything I want. Maybe she'll even let me keep a dog." "Shall I ask her?" "Oh, yes, please do," Edgar cried delightedly. "If _you_ do I'm sure she'll give in. What does he look like? White ears, you said? Can he do any tricks yet?" "Yes, all sorts of tricks." The baron had to smile at the sparkle of Edgar's eyes. It had been so easy to kindle that light in them. All at once the child's constraint dropped away, and all his emotionalism, kept in check till then by fear, bubbled over. In a flash the shy, intimidated child of a minute before turned into a boisterous lad. "If only his mother is transformed so quickly," the baron thought. "If only she shows so much ardor behind her reserve." Edgar went at him with a thousand questions. "What's the dog's name?" "Caro." "Caro!" he cried happily, somehow having to answer every word with a laugh of delight, so intoxicated was he with the unexpectedness of having someone take him up as a friend. The baron, amazed at his own quick success, resolved to strike while the iron was hot, and invited the boy to take a walk with him. This put Edgar, who for weeks had been starving for company, into a fever of ecstasy. During the walk the baron questioned him, as if quite by the way, about a number of apparent trifles, and Edgar in response blurted out all the information he was seeking, telling him everything he wanted to know about the family. Edgar was the only son of a lawyer in the metropolis, who evidently came of a wealthy middle-class Jewish family. By clever, roundabout inquiries the baron promptly elicited that Edgar's mother had expressed herself as by no means delighted with her stay in Summering and had complained of the lack of congenial company. He even felt he might infer from the evasive way in which Edgar answered his question as to whether his mother wasn't very fond of his father that their marital relations were none of the happiest. He was almost ashamed at having been able to extract these family secrets from the unsuspecting child, for Edgar, very proud that anything he had to say could interest a grown-up person, fairly pressed confidences upon his new friend. His child's heart beat with pride--the baron had put his arm on his shoulder while they were walking--to be seen in such close intimacy with a "man," and gradually he forgot he was a child and talked quite unconstrainedly, as if to an equal. From his conversation it was quite clear that he was a bright boy, in fact, a bit too precocious, as are most sickly children who spend much time with their elders, and his likes and dislikes were too marked. He took nothing calmly or indifferently. Every person or thing was discussed with either passionate enthusiasm or a hatred so intense as to distort his face into a mean, ugly look. There was something wild and jerky about his manner, accentuated perhaps by the illness he was just recovering from, which gave his talk the fieriness of fanaticism. His awkwardness seemed to proceed from the painfully suppressed fear of his own passion. Before the end of half an hour the baron was already holding the boy's throbbing heart in his hands. It is so infinitely easy to deceive children, those unsuspecting creatures whose love is so rarely courted. All the baron needed to do was to transport himself back to his own childhood, and the talk flowed quite naturally. Edgar felt himself in the presence of an equal, and within a few minutes had lost all sense of distance between them, and was perfectly at ease, conscious of nothing but bliss at having so unexpectedly found a friend in this lonely place. And what a friend! Forgotten were all his mates in the city where he lived, those little boys with their thin voices and inexperienced chatter. This one hour had almost expunged their faces. All his enthusiasm and passion now belonged to this new, this big friend of his. On parting the baron invited him to take a walk with him again the next morning. Edgar's heart expanded with pride. And, when from a little distance away the baron waved back to him like a real playmate, it was probably the happiest moment in his life. It is so easy to deceive children. The baron smiled as he looked after the boy dashing away. The go-between had been won. Edgar, he knew, would bore his mother with stories of the wonderful baron and would repeat every word he had said. At this he recalled complacently how cleverly he had woven in some compliments for the mother's consumption. "Your beautiful mother," he had always said. There was not the faintest shadow of doubt in his mind that the communicative boy would never rest until he had brought him and his mother together. No need now to stir a finger in order to shorten the distance between himself and the lovely Unknown. He could dream away idly and feast his eyes on the landscape, for a child's eager hands, he knew, were building the bridge for him to her heart. CHAPTER III THE TRIO The plan, as appeared only an hour later, proved to be excellent. It worked without a hitch. The baron chose to be a little late in entering the dining-room, and when Edgar saw him, he jumped up from his seat and gave him an eager nod and a beatific smile, at the same time pulling his mother's sleeve, saying something to her hastily, and pointing conspicuously to the baron. His mother reproved him for his demonstrativeness. She blushed and showed genuine discomfort, but could not help yielding to the boy's insistence and gave a glance across at the baron. This the baron instantly seized upon as the pretext for a deferential bow. The acquaintance was made. The lady had to acknowledge his bow. Yet from now on she kept her head bent still lower over her plate and throughout the rest of the meal sedulously avoided looking over at the baron again. Not so Edgar. Every minute or two he turned his eyes on the baron, and once he even tried to speak to him across the two tables, an impropriety which his mother promptly checked with a severe rebuke. As soon as dinner was over, Edgar was told he must go straight to bed, and an eager whispering began between him and his mother, which resulted in a concession to the boy. He was allowed to go to the baron and say good-night to him. The baron said a few kind words and so set the child's eyes ablaze again. Here the baron rose and in his adroit way, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, stepped over to the other table and congratulated his neighbor upon her bright, intelligent son. He told her what a pleasant time he had spent with him that morning--Edgar beamed--and then inquired about the boy's health. On this point he asked so many detailed questions that the mother was compelled to reply, and so was drawn irresistibly into a conversation. Edgar listened to it all in a sort of rapturous awe. The baron gave his name to the lady. The high sound of it, it seemed to him, made an impression on her. At any rate she lost her extreme reserve, though retaining perfect dignity. In a few minutes she took leave, on account of Edgar's having to go to bed, as she said by way of a pretext. Edgar protested he was not sleepy and would be happy to stay up the whole night. But his mother remained obdurate and held out her hand by way of good-night to the baron, who shook hands with her most respectfully. Edgar did not sleep well that night. A chaos of happiness and childish despair filled his soul. Something new had come to him that day. For the first time he had played a part in the life of adults. In his half-awake state he forgot that he was a child and all at once felt himself a grown man. Brought up an only child and often ailing, he had never had many friends. His parents, who paid little attention to him, and the servants had been the only ones to meet his craving for tenderness. The power of love is not properly gauged if it is estimated only by the object that inspires it, if the tension preceding it is not taken into account--that gloomy space of disillusionment and loneliness which stretches in front of all the great events of the heart. In Edgar there had been a heavily fraught, unexpended emotion lying in wait, which now burst out and rushed to meet the first human being who seemed to deserve it. He lay in the dark, happy and dazed. He wanted to laugh, but had to cry. For he loved the baron as he had never loved friend, father, mother, or even God. All the immature passion of his ending boyhood wreathed itself about his mental vision of the man whose very name had been unknown to him a few hours before. He was wise enough not to be disturbed by the peculiar, unexpected way in which the new friendship had been formed. What troubled him was the sense of his own unworthiness and insignificance. "Am I fit company for him?" he plagued himself. "I, a little boy, twelve years old, who has to go to school still and am sent off to bed at night before anyone else? What can I mean to him, what have I to offer him?" The painful sense of his impotence to show his feelings in some way or other made him most unhappy. On other occasions, when he had taken a liking for a boy, the first thing he had done was to offer to share his stamps and marbles and jacks. Now such childish possessions, which only the day before had still had vast importance and charm in his eyes, had depreciated in value. They seemed silly. He disdained them. He couldn't offer such things to his new friend. What possible way was there for him to express his feelings? The sense that he was small, only half a being, a mere child of twelve, grew upon him and tortured him more and more. Never before had he so vehemently cursed his childhood, or longed so heartily to wake up in the morning the person he had always dreamed of being, a man, big and strong, grown up like the others. His restless thoughts were mixed with the first bright dreams of the new world of manhood. Finally he fell asleep with a smile on his lips, but his sleep was constantly broken by the anticipation of the next morning's appointment. At seven o'clock he awoke with a start, fearful that he was too late already. He dressed hastily and astonished his mother when he went in to say good-morning because she had always had difficulty getting him out of bed. Before she could question him he was out of her room again. With only the one thought in his mind, not to keep his friend waiting, he dawdled about downstairs in the hotel, even forgetting to eat breakfast. At half-past nine the baron came sauntering down the lobby with his easy air and no indication that anything had been troubling _him_. He, of course, had completely forgotten the appointment for a walk, but he acted as though he were quite ready to keep his promise when the boy came rushing at him so eagerly. He took Edgar's arm and paced up and down the lobby with him leisurely. Edgar was radiant, although the baron gently but firmly refused to start on the walk at once. He seemed to be waiting for something. Every once in a while he gave a nervous glance at one of the various doors. Suddenly he drew himself up. Edgar's mother had entered the hall. She responded to the baron's greeting and came up to him with a pleasant expression on her face. Edgar had not told her about the walk. It was too precious a thing to talk about. But now the baron mentioned it and she smiled in approval. Then he went on to invite her to come along, and she was not slow in accepting. That made Edgar sulky. He gnawed at his lips. How provoking of his mother to have come into the lobby just then! The walk belonged to him and him alone. To be sure, he had introduced his friend to his mother, but only out of courtesy. He had not meant to share him with anybody. Something like jealousy began to stir in him when he observed the baron's friendliness to his mother. On the walk the dangerous sense the child had of his importance and sudden rise to prominence was heightened by the interest the two adults showed in him. He was almost the exclusive subject of their conversation. His mother expressed rather hypocritical solicitude on account of his pallor and nervousness, while the baron kept saying it was nothing to worry about and extolled his young "friend's" good manners and pleasant ways. It was the happiest hour of Edgar's life. Rights were granted him that he had never before been allowed. He was permitted to take part in the conversation without a prompt "keep quiet, Edgar." He could even express bold desires for which he would have been rebuked before. No wonder the deceptive feeling that he was grown up began to flourish in his imagination. In his bright dreams childhood already lay behind him like a suit he had outgrown and cast off. At the mother's invitation, the baron took his mid day meal at their table. She was growing friendlier all the time. The vis-à-vis was now a companion, the acquaintanceship a friendship. The trio was in full swing, and the three voices, the woman's, the man's and the child's, mingled in harmony. CHAPTER IV THE ATTACK The impatient hunter felt the time had come to creep up on his game. The three-sidedness of the sport annoyed him, and so did the tone of it. To sit there and chat was rather pleasant, but he was after more than mere talk. Social intercourse, with the mask it puts over desire, always, he knew, retards the erotic between man and woman. Words lose their ardor, the attack its fire. Despite their conversation together on indifferent matters, Edgar's mother must never forget his real object, of which, he was quite convinced, she was already aware. That his efforts to catch this woman were not to prove in vain seemed very probable. She was at the critical age when a woman begins to regret having remained faithful to a husband she has never truly loved, and when the purple sunset of her beauty still affords her a final urgent choice between motherliness and womanliness. The life whose questions seem to have been answered long before becomes a problem again, and for the last time the magnetic needle of the will wavers between the hope for an intense love experience and ultimate resignation. The woman has a dangerous decision to confront, whether she will live her own life or that of her children, whether she will be a woman first, or a mother first. The baron, who was very perspicacious in these matters, thought that he discerned in Edgar's mother this very vacillation between passion to live her own life and readiness to sacrifice her desires. In conversation she always omitted to mention her husband. Evidently he satisfied nothing but her bare external needs and not the snobbishness that an aristocratic way of living had excited in her. And as for her son, she knew precious little of the child's soul. A shadow of boredom, wearing the veil of melancholy in her dark eyes, lay over her life and obscured her sensuousness. The baron resolved to act quickly, yet at the same time to avoid any appearance of haste. Like an angler, who tempts the fish by dangling and withdrawing the bait, he would affect a show of indifference and let himself be courted while he was the one that was actually doing the courting. He would put on an air of haughtiness and bring into sharp relief the difference in their social ranks. There was fascination in the idea of getting possession of that lovely, voluptuous creature simply by stressing his pride, by mere externals, by the use of a high-sounding aristocratic name and the adoption of a cold, proud manner. The chase was already growing hot. He had to be cautious and not show his excitement. So he remained in his room the whole afternoon, filled with the pleasant consciousness of being looked for and missed. But his absence was felt not so much by the woman, upon whom the effect was intended, as by Edgar. To the wretched child it was simple torture. The whole afternoon he felt absolutely impotent and lost. With the obstinate faithfulness of a boy he waited long, long hours for his friend. To have gone away or done anything by himself would have seemed like a crime against their friendship, and he loafed the time away in the hotel corridors, his heart growing heavier and heavier as each moment passed. After a while his heated imagination began to dwell on a possible accident or an insult he might unwittingly have offered his friend. He was on the verge of tears from impatience and anxiety. So that when the baron came in to dinner in the evening, he received a brilliant greeting. Edgar jumped up and, without paying any attention to his mother's cry of rebuke or the astonishment of the other diners, rushed at the baron and threw his thin little arms about him. "Where have you been? Where have you been? We've been looking for you everywhere." The mother's face reddened at hearing herself included in the search. "_Sois sage, Edgar. Assieds toi_," she said rather severely. She always spoke French to him, though it by no means came readily to her tongue, and if any but the simplest things were to be said she invariably floundered. Edgar obeyed and went back to his seat, but kept on questioning the baron. "Edgar," his mother interposed, "don't forget that the baron can do whatever he wants to do. Perhaps our company bores him." Now she included herself, and the baron noted with satisfaction that the rebuke directed to the child was really an invitation for a compliment to herself. The hunter in him awakened. He was intoxicated, thoroughly excited at having so quickly come upon the right tracks and at seeing the game so close to the muzzle of his gun. His eyes sparkled, his blood shot through his veins. The words fairly bubbled from his lips with no conscious effort on his part. Like all men with pronouncedly erotic temperaments, he did twice as well, was twice himself when he knew a woman liked him, as some actors take fire when they feel that their auditors, the breathing mass of humanity in front of them, are completely under their spell. Naturally an excellent raconteur, with great skill in graphic description, he now surpassed himself. Besides, he drank several glasses of champagne, ordered in honor of the new friendship. He told of hunting big game in India, where he had gone at the invitation of an English nobleman. The theme was well chosen. The conversation had necessarily to be about indifferent matters, but this subject, the baron felt, would excite the woman as would anything exotic and unattainable by her. The one, however, upon whom the greater charm was exercised was Edgar. His eyes glowed with enthusiasm. He forgot to eat or drink and stared at the story-teller as if to snatch the words from his lips with his eyes. He had never expected actually to see a man who in his own person had experienced those tremendous things which he read about in his books--tiger hunts, brown men, Hindus, and the terrible Juggernaut, which crushed thousands of men under its wheels. Until then he had thought such men did not really exist and believed in them no more than in fairyland. A certain new and great feeling expanded his chest. He could not remove his eyes from his friend and stared with bated breath at the hands across the table that had actually killed a tiger. Scarcely did he dare to ask a question, and when he ventured to speak it was with a feverish tremor in his voice. His lively imagination drew the picture for each story. He saw his friend mounted high on an elephant caparisoned in purple, brown men to the right and to the left wearing rich turbans, and then suddenly the tiger leaping out of the jungle with gnashing teeth and burying its claws in the elephant's trunk. Now the baron was telling about something even more interesting, how elephants were caught by a trick. Old, domesticated elephants were used to lure the young, wild, high-spirited ones into the enclosure. The child's eyes flashed. Then, as though a knife came cutting through the air right down between him and the baron, his mother said, glancing at the clock: "_Neuf heures. Au lit._" Edgar turned white. To be sent to bed is dreadful enough to grown children at any time. It is the most patent humiliation in adult company, the proclamation that one is still a child, the stigma of being small and needing a child's sleep. But how much more dreadful at so interesting a moment, when the chance of listening to such wonderful things would be lost. "Just this one story, mother, just this one story about the elephants." He was about to plead, but bethought himself quickly of his new dignity. He was a grown-up person. One attempt was all he ventured. But that night his mother was peculiarly strict. "No, it's late already. Just go up. _Sois sage, Edgar._ I'll tell you the story over again exactly the way the baron tells it to me." Edgar lingered a moment. Usually his mother went upstairs with him. But he wasn't going to beg her in front of his friend. His childish pride made him want to give his pitiful withdrawal somewhat, at least, the appearance of being voluntary. "Will you really? Everything? All about the elephants and everything else?" "Yes, Edgar, everything." "To-night still?" "Yes, yes. But go on, go to bed now." Edgar was amazed that he was able to shake hands with the baron and his mother without blushing. The sobs were already choking his throat. The baron ran his hand good-naturedly through his hair and pulled it down on his forehead. That brought a forced smile to the boy's tense features. But the next instant he had to hurry to the door, or they would see the great tears well over his eyelids and trickle down his cheeks. CHAPTER V THE ELEPHANTS Edgar's mother stayed at table with the baron a while longer. But the two no longer spoke of elephants or hunting. An indefinable embarrassment instantly sprang up between them, and a faint sultriness descended upon their conversation. After a time they went out into the hall and seated themselves in a corner. The baron was more brilliant than ever. The woman was a little heated by her two glasses of champagne, so that the conversation quickly took a dangerous turn. The baron was not what is called exactly handsome. He was simply young and had a manly look in his dark-brown, energetic, boyish face, and he charmed her with his fresh, almost ill-bred movements. She liked looking at him at such close range and was no longer afraid to encounter his eyes. Gradually there crept into his language a boldness which vaguely disconcerted her. It was like a gripping of her body and then a letting go, an intangible sort of desire which sent the blood rushing to her face. The next moment, however, he would laugh again, an easy, unconstrained, boyish laugh, which made his little manifestations of desire seem like joking. Sometimes he said things she felt she ought to object to bluntly, but she was a natural-born coquette, and his trifling audacities only provoked in her the taste for more. She was carried away by his bold gaze, and at length got so far as to try to imitate him, answering his looks with little fluttering promises from her own eyes, and giving herself up to him in words and gestures. She permitted him to draw close to her, so that every now and then she felt the warm graze of his breath on her shoulders. Like all gamblers, the two forgot the passage of time and became so absorbed that they started in surprise when the lights in the hall were turned off at midnight. The woman jumped up in response to the first impulse of alarm she had felt. In the same moment she realized to what audacious lengths she had ventured. It was not the first time she had played with fire, but now her instincts, all aroused, told her the game had come perilously close to being in earnest. She shuddered inwardly at discovering that she no longer felt quite secure, that something in her was slipping and gliding down into an abyss. Her head whirled with alarm, with slight intoxication from the champagne, and with the ring of the baron's ardent language in her ears. A dull dread came over her. She had experienced the same sort of dread several times before in similar dangerous moments, but it had never so overpowered her. This extreme dizziness was something she had never before experienced. "Good-night," she said hastily. "See you in the morning again." She felt like running away, not so much from him as from the danger of the moment and from an odd, novel insecurity she felt within herself. But the baron held her hand in a tight but gentle grip and kissed it four or five times from the delicate tips of her fingers to her wrist. A little shiver went through her at the graze of his rough mustache on the back of her hand, and her blood ran warm and mounted to her head. Her cheeks glowed. There was a hammering at her temples. A wild unreasoning fear made her snatch her hand away. "Don't go, don't go," the baron pleaded in a whisper. But she was already gone, the awkwardness of her haste revealing plainly her fright and confusion. She was undergoing the excitement that the baron wanted. She was all confused, one moment in awful dread that the man behind might follow and put his arms round her, and the next instant regretting that he had not done so. In those few seconds the thing might have taken place that she had been dreaming of for years, the great adventure. She had always taken voluptuous delight in creeping up to the very edge of an adventure and then jumping back at the last moment, an adventure of the great and dangerous kind, not a mere fleeting flirtation. But the baron was too proud to push his advantage now, too assured of his victory to take this woman like a robber in a moment of weakness and intoxication. A fair sportsman prefers his game to show fight and to surrender quite consciously. The woman could not escape him. The virus, he knew, was already seething in her veins. She stopped on the landing above and pressed her hand to her throbbing heart. She had to rest a while. Her nerves were snapping. She heaved a great sigh, partly of relief at having escaped a danger, partly of regret. Her emotions were mixed, and all she was vividly conscious of was the whirl of her blood and a faint giddiness. With half-closed eyes she groped her way like a drunken woman to the door and breathed with relief when she felt the cool door-knob in her hand. At last she was safe. She opened the door softly and the next second started back in fright. Something had moved way back in the dark. In her excited state this was too much, and she was about to cry for help when a very, very sleepy voice came from within, saying: "Is that you, mother?" "Goodness gracious! What are you doing here?" She rushed to the sofa where Edgar was lying curled up trying to keep himself wide awake. She thought the child must be ill and needed attention. "I waited for you so long, and then I fell asleep." "What were you waiting for?" "You know. To hear about the elephants." "Elephants?" As she asked the question Edgar's mother remembered her promise. She was to tell him all about the elephant hunts and the baron's other adventures that very night. And so the simple child had crept into her room and in unquestioning faith had waited for her until he had dropped asleep. The absurdity of it enraged her, or rather she was angry with herself, and for that reason she wanted to outshriek the tiny whisper of her conscience telling her she had done a shameful wrong. "Go to bed at once, you nuisance!" she cried. Edgar stared at her. Why was she so angry? He hadn't done anything wrong. But his very amazement only made her angrier. "Go to bed at once," she shouted, in a rage, because she felt how unjust she was to the child. Edgar went without a word. He was dreadfully sleepy and felt only in a blur that his mother had not kept her promise and that somehow or other he was being treated meanly. Yet he did not rebel. His susceptibilities were dulled by sleepiness. Besides, he was angry with himself for having fallen asleep while waiting. "Like a baby," he said to himself in disgust before dropping off to sleep again. Since the day before he hated himself for being still a child. CHAPTER VI SKIRMISHING The baron had passed a bad night. It is rather vain to attempt to sleep after an adventure that has been abruptly broken off. Tossing on his bed and starting up out of oppressive dreams, the baron was soon regretting that he had not seized the moment. The next morning when he came down he was still sleepy and cross and in no mood to take up with Edgar, who at sight of him rushed out of a corner and threw his arms about his waist and began to pester him with a thousand questions. The boy was happy to have his big friend to himself once more without having to share him with his mother. He implored him not to tell his stories to her, but only to himself. In spite of her promise she had not recounted all those wonderful things she had said she would. Edgar assailed the baron with a hundred childish importunities and stormy demonstrations of love. He was so happy at last to have found him again and to be alone with him. He had been waiting for him since early in the morning. The baron gave the child rough answers. That eternal lying in wait, those silly questions--in short, the boy's unsolicited passion--began to annoy him. He was tired of going about all day long with a puppy of twelve, talking nonsense. All he cared for now was to strike while the iron was hot and get the mother by herself, the very thing it was difficult to do with this child forever inflicting his presence. For the first time the baron cursed his incautiousness in having inspired so much affection, for he saw no chance, on this occasion at least, to rid himself of his too, too devoted friend. At any rate it was worth the trial. The baron waited until ten o'clock, the time Edgar's mother had agreed to go out walking with him. He sat beside the boy, paying no attention to his chatter and even glancing through the paper, though every now and then tossing the child a crumb of talk so as not to insult him. When the hour hand was at ten and the minute hand was just reaching twelve, he asked Edgar, as though suddenly remembering something, to do him a favor and run across to the next hotel and find out if his cousin, Count Rosny, had arrived. Delighted at last to be of service to his friend, the unsuspecting child ran off as fast as his legs would carry him, careering down the road so madly that people looked after him in wonder. Count Rosny, the clerk told him, had not arrived, nor had he even announced his coming. Edgar again made post haste back to bring this information to his friend. But where was his friend? Nowhere in the hall. Up in his room perhaps. Edgar dashed up the stairs and knocked at his door. No answer. He ran down again and searched in the music-room, the café, the verandas, the smoking room. In vain. He hurried to his mother's room to see if she knew anything about the baron. But she was gone, too. When finally, in his despair, he applied to the porter, he was told the two had gone out together a few minutes before. Edgar waited for their return patiently. He was altogether unsuspecting and felt quite sure that they would come back soon because the baron wanted to hear whether or not his cousin had arrived. However, long stretches of time went by, and gradually uneasiness crept upon him. Ever since the moment when that strange, seductive man had entered his little life, never as yet tinged by suspicion, the child had spent his days in one continual state of tension and tremulousness and confusion. Upon such delicate organisms as those of children every emotion impresses itself as upon soft wax. Edgar's eyelids began to twitch again, and he was already a shade or two paler. He waited and waited, patiently, at first, then in wild excitement, on the verge of tears. Yet no suspicion crept into his child's soul. So blindly trustful was he of his wonderful friend that he fancied there must have been some misunderstanding, and he tortured himself fearing he had not executed his commission properly. But, when they came home at last, how odd that they lingered at the threshold talking gaily without showing the faintest surprise and without, apparently, having missed him very much. "We went out expecting to meet you, Eddie," said the baron, forgetting to ask if the count had arrived. When Edgar, in consternation that they must have been looking for him on the way between the two hotels, eagerly asseverated that he had taken the straight road and questioned them about the direction they had gone, his mother cut him off short with, "All right, Edgar, all right. Children must be seen and not heard." There, this was the second time, Edgar thought, flushing with anger, that his mother had so horridly tried to make him look small in front of his friend. Why did she do it? Why did she always want to set him down as a child when, he was convinced, he was no longer a child? Evidently she was jealous of his friend and was planning to get him all to herself. Yes, that was it, and it was she who had purposely led the baron the wrong way. But he wouldn't let her treat him like that again, he'd show her. He was going to be spiteful, he wasn't going to say a word to her at table, and he would speak only to his friend. However, it was not so easy to keep quiet as he thought it would be. Things went in a most unanticipated way. Neither his mother nor the baron noticed his attitude of spitefulness. Why, they did not even pay the slightest attention to him, who, the day before, had been the medium of their coming together. They talked over his head and laughed and joked as though he had disappeared under the table. His blood mounted to his head and a lump came into his throat. A horrid sense of his impotence overwhelmed him. Was it his doom to sit there quietly and look on while his mother stole away from him his friend, the one man he loved, while he, Edgar, made no movement in self-defence and used no other weapon than silence? He felt as though he must get up and pound the table with his clenched fists, just to make them take notice of him. But he restrained himself and merely put down his knife and fork and stopped eating. Even this it was a long time before they observed. It was not until the last course that his mother became conscious that he had not tasted his food and asked him if he were not feeling well. "Disgusting," he thought. "That's all she ever thinks of, whether I'm sick or not. Nothing else about me seems to matter to her." He told her shortly that he wasn't hungry, which quite satisfied her. Nothing, absolutely nothing forced them to pay attention to him. The baron seemed to have forgotten him completely, at least he never addressed a single remark to him. His eyeballs were getting hot with suppressed tears, and finally he had to resort to the childlike device of raising his napkin like a screen to hide the traitorous drops that rolled down his cheeks and salted his lips. When the meal finally came to an end, he drew a sigh of relief. During the meal his mother had proposed a drive to an interesting spot in the neighborhood and Edgar had listened with his lips between his teeth. So she was not going to allow him a single moment alone with his friend any more. But now, as they got up from table, came something even worse, and Edgar's anger went over into a fury of hate. "Edgar," said his mother, "you'll be forgetting everything you learned at school. You had better stay here this afternoon while we're out driving and do a little studying." He clenched his small fists again. There she was at it again, humiliating him in front of his friend, publicly reminding him that he was still a child who had to go to school and whose presence was merely tolerated by his elders. This time, however, her intentions were altogether too obvious, and Edgar was satisfied to turn away without replying. "Insulted again," she said, smiling, and then to the baron, "Do you really think it's so bad for him to spend an hour studying once in a while?" To this--something in the child's heart congealed--to this the baron, who called himself his friend and who had made fun of him for being a bookworm, made answer that an hour or two really couldn't do any harm. Was there an agreement between the two? Had they actually allied themselves against him? "My father," said the boy, his eyes flashing anger, "forbade my studying here. He wants me to get my health back here." Edgar hurled this out with all his pride in his illness, clinging desperately to his father's dictum and his father's authority. It came out like a threat, and to his immense astonishment it took effect, seeming actually to have made both of them uncomfortable, his mother especially, for she turned her eyes aside and began to drum on the table nervously with her fingers. For a while there was a painful silence, broken finally by the baron, who said with a forced laugh: "It's just as you say, Eddie. I myself don't have to take examinations any more. I failed in all my examinations long ago." Edgar gave no smile, but looked at the baron with a yearning, searching gaze, as if to probe to the innermost of his being. What was taking place in the baron's soul? Something between him and Edgar had changed, and the child knew not what or why. His eyes wandered unsteadily, in his heart went a little rapid hammer, his first suspicion. CHAPTER VII THE BURNING SECRET "What has made them so different?" the child pondered while sitting opposite them in the carriage. "Why don't they behave toward me as they did at first? Why does mamma avoid my eyes when I look at her? Why does he always try to joke when I'm around and make a silly of himself? They don't talk to me as they did yesterday or the day before yesterday. Their faces even seem different. Mamma's lips are so red she must have rouged them. I never saw her do that before. And he keeps frowning as though he were offended. Could I have said anything to annoy them? No, I haven't said a word. It cannot be on my account that they're so changed. Even their manner toward each other is not the same as it was. They behave as though they had been naughty and didn't dare confess. They don't chat the way they did yesterday, nor laugh. They're embarrassed, they're concealing something. They've got a secret between them that they don't want to tell me. I'm going to find it out. I must, I don't care what happens, I must. I believe I know what it is. It must be the same thing that grown-up people always shut me out from when they talk about it. It's what books speak of, and it comes in operas when the men and women on the stage stand singing face to face with their arms spread out, and embrace, and shove each other away. It must have something to do with my French governess, who behaved so badly with papa and was dismissed. All these things are connected. I feel they are, but I don't know how. Oh, to find it out, at last to find it out, that secret! To possess the key that opens all doors! Not to be a child any longer with everything kept hidden from one and always being held off and deceived. Now or never! I will tear it from them, that dreadful secret!" A deep furrow cut itself between the child's brows. He looked almost old as he sat in the carriage painfully cogitating this great mystery and never casting a single glance at the landscape, which was shading into all the delicate colors of the spring, the mountains in the freshened green of their pines, the valleys in the mistier greens of budding trees, shrubbery and young grass. All he had eyes for were the man and the woman on the seat opposite him, as though, with his hot gaze, as with an angling hook, he could snatch the secret from the shimmering depths of their eyes. Nothing gives so keen an edge to the intelligence as a passionate suspicion. All the possibilities of an immature mind are developed by a trail leading into obscurity. Sometimes it is only a single light door that keeps children out of the world that we call the real world, and a chance puff of wind may blow it open. Edgar, all at once, felt himself tangibly closer, closer than ever before, to the Unknown, the Great Secret. It was right next to him, still veiled and unriddled, but very near. It excited him, and it was this that lent him his sudden solemnity. Unconsciously he sensed that he was approaching the outer edges of childhood. The baron and Edgar's mother were both sensible of a dumb opposition in front of them without realizing that it emanated from the child. The presence of a third person in the carriage constrained them, and those two dark glowing orbs opposite acted as a check. They scarcely dared to speak or look up, and it was impossible for them to drop back into the light, easy conversational tone of the day before, so entangled were they already in ardent confidences and words suggestive of secret caresses. They would start a subject, promptly come to a halt, say a broken phrase or two, make another attempt, then lapse again into complete silence. Everything they said seemed always to stumble over the child's obstinate silence and fall flat. The mother was especially oppressed by her son's sullen quiescence. Giving him a cautious glance out of the corners of her eyes, she was startled to observe, for the first time, in the manner Edgar compressed his lips, a resemblance to her husband when he was annoyed. At that particular moment, when she was playing "hide-and-seek" with an adventure, it was more than ordinarily discomfiting to be reminded of her husband. The boy, only a foot or two away, with his dark, restless eyes and that suggestion behind his pale forehead of lying in wait, seemed to her like a ghost, a guardian of her conscience, doubly intolerable there in the close quarters of the carriage. Suddenly, for one second, Edgar looked up and met his mother's gaze. Instantly they dropped their eyes in the consciousness that they were spying on each other. Till then each had had implicit faith in the other. Now something had come between mother and child and made a difference. For the first time in their lives they set to observing each other, to separating their destinies, with secret hate already mounting in their hearts, though the feeling was too young for either to admit it to himself. When the horses pulled up at the hotel entrance, all three were relieved. The excursion had been a failure, each of them felt, though thy did not say so. Edgar was the first to get out of the carriage. His mother excused herself for going straight up to her room, pleading a headache. She was tired and wanted to be by herself. Edgar and the baron were left alone together. The baron paid the coachman, looked at his watch, and mounted the steps to the hall, paying no attention to Edgar and passed him with that easy sway of his slim back which had so enchanted the child that he had immediately begun to imitate the baron's walk. The baron brushed past him, right past him. Evidently he had forgotten him and left him to stand there beside the driver and the horses as though he did not belong to him. Something in Edgar broke in two as the man, whom in spite of everything he still idolized, slighted him like that. A bitter despair filled his heart when the baron left without so much as touching him with his cloak or saying a single word, when he, Edgar, was conscious of having done no wrong. His painfully enforced self-restraint gave way, the too heavy burden of dignity that he had imposed upon himself dropped from his narrow little shoulders, and he became the child again, small and humble, as he had been the day before. At the top of the steps he confronted the baron and said in a strained voice, thick with suppressed tears: "What have I done to you that you don't notice me any more? Why are you always like this with me now? And mamma, too? Why are you always sending me off? Am I a nuisance to you, or have I done anything to offend you?" The baron was startled. There was something in the child's voice that upset him at first, then stirred him to tenderness and sympathy for the unsuspecting boy. "You're a goose, Eddie. I'm merely out of sorts to-day. You're a dear boy, and I really love you." He tousled Edgar's hair, yet with averted face so as not to be obliged to see those great moist, beseeching child's eyes. The comedy he was playing was becoming painful. He was beginning to be ashamed of having trifled so insolently with the child's love. That small voice, quivering with suppressed sobs, cut him to the quick. "Go upstairs now, Eddie. We'll get along together this evening just as nicely as ever, you'll see." "You won't let mamma send me right off to bed, will you?" "No, no, I won't, Eddie," the baron smiled. "Just go on up. I must dress for dinner." Edgar went, made happy for the moment. Soon, however, the hammer began to knock at his heart again. He was years older since the day before. A strange guest, Distrust, had lodged itself in his child's breast. He waited for the decisive test, at table. Nine o'clock came, and his mother had not yet said a word about his going to bed. Why did she let him stay on just that day of all days, she who was usually so exact? It bothered him. Had the baron told her what he had said! He was consumed with regret, suddenly, that he had run after the baron so trustingly. At ten o'clock his mother rose, and took leave of the baron, who, oddly, showed no surprise at her early departure and made no attempt to detain her as he usually did. The hammer beat harder and harder at Edgar's breast. Now he must apply the test with exceeding care. He, too, behaved as though he suspected nothing and followed his mother to the door. Actually, in that second, he caught a smiling glance that travelled over his head straight to the baron and seemed to indicate a mutual understanding, a secret held in common. So the baron had betrayed him! That was why his mother had left so early. He, Edgar, was to be lulled with a sense of security so that he would not get in their way the next day. "Mean!" he murmured. "What's that?" his mother asked. "Nothing," he muttered between clenched teeth. He, too, had his secret. His secret was hate, a great hate for the two of them. CHAPTER VIII SILENT HOSTILITY The tumult of Edgar's conflicting emotions subsided into one smooth, clear feeling of hate and open hostility, concentrated and unadulterated. Now that he was certain of being in their way, the imposition of his presence upon them gave him a voluptuous satisfaction. Always accompanying them with the compressed strength of his enmity, he would goad them into madness. He gloated over the thought. The first to whom he showed his teeth was the baron, when he came downstairs in the morning and said "Hello, Edgar!" with genuine heartiness in his voice. Edgar remained sitting in the easy chair and answered curtly with a hard "G'd morning." "Your mother down yet?" Edgar kept his eyes glued to his newspaper. "I don't know." The baron was puzzled. "Slept badly, Eddie?" The baron was counting on a joke to help him over the situation again, but Edgar merely tossed out a contemptuous "No" and continued to study the paper. "Stupid," the baron murmured, shrugging his shoulders and walked away. Hostilities had been declared. Toward his mother Edgar's manner was cool and polite. When she made an awkward attempt to send him off to the tennis-court, he gave her a quiet rebuff, and his smile and the bitter curl at the corners of his mouth showed that he was no longer to be fooled. "I'd rather go walking with you, mamma," he said with assumed friendliness, looking her straight in the eyes. His answer was obviously not to her taste. She hesitated and seemed to be looking for something. "Wait for me here," she decided at length and went into the dining-room for breakfast. Edgar waited, but his distrust was lively, and his instincts, all astir, extracted a secret hostile intent from everything the baron and his mother now said. Suspicion was beginning to give him remarkable perspicacity sometimes. Instead, therefore, of waiting in the hall, as he had been bidden, he went outside to a spot from which he commanded a view not only of the main entrance but of all the exits from the hotel. Something in him scented deception. He hid himself behind a pile of wood, as the Indians do in the books, and when, about half an hour later, he saw his mother actually coming out of a side door carrying a bunch of exquisite roses and followed by the baron, the traitor, he laughed in glee. They seemed to be gay and full of spirits. Were they feeling relieved at having escaped him to be alone with their secret? They laughed as they talked, and turned into the road leading to the woods. The moment had come. Edgar, as though mere chance had brought him that way, strolled out from behind the woodpile and walked to meet them, with the utmost composure, allowing himself ample time to feast upon their surprise. When they caught sight of him they were quite taken aback, he saw, and exchanged a glance of astonishment. The child advanced slowly, with an assumed nonchalant air, never removing his mocking gaze from their faces. "Oh, here you are, Eddie. We were looking for you inside," his mother said finally. "The shameless liar!" the child thought, but held his lips set hard, keeping back the secret of his hate. The three stood there irresolutely, one watchful of the others. "Well, let's go on," said the woman, annoyed, but resigned, and plucked one of the lovely roses to bite. Her nostrils were quivering, a sign in her of extreme anger. Edgar stood still, as though it were a matter of indifference to him whether they walked on or not, looked up at the sky, waited for them to start, then followed leisurely. The baron made one more attempt. "There's a tennis tournament to-day. Have you ever seen one?" The baron was not worth an answer any more. Edgar merely gave him a scornful look and pursed his lips for whistling. That was his full reply. His hate showed its bared teeth. Edgar's unwished-for presence weighed upon the two like a nightmare. They felt very like convicts who follow their keeper gritting their teeth and clenching their fists in secret. Edgar neither did nor said anything out of the way, yet he became, every moment, more unbearable to them, with his watchful glances out of great moist eyes and his dogged sullenness which was like a prolonged growl at any attempt they made at an advance. "Go on ahead of us," his mother suddenly snapped, made altogether ill at ease by his intent listening to everything she and the baron were saying. "Don't be hopping right at my toes. It makes me fidgety." Edgar obeyed. But at every few steps he would face about and stand still, waiting for them to catch up if they had lingered behind, letting his gaze travel over them diabolically and enmeshing them in a fiery net of hate, in which, they felt, they were being inextricably entangled. His malevolent silence corroded their good spirits like an acid, his gaze dashed extinguishing gall on their conversation. The baron made no other attempts to court the woman beside him, feeling, infuriatedly, that she was slipping away from him because her fear of that annoying, obnoxious child was cooling the passion he had fanned into a flame with so much difficulty. After repeated unsuccessful attempts at a conversation they jogged along the path in complete silence, hearing nothing but the rustling of the leaves and their own dejected footsteps. There was active hostility now in each of the three. The betrayed child perceived with satisfaction how their anger gathered helplessly against his own little, despised person. Every now and then he cast a shrewd, ironic look at the baron's sullen face and saw how he was muttering curses between gritted teeth and had to restrain himself from hurling them out at him. He also observed with sarcastic glee how his mother's fury was mounting and that both of them were longing for an opportunity to attack him and send him away, or render him innocuous. But he gave them no opening, the tactics of his hate had been prepared too well in advance and left no spots exposed. "Let us go back," his mother burst out, feeling she could no longer control herself and that she must do something, if only cry out, under the imposition of this torture. "A pity," said Edgar quietly, "it's so lovely." The other two realized the child was making fun of them, but they dared not retort, their tyrant having learned marvellously in two days the supreme art of self-control. Not a quiver in his face betrayed his mordant irony. Without another word being spoken they retraced the long way back to the hotel. When Edgar and his mother were alone together in her room, her excitement was still seething. She tossed her gloves and parasol down angrily. Edgar did not fail to note these signs and was aware that her electrified nerves would seek to discharge themselves, but he courted an outburst and remained in her room on purpose. She paced up and down, seated herself, drummed on the table with her fingers, and jumped up again. "How untidy you look. You go around filthy. It's a disgrace. Aren't you ashamed of yourself--a boy of your age!" Without a word of opposition Edgar went to his mother's toilet table and washed and combed himself. His cold, obdurate silence and the ironic quiver of his lips drove her to a frenzy. Nothing would have satisfied her so much as to give him a sound beating. "Go to your room," she screamed, unable to endure his presence a second longer. Edgar smiled and left the room. How the two trembled before him! How they dreaded every moment in his presence, the merciless grip of his eyes! The worse they felt the more he gloated, and the more challenging became his satisfaction. Edgar tortured the two defenceless creatures with the almost animal cruelty of children. The baron, because he had not given up hope of playing a trick on the lad and was thinking of nothing but the goal of his desires, could still contain his anger, but Edgar's mother was losing her hold upon herself and kept constantly slipping. It was a relief to her to be able to shriek at him. "Don't play with your fork," she cried at table. "You're an ill-bred monkey. You don't deserve to be in the company of grown-up people." Edgar smiled, with his head tipped a trifle to one side. He knew his mother's outburst was a sign of desperation and took pride in having made her betray herself. His manner and glance were now as composed as a physician's. In previous days he might have answered back rudely so as to annoy her. But hate teaches many things, and quickly. How he kept quiet, and still kept quiet, and still kept quiet, until his mother, under the pressure of his silence, began to scream. She could stand it no longer. When they rose from table and Edgar with his matter-of-course air of attachment preceded to follow her and the baron, her pent-up anger suddenly burst out. She cast prudence to the winds and let out the truth. Tortured by his crawling presence she reared like a horse pestered by crawling flies. "Why do you keep tagging after me like a child of three? I don't want you around us all the time. Children should not always be with their elders. Please remember that. Spend an hour or two by yourself for once. Read something, or do whatever you want. Leave me alone. You make me nervous with your creepy ways and that disgusting hang-dog air of yours!" He had wrested it from her at last--the confession! He smiled, while the baron and his mother seemed embarrassed. She swung about, turning her back, and was about to leave, in a fury with herself for having admitted so much to her little son, when Edgar's voice came, saying coolly: "Papa does not want me to be by myself here. He made me promise not to be wild, and to stay with you." Edgar emphasized "Papa," having noticed on the previous occasion when he used the word that it had had a paralyzing effect upon both of them. In some way or other, therefore, he inferred, his father must be implicated in this great mystery and must have a secret power over them, because the very mention of him seemed to frighten and distress them. They said nothing this time either. They laid down their arms. The mother left the room with the baron, and Edgar followed behind, not humbly like a servitor, but hard, strict, inexorable, like a guard over prisoners, rattling the chains against which they strained in vain. Hate had steeled his child's strength. He, the ignorant one, was stronger than the two older people whose hands were held fast by the great secret. CHAPTER IX THE LIARS Time was pressing. The baron's holiday would soon come to an end, and the few days that remained must be exploited to the full. There was no use, both he and Edgar's mother felt, trying to break down the excited child's pertinacity. So they resorted to the extreme measure of disgraceful evasion and flight, merely to escape for an hour or two from under his yoke. "Please take these letters and have them registered at the post-office," his mother said to Edgar in the hall, while the baron was outside ordering a cab. Edgar, remembering that until then his mother had sent the hotel boys on her errands, was suspicious. Were they hatching something against him? He hesitated. "Where will you wait for me?" "Here." "For sure?" "Yes." "Now be sure to. Don't leave before I come back. You'll wait right here in the hall, won't you?" In the consciousness of his superiority he had adopted a commanding tone with his mother. Many things had changed since the day before yesterday. At the door he encountered the baron, to whom he spoke for the first time in two days. "I am going to the post-office to register these letters. My mother is waiting for me. Please do not go until I come back." The baron hastened past him. "All right. We'll wait." Edgar ran at top speed to the post-office, where he had to wait while a man ahead of him asked a dozen silly questions. Finally his turn came, and at last he was free to run back to the hotel, which he reached just in time to see the couple driving off. He turned rigid with anger, and had the impulse to pick up a stone and throw it at them. So they had escaped him after all, but by what a mean, contemptible lie! He had discovered the day before that his mother lied, but that she could so wantonly disregard a definite, expressed promise, shattered his last remnant of confidence. He could not understand life at all any more, now that he realized that the words which he had thought clothed a reality were nothing more than bursting bubbles. But what a dreadful secret it must be that drove grown-up people to such lengths, to lie to him, a child, and to steal away like criminals! In the books he had read, men deceived and murdered one another for money, power, empire, but what was the motive here? What were his mother and the baron after? Why did they hide from him? What were they, with their lies, trying to conceal? He racked his brain for answers to the riddle. Vaguely he divined that this secret was the bolt which, when unlocked, opened the door to let out childhood, and to master it meant to be grown up, to be a man at last. Oh, to know what it was! But he could no longer think clearly. His rage at their having escaped him was like a fire that sent scorching smoke into his eyes and kept him from seeing. He ran to the woods and in the nick of time reached a quiet dark spot, where no one could see him, and burst into tears. "Liars! Dogs! Mean--mean--mean!" He felt he must scream the words out to relieve himself of his frenzy. All the pent-up rage, impatience, annoyance, curiosity, impotence, and the sense of betrayal of the last few days, which he had suppressed in the fond belief that he was an adult and must behave like an adult, now gushed from him in a fit of weeping and sobbing. It was the final crying spell of his childhood. For the last time he was giving in to the bliss of weeping like a woman. In that moment of uncontrolled fury his tears washed away his whole childhood, trust, love, credulity, respect. The lad who returned to the hotel was different from the child that had left it. He was cool and level-headed. He went first to his room and washed his face carefully so that the two should not enjoy the triumph of seeing the traces of his tears. Then he planned his strategy and waited patiently, without the least agitation. There happened to be a good many guests in the hall when the carriage pulled up at the door. Two gentlemen were playing chess, a few others were reading their papers, and a group of ladies sat together talking. Edgar sat among them quietly, a trifle pale, with wavering glances. When his mother and the baron appeared in the doorway, rather embarrassed at encountering him so soon, and began to stammer out their excuses prepared in advance, he confronted them calmly, and said to the baron in a tone of challenge: "I have something to say to you, sir." "Very well, later, a little later." Edgar, pitching his voice louder and enunciating every word clearly and distinctly, said, so that everyone in the hall could hear: "No, now. You behaved like a villain. You knew my mother was waiting for me, and you----" "Edgar!" cried his mother, feeling all glances upon her, and swooped down on him. But Edgar, realizing that she wanted to shout him down, screamed at the top of his voice: "I say again, in front of everybody, you lied, you lied disgracefully. It was a dirty trick." The baron went white, the people stared, some laughed. The mother clutched the boy, who was quivering with excitement, and stammered out hoarsely: "Go right up to your room, or I'll give you a beating right here in front of everybody." But Edgar had already calmed down. He regretted he had been so violent and was discontented with himself that he had not coolly challenged the baron as he had intended to do. But his anger had been stronger than his will. He turned and walked to the staircase leisurely, with an air of perfect composure. "You must excuse him," the mother still went on, stammering, confused by the rather wicked glances fixed upon her, "he's a nervous child, you know." She was afraid of nothing so much as a scandal, and she knew she must assume innocence. Instead, therefore, of taking to instant flight, she went up to the desk and asked for her mail and made several other inquiries before rustling up the stairs as though nothing had happened. But behind her, she was quite conscious, she had left a wake of whispered comment and suppressed giggling. On the first landing she hesitated, the rest of the steps she mounted more slowly. She was always unequal to a serious situation and was afraid of the inevitable explanation with Edgar. She was guilty, she could not deny that, and she dreaded the child's curious gaze, which paralyzed her and filled her with uncertainty. In her timidity she decided to try gentleness, because in a battle the excited child, she knew, was the stronger. She turned the knob gently. Edgar was sitting there quiet and cool, his eyes, turned upon her at her entrance, not even betraying curiosity. He seemed to be very sure of himself. "Edgar," she began, in the motherliest of tones, "what got into you? I was ashamed of you. How can one be so ill-bred, especially a child to a grown-up person? You must ask the baron's pardon at once." "I will not." As he spoke Edgar was looking out of the window, and his words might have been meant for the trees. His sureness was beginning to astonish his mother. "Edgar, what's the matter with you? You're so different from what you were. You used to be a good, sensible child with whom a person could reason. And all at once you act as though the devil had got into you. What have you got against the baron? You liked him so much at first. He was so nice to you." "Yes, because he wanted to make your acquaintance." "Nonsense. How can you think anything like that?" The child flared up. "He's a liar. He's false through and through. Whatever he does is calculated and common. He wanted to get to know you, so he made friends with me and promised me a dog. I don't know what he promised you, or why he's so friendly with you, but he wants something of you, too, mamma, positively he does. If he didn't, he wouldn't be so polite and friendly. He's a bad man. He lies. Just take a good look at him once, and see how false his eyes are. Oh, I hate him!" "Edgar, how can you talk like that!" She was confused and did not know what to reply. The feeling stirred in her that the child was right. "Yes, he's a bad man, you can't make me believe he isn't. You must see he is. Why is he afraid of me? Why does he try to keep out of my way? Because he knows I can see through him and his badness." "How can you talk like that?" she kept protesting feebly. Her brain seemed to have dried up. All of a sudden a great fear came upon her, whether of the baron or the boy, she knew not. Edgar saw that his warning was taking effect, and he was lured on to win her over to his side and have a comrade in his hate and hostility toward the baron. He went over to her gently, put his arms about her, and said in a voice flattering with the excitement quivering in it: "Mamma, you yourself must have noticed that it isn't anything good that he wants. He's made you quite different. You're the one that's changed, not I. He set you against me just to have you to himself. I'm sure he means to deceive you. I don't know what he promised you, but whatever it is, he doesn't intend to keep his promise. You ought to be careful of him. A man who will lie to one person will lie to another person, too. He's a bad, bad man. You mustn't trust him." Edgar's voice, soft and almost tearful, seemed to speak out of her own heart. Since the day before an uncomfortable feeling had been rising in her which told her the same, with growing emphasis. But she was ashamed to tell her own child he was right, and she took refuge, as so many do when under the stress of overwhelming feeling, in rude rejoinder. She straightened herself up. "Children don't understand such things. You have no right to mix into such matters. You must behave yourself. That's all." Edgar's face congealed again. "Very well. I have warned you." "Then you won't ask the baron's pardon?" "No." They stood confronting each other, and the mother knew her authority was at stake. "Then you will stay up here and eat by yourself, and you won't be allowed to come to table and sit with us until you have asked his pardon. I'll teach you manners. You won't budge from this room until I give you permission to, do you hear?" Edgar smiled. That cunning smile seemed to be part of his lips now. Inwardly he was angry at himself. How foolish to have let his heart run away with him again and to have tried to warn her, the liar. His mother rustled out without giving him another glance. That caustic gaze of his frightened her. The child had become an absolute annoyance to her since she realized that he had his eyes open and said the very things she did not want to know or hear. It was uncanny to have an inner voice, her conscience, dissevered from herself, incorporated in her child, going about as her child, warning her and making fun of her. Until then the child had stayed alongside of her life, as an ornament, a toy, a thing to love and have confidence in, now and then perhaps a burden, but always something that floated along in the same current as her own life, keeping even pace with it. For the first time this something reared itself up and opposed her will. A feeling akin to hate mingled itself in her thoughts of her child now. And yet, as she was descending the stairs, a little tired, childish voice came from her own breast, saying, "You ought to be careful of him." On one of the landings was a mirror. The gleam of it struck her eyes, and she paused to scrutinize herself questioningly. She looked deeper and deeper into her own face until the lips of her image parted in a light smile and formed themselves as if to utter a dangerous word. The voice within her was still speaking, but she threw back her shoulders as though to shake off all those invisible thoughts gave her reflection in the glass a bright glance, caught up her skirt, and descended the rest of the stairs with the determined manner of a player who has tossed his last coin down on the table. CHAPTER X ON THE TRAIL The waiter, after serving Edgar with dinner in his room, closed and locked the door behind him. The child started up in a rage. His mother's doings! She must have given orders for him to be locked in like a vicious beast. "What's going on downstairs," he brooded grimly, "while I am locked in up here? What are they talking about, I wonder? Is the mystery taking place, and am I missing it? Oh, this secret that I scent all around me when I am with grown-ups, this thing that they shut me out from at night, and that makes them lower their voices when I come upon them unawares, this great secret that has been near me for days, close at hand, yet still out of reach. I've done everything to try to get at it." Edgar recalled the time when he had pilfered books from his father's library and had read them, and found they contained the mystery, though he could not understand it. There must be some sort of seal, he concluded, either in himself or in the others that had first to be removed before the mystery could be fathomed. He also recalled how he had begged the servant-girl to explain the obscure passages in the books and she had only laughed at him. "Dreadful," he thought, "to be a child, full of curiosity, and yet not to be allowed even to ask for information, always to be ridiculed by the grown-ups, as if one were a stupid good-for-nothing. But never mind, I'm going to find it out, and very soon, I feel sure I will. Already part of it is in my hands, and I mean not to let go till I hold the whole of it." He listened to find out if anyone were coming to the room. Outside, the trees were rustling in a strong breeze, which caught up the silvery mirror of the moonlight and dashed it in shivering bits through the network of the branches. "It can't be anything good that they intend to do, else they wouldn't have used such mean little lies to get me out of their way. Of course, they're laughing at me, the miserable creatures, because they're rid of me at last. But I'll be the one to laugh next. How stupid of me to allow myself to be locked in this room and give them a moment to themselves, instead of sticking to them like a burr and watching their every move. I know the grown-ups are always incautious, and _they_ will be giving themselves away, too. Grown-ups think we're still babies and always go to sleep at night. They forget we can pretend to be asleep and can go on listening, and we can make out we're stupid when we're really very bright." Edgar smiled to himself sarcastically when at this point his thoughts reverted to the birth of a baby cousin. The family in his presence had pretended to be surprised, and he had known very well they were not surprised, because for weeks he had heard them, at night when they thought he was asleep, discussing the coming event. And he resolved to fool his mother and the baron in the same way. "Oh, if only I could peep through the key-hole and watch them while they fancy they're alone and safe. Perhaps it would be a good idea to ring, and the boy would come and open the door and ask what I want. Or I could make a terrible noise smashing things, and then they'd unlock the door and I'd slip out." On second thought he decided against either plan, as incompatible with his pride. No one should see how contemptibly he had been treated, and he would wait till the next day. From beneath his window came a woman's laugh. Edgar started. Perhaps it was his mother laughing. She had good cause to laugh and make fun of the helpless little boy who was locked up when he was a nuisance and thrown into a corner like a bundle of rags. He leaned, circumspectly out of the window and looked. No, it wasn't his mother, but one of a group of gay girls teasing a boy. In looking out Edgar observed that his window was not very high above the ground, and instantly it occurred to him to jump down and go spy on his mother and the baron. He was all fire with the joy of his resolve, feeling that now he had the great secret in his grasp. There was no danger in it. No people were passing by--and with that he had jumped out. Nothing but the light crunch of the gravel under his feet to betray his action. In these two days, stealing around and spying had become the delight of his life, and intense bliss, mingled with a faint tremor of alarm, filled him now as he tiptoed around the outside of the hotel, carefully avoiding the lights. He looked first into the dining-room. Their seats were empty. From window to window he went peeping, always outside the hotel for fear if he went inside he might run up against them in one of the corridors. Nowhere were they to be seen, and he was about to give up hope when he saw two shadows emerge from a side entrance--he shrank and drew back into the dark--and his mother and her inseparable escort came out. In the nick of time, he thought. What were they saying? He couldn't hear, they were talking in such low voices and the wind was making such an uproar in the trees. His mother laughed. It was a laugh he had never before heard from her, a peculiarly sharp, nervous laugh, as though she had suddenly been tickled. It made a curious impression on the boy and rather startled him. "But if she laughs," he thought, "it can't be anything dangerous, nothing very big and mighty that they are concealing from me." He was a trifle disillusioned. "Yet, why were they leaving the hotel? Where were they going alone together in the night?" Every now and then great drifts of clouds obscured the moon, and the darkness was then so intense that one could scarcely see the white road at one's feet, but soon the moon would emerge again and robe the landscape in a sheet of silver. In one of the moments when the whole countryside was flooded in brilliance Edgar saw the two silhouettes going down the road, or rather one silhouette, so close did they cling together, as if in terror. But where were they going? The fir-trees groaned, the woods were all astir, uncannily, as though from a wild chase in their depths. "I will follow them," thought Edgar. "They cannot hear me in all this noise." Keeping to the edge of the woods, in the shadow, from which he could easily see them on the clear white road, he tracked them relentlessly, blessing the wind for making his footsteps inaudible and cursing it for carrying away the sound of their talk. It was not until he heard what they said that he could be sure of learning the secret. The baron and his companion walked on without any misgivings. They felt all alone in the wide resounding night and lost themselves in their growing excitement, never dreaming that on the high edges of the road, in the leafy darkness, every movement of theirs was being watched, and a pair of eyes was clutching them in a wild grip of hate and curiosity. Suddenly they stood still, and Edgar, too, instantly stopped and pressed close up against a tree, in terror that they might turn back and reach the hotel before him, so that his mother would discover his room was empty and learn that she had been followed. Then he would have to give up hope of ever wresting the secret from them. But the couple hesitated. Evidently there was a difference of opinion between them. Fortunately at that moment the moon was shining undimmed by clouds, and he could see everything clearly. The baron pointed to a side-path leading down into the valley, where the moonlight descended, not in a broad flood of brilliance, but only in patches filtering here and there through the heavy foliage. "Why does he want to go down there?" thought Edgar. His mother, apparently, refused to take the path, and the baron was trying to persuade her. Edgar could tell from his gestures that he was talking emphatically. The child was alarmed. What did this man want of his mother? Why did he attempt--the villain!--to drag her into the dark? From his books, to him the world, came live memories of murder and seduction and sinister crime. There, he had it, the baron meant to murder her. That was why he had kept him, Edgar, at a distance, and enticed her to this lonely spot. Should he cry for help? Murder! He wanted to shriek, but his throat and lips were dry and no sound issued from his mouth. His nerves were tense as a bow-string, he could scarcely stand upright on his shaking knees, and he put out his hand for support, when, crack, crack! a twig snapped in his grasp. At the sound of the breaking twig the two turned about in alarm and stared into the darkness. Edgar clung to the tree, his little body completely wrapped in obscurity, quiet as death. Yet they seemed to have been frightened. "Let's go home," he could now hear his mother say anxiously, and the baron, who, evidently, was also upset, assented. Pressed close against each other, they walked back very slowly. Their embarrassment was Edgar's good fortune. He got down on all fours and crept, tearing his hands and clothes on the brambles, through the undergrowth to the turn of the woods, from where he ran breathlessly back to the hotel and up the stairs to his room. Luckily the key was sticking on the outside, and in one second he was in his room lying on the bed, where he had to rest a few moments to give his pounding heart a chance to quiet down. After two or three minutes he got up and looked out of the window to await their return. They must have been walking very slowly indeed. It took them an eternity. Circumspectly he peeped out of the shadowed frame. There, at length, they came at a snail's pace, the moonlight shining on their clothes. They looked like ghosts in the greenish shimmer, and the delicious horror came upon him again whether it really might have been a murder, and what a dreadful catastrophe he had averted by his presence. He could clearly see their faces, which looked chalky in the white light. His mother had an expression of rapture that in her was strange to him, while the baron looked hard and dejected. Probably because he had failed in carrying out his purpose. They were very close to the hotel now, but it was not until they reached the steps that their figures separated from each other. Would they look up? Edgar waited eagerly. No. "They have forgotten all about me," he thought wrathfully, and then, in triumph, "but I haven't forgotten you. You think I am asleep or non-existent, but you'll find out you're mistaken. I'll watch every step you take until I have got the secret out of you, you villain, the dreadful secret that keeps me awake nights. I'll tear the strings that tie you two together. I am not going to go to sleep." As the couple entered the doorway, their shadows mingled again in one broad band that soon dwindled and disappeared. And once more the space in front of the hotel lay serene in the moonlight, like a meadow of snow. CHAPTER XI THE SURPRISE ATTACK Edgar moved away from the window, breathing heavily, in a shiver of horror. A gruesome mystery of this sort had never touched his life before, the bookish world of thrilling adventure, excitement, deception and murder having always belonged to the same realm as the wonderland of fairy tales, the realm of dreams, far away, in the unreal and unattainable. Now he was plunged right into the midst of this fascinatingly awful world, and his whole being quivered deliriously. Who was this mysterious being who had stepped into his quiet life? Was he really a murderer? If not, why did he always try to drag his mother to a remote, dark spot? Something dreadful, Edgar felt certain, was about to happen. He did not know what to do. In the morning he would surely write or telegraph his father--or why not that very moment? His mother was not in her room yet, but was still with that horrid person. The outside of the door to Edgar's room was hung with a portière, and he opened his door softly now, closed it behind him, and stuck himself between the door and the portière, listening for his mother's steps in the corridor, determined not to let her stay by herself a single instant. The corridor, at this midnight hour, was quiet and empty and lighted faintly by a single gas jet. The minutes stretched themselves into hours, it seemed, before he heard cautious footsteps coming up the stairs. He strained his ears to listen. The steps did not move forward with the quick, regular beat of someone making straight for his room, but sounded hesitating and dragging as though up a steep, difficult climb. Edgar also caught the sound of whispering, a pause, then whispering again. He was a-quiver with excitement. Was it both of them coming up together? Was the creature still sticking to her? The whispering was too low and far away for him to catch what they were saying. But the footsteps, though slowly and with pauses between, were drawing nearer. And now he could hear the baron's voice--oh, how he hated the sound of it!--saying something in a low, hoarse tone, which he could not get, and then his mother answering as though to ward something off: "No, no, not tonight!" Edgar's excitement rose to fever heat. As they came nearer he would be bound to catch everything they said. Each inch closer that they drew was like a physical hurt in his breast, and the baron's voice, how ugly it seemed, that greedy, grasping disgusting voice. "Don't be cruel. You were so lovely this evening." "No, no, I mustn't. I can't. Let me go!" There was such alarm in his mother's voice that the child was terrified. What did the baron want her to do? Why was she afraid? They were quite close up to him now, apparently right in front of the portière. A foot or two away from them was he, trembling, invisible, with a bit of drapery for his only protection. Edgar heard his mother give a faint groan as though her powers of resistance were weakening. But what was that? Edgar could hear that they had passed his mother's door and had kept on walking down the corridor. Where was he dragging her off to? Why was she not replying any more? Had he stuffed his hand kerchief into her mouth and was he squeezing her throat? Wild with this thought, Edgar pushed the portière aside and peeped out at the two figures in the dim corridor. The baron had his arm round the woman's waist and was forcing her along gently, evidently with little resistance from her. He stopped at his own door. "He wants to drag her in and commit the foul deed," though the child, and dashing the portière aside he rushed down the hall upon them. His mother screamed; something came leaping at her out of the dark, and she seemed to fall in a faint. The baron held her up with difficulty. The next instant he felt a little fist dealing him a blow that smashed his lips against his teeth, and a little body clawing at him catlike. He released the terrified woman, who quickly made her escape, and, without knowing against whom, he struck out blindly. The child knew he was the weaker of the two, yet he never yielded. At last, at last the great moment had come when he could unburden himself of all his betrayed love and accumulated hate. With set lips and a look of frenzy on his face he pounded away at the baron with his two small fists. By this time the baron had recognized his assailant. He, too, was primed with hate of the little spy who had been dogging him and interfering with his sport, and he hit back, striking out blindly. Edgar groaned once or twice, but did not let go, and did not cry for help. They wrestled a fraction of a minute in the dark corridor grimly and sullenly without the exchange of a single word. But pretty soon the baron came to his senses and realizing how absurd was this duel with a half-grown boy he caught hold of Edgar to throw him off. But Edgar, feeling his muscles weakening and conscious that the next moment he would be beaten, snapped, in a fury, at the strong, firm hand gripping at the nape of his neck. The baron could not restrain a slight outcry, and let go of Edgar, who seized the opportunity to run to his room and draw the bolt. The midnight struggle had lasted no more than a minute. No one in any of the rooms along the corridor had caught a sound of it. Everything was silent, wrapped in sleep. The baron wiped his bleeding hand with his handkerchief and peered into the dark uneasily to make sure no one had been watching or listening. All he saw was the one gas jet winking at him, he thought, sarcastically. CHAPTER XII THE TEMPEST Edgar woke up the next morning dazed, wondering whether it had not been a horrid dream, and with the sickly feeling that hangs on after a nightmare, his head leaden and his body like a piece of wood. It was only after a minute or so that he realized with a sort of alarm that he was still in his day clothes. He jumped out of bed and went to look at himself in the mirror. The image of his own pale, distorted face, with his hair all rumpled and a red, elongated swelling on his forehead, made him recoil with a shudder. It brought back to him the actuality painfully. He recalled the details of the battle in the corridor, and his rushing back to his room and throwing himself on to the bed dressed. He must have fallen asleep thus and dreamed everything over again, only worse and mingled with the warmish smell of fresh flowing blood. Footsteps crunched on the gravel beneath his window, voices rose like invisible birds, and the sun shone deep into the room. "It must be very late," he thought, glancing at his watch. But the hands pointed to midnight. In the excitement of the day before he had forgotten to wind it up. This uncertainty, this hanging suspended in time, disturbed him, and his sense of disgust was increased by his confusion of mind as to what had actually occurred. He dressed quickly and went downstairs, a vague sense of guilt in his heart. In the breakfast-room his mother was sitting at their usual table, alone. Thank goodness, his enemy was not present. Edgar would not have to look upon that hateful face of his. And yet, as he went to the table, he was by no means sure of himself. "Good morning," he said. His mother made no reply, nor even so much as glanced up, but kept her eyes fixed in a peculiarly rigid stare on the view from the window. She looked very pale, her eyes were red-rimmed, and there was that quivering of her nostrils which told so plainly how wrought up she was. Edgar bit his lips. Her silence bewildered him. He really did not know whether he had hurt the baron very much or whether his mother had any knowledge at all of their encounter. The uncertainty plagued him. But her face remained so rigid that he did not even attempt to look up for fear that her eyes, now hidden behind lowered lids, might suddenly raise their curtains and pop out at him. He sat very still, not daring to make the faintest sound, and raising the cup to his lips and putting it back on the saucer with the utmost caution, and casting furtive glances, from time to time, at his mother's fingers, which played with her spoon nervously and seemed, in the way they were bent, to show a secret anger. For a full quarter of an hour he sat at the table in an oppressive expectancy of something that never came. Not a single word from her to relieve his tension. And now as his mother rose, still without any sign of having noticed his presence, he did not know what to do, whether to remain sitting at the table or to go with her. He decided upon the latter, and followed humbly, though conscious how ridiculous was his shadowing of her now. He reduced his steps so as to fall behind, and she, still studiously refraining from noticing him, went to her room. When Edgar reached her door he found it locked. What had happened? He was at his wits' end. His assurance of the day before had deserted him. Had he done wrong, after all, in attacking the baron? And were they preparing a punishment for him or a fresh humiliation? Something must happen, he was positive, something dreadful, very soon. Upon him and his mother lay the sultriness of a brewing tempest. They were like two electrified poles that would have to discharge themselves in a flash. And for four solitary hours the child dragged round with him, from room to room, the burden of this premonition, until his thin little neck bent under the invisible yoke, and by midday it was a very humble little fellow that took his seat at table. "How do you do?" he ventured again, feeling he had to rend this silence, ominous as a great black storm cloud. But still his mother made no response, keeping her gaze fixed beyond him. Edgar, in renewed alarm, felt he was in the presence of a calculated, concentrated anger such as he had never before encountered. Until then his mother's scoldings had been outbursts of nervousness rather than of ill feeling and soon melted into a mollifying smile. This time, however, he had, as he sensed, brought to the surface a wild emotion from the deeps of her being, and this powerful something that he had evoked terrified him. He scarcely dared to eat. His throat was parched and knotted into a lump. His mother seemed not to notice what was passing in her son, but when she got up she turned, with a casual air, and said: "Come up to my room afterwards, Edgar, I have something to say to you." Her tone was not threatening, but so icy that Edgar felt as though each word were like a link in an iron chain being laid round his neck. His defiance had been crushed out of him. Silently, with a hang-dog air, he followed her up to her room. In the room she prolonged his agony by saying nothing for several minutes, during which he heard the striking of the clock, and outside a child laughing, and within his own breast his heart beating like a trip-hammer. Yet she, too, could not be feeling so very confident of herself either, because she kept her eyes averted and even turned her back while speaking to him. "I shall say nothing to you about the way you behaved yesterday. It was unpardonable, and it makes me feel ashamed to think of it. You have to suffer the consequences now of your own conduct. All I mean to say to you is that this is the last time you will be allowed to associate with your elders. I have just written to your father that either you must be put under a tutor or sent to a boarding-school where you will be taught manners. I sha'n't be bothered with you any more." Edgar stood with bowed head, feeling that this was only the preliminary, a threat of the real thing coming, and he waited uneasily for the sequel. "You will ask the baron's pardon." Edgar gave a start, but his mother would not be interrupted. "The baron left to-day, and you will write him a letter which I shall dictate." Edgar again made a movement, which his mother firmly disregarded. "No protestations. Here is the paper, and here are the pen and the ink. Sit down." Edgar looked up. Her eyes were steely with an inflexible determination. This hardness and composure in his mother were quite new and strange. He was frightened, and seated himself at the desk, keeping his face bent low. "The date--upper right-hand corner. Have you written it? Space. Dear Sir, colon. Next line. I have just learned to my regret--got that?--to my regret that you have already left Summering. Two m's in Summering. And so I must do by letter what I had intended to do in person, that is--faster, Edgar, you don't have to draw each letter--beg your pardon for what I did yesterday. As my mother told you, I am just convalescing from a severe illness and am very excitable. On account of my condition, I often exaggerate things and the next moment I am sorry for it." The back bent over the desk straightened up. Edgar turned in a flash. His defiance had leapt into life again. "I will not write that. It isn't true." "Edgar!" "It is not true. I haven't done anything that I should be sorry for. I haven't done anything bad that I need ask anybody's pardon for. I simply came to your rescue when you called for help." Every drop of blood left her lips, her nostrils widened. "I called for help? You're crazy." Edgar got angry and jumped up from his chair. "Yes, you did call for help, in the corridor, when he caught hold of you. You said, 'Let me go, let me go,' so loud that I heard it in my room." "You lie. I never was in the corridor with the baron. He went with me only as far as the foot of the stairs----" Edgar's heart stood still at the barefacedness of the lie. He stared at her with glassy eyeballs, and cried in a voice thick and husky with passion: "You--were not--in the hall? And he--he did _not_ have his arm round you?" She laughed a cold, dry laugh. "You were dreaming." That was too much. The child, by this time, knew that adults lie and resort to impudent little evasions, lies that slip through fine sieves, and cunning ambiguities. But this downright denial of an absolute fact, face to face, threw him into a frenzy. "Dreaming, was I? Did I dream this bump on my forehead, too?" "How do I know whom you've been rowdying with? But I am not going to argue with you. You are to obey orders. That's all. Sit down and finish the letter." She was very pale and was summoning all her strength to keep on her feet. In Edgar, a last tiny flame of credulity went out. To tread on the truth and extinguish it as one would a burning match was more than he could stomach. His insides congealed in an icy lump, and everything he now said was in a tone of unrestrained, pointed maliciousness. "So I dreamed what I saw in the hall, did I? I dreamed this bump on my forehead, and that you two went walking in the moonlight and he wanted to make you go down the dark path into the valley? I dreamed all that, did I? What do you think, that I am going to let myself be locked up like a baby? No, I am not so stupid as you think. I know what I know." He stared into her face impudently. To see her child's face close to her own distorted by hate broke her down completely. Her passion flooded over in a tidal wave. "Sit down and write that letter, or----" "Or what?" he sneered. "Or I'll give you a whipping like a little child." Edgar drew close to her and merely laughed sardonically. With that her hand was out and had struck his face. Edgar gave a little outcry, and, like a drowning man, with a dull rushing in his ears and flickerings in his eyes, he struck out blindly with both fists. He felt he encountered something soft, a face, heard a cry.... The cry brought him to his senses. Suddenly he saw himself and his monstrous act--he had struck his own mother. A dreadful terror came upon him, shame and horror, an impetuous need to get away seized him, to sink into the earth; he wanted to fly far away, far away from those eyes that were upon him. He made for the door and in an instant was gone, down the stairs, through the lobby, out on the road. Away, away, as though a pack of ravening beasts were at his heels. CHAPTER XIII DAWNING PERCEPTION After he had put a long stretch of road between him and the hotel, Edgar stopped running. He was panting heavily, and he had to lean against a tree to get his breath back and recover from the trembling of his knees. The horror of his own deed, from which he had been fleeing, clutched at his throat and shook him as with a fever. What should he do now? Where should he run away to? He was already feeling a sinking sensation of loneliness, there in the woods, only a mile or so from the house. Everything seemed different, unfriendlier, unkinder, now that he was alone and helpless. The trees that only the day before had whispered to him like brothers now gathered together darkly as if in threat. This solitariness in the great unknown world dazed the child. No, he could not stand alone yet. But to whom should he go? Of his father, who was easily excited and unapproachable, he was afraid. Besides, his father would send him straight back to his mother, and Edgar preferred the awfulness of the unknown to that. He felt as though he could never look upon his mother's face again without remembering that he had struck her with his fist. His grandmother in Bains occurred to him. She was so sweet and kind and had always petted him and come to his rescue when, at home, he was to be the victim of an injustice. He would stay with her until the first storm of wrath had blown over, and then he would write to his parents to ask their forgiveness. In this brief quarter of an hour he had already been so humbled by the mere thought of his inexperienced self standing alone in the world that he cursed the stupid pride that a mere stranger's lying had put into him. He no longer wanted to be anything but the child he had been, obedient and patient and without the arrogance that he now felt to be excessive. But how to reach Bains? He took out his little pocketbook and blessed his luck star that the ten-dollar gold piece given to him on his birthday was there safe and sound. He had never got himself to break it. Daily he had inspected his purse to see if it was there and to feast his eyes on the sight of it and gratefully polish it with his handkerchief until it shone like a tiny sun. But would the ten dollars be enough? He had travelled by train many a time without thinking that one had to pay, and still less how much one paid, whether ten or a hundred dollars. For the first time he got an inkling that there were facts in life upon which he had never reflected, and that all the many things that surrounded him and he had held in his hands and toyed with somehow contained a value of their own, a special importance. An hour before he had thought he knew everything. Now he realized he had passed by a thousand mysteries and problems without noticing them, and was ashamed that his poor little wisdom had stumbled over the first step it took into life. He grew more and more discouraged, and his footsteps lagged as he drew near the station. How often he had dreamed of this flight from home, of making a dash for the great Life, becoming king or emperor, soldier or poet! And now he looked timidly at the bright little building ahead of him and thought of nothing but whether his ten dollars would bring him to his grandmother at Bains. The rails stretched away monotonously into the country, the station was deserted. Edgar went to the window shyly and asked, whispering so that nobody but the ticket-seller should hear, how much a ticket to Bains cost. Amused and rather astonished eyes behind spectacles smiled upon the timid child. "Whole fare or half fare?" "Whole fare," stammered Edgar, utterly without pride. "Three dollars and thirty-five cents." "Give me a ticket, please." In great relief Edgar shoved the beloved bit of polished gold under the grating, change rattled on the ledge, and Edgar all at once felt immensely wealthy holding the strip of colored paper that guaranteed him his liberty, and with the sound of coin clinking in his pocket. On examining the timetable he found there would be a train in only twenty minutes, and he retired to a corner, to get away from the few people idling on the platform. Though it was evident they were harboring no suspicions, the child, as if his flight and his crime were branded on his forehead, felt that they were looking at nothing but him and were wondering why a mere boy such as he should be travelling alone. He drew a great sigh of relief when at last the first whistle sounded in the distance, and the rumbling came closer and closer, and the train that was to carry him out into the great world puffed and snorted into the station. It was not until Edgar took his seat in the train that he noticed he had secured only a third-class passage. Having always travelled first class, he was again struck with a sense of difference. He saw there were distinctions that had escaped him. His fellow-passengers were unlike those of his first-class trips, a few Italian laborers, with tough hands and uncouth voices, carrying pickaxes and shovels. They sat directly opposite, dull and disconsolate-eyed, staring into space. They must have been working very hard on the road, for some of them slept in the rattling coach, open-mouthed, leaning against the hard, soiled wood. "They have been working to earn money," came into Edgar's mind, and he set to guessing how much they earned, but could not decide. And so another disturbing fact impressed itself upon him, that money was something one did not always have on hand, but had to be made somehow or other. And for the first time he became conscious of having taken the ease in which he had been lapped as a matter of course and that to the right and the left of him abysms yawned which his eyes had never beheld. It came to him now with the shock of suddenness that there were trades and professions, that his life was hedged about by innumerable secrets, close at hand and tangible, though he had never noticed them. Edgar was learning a good deal in that single hour of aloneness and saw many things as he looked out of his narrow compartment into the great wide world. And for all his dark dread, something began to unfold itself gently within him, not exactly happiness as yet, rather a marvelling at the diversity of life. He had fled, he felt, out of fear and cowardice, yet it was his first independent act, and he had experienced something of the reality that he had passed by, until then, without heeding it. Perhaps he himself was now as much of a mystery to his mother and his father as the world had been to him. It was with different eyes that he looked out of the window. He was now viewing actualities, it seemed to him. A veil had been lifted from all things, and they were showing him the core of their purpose, the secret spring of their actions. Houses flew by as though torn away by the wind, and he pictured to himself the people living in them. Were they rich or poor, happy or unhappy? Were they filled with the same longing as he to know everything? And were there children in those houses like himself who had merely been playing with things? The flagmen who waved the train no longer seemed like scattered dolls, inanimate objects, toys stationed there by indifferent chance. Edgar now understood that the giving of the signal was their fate, their struggle with life. The wheels turned faster and faster, along serpentine windings the train made its way downward from the uplands, the mountains took on gentler curves and receded into the distance. The level was reached, and Edgar gave one final glance backward. There were the mountains like blue shadows, remote and inaccessible. And to Edgar it was as though his childhood were reposing up there where they lightly merged with the misty heavens. CHAPTER XIV DARKNESS AND CONFUSION When the train pulled into the station at Bains, the street lamps were already lit, and though the station was bright with its red and white and green signals, Edgar unexpectedly felt a dread of the approaching night. In the daytime he would still have been confident. People would have been thronging the streets, and you could sit down on a bench and rest, or look into the shop windows. But how would he be able to stand it when the people had all withdrawn into their homes and gone to bed for a night's peaceful sleep while he, conscious of wrongdoing, wandered about alone in a strange city? Just to have a roof over his head, not to spend another moment under the open heavens! That was his one distinct feeling. He hurried along the familiar way without looking to right or left until he reached his grandmother's villa. It was on a beautiful, broad avenue, placed, not free to the gaze of passersby but behind the vines and shrubbery and ivy of a well-kept garden, a gleam behind a cloud of green, a white, old-fashioned, friendly house. Edgar peeped through the iron grill like a stranger. No sound came from within and the windows were closed. Evidently the family and guests were in the garden behind the house. Edgar was about to pull the door-bell when something odd occurred. Suddenly the thing that only a few hours before had seemed quite natural to him had now become impossible. How was he to go into the house, how meet his grandmother and her family, how endure all the questions they would besiege him with, and how answer them? How would he be able to bear the looks they would give him when he would tell, as he would be obliged to, that he had run away from his mother? And, above all, how would he explain his monstrous deed, which he himself no longer understood? A door in the house slammed, and Edgar, in a sudden panic at being detected, ran off. When he reached the park he paused. It was dark there, and he expected to find it empty and thought it would be a good place to sit down in and rest and at last reflect quietly and come to some understanding with himself about his fate. He passed through the gateway timidly. A few lamps were burning near the entrance, giving the young leaves on the trees a ghostly gleam of transparent green, but deeper in the park, down the hill, everything lay like a single, black, fermenting mass in the darkness. Edgar, eager to be alone, slipped past the few people who were sitting in the light of the lamps, talking or reading. But even in the deep shadows of the unilluminated pathways it was not quiet. There were low whisperings that seemed to shun the light, sounds mingled with the rustling of the leaves, the scraping of feet, subdued voices, all mingled with a certain voluptuous, sighing, groaning sound that seemed to emanate from people and animals and nature, all in a disturbed sleep. It was a restlessness that had something foreboding in it, something sneaking, hidden, puzzling, a sort of subterranean stirring in the wood that was connected perhaps with nothing but the spring, yet had a peculiarly alarming effect upon the child. He cowered into a diminutive heap on a bench and tried to think of what he was to say at home. But his thoughts slipped away from him as on a slippery surface before he could grasp his own ideas, and in spite of himself he had to keep listening and listening to the muffled tones, the mystical voices of the darkness. How terrible the darkness was, how bewildering and yet how mysteriously beautiful! Were they animals, or people, or was it merely the ghostly hand of the wind that wove together all this rustling and crackling and whirring? He listened. It was the wind gently moving the tree tops. No, it wasn't, it was people--now he could see distinctly--couples arm in arm, who came up from the lighted city to enliven the darkness with their perplexing presence. What were they after? He could not make out. They were not talking to each other, because he heard no voices. All he could catch was the sound of their tread on the gravel and here and there the sight of their figures moving like shadows past some clear space between the trees, always with their arms round each other, like his mother and the baron in the moonlight. So the great, dazzling, portentous secret was here, too. Steps approached. A subdued laugh. Edgar, for fear of being discovered, drew deeper into the dark. But the couple now groping their way in the deep gloom had no eyes for him. They passed him by, closely locked, and they stopped only a few feet beyond his bench. They pressed their faces together. Edgar could not see clearly, but he heard a soft groan from the woman, and the man stammering mad, ardent words. A sort of sultry presentiment touched Edgar's alarm with a shudder that was sensual and pleasant. The couple stayed thus a minute or so, and then the gravel crunched under their tread again, and the sound of their footsteps died away in the darkness. A tremor went through Edgar. His blood whirled hot through his veins, and all of a sudden he felt unbearably alone in this bewildering darkness, and the need came upon him with elemental force for the sound of a friend's voice, an embrace, a bright room, people he loved. The whole perplexing darkness this night seemed to be inside his breast rending it. He jumped up. To be at home, just to be at home, anywhere at home in a warm, bright room, in some relation with people. What could happen to him then? Even if they were to scold and beat him, he would not mind all that darkness and the dread of loneliness. Unconsciously he made his way back to grandmother's villa, and found himself standing with the cool doorbell in his hand again. Now, he observed, the lighted windows were shining through the foliage, and he pictured each room belonging to each window and the people inside. This very proximity to familiar beings, the comforting sense of being near people who, he knew, loved him was delightful, and if he hesitated it was simply to taste this joy a little longer. Suddenly a terrified voice behind him shrieked: "Edgar! Why, here he is!" It was his grandmother's maid. She pounced on him and grabbed his hand. The door was pulled open from within, a dog jumped at Edgar, barking, people came running, and voices of mingled alarm and joy called out. The first to meet Edgar was his grandmother with outstretched arms, and behind her--he thought he must be dreaming--his mother. Tears came to Edgar's eyes, and he stood amid this ardent outburst of emotions quivering and intimidated, undecided what to say or do and very uncertain of his own feelings. He was not sure whether he was glad or frightened. CHAPTER XV THE LAST DREAM They had been looking for him in Bains for some time. His mother, in spite of her anger, had been alarmed when he did not return, and had had search made for him all over Summering. The whole place was aroused, and people were making every sort of dreadful conjecture when a man brought the news that he had seen the child at the ticket-office. Inquiry at the railroad station of course, brought out that Edgar had bought a ticket to Bains, and his mother, without hesitation, took the very next train after him, telegraphing first to his father and to his grandmother. The family held on to Edgar, but not forcibly. On the contrary, they led him with an air of suppressed triumph into the front room. And how odd it was that he did not mind their reproaches, because he saw happiness and love in their eyes. And even their assumed anger lasted only a second or two. His grandmother was embracing him again tearfully, no one spoke of his bad conduct, and he felt the wondrousness of the protection surrounding him. The maid took off his coat and brought him a warmer one, and his grandmother asked if he did not want something to eat. They pestered him with their inquiries and their tenderness, but stopped questioning him when they noticed how embarrassed he was. He experienced deliciously the sensation that he had so despised before of being wholly a child, and he was ashamed of his arrogance of the last few days when he had wanted to dispense with it all and exchange it for the deceptive joy of solitariness. The telephone rang in the next room. He heard his mother's voice in snatches, "Edgar--back. Got here--last train," and he marvelled that she had not flown at him in a passion. She had put her arms round him, with a peculiarly constrained expression in her eyes. He began to regret his conduct more and more, and he would have liked to extricate himself from his grandmother's and aunt's tenderness, to run to his mother and beg her pardon and tell her, by herself, oh, so humbly, that he wanted to be a child again and obey her. But when he rose, with a perfectly gentle movement, his grandmother asked in alarm where he was going. He felt ashamed. If he made a single step it frightened them. He had frightened them all terribly, and they were afraid he was going to run away again. How could he make them understand that nobody regretted his flight more than he did? The table was set, supper had been prepared for him hurriedly. His grandmother sat beside him without removing her eyes from him. She and his aunt and the maid held him fast in a quiet circle, the warmth of which calmed him wonderfully, and the only disturbing thought was that of his mother's absence from the room. If only she could have guessed how humble he was she would certainly have come in. From outside came the sound of a cab drawing up at the door. Everyone gave a start, so that Edgar also was upset. His grandmother went out, he could hear loud voices in the hall, and then it struck him it must be his father who had arrived. He observed timidly that he had been left alone in the room. To be alone even for those few moments made him nervous. His father was a stern man; he was the one person Edgar really feared. He listened. His father seemed to be excited; his voice was loud and expressed annoyance. Every now and then came his grandmother's and his mother's voices in mollifying tones, in attempts, evidently, to make him adopt a milder attitude. But his father's voice remained hard--hard as his foot-treads now coming nearer and nearer, and now stopping short at the door, which was next pulled violently open. The boy's father was a large man, and Edgar felt so very, very thin beside him as he entered the room, nervous and genuinely angry, it seemed. "What got into your head to run away? How could you give your mother such a fright?" His voice was wrathful and his hands made a wild movement. Edgar's mother came in and stood behind her husband, her face in shadow. Edgar made no reply. He felt he had to justify himself, but how tell the story of the way they had lied to him and how his mother had slapped him? Would his father understand? "Well, where's your tongue? What was the matter? You may tell me, you needn't be afraid. You must have had some good reason for running away. Did anyone do anything to you?" Edgar hesitated. At the recollection of the events in Summering, his anger began to flare up again, and he was about to bring his charge against his mother when he saw--his heart stood still--that she was making an odd gesture behind his father's back. At first he did not comprehend. But he kept his eyes fixed on her and noticed that the expression of her face was beseeching. Then very, very softly she lifted her finger to her mouth in sign that he should keep everything to himself. The child was conscious of a great wild joy pouring in a warm wave over his whole body. He knew she was giving him the secret to guard and that a human destiny was hanging in the balance on his child's lips. Filled with a jubilant pride that she reposed confidence in him he suddenly became possessed by a desire for self-sacrifice. He magnified his own wrong-doing in order to show how much of a man he had grown to be. Collecting his wits, he said: "No, no. There was no good reason for my running away. Mamma was very kind to me, but I didn't behave myself, and I was ashamed, and so--and so I ran away." The father looked at his son in amazement. Such a confession was the last thing he expected to hear. His wrath was disarmed. "Well, if you're sorry, then it's all right, and we won't say any more about it to-day. You'll be careful in the future, though, not to do anything of the sort again." He paused and looked at Edgar, and his voice was milder as he went on. "How pale you are, boy! But I believe you've grown taller in this short while. I hope you won't be guilty of such childish behavior again because really you're not a child any more, and you ought to be sensible." Edgar, the whole time, had kept looking at his mother. Something peculiar seemed to be glowing in her eyes, or was it the reflection of the light? No, it was something new, her eyes were moist, and there was a smile on her lips that said "Thank you" to him. They sent him to bed, but he was not now distressed at being left alone. He had such a wealth of things to think over. All the agony of the past days was dissipated by the tremendous sense of his first experience of life. He felt happy in a mysterious presentiment of future experiences. Outside, the trees were rustling in the gloomy night, but he was not scared. He had lost all impatience at having to wait for life now that he knew how rich it was. For the first time that day, it seemed to him, he had seen life naked, no longer veiled behind the thousand lies of childhood he saw it in its complete, fearful, voluptuous beauty. Never had he supposed that days could be crowded so full of transitions from sorrow to joy and back again, and it made him happy to think there were many more such days in store for him and that a whole life was waiting to reveal its mystery to him. A first inkling had come to him of the diversity of life. For the first time, he thought, he understood men's beings, that they heeded each other even when they seemed to be inimical, and that it was very sweet to be loved by them. He was incapable of thinking of anything or anybody with hate. He regretted nothing and had a sense of gratitude even to the baron, his bitterest enemy, because it was he who had opened the door for him to this world of dawning emotions. It was very sweet to be lying in the dark thinking thoughts that were mingled vaguely with dreams and were lapsing almost into sleep. Was it a dream or did Edgar really hear the door open and someone creep softly into his room? He was too sleepy to open his eyes and look. Then he felt a breath upon his face and the touch of another face, soft and warm and gentle, against his, and he knew it was his mother who was kissing him and stroking his hair. He felt her kisses and her tears, and responded to her caresses. He took them as reconciliation and gratitude for his silence. It was not until many years later that he really understood these silent tears and knew they were a vow, of this woman verging on middle age, to dedicate herself henceforth to her child and renounce adventure and all desire on her own behalf. They were a farewell. He did not know that she was thanking him for more than his silence. She was grateful that he had rescued her from a barren experience, and in these caresses was bequeathing him the bitter-sweet legacy of her love for his future life. Nothing of all this did the child lying there comprehend, but he felt it was blissful to be so loved and that by this love he was already entangled in the great secret of the world. When she had withdrawn her hand from his head and her lips from his lips, and with a light swish of her skirts had left the room, something warm remained behind, a breath upon Edgar's mouth. And a seductive longing came upon him to feel such soft lips upon his and to be so tenderly embraced often and often again. But this divination of the great secret, so longed for, was already clouded over by sleep. Once again all the happenings of the past hours flitted through Edgar's mind, once again the leaves in the book of his childhood were turned alluringly, then the child fell asleep, and the profounder dream of his life began. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: actualy=> actually {pg 23} aimlesly=> aimlessly {pg 24} chilren=> children {pg 45} cry or rebuke=> cry of rebuke {pg 48} 
21317	----	A Life's Eclipse, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ This is a short book by G.M. Fenn's usual standards, but you will enjoy reading it. The hero is John Grange, a young gardener on Mrs Mostyn's estate, who finds himself to be in love with Mary Ellis, the daughter of the bailiff, James Ellis. But as he is no more than an under-gardener Ellis is angry with him for even thinking of Mary. There is an accident when John has ascended a large cedar tree that had lost a bough in a gale, and a broken branch needed to be tidied up. John falls from where he was sawing, onto the ground, landing on his head. He recovers from the concussion, but is now blind. His rival not only for Mary's hand but also for promotion to Head Gardener when Dunton, the present Head Gardener, now very old, dies, is Daniel Barnett, who of course gets the job. But he is a nasty man, not very good at his work, while the blind John can do his work almost as well as before, working by touch. Barnett plays a number of most unkind tricks on his rival John. Eventually John disappears without trace and rumour is rife that Daniel Barnett had made away with him, so that he might have a clear run to Mary's hand--not that Mary is interested in him. There is a surprise ending to the story, of course. All the characters are beautifully drawn, and this little book is quite a masterpiece. It was published by the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge, and must have been within their guidelines, without being excessively pious. Do read it--it won't take you long. NH ________________________________________________________________________ A LIFE'S ECLIPSE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. "What insolence!" John Grange's brown, good-looking face turned of a reddish-brown in the cheeks, the warm tint mounting into his forehead, as he looked straight in the speaker's eyes, and there was a good, manly English ring in his voice as he said sturdily-- "I didn't know, Mr Ellis, that it was insolent for a man to come in a straightforward way, and say to the father of the young lady simply-- yes, and humbly--`I love your daughter, sir.'" "But it is, sir, downright insolence. Recollect what you are, sir, only an under-gardener living at the bothy on thirty shillings a week." "I do recollect it, sir, but I don't mean to be an under-gardener always." "Oh, indeed," said James Ellis sarcastically, "but poor old Dunton is not dead yet, and when he does die, Mrs Mostyn is quite as likely to appoint Daniel Barnett to his place as you, and if she takes my advice, she'll give the post to neither of you, but get some able, sensible man from Chiswick." "But, Mr Ellis--" "That will do, John Grange," said the owner of that name pompously. "I know what you are going to say. I am not ashamed of having been only a gardener once, but I am Mrs Mostyn's bailiff and agent now, sir, and, so to speak, your master. Let me hear no more of this nonsense, sir. That will do. But one moment. Have you had the--I mean, does Mary--I mean, does Miss Ellis know that you were going to speak to me this evening?" "No, sir," said John Grange sternly. "I'm only an under-gardener, but I've heard that it was the proper thing to speak out openly first." "Then Mary does not know that you--I mean, that you think about her?" "I hope and believe she does; sir," said the young man warmly, and his eyes flashed, and a proud, joyful look came into his countenance. "Then I beg you will not hope and believe anything of the kind, sir, again. My daughter will do precisely as I wish, and when I part with her, it will be to see her go to a substantial home. Good-evening!" James Ellis tucked his walking-stick under his arm, took off his grey felt hat, drew a red silk handkerchief from the crown, rubbed his bald head, and made himself look hotter as he strode away, while after standing and watching him go toward the bailiff's cottage just outside the park fence at The Hollows on the hill slope, a quarter of a mile away, the young man uttered a sigh and turned in at an open doorway in a high wall, whose top was fringed with young shoots of peaches, nectarines, and apricots, suggestive of the horticultural treasures within. "What a slap in the face!" he muttered. "Under-gardener! Well, that's all right. Give poor old Dunton's place to Dan Barnett! Here, I can't go in now, I must walk this off." John Grange pulled the open door to, so that it fastened with a snap, and turned off to make for the woods, where he could think alone. His way was for a couple of hundred yards toward the pretty villa known as the bailiff's cottage, and he had not gone half that distance when a sudden pang shot through him. For the place stood high, and he caught sight of two figures in the garden, one that of a man, the other that of some one in white muslin and a straw hat, coming toward the gate. The next minute the man was in the road, and half a minute later he was standing talking to Mrs Mostyn's agent, while the white muslin that had been so plainly seen amongst the shrubs had disappeared into the cottage. John Grange's face grew dark with a look of despair, and he did not go off into the woods. Dan Barnett, up there at the cottage talking to Mary, while he had been speaking to her father, and she had come down to the gate with her visitor. Something very like a groan escaped the young man's lips as he crossed the road to lean his arms upon the gate, and looked over into the park, feeling more miserable than ever before in his life. "I'm a poor, weak fool," he thought. "He's good-looking, and knows the way to a girl's heart. Better keep to my nailing and pruning. One from the father, two from Dan Barnett. Regular knock-down blows. Better get up again, go to work and forget it all--if I can." "Nice evening, John Grange. Drop o' rain coming?" "Eh? Yes, I think so, Tummus," said the young man, turning to the dry, quaint old fellow who had spoken, and who now screwed up the bark on his face--it more resembled that than skin--showed three or four ancient, yellow teeth, and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder. "I say--see that? Young Dan Barnett going courtin', and now having it out with Miss Mary's dad. You mark my words, Mr John, sir, if poor old Dunton dies, and Dan Barnett steps into his shoes, there'll be a wedding yonder." "Think so, Tummus?" said John Grange, with a forced smile. "Aye, that's what I think, sir," said the old man, and then showing his gums as well as his teeth, he continued, "and I thinks this 'ere too-- that if I'd been a young, good-looking chap like some one I know, I wouldn't ha' let Dan Barnett shoulder me out, and stand in first with the prettiest and best young lady in these parts. Evening!" "Here, hi! You!" came from behind them, and the person in question strode up, looking frowning and angry. "You ca' me, Mr Dan?" "Yes; did you finish wheeling up that stuff?" "Aye; I fishened it all 'fore I left work. Good-evening." He left the two young men standing together, and there was a peculiar, malicious look in the fresh-comer's eyes as he gave John Grange a short nod. "Mrs Mostyn say anything to you 'bout the cedar?" "Yes; she said the broken stump was to be cut off to-morrow." "Then you'd better get the ladders and ropes ready first thing." "You mean _we_ had better," said John Grange quietly. "No, I don't. I'm not going to break my neck for thirty shillings a week. Heard how Dunton is?" "Very bad. Doctor Manning was here again this evening." "Well, he's nearly ninety--a man can't expect to live for ever. Time he did go." John Grange walked away toward the head-gardener's cottage to ask for the last news, and Daniel Barnett stood watching him with a frown on his rather handsome features. "Poor old Dunton!" said John Grange to himself; "we shall miss him when he's gone." "Hang him!" muttered Barnett, "that's it. I saw him talking to the old man, but he hasn't won yet. Insolence, eh? I like that. The Barnetts are as good as the Ellis's, anyhow. Wait a bit, my lady, and I may take a bit of the pride out of you." Some men have a habit of thinking across the grain. CHAPTER TWO. At seven o'clock next morning John Grange felt better when he stood with Daniel Barnett, old Tummus, and Mary Ellis's father at the foot of the great cedar facing the house, a tree sadly shorn of its beauty by a sudden squall that had swept down the valley, and snapped off the top, where an ugly stump now stood out forty feet from the lawn. Grange felt better, for in spite of his hectoring, triumphant manner, it was plain to see that Daniel Barnett had not sped well with Mary's father, whatever might have been his success with the lady herself. James Ellis was no longer young, and early work before breakfast had grown distasteful; still, he had come to see the broken stump sawn off. The ladder had been raised, and got into position, but it was too short by ten feet, and there was an awkward climb before the man who went up could use the saw or attach the rope to keep the sawn-off stump from falling with a crash. "Well," said Ellis, "what are we waiting for?" Old Tummus chuckled. "Why when I first come to these here gardens five-and-forty years ago, I'd ha' gone up there like a squirrel, Mr Ellis, sir; but these here fine new-fangled gardeners can't do as we did." "Better go up now," said Barnett. "Nay, nay, my lad, sixty-eight's a bit too ripe for climbing trees, eh, Master Ellis?" "Yes, of course," said the bailiff. "Come, get it done." "Do you hear, John Grange?" said Barnett. "Up with you. Better hitch the rope under that big bough, and saw the next. Make it well fast before you begin to saw." "I thought Mrs Mostyn told you to go up and cut it?" said Ellis pompously; "and I heard you tell her how you should do it?" "Or have it done, sir. Here, up with you, John." John Grange felt annoyed at the other's manner in the presence of the bailiff. There was a tone--a hectoring way--which nettled him the more that they were precisely equal in status at the great gardens; and, besides, there were Mary and old Tummus's words. He had, he knew, let this rather overbearing fellow-servant step in front of him again and again, and this morning he felt ready to resent it, as the blood came into his cheeks. "Well, what are you waiting for?" cried Barnett. "Up with you!" "If it was your orders, why don't you go?" retorted Grange. Barnett burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and turned to the bailiff. "Hear that, sir? He's afraid. Ha-ha-ha! Well, well! I did think he had some pluck." "Perhaps I have pluck enough," said the young man, "even if it is an awkward job, but I don't see why I'm to be bullied into doing your work." "I thought so," continued Barnett, "white feather! Talk away, John, you can't hide it now." Old Tummus showed his yellow stumps. "He can't do it, Mr Dan," he chuckled. "You're the chap to go up. You show him how to do it." "You hold your tongue. Speak when you're spoken to," said Barnett fiercely; and the old man chuckled the more as Barnett turned to John Grange. "Now then, are you afraid to go up? Because if so, say so, and I'll do it." John Grange glanced at the bailiff, and then stooped and picked up the coil of rope, passed it over his shoulder, and then seized the saw. He mounted the ladder, and clinging to the tree, stood on the last round, and then climbing actively, mounted the remaining ten feet to where he could stand upon a branch and attach the rope to the stump, pass the end over a higher bough and lower it down to the others. Then rolling his sleeves right up to the shoulder, he began to cut, the keen teeth of the saw biting into the soft, mahogany-like wood, and sending down the dust like sleet. It was a good half-hour's task to cut it through, but the sturdy young fellow worked away till only a cut or two more was necessary, and then he stopped. "Ready below?" he said, glancing down. "All right!" cried Ellis. "Cut clean through, so that it does not splinter." "Yes, sir," shouted Grange; and he was giving the final cuts, when for some reason, possibly to get the rope a little farther along, Barnett gave it a sharp jerk, with the effect that the nearly free piece of timber gave way with a sharp crash, just as John Grange was reaching out to give the last cut. Cedar snaps like glass. Down went the block with a crash to the extent the rope would allow, and there swung like a pendulum. Down, too, went Grange, overbalanced. He dropped the saw, and made a desperate snatch at a bough in front, and he caught it, and hung in a most precarious way for a few moments. "Quick!" he shouted to Barnett; "the ladder!" Ellis and old Tummus held the rope, not daring to let go and bring the piece of timber crashing down. Barnett alone was at liberty to move the ladder; and he stood staring up, as if paralysed by the danger and by the thought that the man above him was his rival, for whose sake he had been, only a few hours before, refused. But it was only a matter of seconds. John Grange's fingers were already gliding over the rough bark; and before Barnett could throw off the horrible mental chains which bound him, the young man uttered a low, hoarse cry, and fell headlong through the air. CHAPTER THREE. "How do you say it happened?" Old Tummus was riding in the doctor's gig back to The Hollows after running across to the village for help; and he now repeated all he knew, with the additions of sundry remarks about these new-fangled young "harticult'ral gardeners who know'd everything but their work." "Come right down on his head, poor lad," he said; "but you'll do your best for him, doctor: don't you let him slip through your fingers." The doctor smiled grimly, and soon after drew up at the door in the garden wall, and hurried through to the bothy where John Grange had been carried and lay perfectly insensible, with Mrs Mostyn, a dignified elderly widow lady, who had hurried out as soon as she had heard of the accident, bathing his head, and who now anxiously waited till the doctor's examination was at an end. "Well, doctor," said Mrs Mostyn eagerly, "don't keep me in suspense." "I must," he replied gravely. "It will be some time before I can say anything definite. I feared fractured skull, but there are no bones broken." "Thank heaven!" said Mrs Mostyn piously. "Such a frank, promising young man--such an admirable florist. Then he is not going to be very bad?" "I cannot tell yet. He is perfectly insensible, and in all probability he will suffer from the concussion to the brain, and spinal injury be the result." "Oh, doctor, I would have given anything sooner than this terrible accident should have occurred. Pray forgive me--would you like assistance?" "Yes: of a good nurse. If complications arise, I will suggest the sending for some eminent man." Many hours elapsed before John Grange opened his eyes from what seemed to be a deep sleep; and then he only muttered incoherently, and old Tummus's plump, elderly wife, who was famed in the district for her nursing qualities, sat by the bedside and shed tears as she held his hand. "Such a bonny lad," she said, "I wonder what Miss Mary'll say if he should die." Mary had heard the news at breakfast-time before her father had returned, but she made no sign, only looked very pale and grave. And as she dwelt upon the news she wondered what she would have said if John Grange had come to her and spoken as Daniel Barnett did on the previous evening. This thought made the colour come back to her cheeks and a strange fluttering to her breast as she recalled the different times they had met, and John Grange's tenderly respectful way towards her. Then she chased away her thoughts, for her mother announced from the window that "father" was coming. A minute later James Ellis entered, to sit down sadly to his breakfast, his silence being respected by mother and daughter. At last he spoke. "You heard, of course, about poor Grange?" "Yes. How is he?" "Bad--very bad. Doctor don't say much, but it's a serious case, I fear. Come right down on his head, close to my feet. There--I can't eat. Only fancy, mother, talking to me as he was last night, and now lying almost at the point of death." He pushed away cup and plate, and sat back in his chair. "`In the midst of life we are in death,'" he muttered. "Dear, dear, I wish I hadn't spoken so harshly to him last night, mother. Fine, straightforward young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped." Mrs Ellis sighed and glanced at her daughter, who was looking wildly from one to the other. "There; I'll get back. Ah! Who's this?" It was Daniel Barnett, who had run up from the bothy; and Ellis hurried out to the door. "What is it?" he cried anxiously. "Old Hannah says, `Will you come on:' She don't like the looks of him. He's off his head." Ellis caught his hat from the peg, and glanced at Daniel Barnett with a peculiar thought or two in his head as the young man looked quickly at the door and window. Barnett caught the glance and felt uncomfortable, for though sorry for his fellow-worker's accident, certain thoughts would intrude relating to his own prospects if John Grange were not at The Hollows. They hurried down to the grounds, mother and daughter watching from the window, and in those few minutes a great change came over Mary Ellis's face. It was as if it rapidly altered from that of the happy, careless girl, who went singing about the house, to the thoughtful, anxious woman. Even her way of speaking was different, as she turned quickly upon her mother. "What was father so angry about last night?" she said. "Did he have a quarrel with poor Mr Grange?" "Well, hardly a quarrel, my dear. Oh, it was nothing." "But he said he was sorry he spoke so harshly to him. Mother, you are keeping something back." "Well, well, well, my darling, nothing much; only young men will be young men; and father was put out by his vanity and conceit. He actually got talking to father about you." "About me?" said Mary, flushing, and beginning to tremble. "Yes, my dear; and, as father said, it was nothing short of impudence for a young man in his position to think about you. I don't know what's come to the young men now-a-days, I'm sure." Mary said nothing, but she was very thoughtful all that day, and during the days which followed, for she had found out the truth about herself, and a little germ that had been growing in her breast, but of which she had thought little till Daniel Barnett came up and spoke, and made her know she had a heart--a fact of which she became perfectly sure, when the news reached her next morning of the sad accident in the grounds. CHAPTER FOUR. Old Hannah's fears were needless, for the delirium passed away; and as the days glided by and poor Grange lay in his darkened bedroom, untiringly watched by old Tummus's patient wife, James Ellis used to take the tidings home till the day when in secret Mary went up afterwards to her own room to sink upon her knees by her bedside, and hide her burning face in her hands, as if guiltily, while she offered up her prayer and thanksgiving for all that she had heard. For the doctor had definitely said that John Grange would not die from the effects of his fall. "Thank you, Tummus, old man," said the patient, one evening about a fortnight after the accident; and he took a bunch of roses in his hand. "I can't see them, but they smell deliciously. Hah! How it makes me long to be back again among the dear old flowers." "Aye, to be sure, my lad. You mun mak' haste and get well and get out to us again. Dan Barnett arn't half the man you are among the missus's orchardses. And look here, I want my old woman home again. You mun look sharp and get well." "Yes: I hope the doctor will soon let me get up. God bless you, Hannah! You've been quite like a mother to me." "Nonsense, nonsense, boy; only a bit o' nussing. Make haste and get well again." "Aye, she'd be a good nuss if she warn't quite so fond o' mustard," said old Tummus. "It's allus mustard, mustard, stuck about you to pingle and sting if there's owt the matter. I like my mustard on my beef. And that's what you want, Master John--some good slices o' beef. They women's never happy wi'out giving you spoon meat." "Hold your tongue, Tummus, and don't talk so much nonsense," said his wife. "Nay, I arn't going to be choked. I s'pose Mrs Mostyn sends you jellies and chicken-broth, and the like?" "Yes, every one is very kind," said Grange. "But look here, have you seen to the mushroom bed?" "Aye." "And those cuttings in the frames?" "You mak' haste and get well, Master John, and don't you worry about nowt. I'm seeing to everything quite proper, for I don't trust Master Dan Barnett a bit. He's thinking too much o' finding scuses to go up to the cottage, and I know why. There, good-night. Get well, lad. I do want to see that bandage from over your eyes next time I come. Old Dunton's mortal bad, they say. Good-night." It was a bad night for John Grange, who was so feverish that the doctor remarked upon it, and the progress was so poor during the next week that the doctor determined to have his patient up, and came one morning in company with the bailiff, talking to him seriously the while. They were very kind to him, helping him to dress, and helped him at last into the outer room, where it was light and cool, and old Hannah, with a face full of commiseration, had placed an easy-chair for the pale, weak man, with his eyes and head bandaged heavily. It so happened that just as John Grange lay back in the chair, while old Hannah stood with her handkerchief to her eyes, crying silently, and James Ellis was behind the chair looking very grave and stern, Daniel Barnett came up to the door of the bothy with a message, which he did not deliver, for the words he heard arrested him, and he drew back listening. "Now, doctor, please," sighed Grange; "it has been so hard to bear all this long time, and I have been very patient. Let me have the bandage off, and, if it's only a glimpse, one look at the bright sunshine again." There was silence for a moment, and then the doctor took the young man's hand, his voice shaking a little, as he said gravely-- "Grange, my lad, three weeks ago I felt that I could not save your life. God has heard our prayers, and let my poor skill avail. You will in a few weeks be as strong as ever." "Yes--yes," said the patient, in tones of humble thankfulness, and then his lips moved for a few moments, but no sound was heard. Then aloud--"Believe me, doctor, I am grateful. But the bandage. Let me see the light." "My poor fellow!" began the doctor, and old Hannah uttered a sob, "you must know." "Ah!" cried John Grange, snatching the bandage from his eyes, the broad handkerchief kept there ever since the fall. "Don't--don't tell me that--I--I was afraid--yes--dark--all dark! Doctor--doctor--don't tell me I am blind!" Old Hannah's sobs grew piteous, and in the silence which followed, James Ellis stole on tiptoe towards the window, unable to be a witness of the agony which convulsed the young man's face. "Then it is true!" said Grange. "Blind--blind from that awful shock." "Ah, here you are, Master Barnett," cried the voice of old Tummus outside. "The doctor. Is he coming over? 'Cause he needn't now." "What is the matter?" said Ellis, stepping out, with Daniel Barnett backing away from the porch before him. "Poor owd Dunton's gone, sir; dropped off dead ripe at last--just gone to sleep." James Ellis looked Daniel Barnett in the eyes, and both had the same thought in their minds. What a change in the younger man's prospects this last stroke of fate had made! CHAPTER FIVE. "I am very deeply grieved, Mr Manning," said Mrs Mostyn, as she sat in her drawing-room, holding a kind of consultation with the doctor and James Ellis, her old agent, and as she spoke, the truth of her words was very evident, for she kept applying her handkerchief to her eyes. "I liked John Grange. A frank, manly fellow, whose heart was in his work, and I fully intended, Ellis, that he should succeed poor old Dunton." "Yes, ma'am; a most worthy young man," said the bailiff. "Worthy? He was more than that. He was fond of his work and proud of the garden. Go in that conservatory, doctor, and look at my orchids. His skill was beyond question." "Your flowers are the envy of the county, Mrs Mostyn," said the doctor. "Ah, well! It is not my flowers in question, but this poor fellow's future. Do you mean to tell me that you can do nothing for him?" "I regret to say that I must," said the doctor gravely. "We try all we can to master Nature's mechanism, but I frankly confess that we are often very helpless. In this case the terrible shock of the fall on the head seems to have paralysed certain optical nerves. Time may work wonders, but I fear that his sight is permanently destroyed." "Oh, dear, dear, dear!" sighed Mrs Mostyn, down whose pleasant old face the tears now coursed unchecked; "and all to satisfy my whims--all because I objected to a ragged, broken branch. But, doctor, can nothing be done?" "I can only recommend one thing, madam--that he should go up to one of the specialists, who will suggest that he should stay in his private infirmary." "Well, why not?" said Mrs Mostyn eagerly. "There is the expense, madam," said the doctor hesitatingly. "Expense? Pooh! Fudge! People say I am very mean. Poor old Dunton used to say so, and James Ellis here." "I beg your pardon, ma'am--" began the bailiff. "Oh, don't deny it, James; you know you have. I heard of it over and over again, because I would not agree to some extravagant folly proposed by you or poor old Dunton for the estate or garden." "But--" "Silence! I remember Dunton said I could spend hundreds on new orchids, and stinted him in help; and you were quite angry because I wouldn't have half-a-mile of new park palings, when the old mossy ones look lovely. But I'm not mean, doctor, when there is a proper need for outlay. Now you go at once and make arrangements for that poor young man to be taken up to town and placed in this institution. Mind, you are to spare no expense. It was my fault that poor Grange lost his sight, and I shall never love my garden again if his eyes are not restored." The doctor rose, shook hands, and went away, leaving the bailiff with his mistress, who turned to him with her brow all in puckers. "Well, James Ellis, I hardly know what to say. It is a dreadful shock, and I don't like to do anything hastily. If there was a prospect of poor Grange recovering I would wait." The bailiff shook his head. "Doctor Manning told me, ma'am, that he was afraid it was hopeless." "And I'm afraid so too," said Mrs Mostyn, with a sigh. "I can't superintend the garden myself, ma'am." "No, Ellis, you have too much to do." "And gardens are gardens, ma'am--ours in particular." "Yes," said Mrs Mostyn, who was thinking of the poor fellow lying at the bothy in darkness. "And with all those glass-houses and their valuable contents, a day's neglect is never recovered." "No, James Ellis." "The men, too, want some one over them whom they must obey." "Of course--of course, Ellis. And you think Daniel Barnett is quite equal to the duties?" "Oh, yes, ma'am. He is quite as good a gardener as John Grange, so I don't think you could do better, ma'am. You see we know him, that he is trustworthy and clever." "Well, well, I'll think about it. I will not decide this morning; but I suppose it will have to be so. I can't go appointing another man directly the breath is out of poor old Dunton's body, and with that poor fellow lying there in misery. Come to me this day week, James Ellis, and I will give my decision." The bailiff bowed and withdrew, to go straight to the gardens, where, quite by accident, of course, Daniel Barnett came along one of the paths, and met him, looking at him inquiringly; but Ellis did not say a word about the subject nearest then to the young man's heart. He asked how the grapes were looking, and had a peep at them and the melons. Then went on through the orchid-houses, reeking with heat and moisture, and at last stood still wiping his head in the hot sunshine. "They do you credit, Barnett," he said. "I'm very glad to see how you have thrown yourself into the gap, and managed now poor John Grange is down; everything looks perfect. I see you have kept the men up to their work." "Done my best, Mr Ellis, of course," said the young man. "Of course, of course. I told Mrs Mostyn I was sure you would. There, I must be off. Good-morning." He started off for the gate, and then turned. "Oh, by the way, Barnett, poor John Grange is to be sent up to town. I thought you would like to hear. But don't say a word to him, and--er-- I'm always at home of an evening if you care to step up and have a quiet pipe with me, and a bit of music before supper. Good-morning." "The wind's changed," said Dan Barnett, with his face flushed up by the exultation he felt. "I'm safe two ways. Poor old Jack Grange! Well, we can't all win." CHAPTER SIX. The week, had passed, and Daniel Barnett had been up to the cottage twice while John Grange lay in the dark. The welcome had been warm enough from James Ellis; Mrs Ellis had been lukewarm and wary. "Ah, well, that will come," said the young man to himself on the previous evening, after he had received his instructions from the bailiff about the fly to the station, and his duties in taking charge of John Grange, and going up with him to the little private infirmary where he was to stay for a few months if necessary. "Poor chap! I'm sorry for him, but, as I said before, we can't all win." The day for John Grange's departure had come, and he lay back upon a little couch fighting hard to bear his misfortune like a man, and think hopefully of his future. Mrs Mostyn had been to see him four times, and spoke in the most motherly way as she prophesied a successful issue to the journey; but only left him more low-spirited as he thought of Mary and his and her future. The couch was close to the open window, where he could feel the warm sunshine, and old Hannah had left him for a short time alone to go and finish packing his little bag, while Daniel Barnett in his best was waiting to see James Ellis, when he came from the house, receive his final instructions, and then have the fly brought to the garden-door for John Grange. He had quite half-an-hour to wait before Ellis appeared, and on joining him held out his hand. "Good-bye, sir," said Barnett, "but I shall see you at the bothy. I'll take great care of the poor fellow." "I meant to congratulate you, Dan Barnett, our new head-gardener," said Ellis. "Mrs Mostyn confirms your appointment. Success to you! Now come on to the bothy, and let's get that poor fellow off. I'll let him know of it by and by--not for a week or two yet." But John Grange, as he lay there, was feeling sure that the appointment would be given to Barnett, and he only sighed in a hopeless way, and felt that it was just. And just then he heard a step and pulled himself together. "Come in," he said, trying to speak cheerily. "No mistaking your fairy footsteps, Tummus. I thought you'd come and say good-bye." "Aye, and come to the station too, my lad. And I mean to come up to the orspittle once a week, to bring you a bit o' fruit and a few flowers, if I have to walk." "Thank you, old man; thank you." "You need a bit o' comfort, my lad, and I want you to get right. That old 'ooman's drying hersen up wi' crying about you. There wean't be a drop o' mysture left in her by and by. Ah! It's a strange world." "It never felt so beautiful before, old man," said John Grange sadly. "Thought I'd try and comfort you up a bit. S'pose you know that Dan Barnett's safe to be the new head?" "Yes, I suppose so, Tummus." "Yah! Means ruins to the grand old place." "Nonsense! Dan is a thoroughly good gardener when he likes." "Aye, when he likes," said the old man; and he suddenly subsided into silence, which lasted some minutes, during which John Grange was very thoughtful. Then, suddenly starting, the invalid said-- "There, old fellow, don't run down a good man. It was to be." There was a deep sigh. "Don't do that, old chap," said John. "It isn't cheering. I don't mind it so very much. But you must go now; I want to think a bit before they fetch me. Good-bye, and thank you and your dear old wife for all she has done. It's no use to fight against it, old man; I'm going to be always in the dark, I know well enough, so you may as well try and train up some dog to lead me about when I come back, for Heaven only knows what's to become of me. But there, say good-bye. My old mother shan't have taught me to kneel down and say every night, `thy will be done!' for nothing. There--shake hands and go," he said, trying to command his trembling voice--"before I break down and cry like a girl, just when I want to act the man." He stretched out his hand again, and it closed, but not upon old Tummus's horny palm, but ringers that were soft and warm, and clung to his; and as that little, soft, trembling hand seemed to nestle there, John Grange uttered a hoarse cry. "Who--who is this?" he whispered then. For answer there was a quick, rustling sound, as of some one kneeling down by the couch, and then there was wild sobbing and panting as a soft, wet cheek was laid against his hands. "Miss Ellis--Mary!" he cried wildly; and the answer came at once. "Oh, John, John, I could not bear it--I could not let you go without one word." CHAPTER SEVEN. In those few joyous moments the darkness became light, dazzling light, to John Grange; misery, despair, the blank life before him, had dropped away, and the future spread out in a vista wherein hope shone brightly, and all was illumined by the sweet love of a true-hearted woman. He would have been less than man if he had not drawn the half-shrinking, half-yielding figure to his heart, and held Mary tightly there as, amidst tears and sobs, she confessed how she had long felt that he loved her, but doubted herself the reality of the new sensation which had made her pleased to see him, while when she met him as they spoke something seemed to urge her to avoid him, and look hard, distant, and cold. Then the terrible misfortune had come, and she knew the truth; the bud grew and had opened, and she trembled lest any one should divine her secret, till she knew that he was to go away believing that she might care for Daniel Barnett; in suffering and mental pain, needing all that those who cared for him could do to soften his pitiable case; and at last, believing that she alone could send him away hopeful and patient to bear his awful infirmity, she had cast off all reserve and come to say good-bye. "And you will not think the less of me?" she whispered appealingly. "Think the less of you!" he cried proudly; "how can you ask that? Mary, you send me away happy. I shall go patient and hopeful, believing that the doctors can and will give me back my sight, and ready to wait till I may come back to you, my own love--for I do love you, dear. This year past my every thought has been of you, and I have worked and studied to make myself worthy, but always in despair, for I felt that you could not care for one like me, and that--" "How could you think it?" she whispered tenderly, as she nestled to him. "I never, never could have cared for him, John, nor for any one but you." And for those brief minutes all was the brightest of life's sunshine in that humble room. There were tears in Mary's sweet grey eyes, and they clung upon the lashes and lay wet upon her cheeks; but that sunshine made them flash irradiant with joy before the black cloud closed in again, and John Grange's pale face grew convulsed with agony, as he shrank from her, only holding her hands in his with a painful clasp; while, as she gazed at him wildly, startled by the change, she saw that his eyes seemed to be staring wildly at her, so bright, unchanged, and keen that it was impossible to believe that they were blank, so plainly did they bespeak the agony and despair in the poor fellow's breast. "John," she cried excitedly, "what is it? Shall I go for help? You are in terrible pain?" "Yes, yes, dear," he moaned; "pain so great that it is more than I can bear. No, no, don't go, not for a minute, dear; but go then, never to come near me more. Don't, don't tempt me. God help me and give me strength." "John, dear," he whispered piteously, as she clung to his hands, and he felt her press towards him till the throbbings of her heart beat upon his wrists. "No, no," he groaned. "Mary, dear, let me tell you while I have strength. I should be no man if I was silent now. I shouldn't be worthy of you, dear, nor of the love you have shown me you could have given." "John, John!" "Don't, don't speak to me like that," he groaned, "or you will make me forget once more, and speak to you as I did just now. I was half mad with joy, beside myself with the sweet delight. But 'tis taking a coward's, a cruel advantage of you in your innocence and love. Mary, Mary dear," he said faintly; and could those eyes which stared so blankly towards her have seen, he would have gazed upon the calm, patient face, upon which slowly dawned a gentle tenderness, as she bent lower and lower as if longing to kiss his hands, which she caressed with her warm breath, while she listened to his words. "Listen, dear," he said, "and let me tell you the truth before you say good-bye, and go back to pray for me--for your own dear self--that we may be patient and bear it. Time will make it easier, and by and by we can look back upon all this as something that might have been." "Yes," she said gently, and she raised her face a little as she knelt by the couch to gaze fondly in his eyes. "I am going away, dear, and it is best, for what we have said must be like a dream. Mary, dear, you will not forget me, but you must think of me as a poor brother smitten with this affliction, one, dear, that I have to bear patiently to the end." "Yes, John," she said, with a strange calmness in her tones. "How could I let you tie yourself down to a poor helpless wretch who will always be dependent upon others for help? It would be a death in life for you, Mary. In my great joy I forgot it all; but my reason has come back. There is no hope, dear. I am going up to town because Mrs Mostyn wishes it. Heaven bless her for a good, true woman! But it is of no use, I know. Doctor Manning knows it well enough. My sight has gone, dear, and I must face the future like a man. You well know I am speaking the truth." She tried to reply, but there was a suffocating sensation at her throat, and it was some moments before she could wildly gasp out--"Yes!" Then the strange, sweet, patient look of calm came back, with the gentle pity and resignation in her eyes as she gazed at him with sorrow. "There," he said, "you must go now. Bless you, Mary--bless you, dear. You have sent gladness and a spirit of hopefulness into my dark heart, and I am going away ready to bear it all manfully, for I know it will be easier to bear--by and by--when I get well and strong. Then you shall hear how patient I am, and some day in the future I shall be pleased in hearing, dear, that you are happy with some good, honest fellow who loves and deserves you; and perhaps too," he continued, talking quickly and with a smile upon his lip, as he tried to speak cheerfully in his great desire to lessen her grief and send her away suffering less keenly--"perhaps too, some day, I may be able to come and see--" He broke down. He could, in his weak state, bear no more, and with a piteous cry he snatched away his hands and covered his convulsed features, as he lay back there quivering in every nerve. And then from out of the deep, black darkness, mental and bodily, which closed him in, light shone out once more, as, gently and tenderly, a slight soft arm glided round his neck, and a cold, wet cheek was laid against his hands, while in low, measured tones, every word spoken calmly, almost in a whisper, but thrilling the suffering man to the core, Mary murmured-- "I never knew till now how much a woman's duty in life is to help and comfort those who suffer. John, dear, I have listened to everything you said, and feel it no shame now to speak out all that is in my heart. I always liked the frank, straightforward man who spoke to me as if he respected me; who never gave me a look that was not full of the reverence for me that I felt was in his breast. You never paid me a compliment, never talked to me but in words which I felt were wise and true. You made me like you, and now, once more, I tell you that when this trouble came I learned that I loved you. John, dear, this great affliction has come to you--to us both, and I know you will learn to bear it in your own patient, wise way." "Yes, yes," he groaned; "but blind--blind! Mary--for pity's sake leave me--in the dark--in the dark." She rose from her knees by his side, and he uttered a sob, for he felt that she was going; but she retained one of his hands between hers in a firm, cool clasp. "No, dear," she said softly; "those who love are one. John Grange, I will never leave you, and your life shall not be dark. Heaven helping me, it shall be my task to lighten your way. You shall see with my eyes, dear; my hand shall always be there to guide you wherever you may go; and some day in the future, when we have grown old and grey, you shall look back, dear, with your strong, patient mind, and then tell me that I have done well, and that your path in life has not been dark." "Mary," he groaned, "for pity's sake don't tempt me; it is more than I can bear." "It is no temptation, John," she said softly, and in utter ignorance that there were black shadows across her and the stricken man, she bent down and kissed his forehead. "Last Sunday only, in church, I heard these words--`If aught but death part me and thee.'" She sank upon her knees once more, and with her hands clasped together and resting upon his breast, her face turned heavenwards, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in prayer, while the two shadows which had been cast on the sunlight from the door softly passed away, James Ellis and Daniel Barnett stepping back on to the green, and standing looking in each other's eyes, till the sound of approaching wheels was heard. Then assuming that they had that moment come up, James Ellis and the new head-gardener strode once more up to the door. CHAPTER EIGHT. Ellis had been so thoroughly astounded upon seeing Mary kneeling by John Grange's side that he had made a quick sign to Barnett to come away; and as soon as they were at a short distance from the door he felt that his action had been ill-judged, and likely to excite the derision of his companion, whom he had begun now to think of as a possible son-in-law. "Wretched--foolish girl!" he said to himself, and leading the way, they both entered the bothy. "Mary!" he cried angrily, "I am here. What is the meaning of this?" Daniel Barnett, who was quivering with jealous rage, expected to see the bailiff's daughter spring to her feet, flushed with shame and dread, at being surprised in such a position, but to his astonishment she hardly stirred, merely raising her head a little to look gently and sadly in her father's face as she said-- "I have come to bid poor John Grange good-bye." "Without my leave!" stormed Ellis, "and like this. Mary! Shameless girl, have you taken leave of your senses?" She smiled at him sadly, and shook her head. "Disgraceful!" cried Ellis. "What will Mr Barnett--what will every one think of your conduct?" He caught her hand in his rage, and drew her sharply away as he turned to John Grange. "And you, sir, what have you to say? Your weakness and injury are no excuse. Everything possible has been done for you. We have all worked for you, and tried to lighten your affliction; even now I have come with Mr Barnett to see you off, and I find my kindness returned by a cruel, underhanded, cowardly blow." "Mr Ellis," began John, with his pale face flushing and his dark eyes wandering as he tried to fix them upon the speaker's face. "Silence, sir! How dare you! How long has this disgraceful business been going on?" "Oh, father, father!" cried Mary, clinging to him; "pray, pray say no more. We are not alone." "No," cried Ellis, who had now worked himself into a towering passion; "we are not alone. Mr Barnett is here, a witness to the way in which this man has prevailed upon you to set all common decency at defiance, and come here alone. How long, I repeat, has this disgraceful business been going on?" Mary was about to speak, but at that moment John Grange raised himself upon his elbow and said firmly-- "One moment, please, Mr Ellis; this is a matter solely between you and me. If Daniel Barnett is here, surely it is his duty, as a man, to go." "I don't take my instructions from you, sir," cried Ellis; "and I beg and desire that Mr Barnett will stay and hear what I have to say to you--you miserable, underhanded, contemptible hound." John Grange flushed, and noted the "Mr" applied again and again to his fellow-worker, and a pang of disappointment shot through him as he fully grasped what it meant. "You are angry and bitter, sir," he said, though calmly, "and are saying things which you will regret. There has been nothing underhanded. That I have long loved Miss Ellis, I am proud to say; but until this present time no word has passed between us, and I have never, as you know, addressed her as a lover." "Oh yes, you say so," cried Ellis angrily. "You talked finely enough the other day, but what about now? So this is the way in which you carry out your high principles, deluding a silly child into coming here for this clandestine interview, and making her--a baby as she is, and not knowing her own mind--believe that you are a perfect hero, and entangling her with your soft speeches into I don't know what promises." "It is not true, sir," said John Grange sadly. "How do I know it is not true, sir? Bah! It is true! I come here and find you and this shameless girl locked in each other's arms." "Father!" cried Mary, snatching away her hand, and before Ellis could arrest her, going back to John Grange's side to lay that hand upon his shoulder, "I cannot stand here and listen to your cruel, unjust words; John Grange is not to blame, it was my doing entirely." "Shame upon you, then!" "No, it is no shame," she cried proudly. "You force me to defend myself before another, and I will speak out now before the man who has for long enough pestered me with his attentions, and whom, during these past few days, you have made your friend and encouraged to come home; let him hear then that I feel it no shame to say I love John Grange very dearly, and that I would not let him leave here, weak, suffering, and in the dark, without knowing that his love was returned." Then, bending down, she took John Grange's hand, and raised it to her lips. "Good-bye!" she said softly. "Mary!" cried her father, beside himself now with rage; and he once more snatched her away. "Yes, father, I am ready," she said quietly; "and you, who are always so good and just, will tell John Grange that you have cruelly misjudged him, before he goes." But James Ellis did not then, for drawing his child's arm through his own, he hurried her away from the bothy, and home in silence to the cottage, where she flung herself sobbing in her mother's arms, and crouched there, listening, while the angry man walked up and down, relieving himself of all he had seen. Mrs Ellis's pleasant countenance grew full of puckers, and she sat in silence, softly patting Mary's shoulder with one hand, holding her tightly with the other, till her husband had ended with-- "Disgraceful--disgraceful, I say. I don't know what Mrs Mostyn would think if she knew." "Well, I don't know, my dear," sighed Mrs Ellis, with the tears gently trickling down her cheeks, and dropping one by one like dew-drops on Mary's beautiful hair. "Mrs Mostyn has been a dear, good mistress to us." "Yes, and a pretty business for her to hear--our child degrading herself like this." "'Tis very sad, James, but Mrs Mostyn made a runaway match with Captain Mostyn." "Eliza, are you mad too?" "No, James, dear; but I'm afraid these are mysteries that men don't quite understand." "Bah!" "But they do not, dear. If you remember, my poor dear dad and your father were very angry about your wanting me. Dad said you were only a common gardener, but I felt--" "Woman, you are as bad as your daughter," raged James Ellis. "Was I a poor blind man?" "No, my dear; for you always had very, very fine eyes, but--" "Bah!" raged out James Ellis; and he went out and banged the door. CHAPTER NINE. John Grange's journey to London was performed almost in silence, for as he sat back in the corner of the carriage, weak and terribly shaken by the scene through which he had passed, Daniel Barnett sat opposite to him, wishing that they did not live in a civilised country, but somewhere among savages who would think no ill of one who rid himself of a useless, troublesome rival. But after a time rage gave way to contempt. He felt that he had nothing to fear from the helpless object in question. Mary never looked more attractive than when she stood up there defending the poor blind fellow before him. "If I could only get her to be as fond of me, and ready to stick up for me like that!" he thought; and he softly rubbed his hands together. "And I will," he muttered. "She's very young, and it was quite natural. She'll soon forget poor old blind Jack, and then--but we shall see. Head-gardener at The Hollows, and James Ellis willing. I shall win, my lad, and step into the old man's shoes as well." He parted from John Grange at the infirmary, and somehow the darkness did not seem so black to the sufferer for some days. For he was full of hope, a hope which grew stronger as the time went by. Then old Tummus came up to see him, and gladdened his heart with old-fashioned chatter about the garden, obstinately dwelling upon the "taters," and cabbages, and codlin and cat's-head apples, when the patient was eager to hear about the orchids, grapes, pines, and melons, which he pictured as he had seen them last. But Mary's name was not mentioned, for John Grange had thought the matter out. It was impossible, he said, and time would soften the agony for both--unless his stay here proved of avail. But the days glided by--a week--a fortnight--a month--then two months, during which specialists had seen him, consultations had been held; and then came the day when old Tummus was up in town again, with flowers and fruit, which John Grange took round the ward from patient to patient, walking slowly, but with little to show that he was blind, as he distributed the presents he had received, and said good-bye to his dark companions. For the verdict had been passed by the profession who had seen him that they could do nothing, and Mrs Mostyn had sent word that Grange was to be fetched back, old Tummus and his wife gladly acceding to the proposal that the young man should lodge with them for a few weeks, till arrangements could be made for his entrance to some asylum, or some way hit upon for him to get his living free from the misery of having nothing to do. "Cheer up, my lad!" said the old man, as they were on their way back. "I do, old fellow," said John Grange quietly. "I have been two months in that place, and it has taught me patience. There, I am never going to repine." "You're as patient as a lamb, my dear," said old Hannah the next day; "and it's wonderful to see how you go about and don't look blind a bit. Why, you go quite natural-like into our bit of garden, and begin feeling the plants." "Yes," he said, "I feel happier then. I've been thinking, Hannah, whether a blind man could get his living off an acre of ground with plants and flowers that he could not see, but would know by the smell." "Well, you do cap me, my dear," said the old woman. "I don't know." And then to herself, "Look at him, handsome and bright-eyed--even if he can't see, I don't see why he shouldn't manage to marry his own dear love after all. There'd be an eye apiece for them, there would, and an Eye above all-seeing to watch over 'em both." And old Hannah wiped her own, as she saw John Grange stoop down and gently caress a homely tuft of southern-wood, passing his hands over it, inhaling the scent, and then talking to himself, just as Mrs Mostyn came up to the garden hedge, and stood watching him, holding up her hand to old Hannah, to be silent, and not let him know that she was there. CHAPTER TEN. "Wait and see, my lad, wait and see," said James Ellis. "There, there: we're in no hurry. You've only just got your appointment, and, as you know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. Very soft, Dan, my boy. Bless 'em, they're very nice though. We grow in the open air; they grow under glass, as you may say. We're outdoor plants; they're indoor, and soft, and want care. Polly took a fancy to poor John Grange, and his misfortune made her worse. He became a sort of hero for her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and I was to come the stern father, and say, You must marry Dan Barnett, what would be the consequences? She'd mope and think herself persecuted, and be ready to do anything for his sake." Daniel Barnett sighed. "There, don't be a fool, man," said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder. "Have patience. My Pol--Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion. She's very young, and every day she'll be growing wiser and more full of commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone." "But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus." "Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled something about him. She's a dear, good mistress, Dan, and I'd do anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She wants to get him into some institution; and if she can't she'll pension him off somewhere. I think he'll go to some relatives of his out Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as your career is concerned. You've got the post he was certain to have had, for the mistress was very fond of John." "Yes; he'd got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir." "Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and-- there, I needn't preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you're as good a gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides for life." "Not quite, sir," cried the young man quietly. "All right; I know what you mean." "Then you consent, sir?" "Oh, no, I don't. I only say to you, wait and see. I'm not going to promise anything, and I'm not going to have my comfortable home made miserable by seeing wife and child glum and ready to burst out crying. I'm not going to force that tender plant, Dan. Mary's a sensible girl, and give her time and she'll see that it is impossible for her to spend her life playing stick, or little dog, to a blind man. She shall see that her father wishes what is best for her, and in the end the pretty little fruit, which is only green now, will become ripe, and drop into some worthy young fellow's hands. If his name is Daniel Barnett, well and good. We shall see. All I want is to see my pet go to a good home and be happy." Daniel Barnett held out his hand. "No, no; I'm going to clinch no bargains, and I'm not going to be bothered about this any more. Your policy is to wait. The seed's sown. I dare say it will come up some day. Now then, business. About Maitland Williams?" "Well, Mr Ellis, you know him as well as I do. Admiral Morgan can't give him a rise because the other men are all right, and he wants to be a step higher, and be all under glass. He has spoken to me twice. He says he wouldn't have done so, only poor John Grange was of course out of it, and he didn't think that we had any one who could be promoted." "That's quite right. He has been to me three times, and I don't see that we could do better. Think you could get on with him?" "Oh, yes, he's all right, sir." "Very well, then; I'm going up to the house to see the mistress about the hay. Nixon wants to buy it again this year." "And take all the mowing off our hands, sir?" "Yes, I suppose you would rather not spare the men to make it ourselves." "Well, sir, you know the season as well as I do. There's no end of things asking to be done." "Yes, I shall advise her to let it go, and I'll ask her to sanction Williams being taken on. He says he can come and fill poor Grange's place at once." They parted, Daniel Barnett to go and begin tying up some loose strands in the vinery, and trim out some side-growth which interfered with the ripening of the figs; James Ellis to walk up to the house and ask to see Mrs Mostyn, who sent out word by the butler that she would be in the library in a few minutes. CHAPTER ELEVEN. Meanwhile there had been tears and trouble at the cottage, and Mary was sobbing in her mother's arms. "But it seems so hard, dear," she whispered; "he's there, and waiting hopefully in the dark for me to go to him and say a few kind and loving words." "That you can't go and say, dear. I know--I know, but you cannot go, my darling. Now, just think a bit: you know what father would say. He is certain to know that you have been, and it would be like flying in his face. Now come, come, do be patient and wait. Some day, perhaps, his sight may come back, and if it did I'm sure father loves you too well to stand in the way of your happiness." "But you don't think as he does, mother dear, so don't say you think he is right." "I'm afraid I must, dear, much as it goes against me to say so. It couldn't be, Mary--it couldn't indeed, my dear; and you know what you told me--how sensible and wise poor John Grange spoke about it himself. It would be a kind of madness, Mary, dear: so come, come, wipe your poor eyes. God knows what is best for us all, and when the afflictions come let's try to bear them patiently." "Yes, mother," cried Mary, hastily drying her eyes. "I will be patient and firm." "And you see, dear, that it would not be right for you to go down to old Hannah's. It would be, as I said, like flying in the face of father, who, I'm sure, has been as nice as could be about all you did that day." "Yes, mother," said Mary, with another sigh. "Then I will be patient and wait." "That's right, my darling. And there, now I'll tell you something I heard from father. Poor John Grange is not forgotten; Mrs Mostyn is trying to place him in a home, and if she doesn't, he's to go to some friends, and she's going to pension him for life." Mary sighed once more, a deeper, more painful sigh, one which seemed to tear its way through her heart, as in imagination she saw the fine manly fellow who had won that heart pursuing his dark road through life alone, desolate, and a pensioner. Up at the house James Ellis was not kept waiting long before there was a rustling sound, and Mrs Mostyn came in through the French window from the conservatory, which ran along one side of the house. She looked radiant and quite young, in spite of her sixty-five years and silver hair, and there was a happy smile upon her lip that brightened the tears in her eyes, as she nodded to her agent cheerfully, and held out a great bunch of newly-cut orchids, which she held in her hand. "Smell those, James Ellis. Look at them. Are they not beautiful?" "Yes, ma'am, and if you sent them to the Guildstone Show they'd take the first prize." "And the plants come back half spoiled. No, I don't think I shall. I have them grown for their beauty and perfection, not out of pride and emulation. You never used to grow me and my dear husband such flowers when you were head-gardener, James." "No, ma'am," said Ellis, smiling at his mistress, as she sat down, drew a great shallow china bowl to her side, and began to daintily arrange the quaint, beautifully-tinted blooms according to her taste; "no, ma'am, but there were no such orchids in those days." "Ah, no! That's forty years ago, James Ellis. Well, what is it this morning?" "About the big oak, ma'am. It is three parts dead, and in another year it will be gone. Of course, it's a bad time of year, but I thought if it was cut down now, I might--" "Don't! Never say a word to me again about cutting down a tree, James Ellis," cried his mistress angrily. The bailiff made a deprecating sign. "Let them stand till they die. Tell Barnett to plant some of that beautiful clematis to run over the dead branches. No more cutting down dead boughs while I live." "Very good, ma'am." "Is that all?" "No, ma'am; about the hay. Mr Nixon would be glad to have it at the market price." "Of course, let Mr Nixon have all you can spare. And now I'm very busy, James Ellis--by the way, how is your wife, and how is Mary?" "Quite well, thank you, ma'am," said the bailiff, hesitating, as he turned when half-way to the door. "I am glad of it. Mind that Mary has what flowers she likes for her little greenhouse." "Thank you, ma'am, she will be very pleased, but--" "Yes! What?" "There was one other thing, ma'am. Daniel Barnett has been speaking to me about help, and there is one of Admiral Morgan's men wants to leave to better himself. I know the young man well. An excellent gardener, who would thoroughly suit. His character is unexceptionable, and he is an excellent grower of orchids." "Oh!" said Mrs Mostyn sharply; "and you want me to engage him to take poor John Grange's place?" "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff respectfully. "The Admiral will recommend him strongly, and I don't think you could do better." "Then I do," cried the lady, bringing down one hand so heavily upon the table that the water leaped out of the bowl on to the cloth. "James Ellis," she said, rising, "come with me." The bailiff stared, and followed the rustling silk dress out through the French window, and along the tiled floors of the conservatory, to the angle where it turned suddenly and went along by the drawing-room. There she stopped suddenly, with her eyes looking bright and tearful once more, as she pointed to the far end and whispered-- "Not do better, James Ellis? Man, what do you say to that?" CHAPTER TWELVE. James Ellis did not say anything to "that" for a few moments, but stood rubbing the bridge of his nose with the hard rim of his hat, which he held in his hand. For there, to his utter astonishment, was John Grange, bright-eyed, erect, and with his face lit up with eager pleasure, busily tying up a plant to the sticks from which its strands had strayed. A few pieces of raffia grass were hung round his neck, his sleeves were turned up, and, evidently in utter ignorance of the fact that he was being watched, he bent over the plant upon its shelf, and with deft fingers traced the course of this branch and that, and following all up in turn, tied those which were loose. After cutting the grass as he tied each knot, he examined the plant all over with his fingers till he found one wanton, wild, unnecessary shoot, and passing the knife-blade down to its origin, he was in the act of cutting it off when James Ellis made a gesture to stop him, but was arrested by Mrs Mostyn, who held up her hand and frowned. By that time the shoot was neatly taken off--cut as a gardener can cut, drawing his knife slightly and cleverly across, making one of those wounds in the right place which heal so easily in the young skin. Then Grange's hands played about the plant for a few minutes as he felt whether it was in perfect balance, and pressed it back a little upon the shelf, measuring by a touch whether it was exactly in its place. Directly after he walked across that end of the conservatory without a moment's hesitation, stopped before the opposite stand, and stretched out his hand to place it upon a pot, about whose contents it began to stray, was withdrawn, extended again, and then wandered to the pots on either side; but only to be finally withdrawn, the poor fellow looking puzzled, and Mrs Mostyn smiled, nodded, and placing her lips close to the bailiff's ear, whispered-- "There used to be another of those white pelargoniums standing there." By this time John Grange's hands were busy at a shelf above, and the lookers-on watched with keen interest for the result, for the flower he sought had been moved on to the higher range, and they were both wondering whether he would find it. They were not long kept in suspense, for John Grange's hand touched one of the leaves the next moment, pressed it gently, raised it to his nose, and a look of satisfaction came into the poor fellow's face as, with a smile, he bent over, lifted the pot from its place, stood it on the floor, and went down on one knee to begin examining the plant all over with fingers grown white, soft, and delicate during his illness. Mrs Mostyn kept on glancing brightly at James Ellis, as if she were saying, "Do you see that? Isn't it wonderful?" And the bailiff stared, and kept on rubbing his nose with the hard brim of his felt hat, while he watched John Grange's fingers run up the tender young shoots, and, without injuring a blossom, busy themselves among those where the green aphides had made a nursery, and were clustering thickly, drawing the vital juices from the succulent young stems. And then bringing all his old knowledge to bear, he knelt down on both knees, so that he could nip the pot between them with the plant sloping away from him, and with both hands at liberty, he softly removed the troublesome insects, those which he failed to catch, and which fell from their hold, dropping on to the floor instead of back among the leaves of the plant. Every flower, bud, and shoot was examined by touch before the pot was once more stood upright, the various shoots tried as to whether they were properly tied up to their sticks, and then the young man rose, lifted a plant from the lower shelf, placed it where the pelargonium had stood, and lastly, after raising it from the floor, and smelling its leaves, arranged it in the place on the shelf where he had left it a couple of days before his accident. The next minute he walked to where another was standing, as if led by a wonderful instinct, though it was only the result of years of care, application, and method, for he had worked in that conservatory till he knew the position of every ornamental plant as well as he knew its requirements, how long it would last, take to flower, and with what other kind he would replace it from one end of the year to the other. Mrs Mostyn and her bailiff stood watching John Grange for quite half-an-hour, in what seemed to the latter almost a miraculous performance, and in those hasty minutes they both plainly saw the man's devotion to his work, his love for the plants he cultivated, and how thoroughly he was at home in the house and interested in what had taken place in his enforced absence. He showed them, by his actions, that he knew how much the plumbago had grown on the trellis, how long the shoots were that had been made on the layer, and his fingers ran from one mazy cluster of buds and flowers to another; hard-wooded shrubby stems were examined for scale, which was carefully removed; and every now and then he paused and placed his hands on the exact place to raise up some fragrant plant--lemon verbena or heliotrope--to inhale its sweet odour and replace it with a sigh of satisfaction. James Ellis watched the young gardener, expecting moment by moment, and, in his then frame of mind, almost hoping to see him knock down some pot on to the tiled floor, or stumble over some flower-stand. But he watched in vain, and he thought the while that if John Grange, suffering as he was from that awful infliction, could be so deft and clever there amongst that varied collection of flowers, his work in the other houses among melons, pines, cucumbers, tomatoes, and grapes would soon grow simplicity itself, for, educated as he was by long experience, he would teach himself to thin grapes by touch, train the fruit-bearing stems of the cucumber and melon vines, and remove the unnecessary shoots of the tomatoes with the greatest ease. There would be a hundred things he could do, and each year he would grow more accustomed to working by touch. And as James Ellis thought, he, an old gardener, shut his eyes fast, and, in imagination, saw before him a fresh growing tomato plant, and beginning at the bottom, felt whether it was stiff and healthy. Then ran up his fingers past the few leaves to the first great cluster of large fruit, removed the young shoots which came from the axils of the leaves, and ran up and up the stem feeling the clusters gradually growing smaller till higher up there were fully-developed blossoms, and higher still tufts of buds and tender leaves with their surface covered with metallic golden down. He started from his musing to gaze open-eyed at his mistress, who had touched his arm, and now signed to him to follow her softly back to the library window, and into the room. "Why, James Ellis!" she said petulantly, "were you asleep?" "No, ma'am, I was shutting my eyes to try how it would be amongst the plants." "Ah," she said, with the tears now brimming up into her eyes; "isn't it wonderful? Poor fellow, I cannot tell you how happy it has made me feel. Why, James Ellis, I had been thinking that he had to face a desolate, blank existence, and I was nearly heart-broken about him, and all the time, as you saw, he was going about happy and light-hearted, actually smiling over his work." "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff rather gruffly, "it seems very wonderful. I don't think he can be quite blind." "What!" "His eyes look as bright as any one else's, ma'am." "You think then that he is an impostor?" "Oh, no, ma'am, I wouldn't say that." "No, James Ellis, you had better not," said his mistress tartly. "Well, you saw what he can do." "Yes, ma'am, and I was very much surprised. I did not know he was here;" and Ellis spoke as if he felt rather aggrieved. "I suppose not," said Mrs Mostyn dryly. "I saw him in old Tummus's garden yesterday, and I walked across and fetched him here this morning to see what he could do in the conservatory, and really, blind as he is, he seems more clever and careful than Daniel Barnett." James Ellis coughed a little, in a dry, nervous way. "And now I repeat my question, what do you say to that?" "Well, ma'am, I--er--that is--" "You want me to engage one of Admiral Morgan's men to take poor John Grange's place?" "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff, recovering himself; "and I don't think, you can do better." "But I don't want another man." The bailiff shrugged his shoulders, and looked deprecatingly at his mistress. "I know you like the garden and houses to look well, ma'am, and we're two hands short." "No, we are not, James Ellis. Old Dunton has done nothing in the garden but look on for years. I only wished for my poor husband's old servant to end his days in peace; and do you think I am going to supersede that poor fellow whom we have just been watching?" "But, pardon me, ma'am, there are many things he could never do." "Then Barnett must do them, and I shall make a change for poor John Grange's sake: I shall give up showy flowers and grow all kinds that shed perfume. That will do. It is impossible for Grange to be head-gardener, but he will retain his old position, and you may tell Barnett that Grange is to do exactly what he feels is suitable to him. He is not to be interfered with in any way." "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff respectfully. "If he is so wonderful now, I don't know what he will be in a few months. Now, you understand: John Grange is to continue in his work as if nothing had happened, and--you here?" For at that moment two hands busy tying up some loose strands of a Bougainvillea dropped to their owner's side, and poor John Grange, who had come up to the window unheard, uttered a low cry as he stood with his head bent forward and hands half extended toward the speaker. "Mrs Mostyn--dear mistress," he faltered, "Heaven bless you for those words!" "God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, John Grange," she said softly, as she laid her hand upon one of those extended toward her as if to reach light in darkness; "should not His servants strive to follow that which they are taught?" The blank, bright eyes gazed wildly toward her, and then the head was bowed down over the hand which was touched by two quivering lips, as reverently as if it had been that of a queen. Five minutes later James Ellis was on his way back to the gardens, thinking it was time that Mary went away from home to begin life as a governess, or as attendant to some invalid dame. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. James Ellis went straight to the gardens, and had no difficulty in finding Daniel Barnett, whose voice he heard sounding loud, though smothered, in the closely-shut orchid-house, where he was abusing one of the under-gardeners. "I don't care--I don't believe it," he cried angrily, as Ellis opened the door slowly; and then came: "Hi! What idiot's that? Don't let all the cold wind in out of the garden. I say that glossum and that cattleya has been moved. Hi! Are you going to shut that door? Oh, it's you, Mr Ellis. I thought it was one of the lads; they will not be careful with those doors." "Send him away," said the bailiff. "You can go," said Barnett shortly, to the man, "and mind, I mean to know who moved those orchids. It was done out of opposition. I changed 'em there, and that's where they're to stand." "Well, I didn't move 'em," growled the man. "Didn't move them, _sir_" cried Barnett; but at that moment the door was closed with a bang. "I shall have to get rid of that fellow, Mr Ellis. He don't like me being promoted, and he has been moving my orchids out o' orkardness. Ha, ha! Not so very bad, that." "He did not move them," said Ellis grimly. "Who did, then?" "John Grange." "John Grange?" "Yes; I dare say he has been here. He has been in the big conservatory ever so long, tying up plants and clearing off dead stuff." "John Grange! What, has he got back his sight?" "No; the mistress fetched him over from old Tummus's cottage, and he has been hard at work ever so long." "But there wasn't no clearing up to do," cried Barnett, flushing angrily. "Wasn't there? Well, he was at it, and you may tell that fellow he won't be wanted, for John Grange is going to stay." Daniel Barnett said something which, fortunately, was inaudible, and need not be recorded; and he turned pale through the harvest brown sun-tan with mortification and jealous rage. "Why, you don't mean to say, Mr Ellis, sir," he cried, "that you've been a party to bringing that poor creature back here to make himself a nuisance and get meddling with my plants?" "No, sir, I do not," said the bailiff sharply; "it's your mistress's work. She has a way of doing what she likes, and you'd better talk to her about that." He turned upon his heel and left the orchid-house, and as soon as he was gone the new head-gardener stood watching him till he was out of hearing, and then, doubling up his fist, he struck out from the shoulder at one of the offending pots standing at a corner--a lovely mauve-tinted cattleya in full blossom--and sent it flying to shivers upon the floor. It was the kind of blow he felt in his rage that he would have liked to direct at John Grange's head, but as in his unreasonable jealous spite it was only a good-sized earthenware pot, the result was very unsatisfactory, for the flower was broken, the pot shattered, and a couple of red spots appeared on Daniel Barnett's knuckles, which began to bleed freely. "That's it, is it?" he muttered. "He's to be kept here like a pet monkey, I suppose. Well, he's not going to interfere with my work, and so I tell him. Don't want no blind beggars about. A silly old fool: that's what she is--a silly old fool; and I should like to tell her so. So he's to come here and do what he likes, is he? Well, we shall see about that. It's indecent, that's what it is. Why can't he act like a man, and take it as he should, not come whining about here like a blind beggar of Bethnal Green? But if he can't see, others can. Perhaps Mr John Grange mayn't stop here very long. Who knows?" Daniel Barnett, for some reason or another, uttered a low-toned, unpleasant laugh, and then began to pick up the pieces of the broken pot, and examine the injured orchid, to see what portions would live; but after a few minutes' inspection he bundled all into a wooden basket, carried it out to the rubbish heap, and called one of the men to sweep up the soil upon the red-tiled floor. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. The days glided by and John Grange's powers developed in a wonderful way. He busied himself about the glass-houses from morning to night, but he did not return to the bothy in the grounds, preferring to go on lodging with old Hannah and her husband. At first the men used to watch him, leaving off their work to talk together when he passed down the garden, and first one and then another stood ready to lend him a helping hand; but this never seemed to be needed, Grange making sure by touching a wall, fence, shrub, or some familiar object whose position he knew, and then walking steadily along with no other help than a stick, and finding his way anywhere about the grounds. "It caps me, lads!" said old Tummus; "but there, I dunno: he allus was one of the clever ones. Look at him now; who'd ever think that he was blind as a mole? Why, he walks as upright as I do." There was a roar of laughter at this. "Well, so he do," cried old Tummus indignantly. "That ain't saying much, old man," said one of the gardeners; "why, you go crawling over the ground like a rip-hook out for a walk." "Ah, never mind," grumbled old Tummus, "perhaps if you'd bent down to your work as I have, you'd be as much warped. Don't you get leaving tools and barrers and garden-rollers all over the place now." "Why not?" "'Cause we, none on us, want to see that poor lad fall over 'em, and break his legs. Eh?" No one did; and from that hour a new form of tidiness was observed in Mrs Mostyn's garden. Daniel Barnett said very little, but quite avoided Grange, who accepted the position, divining as he did the jealous feeling of his new superior, and devoted himself patiently to such tasks as he could perform, but instinctively standing on his guard against him whom he felt to be his enemy. A couple of months had gone by when, one day, Mrs Mostyn came upon Grange in the conservatory, busily watering various plants which a touch had informed him required water. "Do you think it would hurt some of the best orchids to make a good stand full of them here for a couple of days, Grange?" said his mistress. "I have a friend coming down who takes a great deal of interest in these plants." "There is always the risk of giving them a check, ma'am," said Grange quietly; "but if you wouldn't mind the place being kept rather close, and a little fire being started to heat the pipes, they would be quite right." "Oh, do what you think best," said Mrs Mostyn, "and make me a good handsome show by the day after to-morrow. Just there, between these two windows." "If you'll excuse me, ma'am, they would be better on the other side against the house. They would show off better, and be less likely to get a check if a window was opened, as might happen." "Of course, John Grange. Then put them there. I want a good, brilliant show, mind, to please my friend." "They shall be there, ma'am. I'll get a stand cleared at once, ma'am, and put the orchids on to-morrow." By that evening one of the large stands was clear, all but a few flowers to keep it from looking blank, and late on the next afternoon Daniel Barnett encountered old Tummus. "Hullo, where are you going with that long barrow?" "Orchid-house, to fetch pots." "What for?" "Muster Grange wants me to help him make up a stand in the zervyturry." Daniel Barnett walked off muttering-- "I'm nobody, of course. It ain't my garden. Better make him head at once." "Beautiful! Lovely!" cried Mrs Mostyn, as she stood in front of the lovely bank of blossoms; "and capitally arranged, John Grange. Why, it is quite a flower show." That evening the guest arrived to dinner in the person of a great physician, whose sole relaxation was his garden; and directly after breakfast the next morning, full of triumph about the perfection of her orchids, Mrs Mostyn led the way into the conservatory, just as John Grange hurried out at the garden entrance, as if to avoid being seen. "A minute too late," said the doctor, smiling; "but I thought you said that the man who attends to this place was quite blind?" "He is! That is the man, but no one would think it. Now you shall see what a lovely stand of orchids he has arranged by touch. It is really wonderful what a blind man can do." "Yes, it is wonderful, sometimes," replied the visitor. "I have noticed many cases where Nature seems to supply these afflicted people with another sense, and--" "Oh, dear me! Oh, you tiresome, stupid man! My poor flowers! I wouldn't for a hundred pounds have had this happen, and just too when I wanted it all as a surprise for you. That's why he hurried out." "Ah, dear me!" said the great physician, raising his glasses to his eye. "Such lovely specimens, too. Poor fellow! He must have slipped. A sad accident due to his blindness, of course, while watering, I presume." For there, on the red-tiled floor of the conservatory, lay an overturned watering-can, whose contents had formed a muddy puddle, in which were about a dozen broken pots just as they had been knocked down from the stand, the bulbs snapped, beautiful trusses of blossom shivered and crushed, and the whole display ruined by the gap made in its midst. The tears of vexation stood in Mrs Mostyn's eyes, but she turned very calm directly as she walked back into the drawing-room and rang, looking white now with anger and annoyance. "Send John Grange to the conservatory directly," she said to the butler, and then walked back with her guest. Five minutes later John Grange came in from the garden, and the great physician watched him keenly, as the young man's eye looked full of trouble and his face twitched a little as he went towards where he believed his mistress to be. "What is the meaning of this horrible destruction, Grange?" she cried. "I don't know, ma'am," he replied excitedly. "I came in and found the pots all down only a few moments ago." "That will do," she said sternly, and she turned away with her guest. "Even he cannot speak the truth, doctor. Oh, what cowards some men can be!" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. Mrs Mostyn said but little more, though she thought a great deal. John Grange gave her his explanation. He had, he said, been into the conservatory twice that morning; and on the second visit brought the can of water to give the orchids a final freshening, when he felt something crush beneath his feet, and, startled and horrified at finding what was wrong, he had dropped the pot of water and added to the mishap. Mrs Mostyn said, "That will do," rather coldly; and the young man went away crushed, feeling that she did not believe him, and that the morning's business had, in her disappointment, cast him down from his high position. A day or two later he tried to renew the matter, but he received a short "That will do"; and, humbled and disheartened, he went away, feeling that his position at The Hollows would never be the same again. It was talked over at the cottage, where Mary listened in agony. "Pity he did not own to having met with an accident at once," said her father. "Of course it is no more than one expected, it was sure to come some time; but it was a pity he was such a coward and took, refuge in a lie. Just like a child: but, poor fellow, his accident has made him weak." Mary flushed up in her agony and indignation, for it was as if her father had accused her of untruthfulness; but an imploring look from her mother, just as she was going to speak, silenced her, and she suffered to herself till her father had gone, and then indignantly declared that John Grange was incapable of telling a lie. The trouble was discussed too pretty largely at old Hannah's cottage, where Tummus's wife gave it as her opinion that it was "one of they dratted cats." They was always breaking something, and if the truth was known it was "the missus's Prusshun Tom, as she allers called Shah." "I don't want to accuse anybody," said John Grange sadly, as he sat with a piteous look in his blank eyes; "but I'm afraid one of the servants must have stumbled up against the stand, and was then afraid to speak." "Burr-urr!" growled old Tummus, who was devouring his late meal--a meat tea, the solid part consisting of a great hunch of bread and upon it a large piece of cold boiled, streaky, salt pork. "Don't make noises like that at the table, Tummus," said his wife. "What will Mr Grange think of you?" "Only said `Burr-urr!'" grumbled old Tummus. "Well, you shouldn't; and I do wish you would use the proper knife and fork like a Christian, and keep your pork on your plate." "This here's quite sharp enough, missus," said the old man, cutting the piece of pork with the blade of his great pruning-knife, and re-arranging the piece under his perfectly clean but dirty-looking, garden-stained thumb. "But it looks so bad, cutting like that; and how do we know what you used that knife for last." "Well, Muster John Grange can't see, can he?" "No, no, I cannot see, man," said Grange sadly. "Go on in your own way as if I were not here." "Burr-urr!" growled old Tummus again. "Why, what is the matter with the man?" cried his wife. "Have you not meat enough?" "Aye, it's right enow. I was only thinking about them orchards. I know." "Know what?" said his wife. "Who done it. I see him go there and come away." "What?" cried John Grange excitedly, as he turned his eyes towards the old gardener. "I see Muster Dan Barnett come away from the conservatory all in a hurry like, d're'ckly after you'd been there." "You saw Dan Barnett?" "Aye, that's so. I see him: did it out o' spite 'cause the missus didn't give him the job." "Tummus, what are you a-saying of?" cried his wife, as the old man's words made Grange start excitedly from his chair. "Why, if Dan'l Barnett heared as you said that, you'd be turned away at a moment's notice." "I don't keer; it's the solomon truth," said old Tummus, cutting off a cubic piece of pork and lifting it from his bread with the point of his pruning-knife. "It can't be anything of the sort, so hold your tongue. There, there, Mr Grange, my dear. Don't you take any notice of his silly clat. Have another cup of tea: here's quite a beauty left." "You say you saw Daniel Barnett come from the conservatory that morning?" cried Grange excitedly; and there was a wild look of agony in his eyes as he spoke. "Nay, nay, he didn't, my dear," cried old Hannah; "it's all his nonsense. Just see what you've done, Tummus, with your rubbishing stuff." "Aye, but I did see him come out, and I see him go in all of a hurry like," said old Tummus sturdily. "Where were you?" "In the shrubbery, raking up the dead leaves as he told me to the night afore, and forgotten as I was there so near." "And you were busy raking the leaves?" said Grange. "Nay, I warn't; I was a-watching on him, and left off, for I didn't see what he wanted there." "No, no, it's impossible; he would have been so careful," said Grange hurriedly. "Keerful?" cried old Tummus contemptuously: "he did it o' purpose. I know: out o' spite." "Tummus, you're driving us in a coach and four into the workhouse," cried his wife passionately. "Good job too. I don't keer. I say Dan Barnett did it out o' spite, and I'll go straight to the missus and tell her." "No," said John Grange sternly. "Not a word. What you say is impossible. Daniel Barnett does not like me, and he resents my being here, but he could not have been guilty of so cowardly, so contemptible an act." "Burr-urr!" growled old Tummus; "wouldn't he? I know." "Whatever you know," said John Grange sternly, "you must keep to yourself." "What, and let the missus think you done it?" "The truth comes to the surface some time or another," said John Grange very firmly. "I cannot believe this is the truth, but even if it is I forbid you to speak." "Yes; he'd better," put in old Hannah, shaking her head severely at her husband; and the meal was finished in silence. Another month had passed, and John Grange's position remained unchanged. He worked in the houses, and tied up plants by the green walks; but Mrs Mostyn never came round to stand by his side and talk to him regarding her flowers, and ask questions about the raising of fresh choice plants for the garden. In those painful minutes he had fallen very low in her estimation, and was no longer the same in her eyes, only the ordinary gardener whom she kept on out of charity, and whom she would keep on to the end of her days. John Grange felt it bitterly, and longed to get away from a place which caused him intense agony, for, from time to time, he could not help knowing that Daniel Barnett went up to smoke a pipe with James Ellis, and talk about the garden. But the sufferer was helpless. He could not decide what to do if he went away, for there was no talk now of getting him into an asylum; and in spite of all his strong endeavours and determination to be manly and firm, he felt that it would be impossible to go away from The Hollows and leave Mary Ellis. From time to time Barnett saw little things which convinced him that so long as John Grange was near he would have no chance of making any headway with the object of his pursuit, and this made him so morose and bitter that he would often walk up and down one of the shrubberies on dark nights, inveighing against his rival, who still did not accept his position, but hung on in a place where he was not wanted. "The girl's mad about him," he muttered, "absolutely mad, and--" He stopped short, thoroughly startled by the thoughts which came into his mind. It was as if a temptation had been whispered to him, and, looking sharply round in the darkness, he hurried back to the bothy. That night he lay awake tossing about till morning. That very day he had encountered John Grange twice at the end of the long green walk, with its sloping sides and velvet turf, at the top of which slopes were long beds filled with dahlias. These John Grange was busy tying up to their sticks, and, as if unable to keep away, Barnett hung about that walk, and bullied the man at one end who was cutting the grass by hand where the machine could not be used; and at last made the poor fellow so wroth that he threw down his scythe as soon as Barnett had gone, and said he might do it himself. Barnett came to the other end a couple of hundred yards away, and began to find fault with the way in which the dahlias were being tied up. But John Grange bore it all without a word, though his lips quivered a little. This was repeated, and Grange felt that it was the beginning of a course of persecution to drive him away. Barnett went down the long green path till nearly at the end, when the dinner-bell began to ring, and just then he came upon the scythe lying where the man had thrown it in his pet. "Humph!" ejaculated Barnett. "Well, he won't have Mrs Mostyn to take his part. Pretty thing if I can't find fault with those under me." At that moment he turned, and there, a hundred yards away, was John Grange coming along to his dinner, erect, and walking at a fair pace along the green walk, touching the side from time to time with his stick so as to keep in the centre. The idea came like a flash, and Daniel Barnett glanced round. No one appeared to be in sight, and quick as thought it was done. One sharp thrust at the bent handle was sufficient to raise the scythe blade and swing it round across the green path, so that the keen edge rose up and kept in position a few inches above the grass right in John Grange's path as he came steadily on. The next moment Barnett had sprung among the bushes, and was gone. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. The late Albert Smith, in his _Christopher Tadpole_, describes a lady whose weakness was periwinkles. Old Hannah likewise had a weakness, but it was not for that unpleasant-looking curly mollusc which has to be wriggled out with a pin, but, as she expressed it, "a big mellow Williams pear with a maddick in it." Old Hannah's "maddick" was, of course, a maggot in north-country language, but it was not that she had a liking for the larva of a fly, but for the fruit in which that maggot lived for as a gardener's wife she knew well enough that very often those were the finest pears, the first to ripen, that they fell off the tree and were useless for the purpose of dessert, and were often left to rot. So that, knowing well his wife's weakness, old Tummus would pick up a fallen pear when he saw it under the tree in September, show it to old Dunton, who would nod his head, and the destination of that pear would be Tummus's pocket. Now there was a fine old pyramid pear-tree not far from the green walk, and while hoeing away at the weeds that morning, where the rich soil made them disposed to grow rampant, old Tummus came upon "the very moral" of the pear his old woman would like. It was big, mellow, and streaked with vermilion and patched with gold; and had evidently lain there two nights, for its fragrant odour had attracted a slug, which had carved a couple of round cells in the side, close to where the round black hole betrayed where the maggot lived, and sundry other marks showed that it was still at hand. Tummus picked up that pear and laid it in the green cup formed by a young broccoli plant, went on with his hoeing till the bell rang, and was half-way to the gate, stick and lunch-basket in hand, when he remembered the pear, and hurried back--that is to say, he walked back-- not quite so slowly as usual, for Tummus never ran. A man that came from "his parts" remembered that the old man had been known to run once, at some cottagers' festival, but that was ages before, and ever since he had walked very deliberately. Anyhow, he found the pear, and was returning to cut across the green path, when he caught sight of Daniel Barnett, and stopped short. "I forgetted as poor old Dunton's dead," he thought, "He'll turn nasty if I ask him about the pear; and what's he a-doing of?" Old Tummus peered through a great row of scarlet-runners and stared at his superior, and saw him bend over something on the green path, and then dart in among the bushes and disappear. "Now what is he doing of?" old Tummus muttered. "Not a-going to--Why here comes poor Master Grange. Well, he couldn't have seen him. Not a-setting o' no more traps, is he?" Old Tummus watched for a moment or two, and then walked right across the borders to reach the green path, breathless, just before John Grange came up, and shouted loudly-- "Ware well!" It was just in time, for in another instant the blind man's ankle would have struck severely against the keen scythe edge, which by accident or malignant design was so placed that its cut would have proved most dangerous, that is to say, in a slightly diagonal position--that is, it would have produced what is known to swordsmen as a draw-cut. But the poor fellow escaped, for, at the first warning of danger he stopped short, erect in his place, with his nostrils widening and face turned towards the speaker. "Well?" he cried. "Impossible! I am three parts of the way along the green path." "Aye, that's so, Muster Grange," said old Tummus, carefully removing the scythe, and placing it in safety by hooking the blade high up in a dense yew-tree. "No well here, but I thought it best any way to stop you." "To stop me? Why?" cried Grange. "'Cause some one as ought to be kicked out o' the place left his scythe lying across the grass ready for you to chop your shins. It's all right now." They walked on in silence till they reached a gate opening upon the green meadow, where John Grange stopped short with his hand resting upon the upper bar. "What is it, my lad?" said old Tummus. "I was only thinking of how helpless I am. I thank you, Tummus," he said simply, as he turned and held out his hand. "I might have cut myself terribly." "Aye, you might, my lad. There, go on to your dinner, and tell the missus I shall be there directly." John Grange wrung the old man's hand, and went on in perfect ignorance of the trap that had been laid, with the idea that if he were injured and had to go to a hospital once again, it was not likely that he would return to the gardens; while old Tummus went off to the tool-shed, a quiet, retired nook, suitable for a good think, to cogitate as to what he should do under the circumstances. His first thought was to go straight to Mrs Mostyn, and tell her what he had seen, and also about the orchids, but he argued directly that his mistress would not believe him. "For I didn't see him upset the orchards, and as to this here business," he thought, "nobody wouldn't believe as a human being would go and do such a thing. Dunno as I would mysen if I hadn't seen it, and I arn't quite sure now as he meant to do it, though it looks as much like it as ever it could. He's got his knife into poor John Grange, somehow, and I don't see why, for the poor fellow arn't likely to do much harm to anybody now." Then he considered for a bit as to whether he should tell John Grange what he had seen; but he concluded that he would not, for it would only make the poor fellow miserable if he believed him. Old Tummus was still considering as to the best course when the two o'clock bell rang, and he jumped up to go back to his work. "Never mind," he thought, with a grin, "I dessay there'll be a few cold taters left, and I must have them with my tea." That same evening, after old Tummus had finished a meal which more than made up for his abstemiously plain dinner, he made up his mind to tell John Grange out in the garden. "For," said he to himself, "I mayn't be there next time there's a scythe across the path, and who knows but what some day it may be the well in real airnest; Dan Barnett may leave the lid off, or uncover the soft-water tank, and the poor chap be drowned 'fore he knows it." But when he went out he found his lodger looking so happy and contented, tying up the loose shoots of the monthly rose which ran over the cottage, that he held his tongue. "It arn't my business," he argued, and he went off to meet an old crony or two in the village. "Don't let any one run away with the house while I'm gone, Mr John," said old Hannah, a few minutes later. "I'm going down to the shop, and I shan't be very long." Grange nodded pleasantly, and went on with his work. That night Mary Ellis sat at her open window, sad and thoughtful, inhaling the cool, soft breeze which came through the trees, laden with woodland scents. The south-eastern sky was faintly aglow, lit up by the heralds of the rising moon, and save the barking of a dog up at the kennels, all was still. She was thinking very deeply of her position, and of Daniel Barnett's manner towards her the last time they met. It was plain enough that her father favoured the head-gardener's visits, and in her misery her thoughts turned to John Grange, the tears falling softly the while. All at once she started away from the window, for, plainly heard, a low, deep sigh came from the dark shadow of the trees across the road. Daniel Barnett? John Grange? There so late? Who could it be? Her heart said John Grange, for the wish was father to the thought. But she heard nothing more for a few minutes, and then in a whisper, hardly above the breath, the words-- "Good-bye--for ever, perhaps--good-bye!" Then came the hurrying sound of steps on the dewy grass at the side of the road, and the speaker was gone, leaving Mary leaning out of the window, excited and trembling violently, while her heart beat in the stillness of the night as if it were the echo of the hurried pace rapidly dying away. "It could not be--it could not be," she sighed at last, as she left the window to prepare for bed. "And yet he loves me so dearly. But why should he say that?" She stopped in the middle of the room, and the words seemed to repeat themselves-- "Good-bye--for ever, perhaps--good-bye!" The tears fell fast as she felt that it was so like John Grange in his manly, honourable way of treating their positions. "He feels it all so terribly that it would be like tying me down--that it would be terrible for me--because he is blind." She wiped her eyes, and a bright smile played about her lips, for there, self-pictured, was a happy future for them both, and she saw herself lightening the great trouble of John Grange's life, and smoothing his onward course. There was their happy home with her husband seeing with her eyes, guided always by her hand, and looking proud, manly, and strong once more as she had known him of old. "It will only draw us closer together," she said softly; "and father will never refuse when he once feels it's for my happiness and for poor John's good." But the smile died out as black clouds once more rose to blot out the pleasant picture she had formed in her mind; and as the mists gathered the tears fell once more, hot, briny tears which seemed to scald her eyes as she sank upon her knees by the bedside and buried her face in her hands. That night Mary Ellis's couch remained unpressed, and the rising sun shone in at the window upon her glossy hair where she crouched down beside her bed. It was a movement in the adjoining room which roused her from the heavy stupor into which she had fallen, for it could hardly be called a natural sleep, and she started up to look round as if feeling guilty of some lapse of duty. For a few minutes she suffered from a strange feeling of confusion accompanied by depression. Then by degrees the incidents of the past night came clearly to her mind, and she recalled how she had sunk down by her bed to pray for help and patience, and that the terrible affliction might be lightened for him she loved, and then all had become blank. A few minutes before Mary's face had looked wan and pale, now it was suffused by a warm glow that was not that of the ruddy early morning sun. For the hope had risen strongly in her breast that, in spite of all, the terrible affliction would be lightened, and by her. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. Four days elapsed, and Mrs Ellis noticed a change in her child. Mary had been more than usually attentive to her father, and James Ellis had noticed and looked pleased. "'Tis going off, mother," he said one evening. "Of course it hit very hard at the time, poor little lass, for she felt very fond of him, I suppose; but I always said to myself that time would heal the sore place, and, bless her, it is doing it. You've noticed how much brighter she seems?" "Yes, I've noticed," said Mrs Ellis, nodding her head as she prepared the supper. "She was actually singing gently to herself this morning over her work, just as she used to, and you don't know, James dear, what a lot of good it did me." "Oh, yes, I do--oh, yes, I do," said the bailiff, nodding his head. "Of course it would, mother." "Yes, dear, it did, for it has been cruel work for me to see her going about the house in that heart-breaking way." "Humph! Of course, and for me too." "No, James, you're at home so little. You have your meals and sit with me of an evening, and at such times there's something going on to make the poor dear busy. But as soon as you're out of sight it has been dreadful again. I've seen a deal more of her poor heart-breaking than you have, and there have been times when--" "Heart-breaking! Stuff and nonsense!" cried James Ellis petulantly. "Ah, you don't know," said his wife, shaking her head at him sadly. "Don't know what, you silly woman? There, that sounds like heart-breaking, doesn't it?" For at that moment, plainly heard, came the sound of Mary's voice singing the old English song, "Robin Adair"; and as the notes reached his ear, James Ellis smiled, held his head on one side, swayed it to the melody, and began softly to hum over the plaintive tune. "_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," sang James Ellis. "Well done, little lassie! Talk about a voice, mother, why it's as sweet as a bird's." "Yes, dear, but I wish she wouldn't sing such sad things--it puts me in mind of the robins in the autumn time." "I wish you wouldn't be so melancholy, mother. You're enough to put a whole regiment of soldiers out of spirits, let alone a poor girl. Here, hold your tongue now. Here she comes." Footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the foot was more springy than it had been of late, as Mary entered the room. "Ready for supper, father dear?" said Mary, going behind his chair, placing her arms about his neck, and drawing his head back so that she could lay her cheek against his forehead. "Ready, my pet? Of course I am;" and "_Rob_--_in_--_er_--_her_--_dair_," he sang. "That's the way. I'm glad to hear you tune up a bit. It's like the birds in spring corn: and mother wants it, for of all the melancholy old women that ever lived, she's about the worst." _Click_! "Hallo! Who's that at the gate? Just look, dear." Mary went to the window, but there was no need, for she knew the step; and as her mother glanced at her, she saw the girl's face harden as she said-- "Mr Barnett, father." "Humph! What does he want to-night?" muttered Ellis. "Let him in, my dear; and, Mary, my girl, don't run away out of the room." Mary was silent, and a tapping came at the door, evidently administered by the head of a stick. "Evening, Miss Mary," said the visitor briskly. "Nice growing weather. Father at home?" "Yes, I'm at home. Want me, Daniel Barnett?" "Well, yes, Mr Ellis, sir, there's a little bit o' business I want to see you about. I ought to have asked you this morning and down at the gardens, but somehow I've always got such a lot of things on my mind there that a lot of 'em slip out again." "Come in then, come in then," said Ellis. "Not if it's disturbing you, sir," protested the visitor. "Say the word, and I'll go and come up another evening. I don't mind a walk, Miss Mary," he added, in a confidential way. "Business, business, Daniel Barnett! And there's nothing like getting it over," said Ellis, as, after a good deal of preliminary shoe-rubbing, Barnett stepped to the door of the sitting-room, and then stopped short in a very apologetic way. "Why, you're just going to supper. I'd best come up to-morrow night." James Ellis felt in the best of humours, and he smiled. "Well," he said, "if you come to-morrow evening, I suppose I shall have some supper then. Sit down, man, and out with it." "Oh, thank you, Mr Ellis, and with many apologies to you, Mrs Ellis, ma'am, and to you too, Miss Mary." "Why, hallo! Daniel Barnett. Been to the bookseller's lately?" "Eh? No, sir, I haven't been to the town for a fortnight past," said Barnett wonderingly. "Oh," said the bailiff, with a knowing look at his wife and daughter; "I thought perhaps you'd bought and been studying up _Etiquette for Gentlemen_." "No, no, sir! Ha, ha, ha! That's a good one, Mr Ellis. Oh, no, sir, I'm only a rough one, and what I know of etiquetty came up natural like--like--" "Mushrooms?" "That's a good one too!" cried Barnett, with forced gaiety. "He's having his little joke at me, Miss Mary." "There, never mind them," said the bailiff, "let's have the business and get it over. What is it?" "Of course, sir. It won't take long." "Shall we go in the kitchen, James?" said Mrs Ellis. "Eh, ma'am?" cried the young man eagerly. "Oh, no, pray don't let me drive you away, it's only garden business." "They're not going," said Ellis, half jocularly. "Now then, what is it, my lad?" "Well, it's about the gravel paths, Mr Ellis," said the young man, leaning forward, after wiping his damp forehead, and speaking confidentially. "I'm getting a bit anxious about them." "Glad to hear it, my lad. I was always proud o' my paths in the old days." "And so am I, sir. If the gravel paths in a garden's kept right there isn't so very much the matter." "Humph! Well, I don't go so far as that, Daniel Barnett, but paths go a long way. So you're ashamed of their being so weedy, eh?" "Weedy, sir," said the young man, flushing. "Why those paths--Oh, I see! Ha ha! He's chaffing me again, Miss Mary." Mary did not even smile, and the visitor looked uncomfortable, his own face growing serious again directly. "It's a long time since they've been regravelled, Mr Ellis, sir, and as I could spare a bit of time, I thought, if you were not much pressed up at the farm, you might let me have a hundred loads of gravel carted from the pit." "Take a lot of time and very hard work for the horses," said the bailiff, pursing up his lips. "Yes, sir, I calculated all that, but it would be a wonderful improvement to my paths, and they'd pay for doing." "I don't want to spare the carts, Daniel Barnett; but I agree with you it would be a great improvement, and I want Mrs Mostyn to feel that you are doing justice to the place, so I suppose I must say yes." "Thank you, sir, thank you," cried Barnett, for he could feel the strength of the encouragement, and knew how much it meant. "There," he continued, rising very slowly and glancing at mother and daughter as he spoke, "I'll start two men picking up the big path, and I s'pose you'll be sending down the gravel almost any time." "They shall begin soon and get it over." "Thank you, sir; then I'll say good-night now. Good-night, Mrs Ellis. Good-night, Miss Mary." "What, won't you stop and have a bit of supper with us, Daniel?" said the bailiff. Wouldn't he! And "Daniel" too! He dropped down into his chair muttering something about its being very kind, and that he thought he wouldn't mind a morsel, but he looked in vain for a welcoming smile from Mary, who, without a word, slowly left the room, and returned as silently as she went, but with fresh knives and forks, and a couple more plates. "But she didn't put 'em next to hers," thought Daniel Barnett, most unreasonably, for there was the whole opposite side of the table at liberty, and she laid a place for him there. It was of course what he had been looking for. He had come expecting to be asked to stay, and as soon as they were all seated he told himself that it was all right, and he stared hard at the gentle face across the table and started various topics of conversation, directed at Mary, her father good-humouredly helping him with a word now and then, while Mrs Ellis looked on and attended to the wants of her guest. "Yes, she's coming round at last," thought Daniel Barnett; for, whenever she was addressed, Mary replied in a quiet, gentle way, and once entered into the conversation with some word of animation, making the bailiff look across the table at his wife, and give her a nod, as much as to say-- "Now then, who's broken-hearted now?" But Mrs Ellis only tightened her lips and said to herself-- "Yes, it's all very well; but fathers don't understand their girls like mothers do. Women know how to read women and men don't, and never will--that's my humble opinion about that--and I wish Daniel Barnett would go--" Daniel Barnett was a clever fellow, but like many sharp men he could be too much so sometimes. Metaphorically, he was one of those men who disdained the use of stirrups for mounting a horse, and liked to vault into the saddle, which he could do with ease and grace, but sometimes he would, in his efforts to show off, over-leap himself--vaulting ambition fashion--and come down heavily on the other side. He performed that feat on the present occasion at supper, for, in his blundering way, now that circumstances had occurred which made him feel pretty safe, he thought it would be good form to show Mary what a fine, magnanimous side there was in his character, and how, far from looking upon John Grange as a possible rival, he treated him as a poor, unfortunate being, for whom he could feel nothing but pity. "Rather strange business, wasn't it, about poor Grange, Mr Ellis, eh?" Mary started. Mrs Ellis thrust her hand beneath the table-cloth to give her daughter's dress a twitch, and Ellis frowned and uttered a kind of grunt, which might have meant anything. Any one else would have known by the silence that he had touched dangerous ground. Daniel Barnett felt that it was an opportunity for him to speak. "I am very sorry for the poor fellow," he said; "it seems so sad, but it is no more than I expected." Mary turned white and cold. "You don't know where he has gone, Mr Ellis?" "No," said the bailiff shortly. "No; I thought you said so. Poor chap! I did everything I could to make matters easy for him, and selected little jobs that I thought he could do; but, of course, he would not take to them happily. He felt it hard to have to take his orders from me, and very naturally, for he expected to be head-gardener, and would have been, eh, Mr Ellis?" "Yes," grunted the bailiff. "To be sure he would. I'm not such a donkey as to suppose I should have got the place if he had been all right. I'm a good gardener, though I say it as shouldn't say it, Miss Mary; but there were lots of little dodges about flowers where he could beat me hollow. Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed, "I wouldn't say that before the men, but I don't mind here." "Is Mr Grange bad again?" asked Mrs Ellis, unable to restrain her curiosity. "Bad, ma'am? Well, of course he's bad; but no worse than usual. You know, I suppose, that he's gone away?" "I? No." "Oh, yes, quite mysterious like; never said good-bye to a soul." "But me," thought Mary, with a sensation as of something clutching her heart, as she recalled that night at her bedroom window. "Yes, poor fellow, he's gone," said Ellis, who felt that it was time to speak. "Of course I know why," said Barnett, "it was too much for him. He was fretting his heart out, poor chap, and he no doubt thought it was the best he could do--get right away you know, where he wasn't known, and where everything he saw--I mean everything he touched--didn't remind him of the old place. It's all very sad, and it used to make me feel uncomfortable, and keep away for fear of making him think of my superseding him; but there, we're all like plants and flowers, Miss Mary, and suffer from our blights and east winds." He looked across at Mary, whose face was stony, and her eyes fixed upon him so strangely that he felt abashed, and turned to Mrs Ellis. "Sad business, ma'am, from the beginning," he said; "but, as the saying is, we don't know, and perhaps it's all for the best." Mrs Ellis sighed, the supper was at an end; and to the great relief of all, Barnett rose, and in a tone of voice which suggested that every one had been pressing him very hard to stay longer, he cried-- "Well, really, I must go now." Mrs Ellis said meekly, "Must you, Mr Barnett?" and held out her hand promptly. He shook hands with her quite affectionately, and then turned to Mary, who let him take her hand more than gave it, and he sighed as he said "Good-night." "You'll think about the gravel, Mr Ellis?" he said to his host. "I want that garden to look better than any one in the county." "Yes, you shall have it, Barnett, first time I can spare the horses at the farm. And I'll go down to the gate with you." They walked not only to the gate, but a couple of hundred yards towards the gardens before either spoke, and then just as Barnett was congratulating himself upon how well he had got on at the cottage that night, Ellis turned to him sharply. "I told Mrs Mostyn about John Grange having gone away so suddenly." "Did you, sir? What did she say?" "That she didn't want to hear his name mentioned again, for she had been disappointed in the man." "Poor chap!" said Barnett sadly. "Yes, poor chap!" said Ellis hastily. "For Heaven's sake don't ever hint at such a thing at home, Daniel, but I've a horrible thought of something being wrong about that poor fellow. You don't think that, quite out of heart and in despair like, he has gone and done anything rash, do you?" "Well, Mr Ellis, I didn't like to hint at such a thing to any one, but as you do think like that, and as old Tummus and his wife seem to be quite suspicious like, it did set me thinking, and I've felt sometimes that he must have walked two miles the other night to the river, and then gone in." "By accident?" said Ellis quietly, "in his blindness." "Ah!" said Barnett solemnly, "that's more than I can tell." "Or must tell," said Ellis excitedly. "It mustn't even be breathed, Dan Barnett. If my Mary even heard it whispered, she'd go melancholy mad." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. "Nay, sir, I don't know any more about it, and I arn't a-going to say nowt about it, but if that there poor bairn--" "What poor bairn?" said James Ellis angrily, as he stood in the keeping-room of old Tummus's cottage. "I was asking you about John Grange." "Well, I know you were. Arn't he quite a bairn to me?" "Please don't be cross with him, Mr Ellis, sir," said old Hannah respectfully; "it's only his way, sir." "Very well, let him go on," cried James Ellis testily. "Just you keep your spoon out o' the broth, mother," grumbled old Tummus, "I know what I'm about." "Well, what was it you were going to say?" asked the bailiff. "I were going to say as I wouldn't say nowt about it, and I won't, but that poor lad has either been made away wi--" "Tut, tut, nonsense!" "Well, then, he's made away wi' himself," cried old Tummus, bringing his hand down upon the table with a heavy bang. The bailiff, who had not removed his hat before now, took it off, showing a heavy dew upon his forehead, which he wiped away as he looked uneasily from one to the other. "What--what makes you say that, Tummus?" murmured Ellis, who did not seem to be himself at all. "Now, Tummus, do mind what you're saying," said old Hannah, in a lachrymose tone of voice. "Well, I am, arn't I? What I say is this: Warn't it likely?" "Likely?" "Aye, likely. Here's the poor lad loses his sight all at once just when he's getting on and going to be head-gardener and marry my pretty bairn." "Nothing of the sort, sir," cried the bailiff warmly. "You're too fond of settling other people's business." "Yes, Mr Ellis, sir, that's what I tell him," said old Hannah anxiously. "Tchah!" growled old Tummus, giving his body a jerk. "Very well then, sir, he thowt he were, and it got on his mind like that he were all in the darkness, and it's my belief as he couldn't bear it, and went and made a hole in the water so as to be out of his misery." "Oh, Tummus, you shouldn't!" "No, no; he was not the man to do such a thing," said Ellis, whose voice sounded husky, and who looked limp and not himself. "I dunno," growled Tummus; "they say when a man's in love and can't get matters settled, he's ready to do owt. I never weer in love, so I doan't know for sure." "Oh, Tummus!" cried old Hannah reproachfully. "Will ta howd thee tongue?" cried the old man. "No, I won't, Tummus. Not even with Mr Ellis here, if you stand there telling such wicked stories." "Arn't a story," cried the old man, with the twinkle of a grim smile at the corners of his lips. "Who'd ever go and fall in love with an ugly owd woman like thou?" "It couldn't be that; no, no, it couldn't be that," said the bailiff hastily. "Wheer is he then, sir?" said old Tummus firmly. "Gone away for a bit--perhaps to London." "Nay, not he," said old Tummus, shaking his head, "I'm sewer o' that." "Why, how do you know?" "Would a smart young man like John Grange was ha' gone up to London without takking a clean shirt wi' him?" "What!" "Didn't take no clean shirt nor stoggins nor nowt." "Are you sure of that?" said the bailiff. "I couldn't make out that anything was gone out of his room, sir," said old Hannah, clapping her apron to her eyes. "Poor dear: it's very, very sad." "Aye, it's sad enough," said old Tummus; "not as it matters much, what's the good o' going on living?" "Tummus!" cried his wife. "Well, what are yow shoutin' at? I say it again: What's the good o' livin'? You on'y get horrid owd, and your missus allus naggin' you at home, and your Dan Barnetts shoutin' at you in the garden, or else Master Ellis here giving it to you about something." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tummus," said his wife. "To go and say such a thing to Mr Ellis's face, as has allus been a kind friend to you." "Aye, lass, I don't grumble much at he, but we'm do grow precious owd." "And a great blessing too, Tummus," cried his wife. "You don't hear Mr Ellis complain about getting old." "Nay, but then he's got a pretty bairn, bless her!--as sweet and good a lass as ever stepped; and I says that to Master Ellis's face, same as I've often said it behind his back. Bless her! There!" James Ellis, with the great care upon his breast--the haunting thought that perhaps, after all, he had had something to do with John Grange's disappearance--now stood in old Tummus's cottage a different being. There was none of the rather pompous, important manner that he was in the habit of putting on when addressing his inferiors. The faces of John Grange and Mary seemed to rise before him reproachfully, and, for the first time in his life, he stood before the old couple in the cottage a humbled man, hardly conscious of what was being said. "Then he took nothing away with him, Hannah?" he said at last. "No, sir, nothing that I can make out." "Nowt!" said old Tummus. "Here he were, hevving his tea that night, looking that down sad, that a bad tater was nowt to him; next thing is as we hears him go out o' the door--that there door just behind wheer you're a-standing, Mr Ellis, sir, and he didn't come back." "Didn't come back," said the bailiff, repeating the old man's words. "We didn't set up for him because we know'd he'd shut oop all right, and if he didn't nobody wouldn't come and steal our plate, 'cause the owd woman allus taks it to bed wi' her." "Tummus!" "Well, so you do; six silver teaspoons, on'y one was lost years ago, and the sugar bows, sir, she allus wrops 'em up in an owd pocky ankychy." "There is no water near," said James Ellis, as if to himself, but old Tummus's ears were sharp enough. "There's the river." "Two miles away, Tummus." "What's two miles to a man who wants to drownd hissen! Why, if I wanted to mak' a hole in the watter I'd walk twenty." "Tummus, I will not have you say such dreadful things." "It's very, very sad, Hannah," said James Ellis at last; "and I'm more upset about it than I can say, for he was a fine, worthy young fellow, and as good a gardener as ever stepped." "That he was," murmured the old couple. "But we don't know that anything so terrible has happened. Some day perhaps we shall be hearing news of him." "Nay, you never hear news o' them as has gone before, Master Ellis, sir. If I were you, I'd have the pond dragged up at the farm, and watter dreened off at Jagley's mill." "No, no," cried the bailiff hastily. "There is no reason for suspecting such a thing. John Grange was not the man to go and do anything rash. There, I thought I'd come and have a few words with you, Hannah, and you too, Tummus. I want you' to hold your tongues, now, and to let this sad business die a natural death. You understand?" "Oh yes, sir." "Chatter grows into bad news sometimes. There, good-evening. I dare say you'll hear news about the poor fellow some day." "Nay, we wean't," said old Tummus, when the bailiff was gone. "John Grange is as dead as a door-nail, and owd Jemmy Ellis knows it too; but he's scarred of his bairn hearing, and don't want the missus up at the house to think on it." "But we don't know that he is dead," said old Hannah. "Not for sewer," growled old Tummus, beginning to take off his heavy boots; "and we arn't sewer of a many things. But then, owd Jimmy's as good as master here, and if you go flying in his face you may just as well fly over the garden wall same time. I've done, missus. I don't say who done it, but it's my belief John Grange was put out o' the way." "Oh, don't, Tummus; you give me the creeps." "All right, all right, I've done. It's a rum world, and everything goes wrong in it." "Not quite everything, dear." "Well, no, not quite everything, but nearly. I believe it's because it was made round. Lookye here, missus: how can matters go right on a thing as has got no sound bottom to stand on? If the world had been made square it would have stood square, and things would have come right; but there it is all round and never keeping steady, and allus changing. Why, if you get a fine day you never can count upon another." "No," sighed Hannah; "but there's a deal of good in the world, after all." "Eh? What?" cried old Tummus, jumping up and standing upon the patchwork hearthrug in his stockings, "wheerabouts?--wheer is it, owd woman? I'm a-going to look for it 'fore I gets a day owder." "Sit down, and don't talk such stuff, Tummus," cried the old woman, giving him a push which sent him back in his chair. "I won't have it." "Ah! That's it," he said, with a low, chuckling laugh; "it's because the world's round. If it had been square we should all have stood solid, and old women wouldn't ha' flown at their mesters and knocked 'em down." CHAPTER NINETEEN. Old Tummus and his wife both declared that they minded what the bailiff said, and never let a word escape from them about the old man's suspicions; but rumour is a sad spreader of news, and the result of some bit of tittle-tattle turns up in places least expected, doing incalculable harm. It was not likely that John Grange's disappearance would die out of ordinary conversation without being pretty well embroidered by people's imagination, and like the Three Black Crows of the old story, being added to until the origin looked very trifling and small. But all the same, it was some time before people's doubts reached Mrs Mostyn's ears through her housekeeper, and she turned upon her old confidential servant with a look of horror. "Oh, my good woman!" she cried, "don't tell me that: it can't be true." The housekeeper shook her head. "I hope not, ma'am; but it has grown to be common talk." "Why, if it really were so, I could never live happily in the old place again. Go away, and send some one to fetch James Ellis here, directly." The bailiff came in due course; and as soon as he entered the drawing-room, where his mistress's face plainly showed that something was very wrong, she saluted him with-- "What's all this I hear about that poor young man?" "Well, ma'am, I--" "Ah, no hesitation, James Ellis. I want the precise facts. Is it true that he made away with himself?" "That nobody can say, ma'am," said James Ellis firmly. "There has been some tattle of that kind." "And you think that he did?" "I try not to, ma'am," said the bailiff, "for everybody's sake. It would be terrible." Mrs Mostyn was silent. "Thank you, Ellis," she said, after a few minutes of awful silence; "it would indeed be terrible. But ought some search to be made? Is it my duty to have representations made to the police?" "I think not now, ma'am. I did not like to give any encouragement to the rumour, for, after all, it is only a rumour." "But where there's smoke there's fire, James Ellis." "Yes, ma'am," said the bailiff sagely; "but people often see what they think is smoke, and it turns out to be only a vapour which dies away in the sunshine." "Yes, yes," said Mrs Mostyn thoughtfully. "I have gone into the matter a good deal, ma'am, I hope, as an honest man." "I am sure of that, James Ellis," said his mistress. "And for two reasons I have tried to think I was right in taking no steps about what may, after all, be all a fancy at which we have jumped." "And what were the reasons, James Ellis?" "One was, ma'am, that I knew it would be a great pain and trouble to my employer." Mrs Mostyn bent her head. "And the other?" "Well, ma'am, to speak plainly, there was a little bit of leaning on the part of my Mary towards poor John Grange, and there's no doubt he was very fond of her." "Ah! This is news to me. And you and Mrs Ellis?" "These things come about, ma'am, without fathers and mothers having anything to do with them till too late." "Yes, yes," said Mrs Mostyn thoughtfully. "But when John Grange's bad accident happened, of course I had to put down my foot firmly, and say it could not be." "It seems very hard, James Ellis," sighed his mistress; "but I suppose it was right." Then she added quickly: "You are afraid of the poor girl hearing such a rumour?" "More than that, ma'am," said the bailiff huskily; "I'm afraid it would kill her, or send her melancholy mad." Mrs Mostyn heaved a deep sigh, and remained silent. "Do you think it was my duty to have spoken to the police, ma'am, and told them I suspected the poor fellow made an end of himself?" "James Ellis," said Mrs Mostyn gravely, "you are Mary's father, and love your child." "She is my one great comfort in life, ma'am." "Yes; and I am a weak woman, full of sympathy for one of my sex. I will not trust myself to judge in one way or the other. Let the matter rest for a time, and let us see what that brings forth." "Yes," said James Ellis, as he went back home; "let us see what time brings forth." Time brought the rumour sooner than James Ellis suspected, for while he was having his interview with Mrs Mostyn, the story had floated to the cottage, where Mary heard it whispered to her mother than John Grange had wandered away from his lodgings one night, and, either by accident from his blindness, or in despair on account of his affliction, he had walked into the river, or some pool, and been drowned; for though plenty of inquiries had been made, he had not since been seen. "Good-bye--good-bye for ever." Those words she had heard that night as she sat at the window: his farewell to her; and it seemed to come home to her like a stroke of lightning, that in his despair he had rashly sought the end. She said nothing. There was no wild cry of horror: only a sudden motion of her hands towards her bosom, where she held them pressed; and they saw her face turn of a deathly white, even to her lips, as the blood flew to her heart. Then she uttered a low sigh and sank down in a chair, where she was still seated, gazing vacantly before her into the future, when her father returned and flew to her side. He looked at his wife without speaking, but his eyes said plainly, "You have heard?" and Mrs Ellis bowed her head. "Mary, my darling," the old man whispered, as he caught her to his heart. And at this she uttered a faint cry, and hid her poor white face upon her hands. "We can do nothing, mother," whispered Ellis. "Let her rest. Time is the only cure for this. I tried to hide it, but I knew it must come at last, and it has come." "Good-bye--good-bye for ever," murmured Mary, almost in a whisper; and her words sent a chill through both their breasts. CHAPTER TWENTY. From that hour they saw the poor girl droop and begin to fade like some flower stricken by blight. No murmur escaped her lips, and John Grange's name was never mentioned. But it was noted at home that she appeared to be more gently affectionate to those about her, and anxious to please her father, while many a time poor Mrs Ellis told her husband that she was sure "our Mary" was slowly sinking into the grave. "Wait a bit, wife--wait a bit," he would reply testily. "It's quite natural. You'll see it will pass off, and she'll forget." "Never, James." "Well, then, it will become softened down as time goes on; she's gentler towards Daniel Barnett, too, now. There: it will all come right in the end." Mrs Ellis sighed and shook her head, but all the same she thought that after all her husband might prove to be correct. "For James is a very wise man," she argued, "and one can't go on mourning for ever, however much one may have loved." Daniel Barnett placed his own interpretation on Mary's manner towards him, and there were times when he was exulted, and felt how successfully he had climbed up the ladder of life. Head-gardener at Mrs Mostyn's by eight-and-twenty; James Ellis's prospective son-in-law; and in the future he would be bailiff and agent, when Ellis was removed by infirmity or death; and in the latter case he and Mary, the only child, would inherit the nice little bit of money the old man had saved, and the six cottages which he had bought from time to time. Very pleasant all this, joined to the success in the gardens, where Mrs Mostyn had begun to show him more favour, and had several times expressed great satisfaction at the state of her garden. But Daniel Barnett was not happy. He was perfectly sure that Mary would some day yield to his and her mother's wishes, and become his wife; but even that knowledge did not clear away the black cloud which overhung his life. For, sleeping or waking, he could not get rid of the feeling that John Grange's remains would some day be discovered, and conscience troubled him with the idea that he was more or less to blame for the poor fellow's untimely end. It was in vain that he indignantly protested to himself that it was not likely a man should risk his life if he could help it. That he was not bound to climb that tree, and that he did quite right to take care of himself, and so escape what might have been his fate. "I might have fallen, and turned blind, or might have been killed," he would often say to himself. "It was a bit of luck for me--ill-luck for him, poor chap. He went, and there's an end of it." But there was not "an end of it," for Daniel Barnett's life was made a misery to him by the thoughts of how Grange had suffered, and how he had treated him, till in despair-- "Yes; that's it," Tummus would whisper to him; "he went and walked into the river, or--" Daniel Barnett shivered and avoided the big well in the garden, and stubbornly refused to have the two great underground rain-water tanks cleaned out in the dry time for fear of some revelation being made. In his own mind he grew more and more sure that John Grange had taken his life, but he said nothing, and though affectionately amiable to his friends up at the cottage, he daily grew more morose to those beneath him in the gardens, and made their lives as great a burden as his own was to him. Troubles of this kind go on for a long time before they reach the employer's ears. James Ellis heard that there were complaints of Barnett's tyrannical treatment, and threats on the part of the men to leave; but he saw that the garden was admirably kept and sided with the head, refusing to listen to the murmurs which grew deep now instead of loud. The months had glided by, and it was autumn once more, with the fruit ripening fast in the garden, and, save to Mary Ellis, the sad episode of John Grange's career had grown fainter and fainter in the memories of those who had known him. Barnett had long ceased to wait for invitations, and quite three times a week used to go up to the cottage and stay late, while at the house he was often joked and questioned as to when it was coming off, whereupon he would smile and look knowing, while all the time there was a bitter gnawing at his heart, for he knew that he was no nearer winning Mary than he was the year before when John Grange disappeared. Then came a sharp little encounter, one bright September day in the garden, where, after his wont, old Tummus had been to what he called "torment them there weeds," to wit, chopping and tearing them up with his hoe, and leaving them to shrink and die. The _Bon Chretiens_ were particularly fine that year, and one which had become worm-eaten, and had in consequence prematurely ripened, showing all the bright tints of its kind, had fallen and lay ready to rot, when, hoeing away, old Tummus saw it, smiled to himself as he thought how it would please old Hannah, picked it up and laid it aside ready to take up to the bothy when he put on his coat at dinner-time. "I shall have to ask him for it," muttered the old man, "or else there'll be a row." Just at that moment, as luck had it, Mrs Mostyn came along, with scissors and basket, to cut a few dahlias, and, in obedience to a sudden thought, old Tummus raised the fruit by the stalk and stepped toward his mistress, offering her the pear. "Strange nyste pear, mum," he said. "And ripe so soon. There, lay it in the basket. Ah! Tut, tut! It's all worm-eaten; take it away, and give it to somebody who will not mind." Mrs Mostyn went on, and old Tummus chuckled, and hid the pear just as Daniel Barnett caught sight of him, and having marked the spot, waited till the old man had gone away. He then searched for, found the pear, and leaving it untouched, quietly watched at dinner-time, saw old Tummus secure the treasure, pocket it, and he was going off when Barnett accosted him with-- "What have you got there?" "Pear," said the old man stubbornly, as Barnett tried to snatch it from his pocket. "Now I know where the fruit goes. Why, you thieving old scoundrel. I'll soon put an end to this." "Scoundrel yourself!" cried the old man fiercely. "Smart a man as you are, Dan Barnett. I never set myself to steal another man's love and harassed him till he went and drowned hisself, if you didn't go behind and throw him into the tank you won't have cleaned." "Why, you lying old villain!" roared Barnett. "Lying, eh?" retorted old Tummus; "it's a lie then that you shoved they orchards off the shelf, I s'pose, and made believe it was poor John Grange. A lie, perhaps, as you laid the scythe for the poor blind man to walk on and cut hisself." "Yes, a lie," cried Barnett, turning white. "Then you tell it, for I see you do it, I did, and saved him from crippling hisself for life. But we've had enough o' this. I goes straight to Missus Mostyn and tells her all I know." "Mrs Mostyn is here, sir," said a sharp, stern voice, "and has heard all you have said." CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. In the scene which followed, when the two men saw their mistress standing before them, that lady acted the part of judge. "I told the old man he might take the pear," she said to Daniel Barnett sternly. "But you, sir," she cried, turning upon old Tummus, "how dare you make such horrible charges against my gardener?" "Begging your pardon, my lady, Mrs Mostyn," said old Tummus, "I'm as much your gardener as Dan Barnett, mum. What I says I sticks to. He was allus agin' poor John Grange, and if he arn't made an end on him, what I says is this here--wheer is he?" Mrs Mostyn for answer pointed to the gate. "Go," she said quietly, "you do not know what you are saying. When you are ready to apologise to Mr Barnett for what you have said, come to me. Till then you had better stay away from the grounds." Old Tummus raised the mellow pear, which he still held in his pocket, dashed it with all his might upon the ground, and then stumped away with head erect. Mrs Mostyn stood watching the old man for a few moments, and then turned to Barnett. "You were nearly as much in fault as he," she said sternly. "I do not approve of my servants, even if they are in fault, being addressed in such a tone." Mrs Mostyn walked away, and Daniel Barnett abstained from visiting at the cottage that night. A week later old Tummus was reinstated without apologising to the head-gardener, after old Hannah had been up to the house and begged him on. "No, ma'am," she said, through her tears; "he hasn't 'pologised, and he says he can't, because it's all true." "Then it is sheer obstinacy, Hannah," said Mrs Mostyn. "Yes, mum, that's just what it is. Many's the time his mother's told me that he was the obstintest boy that ever lived, and well I know it. Once he's said a thing, wild horses couldn't make him alter it. And you see he's seventy-five now, ma'am, and been sixty-three years in these gardens. He's been growing obstin't' all this time, and I'm afraid you can't change him now. Please, please, let him come back to work, mum; you'll kill him if you don't." "There, go away with you, you stupid woman, and tell him I'm very very angry with him for a careless, obstinate, wicked old man, and I don't forgive him a bit; but he may come back to work, and you can ask the housekeeper to give you half-a-pound of tea as you go." Old Hannah went away, sobbing aloud, and so overcome that, in spite of the hot water which bedewed her cheeks, she forgot all about the tea. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. Another six months had passed, and it was spring again, with its bright promises of renewing life and sunshine, when, one evening, Mrs Ellis sat holding her child's hand, the tears stealing slowly down her cheeks as she talked in a low voice, stifling a sob from time to time, and in every way showing how bad an ambassadress she was, and how thoroughly her sympathies were with her child. "Did father tell you to say this, mother?" said Mary wearily. "Yes, my darling. He says he is getting older, and that it is the one wish of his heart to see you happy." "But he would not see me happy, mother, if I said Yes," replied Mary. "I cannot, indeed, I cannot love Daniel Barnett. I could never make him a good wife. Why will he persecute me so?" "Because he loves you, dear; and don't, pray don't be hasty! You don't know: the love may come, dear." "Yes, mother; the love may come, but will it?" "See how good and patient he has been; and father says it is his sole care to see you settled, and to know that if anything happens to him you have a strong right hand to protect you. Come, darling, let me go down and tell them both that you have thought better of it, and that you consent." "Mother, you do not wish it," said Mary gently. "All this does not come from the heart." "I think it does, my darling," said Mrs Ellis. "You see, it is my duty to do what your father wishes. Yours to love and obey him." "No, mother dear," said Mary gently. "Your voice contradicts it all. This does not come from your heart. You do not wish to see me Daniel Barnett's wife." Mrs Ellis's face went down on her child's breast, and she let her tears have their course for a few minutes, but raised her head again with a sigh. "I oughtn't to have done that," she said hurriedly. "Mary, my darling, your father desires it, and it is, indeed it is, your duty to try and meet his wishes. What am I to go down and say?" "Go and tell him that I cannot forget the past, mother, and tell Mr Barnett to wait. In a few months I will try to think, as you all wish me, if--if I live." "Oh, my darling, my darling," sobbed the mother. "Don't cry, dear," said Mary calmly. "I can't help feeling like that sometimes, it is when I think that he must be dead, and then hope comes, and--mother," she whispered, "do you believe in dreams?" "My darling, no," said Mrs Ellis, "only that they are the result of thinking too much during the day of some particular thing. But I must go down to them now, dear. Father will be so impatient. He was angry last time Daniel came here, because you would keep up-stairs." "Daniel!" said Mary sadly. "Mother, are you beginning to side against me too?" Mary Ellis had hardly asked these words when the sound of voices below made her spring to her feet, run to the door, and stand there listening. "Mary, my child, what is it?" cried Mrs Ellis. For answer Mary ran down into the little parlour. "John!" she cried wildly, and the next moment she was clinging to John Grange's neck, while he stood there with one arm about her, holding her tightly to him, and proudly facing her father and Barnett, who stood scowling and trying hard to speak. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. In the dead silence which fell upon all in the bailiff's room when Mary Ellis flung herself upon John Grange's neck, a looker-on might have counted sixty beats of the pendulum which swung to and fro in the old oak-cased "grandfather's clock," before another word was uttered. Mrs Ellis stood with her face working, as if premonitory to bursting out into a fit of sobbing; James Ellis felt something rising in his throat, and looked on with a grim kind of jealous pleasure at the lovers' embrace; and Barnett broke the silence by making a strange grinding noise with his teeth. "Do you--are you going to allow this?" he panted out at last. James Ellis made a deprecating gesture with his hands, and looked uneasily at his wife, who had crossed to Grange, laid her hands upon his shoulder, and said gently-- "And we thought you were dead--we thought you were dead." "As I should have been, Mrs Ellis, to you all," cried the young man proudly, "if I could not have come back to you like this." By this time Barnett had fully recovered the speech of which jealous rage and disappointment had nearly deprived him, and after a savage scowl at Grange, he turned upon the bailiff. "Look here, Mr Ellis, is this your house? Are you master here?" Ellis made an angry gesture now. "My good sir," he cried; "you see: what can I do?" "Order this fellow--this beggar--this impostor out. He has no business here." Mary turned upon him fiercely, but her angry look faded out, and gave place to a smile of content, as she now linked her hands together about Grange's strong right arm and looked gently in his face, as if to say, "Don't be angry, he hardly knows what he says." Maddened more by this, Barnett stepped forward to separate them, but, roused now in turn, James Ellis stepped between. "Yes," he said firmly; "this is my house, and I am master here, Daniel Barnett. No violence, if you please." "As much violence as is necessary to turn this fellow out," roared the young man. "I claim your promise, my rights. Mary, you are by your father's words my affianced wife; keep away from that man. Mrs Ellis, stand aside, or I will not be answerable for the consequences. You coward!" he cried to Grange; "you screen yourself between two women. Now then, out with you!" One moment John Grange had been standing there calm and happy, with the women clinging to him; the next, by a quick movement, strong yet gentle, he had shaken himself free; and as Barnett seized him by the throat to eject him from the room, he was perfectly transformed. For, with almost superhuman strength, he seized his rival in return, quickly bore him back a step or two, and then wrenched his legs from beneath him, bringing him to his knees. "It is you who are the coward," he cried in a deep voice, "or you would not have forced on this before two helpless women. Mr Ellis, I claim Mary by the ties of our old and faithful love. I, John Grange, thanks to God, strong, hale, keen of sight again as once I was, a man who can and will protect her while I live. Now, sir, open that door. If there is to be a struggle between us two, it will not take place here." "John!" That one word in a tone of appeal from Mary, and he dropped his hands. "Yes," he said, with the calm assurance of a man who valued his strength; "you are right, dear, Daniel Barnett was half mad. That will do, sir. It is Mary's wish that you should go, and Mr Ellis will not refuse me a hearing when his child's happiness is at stake." Barnett rose slowly, looking from one to the other, and finally his eyes rested upon Ellis, who nodded gravely. "Yes," he said, "you'd better go, Daniel Barnett. I should not be doing my duty to my child if I fought against her now." He walked slowly to the door, opened it, and without another word Barnett followed him out. Five minutes later the latch of the gate was heard to click, and as all stood listening, James Ellis came in and uttered a sigh of relief. There was that in his face which made Mary, with her eyes bright and a flush upon her cheeks such as had not been seen there for a year, run to him and fling her arms about his neck, as she went into a wild fit of joyful hysterical sobbing, which it was long before she could control. There was not much to tell, but it was to the following effect. It dated from the evening when he had been left busying himself in the garden of old Tummus's cottage, left entirely to himself, trimming up the roses, and thinking sadly that there was no future for him in the world. This had been going on for some time, and he was busily feeling the prickly rose strands, and taking nails and shreds from his pocket to tack the wild, blossoming shoots neatly in their places, in perfect ignorance, after a while, that he was being watched. For, though he heard hoofs upon the hard green turf beside the road, he supposed the sounds to be made by some horse returning to its stables from its pasture on the common, and did not imagine that it was mounted, as he heard it stop, and begin cropping the young shoots upon the garden hedge. "Good-evening," said a decisive voice suddenly, speaking as if it was a good evening, and he who spoke would like to hear any one contradict him. "Good-evening, sir," replied John Grange, adding the "sir," for the voice seemed familiar, and he knew the speaker was riding. "You remember me, eh?" There was a slight twitching about the muscles of John Grange's forehead as he craned his neck towards the speaker, and then he seemed to draw back, as he said sadly-- "No, sir; I seem to remember your voice, but I am blind." "Quite blind?" "Yes, sir." "Look in my direction--hard, and now tell me: can you not make out my face, even faintly?" "I can see that there is light, sir, where you are; but you have your back to the west. It is the warm sunset." "Then you are not quite blind, my lad. Well, has Mrs Mostyn forgiven you about her orchids?" "Ah! I remember you now, sir," cried Grange. "You are the friend--the great doctor--who came to see them." "To be sure I am the doctor--I don't know about great--who stayed the night--Doctor Renton, of the Gables, Dale-by-Lyndon." "Yes, sir, I know. I have heard tell of your beautiful garden." "Indeed? Well, look here, my man. Your mistress interested me in your case, and I thought I would ride over some evening and see you. I should like you to come to me, so that I could examine your eyes, and test them a little." John Grange turned ghastly and fell a-trembling, as he grasped at the window-sill to steady himself. "Come, come, that will not do," cried the doctor quickly. "Be a man! You are weak and nervous. Try and control your feelings." "But--then--oh, for Heaven's sake, speak, sir," said Grange, in a husky whisper. "You think there is hope?" "I do not say that, my man, but since Mrs Mostyn told me about your case, I have thought of it a great deal. Come over and see me, saying nothing to any one, for fear of disappointment. Then, if I think it is worth while, you shall come up to London and stay." "It is too much to bear," groaned the sufferer. "No: and you will bear it. But you must expect nothing. I shall in all probability fail, but if I do, you will be no worse off than you are now." "No, sir, I could be no worse off," faltered Grange. "That is the way to take it. Then you will come? But I must warn you: it may mean your being away for a year--perhaps for two." "I would do anything to get back my sight." "Then you will come? I will not communicate with Mrs Mostyn, for fear of raising false hopes. If I succeed she will forgive your sudden leaving. She is a good mistress, my lad. Pity you did not speak out the truth that day." John Grange flushed up. "Indeed it was the truth, sir," he cried angrily. "There, there! No excitement. You will have to lead now a calm, unemotional life if I am to do you good. Good-evening. I shall expect to see you to-morrow morning, then, before I leave for town. But once more, keep your own counsel, and hope for nothing; then all that comes will be so much gain." He drew up the rein, touched his horse's side, and went off at a canter, leaving Grange standing in the cottage garden, one moment with his mind illumined by hope, the next black with despair. "No," he cried softly; "it is too late. He can do nothing. Only that long, dark journey before me to the end. Tell no one! Lead no one to expect that I may be cured! No, not a word to any. Better away from here to be forgotten, for everything about me grows too hard to bear." That night he stole away in the darkness, to pause on the opposite side of the road, to whisper to the winds good-bye, and feel for a few brief minutes that he was near Mary before he said "Good-bye--for ever!" To be dead to all he knew unless he could return to them as he had been of old. This was John Grange's story--condensed--as he told it to the group at the cottage. Then in a low, deep tone, full of emotion-- "If I was to end my days sightless, Mary, I knew I could not come to you again; but Heaven has willed it otherwise. It has been a long, long waiting, hopeless till within the last month, and it was only within the past few days that the doctor told me that all was safe, and I might be at rest." "But you might have written, John, if only once," said Mrs Ellis, with a sob in her throat. "Yes," he said, "I might, but I believe what I did was right, Mrs Ellis; forgive me, all of you, if I was wrong." What followed? Mrs Mostyn was eager to see John Grange back in his old position, but he gravely shook his head. "No," he said, "Mary, I am not going to trample on a man who is down. Let Dan Barnett keep the place; the doctor offers me one that will make us a happy home; and it will be, will it not?" Mary glanced at her mother before replying, and James Ellis clasped the young man's hand, while Mrs Ellis rushed out to have what she called a good hearty cry. "Lor', missus," said old Tummus, "I never worried much about it. There's a deal of trouble in this here life, but a lot o' joy as well: things generally comes right in the end." "Not always, dear." "Eh? Well, never mind, this one has; and I only wish I was a bit younger, so that I could go and be under Muster John Grange.--No, I couldn't. I can go and see 'em once in a way, but I must stop here, in this old garden, with the missus, until we die." "Yes, Tummus, yes," said old Hannah. "It wouldn't do at our time o' life to make a change." "Only that last big one, old lady, to go and work in the Master's vineyard, if He sees as we've done right. But there, dear, on'y to think o' all this here trouble coming from sawing off a bit o' ragged wood." THE END. 
46123	----	[Transcriber's Note: Italic text is represented by _underscores_. Small capitals in the original have been converted to all capitals.] _LITTLE SUNBEAMS._ I. BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. By the same Author. I. THE BESSIE BOOKS. _Six vols. in a neat box._ $7.50. The volumes also sold separately; viz.: Bessie at the Seaside; City, Friends; Mountains; School; Travels, at $1.25 each. "Really, it makes the heart younger, warmer, better, to bathe it afresh in such familiar, natural scenes, where benevolence of most practical and blessed utility is seen developing itself, from first to last, in such delightful symmetry and completeness as may, and we hope will, secure many imitators."--_Watchman and Reflector._ II. THE FLOWERETS. A SERIES OF STORIES ON THE COMMANDMENTS. _Six vols. in a neat box._ $3.60. The vols. can also be had separately; viz.: 1. Violet's Idol; 2. Daisy's Work; 3. Rose's Temptation; 4. Lily's Lesson; 5. Hyacinthe and her Brothers; 6. Pinkie and the Rabbits, at 75 cents each. "The child-world we are here introduced to is delightfully real. The children talk and act so naturally that we feel real live children must have sat for their portraits."--_Baltimore Christian Advocate._ BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. "YE ARE THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD." BY JOANNA H. MATHEWS, AUTHOR OF THE "BESSIE BOOKS" AND "THE FLOWERETS." NEW YORK: ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, 530 BROADWAY. 1882. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. UNIVERSITY PRESS: JOHN WILSON & SON, CAMBRIDGE. Dedicated TO BESSIE MUIR FISHER. CONTENTS. I. BELLE AND HER PAPA 9 II. AN EXCITEMENT 25 III. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE 40 IV. SUNLIGHT 57 V. A DAY WITH MAGGIE AND BESSIE 73 VI. PROVERB-PICTURES 88 VII. MABEL'S NEW WHIM 104 VIII. THE LOCKET 118 IX. BELLE'S MISFORTUNE 133 X. A TERRIBLE LOSS 149 XI. BELLE'S GRIEF 163 XII. CONFESSION AND REPENTANCE 180 XIII. MABEL'S GENEROSITY 196 XIV. FOUND 219 [Illustration] BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. I. _BELLE AND HER PAPA._ Dear little Belle! There she sat, upon a low stool, doll and picture-book lying unheeded at her feet, as she watched the slanting beams of light which streamed in between the crimson curtains and poured life and gladness over all within the pleasant room. There she sat, watching them thoughtfully, yet with a half-smile upon her lips, as they travelled slowly and steadily from spot to spot, now over the carpet, now up the table-cloth, now touching the gilded mirror-frame and making it flash with added brightness, and now falling softly on a vase of lovely flowers and bringing out their brilliant colors in new and more perfect beauty. And now in their noiseless but busy march they fell upon her own little self, the brightest and sunniest thing in all the room, to the loving eyes which watched her. "What is my darling thinking of?" asked Mr. Powers, breaking the stillness. In an instant Belle was upon his knee and nestling close to him; but she did not answer his question till it was repeated. "What were you thinking of, my daughter?" he asked again, laying his hand fondly on the little round head, with its short, dark rings of hair. "About sunbeams, papa," answered the child, turning her eyes again upon the bar of light, which was now quivering and shimmering among and over the prisms of the chandelier above their heads. "Ay, they are very pretty," said her father. "But it was not about _those_ sunbeams, papa, though they did make the thinking come into my head. It was about being a sunbeam. I would like to be a little sunbeam, papa." "And so you may, and so you are, my darling," said the father. "You are papa's little sunbeam, the brightest sunbeam he has on earth; and his way would be very dark and sad without you." "Yes, papa," said Belle: "you mean I am your comfort, and you are my sunbeam, papa, 'cause you are my comfort; but I was thinking I would like to be a sunbeam to other people too. I wonder if I could. Maggie Bradford says I could." "I am sure you could, darling." "Maggie does say such nice things, papa; and so does Bessie; and sometimes when a thing does not seem very pleasant, or as if I would like to do it, they talk about it so that it seems very nice indeed, and so very right that I feel in a great hurry to do it. That is, if I do not feel naughty; for do you know, papa,"--and Belle's voice took a mournful tone,--"do you know sometimes I am so _very_ naughty that I feel like doing a thing just because I know I oughtn't. Papa, could you have b'lieved that of me?" "Yes," said Mr. Powers, smiling: "I could believe that of any one, Belle." "Could you, papa?" said Belle, solemnly. "Well, that does make me a great relief; for when I used to get good again after I had been so naughty as that, I used to think I must be 'most the wickedest child that ever lived. But one day when I told Maggie and Bessie about it, Maggie said sometimes she felt that way too; and then we made each other promise to keep it a great secret, and never tell anybody." "And so you keep your promise by telling me," said her father. "O papa! we didn't mean our fathers and mothers. We don't think you're anybody." "Thank you," replied her father, taking the compliment as it was meant, though somewhat amused at her way of putting it. "That is right, dear. It is better for little children not to mean their fathers and mothers when they promise not to 'tell anybody.'" "Yes, papa; and then you see you have nobody but me to tell you secrets, so I would feel too badly not to do it. But I want to know about being a sunbeam, papa; how I can be a sunbeam to 'most everybody, or to a good many people." "What did Maggie Bradford say about it?" asked Mr. Powers: "let me hear that." "Why, it was yesterday, when I was spending the day with Maggie and Bessie," answered Belle; "and it was cloudy, and the sun came out from the clouds, and Maggie said--Papa, Maggie is the smartest child; and do you know what I heard Mrs. Norris say about her? She said Maggie had quite a--quite a--a--talent, that was the word, quite a talent for poetry. Are you not very glad, papa, that my in-sep-era-ble has a talent for poetry? Don't you think that is a pretty nice thing for a child to have?" "Very nice; and I am indeed happy that my Belle has such a talented friend," said Mr. Powers, who knew that he could not please his little daughter more than by joining in the praise and admiration she showered upon her young friends and playmates, Maggie and Bessie Bradford,--"very nice, indeed; but still I do not hear what Maggie said about the sunbeams." "Well, such a beautiful sunbeam came out of the cloud, papa; and it made every thing look so bright and pleasant, even though the clouds were there yet; and I said if I wasn't myself, I would like to be a sunbeam, 'cause every one was so glad to see it, and it seemed to make things so bright and happy; and then Maggie said we could be ourselves and sunbeams too. Not _really_, true sunbeams, you know, but like sunbeams, to make all bright and glad about us; and she said we did that when we helped each ofer, or when we tried to make sorry people feel glad, and comforted them, or did a kind thing that made some one feel nice and happy. And Bessie and I were very proud of her for saying such a nice thing as that, papa; and we begged her to make some poetry about it, and she made one verse; and then Bessie said she b'lieved we could be sunbeams for Jesus if we chose, and she coaxed Maggie to make another verse about that, and we learned it. Shall I say them to you, papa?" "Certainly," said her father; and Belle repeated the following simple lines, which she plainly thought extremely fine:-- "I wish I was a sunbeam, To sparkle all the day; And make all glad and happy Who came across my way. "I'd like to shine for Jesus, And show to every one That all my light and brightness Did come from Him, my Sun." "There, what do you think of that, papa?" she asked in a tone of triumph, which showed her own delight and pride in her little friend's composition. "I think it very fair for a nine-years-old girl," answered her father. "I think it is be-ew-tiful," said Belle. "Maggie writes lots and lots of po'try, and she copies it all. Some of it is pious po'try, and she puts that in one book called 'Bradford's Divine Songs,' and she puts the unpious in another called 'Bradford's Moral Poems;' and Bessie and I learn a great deal of them. They're splen-did, and she is just the smartest child,--Bessie says she is." If Bessie said a thing, it must be so, according to Belle's thinking; and her father did not dispute the fact. Belle went on,-- "And that is the kind of a sunbeam I would like to be, papa, 'cause I s'pose that is the best kind,--to have the light and brightness come from Jesus,--and it would make me nicer and pleasanter to every one." "Yes, my darling." "But I don't see how I am to be much of a sunbeam to any one but you, papa. Maggie and Bessie seem to know how without any one telling them, but I don't know so very well. They are my sunbeams next to you, I know that: are they not, papa?" "Yes, indeed, my daughter. God bless them," said her father, speaking from his heart as he remembered all that these two dear little girls had been to his motherless child; what true "sunbeams" they had proved to her, cheering and brightening the young life which had been so early darkened by her great loss. Gay, bright, and happy themselves, they were not only willing, but anxious, to pour some of the sunshine of their own joyous hearts into those of others who had not so many blessings. All this, and more than this, had her young friends done for the lonely little Belle, not only bringing back the light to her saddened eye, and the smiles to her once pitiful face, but also giving her a new interest by awakening in her the wish to shed some happy rays on the lot of others, and leading her by the shining of their own example to become more obedient, gentle, and unselfish than she had ever been before. "Daphne told me I'll have a whole lot of money when I am a big lady," continued Belle; "and then I should think I could be a sunbeam to ever so many people, and do ever so much to make them glad and happy. I'll build a room, oh, ever so big! and bring into it all the lame and deaf and blind and poor people, and make them have such a nice time. The good ones, I mean: I won't have any naughty people that do bad things. I shan't be a sunbeam to them, or have them in my sunbeam home; no, nor the disagreeable ones either, who don't have nice manners or be pleasant. I'll take ugly people, 'cause they can't help it; but everybody can be pleasant and polite if they choose, and I shan't help the old things who are not. Ugh!" "But that is not the way Jesus wants us to feel, dear. When He was here on earth, He taught us that we must try to do good to all, that we might be the children of our Father in Heaven, who, He tells us, 'makes His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust.' Do you know what that means?" "Um--m--m--yes, papa, I b'lieve so," answered Belle, half unwillingly: "I s'pose it means I ought to try to be a sunbeam to disagreeable people, just the same as if they were pleasant." "Belle," said Mr. Powers, "do you remember the story Mrs. Rush told you of Lem and Dolly, those naughty, unkind children who treated your little friends so badly; and who were so disagreeable and rude in every way, both in looks and behavior?" "Oh, yes, indeedy!" answered Belle, in quite a different tone from that she had last used. "I never _could_ forget that story; and now I do see what you mean, papa. Maggie and Bessie were sunbeams to poor Lem and Dolly, for all they were so very naughty to them." "Yes, dear; and they lighted the path to Jesus so that Dolly found the way to Him before she was taken from this world; and by all that we hear it may be that some ray of light has fallen across poor Lem's way too." "Yes," said Belle, eagerly; "and the ofer day Maggie and Bessie's papa had a letter from the captain of the ship what Lem is a sailor on, and he said he was a real good boy, and tried to do right all he could. But, papa, you see I don't know any very dirty, ragged, horrid children to be a sunbeam to; so what shall I do? I s'pose when I say my prayers I could ask God to let there be some _for_ me. I'll ask Him to-night to let there be six dirty beggars, three boys and three girls, that I can be good and kind to, and show the way to Him. Wouldn't that be a good plan, papa?" "Well, I think I would hardly do that," said her father, smiling. "There is quite enough of misery in the world without asking for more only that we may cure it; and some of it is pretty sure to come in your way. But any little child may in her daily life shed light and brightness around her, even though it does not happen to her to find any such special work as was given to your Maggie and Bessie; and with the will and heart to do it, I think my Belle will be a sunbeam indeed to all with whom she has to do." Now as you may not know the story of which Belle and her father were speaking, you may like to hear something about it; and you shall have it in a few words. These two little girls, Maggie and Bessie Bradford, the young friends of whom Belle thought so much, went one summer to spend the season among the mountains; and, while there, fell in with two poor, neglected, and wicked children, named Lem and Dolly Owen. From these children, who seemed to love mischief and wickedness for their own sake, and to feel a spite toward all who were better off than themselves, Maggie and Bessie, and indeed all their family, had much to bear. Every petty annoyance and vexation which they could invent was tried by Lem and Dolly to trouble and grieve those who had never injured them. But although it did cost them a hard struggle, the two dear little girls had forgiven all this, and so won upon the miserable outcasts by the sweet, forgiving kindness they had shown, that the latter were at last brought to look upon them as friends, and to feel sorry for all the evil they had done to them. Nor was this all; for by their simple teachings and bright example they had pointed out to poor, sick Dolly the way to Jesus; and before she died she was led to His feet, and knew that He could save her and take her to dwell with Him. So, happy and trusting, she had gone from a world where she had known little but misery, to that other and better home where sin and suffering never come; while Lem, softened partly by his sister's death, had been put under the care of kind Mr. Porter for a while, and was now, as you have learned from Belle's words, gone as a sailor boy with a prospect and promise of doing well. All this, and much more which it is not necessary to repeat,--since, if you choose, you may learn all about it in a little book called "Bessie among the Mountains,"--had been told to Belle by some of Maggie's and Bessie's older friends; and had, if possible, increased her love and admiration for them. She had received such tenderness and affection from them herself, this motherless little one, and their friendship had brought her such new happiness and comfort, that it was not surprising that she did indeed look upon them as her "sunbeams next to papa," and love them with her whole heart. Whether Belle and her papa would have talked much more cannot be told, for now they were interrupted by a knock at the door; and when Mr. Powers said, "Come in," a waiter obeyed, bringing a note directed to-- "Miss BELLE POWERS, Care of her Papa, In the hottel, U. S. of America, New York." Happily, this note had not gone by post, but had been brought by one servant-man who knew for whom it was intended, and had given it to another, who brought it directly to the young lady whose name it bore. Otherwise, I think it just possible that it might never have reached her. [Illustration] [Illustration] II. _AN EXCITEMENT._ "That is Maggie's writing," said Belle, seizing eagerly upon the note, as the man handed it to her. "I s'pose it's about something nice: Maggie's notes always are,--Bessie's too. Please read it to me, papa." Mr. Powers did as he was asked; and when Belle had opened the envelope, which was a part of the business she must of course attend to for herself, read aloud these words, written in Maggie Bradford's large, round hand:-- "OH! MY DEAR, DARLING BELLE,--We are so glad Bessie and I are that your papa has made up his mind not to take you away to your home in the south this winter. And not to have you go in that horrid steamer and sail with monsters of the deep and be seasick, which is such a horrible fate that I could not wish it of my worst enemy of which I hope I have none in this world or that which is to come. And because we are so glad about it we wanted to have a public rejoicing, and mamma says we may, and if you don't know what a public rejoicing is it means when people are very glad about something and want other people to be glad too and so they make a great fuss and have something very nice. And so in the present case mamma says you can come and make the public rejoicing with us to-morrow afternoon and Lily Norris is coming too and Nellie and Carrie Ransom. And mamma is going to let us have a very nice supper and some mottos, of which she knows you are fond as I suppose are all mankind or ought to be if they have any sense, and we think she is the very dearest mamma that ever lived and I hope I shall be her grateful child as I am yours till death and Bessie the same. "MAGGIE STANTON BRADFORD." "Oh, yes! I'll go, 'course I will," said Belle, clapping her hands, as her father finished reading the note; and too much accustomed to going and coming to and from Mrs. Bradford's house as she pleased to think it necessary to ask permission. "'Course I'll go. And, papa, isn't this a lovely note? and isn't Maggie just the smartest child to write so nicely? I think she writes just as good notes and letters as big people: yes, I think hers are a good deal more interesting than big people's. And she makes me understand every thing too. I'm glad she told me what a public rejoicing was, 'cause I didn't know before; and isn't that nice and pretty about not going away and monsters of the deep?" "But you must send your answer: Patrick is waiting," said Mr. Powers. "Oh! to be sure," said Belle. "Please write it for me, papa;" and accordingly her father wrote as she dictated:-- "DEAR MAGGIE AND BESSIE,--I guess I will; and I thank you very much for making a public rejoicing, and mottoes and all. Your mamma is so good; and I love her and you, and hope I'll be a sunbeam to everybody. Good-by. "Your own precious "BELLE." On the afternoon of the next day Belle was taken to the home of her young playmates by Daphne, the old colored nurse who took care of her. She was in very good time, you may be sure; for she insisted on going immediately after her own early dinner; and Daphne was too much accustomed to giving her her own way in all things to dream of disputing her wish. The preparations for the "public rejoicing" were not quite finished, as might have been expected; but that did not much matter where Belle was concerned, for she was so much with the little Bradfords that they looked upon her almost as one of their own family; and she was at once called upon by Maggie to "help with the arrangements," which she was quite ready to do. "Mamma hasn't had time to buy the mottoes yet," said Maggie, "'cause she couldn't go out this morning; but she is going now and says we are to go with her. Don't you want to come too, Belle?" Belle was only too glad; and as soon as Mrs. Bradford was ready, the three little girls, Maggie, Bessie, and Belle, set forth with her to make the important purchase. As they were on their way to the store, Maggie, who had skipped ahead to a corner they had to turn, came running back with face all aglow and eyes full of excitement. "Oh! mamma!" she said: "there's such a fuss round the corner, and I'm afraid we'll have to pass it." "What is the trouble?" asked Mrs. Bradford. "I don't know; but there's a crowd, and I saw a carriage, and a policeman; and there's such a fuss." "Well," said Bessie, who held the most unbounded faith in policemen, "if there's a policeman, I s'pose he'll fix it all right: won't he?" "But you see we'll have to pass it to reach the candy-store," said Maggie; "and maybe, it's a drunken man, or a carry-on horse, or an animal escaped out of the menagerie, or a mad dog, or some other dreadful excitement;" and she looked quite distressed as she finished the list of horrors she had imagined. "I think I can take care of you," said her mother; "and if there should be any danger we will stop in at grandmamma's till it is over." Thus consoled, but still clinging tight to her mother's hand, Maggie thought they might venture to go on; but as soon as the corner was turned, it became quite plain that there was no danger for them, though there was indeed what she called "a fuss." In the middle of the street was a carriage about which a crowd had gathered, one of the horses having stumbled, fallen, and broken his leg. On the sidewalk stood a lady in deep mourning, with a nurse, and a child about Bessie's age, the latter screaming at the top of her voice, and dancing up and down, seemingly partly in fear, partly in anger; for she would not listen to her mother and nurse when they tried to soothe her, but struck out her hands passionately at the woman when she tried to draw her away from her mother's side, so that the lady might find opportunity to speak to those about her. "Oh! the poor little girl! just see how frightened she is," said Bessie. "I am afraid she is a little naughty, too," said her mother, as the child gave another furious scream and stamped wildly with both her feet upon the pavement; while the lady, who was plainly weak and nervous, drew her hand across her forehead as if the uproar her little daughter was making was almost too much for her. "But I must speak to the lady and see if I can do any thing for her," continued Mrs. Bradford; and stepping up to her, as she stood a little withdrawn from the crowd, she said kindly, "Can I be of any assistance to you?" "No, thank you," said the lady: "I am not ill, only startled; and--if Mabel would but be quiet and let me speak and think." Mabel seemed inclined to do this now that she had caught sight of the other children; for ceasing her loud screams, and standing still, she stared open-mouthed at them. "My house is but a few steps farther on: will you not come in and rest, and compose yourself?" asked Mrs. Bradford of the stranger. "No, thank you," she answered again: "I believe we have but little farther to go. Is not the ---- Hotel near here?" "Only a block or two," replied Mrs. Bradford. "Then we will walk on," said the lady; and directing the nurse to bring some shawls from the carriage, she thanked Mrs. Bradford for her kindness, and taking the hand of her little girl would have gone on. But this did not please the child, who now drawing sharply back from her mother, said pettishly,-- "No: I want to go to that lady's house and play with those nice little girls." "But we're not going home. We are going to the candy-store to buy some mottoes," said Belle. When Mabel heard this, she said she wanted to go to the candy-store and buy mottoes too; and her mother, who, it was plainly to be seen, gave way to her in every thing, said she might do so. "But if I go and buy you mottoes, will you be a good girl, and come with me to find your uncle and little cousin?" asked the stranger lady. Mabel promised, anxious now only to secure the mottoes; and she and her mother and nurse followed Mrs. Bradford and our little friends to the candy-store. Mrs. Bradford politely waited and let the saleswoman attend to the stranger first, for she saw there would be small chance of peace till the spoiled child had all she desired. All she desired! There seemed no end to that. Not only Maggie and Bessie, but Belle also, who was accustomed to the most unbounded indulgence, and to have every wish gratified, stood amazed at the number and quantity of dainties which Mabel demanded, and which she was allowed to have. Parcel after parcel was put up for her, till not only her own hands and those of her already well-laden nurse were filled to overflowing, but those of her mother also. "Now do come, dear," said the latter, when it was impossible that any one of the three could carry another thing: "let us go and see the little cousin, and she shall share them with you." "No, she shan't," whined Mabel: "I don't want little cousin, and I shan't have her now." "Well, never mind, then. She is such a nervous child," said her mother, turning to Mrs. Bradford. "She shall not tease you if you do not choose. Come, darling, won't you, with poor mamma?" But it took so much more promising and coaxing before the unruly child could be persuaded by her weary but foolish mother to go on, that Mrs. Bradford made her purchases and quitted the store with her own little flock, leaving Mabel still whining and fretting, and at the last moment insisting upon having a sugar "Temple of Liberty," which the shopwoman told her was not for sale, but only put there for show. "That's the spoildest child I ever saw," said Belle, as they turned homewards, each little girl by her own desire laden with a parcel. "Yes," said Maggie: "she's just the kind of a child to cry for the moon, and get it too, if she could; but she couldn't. I'm glad," she added, with an air of deep wisdom, "that our parents saw the error of their ways and didn't train us up that way. What are you laughing at, mamma?" But mamma made no answer; the reason of which Maggie took to be that just at that moment she bowed to a gentleman who was passing; and before she could repeat her question Bessie spoke. "I'm glad enough I'm not her little cousin she is going to see. I'm sorry for her cousin." "So am I," said Belle. "I wouldn't have such a cousin as Mabel for any thing. She's too horrid." "You have a cousin named Mabel, though, haven't you?" asked Maggie. "Yes, so I have; but then she's not one bit like that Mabel, you know," answered Belle. "You never saw her, did you?" asked Bessie. "No, 'cause she lives about a million thousand of miles off, way off in Boston; but she is coming to see me some time," said Belle. "But if you never saw her, how can you tell she is not one bit like that child?" asked Bessie. "Why how could she be?" demanded Belle, indignantly: "her mamma is my papa's own sister, and he'd never have such a foolish lady as that for his sister. I guess he wouldn't;" and Belle shook her head in a manner which seemed to say that such an idea was to be put out of the question at once. "Yes: you know 'birds of a feather flock together,'" said Maggie. "What does that mean?" asked Bessie. "Why," answered Maggie, slowly, as she considered how she might make one of her favorite proverbs fit the occasion, "it means--well--it means--that a foolish mother is apt to have a foolish child, and things of that kind. Do you understand, Bessie?" "Oh, yes!" said Bessie, looking at her sister with admiring pride: "you always make every thing plain to understand, Maggie. Don't she, Belle?" "Yes," said Belle: "she's an excellent explainer. And, Maggie, do you know I told papa what nice things you said about being sunbeams, and told him those verses you made; and, oh! didn't he think it was splendid?" "I don't believe Mabel is much of a sunbeam to her people," said Bessie. "I'm 'fraid her mother don't teach her to be." "No, indeed, I guess she isn't!" said Belle; "and I wouldn't want to be a sunbeam to her." "But our Father in Heaven makes His sun to shine on the evil and on the good," said Mrs. Bradford, softly. "Does not my little Belle want to copy Him?" Just the words her father had used yesterday when she was talking with him on this very subject. They set Belle thinking; and she walked more quietly on towards the house, trying to make up her mind if she could "be a sunbeam" to such a disagreeable child as the one she had just seen. She had not quite decided when they reached Mrs. Bradford's door, and there for the time her thoughts were taken up with her play and playmates. But Mrs. Bradford was rather amused when, one of the dolls being supposed to have behaved badly, Belle was overheard to say,-- "This child must be punished severely, she is so very nervous." [Illustration] [Illustration] III. _AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE._ The "public rejoicing" had not nearly come to an end, when, at a much earlier hour than she was accustomed to go home, Belle saw Daphne entering the play-room. Daphne's turbaned head was thrown back, and her lips pursed up in a manner which showed Belle that she was not pleased with something or some one. But whatever might be the cause of the old nurse's displeasure, Belle knew well enough that it would never be visited on her; and Daphne's appearance just at the moment when she was so delightfully engaged did not suit her at all. "You haven't come to take me home a'ready?" she said. "But I has, honey: more's de shame," said Daphne, with a look of mingled pity and affection at her little mistress, while a chorus of exclamations arose from all the children. "I shan't go, now! It's too early," said Belle. "Why, it isn't near dark, Daphne. Did papa send you?" "S'pose he tinks he did," replied Daphne; "but I specs dere's a new missis come to han', what tinks she's goin' to turn de worl' upside down. 'Pears like it." "What?" said Belle, not understanding such mysterious hints, yet seeing something was wrong; and Mrs. Bradford asked, "What are you talking about, Daphne?" "I'se been bidden to hol' my tongue, and I neber talks if I ain't got leave," answered Daphne, with another toss of her turban and several displeased sniffs. "But you're talking now, only we don't know what it's about," said Bessie. To this Daphne made no answer, except by closing her eyes in a resigned manner, and giving a sigh which seemed to come from her very shoes. "I shan't go home, anyhow," said Belle: "the party isn't near out." "Not when papa wants you, dear?" said Mrs. Bradford, gently. Belle gave a sigh which sounded like the echo of Daphne's; but she made no farther objection when her nurse brought her hat and prepared to put it on. Daphne clapped on the hat, giving a snap to the elastic which fastened it that really hurt the child, though she was far from intending to do so. Then she seized her in both arms and gave her a loud, sounding kiss. "You just 'member you allus got yer ole mammy, whatever else you loses, my honey," she said. By this time not only little Belle and the other children, but Mrs. Bradford also, thought something dreadful must have happened; although the latter did know that Daphne was sometimes foolish, and very apt to make a mountain out of a molehill. "What's the matter? Where's my papa?" said Belle, in a frightened tone. "Is he lost?" "He's safe to de hotel, dear," said Daphne. She never condescended to say home: "home" was far away, down on the dear old Georgia plantation. "He's safe to de hotel; that is, if somebody ain't worrit de eyes out his head or de head off his shoulders. You come along, Miss Belle, 'fore all yer tings is gone to rack an' ruin." "What is the matter, Daphne?" said Mrs. Bradford. "I telled yer, missis, I ain't got leave for talk; an' I neber breaks orders, no way. But I'se been forgetten: dere's a letter what Massa Powers send you;" and diving into the depths of her enormous pocket, Daphne produced a note which she handed to Mrs. Bradford. The lady opened and read it; while Belle watched her, fearing some evil. But Mrs. Bradford smiled and looked rather pleased, and said to Belle,-- "It is all right, darling: run home now; papa has a great pleasure for you." It would be impossible to express the length and depth of the sniff with which Daphne heard this; but Belle did not notice it, and was now rather in haste to say good-by and to go to her papa. "I wouldn't say any thing more if I were you, Daphne," said Mrs. Bradford, following them out to the head of the stairs. "Dear! I ain't said nothin', Missis," said Daphne: "didn't her pa forbid it? on'y some folks is so blin'." "Who's blind? Not papa?" said Belle. "It am a kin' of sperit blin'ness I'se speakin' ob, honey," said Daphne. "Talk ob spilin' chillen, indeed! Dere's some what's so bad by natur', you couldn't make 'em no wuss if you tried all de days ob yer life." With which she disappeared, banging the front door after Belle and herself with a force which told that she was anxious for some object on which she might safely vent her displeasure. Belle talked and questioned all the way home, but received for answer only the same mysterious and alarming hints; till the child hardly knew whether to believe that something dreadful had taken place, or that she was going home to the promised pleasure. "Now, Miss Belle," said the foolish old woman, as they crossed the hall on which Mr. Powers' rooms opened, "you min' I ain't goin' for let you be snubbed and kep' under. You come and tell yer ole mammy ebery ting; an' I'll fight yer battles, if de French nusses is got sich fly-a-way caps on der heads." So she opened the door of their own parlor; and Belle, feeling a little worried and a little cross at the interruption to her afternoon's pleasure, passed in. What did she see? Upon the sofa, beside her papa, sat a lady dressed in deep mourning; and upon his knee--was it possible?--yes, upon papa's knee, in her own proper place, was a little girl, quite at her ease, and sitting as if she had a right and belonged there. And--could it be?--Belle took a second look--it really _was_ the child who had been so naughty and shown herself so spoiled. She stood for a moment near the door, utterly amazed, and speechless with displeasure. Now Belle was what is called a generous child; that is, she would readily give away or share what she had with others; but she was jealous of the affection of those she loved, especially of her papa's. He was her own, her very own: all his tenderness and petting must be for her. She could hardly bear that he should caress even her beloved Maggie and Bessie; and if it chanced that he did so, she would immediately claim a double portion for herself. She was quick and bright too; and now she saw in a moment the cause of all Daphne's mysterious hints and melancholy; and they helped to increase the angry, jealous feeling in her own heart. Daphne had feared that this naughty, contrary child was coming to interfere with her; and Belle feared it now herself. Indeed, was it not plain enough already? There she was on papa's knee, the seat to which no one but herself had a right; and papa's arm was about her. "Come here, my darling: come and speak to your aunt and little cousin," said Mr. Powers. And now Belle spoke, indeed, but without moving one step forward, and with a very different tone and manner from those which her father expected. "Come off of there!" she said, in a low, deep tone of intense passion. "Come off of there! That's my place, he's my papa; you shan't have him, and I shan't have you. You're not my cousin; I won't have you, bad, bad girl!" She said this with her face perfectly white with rage, her eyes flashing; and she stood bolt upright, her two little hands clenched and stretched downwards on either side. Then the color came fast and deep, rising to the very roots of her hair; her lips were drawn, and her little bosom heaved. Mr. Powers knew what this meant. Putting Mabel hastily from his knee, he rose and walked over to Belle. When Belle was a baby, and little more than a baby, she had the naughty habit, when any thing displeased her, of holding her breath until she was almost choked and purple in the face. Other children have this ugly way, which is not only naughty, but dangerous. But Belle's mamma had broken her of this when she was very young; and it was a long, long time since her father had seen her do it. But it was coming now, and must be stopped at once. "Belle!" he said sharply, and almost sternly, laying his hand on her shoulder,--"Belle!" It did seem hard, but it was necessary, and was, Mr. Powers knew, the only way to bring his angry little child to her senses. It was enough. She caught her breath hard, then gave one or two deep sobs, and burst into a passion of tears, at the same time turning and trying to run away. Poor child! It seemed to her that this was proof of her jealous fears. Papa had never spoken so to her before, and it was all because of that strange child who was coming in her place. So she thought, and only wanted to run away out of sight and hearing. But her father caught her, took her up in his arms, and now spoke to her in the tenderest tones, covering her wet face with kisses and trying to soothe her. Belle knew that she had been naughty, oh! very naughty; but she still felt very much injured; and, although after a time her sobs became less violent, she clung tightly to her papa, and kept her face hidden on his bosom; shedding there the tears which brought no healing with them because they came from anger and jealousy, and obstinately refusing to look up or speak to her aunt and cousin. And yet if Belle had been told but yesterday that she was soon to see this little cousin, she would have been delighted. They had never met before, for Mrs. Walton, Mabel's mother, had been living abroad for many years: the little Mabel had been born there, and there several brothers and sisters had died. Perhaps this last was one reason, though it was certainly no good excuse, that Mabel had been so much indulged. For some months there had been talk of their coming home, but their appearance just at this time was quite unexpected. Young readers will not be interested in knowing what brought them: it is enough to say that here they were, the steamer having brought them to Boston, whence Mr. Walton had sent on his wife and child, he staying behind to attend to some business. Mrs. Walton had thought to give her brother an agreeable surprise; and so she had, for he had been longing to see her, and to have her help in the training of his motherless little Belle; but Mrs. Walton and Mabel had not been with him half an hour before he began to think that Belle would do quite as well without the training which Mabel received. The child had been clamorous to see her young cousin from the first moment of her arrival; but Daphne, unwilling to call her darling from her afternoon's pleasure, had invented one excuse after another, till Mr. Powers had insisted that she should bring Belle. The jealousy of the old colored nurse, who was already put out at Mabel's wilful, pettish behavior, and the way in which she was allowed to handle and pull about all Belle's toys and treasures, was immediately aroused at the idea that her nursling should be made to yield to the new-comer; and she had shown this in the manner which had awakened a like feeling in Belle the moment the child discovered the cause. Mrs. Walton was vexed, as indeed she might well be, at the reception which Belle had given to herself and Mabel; but the weak and foolish mother readily excused or overlooked in her own child those very faults which she saw so plainly in her little niece. At first Mabel had been too much astonished at Belle's outbreak to do more than stand and look at her; but when her cousin's cries were quieted, and she lay still with her face hidden on her father's shoulder, giving long, heaving sobs, she began to whine and fret, and to insist that Belle should be made to come and play with her, and show her a set of carved animals, one of Belle's choicest treasures which Mr. Powers had rescued from her destructive little fingers. "My dear brother," said Mrs. Walton, "it is indeed time that your child was put under other female management than that of servants. She is quite spoiled, I see." Here a prolonged sniff, ending in something very like a groan, came from near the door where Daphne still stood: while Belle, feeling that both she and her devoted nurse had been insulted, kicked out indignantly with her little feet. But her father's hand was on the nestling head; and he said very quietly, pouring oil on the wounded spirits,-- "My Belle and her Daphne could not well do without one another; and Belle is much less spoiled than she used to be. She is a pretty good girl now, thanks to the kind teachings she has had, and her own wish to profit by them. Mrs. Bradford, the mother of her little friends Maggie and Bessie, has been very good to her; so has her teacher, Miss Ashton, and several other lady friends: so that she has not been left lately without proper training, even if her papa and old nurse do indulge and pet her perhaps a little too much. Belle and I are all in all to one another now, and she knows I want her to be a good girl. It is a long, long time since she has had such a naughty turn as this, and I know she is sorry and ashamed." Ashamed Belle certainly was; but I am afraid she was not sorry, at least not truly sorry, for she was quite determined not to look up or speak to her aunt and cousin; and she nursed the angry feelings in her little heart, and made up her mind that they were both quite unbearable. She was the more sure of this when they all went together into the dining-room. Belle was accustomed to go there with her father, and to eat her simple supper while he dined; and indulged though she was, she never thought of fretting or asking for that which he said was not proper for her; but Mabel called for every thing that she fancied, and was allowed to have all manner of rich dainties, her mother answering when Mr. Powers interfered,-- "It don't do to refuse her any thing. She is so nervous and excitable. I have to manage her the best way I can." Probably Mr. Powers thought the management which fell to the share of his motherless little Belle was better and more profitable than that bestowed upon Mabel, whose mother was always with her. It was the same thing when they went upstairs again. Mabel wanted to stand in the gallery above, and look down into the great hall below, where were lights, and numbers of people coming and going; and all the pleadings and promises of her tired mother could not persuade her to go on to their room, where the nurse was engaged unpacking. But her uncle, who was tired of all this wilfulness, soon put a stop to it, by unclasping the little hands which held so obstinately to the banisters, lifting and carrying her to her mamma's room, where he set her down without a word. Mabel was so unused to such firm interference with her wishes, and was so astonished at it, that she quite forgot to scream or struggle till he had gone away and the door was shut upon her. Then she made up for lost time; but we will leave her and go with Belle. Her father saw that she was in no mood for advice or reproof; just now either would only add to her sudden and violent jealousy of her cousin: so he determined to pass over her naughtiness for to-night, and hoped that she would be more reasonable in the morning. She herself said not a single word about what had passed, or about her aunt and cousin,--at least not to her papa; but when Daphne was putting her to bed, both the little one and the old woman found enough to say to one another; Belle telling her nurse how she had met Mabel that day and how the latter had behaved; while Daphne encouraged her to say as many unkind things as she would, and made the most of all Mabel's spoiled, troublesome ways. Poor little Belle! She could hardly say her prayers that night, and went to bed feeling more unhappy than she had done for many a long day. [Illustration] IV. _SUNLIGHT._ Things were no better the next morning. Mrs. Walton did not come down to breakfast, but Mabel chose to go with her uncle and cousin. She was in a better humor than she had been the night before, and would willingly have made friends with Belle if the latter would have allowed her to do so. She was less unruly and wilful at the table also; for after the way in which her uncle had compelled her to obey last night, she was a little afraid of him, and had an idea that he would not allow her to have her own way in the manner her papa and mamma did. She did not like him the less for that though, and when she asked for one or two things which he did not think proper for her, submitted quietly to his refusal, and took what he offered instead. As for Belle, she not only would not speak to her cousin beyond the unwilling "good-morning" which she uttered by her father's orders, but she would not appear to be conscious of her presence at all; never lifting her eyes to her, and if she was forced to turn her face that way, making a pretence of looking over Mabel's head or beyond her. And when they returned to their own parlor, where Mrs. Walton now sat, Belle gathered every toy, book, or other trifle that belonged to her, put them in a closet given for her use, and with some difficulty turned the key and took it out; then planted herself with her back against the door, as if she thought the lock not enough to keep Mabel's hands from her treasures, standing there with a look of the most determined obstinacy and sullenness. Such behavior was not at all like Belle, and her papa scarcely knew what to make of it. Even in her most wilful days she had never shown herself selfish or sulky; and knowing that she now felt herself aggrieved and injured by Mabel's presence, and fearing to excite fresh jealousy, he did not know how to deal with her. As for the little girl herself,--no matter how much of all this had been caused by old Daphne,--Belle knew well that she was very naughty; but she determined to persist in that naughtiness so long as Mabel should be there. To describe Daphne's high-mightiness, not only with Mabel and the French nurse, but also with Mrs. Walton, would be impossible. She carried her turban so straight, and moved and spoke so stiffly, that she almost awed even her little mistress; and Mabel was quite afraid of her. Nor would she give any help or information to the French woman, pretending not to understand her English, which, although broken, was plain enough. "'Dere ain't no use yer talkin' to me," she said. "I don't unnerstan' yer, nor I ain't goin' to. I'se allus been fetched up 'mong de Peytons,--Miss Belle's mamma she was a Peyton,--an' I'se used to fust-rate English; an' me an' Miss Belle we allus uses it, and neber can unnerstan' no low talk. 'Sides, I'm deaf as a post dis mornin' and can't hear no way." Daphne was troubled with a convenient kind of deafness, which always came on when she did not wish to hear a thing. So Mr. Powers, knowing that both Belle and Daphne must be brought to their senses and to better behavior, but not seeing exactly the way to do it without making matters worse, betook himself to his good friend Mrs. Bradford to ask advice. "What am I to do?" he said when he had finished his story: "if I punish Belle or reprove Daphne, they are in such a state of mind that it will give fresh food for jealousy and bad feeling to both; and yet I cannot let this go on." "Certainly not," said Mrs. Bradford; "but before we try punishment or reproof, let us see what a little management and kindness will do. Suppose you send Belle, and, if Mrs. Walton will allow it, Mabel with her, to spend the day with my children." "My sister will allow any thing the child fancies, I fear," the gentleman answered with a sigh; "but you do not know what you are undertaking. A more ungovernable and ungoverned child than my little niece would be hard to find; and I fear that neither you nor your children would pass a pleasant day with Belle and Mabel here, especially if Belle continues in her present mood." "I do not fear that she will," said Mrs. Bradford. "Maggie and Bessie being of her own age, and having a great sympathy for her, may be able to do more in their simple way to charm the evil spirit than we older people can. As for Mabel, if she will come, she will be under some restraint here, as we are all strangers to her." "Ah! you do not know her," said Mr. Powers. "I was a stranger to her until yesterday, and yet"--his look and the shrug of his shoulders spoke as strongly as the unfinished sentence could have done. "Never mind: send her," said the lady. "I will not let her annoy the other children or me _too_ much, and I may do her some good." "Yes," said he, gratefully: "I know that you and yours never shrink from doing good to others because the task may not be an agreeable one. But do you mean to keep a house of correction, or, I should say, of good influences, for all incorrigibly spoiled children?" "Not exactly," said Mrs. Bradford, returning his smile; "and I believe I have our little Belle more than Mabel in my mind just now; but let them both come, and we will see if we cannot send them back to you this evening in better and happier moods." Repeating his thanks, Mr. Powers bade her good-by and went home; where he found that Belle had quitted her stand at the closet-door, Mabel having gone out. For when the latter found that she was not to be allowed to have her cousin's toys, she raised such an uproar as soon as her uncle was out of the way, that her mother promised her every thing and any thing she chose, and had sent her out with the maid to purchase all manner of playthings. Belle was glad to hear that she was to go to the Bradfords'; and even when she learned that Mabel was to accompany her, she still felt a satisfaction in it, because she was sure that the children would sympathize with her, and be as "offended" with Mabel as she was herself. She was wild to go at once, without waiting for her cousin; and her papa consented that she should do so, hoping that Mrs. Bradford and the children would bring her to a better state of feeling before Mabel made her appearance. Somewhat to Belle's surprise she found Bessie rather more ready than Maggie to resent her supposed injuries. Bessie did not, it is true, encourage her in her naughty feelings, or in returning evil for evil; but she had been so shocked by Mabel's behavior on the day before, that she could not wonder at Belle's dislike. Moreover, Bessie was a little inclined to jealousy herself; and although she struggled hard with this feeling, and showed it but seldom, she was now ready to excuse it, and find just cause for it, in Belle. But Maggie was disposed to look at things in a more reasonable light, and to make the best of them. "Why, Belle," she said, cheerily, "I should think you'd be glad, 'cause now you can be a sunbeam to your cousin, and try to do her good." "I guess I shan't be a sunbeam to her," said Belle. "I'd be nothing but an ugly, old black cloud, what blows a great deal and has thunder and lightning out of it; and it's just good enough for her." And at that moment, indeed, little Belle looked much more like a thunder-cloud than like a sunbeam. "I just can't bear her. I b'lieve I just hate her, and I'm going to do it too," she continued. "But that is naughty," said Bessie. "I don't care: it is truf," said Belle. "I can say the truf, can't I?" "Well, yes," answered Bessie, "when it's the good truth; but if it's a naughty truth, it's better to keep it in." "What did Mabel do to you to make you so mad?" asked Maggie. "Why, she--she"--and Belle hesitated a little, rather ashamed of herself now, as she found how small cause of complaint she really had--"why, she took my things when I didn't say she might. She wanted my carved animals too, what Uncle Ruthven gave me; but papa didn't let her have them, and I wouldn't either. I put them away, and wouldn't let her look at them,--no, not one tiny little peek." "But, Belle, dear, you don't be selfish with your things gen'ally," said Bessie. "Why won't you even let Mabel see them?" "'Cause she's too spoiled;" said Belle; "and I b'lieve she'd just go and break them all up. I don't _know_ she would, but I b'lieve she would." "But we oughtn't to b'lieve bad things about people if we don't know 'em," persisted Bessie. "I shan't let her have my things, anyhow," replied Belle; "and I'm going to try and have her put out of the country too." "How can you?" said Maggie. "They have a right to stay here if they want to." "I'll coax papa to write a letter to the President and ask him to turn out Mabel and her mamma," said Belle; "and I'm going to be very excitable and nervous, so he'll do any thing I want him to." Maggie had her doubts as to the President's power in such a matter; but she did not make them known, thinking it better to try and soothe Belle's angry feelings, like the wise little peacemaker that she was. "But I think that we ought to be sorry for your aunt and Mabel, and to have very excusable feelings towards them," she said. "You know they have not had so many advantages as we have, because they have lived abroad for a good many years; and probably they have been corrupted by the fashionable world of Paris." This was an uncommonly fine speech, even for Maggie; and Bessie and Belle were struck quite dumb by it, and for a moment could do nothing but exchange looks and nods of admiration and wonder; while Maggie, conscious that she deserved their approval, not only for the sentiment, but also for the manner in which it had been expressed, sat gazing serenely out of the window as she received the honors which were due to her. "Yes, I s'pose so," said Bessie, with a long breath, as she recovered a little. "I s'pose so too," repeated Belle, in a more amiable tone than she had yet used. "You see," continued Maggie, thinking it well to strengthen the good impression she had made, and speaking with all the solemn gravity which befitted one who had just uttered such sublime words,--"you see we ought not to be too hard on Mabel, because she is so very saucy and disobedient to her mother that I expect she is one of those to whom the ravens of the valley shall pick out her eye and the young eagles shall eat it. And, children, it is plainly to be seen that it is partly her mother's fault, which is a sad thing, and I fear she will have to bear the consequences. So don't you think we ought to be kind to Mabel and try if we cannot do her some good?" "Yes," said Bessie, putting her arm about Belle's neck; "and, Belle, maybe when Jesus heard us say we wanted to be sunbeams for Him, He sent this very disagreeable child to be your trial, so He could see if you were quite in earnest about saying it." This was quite a new view of the subject; and somehow, Belle scarcely knew how, she began to feel more kindly towards her aunt and cousin, and even to have a feeling of pity for them. But the imaginary "six dirty beggars" had taken such strong hold of her mind that she could scarcely resolve all at once to take in their place this well-dressed, well-cared-for, but very naughty little cousin. Mabel could be good and happy if she chose, and Belle did not see why she should be at any trouble to make her so, since nothing but her own wilful humors stood in the way. Still Maggie's words and those of Bessie had already had some influence upon her, and when she next spoke it was in a still milder tone. "Why, Bessie," she said, "do you really think Jesus had Mabel and her mamma come here just so I could be a sunbeam to them and try to do them good? I don't believe He did." "Well, maybe He didn't send them here just for that," answered Bessie; "but when He did send them, I think He'd like you to make a little sunshine for them." "And then," said fanciful Maggie, always ready to catch at what she thought a poetical idea,--"and then, you know, when the sunshine comes the clouds 'most always go away; so if we try to be very patient and kind with Mabel, maybe the clouds of her crossness and _obstinateness_ will roll away and be seen no more." It was impossible to hold out against such words of wisdom as came from Maggie's lips; and Belle began to feel that here, after all, might be the very opportunity she had wanted. "And then that would make your aunt glad," persuaded Bessie; "and we are sorry for her." "Um--m--m, well, I don't know about that," said Belle: "my aunt said a thing about me,--a very disagreeable thing." "What was it?" "She said I wanted some kind of management. I forgot what kind. I don't know what word she called it, but it meant something horrid I know; and she oughtn't to say I was spoiled when she spoils her own child." "No," said Maggie: "people who live in glass houses oughtn't to throw stones; but I fear they generally do, for all." "What does that mean?" asked Bessie. "It means when we do a thing a good deal ourselves we oughtn't to speak about other people who do it; but we are apt to." "Well, then," said Belle, taking the maxim to herself, though Maggie had not meant it for her, "I s'pose if I used to be spoiled myself, I oughtn't to talk so much about my cousin who is." "But you was never like _that_," said Bessie. "I used to be pretty spoiled sometimes, and yesterday I was--ugh--I was horrid," answered Belle, a sense of her own past naughtiness coming over her. "What did you do?" asked Bessie. "I screamed and hollered--and--and I kicked. I shouldn't be s'prised if my aunt thought I was as naughty as Mabel." "She that repents ought to make haste to show her repentance," said Maggie. "That is a new proverb I made up on purpose for you, Belle, 'cause I thought it suited you." "Oh! thank you, Maggie," said Belle: "then I'll do it." And so our three little girls resolved that they would at least meet Mabel kindly and politely; and as far as possible put the remembrance of her past ill-behavior from their minds. [Illustration] [Illustration] V. _A DAY WITH MAGGIE AND BESSIE._ Mabel herself had some doubts as to the reception she should meet with if she went to Mrs. Bradford's; and when her mother first proposed it, refused to go. Daphne, who had heard the story from Belle, had not failed to let Mabel know that this lady and her little girls were the friends with whom she had met her cousin yesterday; and had also drawn a very vivid picture of the disgust and dislike with which such behavior as hers was always regarded in their family. So, as I have said, Mabel at first refused to go near them; but finding it dull in the hotel with only the two nurses for company, as her mamma and uncle had gone out, she changed her mind and declared that she would go to Mrs. Bradford's "to see what it is like, and only stay just as long as I'm a mind to." "And yer needn't think you'll disappint nobody but yerself if yer come away, little miss," said Daphne, spitefully; for Mabel's new whim did not please her at all, and she would much rather she should have kept to her first decision, and not have bestowed her company where the old woman thought it little desired. However, she did not dare, much as she would have liked to do so, to refuse to show Mabel and her nurse the way to Mrs. Bradford's house; but she revenged herself by leading them by the longest road and least pleasant way. But this, however much it pleased Daphne, did no hurt to Mabel, since she enjoyed the walk and had no idea of Daphne's object. "I'se brought you a Tartar," was the old colored woman's whispered introduction to Mrs. Bradford's nurse when they entered the nursery; and mammy, too, looked askance at the stranger, who immediately perceived that she was not too welcome. But before she had time to turn about again and say that she would not stay, Maggie came running from the play-room; and putting all shyness and prejudice out of mind, she went up to Mabel, took her by the hand, and said kindly,-- "We have to feel a little acquainted with you before we know you, because you are Belle's cousin; and she is our inseparable. Come into the play-room. You came so late it is 'most time for our dinner, but we will have a good play afterwards." Such a long, friendly speech to any stranger, even one of her own age, was a great effort for Maggie; but for Belle's sake she wanted to make Mabel comfortable, and put her on her good behavior at once. And she succeeded; for the pout passed from Mabel's lip and the frown from her brow, as she said,-- "Yes, we will; and see what a big box of sugar-plums I have brought. We'll eat them all up." "If mamma gives us leave; but I am quite sure she will not," said Maggie to herself, and then said aloud,-- "We might play with them, and you shall be the store-woman if you like." "Yes, so we will," said Mabel. "Didn't Belle try to make you mad at me? She's as mad as any thing at me herself, and won't speak to me, when I never did a thing to her." "Oh! she's all over that now," said Maggie, wisely noticing only the last part of Mabel's speech. "She and Bessie are putting on the dolls' best suits for you. Come and see them." And half-ashamed, half-defiant, Mabel followed her little hostess into the play-room to greet Bessie and Belle. If Mabel was a little shame-faced, Belle was still more so; for she was not accustomed to behave in the way she had done that morning, and her conscience was more tender than Mabel's. But now that she had resolved to do better she would not let shame stand in her way; and going right up to Mabel, she said,-- "Let's kiss and make up, Mabel. I'm sorry I was so cross this morning." "And will you let me have your playthings?" asked Mabel, as she accepted Belle's offered kiss. "To look at and play with, but not to keep," answered Belle. "I'll even let you have my carved animals--if you will be careful," she added, determined not to stop half way in her effort to make peace. And now came mamma, rather expecting to find the little ones awkward and uncomfortable together after all that had passed; but lo! all was peace and sunshine. Her Bessie, it is true, watched the young stranger with serious eyes, and had on her _disapproving_ look; for Bessie had been more shocked than it would be easy to tell by Mabel's misbehavior of the day before, and found it hard work to forget it. If Mabel had been some poor, ragged, neglected child, with no one to care for her, and many a temptation in her way, Bessie would have been the first one to make excuses for her, and to say that nothing better could be expected from her; but that any little girl who had loving friends and all manner of comforts and pleasures about her should be so perverse and troublesome, seemed to her out of all reason and hardly to be forgiven. Still, though she wore her demure little manner, she was very polite to Mabel, and as ready as Maggie to show all her dolls and other treasures. Mabel too, being pleased and amused, was on her good behavior; and all was going smoothly. Before long the children were called to their dinner. Mabel looked disdainfully at the nice but simple food which was set before them, and refused this, that, and the other thing, saying she did "not like them." "But you will be hungry before you go home if you do not eat now, my dear," said Mrs. Bradford. "I'm waiting for something better," said Mabel; at which piece of rudeness all the other children, including even little Frankie, opened their eyes in wonder. "You will have nothing else except some plain dessert," said Mrs. Bradford. Mabel pouted, pushed her plate from her, and kicked with her feet upon the legs of her chair; but the lady took no notice, although the three little girls could not help exchanging looks and biting their lips, to express to one another their disapproval of such conduct. But to Frankie, who was blessed with an uncommonly fine appetite, this refusal to partake of a good meal seemed a most extraordinary and unheard-of thing; so, after staring at her with a pitying look for some moments, and vainly offering her every dainty within his reach, even to "de nice brown stin off my sweet potato," he seemed convinced that she was only naughty, and set about correcting her. "Did oo ever see Willum what is in 'Slovenly Peter' boot?" he asked. The only answer he received was a pettish shrug of Mabel's shoulders and a fresh kick upon the chair. "'Tause he was lite oo, and wouldn't eat his soup," said Master Frankie, with an air of stern reproof; "an' oo will be lite him, an' 'when de fif day tame, alas! dey laid oo in de dround.'" Which proved too much for the gravity of his little sisters and Belle, who thought this extremely funny; and, in spite of Mabel's scowl, went off into peals of merry laughter. Mabel hoped and expected that Mrs. Bradford, seeing she would not eat what was set before her, would send for some more dainty and richer food; but she soon found this was not to be, and that the lady did not even appear to trouble herself because she would not eat. This was something quite new to Mabel, who was surprised as well as displeased at Mrs. Bradford's unconcern. When the dessert was put upon the table, there was a plain rice pudding and a small dish of bright clear jelly. "I'll take jelly," said Mabel, not waiting till she was asked, as a polite child would have done. Mrs. Bradford quietly helped each child to a portion of the pudding and some jelly, leaving but little of the latter in the dish. Mabel ate up her jelly as fast as possible, keeping her eye all the while on what remained in the dish; and as soon as she had finished her own, thrust out her plate, saying,-- "More, please." Mrs. Bradford gave it to her without a word; but Frankie, encouraged by the applause with which his first reproof had been received, thought himself called upon for another. Frankie pinned his faith on "Slovenly Peter;" knew it all by heart, quoted from it on all occasions, and drew from it lessons and examples suitable to himself and others. "Dere's anoder boy named Jatob in 'Slovenly Peter,'" he said severely: "he was so dweedy dat he brote hisself in two. I s'pose you'll be lite him," he added, not at all disturbed by the want of similarity between the two unhappy fates he had predicted for Mabel. And Mabel felt somewhat abashed when she saw how her greediness had struck this little boy, who she could not but see behaved far better than herself. "Mamma," said Bessie, "would you rather I should not eat the raisins in my pudding?" "Well, yes, darling, I think you had better not as you were not very well this morning," said her mother. Again Mabel was surprised. She knew very well that she would have rebelled against such an order, and had her own way too; but here was this little girl not only submitting quietly and cheerfully to what Mabel looked upon as a hardship, but actually asking if it was her mother's wish. It was something quite new to Mabel. Had Bessie talked to her for an hour about her greedy, wilful ways, it would not have done one half the good that the example of her own simple regard to her mother's wishes did. And Mabel looked at Bessie, then down upon her plate, then raised her eyes to Bessie's again, with some admiration mingled with the wonder in them; and little Belle, who was watching her cousin, said to herself,-- "Now, I just b'lieve Bessie is a sunbeam, showing Mabel the right, best way to mind her mother; but Bessie don't know she did it." Quite right, little Belle! And it was not the first ray of light which had fallen that day upon Mabel's wilful and selfish but not hardened young spirit. Already was she beginning to wonder what these children, so obedient and docile, must think of her, and to feel ashamed of her conduct before them. For some time past a favorite practice of the three little girls,--Maggie, Bessie, and Belle,--had been to draw what they called "proverb-pictures." This was an invention of Maggie's, and was considered by the children an unfailing source not only of amusement, but also of profit. For all manner of useful hints and gentle moral lessons were supposed to be conveyed in these pictures; and if one noticed any thing in the conduct or speech of another which did not seem exactly proper, she would make a proverb-picture, and kindly present it to the short-comer. At first a proverb had always been taken as a foundation for these pictures, and Maggie manufactured a good many for the purpose: hence their name; but after a while they were sometimes drawn without reference to any particular maxim or saying, and suited only to the need of the moment. And I am bound to say that they answered their intended purpose: such hints, if needed, were always taken in good part and seldom neglected; indeed, it was considered rather a treat to receive one, especially from Maggie, and each little girl treasured those which were given to her with great care, and frequently studied them over. Nor were they considered only as a means of mild reproof or gentle persuasion to do right; but many a little incident and scene of their daily lives were represented, and all these formed to their thinking a very interesting collection. It is true that the pictures generally needed considerable explanation, not only to other friends who might be treated to a sight of them, but also to one another; but this was really a part of the pleasure, and afforded great satisfaction to the young artists. That is, to Belle and Bessie; Maggie was rather shy about doing this, and preferred to label her pictures, or to write a short explanation beneath. There could be no doubt that of the three Belle made the best pictures, indeed they were not bad for a child of her age; and Maggie and Bessie took much pride in what they considered her great talent, and encouraged her to make the most of it, and put it in constant practice. So now Maggie bethought herself that it would be well for Belle to try to do her cousin some good by means of these "proverb-pictures." She did not feel intimate enough with her as yet to try to do so herself, but she thought that Belle being such a near relation might very well do it without giving offence. When they left the table she drew Belle aside and whispered to her:-- "Belle, wouldn't it be a good plan to try Mabel with some proverb-pictures, and see if they will improve her? You know it's a much agreeabler way of having a good lesson than being scolded or having people mad with you." "Yes," said Belle: "let's do it now." "No," said Maggie, "'cause it would be stupid for her while we made the pictures; besides, I don't think Bessie and I know her well enough yet, but you might do it when you go home. I composed two proverbs that may do her some good, if you like to take them." "Yes," said Belle: "tell me 'em, Maggie." "One is, 'The greedy pig don't get much, after all,'" said Maggie. "Oh, yes!" said Belle, seeing the beauty of the application at once, and much struck with its force. "And the other," said Maggie, "is, 'All shun a disagreeable child.'" "What is shun?" asked Belle. "To run away," answered Maggie. "Yes," said Belle, thoughtfully: "those will make very nice pictures, Maggie. I'll take 'em. Say 'em again, 'fear I forget;" and she repeated the new "proverbs" over several times after Maggie, and for the remainder of the afternoon her mind was much occupied with plans for making fine drawings of them for her cousin's benefit. [Illustration] VI. _PROVERB-PICTURES._ For the rest of the day Mabel behaved better, on the whole, than the other children had expected. It is true that she was well amused, and also that being a stranger and company, the other little girls gave way to her, and let her do pretty much as she pleased. She showed herself rather selfish, however, taking all their kindness as a matter of course, and always seizing upon the best and prettiest things for her own use. But when it was time to go home, and the nurses came for Belle and Mabel, there was much such a scene as had taken place on the day when Mabel had first been met by the other children. She positively refused to go home; and when Mrs. Bradford insisted that she should obey, was led shrieking and screaming from the house, fighting with her long-suffering nurse in a manner which made poor Belle feel "too 'shamed for any thing to go in the street with such disrespectable behavior," and caused Daphne to declare that she and Miss Belle had "never been so _degraced_ in all our born days." This determined Belle to carry out her plan of the "proverb-pictures" as soon as possible; and when her hat was taken off, she immediately begged her papa for a sheet of fool's-cap paper and a pencil, and fell to work. When Mabel saw what she was about, she wanted to draw also; and her uncle furnished her with paper and pencil. "What are you making?" asked Mabel. "I'll tell you by and by, when it's all done," said Belle, severely. "It's not ready for you to understand just yet; but it's going to be a very good lesson for you." However, she suffered Mabel to look over her paper, and even to copy the figures which grew beneath her busy fingers; Mabel little thinking all the while that she herself was the subject of the pictures. Meantime Mr. Powers and Mrs. Walton, pleased to see the children so quiet, and apparently agreeing so well, talked quietly together. But this proved too good to last. "Now they're all done, and I'll tell you about them; and we'll see if they'll improve you," said Belle, when she had completed two pictures. "Do you see these animals?" and she pointed with her pencil to a curious collection of four-legged objects, with every possible variety of tail among them. "Yes," said Mabel: "what are they? Bugs?" "No," answered Belle, indignantly: "they are pigs. This is a 'proverb-picture.' Proverbs are meant to do people good, or give them a lesson; but Maggie and Bessie and I think pictures make 'em plainer. This is a proverb that Maggie made up. Here is a man pouring milk into a trough what the pigs eat out of, and this pig,"--directing Mabel's attention to a creature without any legs, those four members which were supposed to belong to him lying scattered in all directions over the picture, while long streaks intended to represent floods of tears poured from his eyes,--"and this pig was so greedy that he ran as fast as he could to the end of the trough where he fought the man was going to pour the milk. But the man fought he'd serve him right, and so he went to the ofer end and poured the milk in there; and when the pig tried to run there, his legs were so tired they all fell off; so he couldn't get any milk, and he cried so much he 'most drowned himself. And the proverb of the picture is, 'The greedy pig don't get much, after all.' When pigs or other people are greedy, their legs gen'ally come off, or other accidents; and if they don't, people think they're very horrid, any way. Do you know who the greedy pig is meant for?" Mabel had a pretty clear idea, and was not pleased, which was not at all strange; but her curiosity was excited respecting the other picture, and she determined to satisfy it before she made any disturbance. "What is this picture?" she asked, pouting, but taking no farther notice of Belle's question. In the second sketch a number of square and triangular bodies, with little, round heads, and long, sprawling legs and arms, were grouped together in the wildest confusion at the two ends of the picture, which extended the whole length of the sheet. In the middle was an object supposed to represent a carriage, the like whereof was never contrived by any coach-maker upon the face of the earth; while a horse, in the same condition as the pig before mentioned,--namely, with all his legs broken off,--lay upon the ground; his mate, looking much like a chair turned upside down, standing by, disconsolate. But the chief interest of the picture was intended to lie in the central figure, in which a small child, with very short skirts and very long limbs, was represented as dancing wildly about, with not rivers,--as in the case of the pig,--but cataracts of tears spouting from her eyes. Two circles, one within the other, stood for her head; the inner one, nearly as large as the outer, being her mouth, stretched to its utmost extent. And lest there should be any mistake as to the likeness, below this figure was printed in large, crooked letters,-- _M A B U R L._ "That," said Belle, more sternly than before, "is a picture about another proverb that Maggie made up on purpose to be of use to you. The name of it is, 'All scamper away as fast as they can go from a spoiled child;' at least, that was what she meant. Here is the spoiled child, squealing and hollering; there is a poor horse that broke his leg; and here are all the people in the street running away from her. These four are policemen, and they were going to take her up; but even the policemen would not stand her, and ran away too. Even her mother 'came degusted at her at last, and left her; so she had not a single person left. And she had no one to give her something to eat, and no one to put her to bed; so she had to sleep in the gutter, and be starved, and in the morning she was dead, and all dirty out of the gutter." "She wasn't either," said Mabel. "She was too," contradicted Belle. Mabel made a snatch at the picture, which Belle as quickly drew from her, so that between them it was torn in two; and Mabel at the same moment set up the shriek she always gave when she was displeased. Mr. Powers and Mrs. Walton, their conversation thus suddenly brought to an end, turned hastily to see what was the matter. It was a sorry sight that met their eyes. Belle stood looking at her cousin with a face which, to do her justice, was only intended as the expression of outraged and offended virtue; while Mabel, shrieking with passion, was frantically tearing to bits the half of the sheet she had secured. "What is it, children? What are you quarrelling about now?" asked both the parents at once. Mabel did not, perhaps could not, answer; but Belle spoke up boldly. "I'm not quarrelling, papa," she said. "I was just trying to give Mabel a lesson of what might happen to her if she didn't behave herself, and she was mad about it; and she tore my picture,--my nice, pretty proverb-picture that I would have given her if she had been good and improved herself by it. I know Maggie and Bessie would think it very interesting if they saw it, and now I can't show it to them;" and Belle held up the torn sheet with a very aggrieved air. "It was only good intentions, papa; and she went and wouldn't have 'em," she added, feeling herself almost equal to Maggie Bradford as she made this grand speech. Even Mrs. Walton could not help smiling in the midst of her efforts to quiet the screaming Mabel and lead her from the room. When they were gone, Mr. Powers took his little daughter on his knee; but Belle was not satisfied to see that he looked very grave. For a moment or two neither spoke, Belle not knowing exactly what to say, although she did wish to excuse herself; while her father seemed to be thinking. At last he said,-- "My little girl, how long is this to go on?" "What, papa?" asked Belle, though she had a pretty clear idea what he meant. "This constant quarrelling between you and your cousin. Your aunt and I are very glad to see one another again; but all our comfort is destroyed because you and Mabel disagree all the time." Belle looked rather hurt. "I'm sure, papa," she said, "I have tried to be good to-day, ever since I went to Maggie's and Bessie's; and she was a little good too, but greedy and selfish. And then she was in such a passion when we had to come home, I fought I'd better try to correct her. And I'm sure I fought proverb-pictures was a good way to do it, but they just made her mad. I s'pose I might have known it," she added, with a sigh: "she is so very bad and spoiled that things that do other children good only make her worse. See, papa, if this wasn't a nice lesson for her;" and spreading out the half of the sheet which she held, Belle explained to her papa the portion of her picture which still remained. Certainly, Mr. Powers did not find the likeness to Mabel very flattering, or think it calculated to put her in a good humor with herself or the little artist. Nevertheless, he smiled a little, which encouraged Belle, and she went on:-- "I know that child must come to a bad end," she said; "and I shall never try again to be friends with her, or to do her good,--no, never, never!" "Where is the little girl that wanted to be a sunbeam and shine for Jesus, and show others the way to Him?" asked her father. Belle hung her head. "But, papa," she said presently, "you see it's no use with her. I b'lieve she's the wickedest girl that ever lived, and I don't believe there's any thing bad she wouldn't do if she had a chance. She took Baby Annie's chair to-day; and when baby didn't know any better, and cried for it, Mabel wouldn't give it to her. I think I'll just make up my mind to leave her be all the rest of her life, and make b'lieve she isn't my cousin. I wish she stayed to Boston or else to Europe." "For He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good," said Mr. Powers, softly. Belle gave another long, despairing sigh, and laid her head back against her father's shoulder; but she made no more attempt to excuse herself or to blame her cousin. "I will not say that you had not some thought of doing good to Mabel," said Mr. Powers; "but you began wrong, Belle. I think you did not have very kind feelings in your heart, and that you looked only at what was naughty and perverse in her; and so your picture was not pleasant, and only made her angry. You and Maggie and Bessie understand and love one another, and so you take it pleasantly and patiently when one among you tries this way of helping another in what is right. But I hardly think that any one of you three, good friends as you are, would have been very much pleased to have had such a picture made of you." Belle sat thoughtful a moment, and then answered,-- "Well, no, papa, I don't b'lieve I would have liked it, if Maggie or Bessie had made a proverb-picture about me slapping Daphne, or being in a passion, or doing any of those very naughty things I used to do so much. But, papa, don't you think my patience about Mabel must be 'most used up?" "See here," said Mr. Powers, drawing toward him a large Bible which lay near, and turning over the leaves till he found the words he wanted,--"see here, dear, listen to these words: 'Charity suffereth long and is kind, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things.' I am afraid my little Belle has not that kind of charity towards her cousin." "Charity, papa?" said Belle: "charity means giving money and things to beggars and poor people, doesn't it?" "Charity here means love," said Mr. Powers,--"love to God and to man, that love which makes us want to work for Jesus by being gentle and patient with the faults of others; which will not let us be made angry by little things; which is not ready to think harm of our friends and playmates; love which believes and hopes that even those who are very wrong and naughty may be made better, and which teaches us to take the pleasantest way of doing this, not showing others their faults in a manner to pain or anger them, but trying to show them the better way by an example of kindness and gentleness." "Um--m--m, no, papa," said Belle, thoughtfully, when her father ceased speaking: "I don't think I have much of that kind of love-charity to Mabel,--no, I don't b'lieve I have." "I fear not," said her papa; "but will you not try for it, my darling?" "Yes," she answered; "but you couldn't s'pect it would come very quick, papa. You see I don't know Mabel very well yet, and I guess I don't care 'bout knowing her any more than I do now. She's so very, very spoiled, and I b'lieve she'll never be any better." "'Charity believeth all things, hopeth all things,'" said Mr. Powers. "Is that in the Bible Proverbs?" asked Belle. "No, it is not in Proverbs; but I can give you a verse from Proverbs which may help you: 'A soft answer turneth away wrath.' Wrath means anger." "Oh, yes!" said Belle: "I found that out; because to-day, when Mabel spoke very angry and cross, Bessie answered her very pleasant and nice; and Mabel looked at her just as if she didn't know what to make of her; and then she spoke nicely too, and quite behaved herself. I s'pose Bessie has love-charity for Mabel. Tell me those words again, papa. I'll learn a little bit of 'em every day till I know 'em all, and try to do 'em too." Her father did as she asked; and then, for it was growing late, sent her away to bed, satisfied that his lesson was taking root, and that Belle was sorry--though she did not say so--that she had offended Mabel by her "proverb-picture." He would have been still more sure of this, and well pleased too, had he heard his little girl when Daphne was undressing her, and as usual began to talk of Mabel in a very uncomplimentary way. "Daffy," said Belle, "I guess we'll have some charity for Mabel, not beggar-charity, but love-charity, that 'b'lieveth all things, hopeth all things,' and makes up its mind maybe she will learn better, and be good, after all." [Illustration] [Illustration] VII. _MABEL'S NEW WHIM._ "Please give me my puf-folio, Daphne," were Belle's first words in the morning before she was up. "Puf-folio" stood for port-folio in Belle's English; and the one in question was greatly prized by her, as were also the contents. It had been given to her by Harry Bradford, who had also presented one to each of his little sisters; and was formed of large sheets of pasteboard, bound and tied together with bright-colored ribbons; Belle's with red, Bessie's with blue, and Maggie's with purple. To be sure, the binding and sewing had all been done by Aunt Annie; but the materials had been furnished from Harry's pocket-money, and the portfolios were regarded as the most princely gifts, and treasured with great care. Within were "proverb-pictures" of every variety and in great number, also many a scrap of paper, and--treasure beyond price!--whole sheets of fool's-cap for future use. One of these last Belle drew forth, and sitting up in her bed began to compose another picture. She was busy with it till Daphne took her up; and even while the old woman was dressing her she kept making little rushes at it, putting in a touch here and there till she had it finished to her satisfaction. Mabel did not come to breakfast with her uncle and cousin that morning, but chose to take it with her mamma in her own room. So little Belle, when the meal was over, asked her papa if she might go to her cousin. "No, dear, I think not," said her father. "You and Mabel are better apart." "Oh, no, papa!" said Belle; "for I am going to have love-charity for Mabel, and ask her to have some for me, 'cause maybe I need a little too. I want to make up with her; and here's a new picture for her that I b'lieve she will like better than that old, naughty one I oughtn't to have made last night. Can't I go and be friends?" Her father examined the picture, to make sure that it could give no cause for new offence; and, satisfied with her explanation, allowed her to go with it to Mrs. Walton's room. Belle knocked, and being told to come in, obeyed. Her aunt was on the couch, Mabel beside her playing with a doll, and the scowl and pout with which the latter greeted her cousin were not very encouraging. But Belle, feeling that she had been wrong herself, was determined to persevere in "making up" with Mabel; and she said, though rather timidly,-- "I made you another proverb-picture, Mabel, and"-- "No, no," said Mrs. Walton before she had time to finish her speech: "we have had trouble enough with your 'proverb-pictures,' Belle: you and Mabel cannot agree, it seems; and you had better each keep to your own rooms." Belle was very much hurt, although she felt this was partly her own fault; and she turned to go with the tears in her eyes. When Mrs. Walton saw she was grieved, she was sorry for what she had said; and she called to the child,-- "Come here then, Belle: I want to speak to you." Belle hesitated a moment, holding the doorknob, and twisting it back and forth; but at last she ran over to Mrs. Walton's side, and put her hand in that which was held out to her. "I'm sorry I teased Mabel, Aunt Fanny," she said; "and I didn't make this picture for a lesson to her, but for a lesson to myself, and to let her see I did want to make up. It's 'most all about me doing things I ought to Mabel; and I'm going to try to have love-charity, and do 'em." "Let's see," said Mabel, slipping off the couch and coming to her cousin's side, curiosity getting the better of her resentment. Belle spread out her picture, and explained all its beauties to Mabel. "That's me, with ugly, naughty lips like I had yesterday, making you," she said; "and I oughtn't to do it when I am often very spoiled myself." "No," said Mabel, gazing with rapt interest upon the drawing, and already considerably mollified by finding that Belle put her own failings also in her "proverb-pictures." "But I don't mean to do it any more, Mabel; but just to try to make you be good and love me by living good my own self. And now there's you and me: me letting you have my carved animals, and not being mad even if you broke one a little bit; but you wouldn't if you could help it, would you?" "No, indeed, I wouldn't," said Mabel, very graciously: "let's be friends again, Belle." So the quarrel was once again made up, and this time with more good will on both sides. "You are a dear child," said Mrs. Walton, and she looked thoughtfully and lovingly at the warm-hearted little girl, who, when she knew she had been wrong, was ready to acknowledge it, and to try to make amends; "and Mabel and I should have been more patient with you in the beginning. Poor child! It was a sad thing for you to lose your mother so early." "Oh! I didn't _lose_ her," said Belle, looking up in her aunt's face with eyes of innocent surprise. "How, dear! What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Walton, wondering in her turn. "Your mamma has gone away from you." "Yes, but she went to Jesus," answered the child, simply. "You don't lose something when you know it is in a very safe, happy place with some one very dear and good to take care of it, even if you can't see it any more: do you, Aunt Fanny?" "No, I suppose not," said Mrs. Walton. "Well, you know mamma has gone to heaven to stay with Jesus, and He's taking care of her; and by and by papa and I will go there too, and then we'll see her again; so we didn't _lose_ her, you know. But then I have to be very good and try to please Jesus, and mind what He says; and so I know He wants me to have love-charity for Mabel, and try to not care very much if she does things I don't like. And mamma will be glad too. Oh, no, Aunt Fanny! I didn't lose my dear mamma: I know where she is, all safe." Mrs. Walton drew her to her and kissed her; while Mabel, wondering at the new softness and sweetness in Belle's face and voice, had forgotten the picture and stood looking at her. "All safe!" Five little graves lay side by side in an English churchyard far away; and of those who rested beneath, the mother had always spoken as her "lost darlings." She never called them so again; for were they not "all safe"? Others had told her the same, others had tried to bring comfort to her grieving and rebellious heart; but from none had it come with such simple, unquestioning faith as from the innocent lips of the unconscious little one before her. Her own loved ones, as well as Belle's dear mother, were not lost, but "all safe." She kissed the child again, this time with tears in her eyes. "You see," continued Belle, encouraged to fresh confidence by the new kindness of her aunt's manner,--"you see, Aunt Fanny, that makes another reason for me to try to be good. I have a good many reasons to please Jesus; 'cause dear mamma in heaven would want me to be good, and I would like to do what she wants me to, even more when she is away than if she was here; and 'cause I have to be papa's little comfort. That's what he always says I am, and he says I am his sunbeam too." "I think I must call you that too, darling. You have brought a little ray of sunshine here this morning." "Maggie says when we're good it's always like sunshine, but when we're naughty it's like ugly, dark clouds," said Belle. "I'm sorry I was a cloud yes'day, and that other day, Aunt Fanny. But I b'lieve it's time for me to go to school now." "Do you like school?" asked Mrs. Walton. "Oh, I guess I do!" said Belle. "Why, you don't know what nice times we have! and Miss Ashton is so kind." "I want to go to school too," said Mabel. "Not this morning, dear," said her mother. "Yes, I shall,--I shall too, now! If Belle goes, I will. I shan't stay here with nobody to play with me." Mrs. Walton coaxed and promised, but all to no purpose. Mabel was determined to see for herself the "nice times" which Belle described: school suddenly put on great attractions for her, and nothing would do but that she must go at once. So, taking her by the hand, Mrs. Walton followed Belle to Mr. Powers' parlor, and asked him what he thought of Mabel's new whim. Now, to tell the truth, Mr. Powers had believed that the best possible thing for Mabel would be to go to school, and be under the firm but gentle rule of Miss Ashton; but he had not yet proposed it to her mother, knowing that the mere mention of it from another person would be quite enough to make the froward child declare she would never go. Therefore he thought well of Mabel's wish, although he was not prepared to take Miss Ashton by surprise on this very morning. But he knew there was one vacancy in her little school, and that she would probably consent to let Mabel fill it; and he thought it was best to take advantage of the little girl's sudden fancy, or, as Maggie Bradford would have said, to "strike while the iron was hot." Accordingly he told his sister that he would himself walk to school with the two children, and learn what Miss Ashton had to say on the matter; and Mabel, being made ready with all speed, set forth with her uncle and cousin. Miss Ashton agreed to take the new-comer; and Mabel was at once put into the seat formerly occupied by Bessie Bradford. Maggie and Bessie had belonged to Miss Ashton's class; but their mother taught them at home now. Belle could not help a little sigh and one or two longing thoughts as she remembered her dear Bessie who had formerly sat beside her there, but she did not say a word of her regret to Mabel. Mabel behaved as well as possible during the whole of school-time; whether it was that she was well amused, or that she was somewhat awed by the novelty of the scene, and all the new faces about her, certainly neither Miss Ashton nor Belle had the least cause of complaint against her when the time came for school to be dismissed. And this good mood continued all that day, with one or two small exceptions. It is true that on more than one of these occasions there might have been serious trouble between the little cousins, but for Belle's persevering good-humor and patience; and she would have thought herself "pretty naughty," if she had behaved as Mabel did. But she excused and bore with her, because it was Mabel for whom she was to have that charity which "suffereth long and is kind." It was hard work too for little Belle; for, though naturally more generous and amiable than her cousin, she was pretty much accustomed to having her own way in all things reasonable. At home her every wish was law with her papa and nurse; Maggie and Bessie Bradford could not do enough to show their love and sympathy; and all her young playfellows and school-mates followed their example, and petted and gave way to her "because she had no mother." So "giving up" was rather a new thing for Belle, not because she was selfish, but because she was seldom called upon to do it. However, she had her reward; for, thanks to her own sweetness and good temper, there was peace and sunshine throughout the day. She saw that her father and aunt were pleased with her; and once even Mabel, seeming touched and ashamed when Belle had quietly yielded her own rights, turned around in a sudden and unwonted fit of penitence, and said,-- "There, take it, Belle: you had the best right; and I won't be mean to you again, 'cause you're real good to me." "My darling has been such a good girl to-day!" said Mr. Powers, as he took her on his knee when they were alone, and she came for the little talk they generally had before her bed-time: "she has been trying to practise the lesson she learned last night, and so has made all about her happy." "And been a little sunbeam, papa, have I?" "Yes, indeed, love,--a true sunbeam." "And did I make you pleased, papa?" "Very much pleased, and truly happy, dear." "And mamma will be pleased too, papa; and mamma's Jesus; and it makes Him my Jesus when I try to be His sunbeam and shine for Him, don't it? I guess everybody would be a sunbeam if they always had 'love-charity.' Tell me it over again, papa, so I will remember it very well, and s'plain to me a little more about it." [Illustration] [Illustration] VIII. _THE LOCKET._ And this really proved the beginning of better things for Mabel. Not that she improved so much all at once, or that she was not often selfish, perverse, and disobedient; or that she did not often try little Belle very much, and make it hard for her to keep her resolution of being kind and patient. Nor must it be supposed that Belle always kept to this resolution, or that she and Mabel did not now and then have some pretty sharp quarrels; still, on the whole, they agreed better than had seemed probable on their first meeting. And perhaps it was good for Belle, as well as for Mabel, that she should sometimes be obliged to give up her own will to another; and there was no fear, while her papa and old Daphne were there to watch over her interests, that she would be suffered to be too much imposed upon. But there could be no doubt that Mabel was less unruly and exacting. It might be that she was really happier with a companion of her own age, or that she was shamed by Belle's example and kindness to her, or perhaps it was both these causes; but day by day Belle found it easier to be on good terms with her, and the two children were really growing fond of one another. Other things which had a good effect on Mabel were going to school and being now and then with Maggie and Bessie. She could not but see how much happier and lovelier were those children who were obedient, gentle, and kind; and she learned much that was good without any direct teaching. And even the "proverb-pictures" became to her what they were intended to be to all, a source of improvement; for Maggie understood better than Belle the art of "giving a lesson" without wounding the feelings; and many a gentle reproof or wise hint was conveyed to Mabel by means of these moral sketches, in which she really took a great interest. After the first novelty of school had worn off, Mabel tired of the restraint and declared that she would go no more; but in the mean time her father had arrived, and he insisted that she should keep on. For some days after this she gave Miss Ashton a good deal of trouble, and set at defiance many of her rules and regulations; but she soon found that this did her no service, for Miss Ashton, gentle as she was, would be obeyed; and Mabel did not find the solitude of the cloak-room agreeable when she was punished by being sent there, and concluded that, "after all, she had the best time when she was good." She was not at all a favorite with her school-mates,--this fractious and self-willed little child; and Belle had to "take her part" and coax a good deal before she could persuade them to regard her with any patience, or to feel willing to accept her as a member of their circle. "What have you there?" asked Mabel one day, coming into Belle's nursery and finding her looking lovingly at some small object she held in her hand. "It's my locket,--my new locket that papa gave me a few minutes ago," answered Belle. "Let's see it," said Mabel, making a grasp at it; but Belle was too quick for her, and would not suffer her to seize her treasure. "You can't have it in your own hands," she said; "for it was my own mamma's, and I don't want any one to touch it, 'cept they loved her. Only Maggie and Bessie," she added, remembering that they had never known her mother, but that she would by no means keep the choicest of her treasures from their hands, feeling sure as she did that they would guard what was precious to her with as much care as she would herself. "I'll show it to you, Mabel. Isn't it pretty?" and Belle held up a small locket on a slight gold chain. It was a little, old-fashioned thing, heart-shaped, and made of fretted gold with a forget-me-not of turquoises in the centre. It was very pretty,--in Belle's eyes, of the most perfect beauty; but its great value lay in that it had belonged, as she told Mabel, to her own mamma when she was a girl. [Illustration: Belle Powers. p. 122.] It was one of Belle's greatest pleasures to sit upon her papa's knee and turn over with loving, reverent fingers the various articles of jewelry which had once been her mother's, and which were to be hers when she should be of a proper age to have them and take care of them. "Mamma's pretty things" were a source of great enjoyment to her; and although Belle loved dress as much as any little girl of her age, it was with no thought of decking herself in them, but simply for their own beauty and the sake of the dear one who had once worn them, that they were so prized. And now and then when her papa gave her some trifle suitable for her, she seldom wore it, so fearful would she be of losing it, or lest other harm should come to it. So now, as things were apt to come to harm in Mabel's destructive fingers, she was very much afraid of trusting the precious locket within them; and stoutly, though not crossly, refused to let her have it. Mabel begged and promised, whined and fretted; but the locket was still held beyond her reach, till at last she made a dive and had nearly snatched it from Belle's hold. But Daphne's eye was upon her, and Daphne's hand pulled her back as the old woman said,-- "Hi! dere! none ob dat, Miss Mabel. I ain't goin fur see my ole missus' tings took from my young missus, and me by to help it. I ain't goin fur stan' dat, no way," and Daphne's grasp was rougher than it need to have been as she held back the angry, struggling Mabel. The child was in a great passion: she struck wildly at the nurse, and screamed aloud, so that her mother came running to see what was the matter. "There then, never mind," said Mrs. Walton, as Mabel, released from Daphne's hold, rushed to her and complained that Belle would not let her touch her new locket,--"never mind, I will give you something pretty to look at." "I want a locket like Belle's to keep for my own," said Mabel; "and then I'll never let her see it." "Pooh! I wouldn't look at it," said Belle, forgetting all her good resolves, "if you showed it to me. I'd just squeeze my eyes tight shut, and never open them till you took it away. And I don't b'lieve the man in the locket-store has any like this." But Mabel had hardly left the room with her mother before Belle was sorry, as usual, for the anger she had shown, and said remorsefully to Daphne,-- "There now, I went and forgot the Bible proverb papa gave me, and didn't give 'a soft answer' to turn away Mabel's wrath, but just spoke as cross as any thing, and was real naughty. I'll just run after her, and let her touch my locket very carefully with her own hands." And away she went, ready to make peace, even by doing that which was not pleasant to her; but the dear little thing was only partly successful, for as Maggie afterwards said, when Belle told her the story, "Mabel was of that kind of nature that if you gave her an inch she took an ell;" and no sooner did Belle let her have the locket in her own hands than she wanted to have it about her neck and wear it. This was too much, even for the little peace-maker: she could not make up her mind to give way in this, nor, indeed, could she have been expected to do so; and quiet was not restored till Mabel's mother was worried into taking her out at once in search of such a locket as Belle's. But the search proved quite fruitless, for no locket exactly like Belle's could be found; and Mabel would not be satisfied with one that was different. In vain did she and her mother go from jeweller's to jeweller's; in vain did Mrs. Walton offer the spoiled child lockets far more showy and costly than the one on which she had set her heart; in vain did the shopman assure her that such as she desired were "quite out of the fashion," an argument which generally went a good way with Mabel: one just like Belle's she would have. "Then we will have one made," said Mrs. Walton; and inquired when it could be finished. But when the jeweller said it would take a week or more, neither would this satisfy the naughty child, who was in a mood that was uncommonly perverse and obstinate even for her. "I shall have one to-day," she repeated; and was so very troublesome that even the patience of her mistaken and spoiling mother at last gave way, and the jeweller heartily wished himself rid of such a noisy, ill-behaved customer. However, Mrs. Walton gave the order, and promised to bring Belle's locket for the jeweller to see the pattern on Monday, this being Saturday; and then returned home with her naughty child. Belle had gone out,--gone to Mrs. Bradford's to spend the day with Maggie and Bessie, as she always did on Saturday; and Mabel was left to whine and fret by herself till evening. This gave her fresh cause of displeasure: she was vexed at her cousin for leaving her alone, and when Belle returned she was greeted with,-- "Mamma is going to take your locket away from you on Monday, and take it to the locket-man to make me one just like it." "No," said Belle, backing from Mabel to her father's knee, and holding fast with one hand clasped over the other upon the beloved locket, as if she feared it was to be snatched from her at once. "You'll let me take it to the jeweller for a pattern, dear: won't you?" said her aunt. "Mabel wants one just like it." Belle shook her head. "No, Aunt Fanny," she answered: "I couldn't. It was my own mamma's, and I couldn't let it go from me; and I don't want anybody to have one just like it." She did not speak unkindly or pettishly, but with a quiet determination in her tone, such as she sometimes showed, and which in some cases might seem to be obstinacy. But it was not so now; and it was evident that the child had some deep and earnest reason for her refusal,--a feeling that the little treasure which had belonged to her mamma had something so dear and sacred about it, that it could not be suffered to pass into strange hands, even for a time; nor could she bear to have it copied. "The locket-man didn't know my own mamma, Aunt Fanny," she answered again to her aunt's persuasions: "maybe he wouldn't be so very gently with it. I couldn't,--I really couldn't." Tears gathered in the eyes of the sensitive little one as she spoke, and there was a piteous tremble of her lip which forbade her aunt to urge her farther; but Mabel was not to be so put off. "You cannot have it, Mabel," said Mr. Powers. "I will not have Belle troubled in this matter." "What is it?" asked Mr. Walton, looking up from his evening paper, to which he had until now given all his attention, too much accustomed to the fretful tones of his little daughter's voice to pay heed to them when he could avoid it. The trouble was soon explained; and Mr. Walton, who had lately awakened to the fact that his Mabel had become a most troublesome and disagreeable child, and that it was time for her to learn that she must sometimes give up her own will and consider others, told her that she must think no more of this new whim; and that if she could not be contented with such a locket as he might choose for her on Monday, she should have none at all. "Then I _won't_ have any at all," said Mabel, passionately. "And I won't eat any breakfast or dinner or supper, not for any days." "Just as you choose," said Mr. Walton, coolly taking up his paper and beginning to read again; while his wife looked pleadingly at him, but to no purpose; and Belle sat gazing in amazement at the child who dared to speak in such a way to her father. Indulgent as Mr. Powers always was to his motherless little girl, she knew very well that he never would have overlooked such disrespect as that, nor could she have believed it possible that she should ever be guilty of it. Astonishment and indignation at this novel mode of treatment held Mabel speechless and quiet for a moment; then she set up a roar which would have been surprising as coming from so small a pair of lungs, to any one who had not known her powers in that particular. But here again Mr. Walton, who, as Belle afterwards told her papa, seemed to be disposed to "turn over a new leaf about training up Mabel in the way she should go," interfered, and bade her go from the room, or be quiet. She chose neither; and the matter ended by her father himself carrying her away, and giving orders that she should be put to bed. Belle was very sorry for all this, and could not help feeling as if she somehow was to blame, although the matter of the locket was one too near her little heart to be given up. But she went to her uncle when her own bed-time came, and begged that she might go and wish Mabel good-night, and be friends with her once more. But Mr. Walton thought it better, as did Belle's own papa, that the wilful child should be left to herself till the next day; and he dismissed Belle with a kind kiss, saying,-- "Mabel will feel better in the morning, dear, and then she will be ready to make friends with you; but just now I am afraid she is still too naughty to meet you pleasantly." [Illustration] [Illustration] IX. _BELLE'S MISFORTUNE._ Mr. Walton was sadly mistaken when he thought that his little girl would have forgotten her ill-temper and be ready to be pleasant and good-humored in the morning. Mabel awoke sulky and pouting, quite determined to believe that Belle had grievously injured her, and obstinately refusing to be reconciled unless she would consent to give up the locket. Had Belle been willing to do this, her papa and uncle would not have permitted it; but, though Mabel was in a state of displeasure with the world in general that morning, she chose to consider Belle as chief offender, and treated her accordingly. "But it's Sunday," said Belle, when she refused to kiss her for good-morning. "Don't I know that?" snapped Mabel. "But I don't like to be cross with any one on Sunday," pleaded Belle. "You're cross to me, and so I'll be cross with you,--Sunday and Monday and every day," said the disagreeable child. "Now leave me be." And Belle, seeing that Mabel was not to be persuaded into a better temper, was forced to do as she said, and let her alone. And all day, Sunday though it was, Mabel was even more peevish, exacting, and troublesome than usual, till she was a burden and torment to herself and every one about her. When Monday morning came she was rather more reasonable, but still persisted in being "offended" with Belle, and even refused to walk on the same side of the street with her when they were going to school. "Will you wear your new locket, Miss Belle?" asked Daphne when she was making her little mistress ready for school. "No, I guess not," said Belle: "something might happen to it, and maybe it's too nice." "I reckon it's not too fancy," said Daphne, holding up the locket and looking at it admiringly: "you may wear it if you like, and mebbe Miss Ashton would like to see it." Now the locket was perhaps not quite a proper thing for Belle to wear to school, and had her father been there he might have advised her to keep to her first decision; but Daphne always liked to deck out her little lady in all the finery she could lay her hands on, and, had she not been held in check by wiser heads, would often have sent her forth to school in very improper guise. And as Mabel was always very much dressed, it chafed Daphne sorely to contrast the simple but more suitable garments of her little Miss Belle with the showy ones worn by her cousin. So now she persuaded Belle to wear the locket, saying, not to the child, but to herself, that it "was time folks foun' out her folks was wort somethin', an' had plenty of pretty things if they on'y chose to show 'em;" and, rather against the child's own better judgment, she suffered the nurse to put the locket about her neck. It was well for Belle, and for those who had the guiding of her, that she was such a docile little girl, generally willing and anxious to do that which she believed to be right, or she might have been sadly injured by the spoiling of her devoted but foolish old nurse. As it was, it did not do her much harm; and Daphne often felt herself put to shame by the little one's uprightness and good sense. However, on this morning Daphne had her way; and, as I have said, the locket was put on. As might have been supposed, the new ornament immediately attracted the attention of all Belle's class-mates; and they crowded about her before school opened, to examine and admire, with many an "oh!" and "ah!" "how lovely!" and "how sweet!" "Mabel, have you one too?" asked Dora Johnson; for the children had found out by this time that if Belle had a pretty thing, Mabel was sure to have one also. "I'm going to," said Mabel, "one just like it: you see if I don't; even if that cross-patch won't let the man have it to pattern off of. She thinks herself so great nobody can have a locket like hers." "Belle's not a cross-patch," said Lily Norris; "and, Mabel, if you talk that way about her, we won't be friends with you, not any of the class. Belle's old in the class, and you're new; and we don't think so very much of you. So you'd better look out." Mabel and Lily were always at swords' points; for Lily was saucy and outspoken, very fond of Belle, and always upholding her rights, or what she considered such. "Belle's real selfish," muttered Mabel; "and you shan't talk to me that way, Lily." "God gave me my tongue for my own, and I keep it for just what words I choose to say," said Lily, losing both temper and grammar in her indignation; "and Belle's not selfish, but you; and most always when peoples is selfish themselves, they think other ones are that ain't. That's the kind that you're of, Mabel." "Now don't let's quarrel," said Nellie Ransom, the prudent; "else Miss Ashton will come, and send us to our seats." "But, Belle, dear," said Dora, "what's the reason you don't want Mabel to have a locket like yours?" Belle told her story; and very naturally the sympathies of all her class-mates went with her, and Mabel was speedily made to see that she was thought to be altogether in the wrong, which did not tend to restore her to good humor. "I _shall_ take it to the locket-man for a pattern," she said angrily: "you see if I don't. I'll get it, ah-ha." "No, you won't," said Lily. "Belle knows you. She'll take good enough care of it; and just you _try_ to snatch it now." What would follow if she did, Lily plainly expressed in the threatening shake of the head with which she accompanied her words. Farther quarrelling or unkind threats were prevented by the entrance of Miss Ashton, who called her little class to order, and school was opened. Miss Ashton had more trouble with Mabel that morning than she had had any day since she first came to school. She was pettish and fretful beyond all reason; elbowed and crowded the other children, pouted over her lessons, and was disrespectful to her teacher, and once broke into such a roar that Mrs. Ashton hastily opened the doors between the two rooms and inquired into the cause of the trouble. This soon hushed Mabel's screams; for the elder lady's looks were rather stern and severe, and she at least was one person of whom the wilful child stood in wholesome dread. But though quiet was restored for a time, it was not to last long; and this seemed destined to be a day of trouble, all through Mabel's naughtiness. Miss Ashton called up the arithmetic class; and as they stood about her desk, she saw Mabel and Lily elbowing one another with all their might,--the former cross and scowling, the latter looking defiant and provoking, and still half good-humored too. "Children! Lily and Mabel! What are you doing?" she asked. "Can't Mabel keep her elbow out of my part of the air, Miss Ashton?" said Lily. "For shame!" said the lady: "two little girls quarrelling about such a trifle as that." "But, Miss Ashton," pleaded Lily, "she sticks me so! She oughtn't to take up any more room than that;" and she measured with her hand the portion of empty space which according to her ideas rightfully belonged to Mabel; while the latter, conscious that she had been wilfully trespassing, had nothing to say. "I am sorry that my little scholars cannot agree," said Miss Ashton. "Mabel, stand back a little, and keep your elbows down, my dear. If you cannot behave better, I shall be forced to send you into the other room to my mother; and all the young ladies there will know you have been naughty." To be sent into Mrs. Ashton in disgrace was thought a terrible punishment; and Miss Ashton had never yet had to put it in practice: the mere mention of it was generally enough to bring the naughtiest child to good behavior, and it was a threat she seldom used. But she knew that the solitude of the cloak-room had quite lost its effect on Mabel, and felt that some stronger measures must be taken if there was to be any peace that day. Mabel obeyed; but in spite of the threatened punishment, her temper so far got the better of her that she could not resist giving Lily a parting thrust with her elbow,--a thrust so hard that Lily's slate was knocked from her hand and fell upon the floor, where it broke into three or four pieces. Now, indeed, Mabel was frightened; and the other children stood almost breathless, waiting for what Miss Ashton would say and do. She said nothing; what she did was to rise quickly, take Mabel by the hand and turn to lead her to the other room. Dreading she hardly knew what, Mabel was still too thoroughly terrified at the prospect before her to rebel any farther, or to do more than gasp out,-- "Oh! Miss Ashton! I won't do so any more! I didn't mean to! I will be good!" Miss Ashton did not answer, but drew her on; when Belle, dropping her own slate beside Lily's, sprang forward and laid her hand on her teacher, looking up with eyes as appealing as Mabel's. "Please excuse her this time, Miss Ashton," she exclaimed. "I don't think she did mean to break Lily's slate. She only meant to joggle her, and the slate fell out of her hand; but I don't believe she meant to do it. Try her just this once, dear Miss Ashton: maybe she will be good." Miss Ashton looked down at the little pleader and hesitated. Truth to tell, she had not known how terrible a bugbear her mother was to her young flock: she was sorry now that she saw they had such a dread of her, and perhaps was ready to seize upon an excuse to relent and withdraw her threat. "Oh! I will, I will be good! I'll never do so any more!" sobbed Mabel. Miss Ashton turned about, and taking her seat placed Mabel in front of her. "Very well," she said. "I will excuse you this once; not because you do not deserve punishment, Mabel, but because Belle begs for you. But remember it is for this one time. If you behave again as you have done this morning, I shall certainly punish you. And you must stand there now and say your lesson apart from the other children." Relieved from the dread of going to Mrs. Ashton, Mabel did not so very much mind that, or the cold, displeased glances of the rest of the class; but as she took her place, she cast a grateful look over at Belle, to whom she truly felt she owed her escape; and Belle felt quite repaid for the "love-charity" which had helped her to forget and forgive Mabel's unkind behavior to herself, and to plead for her. But the troubles which arose from Mabel's misconduct had by no means come to an end. Belle's place in the class was just at Miss Ashton's left hand, and when she dropped her slate it fell at the foot of the lady's chair. It had escaped the fate of Lily's, not being even cracked by the fall; but as poor little Belle stooped to pick it up, a far worse misfortune than the loss of her slate befell her. As she raised her head, the slight chain about her neck caught on the arm of the chair, and the strain snapped it in two. The sudden check and drag hurt Belle and left an angry red mark about her neck, but she did not heed the sting as she saw chain and locket fall at her feet. She did not say a word, only snatched it up with a quick, long-drawn breath, and stood for a moment looking at it with the utmost dismay and grief in her countenance; while a chorus of sympathizing exclamations arose from the other children. The mischief done was not so very great, and could easily be repaired; but in Belle's eyes it seemed very dreadful, and as though her treasure was very nearly, if not quite, destroyed. Great tears rose to her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks; and she turned to Miss Ashton, piteously holding out the locket in her hand. Miss Ashton hastened to bring comfort. "Never mind, dear," she said cheerfully: "it can easily be mended. Tell papa it was an accident, and he will have it done for you, I am sure." "But now the jeweller man will _have_ to take it," said Lily, indignantly; "and Belle didn't want to have it go 'way from her, and it's all just for the way Mabel behaved. I should think a broken locket and a broken slate were just about too much consequences of any one's naughtiness and hatefulness for one day." "Be quiet, Lily," said Miss Ashton. "But it's true, Miss Ashton: it all came of that old Mabel's badness," persisted Lily. "Lily, will you be quiet?" repeated her teacher. Lily dared say no more; but borrowing a slate for the purpose from the child who stood next her, she held it closely before her face, and from behind that shelter made two or three grimaces at Mabel, which, whatever relief they might afford her own feelings, did neither harm nor good to any one else, as they were not seen. Still Lily's words were felt by Belle and all the rest of the class to be true. Belle's misfortune was certainly the result of Mabel's ill-behavior; and it was very hard for the poor little girl to keep down the angry feelings which seemed as if they would rise up to accuse her cousin. And Lily's speech or speeches, and the knowledge that she was blamed by all her class-mates, vexed Mabel again, and crushed down the better feelings which had arisen towards Belle, so that she put on an appearance of complete indifference to her distress; and muttered sulkily,-- "I don't care." "Put the locket carefully away in your desk, dear," said Miss Ashton to Belle, "and do not fret about it. Your papa will have it fixed for you, and it will be as good as ever." Belle obeyed, putting the locket carefully in one corner of her desk, with a rampart of books raised about it; and then returned to her place, still rather disconsolate, and feeling that she was fully entitled to all the pitying and sympathizing looks bestowed upon her. After this the business of the class went on without farther interruption, and the arithmetic lesson came to an end. [Illustration] [Illustration] X. _A TERRIBLE LOSS._ When Miss Ashton dismissed the rest of her little class for the recess which they took in the course of the morning, she told Mabel to come with her; and taking her apart into a room by herself, she talked gravely but kindly to her. "Would you like it, my dear?" she said, "if I sent you home with a note to your mamma, saying I could no longer have you in the school?" Mabel hesitated a moment, half-inclined to say that it was just what she would like; but calling to mind the nice plays she often had with her young school-mates, the pretty picture cards she sometimes received from Miss Ashton when she had been particularly good or recited her lessons well, and several other pleasures which school afforded, she thought better of it, and said she would not like it at all; adding to herself what she dared not say aloud to Miss Ashton, that she would carry no such note home, but throw it away in the street if it was given to her. "And I should be very sorry to do it," said the young lady; "but, Mabel, unless you do better, I cannot have you in my school. Why, my dear, since you have been here there has been more quarrelling and disturbance than during all the rest of the time I have had the class. This must not go on; for you cannot stay with us if you will behave so as to destroy all our peace and comfort." Mabel hung her head; but she took the reproof better than she generally received any fault-finding; and after Miss Ashton had talked a little more, setting her naughtiness and its sad consequences plainly before her, and urging her to be good and amiable for her own sake as well as because it was right, she had permission to go, and left her teacher, half-repentant, but still not quite determined to take her advice and warnings and make up her mind to be a better child. In this perverse mood, she did not feel like joining the other children, who were playing on the piazza and out in the garden, but wandered back to the school-room by herself. She sat here a moment or two in her own seat, which was next to Belle's, knocking her feet idly against the floor, and wishing for something to amuse herself with; but still too proud or too sulky to go and play with the others. But presently she bethought herself once more of the locket, and the temptation came to her to open Belle's desk and look at it. Then Conscience whispered, "Shame! shame! Belle was so kind to you, and begged you off when Miss Ashton would have punished you." The still, small voice made itself heard so plainly that she could not refuse to listen at first, but she tried to hush it, and at last succeeded. "I'm not going to do any harm," she said; "only just to look at the locket, and that can't hurt it. Belle won't know it, and she won't be mad." She opened Belle's desk and peeped in. There lay the pretty trifle she coveted in the snug corner where the little owner's hands had so carefully placed it. Mabel looked and looked, and from looking she went to touching it. First with only one finger, feeling guilty and ashamed all the time; for with all her faults Mabel was not generally deceitful or meddling. Presently growing bolder, she took it up, shut down the lid of the desk, and sat turning the locket over and over, wishing that the jeweller were there, so that she might show it to him while Belle knew nothing about it. Suddenly she heard a quick, running step in the hall without; and before she had time to open Belle's desk and put the locket in its place, Dora Johnson came in. Mabel dropped the locket in her lap, and threw her pocket-handkerchief over it. Dora saw nothing wrong, only Mabel sitting there with a very red face, which she supposed to arise from shame, as indeed it partly did, though it came from a cause which Dora never suspected. "It's beginning to rain, and we all have to come in," said Dora; and the next moment the whole troop of children running in proved the truth of her words. They did not all come into the school-room; but Dora and one or two more were there, so that Mabel did not dare to lift the lid of Belle's desk again and put back the locket. She was very much frightened, and would have been content, glad indeed, to give up the hope of any locket at all, to have had Belle's safely back where she had left it. She knew that her school-mates would all cry out shame upon her if they saw that she had meddled with the locket, and she knew that she deserved this; but she shrank from the looks and words of scorn and displeasure which she knew would fall upon her when they discovered the treachery she had been guilty of towards her dear little cousin. So she felt and thought as she sat there with the locket hidden on her lap, and at last feeling that she must rid herself of it by some means, and fearing that Miss Ashton would return to call them to order before she did so, she rose and wandered out of the room, holding the locket fast within her handkerchief. Most of the children were in the hall, and she went on into the cloak-room. There was no one there; and as she looked about her, wondering what she should do with the locket, the bell rang to call the class back to their places. With no time to think, with no plan in her head, not meaning to keep the locket from Belle, nor yet seeing her way clearly to the means of getting it back, Mabel hastily dropped it in a corner upon the floor, snatched down her own hat and sacque and threw them over it; then ran back to the school-room with beating heart and crimson cheeks. No one noticed her guilty looks; or, if they did, laid them to the same cause that Dora Johnson had done, and did not speak of them. The class in reading was now called up; and as Mabel took her stand about the middle of the row, she gave her attention, not to the task before her, but to the locket lying hidden in the cloak-room, and tried to contrive a way out of her difficulty. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she gave a great sigh of relief. This was the day on which Belle took her music-lesson after school was dismissed: it might be that she would not discover that the locket had been taken out of her desk till she came to go home; and she, Mabel, would have time to put it back after the other children had left. Miss Ashton's voice roused her, calling back her thoughts to her lesson and reminding her that it was her turn to read; but she did not know where the place was, and when it was pointed out to her by Belle, she stumbled and blundered over words that she knew quite well, and read most disgracefully, finishing her performance with a new burst of crying. Miss Ashton did not find fault with her, believing perhaps that she really could not help it, but passed on to the next. Would she have taken it so quietly if she had known the true cause of Mabel's excitement? The child could not help asking herself this question, or wondering what punishment she would be called on to bear if her teacher knew all. Not for twenty lockets such as Belle's would she have borne the miserable feelings from which she was suffering now. So the time dragged on, heavily, heavily, till it was the hour for dismissal; and the little ones prepared to go home. Mabel watched Belle's every motion, scarcely daring to hope that she would not discover her loss before she went downstairs to her music-lesson; but Belle, never dreaming but that her treasure lay safely hidden in the far corner where she had left it, put books and slate back into her desk in haste, and at last followed Miss Ashton from the room. Then Mabel hurried into the cloak-room, a new fear taking hold of her, as fears without number or reason ever will of the guilty. Suppose any of the other children had lifted her sacque and found the locket beneath it! No: it lay upon the floor still,--not just as she had left it, it seemed to her fearful, suspicious eyes. But no one turned upon her with accusing words or looks; and she believed herself safe, if she could but manage to be the last child to go. Nanette, her nurse, who was waiting for her, was too well used to her freaks to be much surprised when she declared she was not going home just yet; and stood by, with what patience she might, to await the pleasure of her hard young task-mistress, who plumped herself down on the floor upon her sacque with a look of dogged determination, which Nanette knew well would change to one of furious passion if she were crossed. As Lily Norris left the room, she could not refrain from a parting shot at Mabel. "Mabel," she said, "in the 'Nonsense Book' there is a picture of a sulky girl sitting on a carpet, and the reading about her begins, 'There was a young lady of Turkey, Whose temper was exceedingly murky;' and I just b'lieve the man what took her portrait, and made the poetry about her, meant you;" with which, mindful of the fact that Mabel's hand was swift and heavy when she was provoked, she flew from the room, chuckling over her own joke, and joined in her laughter by those who followed her, Lily being considered a great wit. So had Mabel set all her young school-mates against her that there was scarcely one who did not enjoy a laugh at her expense. But just now Mabel was too much troubled about another matter to vex herself concerning Lily's tantalizing words; and she was only too thankful to see all the children leave the cloak-room one after another. The moment the last one had disappeared, she ordered her nurse to go out and stand in the entry; sprang to her feet and snatched up the sacque, intending to run with the locket and pop it into Belle's desk without loss of time. But--there was no locket there! She shook out her sacque and turned it over and over, looked in her hat, searched all about the corner, and then threw her eyes hastily around the room; all in vain. The locket was certainly gone; and the next moment a cry, half of rage, half of alarm and despair, brought Nanette back to the room. "What is it?" she asked, seeing by the child's face that it was no ordinary fit of temper that ailed Mabel. "It's gone! Oh, it's gone!" sobbed Mabel, wringing her hands and looking the very picture of distress. "But what is gone? What have you lost?" asked the maid. Then Mabel recollected herself, and cried less loudly: she would not have even Nanette know how naughty she had been, how meanly she had acted towards the dear little cousin who had been so kind to her; for, mingled with her own fears for herself, there was a feeling of deep remorse for the trouble she had brought upon Belle. What would the latter say when she should discover her loss? And, oh dear! oh dear! what was she to do herself? Even her own indulgent and all-excusing mother could hardly overlook such a thing as this. She ceased her loud cries and tried to choke back the sobs, but in vain did she wipe her eyes again and again: the tears gathered and rolled down her cheeks as fast as she dried them away; and presently Miss Ashton, who had heard her cries, came running upstairs, followed by Belle, to see what was the matter. But the moment she saw them, Mabel turned sullen, pouted out her lips, and would not speak; nor could Nanette give any explanation of the cause of the commotion she had made. And Miss Ashton, much displeased at this new disturbance, bade the nurse put on Mabel's things and take her home at once. Mabel was glad enough to obey, and she suffered Nanette to lead her home as quietly as a lamb, though she could not help a tear and a sigh now and then; and Nanette wondered much what secret trouble should have brought about this distress. Nor was Mabel's mamma more successful in discovering the cause, when she noticed the traces of tears and observed the child's evident unhappiness. Mabel would not speak, or confess what she had done; and she shrank from her mother's caresses and coaxings, and hung around in sullen, miserable silence, waiting till Belle should come home grieved to the heart, as she knew she would be, by the loss of her much-prized locket. [Illustration] [Illustration] XI. _BELLE'S GRIEF._ And meanwhile how was it with little Belle? Daphne went for her young mistress at the appointed hour, and as soon as the music-lesson was finished took her upstairs to make her ready. "An' whar's yer locket, honey?" she asked, immediately missing the ornament from about the child's neck. "In my desk: it did come to a danger, Daphne. I broke the chain and had to put it away. I'm going to bring it, and give it to you to carry home very carefully, so it won't be lost." "And how did it come broke, dear?" questioned the old woman. "The chain caught on Miss Ashton's chair and just came right in two," said Belle, refraining from blaming her cousin, upon whom she knew Daphne looked with such an unfavorable eye. And away she ran into the school-room, Daphne following, and opened her desk. "Why!" she exclaimed, seeing the locket was not where she had left it; and then hastily fell to turning her books about and looking beneath them. "What is it, dear heart? Whar am it gone?" said Daphne, seeing no locket, and observing the disturbance of her little charge. "I don't know; I left it here,--right here in this corner. Oh! Daffy, I know I did; and I never touched it again. Miss Ashton told me not, not till I went home; and I did mind her, oh! I did; but it isn't there. Oh! Daffy, you look, quick. Oh! my locket, mamma's own locket!" [Illustration: Belle Powers. p. 164.] Daphne turned over each book as hurriedly as Belle had done; then took them all out and shook them, peered within the empty desk, and swept her hand around it again and again; looked on the floor beneath: but all in vain. The locket was certainly not there, and Belle's face grew each moment more and more troubled. "You's forgot, and took it out again, honey," said the old woman at last. "Oh! I didn't: how could I forget? And I don't dis'bey Miss Ashton when she tells me don't do a thing. I don't, Daphne; and I couldn't forget about my mamma's locket;" and the poor little thing burst into tears. Such tears! If any of you have ever lost something which to you was very dear and sacred, which you looked upon as a treasure past all price, and which you would not have exchanged for a hundred pretty things, each one of far more value, you may know how Belle felt at this unlooked-for and, to her, mysterious disappearance of her locket. "Now, don't yer, honey-pot,--don't yer," said Daphne, vainly trying to soothe her: "'twill be foun', I reckon; but if you ain't took it out, some one else has, for sartain. It ain't walked out ob yer desk widout han's, for sartain sure." "Oh! but, Daffy, who would take it? who would be so bad to me? They knew I loved it so. I don't b'lieve anybody could tease me so, when they knew it was my own dead mamma's locket," sobbed the little one. "Um! I spec' it warn't for no teasin' it war done," said Daphne, half hesitating; then her resentment and anger at the supposed thief getting the better of her prudence, she added, "I did allus know Miss Mabel wor a bad one; but I _didn't_ tink she so fur trabelled on de broad road as to take to stealin',--and de property ob her own kin too." The word "stealing" silenced Belle, and checked her tears and cries for a moment or two. "Stealing!" she repeated; "Mabel wouldn't steal, Daffy. Oh, that would be too dreadful! She must know better than that. She couldn't _steal_ my locket." "Dunno," said Daphne, dryly: "'pears uncommon like it. Who you s'pose is de tief den, Miss Belle?" "But we don't have thiefs in our school, Daphne," said the little girl: "we wouldn't do such a thing, and Miss Ashton would never 'low it." "Dey don't ginerally ask no leave 'bout dere comin's an' goin's," said Daphne: "if dey did, I specs der'd be less of 'em. You 'pend upon it, Miss Belle, dat ar locket's been stealed; an' I can put my finger on who took it right straight off." "But," persisted Belle, whose distress was still for the time overcome by her horror at Daphne's suggestion, "I don't b'lieve any one would do such a thing; and, Daphne," raising her small head with a little dignified air, and looking reprovingly at the old woman, "I don't b'lieve, either, that it is very proper for you to call Mabel a thief. Maybe she took it to show to the jeweller man, but I know she couldn't steal it. But, oh dear! oh dear! I wonder if I will ever have it back again, my own, own mamma's locket;" and the sense of her loss coming over her with new force, she laid her head down upon her desk and cried aloud. For the second time the sounds of distress called Miss Ashton to see what the trouble was; and they brought also the older girls from Mrs. Ashton's room, for their recess was not yet quite over. They all crowded about Belle, asking what was the matter, and trying to soothe her; for Belle was a great favorite and pet in the school, partly because she was motherless,--poor little one!--which gave teachers and scholars all a tender feeling toward her, partly because she had many taking and pretty ways of her own, which made her very attractive to every one who knew her. In her uncertainty and distress the child could not make plain the cause of her trouble; and Daphne took upon herself the task of explanation, glad, if the truth were known, of the chance. Nor was she backward in expressing her own views of the matter, and in boldly asserting that the locket had been stolen, and she knew by whom. But at this, Belle roused herself and interrupted her nurse. "No, no," she said, shaking her head as she looked up with face all drowned in tears, and hardly able to speak for sobbing,--"no, no, Miss Ashton, Daphne _must_ be mistaken. Mabel never would do it,--never!" Now in spite of all her own declarations to the contrary, the fact was that Daphne's repeated accusations, and the recollection of Mabel's threats that she would "have the locket _somehow_," had caused a doubt to enter little Belle's mind as to the possibility and probability of Mabel being the "thief" Daphne called her; but mindful of the "love-charity" she was determined to feel for her cousin,--the charity which "believeth all things, hopeth all things,"--she tried to put this doubt from her, and to think that some one else was the guilty person, or that the locket had only been taken to tease her. And she was not willing that others should join in Daphne's suspicions and believe that Mabel could do such a thing. But Miss Ashton herself had too much reason to fear that Daphne's idea was, in part at least, correct. Enough had come to her ears and passed before her eyes, to make her believe that Mabel, in her extreme wilfulness, would not hesitate at any means of gaining her point, especially in the matter of the locket. She did not, it is true, feel sure that Mabel intended to keep the locket; but she thought she had probably taken it against her cousin's will, for purposes of her own; and this was hardly less dishonest than if she had, according to Daphne, _stolen_ it outright. Miss Ashton was very much disturbed. Mabel was proving such a source of trouble, such a firebrand in her little school, which had until now gone on in so much peace and harmony, that she had felt for some days as if it were scarcely best to keep her; still for many reasons she did not wish to ask her mother to remove her. She thought it better for Mabel to be thrown more with other children than she had hitherto been; and her hope of doing her some good could not be put away readily; and also she shrank from offending and grieving the child's relatives, especially Mr. Powers, who had been a good friend to her mother and herself. But if Mabel was a child of so little principle as to do a thing like this, it was best to send her away at once, she thought; and there seemed too much reason to fear that it was so. However, she said nothing of all this to Belle, and when the old colored woman began again, gently stopped her, saying,-- "That will do, Daphne: we will not say any more about this. Belle, my dear, open your desk and let us search again." Of course the desk was searched in vain, and not only the desk, but the whole school-room; Miss Ashton faintly hoping that Belle might accidentally have pulled the locket out and dropped it on the floor. Meanwhile the bell had rung to call the older girls back to their class; and Mrs. Ashton, hearing the story from them, came also to Belle to make some inquiries. This was a serious matter, the disappearance of a valuable thing from the desk of one of her little scholars, and needed to be thoroughly sifted. But as soon as she appeared, Belle was seized with that unfortunate dread of the elder lady which possessed all the little girls; and she thought what would become of Mabel if Mrs. Ashton, too, believed her to be a "thief." Visions of squads of policemen, prisons and chains, danced before her mind's eye; and her imagination, almost as quick and fertile as Maggie Bradford's, pictured her cousin dragged away by Mrs. Ashton's orders, while the rest of the family were plunged in the deepest grief and disgrace. So it was but little satisfaction that Mrs. Ashton gained from her, in reply to her questions. Not so Daphne, however; finding that her young lady gave such short and low answers as could scarcely be understood, she once more poured forth her opinions till again ordered to stop. However, there was one opinion in which all were forced to agree; namely, that the locket was certainly gone. Belle's sobs were quieted at last, save when a long, heavy sigh struggled up now and then; but her face wore a piteous, grieved look which it went to Miss Ashton's heart to see. With her own hands, she put on the child's hat and sacque, petting her tenderly and assuring her that she would leave no means untried to discover her lost treasure; and then Belle went home with her nurse. Daphne stalked with her charge at once to Mrs. Walton's room; and, forgetting her usual good manners, threw open the door without knocking, and standing upon the threshold proclaimed,-- "Miss Walton, Miss Belle's locket am clean gone, chain an' all; an' de Lord will sure foller wid His judgment on dem what's robbed a moderless chile." Her words were addressed to Mrs. Walton; but her eyes were fastened on Mabel, who shrank from both look and words, knowing full well that Daphne suspected her of being the guilty one. Mrs. Walton held out her hand kindly to Belle. "Come here, darling," she said, "and tell me all about it. Your locket gone? How is that?" Belle told her story in as few words as possible, avoiding any mention of Mabel's naughtiness in school that morning, or of the threats she had used about the locket. She did not even look at Mabel as she spoke, for all the way home the dear little soul had been contriving how she might act and speak so as not to let Mabel see that she had any doubt of her. "'Cause maybe she didn't take it," she said to herself: "it isn't a _very_ maybe, but it's a little maybe; and I would be sorry if I b'lieved she took it and then knew she didn't; and she might be offended with me for ever and ever if I thought she was a thief." But the puzzle had been great in Belle's mind; for she thought, "If she took it for a pattern for the locket-man and not to keep it, I wonder if it wasn't somehow a little bit like stealing;" and she could not help the suspicion that Mabel had really done this. Mrs. Walton was full of sympathy and pity, and asked more questions than Belle felt able or willing to answer; but it never entered her mind to suspect her own child. And, indeed, with all her sad, naughty ways, she had never known Mabel to tell a wilful falsehood, or to take that which did not belong to her in a deceitful, thievish manner. She would, it is true, insist that the thing she desired should be given to her, and often snatch and pull at that which was another's, or boldly help herself in defiance of orders to the contrary; but to do this in a secret way, to be in the least degree dishonest or false, such a thing would have seemed quite impossible to Mrs. Walton. "Can it be that one of your little class-mates is so very wicked?" she said. "Miss Ashton should see to this at once: it is almost impossible that she should not discover the thief if she makes proper efforts." How did the words of her unsuspecting mother sound to the ears of the guilty little daughter who stood in the recess of the window, half hidden by the curtains, but plainly hearing all that passed as she pretended to be playing with her dolls? Would Miss Ashton find her out? Would it not be better to go at once and confess? And it was not only fear for herself which led Mabel to hesitate thus: she was really full of remorse and sorrow for the trouble which her wicked, selfish conduct had brought upon Belle; and as she saw how her forgiving little cousin avoided blaming her, these feelings grew stronger and stronger, till they almost overcame the selfishness which ruled her. But not quite; and she resolved to make amends to Belle in some other way. She thought she was doing this, and showing great generosity, when she came out of her corner, and said to her mother,-- "Mamma, please buy a very nice locket, and let Belle have it 'stead of me. I'll give it up to her, 'cause hers is gone." Whatever suspicions Belle might have had were at once put to flight by this; but the offer had no charms for her. No other locket could take the place of mamma's; and she shook her head sadly, as she said,-- "No, thank you, Mabel: I don't want any other locket to make up that one. I couldn't wear it, indeed I couldn't." The melancholy tone of her voice brought back all Mabel's self-reproach, and of the two children she was perhaps really the most unhappy; but still she could not resolve to confess, though Conscience whispered that if she told what she had done, there might be more chance of finding the locket. Had she not felt too much ashamed and unworthy of praise, she might have been consoled by all that her mother lavished upon her for her offer to Belle. Such unheard-of generosity on Mabel's part was something so new and delightful that Mrs. Walton could not say enough in its praise; and both she and Mr. Walton began to hope that companionship with other children, and Belle's good example, were really doing her good. Little did they think what was the true cause of the proposed self-denial, or of Mabel's evident low spirits. When Mr. Powers came home, he was almost as much disturbed as Belle to hear of the fate of her locket; and when she had gone to rest that evening, he went to see Miss Ashton to ask if she could take no steps for its recovery. He was very grave and silent when he came back; and neither that evening nor the next morning did he have much to say concerning it, save that he comforted his little daughter by telling her that he had good hope it would be found. [Illustration] [Illustration] XII. _CONFESSION AND REPENTANCE._ Mabel declared herself not well enough to go to school the next morning; and there seemed some reason to believe it was really so, so dull and spiritless and unlike herself she appeared; and her mother allowed her to remain at home. The true reason was, that she feared to face Miss Ashton and her school-mates. In vain did her mother try to find out the cause of her trouble, for it was easy to be seen that it was more than sickness. But the day was not to pass over without Mrs. Walton learning this. For that afternoon Mabel was much startled, and her mother somewhat surprised, by a call from Miss Ashton. Mabel shrank away from her teacher, and said she had to go to her uncle's rooms and play with Belle; and Miss Ashton was not sorry to have her go, as she was about to ask Mrs. Walton to see her alone. She said this as soon as the child had left the room, adding that she had come on what might prove a painful business; and then told Mrs. Walton all that had passed about the locket on the day before, part of which she had gathered from the other children, part she had known herself. She had reason to fear, she said, that Mabel had taken the locket, as she had threatened to have it, in one way or another; and had been the only one alone in the room with opportunity to take it from Belle's desk. She told, also, how strangely Mabel had acted when she was leaving school the day before; and said, although it might not be so, she could not help thinking that this might be connected with the disappearance of the locket. When Mr. Powers had called upon her the evening before, she told him all she knew, but begged him to say nothing to or about Mabel until she had questioned the other children, and found out who had been in the room beside herself. No one else, so far as she could learn, had been there alone; but the moment Dora Johnson heard that Belle's locket was lost, she had cried out that Mabel must have taken it during recess, and that was the reason she had "acted so queer and mysterious." This was the general opinion among the class, and they were all loud in their indignation against Mabel. She, Miss Ashton, had told them they must not judge too hastily; but she could not herself deny that suspicion pointed very strongly towards the child. Mrs. Walton was much distressed, but also much displeased, that Miss Ashton, or any one else, should believe Mabel to be guilty. She had never known her to practise deceit or dishonesty of any kind, she said; and insisted on sending at once for the child and questioning her. Miss Ashton did not object, hoping to be able to judge from Mabel's manner whether she were guilty or not; and Mrs. Walton, saying she was determined to hear all that the children had to say on the subject, sent the nurse to bring both Belle and Mabel. "Is Miss Ashton gone?" asked the latter when the messenger came. "No, mademoiselle," said Nanette. "Then I shan't go. I don't want to see her," said Mabel. "Belle, don't go. Stay and play with me." But Belle, who was very fond of her teacher and always liked to see her, and who, moreover, had a faint hope that she might have brought some good news about the locket, insisted on going to her aunt's room; and Mabel, dreading the same thing and yet not daring to stay behind, reluctantly followed. Mrs. Walton and Miss Ashton looked from one to the other of the children as they entered; and as the former saw Mabel's downcast, shamefaced look as she came forward, her heart sank within her. What if Mabel should be really guilty, after all? "Did you find any thing of my locket, Miss Ashton?" asked little Belle, as soon as she had welcomed the young lady. "Not yet, dear; but I have some hope of doing so," answered Miss Ashton, looking at Mabel. "Now, I want you to tell your aunt and myself all you can about it. You are quite sure you did not touch it after I saw you put it in your desk?" "Quite, quite sure, ma'am; and I never went to my desk after that, 'cept to put away my slate; and there's nothing more to tell about it, Miss Ashton, only how I went there to give it to Daphne, and couldn't find it. It was perferly gone," and Belle gave a long sigh, which told how deep her loss lay. "Mabel," said Mrs. Walton, suddenly, "did you see Belle's locket after it was broken?" Mabel hung her head more than ever, stammered and stuttered, and finally burst into tears. Belle looked at her, colored, and hesitated; then stepped up to her, and putting her arm about her shoulder said,-- "I don't b'lieve Mabel did take it, Aunt Fanny: I don't think she could be so mean to me. I _tried_ not to b'lieve it, and now I don't think I do. Please don't you and Miss Ashton b'lieve so either, Aunt Fanny." Belle's "love-charity" was too much for Mabel. Taking her hands from before her face, she clasped them about her cousin's neck, and sobbed out,-- "Oh! I did, Belle. I did take it out of your desk; but I never, never meant to keep it,--no, not even to show to the locket-man; but I couldn't find it to put it back; and I'm so sorry, I'll just give you any thing in the world of mine, 'cept my papa and mamma." Mabel's words were so incoherent that all her hearers could understand was that she had taken the locket; and though Belle had been obliged to try hard to believe in her cousin's honesty, the shock to the faith she had built up was now so great that her arm dropped from Mabel's shoulder, and she stood utterly amazed and confounded. Mrs. Walton, too, sat as if she were stricken dumb; and Miss Ashton was the first to speak, which she did in a tone more grieved and sorrowful than stern. "And where is the locket now, Mabel? Did you say you cannot find it?" Mabel shook her head in assent. "What have you done with it?" asked Mrs. Walton, in a tone that Mabel had never known her mother use to her before. The whole story was at last drawn from the child, accompanied with many sobs and tears. Belle put full faith in all she said, and almost lost sight of her own trouble in sympathy for Mabel's distress. Her arm went back about her cousin's neck, and her own pocket-handkerchief was taken out to wipe away Mabel's tears. But Miss Ashton plainly did not believe her story, and even her own mother was doubtful of its truth; for it was told with so much hesitation and stammering. Mrs. Walton turned to Miss Ashton, with a look which the young lady hardly knew how to answer, except by one which asked that the children should be sent away again; which was done. "You do not believe what Mabel says, Miss Ashton?" said Mrs. Walton. "I do not see how it can be so," replied Miss Ashton: "I do not believe there is a child in my class who is not honest; and they all love Belle too much to think of teasing her in any way. Moreover, I know that not one of them was in the cloak-room from the time of the short recess till they were dismissed; and had any child had the will, I do not see that she had the opportunity, to take the locket." "But your servants?" questioned the anxious mother. Miss Ashton shook her head sadly. "My mother's two older servants have been with us for years," she said, "and are quite above suspicion. The younger one, the colored girl, Marcia, who sometimes waits on the children, and now and then goes into the cloak-room, was not in the house. Her sister was sick, and she had been allowed to go to her for the day. She is not, I fear, strictly honest, and has now and then been detected in picking and stealing; and, although I have never known her to take any thing of much value, there is no saying how far temptation might lead her; but, as I say, she was not at home at the time. I grieve to distress you farther, Mrs. Walton; but I do not see that Mabel's story can be true." "What do you think she has done with the locket?" asked Mrs. Walton, in a trembling voice. "How could I tell, my dear madam?" replied Miss Ashton, looking with pity at the other lady. "It may be that she has really lost it, but in some other way than the one she relates; or it may be--that she has it still." "Impossible!" said Mrs. Walton; but although she said the word, the tone of her voice told that she did not believe it impossible. "Mabel is a troublesome, spoiled child, I allow," continued the poor mother; "but I have never known her to tell me a deliberate falsehood, and to make up such a story as this." "I will have the school-room thoroughly searched," said Miss Ashton; "and whether the locket is found or no, we will at least give Mabel the benefit of the doubt, and treat her as if she were not more guilty than she acknowledges herself to be, unless it is proved that she knows more about it than she says;" and then she rose, and, shaking hands with Mrs. Walton, once more said how sorry she was for the trouble she had been obliged to bring her, and went away. Meanwhile the two children had gone back to Belle's nursery, where that dear little girl set herself to the task of consoling Mabel as well as she might. But this was a difficult matter. So long as she had her own way, Mabel generally cared little whether or not people thought her a naughty girl; but as she was really pretty truthful and upright, she was now half-heartbroken at the idea of being considered dishonest and deceitful. She could not quite acquit herself of the latter, since she had taken advantage of Belle's absence to do that which she would not have done in her presence, and now she was very much ashamed of it; but this seemed to her very different from telling a falsehood, which she plainly saw Miss Ashton, and her mother too, suspected her of doing. She threw herself down on the floor of the nursery in a passion of tears and sobs; and when Belle, sitting down by her, begged her not to cry so, answered,-- "I will, I will: they think I told a story, mamma and Miss Ashton do. I can't bear Miss Ashton,--horrid, old thing! She made mamma think I did. She's awfully ugly: her nose turns up, and I'm glad it does,--good enough for her." "Oh! Mabel," said Belle, "Miss Ashton's nose don't turn up. It turns down about as much as it turns up, I think. I b'lieve it's as good as ours." "I shan't think it is," said Mabel. "I'm going to think it turns up about a million of miles. And, Belle, 'cause everybody thinks I took your locket to keep, and told a wicked story about it, I shall never eat any more breakfast or dinner or supper, but starve myself, so they'll be sorry." Belle was too well used to such threats from Mabel to be very much alarmed at this. Mabel went on, trying to make a deeper impression. "I shan't ever eat any more French sugar-plums," then as the recollection of a tempting box of these delicacies came over her,--"'cept only there are three candied apricots in the box papa brought me last night. I'll eat two of them, and give you the other; and then never eat another thing, 'cause nobody believes me; and it is true,--oh! it is." "I b'lieve you, dear," said Belle. "I don't think you would be so bad to me,--truly I don't." "Don't you?" said Mabel, turning around her flushed, tear-stained face; "then I'll give you two apricots, Belle, and only keep one myself; and then starve myself. You're real good to me, Belle, and nobody else is. You're the only friend I have left in the world," she concluded in a tragic whisper, as she sat up and dried her eyes. "I'll try to coax them not to think you did mean to keep it and tell a story about it," said her little comforter. "Belle, what makes you so good to me, when I was so bad to you?" asked Mabel. "'Cause I want you to love me, and be good to me too," answered Belle. "And, besides, Jesus don't want us to be good only to people who are good to us. He wants us to be good to people who are bad to us too." Mabel sat looking at her cousin in some wonder. "Do you care very much what Jesus wants?" she asked presently. "Why, yes," said Belle: "don't you?" "What does He think about me, I wonder?" said Mabel, musingly, without answering Belle's question, which indeed answered itself, as the recollection of some of her cousin's naughty freaks returned to her. But she said nothing about these; for Mabel's speech brought a thought which she hastened to put into words, thinking that it might give the latter some comfort. "Oh! Mabel," she said eagerly, "He knows all about the locket; and if you do tell the truf, He b'lieves you, and I am sure He's sorry for you too, even if you was a little naughty about it." It was a pity that the mother and the governess were not there to see the way in which Mabel's face lighted up. They must have been convinced that, however much she had been to blame, the story she now told was true. Guilt could never have worn that look at the thought that the all-seeing Eye read her heart and believed in her innocence. And if there was any lingering doubt in little Belle's mind, it was cleared away by that look. "Now I truly know she is not telling a story," she said to herself, "'cause she looks so glad that Jesus knows all about it; and if she had, she would be frightened to think He knew she was so wicked." "It's nice to think Jesus knows about it and b'lieves you, isn't it?" she said aloud. "Yes," said Mabel; "and I love Him for it, and I do love you too; and I'll always love you till I'm all starved and dead. Belle, I know you do care what Jesus wants, 'cause you try to be good and kind. I've just a good mind to try too. Maybe if I do, He'll make them find out where that locket went to." Now perhaps Mabel's two resolutions did not agree very well the one with the other; but there was no fear that the first would hold good longer than till supper-time, nor was the hope of reward for herself the best motive for the second. But Belle, and perhaps a higher ear than little Belle's, was glad to hear her say this; and indeed it was a token for good. For Mabel was beginning to see the beauty and sweetness of Belle's conduct, and the warmth and light of her example were taking effect on that perverse and selfish little heart. Belle was proving a "sunbeam" to Mabel, though she did not know it herself. [Illustration] [Illustration] XIII. _MABEL'S GENEROSITY._ It would be impossible to tell how troubled and disturbed poor Mrs. Walton was by Miss Ashton's story. So was Mr. Walton when he came home and heard it. It was hard to think that their own and only child could be guilty of such a thing; and yet suspicion pointed so strongly towards her that it was almost impossible to believe otherwise. They talked it over between themselves, and with Mr. Powers when he came; and then the children were called, and told to repeat all they knew once more. Mabel's story was in no way different from that she had told before, save that it was given with far less hesitation and difficulty, but in no other respect did it vary from the first; and here was ground for hope that it was true. Belle, too, told her tale with the same straightforwardness and simplicity that she had done before, but it threw no light on what was so dark; and, as she had done from the first, she carefully avoided throwing any blame on her cousin, and concluded in these words, uttered in a pleading voice:-- "Please, papa, and uncle, and Aunt Fanny, don't believe Mabel took my locket to keep: I don't believe she did, not one bit; and I don't want any one else to think she did." "Why do you think she did not, dear?" asked Mr. Walton. "First I _tried_ not to think she did," said Belle; "and then when I told her Jesus knew if she was telling the truf, she was glad, and felt better about it, so that made me quite sure. If she had hidden it on purpose to keep it, she would be afraid if she thought Jesus knew it." Her words brought great comfort and new hope to the father and mother. "Let's all think she didn't do it, unless we have to be very, very sure she did; and please kiss her, and make up with her, Aunt Fanny, 'cause she feels so bad about it," persisted Belle, drawing her cousin forward, as she stood hanging her head, half-sullen, half-shamefaced, and sorrowful at the suspicion she felt cast upon her. "Aunt Fanny, if I had my own mamma here with me, I would feel very dreadful to know she thought I hid something to steal it, and told ever so many stories about it." Who could resist her? Not the mother certainly! who, only too glad to believe her child innocent of more than she had acknowledged, put her arms about her and gave her a kiss of forgiveness; while Mabel laid her head against her mamma's shoulder, and cried there such gentle, penitent tears as she had seldom shed before. For the sweeter and kinder Belle was to her, the more deeply repentant she felt for the wrong she had really done her. And not for the matter of the locket alone did she sorrow: she remembered and felt remorseful for many another selfish, unkind act and speech, and she could not but contrast with shame her cousin's conduct with her own. "Dear, little Belle!" said her uncle: "hers is the charity that 'thinketh no evil.'" Mr. Walton said this, knowing nothing of the rules by which Belle had lately tried to govern her behavior to Mabel as well as to others. "Yes," said Mr. Powers, drawing his little daughter fondly towards him, and kissing her forehead,--"yes, I believe Belle is really trying for that charity which may keep us in love and peace with God and man." "Papa," whispered Belle, with her arms about his neck, "it used to be real hard not to think Mabel was the spoildest, worst child that ever lived, and that would do all kinds of bad things; and now I don't like to think that about her, or to have other people think so. Is that 'cause I tried to have love-charity for her? Bessie said it was when I told her." "Yes, darling, I think so." "And, papa, Maggie said one of her nice, pleasant-sounding things. She said when we were like sunbeams ourselves it made things look bright and good that would look ugly and dark if we were not nice and bright ourselves. Maggie makes sunniness and shinyness herself, and so does Bessie; and they try all they can to think people wouldn't do bad things." After the children had been dismissed for the night, there was some discussion between their parents whether or no it would be better for Mabel to go to school till the mystery was cleared up; but it was at last decided that there should be no change, and she should go as usual. "If she will," said Mrs. Walton, to which her husband replied,-- "I think, my dear, it is time that Mabel was learning to do what she _must_, and not what she _will_. I fear we have ourselves to blame for much of this trouble, which has arisen from the wilfulness and selfishness we have too long overlooked." But Mabel was so subdued by her trouble, and by her sorrow for her past misconduct to Belle, that she offered no resistance to going to school the next day, further than to say she did not want to go. "Oh, yes, dear!" said her father: "there is no reason why you should not." "I'm afraid the children won't believe me about Belle's locket," she whispered; "and they'll look at me." "But if you stay away it would seem as if you were really guilty," said Mr. Walton. "I do not think your school-mates will be unkind to you; and if they are, you must bear it as a part of the punishment for your naughtiness to Belle. Mamma and I think it better you should go. If you are innocent, you need not be afraid." And Mabel, quite broken-spirited, submitted without any of the loud outcries with which she usually met any opposition to her wishes. "I know that they'll all be mad at me, and point at me, and every thing," she sobbed, as she started for school with Belle and the two nurses. "If any of them are so bad to you, I will tell them to have 'love-charity;' and if they don't, I won't be friends with them any more, but be very offended with them indeed," said Belle, forgetting that her new rule could work more ways than one, and hold good for others than Mabel. Just now she was so full of forgiving pity and sympathy for her cousin that she thought only of helping her and doing battle in her behalf. Mabel's fears were well founded, as it proved. She was met with looks askance, and cold words; while Belle was greeted with a more than usual share of affection. And Dora Johnson, who was not very careful of other people's feelings, and was apt to say rather rude and unkind things without much thought, said in a whisper, loud enough for Mabel to hear,-- "Before I'd come to school if I was a locket-thief!" Belle heard this too, and at once fired up in Mabel's defence. "Before I would too, and before Mabel would!" she said, her bright eyes flashing with indignation as she took her cousin's hand in a protecting manner; "and because she isn't a thief is the reason she comes; and she only took it out of my desk to look at, and didn't mean to steal it a bit. But somebody else must have: I don't know who. And if everybody don't be friends with her, they needn't be friends with me either; and I won't have 'em, but will be awfully mad with 'em." Belle's speech was not perhaps very coherent; but it was understood by all, and had its effect. For since _she_ believed that Mabel had not the locket, the rest thought that she must have some good reason for her faith; and no more was said in words, though poor Mabel could not but feel that she was curiously and suspiciously gazed at by every child in the school, as if they expected to read her guilt or innocence written on her face. Still, on the whole, matters were not so bad as she had feared they would be. Miss Ashton was as kind and gentle as usual, and, like her own family, seemed to wish to believe her innocent till she was proved guilty; while Belle was more affectionate and patronizing than she had ever been before, and returned with reproachful or defiant looks every cold or scornful glance that fell to Mabel's share. The search of the cloak-room for the missing treasure had proved quite fruitless. Miss Ashton had taken the trouble to have every thing moved from the room, the floor had been thoroughly swept, and even the corners and edges of the carpet turned up; but all in vain. There was no trace of the lost locket; and Miss Ashton and her mother had decided that they could only wait and see what time would do. Whoever had taken it, such a thing could not remain long hidden: it must be discovered and brought home to the guilty child. So Miss Ashton told Mrs. Walton when she called to see her again on this unhappy matter; and she would not say, though she gave Mabel the benefit of the doubt, that in her heart she believed her to be that child; and the mother could only hope and pray that it might not be so. Still it was a most uncomfortable and unhappy matter. Such a thing had never happened before in the little school; and it was sad to believe that there was a thief among that young group. But good was brought out of all this discomfort and unhappiness. The change in Mabel was surprising as well as encouraging. She clung to Belle, and to Belle's faith in her, in a way that was really touching, and which went far to convince her friends and teacher that she was really innocent of more than she had confessed. And, contrary to her usual custom, she did not try to excuse herself for what she had done, but was truly penitent, and ready to acknowledge that this trouble had arisen from her own fault. If Belle would have taken them, she would have thrust upon her all her own possessions; and now whenever she saw a pretty thing, she wanted it, not for herself, but for Belle, and was constantly begging her papa and mamma to buy this, that, and the other for her little cousin. And as she became more and more unselfish and yielding towards Belle, she became so towards others, and more obedient and docile to her parents; till the self-willed, outrageous, spoiled elf seemed really changing and quieting down into a tolerably well-behaved, reasonable little child. That she was really repentant and desirous to make amends to Belle, she showed in a very decided manner when her birthday came around, as it did about three weeks after the loss of the locket. At this time her Grandmamma Walton was accustomed to send her two gold half-eagles; a large sum for a child like Mabel, and which the old lady probably supposed was put away with care, or used to some good purpose. But hitherto it had always been frittered away in toys, candies, and so forth, Mabel claiming such and such portions of it to spend when some trifle struck her fancy. At the time the locket was first lost, her mother had told her that it would be a good thing if she should spend the money which would come on her next birthday on a new one for Belle; and Mabel had readily agreed. But Mr. Walton, knowing nothing of her good intentions, had bought a handsome locket, and given it to Belle to take the place, as far as might be, of the one which was gone. Belle had thanked him prettily, and admired the gift; then gave it to Daphne to put away. "Where I can't see it, Daffy, 'cause it makes me feel like crying when I think it was not a bit my own mamma's like that other one I lost." It was in vain that Daphne tried to persuade her to wear it: the child seemed to have a half romantic, but touching sensitiveness on the subject, which could not be overcome. But Belle now having her uncle's gift, Mrs. Walton told Mabel that she could spend the money in some other way to gratify her cousin; and Mabel thought of first one thing, then another, which she could purchase for Belle. But she had not yet decided upon any thing when her birthday came, and with it the usual gift from her grandmother. Running into Belle's nursery on that morning, she found her little cousin standing by the side of old Daphne, who, with her hands over her face, was rocking herself to and fro, moaning and crying, while Belle seemed to be trying to comfort her. Near by stood another colored woman, looking troubled also, though not in the deep distress which Daphne showed. In Daphne's lap laid the contents of Belle's little purse and money-box,--pennies, five and ten cent pieces, and so forth. Mabel stood a moment in wonder at this unusual state of affairs; and then, full of the business which had brought her, broke forth with,-- "Belle! Belle! Make Daphne dress you very quick. Papa is going to take us out to buy something very nice for you with a whole lot of money grandmamma sent me; and then he is going to take us for a nice long drive in the Park, and let us run about and feed the swans and see the animals. Make haste! make haste!" Belle shook her head sorrowfully. "I can't leave Daphne, Mabel," she said. "She has a great trouble. Somebody went and did something naughty, and the people thought it was Daphne's boy,"--Daphne's boy was her grandson,--"and they've taken him to prison; but this woman knew it wasn't him, and they say he can come out if he can get a whole lot of money; and this woman came to tell Daphne; but she hasn't money enough, and I haven't either, and papa has gone away to Philadelphia, and won't come back till day after to-morrow; and what can we do?" and Belle's eyes filled, as she told the story of her old nurse's trouble. "And won't you come?" said Mabel. "No, thank you, Mabel: I couldn't." "Now go, and take yer pleasure, my honey," said Daphne, ever-mindful of her little lady's happiness. "I'll make you ready." "No, no, Daffy: I couldn't leave you. Oh! I do wish papa was home. He would fix it all, and get poor Peter out of prison. You are real good, Mabel; but I couldn't care much about the very prettiest present if I had to leave Daphne all alone when she is so sorry." Mabel hesitated, and thought of those two bright golden pieces. Here was a chance to give Belle a real pleasure, if she chose. She knew Belle well enough to feel sure that she would far rather help her old nurse out of this trouble than to have the most beautiful gift for herself; and Mabel believed that any thing might be done with that sum of money, which was her own to spend as she pleased. But, as we know, Mabel and Daphne had never been, and were not yet, the best of friends; and it was partly Daphne's fault too. She had no faith in Mabel's improvement, and watched with disdainful and unbelieving eyes her little attempts to be less selfish and wilful. And Mabel knew this, and returned the old woman's dislike with all her little might. So how could she resolve to give up her cherished plan for Daphne's relief? To be sure, it would give Belle more pleasure, but it would give far less to herself; and, indeed, she was not quite sure that she did not feel just the least satisfaction in Daphne's trouble. "It serves her right for being so cross to me all the time," she said to herself; but then came a feeling of shame at the unkind thought, and she was glad that Belle did not know of it. "Belle would give the money if it was hers, to get Peter out of prison, I know," she thought, nothing doubting that the two half-eagles could do this; "and maybe it would be the best way to show her I do love her, and am sorry for being so naughty to her about the locket. I'll just do it; but I better do it pretty quick or I'll change my mind about it, 'cause I don't want to one bit." She rushed from the room, leaving Belle to think that she was vexed at her refusal to go out with her; but in two minutes she was back with the gold pieces, which she thrust into Belle's hand, saying,-- "There, Belle, if you would rather take that black boy out of prison than have a pretty present for you and me to play with, you may. I will give you my money for it; but I don't do it 'cause I love Daphne, not one bit." It was not a very gracious way of bestowing a favor, it was true; but it was such a piece of unwonted self-denial from Mabel that her hearers were all taken by surprise, and did not know what to say. Belle stood with the gold pieces in her open hand, looking from them to Mabel, and then at Daphne, who was looking amazed and bewildered in her turn. But now Mrs. Walton appeared. When Mabel had run back to her mamma's room for her half-eagles, as she took them from her box she told some incoherent story, which Mrs. Walton had not understood, but which speedily brought her after her little girl to see what was to be the fate of the money. There was no knowing what freak might have taken the child. "I want Belle to take those to bring Daphne's black boy out of prison, mamma; and she seems as if she didn't want to," said Mabel, half-pouting. Then Daphne understood; and, rising, courtesied to Mrs. Walton, and told her story; ending by saying that she had not known what Miss Mabel meant, and she begged Mrs. Walton's pardon, and she had not thought of taking the child's money: "Bress her heart! an' I didn't desarve it, cos I did take such a scunner at her." Mrs. Walton seized Mabel in her arms, and covered her with kisses; while she lavished upon her the most extravagant words of praise and admiration. Mabel had expected this when her mother should come to hear of her offer to Daphne; and, more than this, she had been farther helped to make it by the belief that her mother would not let her be a loser. "But you shall not spend your birthday gift for that, my darling," she said: "perhaps papa can see to it until Uncle Frederick comes home. We will go and ask him, and tell him what a good, generous girl you are." Far wiser would it have been if Mrs. Walton had let Mabel learn to do good to others by making some sacrifice of her own wishes; but she could not bear to have her darling deprived of the slightest pleasure, on this day of all others. So bidding Daphne take heart till she should see what Mr. Walton said, she took both children with her to tell him the story. Mr. Walton listened, and then kindly said he would go and find out the truth of the case at once; and if he thought it right, he would give bail for the lad, for that was what was needed. "But," he said, "if I do this, I should go at once, that Daphne and her boy may not be kept in misery longer than is necessary; and then my little girls must lose their promised morning in the Park. The promise was made to you first: are you both willing to give up this pleasure for Daphne's sake?" There was no doubt about Belle; but, as Mr. Walton added, "it was Mabel's birthday, and she must decide." Now indeed Mabel's generosity and self denial were put to the proof, certainly far more than Belle's. The latter loved her faithful old nurse too dearly to hesitate for one instant; and, even had it not been so, the sacrifice was by no means so great for her as for Mabel. The Park with all its attractions was no new thing to Belle: many a drive and ramble had she had there; but to Mabel, who was a stranger in the city, it was not so familiar, and had not yet lost its first charm for her. And she had been so delighted with the thought of passing the morning there! How could she give it up for Daphne? Her father waited for her answer, and would not let his wife speak when she would have proposed some other plan; Belle watched her with wistful eyes; and she could not make up her mind to the sacrifice. She hesitated, pouted, frowned; and there were all the signs of a coming storm. "Very well," said her father, gravely. "I had hoped that my Mabel was really learning to care a little for others, but I fear it is not so. It must be as she decides. We will go for our pleasure, leaving Daphne's boy to stay another day in prison, for I have other business to attend to later in the day; or we will give up this little treat to save her and him much suffering. Which shall it be, Mabel?" "I said she could have my birthday money," whimpered Mabel; "and mamma said I was as generous as any thing." "Ah! it did not cost you much to give up the money, my child," said her father. "You and Belle have more toys and pretty things now than you know what to do with; but you are not generous enough to give up that on which you have really set your heart." Mabel looked over at Belle once more, and as she met the beseeching look in her eyes remembered that here was really the chance to show her cousin that she wished to make up for her past unkindness. She dropped the pocket-handkerchief which she was pettishly twisting into a string, lowered her raised shoulders, and running to Belle threw her arms about her neck, and said,-- "We'll give up the Park, and let papa go to let out Peter, Belle,--so we will. I'll be generous, even if I don't want to." So it was settled, and Mr. Walton went on his errand of mercy; of which I need say no more than that it was successful, and Peter set free, to the joy of Belle and Daphne. [Illustration] [Illustration] XIV. _FOUND._ A fortnight, three, four, five weeks passed away; and still nothing had been seen or heard of Belle's lost treasure. For the first few days the children could talk of nothing else; and it was only Belle's determination to stand fast by her cousin and take her part, that prevented them from treating Mabel with open slights and coldness. Dark looks and cool words would certainly have fallen to her portion, but for Belle; and she knew and felt this, and it is only justice to her to say that she was grateful to Belle accordingly. But by and by the affair became an old story, as every thing does in time, and the children ceased to wonder over it; and Mabel, though never much of a favorite, was allowed to come with them and join in their games as usual. Only the little cousins thought much about the locket; Belle still grieving over her loss, and Mabel mourning it almost as much, with a feeling of guilt and shame added to her sorrow for her cousin's sake. Perhaps nothing could have done Mabel more good than this sense of the wrong she had done her cousin: it made her see how indulgence in selfishness and wilfulness may bring trouble and distress which we never intended or dreamt of in our perverse mood. Moreover she felt abashed whenever she remembered that the most, if not all of her school-mates, and perhaps her teacher too, believed her guilty of even theft. It is not usually good for people to be unjustly suspected; but in this case it did Mabel no harm. It made her less exacting and domineering at school, and the wish to make amends to Belle made her more yielding and unselfish at home. So her old bad habits were somewhat broken in upon, and the praise and credit which she gained from her parents and little cousin were so pleasing to her that they caused her to persevere and try to do still better. It was not the best motive for improvement, to be sure; but it was something gained in the right way; and by and by Mabel came to the discovery that she was really happier when she was good than when she was naughty. One day when she and Belle were paying a visit to Maggie and Bessie, she gave what the other children considered a very striking instance of improvement. She had brought with her a very beautiful doll, and to this doll little Annie had taken a desperate fancy; but it was not thought safe to trust it to her hold, although she begged for it piteously. Baby though she was, Annie knew that she never obtained any thing by screaming for it; but she pleaded for the doll, which was held beyond her reach, with kisses and many pretty, broken words, till it was hard to resist her; while Mabel was surprised that she did not scream and cry for that which she wanted so much, and could not help thinking that the little one behaved far better than she would have done herself. And at length her heart was moved so that she could refuse Annie no longer, although no one had thought her unreasonable to do so. "S'pose I sit down here on the rug by Annie, and let her hold it while I watch her very carefully," she said to Nurse, who was vainly trying to divert baby's attention by offering her every thing else proper for her to have. "I don't know, dear," said Mammy, divided between the wish to indulge her pet, and the fear that the doll would come to harm in Annie's keeping. "I'll be very careful of it," said Mabel. "Put her down here by me, and I'll teach her how to hold it nicely." Nurse obeyed, and the baby was made happy; while her little sisters and Belle looked on in pleased surprise at Mabel's novel generosity. "Mabel," said Maggie, "I'm going to make you a compliment; and it is that I never saw a child improve more than you do 'most every day. I expect one of these days you'll be quite a benefactor." "I expect she will too," said Belle. "What does it mean?" "Somebody who is very generous and does a great many kind things for people," said Maggie. "Then I'm certain you and Bessie are benefactors," said Belle, pronouncing the long word slowly, as if she were not quite sure of it. "We try to be," answered Maggie, demurely. "I'm sure you are too, Belle," said Bessie. "Yes: she just is," said Mabel. "But I s'pose you don't think I am one." "Um--well--not quite," said Bessie, not wishing to hurt Mabel's feelings, but too truthful to say what she did not think; "but we have great hopes of you, Mabel. We think it was pretty _benefacting_ of you to let Baby Annie have your new doll in her own hands. It must have been pretty hard work." "Yes," said Maggie: "we didn't expect it of you, Mabel; and we're very agreeably disappointed in you." Praise from her playmates was something quite new and very pleasant to Mabel, and she began to feel pretty well pleased with herself. "Yes," she said, with an air of superior virtue, "I b'lieve I'm growing pretty good now." "You oughtn't to say that," said Bessie: "you ought to say, 'Perhaps I am a little better than I used to be, but I hope I'll be better yet.'" "Why?" asked Mabel, feeling that she was not properly appreciated in her new character. "Because," answered Bessie, "it is not the fashion for people to talk about their own goodness. They ought to wait and let other people do it." "Well," said Mabel, "I'm sure you were doing it; and so why can't I do it too?" "But it's _yourself_, you know," said Maggie; "and because 'every crow thinks her own young one the blackest,' that is not any reason for her to talk about it." "Crows caw, not talk, Maggie," said Bessie, the matter of fact. "Oh, well!" said Maggie, "the lesson out of the proverb is all the same." "I didn't mean to be proud about it," said Mabel, quite humbly; "but I couldn't help feeling a little nice when I thought I wasn't so naughty as I used to be. Mamma says I am better, and papa says so too." "And we say so too," said Bessie, kissing her, the first kiss she had ever given her of her own free will; "and we are very glad of it, Mabel." "I think it was Belle that made me a better girl," said Mabel: "she was so good to me, I had to be. 'Least she was pretty mad with me at first: wasn't you, Belle? And before I did a thing to her too; but afterwards she was real good to me. And you and Maggie were good to me too; and everybody liked you, so I thought it must be nice to be good, and I would be too. And I b'lieve I do like it better." "You see example is better than practice," said Maggie, meaning "precept;" "and so 'cause Belle was good and kind herself, that put you in a mind to be so; and that ought to make you very happy, Belle. I find it is very true that if 'evil communications corrupt good manners,' good communications also corrupt evil manners." Little Belle had not said much while the others were talking on this subject, but now she said quite softly to Bessie,-- "Bessie, do you think that I was a little sunbeam to Mabel? You know I said I wouldn't be; but papa told me that verse out of the Bible 'bout our Father making His sun to shine on the evil and the good, and he said that meant we ought to be good and like sunshine to everybody, if they were good or if they were bad." "Yes: I do think you were, Belle," answered Bessie; "and I b'lieve our Father was very pleased with you, 'cause you know Mabel was pretty evil when she first came here; and it was very hard for you, most of all about the locket." "Yes," said Belle, with a sigh; "and now I've had to make up my mind never to find my locket. Papa told me I had better. He says there is no hope of finding it now." Meanwhile Maggie was congratulating Mabel still further on her improved conduct. "We're very glad, Mabel," she said, "that we can be friends with you; for we wouldn't have liked you to be 'a heathen man and a publican' to us. We wouldn't like to be in that case with anybody, but 'specially with Belle's cousin, 'cause we're so very fond of her." "So am I," said Mabel, looking affectionately over at Belle. And this was true. Mabel had really learned to love Belle dearly and to trust her entirely; and, what was still better, she was becoming anxious to copy the pretty lady-like behavior, ready obedience, and sweet unselfishness, which she saw practised in the daily life of her cousin, and her little friends, Maggie and Bessie Bradford. Not that it must be thought that all went smoothly on every occasion. Belle, as well as Mabel, had a firm will and a high temper, and she had been much indulged and somewhat spoiled by her father and nurse; so that now and then the two children would fall out about some trifle, and perhaps have some quick words, and, it might be, pout and sulk at one another for a while. But Belle was generally mindful of the "sunshine" she was to shed about her, and so was soon ready to make up and yield the disputed point; and then Mabel would be shamed into repentance, and there would be harmony and peace between them once more. Yes: little Belle had truly proved a "sunbeam" to Mabel, throwing light upon the right way, and not only pointing it out to her so plainly that she could not miss it, but making it _look_ so bright and attractive that she turned with some willingness to walk there, pleased to follow in the steps of her little example. And the sunshine which she set herself to shed upon Mabel's way was reflected farther still on all about them, till where there had been discontent and weariness now reigned harmony and happiness; and all was peace. * * * * * Dora Johnson was a fat, chubby little thing, round as a ball, and like the "Dumpling" her school-mates called her; looking as if she was never troubled by a pain or an ache. But she was subject now and then to a pain and fulness in her head, for which the best remedy was a turn in the open air; and when one of these attacks came on in school, Miss Ashton always allowed her to go for this, knowing that Dora was a child to be trusted, who would return to her studies as soon as she was able. Taken in time, they passed away soon with but little trouble, and her kind teacher was watchful to prevent them as far as possible. "Dora, my dear, does your head trouble you?" asked Miss Ashton, as she saw the child press her hand to her forehead, while her face flushed suddenly. "Yes'm," answered Dora, dropping her book. "Then wrap your cloak about you and go for a turn on the piazza or in the garden, till you are better," said the lady. Dora gladly obeyed, thankful for the relief which the fresh, bracing air would bring to her throbbing head. Going for her cloak, she threw it around her, ran downstairs and out upon the piazza. Her step was light; and whatever sound her little feet might have made upon the floor was drowned by the loud and continuous hammering made by some workmen, who were tinning the roof of a neighboring house. Dora walked once or twice the length of the piazza, and was beginning to feel better, when she heard the sound of voices below; and presently she saw the cook come out from the kitchen-door, followed by Marcia, the colored girl. Cook had a large bundle in her arm, and was evidently going out. A door in the side of the garden-wall opened upon the street which bounded one side of it; and, unfastening this, the cook passed out, saying to Marcia,-- "Now mind and keep the door shut; and don't you be poking your head out, and leaving your work." With which she disappeared; and Marcia shut and bolted the door, then cut one or two foolish antics as though she were pleased to be rid of her. She did not see Dora; for the end of the piazza where the little girl stood looking out at her was screened by a lattice over which ran a vine. There were no leaves on the vine now, it is true; but the stems and tendrils helped to make that corner a good hiding-place from any one who stood below. Dora had no thought of hiding from Marcia; and she was about to speak to her, when she saw the colored girl, after looking carefully about her, stoop down, and with a bit of stick begin to poke and pry between the stones at the bottom of the wall, which was somewhat out of repair at this part, and showed one or two large cracks running along just above the ground. "What can she be doing?" thought Dora; and curiosity held her silent till she should see what Marcia would be at. Though hidden herself, she could see the girl very well, peeping down at her, as she did, through the lattice and the vine. Marcia pried and pried, stopping now and then to look about her and listen, as if afraid of being caught; and at last fished up from between the stones something glittering which looked like--was it possible?--Dora thought it looked like a slender chain with something hanging to it. Could it be?--was it--Belle's locket? She darted from her corner, along the piazza, down the steps leading to the garden, and around to the side of the wall where Marcia was; but the girl saw and heard her coming, and before she reached her the thing she had held in her hand was dropped again into its hiding-place between the stones. Yet not so quickly but that Dora saw the motion of Marcia's hand, and she was more than ever convinced that something was wrong. They stood and faced one another, the little lady and the colored girl: the former, stern and indignant, as became one who had caught a culprit in the act; the other, sheepish and guilty, wriggling her shoulders uneasily, and not daring to meet the eye which accused her. "Give me that," said Dora, severely. "Give you what, Miss Johnson?" said Marcia, twisting and wriggling more than ever and vainly trying to put on an air of innocence. "What you had in your hand. I b'lieve you've put it back in the wall, but you'll have to let me see it," said Dora. "I ain't got nothin', Miss; and I s'pect Miss Ashton wants you. I hear her callin'," said Marcia. "She's not calling, and if she was I wouldn't go till I knew what that was," answered Dora, firmly. "She'll excuse me when I tell her why." Marcia persisted, and insisted that she had had nothing in her hand; but Dora knew better. And though the girl tried every device to rid herself of the young lady, she was not to be moved. She would mount guard over that hidden thing till she learned what it was, if she stood there all day. Equally determined was Marcia; but she coaxed and threatened and tried to frighten in vain. Dora was a child of too much sense to be at all disturbed by the stories she told of what would happen to her; treated with scorn all the bribes which Marcia promised; and repeated over and over again her resolution not to stir till she saw what was in that crack. As for Miss Ashton coming for her, it was just what Dora wished for: she could tell her teacher, and leave the matter in her hands, sure that she would find means of coming at the truth. And now there was Nelly Ransom's voice making itself heard. "Dora! Dora! Where are you? Miss Ashton wants to know if you are worse." "Come here, Nelly," said Dora; while Marcia grew more and more uneasy as she found the toils of her own wickedness closing down and down upon her. "You go and ask Miss Ashton to come here very quick. I've made a great discovery. Make haste." Nelly obeyed, wondering much; and Miss Ashton, rather alarmed, speedily appeared on the spot. Marcia, seeing that all was lost now, did not wait for her wickedness to be revealed; but, as the young lady came down the steps, shot away around the other side of the house and out of sight. Dora's story was soon told, and the crack pointed out; in another moment the little girl and her teacher were busy following Marcia's example, and with bits of crooked stick trying to poke out the hidden "shiny thing," as Dora called it,--not yet sure enough to say the _locket_. "Oh! Miss Ashton," said the excited child, "I feel something,--I do, I do!" and the next moment she drew up with her hooked stick--the locket!--yes, Belle's long-lost locket! Dora's joy and exultation knew no bounds; and she would have rushed away with it to the school-room at once, had not Miss Ashton stopped her. "Let me be the one to take it to Belle. Oh! do, Miss Ashton. I was the finder out," said the child. "Yes, you shall give it to her; but I cannot have the class excited and disturbed just now," said the lady. "Besides, I want to know how this came here." "But, Miss Ashton," said Dora, "I don't think I could keep it in. And then Mabel, poor Mabel! you wouldn't let any one think she stole it a minute longer, would you? Oh! I am so sorry I believed it of her, and was so ugly to her about it." There was reason in Dora's words; and Miss Ashton, knowing that the curiosity of her young flock must already be excited, concluded to let her reveal her prize, although she felt sure that there would be little more study that morning if she did so. It was singular how the locket should have come into Marcia's possession, and she did not yet feel that Mabel was quite cleared. But she gave Dora leave to make her good news known, and to restore the locket to Belle. Away rushed Dora, and running into the school-room held aloft her prize, crying out,-- "Found! Found! and I did it, Belle and Mabel!" Miss Ashton following close on Dora's steps found her class in quite as much commotion as she had expected. Belle, with the recovered locket held fast in her little hands, was covering it with kisses, while tears and smiles were struggling for the mastery. She flew into Miss Ashton's arms the moment she appeared, but could find no words for all that was in her heart. But this could not be said for any of the others; for questions and exclamations were poured forth in such numbers that it was impossible to answer them all, and in spite of Miss Ashton's warning "Sh! sh!" there arose such a Babel of young voices that Mrs. Ashton opened the door of her room and asked the cause of the uproar. A sudden hush fell upon the little ones when her voice was heard; and then Miss Ashton told in a few words where and how the locket had been found. Belle waited till she was through, and then slipping from her teacher's lap ran over to Mabel, who sat sobbing at her desk; and the two little cousins put their arms about one another in a loving, congratulatory clasp. "Oh! Mabel," said Belle, "I am so glad I b'lieved you didn't have it. I would feel so bad if I had." "I'm so glad it's come out," sobbed Mabel, with a look and tone which went far towards convincing Miss Ashton that the child's story had really been true, and that, however mysterious it now seemed, Marcia in some way had obtained possession of the locket without Mabel's knowledge. "So am I," said Dora, who had been one of the most forward in believing Mabel guilty; "and I'm so sorry I was hateful to you about it, Mabel. I'll make up to you for it as long as I live! See if I don't." Congratulations were showered on both of the little cousins; and Belle's pleasure in the recovery of her locket was increased tenfold by knowing that Mabel was cleared. For when, after some difficulty, Marcia was forced to confess how she had come by the locket, she said that on the day when she had been allowed to go to her sick sister, she had forgotten a bundle she was to take with her, and returned for it. Finding the gate unfastened, she came in without ringing, entered the house, and went up to her room without notice. But on the way up she saw Mabel run out from the school-room into the cloak-room, and peeping at her through the crack of the door saw her throw down some glittering object and cover it with her hat and sacque. She passed on her way; but, as she came down, was tempted to go in and see what the young lady had been hiding. At first it was only curiosity; but when she saw the pretty thing, the wish to have it came over her, and, the temptation proving too strong, she snatched it up, put the cloak and hat as she had found them, and ran away out of the house as quietly as possible, no one knowing that she had returned. But she dared not let any one see the locket, and she had put it for safe hiding in the crack in the wall, whence she could take it out once in a while and look at it. But it had been more trouble than pleasure to her; for Marcia had been taught better, and found truly that "the way of transgressors is hard." She was not very penitent now, but very much frightened, believing that she would be sent to prison. This was not done of course; but Marcia's sin had deprived her of a good home and its comforts. Mrs. Ashton would have kept her, and still tried to do her good, if she had not had her young pupils to consider; but Marcia had been much given to pilfering of late; and this fault, so serious in any place, was particularly so in a school. So Marcia must go, in spite of all her promises,--promises made so often before, and so often broken. Mrs. and Miss Ashton still kept an eye upon her, and did what they could to befriend her; but she lost much through a sin which had brought her not the smallest pleasure. And now we will say good-by for a while to Belle and Mabel; hoping that the latter, profiting by the lessons and example set before her, may also learn to draw light and brightness from the Sun of Righteousness, and herself prove a little sunbeam to all about her path. [Illustration] 530 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, _October, 1880_. ROBERT CARTER & BROTHERS' NEW BOOKS. THE END OF A COIL. A Story. By the Author of the "Wide Wide World." 12mo. $1.75. MY DESIRE. A Tale. By the Author of the "Wide Wide World." 12mo. SUN, MOON, AND STARS. By AGNES GIBERNE. Illustrated. $1.50. CHRIST AND HIS RELIGION. By Rev. JOHN REID. 12mo. $1.50. RUE'S HELPS. By JENNIE M. DRINKWATER. $1.50. TESSA WADSWORTH'S DISCIPLINE. By JENNIE M. DRINKWATER. 12mo. $1.50. VOICES OF HOPE AND GLADNESS. By RAY PALMER, D.D. $1.50. 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D'AUBIGN�'S HISTORY OF THE REFORMATION IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 5 vols. $4.50. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: A few instances of missing punctuation, limited to full stops and closing quotes, have been silently corrected. Page 26, "Lilly" changed to "Lily" (and Lily Norris is) Page 81, "eat" changed to "ate" (Mabel ate up her jelly) Page 91, apostrophe added (he 'most drowned himself) Page 199, "behaviour" changed to "behavior" (govern her behavior) Page 210, "to-morrrow" changed to "to-morrow" (day after to-morrow) 
6676	----	images generously made available by the CWRU Preservation Department Digital Library. HTML version by Al Haines. ROSY BY MRS. MOLESWORTH AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' 'TELL ME A STORY.' ILLUSTRATED BY WALTER CRANE [Illustration: MANCHON] CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. ROSY, COLIN, AND FELIX CHAPTER II. BEATA CHAPTER III. TEARS CHAPTER IV. UPS AND DOWNS CHAPTER V. ROSY THINKS THINGS OVER CHAPTER VI. A STRIKE IN THE SCHOOLROOM CHAPTER VII. MR. FURNITURE'S PRESENT CHAPTER VIII. HARD TO BEAR CHAPTER IX. THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR CHAPTER X. STINGS FOR BEE CHAPTER XI. A PARCEL AND A FRIGHT CHAPTER XII. GOOD OUT OF EVIL LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. MANCHON "BEATA, DEAR, THIS IS MY ROSY," SHE SAID ROSY AND MANCHON "WHAT IS ZE MATTER WIF YOU, BEE?" HE SAID "DID YOU EVER SEE ANYTHING SO PRETTY, BEE?" ROSY REPEATED "WHAT IS THERE DOWN THERE, DOES YOU FINK?" SAID FIXIE BY STRETCHING A GOOD DEAL SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD REACH THEM "IT'S A ROSE FROM ROSY" CHAPTER I. ROSY, COLIN, AND FELIX. "The highest not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag." --WORDSWORTH. Rosy stood at the window. She drummed on the panes with her little fat fingers in a fidgety cross way; she pouted out her nice little mouth till it looked quite unlike itself; she frowned down with her eyebrows over her two bright eyes, making them seem like two small windows in a house with very overhanging roofs; and last of all, she stamped on the floor with first her right foot and then with her left. But it was all to no purpose, and this made Rosy still more vexed. "Mamma," she said at last, for really it was too bad--wasn't it?--when she had given herself such a lot of trouble to show how vexed she was, that no one should take any notice. "_Mamma_" she repeated. But still no one answered, and obliged at last to turn round, for her patience was at an end, Rosy saw that there was no one in the room. Mamma had gone away! That was a great shame--really a _great_ shame. Rosy was offended, and she wanted mamma to see how offended she was, and mamma chose just that moment to leave the room. Rosy looked round--there was no good going on pouting and frowning and drumming and stamping to make mamma notice her if mamma wasn't there, and all that sort of going on caused Rosy a good deal of trouble. So she left off. But she wanted to quarrel with somebody. In fact, she felt that she _must_ quarrel with somebody. She looked round again. The only "somebody" to be seen was mamma's big, _big_ Persian cat, whose name was "Manchon" (_why_, Rosy did not know; she thought it a very stupid name), of whom, to tell the truth, Rosy was rather afraid. For Manchon could look very grand and terrible when he reared up his back, and swept about his magnificent tail; and though he had never been known to hurt anybody, and mamma said he was the gentlest of animals, Rosy felt sure that he could do all sorts of things to punish his enemies if he chose. And knowing in her heart that she did not like him, that she was indeed sometimes rather jealous of him, Rosy always had a feeling that she must not take liberties with him, as she could not help thinking he knew what she felt. [Illustration: ROSY AND MANCHON] No, Manchon would not do to quarrel with. She stood beside his cushion looking at him, but she did not venture to pull his tail or pinch his ears, as she would rather have liked to do. And Manchon looked up at her sleepily, blinking his eyes as much as to say, "What a silly little girl you are," in a way that made Rosy more angry still. "I don't like you, you ugly old cat," she said, "and you know I don't. And I shan't like _her_. You needn't make faces at me," as Manchon, disturbed in his afternoon nap, blinked again and gave a sort of discontented mew. "I don't care for your faces, and I don't care what mamma says, and I don't care for all the peoples in the world, I _won't_ like her;" and then, without considering that there was no one near to see or to hear except Manchon, Rosy stamped her little feet hard, and repeated in a louder voice, "No, I won't, I _won't_ like her." But some one had heard her after all. A little figure, smaller than Rosy even, was standing in the doorway, looking at her with a troubled face, but not seeming very surprised. "Losy," it said, "tea's seady. Fix is comed for you." "Then Fix may go away again. Rosy doesn't want any tea. Rosy's too bovvered and vexed. Go away, Fix." But "Fix," as she called him, and as he called himself, didn't move. Only the trouble in his delicate little face grew greater. "_Is_ you bovvered, Losy?" he said. "Fix is welly solly," and he came farther into the room. "Losy," he said again, still more gently than before, "_do_ come to tea. Fix doesn't like having his tea when Losy isn't there, and Fix is tired to-day." Rosy looked at him a moment. Then a sudden change came over her. She stooped down and threw her arms round the little boy's neck and hugged him. "Poor Fixie, dear Fixie," she said. "Rosy will come if _you_ want her. Fixie never bovvers Rosy. Fixie loves Rosy, doesn't he?" "Ses," said the child, kissing her in return, "but please don't skeese Fix _kite_ so tight," and he wriggled a little to get out of her grasp. Instantly the frown came back to Rosy's changeable face. "You cross little thing," she said, half flinging her little brother away from her, "you don't love Rosy. If you did, you wouldn't call her cuddling you _skeesing_." Fix's face puckered up, and he looked as if he were going to cry. But just then steps were heard coming, and a boy's voice called out, "Fix, Fix, what a time you are! If Rosy isn't there, never mind her. Come along. There's something good for tea." "There's Colin," said Fix, turning as if to run off to his brother. Again Rosy's mood changed. "Don't run away from Rosy, Fix," she said. "Rosy's not cross, she's only troubled about somefing Fix is too little to understand. Take Rosy's hand, dear, and we'll go up to tea togever. Never mind Colin--he's such a big rough boy;" and when Colin, in his turn, appeared at the door, Rosy and Fix were already coming towards it, hand-in-hand, Rosy the picture of a model little elder sister. Colin just glanced at them and ran off. "Be quick," he said, "or I'll eat it all before you come. There's fluff for tea--strawberry fluff! At least I've been smelling it all the afternoon, and I saw a little pot going upstairs, and Martha said cook said it was for the children!" Colin, however, was doomed to be disappointed. There was no appearance of anything "better" than bread and butter on the nursery table, and in answer to the boy's questions, Martha said there was nothing else. "But the little pot, Martha, the little pot," insisted Colin. "I heard you yourself say to cook, 'Then this is for the children?'" "Well, yes, Master Colin, and so I did, and so it is for you. But I didn't say it was for to-day--it's for to-morrow, Sunday." "Whoever heard of such a thing," said Colin. "Fluff won't keep. It should be eaten at once." "But it's jam, Master Colin. It's regular jam in the little pot. I don't know anything about the fluff, as you call it. I suppose they've eaten it in the kitchen." "Well, then, it's a shame," said Colin. "It's all the new cook. I've always been accustomed, always, to have the fluff sent up to the nursery," and he thumped impressively on the table. "In all your places, Master Colin, it was always so, wasn't it?" said Martha, with a twinkle of fun in her eyes. "You're very impettnent, Martha," said Rosy, looking up suddenly, and speaking for the first time since she had come into the room. "Nonsense, Rosy," said Colin. "_I_ don't mind. Martha was only joking." Rosy relapsed into silence, to Martha's relief. "If Miss Rosy is going to begin!" she had said to herself with fear and trembling. She seldom or never ventured to joke with Rosy--few people who knew her did--but Colin was the most good-natured of children. She looked at Rosy rather curiously, taking care, however, that the little girl should not notice it. "There's something the matter with her," thought Martha, for Rosy looked really buried in gloom; "perhaps her mamma's been telling her what she told me this morning. I was sure Miss Rosy wouldn't like it, and perhaps it's natural, so spoilt as she's been, having everything her own way for so long. One would be sorry for her if she'd only let one," and her voice was kind and gentle as she asked the little girl if she wouldn't like some more tea. Rosy shook her head. "I don't want nothing," she said. "What's the matter, Rosy?" said Colin. "Losy's bovvered," said Fixie. Colin gave a whistle. "Oh!" he said, meaningly, "I expect I know what it's all about. I know, too, Rosy. You're afraid your nose is going to be put out of joint, I expect." "Master Colin, don't," said Martha, warningly, but it was too late. Rosy dashed off her seat, and running round to Colin's side of the table, doubled up her little fist, and hit her brother hard with all her baby force, then, without waiting to see if she had hurt him or not, she rushed from the room without speaking, made straight for her own little bedroom, and, throwing herself down on the floor with her head on a chair, burst into a storm of miserable, angry crying. "I wish I was back with auntie--oh, I do, I do," she said, among her sobs. "Mamma doesn't love me like Colin and Pixie. If she did, she wouldn't go and bring a nasty, horrible little girl to live with us. I hate her, and I shall always hate her--_nasty_ little thing!" The nursery was quiet after Rosy left it--quiet but sad. "Dear, dear," said Martha, "if people would but think what they're doing when they spoil children! Poor Miss Rosy, but she is naughty! Has it hurt you, Master Colin?" "No," said Colin, _one_ of whose eyes nevertheless was crying from Rosy's blow, "not much. But it's so _horrid_, going on like this." "Of course it is, and _why_ you can go on teasing your sister, knowing her as you do, I can't conceive," said Martha. "If it was only for peace sake, I'd let her alone, I would, if I was you, Master Colin." Martha had rather a peevish and provoking way of finding fault or giving advice. Just now her voice sounded almost as if she was going to cry. But Colin was a sensible boy. He knew what she said was true, so he swallowed down his vexation, and answered good-naturedly, "Well, I'll try and not tease. But Rosy isn't like anybody else. She flies into a rage for just nothing, and it's always those people somehow that make one _want_ to tease them. But, I say, Martha, I really do _wonder_ how we'll get on when--" A warning glance stopped him, and he remembered that little Felix knew nothing of what he was going to speak about, and that his mother did not wish anything more said of it just yet. So Colin said no more--he just whistled, as he always did if he was at a loss about anything, but his whistle sometimes seemed to say a good deal. How was it that Colin was so good-tempered and reasonable, Felix so gentle and obedient, and Rosy, poor Rosy, so very different? For they were her very own brothers, she was their very own sister. There must have been some difference, I suppose, naturally. Rosy had always been a fiery little person, but the great pity was that she had been sadly spoilt. For some years she had been away from her father and mother, who had been abroad in a warm climate, where delicate little Felix was born. They had not dared to take Colin and Rosy with them, but Colin, who was already six years old when they left England, had had the good fortune to be sent to a very nice school, while Rosy had stayed altogether with her aunt, who had loved her dearly, but in wishing to make her perfectly happy had made the mistake of letting her have her own way in everything. And when she was eight years old, and her parents came home, full of delight to have their children all together again, the disappointment was great of finding Rosy so unlike what they had hoped. And as months passed, and all her mother's care and advice and gentle firmness seemed to have no effect, Rosy's true friends began to ask themselves what should be done. The little girl was growing a misery to herself, and a constant trouble to other people. And then happened what her mother had told her about, and what Rosy, in her selfishness and silliness, made a new trouble of, instead of a pleasure the more, in what should have been her happy life. I will soon tell you what it was. Rosy lay on the floor crying for a good long while. Her fits of temper tired her out, though she was a very strong little girl. There is _nothing_ more tiring than bad temper, and it is such a stupid kind of tiredness; nothing but a waste of time and strength. Not like the rather _nice_ tiredness one feels when one has been working hard either at one's own business, or, _still_ nicer, at helping other people--the sort of pleasant fatigue with which one lays one's head on the pillow, feeling that all the lessons are learnt, and well learnt, for to-morrow morning, or that the bit of garden is quite, quite clear of weeds, and father or mother will be so pleased to see it! But to fall half asleep on the floor, or on your bed, with wearied, swollen eyes, and panting breath and aching head, feeling or fancying that no one loves you--that the world is all wrong, and there is nothing sweet or bright or pretty in it, no place for you, and no use in being alive--all these _miserable_ feelings that are the natural and the right punishment of yielding to evil tempers, forgetting selfishly all the pain and trouble you cause--what _can_ be more wretched? Indeed, I often think no punishment that can be given can be half so bad as the punishment that comes of itself--that is joined to the sin by ties that can never be undone. And the shame of it all! Rosy was not quite what she had been when she first came home to her mother--she was beginning to feel ashamed when she had yielded to her temper--and even this, though a small improvement, was always something--one little step in the right way, one little sign of better things. She was not asleep--scarcely half asleep, only stupid and dazed with crying--when the door opened softly, and some one peeped in. It was Fixie. He came creeping in very quietly--when was Fixie anything but quiet?--and with a very distressed look on his tiny, white face. Something came over Rosy--a mixture of shame and sorrow, and also some curiosity to see what her little brother would do; and these feelings mixed together made her shut her eyes tighter and pretend to be asleep. Fixie came close up to her, peeped almost into her face, so that if she had been really asleep I rather think it would have awakened her, except that all he did was so _very_ gentle and like a little mouse; and then, quite satisfied that she was fast asleep, he slowly settled himself down on the floor by her side. "Poor Losy," he said softly. "Fixie are so solly for you. Poor Losy--why can't her be good? Why doesn't God make Losy good all in a minute? Fixie always akses God to make her good"--he stopped in his whispered talk, suddenly--he had fancied for a moment that Rosy was waking, and it was true that she had moved. She had given a sort of wriggle, for, sweet and gentle as Fixie was, she did not at all like being spoken of as _not_ good. She didn't see why he need pray to God to make _her_ good, more than other people, she said to herself, and for half a second she was inclined to jump up and tell Pix to go away; it wasn't his business whether she was good or naughty, and she wouldn't have him in her room. But she did _not_ do so,--she lay still again, and she was glad she had, for poor Fixie stopped in his talking to pat her softly. "Don't wake, poor Losy," he said. "Go on sleeping, Losy, if you are so tired, and Fix will watch aside you and take care of you." He seemed to have forgotten all about her being naughty--he sat beside her, patting her softly, and murmuring a sort of cooing "Hush, hush, Losy," as if she were a baby, that was very touching, like the murmur of a sad little dove. And by and by, with going on repeating it so often, his own head began to feel confused and drowsy--it dropped lower and lower, and at last found a resting-place on Rosy's knees. Rosy, who had really been getting sleepy, half woke up when she felt the weight of her little brother's head and shoulder upon her--she moved him a little so that he should lie more comfortably, and put one arm round him. "Dear Fixie," she said to herself, "I do love him, and I'm sure he loves me," and her face grew soft and gentle--and when Rosy's face looked like that it was very pretty and sweet. But it quickly grew dark and gloomy again as another thought struck her. "If Fixie loves that nasty little girl better than me or as much--if he loves her _at all_, I'll--I don't know what I'll do. I'd almost hate him, and I'm sure I'll hate her, any way. Mamma says she's such a dear good little girl--that means that everybody'll say _I'm_ naughtier than ever." But just then Fixie moved a little and whispered something in his sleep. "What is it, Fix?" said Rosy, stooping down to listen. His ears caught the sound of her voice. "Poor Losy," he murmured, and Rosy's face softened again. And half an hour later Martha found them lying there together. CHAPTER II. BEATA. "How will she be--fair-haired or dark, Eyes bright and piercing, or rather soft and sweet? --All that I care not for, so she be no phraser." --OLD PLAY. "What was it all about?" said Rosy's mother the next morning to Colin, She had heard of another nursery disturbance the evening before, and Martha had begged her to ask Colin to tell her all about it. "And what's the matter with your eye, my boy?" she went on to say, as she caught sight of the bluish bruise, which showed more by daylight. "Oh, that's nothing," said Colin. "It doesn't hurt a bit, mother, it doesn't indeed. I've had far worse lumps than that at school hundreds of times. It's nothing, only--" and Colin gave a sort of wriggle. "Only what?" said his mother. "I do so wish Rosy wouldn't be like that. It spoils everything. Just this Easter holiday time too, when I thought we'd be so happy." His mother's face grew still graver. "Do you mean that it was _Rosy_ that struck you--that hit you in the eye?" she said. Colin looked vexed. "I thought Martha had told you," he said. "And I teased her, mother. I told her she was afraid of having her nose put out of joint when Be--I can't say her name--when the little girl comes." "O Colin, how could you?" said his mother sadly. "When I had explained to you about Beata coming, and that I hoped it might do Rosy good! I thought you would have tried to help me, Colin." Colin felt very vexed with himself. "I won't do it any more, mother, I won't indeed," he said. "I wish I could leave off teasing; but at school, you know, one gets into the way, and one has to learn not to mind it." "Yes," said his mother, "I know, and it is a very good thing to learn not to mind it. But I don't think teasing will do Rosy any good just now, especially not about little Beata." "Mother," said Colin. "Well, my boy," said his mother. "I wish she hadn't such a stupid name. It's so hard to say." "I think they sometimes have called her Bee," said his mother; "I daresay you can call her so." "Yes, that would be much better," said Colin, in a more contented tone. "Only," said his mother again, and she couldn't help smiling a little when she said it, "if you call her 'Bee,' don't make it the beginning of any new teasing by calling Rosy 'Wasp.'" "Mother!" said Colin. "I daresay I would never have thought of it. But I promise you I won't." This was what had upset Rosy so terribly--the coming of little Beata. She--Beata--was the child of friends of Rosy's parents. They had been much together in India, and had returned to England at the same time. So Beata was already well known to Rosy's mother, and Fixie, too, had learnt to look upon her almost as a sister. Beata's father and mother were obliged to go back to India, and it had been settled that their little girl was to be left at home with her grandmother. But just a short time before they were to leave, her grandmother had a bad illness, and it was found she would not be well enough to take charge of the child. And in the puzzle about what they should do with her, it had struck her father and mother that perhaps their friends, Rosy's parents, might be able to help them, and they had written to ask them; and so it had come about that little Beata was to come to live with them. It had all seemed so natural and nice. Rosy's mother was so pleased about it, for she thought it would be just what Rosy needed to make her a pleasanter and more reasonable little girl. "Beata is such a nice child," she said to Rosy's father when they were talking about it, "and not one bit spoilt. I think it is _sure_ to do Rosy good," and, full of pleasure in the idea, she told Rosy about it. But--one man may bring a horse to the water, but twenty can't make him drink, says the old proverb--Rosy made up her mind on the spot, at the very first instant, that she wouldn't like Beata, and that her coming was on purpose to vex _her_, Rosy, as it seemed to her that most things which she had to do with in the world were. And this was what had put her in such a temper the first time we saw her--when she would have liked to put out her vexation on Manchon even, if she had dared! Rosy's mother felt very disappointed, but she saw it was better to say no more. She had told Colin about Beata coming, but not Felix, for as he knew and loved the little girl already, she was afraid that his delight might rouse Rosy's jealous feelings. For the prettiest thing in Rosy was her love for her little brother, only it was often spoilt by her _exactingness_. Fixie must love her as much or better than anybody--he must be all hers, or else she would not love him at all. That was how she sometimes talked to him, and it puzzled and frightened him--he was such a very little fellow, you see. And _mother_ had never told him that loving other people too made his love for her less, as Rosy did! I think Rosy's first dislike to Beata had begun one day when Fixie, wanting to please her, and yet afraid to say what was not true, had spoken of Beata as one of the people Rosy must let him love, and it had vexed Rosy so that ever since he had been afraid to mention his little friend's name to her. Rosy's mother thought over what Colin had told her, and settled in her own mind that it was better to take no notice of it in speaking to Rosy. "If it had been a quarrel about anything else," she said to herself, "it would have been different. But about Beata I want to say nothing more to vex Rosy, or wake her unkind feelings." But Rosy's mother did not yet quite know her little girl. There was one thing about her which was _not_ spoilt, and that was her honesty. When the children came down that morning to see their mother, as they always did, a little after breakfast, Rosy's face wore a queer look. "Good morning, little people," said their mother. "I was rather late this morning, do you know? That was why I didn't come to see you in the nursery. I am going to write to your aunt to-day. Would you like to put in a little letter, Rosy?" "No, thank you," said Rosy. "Then shall I just send your love? and Fixie's too?" said her mother. She went on speaking because she noticed the look in Rosy's face, but she wanted not to seem to do so, thinking Rosy would then gradually forget about it all. "I don't want to send my love," said Rosy. "If you say I _must_, I suppose I must, but I don't _want_ to send it." "Do you think your love is not worth having, my poor little girl?" said her mother, smiling a little sadly, as she drew Rosy to her. "Don't you believe we all love you, Rosy, and want you to love us?" "I don't know," said Rosy, gloomily. "I don't think anybody can love me, for Martha's always saying if I do naughty things _you_ won't love me and father won't love me, and nobody." "Then why don't you leave off doing naughty things, Rosy?" said her mother. "Oh, I can't," Rosy replied, coolly. "I suppose I was spoilt at auntie's, and now I'm too old to change. I don't care. It isn't my fault: it's auntie's." "Rosy," said her mother, gravely, "who ever said so to you? Where did you ever hear such a thing?" "Lots of times," Rosy replied. "Martha's said so, and Colin says so when he's vexed with me. He's always said so," she added, as if she didn't quite like owning it, but felt that she must. "He said I was spoilt before you came home, but auntie wouldn't let him. _She_ thought I was quite good," and Rosy reared up her head as if she thought so too. "I am very sorry to hear you speak so," said her mother. "I think if you ask _yourself_, Rosy, you will very often find that you are not good, and if you see and understand that when you are not good it is nobody's fault but your own, you will surely try to be better. You must not say it was your aunt's fault, or anybody's fault. Your aunt was only too kind to you, and I will never allow you to blame her." "I wasn't good last night," said Rosy. "I doubled up my hand and I hit Colin, 'cos I got in a temper. I was going to tell you--I meant to tell you." "And are you sorry for it now, Rosy dear?" asked her mother, very gently. Rosy looked at her in surprise. Her mother spoke so gently. She had rather expected her to be shocked--she had almost, if you can understand, _wished_ her to be shocked, so that she could say to herself how naughty everybody thought her, how it was no use her trying to be good and all the rest of it--and she had told over what she had done in a hard, _un_sorry way, almost on purpose. But now, when her mother spoke so kindly, a different feeling came into her heart. She looked at her mother, and then she looked down on the ground, and then, almost to her own surprise, she answered, almost humbly, "I don't know. I don't think I was, but I think I am a little sorry now." Seeing her so unusually gentle, her mother went a little further. "What made you so vexed with Colin?" she asked. Rosy's face hardened. "Mother," she said, "you'd better not ask me. It was because of something he said that I don't want to tell you." "About Beata?" asked her mother. "Well," said Rosy, "if you know about it, it isn't my fault if you are vexed. I don't want her to come--I don't want _any_ little girl to come, because I know I shan't like her. I like boys better than girls, and I don't like good little girls _at all_." "Rosy," said her mother, "you are talking so sillily that if Fixie even talked like that I should be quite surprised. I won't answer you. I will not say any more about Beata--you know what I wish, and what is right, and so I will leave it to you. And I will give you a kiss, my little girl, to show you that I want to trust you to try to do right about this." She was stooping to kiss her, when Rosy stopped her. "Thank you, mother," she said. "But I don't think I can take the kiss like that--I don't _want_ to like the little girl." "Rosy!" exclaimed her mother, almost in despair. Then another thought struck her. She bent down again and kissed the child. "I _give_ you the kiss, Rosy," she said, "hoping it will at least make you _wish_ to please me." "Oh," said Rosy, "I do want to please you, mother, about everything _except_ that." But her mother thought it best to take no further notice, only in her own heart she said to herself, "Was there _ever_ such a child?" In spite of all she had said Rosy felt, what she would not have owned for the world, a good deal of curiosity about the little girl who was to come to live with them. And now and then, in her cross and unhappy moods, a sort of strange confused _hope_ would creep over her that Beata's coming would bring her a kind of good luck. "Everybody says she's so good, and everybody loves her," thought Rosy, "p'raps I'll find out how she does it." And the days passed on, on the whole, after the storm I have told you about, rather more peaceably than before, till one evening when Rosy was saying good-night her mother said to her quietly, "Rosy, I had a letter this morning from Beata's uncle; he is bringing her to-morrow. She will be here about four o'clock in the afternoon." "To-morrow!" said Rosy, and then, without saying any more, she kissed her mother and went to bed. She went to sleep that evening, and she woke the next morning with a strange jumble of feelings in her mind, and a strange confusion of questions waiting to be answered. "What would Beata be like? She was sure to be pretty--all people that other people love very much were pretty, Rosy thought. And she believed that she herself was very ugly, which, I may tell you, children, as Rosy won't hear what we say, was quite a mistake. Everybody is a _little_ pretty who is sweet and good, for though being sweet and good doesn't alter the colour of one's hair or the shape of one's nose, it does a great deal; it makes the cross lines smooth away, or, rather, prevents their coming, and it certainly gives the eyes a look that nothing else gives, does it not? But Rosy's face, alas! was very often spoilt by frowns, and dark looks often took away the prettiness of her eyes, and this was the more pity as the good fairies who had welcomed her at her birth had evidently meant her to be pretty. She had very soft bright hair, and a very white skin, and large brown eyes that looked lovely when she let sweet thoughts and feelings shine through them; but though she had many faults, she was not vain, and she really thought she was not pleasant-looking at all. "Beata is sure to be pretty," thought Rosy. "I daresay she'll have beautiful black hair, and blue eyes like Lady Albertine." Albertine was Rosy's best doll. "And I daresay she'll be very clever, and play the piano and speak French far better than me. I don't mind that. I like pretty people, and I don't mind people being clever. What I don't like is, people who are dedfully _good_ always going on about how good they are, and how naughty _other_ people is. If she doesn't do that way I shan't mind so much, but I'm sure she _will_ do that way. Yes, Manchon," she said aloud, "I'm sure she will, and you needn't begin 'froo'in' about it." For Rosy was in the drawing-room when all these thoughts were passing through her mind--she was there with her afternoon frock on, and a pretty muslin apron, all nice to meet Beata and her uncle, who were expected very soon. And Manchon was on the rug as usual, quite peacefully inclined, poor thing, only Rosy could never believe any good of Manchon, and when he purred, or, as she called it, "froo'ed," she at once thought he was mocking her. She really seemed to fancy the cat was a fairy or a wizard of some kind, for she often gave him the credit of reading her very thoughts! The door opened, and her mother came in, leading Fixie by the hand and Colin just behind. "Oh, you're ready, Rosy," she said. "That's right. They should be here very soon." "Welly soon," repeated Fixie. "Oh, Fixie will be so glad to see Beenie again!" "What a stupid name," said Rosy. "_We_'re not to call her that, are we, mother?" She spoke in rather a grand, grown-up tone, but her mother knew she put that on sometimes when she was not really feeling unkind. "_I_ shall call her Bee," said Colin. "It would do very well, as we've"--he stopped suddenly--"as we've got a wasp already," he had been going to say--it seemed to come so naturally--when his mother's warning came back to his mind. He caught her eye, and he saw that she couldn't help smiling and he found it so difficult not to burst out laughing that he stuffed his pocket-handkerchief into his mouth, and went to the window, where he pretended to see something very interesting. Rosy looked up suspiciously. "What were you going to say, Colin?" she asked. "I'm sure--" but she too stopped, for just then wheels were heard on the gravel drive outside. "Here they are," said mother. "Will you come to the door to welcome Beata, Rosy?" Rosy came forward, though rather slowly. Colin was already out in the hall, and Fixie was dancing along beside his mother. Rosy kept behind. The carriage, that had gone to the station to meet the travellers, was already at the door, and the footman was handing out one or two umbrellas, rugs, and so on. Then a gray-haired gentleman, whom Rosy, peeping through a side window, did not waste her attention on--"He is quite old," she said to herself--got out, and lifted down a much smaller person--smaller than Rosy herself, and a good deal smaller than the Beata of Rosy's fancies. The little person sprang forward, and was going to kiss Rosy's mother, when she caught sight of the tiny white face beside her. "O Fixie, dear little Fixie!" she said, stooping to hug him, and then she lifted her own face for Fixie's mother to kiss. At once, almost before shaking hands with the gentleman, Rosy's mother looked round for her, and Rosy had to come forward. "Beata, dear, this is my Rosy," she said; and something in the tone of the "my" touched Rosy. It seemed to say, "I will put no one before you, my own little girl--no stranger, however sweet--and you will, on your side, try to please me, will you not?" So Rosy's face, though grave, had a nice look the first time Beata saw it, and the first words she said as they kissed each other were, "O Rosy, how pretty you are! I shall love you very much." CHAPTER III. TEARS. "'Twere most ungrateful."--V. S. LAKDOH. Beata was not pretty. That was the first thing Rosy decided about her. She was small, and rather brown and thin. She had dark hair, certainly like Lady Albertine's in colour, but instead of splendid curls it was cut quite short--as short almost as Colin's--and her eyes were neither very large nor very blue. They were nice gray eyes, that could look sad, but generally looked merry, and about the rest of her face there was nothing very particular. Rosy looked at her for a moment or two, and she looked at Rosy. Then at last Rosy said, "Will you come into the drawing-room?" for she saw that her mother and Beata's uncle were already on their way there. "Thank you," said Beata, and then they quietly followed the big people. Rosy's father was not at home, but he would be back soon, her mother was telling the gray-haired gentleman, and then she went on to ask him how "they" had got off, if it had been comfortably, and so on. "Oh yes," he replied, "it was all quite right. Poor Maud!--" "That's my mamma," said Beata in a low voice, and Rosy, turning towards her, saw that her eyes were full of tears. "What a queer little girl she is!" thought Rosy, but she did not say so. "--Poor Maud," continued the gentleman. "It is a great comfort to her to leave the child in such good hands." "I hope she will be happy," said Rosy's mother. "I will do my best to make her so." "I am very sure of that," said Beata's uncle. "It is a great disappointment to her grandmother not to have her with her. She is a dear child. Last week at the parting she behaved like a brick." Both little girls heard this, and Beata suddenly began speaking rather fast, and Rosy saw that her cheeks had got very red. "Do you think your mamma would mind if I went upstairs to take off my hat? I think my face must be dirty with the train," said Beata. "Don't you like staying here?" said Rosy, rather crossly. "_I_ think you should stay till mother tells it to go," for she wanted to hear what more her mother and the gentleman said to each other, the very thing that made Beata uncomfortable. Beata looked a little frightened. "I didn't mean to be rude," she said. Then suddenly catching sight of Manchon, she exclaimed, "Oh, what a beautiful cat! May I go and stroke him?" "If you like," said Rosy, "but he isn't _really_ a nice cat." And then, seeing that Beata looked at her with curiosity, she forgot about listening to the big people, and, getting up, led Beata to Manchon's cushion. "Everybody says he's pretty," she went on, "but I don't think so, because _I_ think he's a kind of bad fairy. You don't know how he froos sometimes, in a most horrible way, as if he was mocking you. He knows I don't like him, for whenever I'm vexed he looks pleased." "Does he really?" said Beata. "Then I don't like him. I shouldn't look pleased if you were vexed, Rosy." "Wouldn't you?" said Rosy, doubtfully. "No, I'm sure I wouldn't. I wonder your mamma likes Manchon if he has such an unkind dis--I can't remember the word, it means feelings, you know." "Never mind," said Rosy, patronisingly, "I know what you mean. Oh, its only _me_ Manchon's nasty to, and that doesn't matter. _I'm_ not the favourite. I _was_ at my aunty's though, that I was--but it has all come true what Nelson told me," and she shook her head dolefully. "Who is Nelson?" asked Beata. "Aunty's maid. She cried when I came away, and she said it was because she was so sorry for me. It wouldn't be the same as _there_, she said. I shouldn't be thought as much of with two brothers, and Nelson knew that my mamma was dreadfully strict. I daresay she'd be still more sorry for me if she knew--" Rosy stopped short. "Why don't you go on?" said Beata. "Oh, I was going to say something I don't want to say. Perhaps it would vex you," said Rosy. Beata considered a little. "I'm not very easily vexed," she said at last. "I think I'd like you to go on saying it if you don't mind--unless its anything naughty." "Oh no," said Rosy, "it isn't anything naughty. I was going to say Nelson would be still more sorry for me if she knew _you_ had come." "_Me!_" said Beata, opening her eyes. "Why? She can't know anything about me--I mean she couldn't know anything to make her think I would be unkind to you." "Oh no, it isn't that. Only you see some little girls would think that if another little girl came to live with them it wouldn't be so nice--that perhaps their mammas and brothers and everybody would pet the other little girl more than them." "And do you think that?" said Beata, anxiously. A feeling like a cold chill seemed to have touched her heart. She had never before thought of such things--loving somebody else "better," not being "the favourite," and so on. Could it all be true, and could it, _worst_ of all, be true that her coming might be the cause of trouble and vexation to other people--at least to Rosy? She had come so full of love and gratitude, so ready to like everybody; she had said so many times to her mother, "I'm _sure_ I'll be happy. I'll write and tell you how happy I am," swallowing bravely the grief of leaving her mother, and trying to cheer her at the parting by telling her this--it seemed very hard and strange to little Beata to be told that _anybody_ could think she could be the cause of unhappiness to any one. "Do _you_ think that?" she repeated. Rosy looked at her, and something in the little eager face gave her what she would have called a "sorry" feeling. But mixed with this was a sense of importance--she liked to think that she was very good for not feeling what she said "some little girls" would have felt. "No," she said, rather patronisingly, "I don't think I do. I only said _some_ little girls would. No, I think I shall like you, if only you don't make a fuss about how good you are, and set them all against me. I settled before you came that I wouldn't mind if you were pretty or very clever. And you're not pretty, and I daresay you're not very clever. So I won't mind, if you don't make everybody praise you up for being so _good_." Beata's eyes filled with tears. "I don't want anybody to praise me," she said. "I only wanted you all to love me," and again Rosy had the sorry feeling, though she did not feel that she was to blame. "I only told her what I really thought," she said to herself; but before she had time to reflect that there are two ways of telling what one thinks, and that sometimes it is not only foolish, but wrong and unkind, to tell of thoughts and feelings which we should try to _leave off_ having, her mother turned round to speak to her. "I think we should take Beata upstairs to her room, Rosy," she said. "You must be tired, dear," and the kind words and tone, so like what her own mother's would have been, made the cup of Beata's distress overflow. She gave a little sob and then burst into tears. Rosy half sprang forward--she was on the point of throwing her arms round Beata and whispering, "I _will_ love you, dear, I _do_ love you;" but alas, the strange foolish pride that so often checked her good feelings, held her back, and jealousy whispered, "If you begin making such a fuss about her, she'll think she's to be before you, and very likely, if you seem so sorry, she'll tell your mother you made her cry." So Rosy stood still, grave and silent, but with some trouble in her face, and her mother felt a little, just a very little vexed with Beata for beginning so dolefully. "It will discourage Rosy," she said to herself, "just when I was so anxious for Beata to win her affection from the first." And Beata's uncle, too, looked disappointed. Just when he had been praising her so for her bravery! "Why, my little girl," he said, "you didn't cry like this even when you said good-bye at Southampton." "That must be it," said Rosy's mother, who was too kind to feel vexed for more than an instant; "the poor child has put too much force on herself, and that always makes one break down afterwards. Come, dear Beata, and remember how much your mother wanted you to be happy with us." She held out her hand, but to her surprise Beata still hung back, clinging to her uncle. "Oh, please," she whispered, "let me go back with you, uncle. I don't care how dull it is--I shall not be any trouble to grandmother while she is ill. Do let me go back--I cannot stay here." Beata's uncle was kind, but he had not much experience of children. "Beata," he said, and his voice was almost stern, "it is impossible. All is arranged here for you. You will be sorry afterwards for giving way so foolishly. You would not wish to seem _ungrateful_, my little girl, for all your kind friends here are going to do for you?" The word ungrateful had a magical effect. Beata raised her head from his shoulder, and digging in her pocket for her little handkerchief, wiped away the tears, and then looking up, her face still quivering, said gently, "I won't cry any more, uncle; I _will_ be good. Indeed, I didn't mean to be naughty." "That's right," he answered, encouragingly. And then Rosy's mother again held out her hand, and Beata took it timidly, and followed by Rosy, whose mind was in a strange jumble, they went upstairs to the room that was to be the little stranger's. It was as pretty a little room as any child could have wished for--bright and neat and comfortable, with a pleasant look-out on the lawn at the side of the house, while farther off, over the trees, the village church, or rather its high spire, could be seen. For a moment Beata forgot her new troubles. "Oh, how pretty!" she said, "Is this to be my room? I never had such a nice one. But when they come home from India for always, papa and mamma are going to get a pretty house, and choose all the furniture--like here, you know, only not so pretty, I daresay, for a house like this would cost such a great deal of money." She was chattering away to Rosy's mother quite in her old way, greatly to Rosy's mother's pleasure, when she--Mrs. Vincent, opened a door Beata had not before noticed. "This is Rosy's room," she said. "I thought it would be nice for you to be near each other. And I know you are very tidy, Bee, so you will set Rosy a good example--eh, Rosy?" She said it quite simply, and Beata would have taken it in the same way half an hour before, but looking round the little girl caught an expression on Rosy's face which brought back all her distress. It seemed to say, "Oh, you're beginning to be praised already, I see," but Rosy's mother had not noticed it, for Rosy had turned quickly away. When, however, Mrs. Vincent, surprised at Beata's silence, looked at her again, all the light had faded out of the little face, and again she seemed on the point of tears. "How strangely changeable she is," thought Mrs. Vincent, "I am sure she used not to be so; she was merry and pleased just as she seemed a moment or two ago." "What is the matter, dear?" she said. "You look so distressed again. Did it bring back your mother--what I said, I mean?" "I think--I suppose so," Beata began, but there she stopped. "'No," she said bravely, "it wasn't that. But, please--I don't want to be rude--but, please, would you not praise me--not for being tidy or anything." How gladly at that moment would she have said, "I'm not tidy. Mamma always says I'm not," had it been true. But it was not--she was a very neat and methodical child, dainty and trim in everything she had to do with, as Rosy's mother remembered. "What _shall_ I do?" she said to herself. "It seems as if only my being naughty would make Rosy like me, and keep me from doing her harm. What _can_ I do?" and a longing came over her to throw her arms round Mrs. Vincent's neck, and tell her her troubles and ask her to explain it all to her. But her faithfulness would not let her think of such a thing. "That _would_ do Rosy harm," she remembered, "and perhaps she meant to be kind when she spoke that way. It was kinder than to have kept those feelings to me in her heart and never told me. But I don't know what to do." For already she felt that Mrs. Vincent thought her queer and changeable, _rude_ even, perhaps, though she only smiled at Beata's begging not to be praised, and Rosy, who had heard what she said, gave her no thanks for it, but the opposite. "That's all pretence," thought Rosy. "Everybody likes to be praised." Mrs. Vincent went downstairs, leaving the children together, and telling Rosy to help Beata to take off her things, as tea would soon be ready. Beata had a sort of fear of what next Rosy would say, and she was glad when Martha just then came into the room. "Miss Rosy," she said, "will you please to go into the nursery and put away your dolls' things before tea. They're all over the table. I'd have done it in a minute, but you have your own ways and I was afraid of doing it wrong." She spoke kindly and cheerfully. "What a nice nurse!" thought Beata, with a feeling of relief--a sort of hope that Martha might help to make things easier for her somehow, especially as there was something very kindly in the way the maid began to help her to unfasten her jacket and lay aside her travelling things. To her surprise, Rosy made no answer. "Miss Rosy, please," said Martha again, and then Rosy looked up crossly. "'Miss Rosy, please,'" she said mockingly. "You're just putting on all that politeness to show off. No, I won't please. You can put the dolls away yourself, and, if you do them wrong, it's your own fault. You've seen lots of times how I do them." "Miss Rosy!" said Martha, as if she wanted to beg Rosy to be good, and her voice was still kind, though her face had got very red when Rosy told her she was "showing off." Beata stood in shocked silence. She had had no idea that Rosy could speak so, and, sad as it was, Martha did not seem surprised. "I wonder if she is often like that," thought little Bee, and in concern for Rosy her own troubles began to be forgotten. They went into the nursery to tea. Martha had cleared away Rosy's things and had done her best to lay them as the little girl liked. But before sitting down to the table, Rosy would go to the drawer where they were kept, and was in the middle of scolding at finding something different from what she liked when Colin and Fixie came in to tea. "I say, Rosy," said Colin, "you might let us have one tea-time in peace,--Bee's first evening." Rosy turned round upon him. "_I_'m not a pretender," she said. "_I_'m not going to sham being good and all that, like Martha and you, because Bee has just come." "I don't know what you've been saying to Martha," said Colin, "but I can't see why you need begin at me about shamming before Bee. You've not seen me for two minutes since she came. What's the matter, Fix? Wait a minute and I'll help you," for Fixie was tugging away at his chair, and could not manage to move it as he wanted. "I want to sit, aside Bee," he said. Rosy threw an angry look at him--he understood what she meant. "I'll sit, aside you again to-morrow, Losy," he hastened to say. But it did no good. Rosy was now determined to find nothing right. There came a little change in their thoughts, however, for the kitchen-maid appeared at the door with a plate of nice cold ham and some of the famous strawberry jam. "Cook thought the young lady would be hungry after her journey," she said. "Yes, indeed," cried Colin, "the young lady's very hungry, and so are the young gentlemen, and so is the other young lady--aren't you, Rosy?" he said good-naturedly, turning to her. "He is really a very kind boy," thought Beata. "Tell cook, with my best compliments, that we are very much obliged to her, and she needn't expect to see any of the ham or the strawberry jam again." It was later than the usual tea-hour, so all the children were hungry and, thanks to this, the meal passed quietly. Beata said little, though she could not help laughing at some of Colin's funny speeches. But for the shock of Rosy's temper and the confusion in her mind that Rosy's way of speaking had made, Bee would have been quite happy, as happy at least, she would have said, "as I can be till mamma comes home again," but Rosy seemed to throw a cloud over everybody. There was never any knowing from one minute to another how she was going to be. Only one thing became plainer to Bee. It was not only because _she_ had come that Rosy was cross and unhappy. It was easy to see that she was at all times very self-willed and queer-tempered, and, though Bee was too good and kind to be glad of this, yet, as she was a very sensible little girl, it made things look clearer to her. "I will not begin fancying it is because I am in her place, or anything like that," she said to herself. "I will be as good as I can be, and perhaps she will get to like me," and Rosy was puzzled and perhaps, in her strange contradiction, a little vexed at the brighter look that came over Bee's face, and the cheery way in which she spoke. For at the first, when she saw how much Bee had taken to heart what she said, though her _best_ self felt sorry for the little stranger, she had liked the feeling that she would be a sort of master over her, and that the fear of seeming to take _her_ place would prevent Bee from making friends with the others more than she, Rosy, chose to allow. Poor Rosy! She would have herself been shocked had she seen written down in plain words all the feelings her jealous temper caused her. But almost the worst of jealousy is that it hides itself in so many dresses, and gives itself so many names, sometimes making itself seem quite a right and proper feeling; often, very often making one think oneself a poor, ill-treated martyr, when in reality, the martyrs are the unfortunate people that have to live with the foolish person who has allowed jealousy to become his master. Beata's uncle left that evening, but before he went away he had the pleasure of seeing his little niece quite herself again. "That's right," he said, as he bade her good-bye, "I don't know what came over you this afternoon." Beata did not say anything, but she just kissed her uncle, and whispered, "Give my love to dear grandmother, and tell her I am going to try to be very good." CHAPTER IV. UPS AND DOWNS. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary."--NURSERY RHYME. That night when Bee was in her little bed, though not yet asleep, for the strangeness of everything, and all she had to think over of what had happened in the day, had kept her awake longer than usual, she heard some one softly open the door and look in. "Are you awake still, dear?" said a voice which Bee knew in a moment was that of Rosy's mother. "Yes, oh yes. I'm quite awake. I'm not a bit sleepy," Beata answered. "But you must try to go to sleep soon," said Mrs. Vincent. "Rosy is fast asleep. I have just been in to look at her. It is getting late for little girls to be awake." "Yes, I know," said Bee. "But I often can't go to sleep so quick the first night--while everything is--different, you know--and new." "And a little strange and lonely, as it were--just at first. Don't be afraid I would be vexed with you for feeling it so." "But I don't think I do feel lonely," said Bee, sitting up and looking at Rosy's mother quite brightly. "It seems quite natural to be with you and Fixie again." "I'm very glad of that," said Mrs. Vincent. "And was it not then the strange feeling that made you so unhappy this afternoon for a little?" Beata hesitated. "Tell me, dear," said Mrs. Vincent. "You know if I am to be a 'make-up mother' for a while, you must talk to me as much as you _can_, as if I were your own mother." She listened rather anxiously for Bee's answer, for two or three little things--among them something Colin had said of the bad temper Rosy had been in at tea-time--had made her afraid there had been some reason she did not understand for Beata's tears. Bee lay still for a minute or two. Then she said gently and rather shyly, "I am so sorry, but I don't know what's right to do. Isn't it sometimes difficult to know?" "Yes, sometimes it is." Then Mrs. Vincent, in her turn, was silent for a minute, and at last she said, "Would you very much rather I did not ask you why you cried?" "Oh yes," cried Bee, "much, much rather." "Very well then, but you will promise me that if the same thing makes you cry again, you _will_ tell me?" "_Should_ I?" said Bee. "I thought--I thought it wasn't right to tell tales," she added so innocently that Mrs. Vincent could not help smiling to herself. "It is not right," she said. "But what I ask you to promise is not to tell tales. It is to tell me what makes you unhappy, so that I may explain it or put it right. I could not do my duty among you and my other children unless I knew how things were. It is the _spirit_ that makes tell-tales--the telling over for the sake of getting others blamed or punished--_that_ is what is wrong." "I see," said Beata slowly. "At least I think I see a little, and I'll try to think about it. I'll promise to tell you if anything makes me unhappy, _really_ unhappy, but I don't think it will now. I think I understand better what things I needn't mind." "Very well, dear. Then good-night," and Rosy's mother kissed Bee very kindly, though in her heart she felt sad. It was plain to her that Rosy had made Bee unhappy, and as she passed through Rosy's room she stopped a moment by the bed-side and looked at the sleeping child. Nothing could be prettier than Rosy asleep--her lovely fair hair made a sort of pale golden frame to her face, and her cheeks had a beautiful pink flush. But while her mother was watching her, a frown darkened her white forehead, and her lips parted sharply. "I won't have her put before me. I tell you I _won't_," she called out angrily. Then again, a nicer look came over her face and she murmured some words which her mother only caught two or three of. "I didn't mean"--"sorry"--"crying," she said, and her mother turned away a little comforted. "O Rosy, poor Rosy," she said to herself. "You _do_ know what is right and sweet. When will you learn to keep down that unhappy temper?" * * * * * The next morning was bright and sunny, the garden with its beautiful trees and flowers, which Beata had only had a glimpse of the night before, looked perfectly delicious in the early light when she drew up the window-blind to look out. And as soon as she was dressed she was only too delighted to join Rosy and Colin for a run before breakfast. Children are children all the world over--luckily for themselves and luckily for other people too--and even children who are sometimes ill-tempered and unkind are sometimes, too, bright and happy and lovable. Rosy was after all only a child, and by no means _always_ a disagreeable spoilt child. And this morning seeing Bee so merry and happy, she forgot her foolish and unkind feelings about her, and for the time they were all as contented and joyous as children should be. "Where is Fixie?" asked Beata. "May he not come out a little before breakfast too?" "Martha won't let him," said Rosy. "Nasty cross old thing. She says it will make him ill, and I am sure it's much more likely to make him ill keeping him poking in there when he wanted so much to come out with us." "I don't see how you can call Martha cross," said Colin. "And certainly she's never _cross_ to Fixie." "How do _you_ know?" said Rosy, sharply. "You don't see her half as much as I do. And she can always pretend if she likes." Beata looked rather anxiously at Colin. He was on the point of answering Rosy crossly in his turn, and again Bee felt that sort of nervous fear of quarrels or disagreeables which it was impossible to be long in Rosy's company without feeling. But Colin suddenly seemed to change his mind. "Shall we run another race?" he said, without taking any notice of Rosy's last speech. "Yes," said Bee, eagerly, "from here to the library window. But you must give me a little start--I can't run half so fast as you and Rosy." She said it quite simply, but it pleased Rosy all the same, and she began considering how much of a start it was fair for Bee to have. When that important point was settled, off they set. Bee was the first to arrive. "You must have given me too much of a start," she said, laughing. "Look here, Colin and Rosy, there's the big cat on the window-seat. Doesn't he look solemn?" "He looks very cross and nasty--he always does," said Rosy. Then, safely sheltered behind the window, she began tapping on the pane. "Manchon, Manchon," she said, "you can't scratch me through the glass, so I'll just tell you what I think of you for once. You're a cross, mean, _pretending_ creature. You make everybody say you're so pretty and so sweet when _really_ you're--" she stopped in a fright--"Bee, Bee," she cried, "just look at his face. I believe he's heard all I said." "Well, what if he did?" said Beata. "Cats don't understand what one means." "_Manchon_ does," said Rosy. "Come away, Bee, do. Quick, quick. We'd better go in to breakfast." The two little girls ran off, but Colin stayed behind at the library window. "I've been talking to Manchon," he said when he came up to them. "He told me to give you his compliments, Rosy, and to say he is very much obliged to you for the pretty things you said to him, and the next time he has the pleasure of seeing you he hopes to have the honour of scratching you to show his gratitude." Rosy's face got red. "Colin, how _dare_ you laugh at me?" she called out in a fury. She was frightened as well as angry, for she really had a strange fear of the big cat. "I'm not laughing," Colin began again, looking quite serious. "I had to give you Manchon's message." [Illustration: 'WHAT IS ZE MATTER WIF YOU, BEE?' HE SAID] Rosy looked at Bee. If there had been the least shadow of a smile on Bee's face it would have made her still more angry. But Beata looked grave, because she felt so. "Oh, I wish they wouldn't quarrel," she was thinking to herself. "It does so spoil everything. I can't _think_ how Colin can tease Rosy so." And sadly, feeling already tired, and not knowing what was best to do, Beata followed the others to the nursery. _They_ did not seem to care--Colin was already whistling, and though Rosy's face was still black, no one paid any attention to it. But little Fixie ran to Bee and held up his fresh sweet face for a kiss. "What is ze matter wif you, Bee?" he said. "You's c'ying. Colin, Losy, Bee's c'ying," he exclaimed. "You're _not_, are you, Bee?" said Colin. "Are you, really?" said Rosy, coming close to her and looking into her face. The taking notice of it made Bee's tears come more quickly. All the children looked sorry, and a puzzled expression came into Rosy's face. "Come into my room a minute, Bee," she said. "Do tell me," she went on, "what are you crying for?" Beata put her arms round Rosy's neck. "I can't quite tell you," she said, "I'm afraid of vexing you. But, oh, I do so wish--" and then she stopped. "What?" said Rosy. "I wish you would never get vexed with Colin or anybody, and I wish Colin wouldn't tease you," said Bee. "Was that all?" said Rosy. "Oh, _that_ wasn't anything--you should hear us sometimes." "_Please_ don't," entreated Beata. "I can't bear it. Oh, dear Rosy, don't be vexed with me, but please do let us be all happy and not have anything like that." Rosy did not seem vexed, but neither did she seem quite to understand. "What a funny girl you are, Bee," she said. "I suppose it's because you've lived alone with big people always that you're like that. I daresay you'll learn to tease too and to squabble, after you've been a while here." "Oh, I _hope_ not," said Bee. "Do you really think I shall, Rosy?" "I shall like you just as well if you do," said Rosy, "at least if you do a _little_. Anyway, it would be better than setting up to be better than other people, or _pretending_." "But I _don't_ want to do that," said Beata. "I want to _be_ good. I don't want to think about being better or not better than other people, and I'm _sure_ I don't want to pretend. I don't ever pretend like that, Rosy. Won't you believe me? I don't know what I can say to make you believe me. I can't see that you should think it such a very funny thing for me to want to be good. Don't _you_ want to be good?" "Yes," said Rosy, "I suppose I do. I do just now, just at this minute. And just at this minute I believe what you say. But I daresay I won't always. The first time Colin teases me I know I shall leave off wanting to be good. I shall want nothing at all except just to give him a good hard slap--really to hurt him, you know. I do want to _hurt_ him when I am very angry--just for a little. And if you were to say anything to me _then_ about being good, I'd very likely not believe you a bit." Just then Martha's voice was heard calling them in to breakfast. "Be quiet, Martha," Rosy called back. "We'll come when we're ready. Do leave us alone. Just when we're talking so nicely," she added, turning to Bee. "What a bother she is" "_I_ think she's very kind," said Bee, "but I don't like to say anything like that to you, for fear you should think I'm pretending or 'setting up,' or something like that." Rosy laughed. "I don't think that just now," she said. "Well, let's go into the nursery, then," and, as they came in, she said to Martha with wonderful amiability, "We aren't very hungry this morning, I don't think, for we had each such a big hunch of bread and some milk before we ran out." "That was quite right, Miss Rosy," said Martha, and by the sound of her voice it was easy to see she was pleased. "It is never a good thing to go out in the morning without eating something, even if it's only a little bit." Breakfast passed most comfortably, and by good luck Fixie hadn't forgotten his promise to sit "aside Losy." "It was her turn," he said, and he seemed to think the honour a very great one. "Do you remember on the steamer, Fixie?" said Bee, "how we liked to sit together, and how hot it was sometimes, and how we used to wish we were in nice cool England?" "Oh ses," said Fixie, "oh it _were_ hot! And the poor young lady, Bee, that was so ill?" "Oh, do you remember her, Fixie? What a good memory you have!" Fixie got rather red. "I'm not sure that I 'membered her all of myself," he said, "but mamma telled me about her one day. Her's quite welldened now." Bee smiled a little at Fixie's funny way of speaking, but she thought to herself it was very nice for him to be such an honest little boy. "How do you know she's got well?" said Rosy, rather sharply. "Mamma telled me," said Fixie. "Yes," said Colin, "it's quite true. And the young lady's father's going to come to see us some day. I don't remember his name, do you, Bee?" "Not quite," said Bee, "yes, I think it was something like _furniture_." "Furniture," repeated Colin, "it couldn't be that. Was it 'Ferguson'?" "No," said Bee, "it wasn't that." "Well, never mind," said Colin. "It was something like it. We'll ask mamma. He is going to come to see us soon. I'm sure of that." Later in the day Colin remembered about it, and asked his mother about it. "What was the name of the gentleman that you said was coming to see us soon, mamma?" he said--"the gentleman whose daughter was so ill in the ship coming home from India." "Mr. Furnivale," replied his mother. "You must remember him and his daughter, Bee. She is much better now. They have been all these months in Italy, and they are going to stay there through next winter, but Mr. Furnivale is in England on business and is coming to see us very soon. He is a very kind man, and always asks for Fixie and Bee when he writes." "That is very kind of him," said Bee, gratefully. But a dark look came over Rosy's face. "It's just as if _she_ was mamma's little girl, and not me," she said to herself. "I hate people mamma knew when Bee was with her and I wasn't." "Mr. Furnivale doesn't know you are with us," Mrs. Vincent went on; "he will be quite pleased to see you. He says Cecilia has never forgotten you; Cecilia is his daughter, you know." "Yes, I remember _her_ name," said Bee. "I wish she could come to see us too. She was so pretty, wasn't she, Aunt--Lillias?" she added, stopping a little and smiling. Lillias was Mrs. Vincent's name, and it had been fixed that Beata should call her "aunt," for to say "Mrs. Vincent" sounded rather stiff. "You would think her pretty, Rosy," she went on again, out of a wish to make Rosy join in what they were talking of. "No," said Rosy, with a sort of burst, "I shouldn't. I don't know anything about what you're talking of, and I don't want to hear about it," and she turned away with a very cross and angry face. Bee was going to run after her, but Mrs. Vincent stopped her. "No," she said. "When she is so very foolish, it is best to leave her alone." But though she said it as if she did not think Rosy's tempers of very much consequence, Beata saw the sad disappointed look on her face. "Oh," thought the little girl, "how I _do_ wish I could do anything to keep Rosy from vexing her mother." It was near bed-time when they had been talking about Mr. Furnivale and his daughter, and soon after the children all said good-night. Rather to Bee's surprise, Rosy, who had hidden herself in the window with a book, came out when she was called and said good-night quite pleasantly. "I wonder she doesn't feel ashamed," thought Bee, "I'm sure I never spoke like that to my mamma, but if ever I had, I couldn't have said good-night without saying I was sorry." And it was with a slight feeling of self-approval that Beata went up to bed. When she was undressed she went into the nursery for a moment to ask Martha to brush her hair. Fixie was not yet asleep, and the nurse looked troubled. "Is Fixie ill?" said Bee. "No, I hope not," said Martha, "but he's troubled. Miss Rosy's been in to say good-night to him, and she's set him off his sleep, I'm sure." "I'm so unhappy, Bee," whispered Fixie, when Beata stooped over him to say good-night. "Losy's been 'peaking to me, and she says nobody loves her, not _nobody_. She's so unhappy, Bee." A little feeling of pain went through Bee. Perhaps Rosy _was_ really unhappy and sorry for what she had said, though she had not told any one so. And the thought of it kept Bee from going to sleep as quickly as usual. "Rosy is so puzzling," she thought. "It is so difficult to understand her." CHAPTER V. ROSY THINKS THINGS OVER. "Whenever you find your heart despair Of doing some goodly thing, Con over this strain, try bravely again, And remember the spider and king." --TRY AGAIN. She did go to sleep at last, and she slept for a while very soundly. But suddenly she awoke, awoke quite completely, and with the feeling that something had awakened her, though what she did not know. She sat up in bed and looked about her, if you can call staring out into the dark where you can see nothing "looking about you." It seemed to be a very dark night; there was no chink of moonlight coming in at the window, and everything was perfectly still. Beata could not help wondering what had awakened her, and she was settling herself to sleep again when a little sound caught her ears. It was a kind of low, choking cry, as if some one was crying bitterly and trying to stuff their handkerchief into their mouth, or in some way prevent the sound being heard. Beata felt at first a very little frightened, and then, as she became quite sure that it was somebody crying, very sorry and uneasy. What could be the matter? Was it Fixie? No, the sounds did not come from the nursery side. Beata sat up in bed to hear more clearly, and then amidst the crying she distinguished her own name. "Bee," said the sobbing voice, "Bee, I wish you'd come to speak to me. Are you asleep, Bee?" In a moment Beata was out of bed, for there was no doubt now whose voice it was. It was Rosy's. Bee was not a timid child, but the room was very dark, and it took a little courage to feel her way among the chairs and tables till at last she found the door, which she opened and softly went into Rosy's room. For a moment she did not speak, for a new idea struck her,--could Rosy be crying and talking in her sleep? It was so very unlike her to cry or ask any one to go to her. There was no sound as Beata opened the door; she could almost have believed it had all been her fancy, and for a moment she felt inclined to go back to her own bed and say nothing. But a very slight sound, a sort of little sobbing breath that came from Rosy's bed, made her change her mind. "Rosy," she said, softly, "are you awake? Were you speaking to me?" She heard a rustle. It was Rosy sitting up in bed. "Yes," she said, "I am awake. I've been awake all night. It's dedful to be awake all night, Bee. I've been calling and calling you. I'm so unhappy." "Unhappy?" said Bee, in a kind voice, going nearer the bed. "What are you so unhappy about, Rosy?" "I'll tell you," said Rosy, "but won't you get into my bed a little, Bee? There is room, if we scrudge ourselves up. One night Fixie slept with me, and you're not so very much bigger." "I'll get in for a little," said Beata, "just while you tell me what's the matter, and why you are so unhappy." She was quite surprised at Rosy's way of speaking. She seemed so much gentler and softer, that Bee could not understand it. "I'll tell you why I'm so unhappy," said Rosy. "I can't be good, Bee. I never have cared to be good. It's such a lot of trouble, and lots of peoples that think they're very good, and that other peoples make a fuss about, are very pretending. I've noticed that often. But when we had been talking yesterday morning all of a sudden I thought it would be nice to be good--not pretending, but _real_ good--never cross, and all that. And so I fixed I would be quite good, and I thought how pleased you'd be when I never quarrelled with Colin, or was cross to Martha, or anything like that. And it was all right for a while; but then when mamma began talking about Mr. Furniture, and how nice he was, and his daughter, and you knew all about them and I didn't, it _all went away_. I told you it would--all the wanting to be good--and I was as angry as angry. And then I said that, you remember, and then everybody thought I was just the same, and it was all no use." "Poor Rosy," said Bee. "No, I don't think it was no use." "Oh yes," persisted Rosy, "it was all no use. But nobody knew, and I didn't mean anybody to know. Mamma and Colin and nobody could see I was sorry when I said good-night--_could_ they?" she said, with a tone of satisfaction. "No, I didn't mean anybody to know, only after I was in bed it came back to me, and I was so vexed and so unhappy. I thought everybody would have been _so_ surprised at finding I could be just as good as anybody if I liked. But I don't like; so just remember, Bee, to-morrow morning I'm not going to try a bit, and it's no use saying any more about it. It's just the way I'm made." "But you do care, Rosy," said Bee, "I know you care. If you didn't you wouldn't have been thinking about it, and been sorry after you were in bed." "Yes, I _did_ care," said Rosy, with again a little sob. "I had been thinking it would be very nice, But I'm not going to care--that's just the thing, Bee--that's what I wanted to tell you--I'm not going to go on caring." "Don't you always say your prayers, Rosy?" asked Bee, rather solemnly. "Yes, _of course_ I do. But I don't think they're much good. I've been just as naughty some days when I'd said them _beautifully_, as some days when I'd been in a hurry." Beata felt puzzled. "I can't explain about it properly," she said. "But that isn't the way, I don't think. Mother told me if I thought just saying my prayers would make me good, it was like thinking they were a kind of magic, and that isn't what we should think them." "What good are they then?" said Rosy. "Oh, I know what I mean, but it's very hard to say it," said poor Bee. "Saying our prayers is like opening the gate into being good; it gives us a sort of feeling that _He_, you know, Rosy, that God is smiling at us all day, and makes us remember that He's _always_ ready to help us." "_Is_ He?" said Rosy. "Well, I suppose there's something worser about me than other peoples, for I've often said, 'Do make me good, do make me good, quick, quick,' and I didn't get good." "Because you pushed it away, Rosy. You're always saying you're not good and you don't care. But I think you _do_ care, only," with a sigh, "I know one has to try a great, great lot." "Yes, and I don't like the bother," said Rosy, coolly. "There, now you've said it," said Bee. "Then that shows it isn't that you can't be good but you don't like to have to try so much. But please, Rosy, don't say you'll leave off. _Do_ go on. It will get easier. I know it will. It's like skipping and learning to play on the piano and lots of things. Every time we try makes it a little easier for the next time." "I never thought of that," said Rosy, with interest in her tone. "Well, I'll think about it any way, and I'll tell you in the morning what I've settled. Perhaps I'll fix just to be naughty again to-morrow, for a rest you know. How would it do, I wonder, if I was to be good and naughty in turns? I could settle the days, and then the naughty ones you could keep out of my way." "It wouldn't do at all," said Bee, decidedly. "It would be like going up two steps and then tumbling back two steps. No, it would be worse, it would be like going up two and tumbling back three, for every naughty day would make it still harder to begin again on the good day." "Well, I won't do that way, then," said Rosy, with wonderful gentleness. "I'll either _go on_ trying to climb up the steps--how funnily you say things, Bee!--or I'll not try at all. I'll tell you to-morrow morning. But remember you're not to tell anybody. If I fix to be good I want everybody to be surprised." "But you won't get good all of a sudden, Rosy," said Bee, feeling afraid that Rosy would again lose heart at the first break-down. "Well, I daresay I won't," returned Rosy. "But don't you see if nobody but you knows it won't so much matter. But if I was to tell everybody then it would all seem pretending, and there's nothing so horrid as pretending." There was some sense in Rosy's ideas, and Bee did not go against them. She went back to her own bed with a curious feeling of respect for Rosy and a warm feeling of affection also. "And it was very horrid of me to be thinking of her that way to-night," said honest Bee to herself. "I'll never think of her that way again. Poor Rosy, she has had no mother all these years that I've had my mother doing nothing but trying to make me good. But I am so glad Rosy is getting to like me." For Rosy had kissed her warmly as they bade each other good-night for the second time. "It was very nice of Bee to get out of bed in the dark to come to me," she said to herself. "She is good, but I don't think she is pretending," and it was this feeling that made the beginning of Rosy's friendship for Beata--_trust_. The little girls slept till later than usual the next morning, for they had been a good while awake in the night. Rosy began grumbling and declaring she would not get up, and there was very nearly the beginning of a stormy scene with Martha when the sound of Bee's voice calling out "Good-morning, Rosy," from the next room reminded her of their talk in the night, and though she did not feel all at once able to speak good-naturedly to Martha, she left off scolding. But her face did not look as pleasant as Beata had hoped to see it when she came into the nursery. "Don't speak to me, please," she said in a low voice, "I haven't settled yet what I'm going to do. I'm still thinking about it." Bee did not say any more, but the morning passed peacefully, and once or twice when Colin began some of the teasing which seemed as necessary to him as his dinner or his breakfast, Rosy contented herself with a wriggle or a little growl instead of fiery words and sometimes even blows. And when Colin, surprised at her patience went further and further, ending by tying a long mesh of her hair to the back of her chair, while she was busy fitting a frock on to one of the little dolls, and then, calling her suddenly, made her start up and really hurt herself, Beata was astonished at her patience. She gave a little scream, it is true--who could have helped it?--and then rushed out of the room, but not before the others had seen the tears that were running down her cheeks. "Colin," said Bee, and, for a moment or two, it almost seemed to the boy as if Rosy's temper had passed into the quiet little girl, "I am ashamed of you. You naughty, _cruel_ boy, just when poor Rosy was----" She stopped suddenly--"just when poor Rosy was beginning to try to be good," she was going to have said, forgetting her promise to tell no one of Rosy's plans,--"just when we were all quiet and comfortable," she said instead. Colin looked ashamed. "I won't do it any more," he said, "I won't really. Besides there's no fun in only making her cry. It was only fun when it put her into a rage." "Nice _fun_," said Bee, with scorn. "Well, you know what I mean. I daresay it wasn't right, but I never meant really to hurt her. And all the fellows at school tease like that--one can't help getting into the way of it." "I never heard such a foolish way of talking," answered Bee, who was for once quite vexed with Colin. "I don't think that's a reason for doing wrong things--that other people do them.'" "It's bad example--the force of bad example," said Colin so gravely that Beata, who was perhaps a little matter-of-fact, would have answered him gravely had she not seen a little twinkle in his eyes, which put her on her guard. "You are trying to tease _me_ now, Colin," she said. "Well, I don't mind, if you'll promise me to leave Rosy alone--any way for a few days; I've a very particular reason for asking it. Do promise, won't you?" She looked up at him with her little face glowing with eagerness, her honest gray eyes bright with kindly feeling for Rosy. "You may tease me"--she went on--"as much as you like, if you must tease somebody." Colin could not help laughing. "There wouldn't be much fun in teasing you, Bee," he said. "You're far too good-natured. Well, I will promise you--I'll promise you more than you ask--listen, what a grand promise--I'll promise you not to tease Rosy for three whole months--now, what do you say to that, ma'am?" Bee's eyes glistened. "Three whole months!" she exclaimed. "Yes, that is a good promise. Why, by the end of the three months you'll have forgotten how to tease! But, Colin, please, it must be a secret between you and me about you promising not to tease Rosy. If she knew I had asked you it wouldn't do half as well." "Oh, it's easy enough to promise that," said Colin. "Poor Bee," he went on, half ashamed of having taken her in, "you don't understand why I promised for three months. It's because to-morrow I'm going back to school for three months." "_Are_ you?" said Beata, in a disappointed tone. "I'm very sorry. I had forgotten about you going to school with your being here when I first came, you know." "Yes; and your lessons--yours and Rosy's and Fixie's, for he does a little too--they'll be beginning again soon. We've all been having holidays just now." "And who will give us lessons?" asked Beata. "Oh, Miss Pink, Rosy's governess. Her real name's Miss Pinkerton, but it's so long, she doesn't mind us saying Miss Pink, for short." "Is she nice?" asked Bee. She felt a little dull at the idea of having still another stranger to make friends with. "Oh yes, she's nice. Only she spoils Rosy--she's afraid of her tempers. You'll see. But you'll get on all right. I really think Rosy is going to be nicer, now you've come, Bee." "I'm so glad," said Bee. "But I'm sorry you're going away, Colin. In three months you'll have forgotten how to tease, won't you?" she said again, smiling. "I'm not so sure of that," he answered laughingly. In her heart Bee thought perhaps it was a good thing Colin was going away for a while, for Rosy's sake. It might make it easier for her to carry out her good plans. But for herself Bee was sorry, for he was a kind, merry boy, and even his teasing did not seem to her anything very bad. Rosy came back into the nursery with her eyes rather red, but the other children saw that she did not want any notice taken. She looked at Colin and Bee rather suspiciously. "Have you been talking about _me_?" her look seemed to say. "I've been telling Bee about Miss Pink," said Colin. "She hadn't heard about her before." "She's a stupid old thing," said Rosy respectfully. "But she's kind, isn't she?" asked Beata. "Oh yes; I daresay you'll think her kind. But I don't care for her--much. She's rather pretending." "I can't understand why you think so many people pretending," said Bee. "I think it must be very uncomfortable to feel like that." "But if they _are_ pretending, it's best to know it," said Rosy. Beata felt herself getting puzzled again. Colin came to the rescue. "I don't think it is best to know it," he said, "at least not Rosy's way, for she thinks it of everybody." "No, I don't," said Rosy, "not _everybody_." "Well, you think it of great lots, any way. I'd rather think some people good who aren't good than think some people who _are_ good _not_ good--wouldn't you, Bee?" Beata had to consider a moment in order to understand quite what Colin meant; she liked to understand things clearly, but she was not always very quick at doing so. "Yes," she said, "I think so too. Besides, there _are_ lots of very kind and good people in the world--really kind and good, not pretending a bit. And then, too, mother used to tell me that feeling kind ourselves made others feel kind to us, without their quite knowing how sometimes." Rosy listened, though she said nothing; but when she kissed Beata in saying good-night, she whispered, "I did go on trying, Bee, and I think it does get a very little easier. But I don't want _anybody_ to know--you remember, don't you?" "Yes, I won't forget," said Bee. "But if you go on, Rosy, everybody will find out for themselves, without _my_ telling." And in their different ways both little girls felt very happy as they fell asleep that night. CHAPTER VI. A STRIKE IN THE SCHOOLROOM. "Multiplication's my vexation, Division is as bad." Colin went off to school "the day after to-morrow," as he had said. The house seemed very quiet without him, and everybody felt sorry he had gone. The day after he left Miss Pinkerton came back, and the little girls' lessons began. "How do you like her?" said Rosy to Beata the first morning. "I think she is kind," said Bee, but that was all she said. It was true that Miss Pinkerton meant to be kind, but she did not manage to gain the children's hearts, and Bee soon came to understand why Rosy called her "pretending." She was so afraid of vexing anybody that she had got into the habit of agreeing with every one without really thinking over what they meant, and she was so afraid also of being blamed for Rosy's tempers that she would give in to her in any way. So Rosy did not respect her, and was sometimes really rude to her. "Miss Pink," she said one morning a few days after lessons had begun again, "I don't want to learn any more arithmetic." "No, my dear?" said Miss Pink, mildly. "But what will you do when you are grown-up if you cannot count--everybody needs to know how to count, or else they can't manage their money." "I don't want to know how to manage my money," replied Rosy, "somebody must do it for me. I won't learn any more arithmetic, Miss Pink." Miss Pink, as was a common way of hers in a difficulty with Rosy, pretended not to hear, but Beata noticed, and so, you may be sure, did Rosy, that they had no arithmetic that morning, though Miss Pink said nothing about it, leaving it to seem as if it were by accident. Beata liked sums, and did them more quickly than her other lessons. But she said nothing. When lessons were over and they were alone, Rosy threw two or three books up in the air, and caught them again. "Aha!" she said mischievously, "we'll have no more nasty sums--you'll see." "Rosy," said Bee, "you can't be in earnest. Miss Pink won't leave off giving us sums for always." "Won't she?" said Rosy. "She'll have to. _I_ won't do them." "I will," said Bee. "How can you, if she doesn't give you any to do?" "If she really doesn't give us any to do I'll ask her for them, and if she still doesn't, then I'll tell your mother that we're not learning arithmetic any more." "You'll tell mamma," said Rosy, standing before her and looking very fierce. "Yes," said Beata. "Arithmetic is one of the things my mother wants me to learn very well, and if Miss Pink doesn't teach it me I shall tell your mother." "You mean tell-tale," cried Rosy, her face getting red with anger. "That's what you call being a friend to me and helping me to be good, when you know there's nothing puts me in such a temper as those _horrible_ sums. I know now how much your kindness is worth," and what she would have gone on to say there is no knowing had not Fixie just then come into the room, and Rosy was not fond of showing her tempers off before her little brother. Beata was very sorry and unhappy. She said nothing more, hoping that Rosy would come to see how mistaken she was, and the rest of the day passed quietly. But the next morning it was the same thing. When they came to the time at which they usually had their arithmetic, Rosy looked up at Miss Pink with a determined air. "No arithmetic, Miss Pink, you know," she said. Miss Pink gave a sort of little laugh. "My dear Rosy," she said, "you are so very comical! Come now, get your slate--see there is dear Beata all ready with hers. You shall not have very hard sums to-day, I promise you." "Miss Pink," said Rosy, "I won't do _any_ sums. I told you so yesterday, and you know I mean what I say. If Bee chooses to tell tales, she may, but _I_ won't do any sums." Miss Pink looked from one to the other. "There is no use my doing sums without Rosy," said Bee. "We are at the same place and it would put everything wrong." "Yes," said Miss Pink. "I cannot give you separate lessons. It would put everything wrong. But I'm sure you're only joking, Rosy dear. We won't say anything about the sums to-day, and then to-morrow we'll go on regularly again, and dear Beata will see it will all be right." "No," said Rosy, "it won't be all right if you try to make me do any sums to-morrow or any day." Bee said nothing. She did not know what to say. She could hardly believe Rosy was the same little girl as the Rosy whom she had heard crying in the night, who had made her so happy by talking about trying to be good. And how many days the silly dispute might have gone on, there is no telling, had it not happened that the very next morning, just as they came to the time for the arithmetic lesson, the door opened and Mrs. Vincent came in. "Good morning, Miss Pinkerton," she said. "I've come to see how you are all getting on,"--for Miss Pinkerton did not live in the house, she only came every morning at nine o'clock--"you don't find your new pupil _very_ troublesome, I hope?" she went on, with a smile at Beata. "Oh dear, no! oh, certainly not," said Miss Pinkerton nervously; "oh dear, no--Miss Beata is very good indeed. Everything's very nice--oh we're very happy, thank you--dear Rosy and dear Beata and I." "I am very glad to hear it," said Mrs. Vincent, but she spoke rather gravely, for on coming into the room it had not looked to her as if everything _was_ "very nice." Beata looked grave and troubled, Miss Pinkerton flurried, and there was a black cloud on Rosy's face that her mother knew only too well. "What lessons are you at now?" she went on. "Oh, ah!" began Miss Pinkerton, fussing among some of the books that lay on the table. "We've just finished a chapter of our English history, and--and--I was thinking of giving the dear children a dictation." "It's not the time for dictation," said Rosy. And then to Bee's surprise she burst out, "Miss Pink, I wonder how you can tell such stories! Everything is not quite nice, mamma, for I've just been telling Miss Pink I won't do any sums, and it's just the time for sums. I wouldn't do them yesterday, and I won't do them to-day, or any day, because I hate them." "You 'won't' and you 'wouldn't,' Rosy," said her mother, so sternly and coldly that Bee trembled for her, though Rosy gave no signs of trembling for herself. "Is that a way in which I can allow you to speak? You must apologise to Miss Pinkerton, and tell her you will be ready to do _any_ lessons she gives you, or you must go upstairs to your own room." "I'll go upstairs to my own room then," said Rosy at once. "I'd 'pologise to you, mamma, if you like, but I won't to Miss Pink, because she doesn't say what's true." "Rosy, be silent," said her mother again. And then, turning to Miss Pinkerton, she added in a very serious tone, "Miss Pinkerton, I do not wish to appear to find fault with you, but I must say that you should have told me of all this before. It is most mistaken kindness to Rosy to hide her disobedience and rudeness, and it makes things much more difficult for me. I am _particularly_ sorry to have to punish Rosy to-day, for I have just heard that a friend is coming to see us who would have liked to find all the children good and happy." Rosy's face grew gloomier and gloomier. Beata was on the point of breaking in with a request that Rosy might be forgiven, but something in Mrs. Vincent's look stopped her. Miss Pinkerton grew very red and looked very unhappy--almost as if she was going to cry. "I'm--I'm very sorry--very distressed. But I thought dear Rosy was only joking, and that it would be all right in a day or two. I'm sure, dear Rosy, you'll tell your mamma that you did not mean what you said, and that you'll do your best to do your sums nicely--now won't you, dear?" "No," said Rosy, in a hard, cold tone, "I won't. And you might know by this time, Miss Pink, that I always mean what I say. I'm not like you." After this there was nothing for it but to send Rosy up to her own room. Mrs. Vincent told Miss Pinkerton to finish the morning lessons with Beata, and then left the schoolroom. Bee was very unhappy, and Miss Pink by this time was in tears. "She's so naughty--so completely spoilt;" she said. "I really don't think I can go on teaching her. She's not like you, dear Beata. How happily and peacefully we could go on doing our lessons--you and I--without that self-willed Rosy." Bee looked very grave. "Miss Pink," she said, "I don't like you to speak like that at all. You don't say to Rosy to her face that you think her so naughty, and so I don't think you should say it to me. I think it would be better if you said to Rosy herself what you think." "I couldn't," said Miss Pink. "There would be no staying with her if I didn't give in to her. And I don't want to lose this engagement, for it's so near my home, and my mother is so often ill. And Mr. and Mrs. Vincent have been very kind--very kind indeed." "I think Rosy would like you better if you told her right out what you think," said Bee, who couldn't help being sorry for Miss Pinkerton when she spoke of her mother being ill. And Miss Pink was really kind-hearted, only she did not distinguish between weak indulgence and real sensible kindness. When lessons were over Mrs. Vincent called Bee to come and speak to her. "It is Mr. Furnivale who is coming to see us to-day," she said. "It is for that I am so particularly sorry for Rosy to be again in disgrace. And she has been so much gentler and more obedient lately, I am really _very_ disappointed, and I cannot help saying so to you, Bee, though I don't want you to be troubled about Rosy." "I do think Rosy wants--" began Bee, and then she stopped, remembering her promise. "Don't you think she will be sorry now?" she said. "Might I go and ask her?" "No, dear, I think you had better not," said Mrs. Vincent. "I will see her myself in a little while. Yes, I believe she is sorry, but she won't let herself say so." Beata felt sad and dull without Rosy; for the last few days had really passed happily. And Rosy shut up in her own room was thinking with a sort of bitter vexation rather than sorrow of how quickly her resolutions had all come to nothing. "It's not my fault," she kept saying to herself, "it's all Miss Pink's. She knew I hated sums--that horrid kind of long rows worst of all--and she just gave me them on purpose; and then when I said I wouldn't do them, she went on coaxing and talking nonsense--that way that just _makes_ me naughtier. I'd rather do sums all day than have her talk like that--and then to go and tell stories to mamma--I hate her, nasty, pretending thing. It's all her fault; and then she'll be going on praising Bee, and making everybody think how good Bee is and how naughty I am. I wish Bee hadn't come. I didn't mind it so much before. I wonder if _she_ told mamma as she said she would, and if that was why mamma came in to the schoolroom this morning. I _wonder_ if Bee could be so mean;" and in this new idea Rosy almost forgot her other troubles. "If Bee did do it I shall never forgive her--never," she went on to herself; "I wouldn't have minded her doing it right out, as she said she would, but to go and tell mamma that sneaky way, and get her to come into the room just at that minute, no, I'll never--" A knock at the door interrupted her, and then before she had time to answer, she heard her mother's voice outside. "I'll take it in myself, thank you, Martha," she was saying, and in a moment Mrs. Vincent came in, carrying the glass of milk and dry biscuit which the children always had at twelve, as they did not have dinner till two o'clock with their father's and mother's luncheon. "Here is your milk, Rosy," said her mother, gravely, as she put it down on the table. "Have you anything to say to me?" Rosy looked at her mother. "Mamma," she said, quickly, "will you tell me one thing? Was it Bee that made you come into the schoolroom just at sums time? Was it because of her telling you what I had said that you came?" Mrs. Vincent in her turn looked at Rosy. Many mothers would have refused to answer--would have said it was not Rosy's place to begin asking questions instead of begging to be forgiven for their naughty conduct; but Rosy's mother was different from many. She knew that Rosy was a strange character to deal with; she hoped and believed that in her real true heart her little girl _did_ feel how wrong she was; and she wished, oh, how earnestly, to _help_ the little plant of goodness to grow, not to crush it down by too much sternness. And in Rosy's face just now she read a mixture of feelings. "No, Rosy," she answered very gently, but so that Rosy never for one instant doubted the exact truth of what she said, "no, Beata had not said one word about you or your lessons to me. I came in just then quite by accident. I am very sorry you are so suspicious, Rosy--you seem to trust no one--not even innocent-hearted, honest little Bee." Rosy drew a long breath, and grew rather red. Her best self was glad to find Bee what she had always been--not to be obliged to keep to her terrible resolutions of "never forgiving," and so on; but her _worst_ self felt a strange kind of crooked disappointment that her suspicions had no ground. "Bee _said_ she would tell you," she murmured, confusedly, "she said if I wouldn't go on with sums she'd complain to you." "But she would have done it in an open, honest way," said her mother. "You _know_ she would never have tried to get you into disgrace in any underhand way. But I won't say any more about Bee, Rosy. I must tell you that I have decided not to punish you any more to-day, and I will tell you that the reason is greatly that an old friend of ours--of your father's and mine----" "Mr. Furniture!" exclaimed Rosy, forgetting her tempers in the excitement of the news. "Yes, Mr. Furnivale," said her mother, and she could not keep back a little smile; "he is coming this afternoon. It would be punishing not only you, but your father and Bee and myself--all of us indeed--if we had to tell our old friend the moment he arrived that our Rosy was in disgrace. So you may go now and ask Martha to dress you neatly. Mr. Furnivale _may_ be here by luncheon-time, and no more will be said about this unhappy morning. But Rosy, listen--I trust to your honour to try to behave so as to please me. I will say no more about your arithmetic lessons; will you act so as to show me I have not been foolish in forgiving you?" The red flush came back to Rosy's face, and her eyes grew bright; she was not a child that cried easily. She threw her arms round her mother's neck, and whispered in a voice which sounded as if tears were not very far off, "Mamma, I _do_ thank you. I will try. I will do my sums as much as you like to-morrow, only--" "Only what, Rosy?" "Can you tell Miss Pink that it is to please _you_ I want to do them, not to please _her_, mamma--she isn't like you. I don't believe what she says." "I will tell Miss Pink that you want to please me certainly, but you must see, Rosy, that obeying her, doing the lessons she gives you by my wish, _is_ pleasing me," said her mother, though at the same time in her own mind she determined to have a little talk with Miss Pink privately. "Yes," said Rosy, "I know that." She spoke gently, and her mother felt happier about her little girl than for long. Mr. Furnivale did arrive in time for luncheon. He had just come when the little girls and Fixie went down to the drawing-room at the sound of the first gong. He came forward to meet the children with kindly interest in his face. "Well, Fixie, my boy, and how are you?" he said, lifting the fragile little figure in his arms. "Why, I think you are a little bit fatter and a little bit rosier than this time last year. And this is your sister that I _don't_ know," he went on, turning to Rosy, "and--why, bless my soul! here's another old friend--my busy Bee. I had no idea Mrs. Warwick had left her with you," he exclaimed to Mrs. Vincent. Mrs. Warwick was Beata's mother. I don't think I have before told you Bee's last name. "I was just going to tell you about it, when the children came in," said Rosy's mother. "I knew Cecilia would be so glad to know Bee was with us, and not at school, when her poor grandmother grew too ill to have her." "Yes, indeed," said Mr. Furnivale, "Cecy will be glad to hear it. She had no idea of it. And so when you all come to pay us that famous visit we have been talking about, Bee must come too--eh, Bee?" Bee's eyes sparkled. She liked kind, old Mr. Furnivale, and she had been very fond of his pretty daughter. "Is Cecy much better?" she asked, in her gentle little voice. "_Much_ better. We're hoping to come back to settle in England before long, and have a nice house like yours, and then you are all to come to see us," said Mr. Furnivale. They went on talking for a few minutes about these pleasant plans, and in the interest of hearing about Cecilia Furnivale, and hearing all her messages, Rosy, who had never seen her, and who was quite a stranger to her father too, was naturally left a little in the background. It was quite enough to put her out again. "I might just as well have been left upstairs in my own room," she said to herself. "Nobody notices me--nobody cares whether I am here or not. _I_ won't go to stay with that ugly old man and his stupid daughter, just to be always put behind Bee." And when Beata, with a slight feeling that Rosy might be feeling herself neglected, and full of pleasure, too, at Mrs. Vincent's having forgiven her, slipped behind the others and took Rosy's hand in hers, saying brightly, "_Won't_ it be nice to go and stay with them, Rosy?" Rosy pulled away her hand roughly, and, looking very cross, went back to her old cry. "I wish you'd leave me alone, Bee. I hate that sort of pretending. You know quite well nobody would care whether _I_ went or not." And poor Bee drew back quite distressed, and puzzled again by Rosy's changeableness. CHAPTER VII. MR. FURNITURE'S PRESENT. "And show me any courtly gem more beautiful than these." --SONG OF THE STRAWBERRY GIRL. "Your little girl is very pretty, unusually pretty," Mr. Furnivale was saying to Rosy's mother, as he sat beside her on the sofa during the few minutes they were waiting for luncheon, "and she looks so strong and well." "Yes," said Mrs. Vincent, "she is very strong. I am glad you think her pretty," she went on. "It is always difficult to judge of one's own children, I think, or indeed of any face you see constantly. I thought Rosy very pretty, I must confess, when I first saw her again after our three years' separation, but now I don't think I could judge." Mrs. Vincent gave a little sigh as she spoke, which made Mr. Furnivale wonder what she was troubled about. The truth was that she was thinking to herself how little she would care whether Rosy was pretty or not, if only she could feel more happy about her really trying to be a good little girl. "Your little girl was with Miss Vincent while you were away, was she not?" said Mr. Furnivale. "Yes," said Rosy's mother, "her aunt is very fond of her. She gave herself immense trouble for Rosy's sake." "By-the-bye, she is coming to see you soon, is she not?" said Mr. Furnivale. "She is, as of course you know, an old friend of ours, and she writes often to ask how Cecy is. And in her last letter she said she hoped to come to see you soon." "I have not heard anything decided about it," replied Mrs. Vincent. "I had begun to think she would not come this year--she was speaking of going to some seaside place." "Ah, but I rather think she has changed her mind, then," said Mr. Furnivale, and then he went on to talk of something else to him of more importance. But poor Mrs. Vincent was really troubled. "I should not mind Edith herself coming," she said to herself. "She is _really_ good and kind, and I think I could make her understand how cruel it is to spoil Rosy. But it is the maid--that Nelson--I cannot like or trust her, and I believe she did Rosy more harm than all her aunt's over-indulgence. And Edith is so fond of her; I cannot say anything against her," for Miss Vincent was an invalid, and very dependent on this maid. Little Beata noticed that during luncheon Rosy's mother looked troubled, and it made her feel sorry. Rosy perhaps would have noticed it too, had she not been so very much taken up with her own fancied troubles. She was running full-speed into one of her cross jealous moods, and everything that was said or done, she took the wrong way. Her father helped Bee before her--that, she could not but allow was right, as Bee was a guest--but now it seemed to her that he chose the nicest bits for Bee, with a care he never showed in helping her. Rosy was not the least greedy--she would have been ready and pleased to give away anything, _so long_ as she got the credit of it, and was praised and thanked, but to be treated second-best in the way in which she chose to imagine she was being treated--_that_, she could not and would not stand. She sat through luncheon with a black look on her pretty face; so that Mr. Furnivale, whom she was beside, found her much less pleasant to talk to than Bee opposite, though Bee herself was less bright and merry than usual. Mrs. Vincent felt glad that no more was said about Aunt Edith's coming. She felt that she did not wish Rosy to hear of it, and yet she did not like to ask Mr. Furnivale not to mention it, as it seemed ungrateful to think or speak of a visit from Miss Vincent except with pleasure. After luncheon, when they were again in the drawing-room, Mr. Furnivale came up to her with a small parcel in his hand. "I am so sorry," he began, with a little hesitation, "I am so sorry that I did not know Beata Warwick was with you. Cecy had no idea of it, and she begged me to give _your_ little girl this present we bought for her in Venice, and now I don't half like giving it to the one little woman when I have nothing for the other." He opened the parcel as he spoke; it contained a quaint-looking little box, which in its turn, when opened, showed a necklace of glass beads of every imaginable colour. They were not very large--each bead perhaps about the size of a pea--of a large pea, that is to say. And some of them were long, not thicker, but twice as long as the others. I can scarcely tell you how pretty they were. Every one was different, and they were beautifully arranged so that the colours came together in the prettiest possible way. One was pale blue with little tiny flowers, pink or rose-coloured raised upon it; one was white with a sort of rainbow glistening of every colour through it; two or three were black, but with a different tracery, gold or red or bright green, on each; and some were a kind of mixture of colours and patterns which seemed to change as you looked at them, so that you could _fancy_ you saw flowers, or figures, or tiny landscapes even, which again disappeared--and no two the same. "Oh how lovely," exclaimed Rosy's mother, "how very, very pretty." "Yes," said Mr. Furnivale, "they _are_ pretty. And they are now rare. These are really old, and the imitation ones, which they make in plenty, are not half so curious. Cecy thought they would take a child's fancy." "More than a _child's_," said Mrs. Vincent, smiling. "I think they are lovely--and what a pretty ornament they will be--fancy them on a white dress!" "I am only sorry I have not two of them," said Mr. Furnivale, "or at least _something_ else for the other little girl. You would not wish me, I suppose, to give the necklace to Beata instead of to Rosy?" he added. Now Mrs. Vincent's own feeling was almost that she _would_ better like it to be given to Beata. She was very unselfish, and her natural thought was that in anything of the kind, Bee, the little stranger, the child in her care, whose mother was so far away, should come first. But there was more to think of than this feeling of hers-- "It would be doing no real kindness to Bee," she said to herself, "to let Mr. Furnivale give it to her. It would certainly rouse that terrible jealousy of Rosy's, and it might grow beyond my power to undo the harm it would do. As it is, seeing, as I know she will, how simply and sweetly Beata behaves about it may do her lasting good, and draw the children still more together." So she looked up at Mr. Furnivale with her pretty honest eyes--Rosy's eyes were honest too--and like her mother's when she was sweet and good--and said frankly, "You won't think me selfish I am sure--I think you will believe that I do it from good motives--when I ask you not to change, but still to give it to Rosy. I will take care that little Bee does not suffer for it in the end." "And I too," said Mr. Furnivale, "If I _can_ find another necklace when I go back to Venice. I shall not forget to send it--indeed, I might write to the dealer beforehand to look out for one. I am sure you are right, and on the whole I am glad, for Cecy did buy it for your own little girl." "Would you like to give it her now?" said Mrs. Vincent, and as Mr. Furnivale said "Yes," she went to the window opening out on to the lawn where the three children were now playing, and called Rosy. "I wonder what mamma wants," thought Rosy to herself, as she walked towards the drawing-room rather slowly and sulkily, leaving Bee and Fixie to go on running races (for when I said "the children" were playing, I should have said Beata and Felix--not Rosy). "I daresay she will be going to scold me, now luncheon's over. I wish that ugly old Mr. Furniture would go away," for all the cross, angry, jealous thoughts had come back to poor Rosy since she had taken it into her head again about Bee being put before her, and all her good wishes and plans, which had grown stronger through her mother's gentleness, had again flown away, like a flock of frightened white doves, looking back at her with sad eyes as they flew. Rosy's good angel, however, was very patient with her that day. Again she was to be tried with _kindness_ instead of harshness; surely this time it would succeed. "Rosy dear," said her mother, quite brightly, for she had not noticed Rosy's cross looks at dinner, and she felt a natural pleasure in the thought of her child's pleasure, "Mr. Furnivale--or perhaps I should say _Miss_ Furnivale--whom we all speak of as "Cecy," you know, has sent you such a pretty present. See, dear--you have never, I think, had anything so pretty," and she held up the lovely beads before Rosy's dazzled eyes. "Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed the little girl, her whole face lighting up, "O mamma, how very pretty! And they are for _me_. Oh, how very kind of Miss Furni--of Miss Cecy," she went on, turning to the old gentleman, "Will you please thank her for me _very_ much?" No one could look prettier or sweeter than Rosy at this moment, and Mr. Furnivale began to think he had been mistaken in thinking the little Vincent girl a much less lovable child than his old friend Beata Warwick. "How very, very pretty," she repeated, touching the beads softly with her little fingers. And then with a sudden change she turned to her mother. "Is there a necklace for Bee, too?" she said. Mrs. Vincent's first feeling was of pleasure that Rosy should think of her little friend, but there was in the child's face a look that made her not sure that the question _was_ quite out of kindness to Bee, and the mother's voice was a little grave and sad, as she answered. "No, Rosy. There is not one for Bee. Mr. Furnivale brought it for you only." Then Rosy's face was a curious study. There was a sort of pleasure in it--and this, I must truly say, was not pleasure that Bee had _not_ a present also, for Rosy was not greedy or even selfish in the common way, but it was pleasure at being put first, and joined to this pleasure was a nice honest sorrow that Bee was left out. Now that Rosy was satisfied that she herself was properly treated she found time to think of Bee. And though the necklace had been six times as pretty, though it had been all pearls or diamonds, it would not have given Mrs. Vincent half the pleasure that this look of real unselfish sorrow in Rosy's face sent through her heart. More still, when the little girl, bending to her mother, whispered softly, "Mamma, would it be right of me to give it to Bee? I wouldn't mind very much." "No, darling, no; but I am _very_ glad you thought of it. We will do something to make up for it to Bee." And she added aloud, "Mr. Furnivale may _perhaps_ be able to get one something like it for Bee, when he goes back to Italy." "Then I may show it to her. It won't be unkind to show it her?" asked Rosy. And when her mother said "No, it would not be unkind," feeling sure, with her faith in Bee's goodness that Rosy's pleasure would be met with the heartiest sympathy--for "sympathy," dears, can be shown to those about us in their joys as well as in their sorrows--Rosy ran off in the highest spirits. Mr. Furnivale smiled as he saw her delight, and Mrs. Vincent was, oh so pleased to be able to tell him, that Rosy, of herself, had offered to give it to Bee, that that was what she had been whispering about. "Not that Beata would have been willing to take it," she added, "she is the most unselfish child possible." [Illustration: 'DID YOU EVER SEE ANYTHING SO PRETTY, BEE?' ROSY REPEATED.] "And unselfishness is sometimes, catching, luckily for poor human nature," said the old gentleman, laughing. And Mrs. Vincent laughed too--the whole world seemed to have grown brighter to her since the little gleam she believed she had had of true gold at the bottom of Rosy's wayward little heart. And Rosy ran gleefully off to her friend. "Bee, Bee," she cried, "stop playing, do. I have something to show you. And you too, Fixie, you may come and see it if you like. See," as the two children ran up to her breathlessly, and she opened the box, "see," and she held up the lovely necklace, lovelier than ever as it glittered in the sunshine, every colour seeming to mix in with the others and yet to stand out separate in the most beautiful way. "Did you _ever_ see anything so pretty, Bee?" Rosy repeated. "_Never_," said Beata, with her whole heart in her voice. "Nebber," echoed Fixie, his blue eyes opened twice as wide as usual. "And is it _yours_, Rosy?" asked Bee. "Yes mine, my very own. Mr. Furniture brought it me from--from somewhere. I don't remember the name of the place, but I know it's somewhere in the country that's the shape of a boot." "Italy," said Bee, whose geography was not quite so hazy as Rosy's. "Yes, I suppose it's Italy, but I don't care where it came from as long as I've got it. Oh, isn't it lovely? I may wear it for best. Won't it be pretty with a quite white frock? And, Bee, they said something, but perhaps I shouldn't tell." "Don't tell it then," said Bee, whose whole attention was given to the necklace. "O Rosy, I _am_ so glad you've got such a pretty thing. Don't you feel happy?" and she looked up with such pleasure in her eyes that Rosy's heart was touched. "Bee," she said quickly, "I do think you're very good. Are you not the least bit vexed, Bee, that _you_ haven't got it, or at least that you haven't got one like it?" Beata looked up with real surprise. "Vexed that I haven't got one too," she repeated, "of course not, Rosy dear. People can't always have everything the same. I never thought of such a thing. And besides it is a pleasure to me even though it's not my necklace. It will be nice to see you wearing it, and I know you'll let me look at it in my hand sometimes, won't you?" touching the beads gently as she spoke. "See, Fixie," she went on, "what lovely colours! Aren't they like fairy beads, Fixie?" "Yes," said Fixie, "they is welly _pitty_. I could fancy I saw fairies looking out of some of them. I think if we was to listen welly kietly p'raps we'd hear fairy stories coming out of them." "Rubbish, Fixie," said Rosy, rather sharply. She was too fond of calling other people's fancies "rubbish." Fixie's face grew red, and the corners of his mouth went down. "Rosy's only in fun, Fixie," said Bee. "You shouldn't mind. We'll try some day and see if we can hear any stories--any way we could fancy them, couldn't we? Are you going to put on the beads now, Rosy? I think I can fasten the clasp, if you'll turn round. Yes, that's right. Now don't they look lovely? Shall we run back to the house to let your mother see it on? O Rosy, you can't _think_ how pretty it looks." Off ran the three children, and Mrs. Vincent, as she saw them coming, was pleased to see, as she expected, the brightness of Rosy's face reflected in Beata's. "Mother," whispered Rosy, "I didn't say anything to Bee about her perhaps getting one too. It was better not, wasn't it? It would be nicer to be a surprise." "Yes, I think it would. Any way it is better to say nothing about it just yet, as we are not at all _sure_ of it, you know. Does Bee think the beads very pretty, Rosy?" "_Very_," said Rosy, "but she isn't the least _bit_ vexed for me to have them and not her. She's _quite_ happy, mamma." "She's a dear child," said Mrs. Vincent, "and so are you, my Rosy, when you let yourself _be_ your best self. Rosy," she went on, "I have a sort of feeling that this pretty necklace will be a kind of _talisman_ to you--perhaps it is silly of me to say it, but the idea came into my mind--I was so glad that you offered to give it up to Bee, and I am so glad for you really to see for yourself how sweet and unselfish Bee is about it. Do you know what a talisman is?" "Yes, mamma," said Rosy, with great satisfaction. "Papa explained it to me one day when I read it in a book. It is a kind of charm, isn't it, mamma?--a kind of nice fairy charm. You mean that I should be so pleased with the necklace, mamma, that it should make me feel happy and good whenever I see it, and that I should remember, too, how nice Bee has been about it." "Yes, dear," said her mother. "If it makes you feel like that, it _will_ be a talisman." And feeling remarkably pleased with herself and everybody else, Rosy ran off. Mr. Furnivale left the next day, but not without promises of another visit before very long. "When Cecy will come with you," said Mrs. Vincent. "And give her my bestest love," said Fixie. "Yes, indeed, my little man," said Mr. Furnivale, "and I'll tell her too that she would scarcely know you again--so fat and rosy!" "And my love, please," said Beata, "I would _so_ like to see her again." "And mine," added Rosy. "And please tell her how _dreadfully_ pleased I am with the beads." And then the kind old gentleman drove away. For some time after this it really seemed as if Rosy's mother's half fanciful idea was coming true. There was such a great improvement in Rosy--she seemed so much happier in herself, and to care so much more about making other people happy too. "I really think the necklace _is_ a talisman," said Mrs. Vincent, laughing, to Rosy's father one day. Not that Rosy always wore it. It was kept for dress occasions, but to her great delight her mother let her take care of it herself, instead of putting it away with the gold chain and locket her aunt had given her on her last birthday, and the pearl ring her other godmother had sent her, which was much too large for her small fingers at present, and her ivory-bound prayer-book, and various other treasures to be enjoyed by her when she should be "a big girl." And many an hour the children amused themselves with the lovely beads, examining them till they knew every one separately. They even, I believe, had a name for each, and Fixie had a firm belief that inside each crystal ball a little fairy dwelt, and that every moonlight night all these fairies came out and danced about Rosy's room, though he never could manage to keep awake to see them. Altogether, there was no end to the pretty fancies and amusement which the children got from "Mr. Furniture's present." CHAPTER VIII. HARD TO BEAR. "Give unto me, made lowly-wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice." --ODE TO DUTY. For some weeks things went on very happily. Of course there were little troubles among the children sometimes, but compared with a while ago the nursery was now a very comfortable and peaceful place. Martha was quietly pleased, but she had too much sense to say much about it. Miss Pink was so delighted, that if Bee had not been a modest and sensible little girl, Miss Pink's over praise of her, as the cause of all this improvement, might have undone all the good. Not that Miss Pink was not ready to praise Rosy too, and in a way that would have done her no good either, if Rosy had cared enough for her to think much of her praise or her blame. But one word or look even from her mother was getting to be more to Rosy than all the good-natured little governess's chatter; a nice smile from Martha even, she felt to mean _really_ more, and one of Beata's sweet, bright kisses would sometimes find its way straight to Rosy's queerly hidden-away heart. "You see, Rosy, it _does_ get easier," Bee ventured to say one day. She looked up a little anxiously to see how Rosy would take it, for since the night she had found Rosy sobbing in bed they had never again talked together quite so openly. Indeed, Rosy was not a person whose confidence was easy to gain. But she was honest--that was the best of her. She looked up quickly when Bee spoke. "Yes," she said, "I think it's getting easier. But you see, Bee, there have only been nice things lately. If anything was to come to vex me very much, I daresay it would be just like it used to be again. There's not even been Colin to tease me for a long time!" Rosy's way of talking of herself puzzled Bee, though she couldn't quite explain it. It was right, she knew, for Rosy not to feel too sure of herself, but still she went too far that way. She almost talked as if she had nothing to do with her own faults, that they must come or not come like rainy days. "What are you thinking, Bee?" she said, as Bee did not answer at once. "I can't tell you quite how I mean, for I don't know it myself," said Bee. "Only I think you are a little wrong. You should try to say, 'If things come to vex me, I'll _try_ not to be vexed.'" Rosy shook her head. "No," she said, "I can't say that, for I don't think I should _want_ to try," and Beata felt she could not say any more, only she very much hoped that things to vex Rosy would _not_ come! The first thing at all out of the common that did come was, or was going to be, perhaps I should say, a very nice thing. A note came one day to Rosy's mother to say that a lady, a friend of hers living a few miles off, wanted to see her, to talk over a plan she had in her head for a birthday treat to her two little daughters. These two children were twins; they were a little younger than Rosy, and she did not know them _very_ well, as they lived some way off; but Mrs. Vincent had often wished they could meet oftener, as they were very nice and good children. And when Lady Esther had been, and had had her talk with Rosy's mother, she looked in at the schoolroom a moment in passing, and kissed the little girls, smiling, and seeming very pleased, for she was so kind that nothing pleased her so much as to give pleasure to others. "Your mother will tell you what we have been settling," she said, nodding her head and looking very mysterious. And that afternoon Mrs. Vincent told the children all about it. Lady Esther was going to have a fête for the twins' birthday--a garden-fête, for it was to be hoped by that time the weather could be counted upon, and all the children were to have fancy dresses! That was to be the best fun of it all. Not very grand or expensive dresses, and nothing which would make them uncomfortable, or prevent their running about freely. Lady Esther's idea was that the children should be dressed in _sets_, which would look very pretty when they came into the big hall to dance before leaving. Lady Esther had proposed that Rosy and Bee should be dressed as the pretty French queen, Marie Antoinette, whom no doubt you have heard of, and her sister-in-law the good princess, Madame Elizabeth. Fixie was to be the little prince, and Lady Esther's youngest little girl the young princess, while the twins were to be two maids of honour. But Rosy's mother had said she would like better for her little girls to be the maids of honour, and the twins to be the queen and princess, which seemed quite right, as the party was to be in their house. And so it was settled. A few days later Lady Esther sent over sketches of the dresses she proposed to have, and the children were greatly pleased and interested. "May I wear my beads, mamma?" asked Rosy. Mrs. Vincent smiled. "I daresay you can," she said, and Rosy clapped her hands with delight, and everything seemed as happy as possible. "But remember," said Mrs. Vincent, "it is still quite a month off. Do not talk or think about it _too_ much, or you will tire yourselves out in fancy before the real pleasure comes." This was good advice. Bee tried to follow it by doing her lessons as usual, and giving the same attention to them. But Rosy, with some of her old self-will, would not leave off talking about the promised treat. She was tiresome and careless at her lessons, and Miss Pink was not firm enough to check her. Morning, noon, and night, Rosy went on about the fete, most of all about the dresses, till Bee sometimes wished the birthday treat had never been thought of, or at least that Rosy had never been told of it. One morning when the children came down to see Mr. and Mrs. Vincent at their breakfast, which they often were allowed to do, though they still had their own breakfast earlier than the big people, in the nursery with Martha, Beata noticed that Rosy's mother looked grave and rather troubled. Bee took no notice of it, however, except that when she kissed her, she said softly, "Are you not quite well, auntie?" for so Rosy's mother liked her to call her. "Oh yes, dear, I am quite well," she answered, though rather wearily, and a few minutes after, when Mr. Vincent had gone out to speak to some of the servants, she called Rosy and Bee to come to her. "Rosy and Bee," she said kindly but gravely, "do you remember my advising you not to talk or to think too much about Lady Esther's treat?" "Yes," said Bee, and "Yes," said Rosy, though in a rather sulky tone of voice. "Well, then, I should not have had to remind you both of my advice. I am really sorry to have to find fault about anything to do with the birthday party. I wanted it to have been nothing but pleasure to you. But Miss Pink has told me she does not know what to do with you--that you are so careless and inattentive, and constantly chattering about Lady Esther's plan, and that at last she felt she must tell me." Bee felt her cheeks grow red. Mrs. Vincent thought she felt ashamed, but it was not shame. Poor Bee, she had _never_ before felt as she did just now. It was not true--how could Miss Pink have said so of her? She knew it was not true, and the words, "I _haven't_ been careless--I did do just what you said," were bursting out of her lips when she stopped. What good would it do to defend herself except to make Mrs. Vincent more vexed with Rosy, and to cause fresh bad feelings in Rosy's heart? Would it not be better to say nothing, to bear the blame, rather than lose the kind feelings that Rosy was getting to have to her? All these thoughts were running through her mind, making her feel rather puzzled and confused, for Bee did not always see things very quickly; she needed to think them over, when, to her surprise, Rosy looked up. "It isn't true," she said, not very respectfully it must be owned, "it isn't true that Bee has been careless. If Miss Pink thinks telling stories about Bee will make me any better, she's very silly, and I shall just not care what she says about anything." "Rosy," said Mrs. Vincent sternly, "you shall care what _I_ say. Go to your room and stay there, and you, Beata, go to yours. I am surprised that you should encourage Rosy in her naughty contradiction, for it is nothing else that makes her speak so of what Miss Pink felt obliged to say of you." Rosy turned away with the cool sullen manner that had not been seen for some time. Bee, choking with sobs--never, _never_, she said to herself, not even when her mother went away, had she felt so miserable, never had Aunt Lillias spoken to her like that before--poor Bee rushed off to her room, and shutting the door, threw herself on the floor and wondered _what_ she should do! Mrs. Vincent, if she had only known it, was nearly as unhappy as she. It was not often she allowed herself to feel worried and vexed, as she had felt that morning, but everything had seemed to go wrong--Miss Pink's complaints, which were _not_ true, about Bee had really grieved her. For Miss Pink had managed to make it seem that it was mostly Bee's fault---and she had said little things which had made Mrs. Vincent really unhappy about Bee being so very sweet and good before people, but not _really_ so good when one saw more of her. Mrs. Vincent would not let Miss Pink see that she minded what she said; she would hardly own it to herself. But for all that it had left a sting. "_Can_ I have been mistaken in Bee?" was the thought that kept coming into her mind. For Miss Pink had mixed up truth with untruths. "_Rosy,_" she had said, "whatever her faults, is so very honest," which her mother knew to be true, but Mrs. Vincent did not--for she was too honest herself to doubt other people--see that Miss Pink liked better to throw the blame on Bee, not out of ill-will to Bee, but because she was so very afraid that if there was any more trouble about Rosy, she would have to leave off being her governess. Then this very morning too had brought a letter from Rosy's aunt, proposing a visit for the very next week, accompanied, of course, by the maid who had done Rosy so much harm! Poor Mrs. Vincent--it really was trying--and she did not even like to tell Rosy's father how much she dreaded his sister's visit. For Aunt Edith had meant and wished to be so truly kind to Rosy that it seemed ungrateful not to be glad to see her. Rosy and Bee were left in their rooms till some time later than the usual school-hour, for Mrs. Vincent, wanting them to think over what she had said, told Miss Pink to give Fixie his lessons first, and then, before sending for the little girls to come down, she had a talk with Miss Pink. "I have spoken to both Rosy and Bee very seriously, and told them of your complaints," she said. Miss Pink grew rather red and looked uncomfortable. "I should be sorry for them to think I complained out of any unkindness," she said. "It is not unkindness. It is only telling the truth to answer me when I ask how they have been getting on," said Mrs. Vincent, rather coldly. "Besides I myself saw how very badly Rosy's exercises were written. I am very disappointed about Beata," she added, looking Miss Pink straight in the face, and it seemed to her that the little governess grew again red. "I can only hope they will both do better now." Then Rosy and Bee were sent for. Rosy came in with a hard look on her face. Bee's eyes were swollen with crying, and she seemed as if she dared not look at her aunt, but she said nothing. Mrs. Vincent repeated to them what she had just said about hoping they would do better. "I will do my best," said Beata tremblingly, for she felt as if another word would make her burst out crying again. "Oh, I am sure they are both going to be very good little girls now," said Miss Pink, in her silly, fussy way, as if she was in a hurry to change the subject, which indeed she was. Bee raised her poor red eyes, and looked at her quietly, and Mrs. Vincent saw the look. Rosy, who had not yet spoken, muttered something, but so low that nobody could quite hear it; only the words "stories" and "not true" were heard. "Rosy," said her mother very severely, "be silent!" and soon after she left the room. The schoolroom party was not a very cheerful one this morning, but things went on quietly. Miss Pink was plainly uncomfortable, and made several attempts to make friends, as it were, with Bee. Bee answered gently, but that was all, and as soon as lessons were over she went quietly upstairs. Two days after, Miss Vincent arrived. Rosy was delighted to hear she was coming, and her pleasure in it seemed to make her forget about Bee's undeserved troubles. So poor Bee had to try to forget them herself. Her lessons were learnt and written without a fault--it was impossible for Miss Pink to find anything to blame; and indeed she did not wish to do so, or to be unkind, to Beata, so long as things went smoothly with Rosy. And for these two days everything was very smooth. Rosy did not want to be in disgrace when her aunt came, and she, too, did her best, so that the morning of the day when Miss Vincent was expected, Miss Pink told the children, with a most amiable face, that she would be able to give a very good report of them to Rosy's mother. Bee said nothing. Rosy, turning round, saw the strange, half-sad look on Bee's face, and it came back into her mind how unhappy her little friend had been, and how little she had deserved to be so. And in her heart, too, Rosy knew that in reality it was owing to _her_ that Beata had suffered, and a sudden feeling of sorrow rushed over her, and, to Miss Pink's and Bee's astonishment, she burst out, "You may say what you like of me to mamma, Miss Pink. It is true I have done my lessons well for two days, and it is true I did them badly before. But if you can't tell the truth about Bee, it would be much better for you to say nothing at all." Miss Pink grew pinker than usual, and she was opening her lips to speak, when Beata interrupted her. "Don't say anything, Miss Pink," she said. "It's no good. _I_ have said nothing, and--and I'll try to forget--you know what. I don't want there to be any more trouble. It doesn't matter for me. O Rosy dear," she went on entreatingly, "_don't_ say anything more that might make more trouble, and vex your mamma with you, just as your aunt's coming. Oh, _don't_." She put her arms round Rosy as if she would have held her back, Rosy only looking half convinced. But in her heart Rosy _was_ very anxious not to be in any trouble when her aunt came. She didn't quite explain to herself why. Some of the reasons were good, and some were not very good. One of the best was, I think, that she didn't want her mother to be more vexed, or to have the fresh vexation of her aunt seeming to think--as she very likely would, if there was any excuse for it--that Rosy was less good under her mother's care than she had been in Miss Vincent's. Rosy was learning truly to love, and what, for her nature, was almost of more consequence, really to _trust_ her mother, and a feeling of _loyalty_--if you know what that beautiful word means, dear children,--I hope you do--was beginning for the first time to grow in her cross-grained, suspicious little heart. Then, again, for her own sake, Rosy wished all to be smooth when her aunt and Nelson arrived, which was not a _bad_ feeling, if not a very good or unselfish one. And then, again, she did not want to have any trouble connected with Bee. She knew her Aunt Edith had not liked the idea of Bee coming, and that if she fancied the little stranger was the cause of any worry to her darling she would try to get her sent away. And Rosy did not now _at all_ want Bee to be sent away! These different feelings were all making themselves heard rather confusedly in her heart, and she hardly knew what to answer to Bee's appeal, when Miss Pink came to the rescue. "Bee is right, Rosy," she said, her rather dolly-looking face flushing again. "It is much better to leave things. You may trust me to--to speak very kindly of--of you _both_. And if I was--at all mistaken in what I said of you the other day, Bee--perhaps you had been trying more than I--than I gave you credit for--I'm very sorry. If I can say anything to put it right, I will. But it is very difficult to--to tell things quite correctly sometimes. I had been worried and vexed, and then Mrs. Vincent rather startled me by asking me about you, Rosy, and by something she said about my not managing you well. And--oh, I don't know _what_ we would do, my mother and I, if I lost this nice situation!" she burst out suddenly, forgetting everything else in her distress. "And poor mamma has been _so_ ill lately, I've often scarcely slept all night. I daresay I've been cross sometimes"--and Miss Pink finished up by bursting into tears. Her distress gave the finishing touch to Bee's determination to bear the undeserved blame. "No, poor Miss Pink," she said, running round to the little governess's side of the table, "I _don't_ think you are cross. I shouldn't mind if you were a little sometimes. And I know we are often troublesome--aren't we, Rosy?" Rosy gave a little grunt, which was a good deal for her, and showed that her feelings, too, were touched. "But just then I _had_ been trying. Aunt Lillias had spoken to us about it, and I _did_ want to please her"--and the unbidden tears rose to Bee's eyes. "Please, Miss Pink, don't think I don't know when I _am_ to blame, but--but you won't speak that way of me another time when I've not been to blame." A sort of smothered sob here came from Miss Pink, as a match to Rosy's grunt. "And _please_," Bee went on, "don't say _anything_ more about that time to Aunt Lillias. It's done now, and it would only make fresh trouble." That it would make trouble for _her_, Miss Pink felt convinced, and she was not very difficult to persuade to take Bee's advice. "It would indeed bring _me_ trouble," she thought, as she walked home more slowly than usual that the fresh air might take away the redness from her eyes before her mother saw her. "I know Mrs. Vincent would never forgive me if she thought I had exaggerated or misrepresented. I'm sure I didn't want to blame Bee; but I was so startled; and Mrs. Vincent seemed to think so much less of it when I let her suppose they had _both_ been careless and tiresome. But it has been a lesson to me. And Beata is _very_ good. I could never say a word against her again." Miss Vincent arrived, and with her, of course, her maid Nelson. Everything went off most pleasantly the first evening. Aunt Edith seemed delighted to see Rosy again, and that was only kind and natural. And she said to every one how well Rosy was looking, and how much she was grown, and said, too, how nice it was for her to have a companion of her own age. She had been so pleased to hear about little Miss Warwick from Cecy Furnivale, whom she had seen lately. Bee stared rather at this. She hardly knew herself under the name of little Miss Warwick; but she answered Miss Vincent's questions in her usual simple way, and told Rosy, when they went up to bed, that she did not wonder she loved her aunt--she seemed so very kind. "Yes," said Rosy. Then she sat still for a minute or two, as if she was thinking over something very deeply. "I don't think I'd like to go back to live with auntie," she said at last. "To leave your mother! No, _of course_ you wouldn't," exclaimed Bee, as if there could be no doubt about the matter. "But I did think once I would," said Rosy, nodding her head--"I did." "I don't believe you really did," said Bee calmly. "Perhaps you _thought_ you did when you were vexed about something." "Well, I don't see much difference between wanting a thing, and _thinking_ you want it," said Rosy. This was one of the speeches which Bee did not find it very easy to answer all at once, so she told Rosy she would think it over in her dreams, for she was very sleepy, and she was sure Aunt Lillias would be vexed if they didn't go to bed quickly. CHAPTER IX. THE HOLE IN THE FLOOR. "And the former called the latter 'little Prig.'"--EMERSON. "And how well that sweet child is looking, Nelson," said Miss Vincent that evening to her maid as she was brushing her hair. "I am glad you think so, ma'am," replied Nelson, in a rather queer tone of voice. "Why, what do you mean?" said Miss Vincent. "Do _you_ not think so? To be sure it was by candlelight, and I am very near-sighted, but I don't think any one could say that she looks ill. She is both taller and stouter." "Perhaps so, ma'am. I wasn't thinking so much of her healthfulness. With the care that _was_ taken of her, she couldn't but be a fine child. But it's her _feelin's_, ma'am, that seems to be so changed. All her spirits, her lovely high spirits, gone! Why, this evening, that Martha--or whatever they call her--a' upsetting thing _I_ call her--spoke to her that short about having left the nursery door open because Master Fixie chose to fancy he was cold, that I wonder any young lady would take it. And Miss Rosy, bless her, up she got and shut it as meek as meek, and 'I'm very sorry, Martha--I forgot,' she said. I couldn't believe my ears. I could have cried to see her so kept down like. And she's so quiet and so grave." "She is certainly quieter than she used to be," said Miss Vincent, "but surely she can't be unhappy. She would have told me--and I thought it was so nice for her to have that little companion." "Umph," said Nelson. She had a way of her own of saying "umph" that it is impossible to describe. Then in a minute or two she went on again. "Well, ma'am, you know I'm one as must speak my mind. And the truth is I _don't_ like that Miss Bee, as they call her, at all. She's far too good, by way of being too good, I mean, for a child. Give me Miss Rosy's tempers and fidgets--I'd rather have them than those smooth-faced ways. And she's come round Miss Rosy somehow. Why, ma'am, you'd hardly believe it, she'd hardly a word for me when she first saw me. It was 'Good-evening, Nelson. How do you do?' as cool like as could be. And it was all that Miss Bee's doing. I saw Miss Rosy look round at her like to see what she thought of it." "Well, well, Nelson," said Miss Vincent, quite vexed and put out, "I don't see what is to be done. We can't take the child away from her own parents. All the same, I'm very glad to have come to see for myself, and if I find out anything not nice about that child, I shall stand upon no ceremony, I assure you," and with this Nelson had to be content. It was true that Rosy had met Nelson very coldly. As I have told you before, Rosy was by no means clever at _pretending_, and a very good thing it is _not_ to be so. She had come to take a dislike to Nelson, and to wonder how she could ever have been so under her. Especially now that she was learning to love and trust Beata, she did not like to let her know how many wrong and jealous ideas Nelson had put in her head, and so before Beata she was very cold to the maid. But in this Rosy was wrong. Nelson had taught her much that had done her harm, but still she had been, or had meant to be, very good and kind to Rosy, and Rosy owed her for this real gratitude. It was a pity, too, for Bee's sake that Rosy had been so cold and stiff to Nelson, for on Bee, Nelson laid all the blame of it, and the harm did not stop here, as you will see. Miss Vincent never got up early, and the next morning passed as usual. But she sent for Rosy to come to her room while she was dressing, after the morning lessons were over, which prevented the two little girls having their usual hour's play in the garden, and Beata wandered about rather sadly, feeling as if Rosy was being taken away from her. At luncheon Rosy came in holding her aunt's hand and looking very pleased. "You don't know what lovely things auntie's been giving me," she said to Bee as she passed her. "And Nelson's making me such a _beautiful_ apron--the newest fashion." Nelson had managed to get into Rosy's favour again--that was clear. Beata did not think this to herself. She was too simple and kind-hearted to think anything except that it was natural for Rosy to be glad to see her old nurse again, though Bee had a feeling somehow that she didn't much care for Nelson and that Nelson didn't care for her! "By-the-bye, Rosy," said Mrs. Vincent, in the middle of luncheon, "did you show your aunt your Venetian beads?" "Yes," said Miss Vincent, answering for Rosy, "she did, and great beauties they are." "_Nelson_ didn't think so--at least not at first," said Rosy, rather spitefully. She had always had a good deal of spite at Nelson, even long ago, when Nelson had had so much power of her. "Nelson said they were glass trash, till auntie explained to her." "She didn't understand what they were," said Miss Vincent, seeming a little annoyed. "She thinks them beautiful now." "Yes _now_, because she knows they must have cost a lot of money," persisted Rosy. "Nelson never thinks anything pretty that doesn't cost a lot." These remarks were not pleasant to Miss Vincent. She knew that Mrs. Vincent thought Nelson too free in her way of speaking, and she did not like any of her rather impertinent sayings to be told over. "Certainly," she thought to herself, "I think it is quite a mistake that Rosy is too much kept down," but just as she was thinking this, Rosy's mother looked up and said to her quietly, "Rosy, I don't think you should talk so much. And you, Bee, are almost too silent!" she added, smiling at Beata, for she had a feeling that since Miss Vincent's arrival Bee looked rather lonely. "Yes," said Rosy's aunt, "we don't hear your voice at all, Miss Beata. You're not like my chatter-box Rosy, who always must say out what she thinks." The words sounded like a joke--there was nothing in them to vex Bee, but something in the tone in which they were said made the little girl grow red and hot. "I--I was listening to all of you," she said quietly. She was anxious to say something, not to seem to Mrs. Vincent as if she was cross or vexed. "Yes," said Rosy's mother. "Rosy and her aunt have a great deal to say to each other after being so long without meeting," and Miss Vincent looked pleased at this, as Rosy's mother meant her to be. "By-the-bye," continued Mrs. Vincent, "has Rosy told you all about the fête there is going to be at Summerlands?" Summerlands was the name of Lady Esther's house. "Oh yes," said Miss Vincent, "and very charming it will be, no doubt, only _I_ should have liked my pet to be the queen, as she tells me was at first proposed." This was what Mrs. Vincent thought one of Aunt Edith's silly speeches, and Rosy could not help wishing when she heard it that she had not told her aunt that her being the queen had been thought of at all. She looked a little uncomfortable, and her mother, glancing at her, understood her feelings and felt sorry for her. "I think it is better as it is," she said. "Would you like to hear about the dresses Rosy and Bee are to wear?" she went on. "I think they will be very pretty. Lady Esther has ordered them in London with her own little girls'." And then she told Miss Vincent all about the dresses, so that Rosy's uncomfortable feeling went away, and she felt grateful to her mother. After luncheon the little girls went out together in the garden. "I'm so glad to be together again," said Bee, "it seems to me as if I had hardly seen you to-day, Rosy." "What nonsense!" said Rosy. "Why, I was only in auntie's room for about a quarter of an hour after Miss Pink went." "A quarter of an hour," said Bee. "No indeed, Rosy. You were more than an hour, I am sure. I was reading to Fixie in the nursery, for he's got a cold and he mayn't go out, and you don't know what a great lot I read. And oh, Rosy, Fixie wants so to know if he may have your beads this afternoon, just to hold in his hand and look at. He can't hurt them." "Very well," said Rosy. "He may have them for half an hour or so, but not longer." "Shall I go and give them to him now?" said Bee, ready to run off. "Oh no, he won't need them just yet. Let's have a run first. Let's see which of us will get to the middle bush first--you go right and I'll go left." This race round the lawn was a favourite one with the children. They were playing merrily, laughing and calling to each other, when a messenger was seen coming to them from the house. It was Samuel the footman. "Miss Rosy," he said as he came within hearing, "you must please to come in _at onst_. Miss Vincent is going a drive and you are to go with her." "Oh!" exclaimed Rosy, "I don't think I want to go." "I think you must," said Bee, though she could not help sighing a little. "Miss Vincent is going to Summerlands," said Samuel. "Oh, then I _do_ want to go," said Rosy. "Never mind, Bee--I wish you were going too. But I'll tell you all I hear about the party when I come' back. But I'm sorry you're not going." She kissed Bee as she ran off. This was a good deal more than Rosy would have done some weeks ago, and Bee, feeling this, tried to be content. But the garden seemed dull and lonely after Rosy had gone, and once or twice the tears would come into Bee's eyes. "After all," she said to herself, "those little girls are much the happiest who can always live with their own mammas and have sisters and brothers of their own, and then there can't be strange aunts who are not their aunts." But then she thought to herself how much better it was for her than for many little girls whose mothers had to be away and who were sent to school, where they had no such kind friend as Mrs. Vincent. "I'll go in and read to Fixie," she then decided, and she made her way to the house. Passing along the passage by the door of Rosy's room, it came into her mind that she might as well get the beads for Fixie which Rosy had given leave for. She went in--the room was rather in confusion, for Rosy had been dressing in a hurry for her drive--but Bee knew where the beads were kept, and, opening the drawer, she found them easily. She was going away with them in her hand when a sharp voice startled her. It was Nelson. Bee had not noticed that she was in a corner of the room hanging up some of Rosy's things, for, much to Martha's vexation, Nelson was very fond of coming into Rosy's room and helping her to dress. "What are you doing in Miss Rosy's drawers?" said Nelson; and Bee, from surprise at her tone and manner, felt herself get red, and her voice trembled a little as she answered. "I was getting something for Master Fixie--something for him to play with." And she held up the necklace. Nelson looked at her still in a way that was not at all nice. "And who said you might?" she said next. "Rosy--_of course_, Miss Rosy herself," said Bee, opening her eyes, "I would not take anything of hers without her leave." Nelson gave a sort of grunt. But she had an ill-will at the pretty beads, because she had called them rubbish, not knowing what they were; so she said nothing more, and Bee went quietly away, not hearing the words Nelson muttered to herself, "Sly little thing. I don't like those quiet ways." When Bee got to the nursery, she was very glad she had come. Fixie was sitting in a corner looking very desolate, for Martha was busy looking over the linen, as it was Saturday, and his head was "a'ting dedfully," he said. He brightened up when he saw Bee and what she had brought, and for more than an hour the two children sat perfectly happy and content examining the wonderful beads, and making up little fanciful stories about the fairies who were supposed to live in them. Then when Fixie seemed to have had enough of the beads, Bee and he took them back to Rosy's room and put them carefully away, and then returned to the nursery, where they set to work to make a house with the chairs and Fixie's little table. The nursery was not carpeted all over--that is to say, round the edge of the room the wood of the floor was left bare, for this made it more easy to lift the carpet often and shake it on the grass, which is a very good thing, especially in a nursery. The house was an old one, and so the wood floor was not very pretty; here and there it was rather uneven, and there were queer cracks in it. "See, Bee," said Fixie, while they were making their house, "see what a funny place I've found in the f'oor," and he pointed to a small, dark, round hole. It was made by what is called a knot in the wood having dried up and dropped out long, long ago probably, for, as I told you, the house was very old. "What is there down there, does you fink?" said Fixie, looking up at Bee and then down again at the mysterious hole. "Does it go down into the middle of the world, p'raps?" Beata laughed. "Oh no, Fixie, not so far as that, I am sure," she said. "At the most, it can't go farther than the ceiling of the room underneath." Fixie looked puzzled, and Bee explained to him that there was a small space left behind the wood planking which make the floor of one room and the thinner boards which are the ceiling of an under room. [Illustration: 'WHAT IS THERE DOWN THERE, DOES YOU FINK?' SAID FIXIE] "The ceiling doesn't need to be so strong, you see," she said. "We don't walk and jump on the ceiling, but we do on the floor, so the ceiling boards would not be strong enough for the floor." "Yes," said Fixie, "on'y the flies walks on the ceiling, and they's not very heavy, is they, Bee? But," he went on, "I would like to see down into this hole. If I had a long piece of 'ting I could _fish_ down into it, couldn't I, Bee? You don't fink there's anything dedful down there, do you? Not fogs or 'nakes?" "No," said Bee, "I'm sure there are no frogs or snakes. There _might_ be some little mice." "Is mice the same as mouses?" said Fixie; and when Bee nodded, "Why don't you say mouses then?" he asked, "it's a much samer word." "But I didn't make the words," said Bee, "one has to use them the way that's counted right." But Fixie seemed rather grumbly and cross. "_I_ like mouses," he persisted; and so, to change his ideas, Bee went on talking about the knot hole. "We might get a stick to-morrow," she said, "and poke it down to see how far it would go." "Not a 'tick," said Fixie, "it would hurt the little mouses. I didn't say a 'tick--I said a piece of 'ting. I fink you'se welly unkind, Bee, to hurt the poor little mouses," and he grew so very doleful about it that Bee was quite glad when Martha called them to tea. "I don't know what's the matter with Fixie," she said to Martha, in a low voice. "He's not very well," said Martha, looking at her little boy anxiously. But tea seemed to do Fixie good, and he grew brighter again, so that Martha began to think there could not be much wrong. Nursery tea was long over before Rosy came home, and so she stayed down in the drawing-room to have some with her mother and aunt. And even after that she did not come back to the other children, but went into her aunt's room to look over some things they had bought in the little town they had passed, coming home. She just put her head in at the nursery door, seeming in very high spirits, and called out to Bee that she would tell her how nice it had been at Summerlands. But the evening went on. Fixie grew tired and cross, and Martha put him to bed; and it was not till nearly the big people's dinner-time that Rosy came back to the nursery, swinging her hat on her arm, and looking rather untidy and tired too. "I think I'll go to bed," she said. "It makes me feel funny in my head, driving so far." "Let me put away your hat, Miss Rosy," said Martha, "it's getting all crushed and it's your best one." "Oh, bother," said Rosy, and the tone was like the Rosy of some months ago. "What does it matter? _You_ won't have to pay for a new one." Martha said nothing, but quietly put away the hat, which had fallen on the floor. Bee, too, said nothing, but her heart was full. She had been alone, except for poor little Fixie, all the afternoon; and the last hour or so she had been patiently waiting for Rosy to come to the nursery to tell her, as she had promised, all her adventures. "I'm going to bed," repeated Rosy. "Won't you stay and talk a little?" said Bee; "you said you would tell me about Summerlands." "I'm too tired," said Rosy. Then suddenly she added, sharply, "What were you doing in my drawers this afternoon?" "In your drawers?" repeated Bee, half stupidly, as it were. She was not, as I have told you, very quick in catching up a meaning; she was thoughtful and clear-headed but rather slow, and when any one spoke sharply it made her still slower. "In your drawers, Rosy?" she said again, for, for a moment, she forgot about having fetched the necklace. "Yes," said Rosy, "you were in my drawers, for Nelson told me. She said I wasn't to tell you she'd told me, but I told her I would. I don't like mean ways. But I'd just like to know what you were doing among my things." It all came back to Bee now. "I only went to fetch the beads for Fixie," she said, her voice trembling. "You said I might." "And did you put them back again? And did you not touch anything else?" Rosy went on. "Of course I put them back, and--_of course_ I didn't touch anything else," exclaimed Bee. "Rosy, how can you, how dare you speak to me like that? As if I would steal your things. You have no _right_ to speak that way, and Nelson is a bad, horrible woman. I will tell your mother all about it to-morrow morning." And bursting into tears, Beata ran out of the nursery to take refuge in her own room. Nor would she come out or speak to Rosy when she knocked at the door and begged her to do so. But she let Martha in to help her to undress, and listened gently to the good nurse's advice not to take Miss Rosy's unkindness to heart. "She's sorry for it already," said Martha. "And, though perhaps I shouldn't say it, you can see for yourself, Miss Bee dear, that it's not herself, as one may say." And Martha gave a sigh. "I'm sorry for Miss Rosy's mamma," she added, as she bid Bee good-night. And the words went home to Bee's loving, grateful little heart. It was very seldom, very seldom indeed, that unkind or ungentle thoughts or feelings rested there. Never hardly in all her life had Beata given way to anger as she had done that afternoon. CHAPTER X. STINGS FOR BEE. "And I will look up the chimney, And into the cupboard to make quite sure." --AUTHOR OF LILLIPUT LEVEE. Fixie was not quite well the next morning, as Martha had hoped he would be. Still he did not seem ill enough to stay in bed, so she dressed him as usual. But at breakfast he rested his head on his hand, looking very doleful, "very sorry for himself," as Scotch people say. And Martha, though she tried to cheer him up, was evidently anxious. Mother came up to see him after breakfast, and she looked less uneasy than Martha. "It's only a cold, I fancy," she said, but when Martha followed her out of the room and reminded her of all the children's illnesses Fixie had _not_ had, and which often look like a cold at the beginning, she agreed that it might be better to send for the doctor. "Have you any commissions for Blackthorpe?" she said to Miss Vincent when she, Aunt Edith, came down to the drawing-room, a little earlier than usual that morning. "I am going to send to ask the doctor to come and see Fixie." Aunt Edith had already heard from Nelson about Felix not being well, and that was why she had got up earlier, for she was in a great fright. "I am thankful to hear it," she said; "for there is no saying what his illness may be going to be. But, Lillias, _of course_ you won't let darling Rosy stay in the nursery." "I hadn't thought about it," said Rosy's mother. "Perhaps I am a little careless about these things, for you see all the years I was in India I had only Fixie, and he was quite out of the way of infection. Besides, Rosy has had measles and scarlet fever, and----" "But not whooping-cough, or chicken-pox, or mumps, or even smallpox. Who knows but what it may be smallpox," said Aunt Edith, working herself up more and more. Mrs. Vincent could hardly help smiling. "I _don't_ think that's likely," she said. "However, I am glad you mentioned the risk, for I think there is much more danger for Bee than for Rosy, for Bee, like Fixie, has had none of these illnesses. I will go up to the nursery and speak to Martha about it at once," and she turned towards the door. "But you will separate Rosy too," insisted Miss Vincent, "the dear child can sleep in my room. Nelson will be only too delighted to have her again." "Thank you," said Rosy's mother rather coldly. She knew Nelson would be only too glad to have the charge of Rosy, and to put into her head again a great many foolish thoughts and fancies which she had hoped Rosy was beginning to forget. "It will not be necessary to settle so much till we hear what the doctor says. Of course I would not leave Rosy with Fixie and Bee by herself. But for to-day they can stay in the schoolroom, and I will ask Miss Pinkerton to remain later." The doctor came in the afternoon, but he was not able to say much. It would take, he said, a day or two to decide what was the matter with the little fellow. But Fixie was put to bed, and Rosy and Bee were told on no account to go into either of the nurseries. Fixie was not sorry to go to bed; he had been so dull all the morning, playing by himself in a comer of the nursery, but he cried a little when he was told that Bee must not come and sit by him and read or tell him stories as she always was ready to do when he was not quite well. And Bee looked ready to cry too when she saw his distress! It was not a very cheerful time. The children felt unsettled by being kept out of their usual rooms and ways. Rosy was constantly running off to her aunt's room, or to ask Nelson about something or other, and Bee did not like to follow her, for she had an uncomfortable feeling that neither Nelson nor her mistress liked her to come. Nelson was in a very gloomy humour. "It will be a sad pity to be sure," she said to Rosy, "if Master Fixie's gone and got any sort of catching illness." "How do you mean?" said Rosy. "It won't much matter except that Bee and I can't go into the nursery or my room. Bee's room has a door out into the other passage, I heard mamma saying we could sleep there if the nursery door was kept locked. I think it would be fun to sleep in Bee's room. I shouldn't mind." Nelson grunted. She did not approve of Rosy's liking Beata. "Ah, well," she said, "it isn't only your Aunt Edith that's afraid of infection. If it's measles that Master Fixie's got, you won't go to Lady Esther's party, Miss Rosy." Rosy opened her eyes. "Not go to the party! we _must_ go," she exclaimed, and before Nelson knew what she was about, off Rosy had rushed to confide this new trouble to Bee, and hear what she would say about it. Bee, too, looked grave, for her heart was greatly set on the idea of the Summerlands fete. "I don't know," she replied. "I hope dear little Fixie is not going to be very ill. Any way, Rosy, I don't think Nelson should have said that. Your mother would have told us herself if she had wanted us to know it." "Indeed," said a harsh voice behind her, "I don't require a little chit like you, Miss Bee, to teach me my duty," and turning round, Beata saw that Nelson was standing in the doorway, for she had followed Rosy, a little afraid of the effect of what she had told her. Bee felt sorry that Nelson had overheard what she had said, though indeed there was no harm in it. "I did not mean to vex you, Nelson," she said, "but I'm sure it is better to wait till Aunt Lillias tells us herself." Nelson looked very angry, and walked off in a huff, muttering something the children could not catch. "I wish you wouldn't always quarrel with Nelson," said Rosy crossly. "She always gets on with _me_ quite well. I shall have to go and get her into a good humour again, for I want her to finish my apron." Rosy ran off, but Bee stayed alone, her eyes filled with tears. "It _isn't_ my fault," she said to herself. "I don't know what to do. Nothing is the same since they came. I'll write to mother and ask her not to leave me here any longer. I'd rather be at school or anywhere than stay here when they're all so unkind to me now." But then wiser thoughts came into her mind. They weren't "all" unkind, and she knew that Mrs. Vincent herself had troubles to bear. Besides--what was it her mother had always said to her?--that it was at such times that one's real wish to be good was tried; when all is smooth and pleasant and every one kind and loving, what is easier than to be kind and pleasant in return? It is when others are _not_ kind, but sharp and suspicious and selfish, that one _has_ to "try" to return good for evil, gentleness for harshness, kind thoughts and ways for the cold looks or angry words which one cannot help feeling sadly, but which lose half their sting when not treasured up and exaggerated by dwelling upon them. And feeling happier again, Bee went back to what she was busy at--making a little toy scrap-book for Fixie which she meant to send in to him the next morning as if it had come by post. And she had need of her good resolutions, for she hardly saw Rosy again all day, and when they were going to bed Nelson came to help Rosy to undress and went on talking to her so much all the time about people and places Bee knew nothing about, that it was impossible for her to join in at all. She kissed Rosy as kindly as usual when Nelson had left the room, but it seemed to her that her kiss was very coldly returned. "You're not vexed with me for anything, are you, Rosy?" she could not help saying. "Vexed with you? No, I never said I was vexed with you," Rosy answered. "I wish you wouldn't go on like that, Bee, it's tiresome. I can't be always kissing and petting you." And that was all the comfort poor Bee could get to go to sleep with! For a day or two still the doctor could not say what was wrong with Fixie, but at last he decided that it was only a sort of feverish attack brought on by his having somehow or other caught cold, for there had been some damp and rainy weather, even though spring was now fast turning into summer. The little fellow had been rather weak and out of sorts for some time, and as soon as he was better, Mrs. Vincent made up her mind to send him off with Martha for a fortnight to a sheltered seaside village not far from their home. Beata was very sorry to see them go. She almost wished she was going with them, for though she had done her best to be patient and cheerful, nothing was the same as before the coming of Rosy's aunt. Rosy scarcely seemed to care to play with her at all. Her whole time, when not at her lessons, was spent in her aunt's room, generally with Nelson, who was never tired of amusing her and giving in to all her fancies. Bee grew silent and shy. She was losing her bright happy manner, and looked as if she no longer felt sure that she was a welcome little guest. Mrs. Vincent saw the change in her, but did not quite understand it, and felt almost inclined to be vexed with her. "She knows it is only for a short time that Rosy's aunt is here. She might make the best of it," thought Mrs. Vincent. For she did not know fully how lonely Bee's life now was, and how many cold or unkind words she had to bear from Rosy, not to speak of Nelson's sharp and almost rude manner; for, though Rosy was not cunning, Nelson was so, and she managed to make it seem always as if Bee, and not Rosy, was in fault. "Where is Bee?" said Mrs. Vincent one afternoon when she went into the nursery, where, at this time of day, Nelson was now generally to be found. "I don't know, mamma," said Rosy. Then, without saying any more about Bee, she went on eagerly, "Do look, mamma, at the lovely opera-cloak Nelson has made for my doll? It isn't _quite_ ready--there's a little white fluff----" "Swansdown, Miss Rosy, darling," said Nelson. "Well, swansdown then--it doesn't matter--mamma knows," said Rosy sharply, "there's white stuff to go round the neck. Won't it be lovely, mother?" She looked up with her pretty face all flushed with pleasure, for nobody could be prettier than Rosy when she was pleased. "Yes dear, _very_ pretty," said her mother. It was impossible to deny that Nelson was very kind and patient, and Mrs. Vincent would have felt really pleased if only she had not feared that Nelson did Rosy harm by her spoiling and flattery. "But where can Bee be?" she said again. "Does she not care about dolls too?" "She used to," said Rosy. "But Bee is very fond of being alone now, mamma. And I don't care for her when she looks so gloomy." "But what makes her so?" said Mrs. Vincent. "Are you quite kind to her, Rosy?" "Oh indeed, yes, ma'am," interrupted Nelson, without giving Rosy time to answer. "Of that you may be very sure. Indeed many's the time I say to myself Miss Rosy's patience is quite wonderful. Such a free, outspoken young lady as she is, and Miss Bee _so_ different. I don't like them secrety sort of children, and Miss Rosy feels it too--she--" "Nelson, I didn't ask for your opinion of little Miss Warwick," said Mrs. Vincent, very coldly. "I know you are very kind to Rosy. But I cannot have any interference when I find fault with her." Nelson looked very indignant, but Mrs. Vincent's manner had something in it which prevented her answering in any rude way. "I'm sure I meant no offence," she said sourly, but that was all. Beata was alone in the schoolroom, writing, or trying to write, to her mother. Her letters, which used to be such a pleasure, had grown difficult. "Mamma said I was to write everything to her," she said to herself, "but I _can't_ write to tell her I'm not happy. I wonder if it's any way my fault." Just then the door opened and Mrs. Vincent looked in. "All alone, Bee," she said. "Would it not be more cheerful in the nursery with Rosy? You have no lessons to do now? "No" said Bee, "I was beginning a letter to mamma. But it isn't to go just yet." "Well, dear, go and play with Rosy. I don't like to see you moping alone. You must be my bright little Bee--you wouldn't like any one to think you are not happy with us?" "Oh no," said Bee. But there was little brightness in her tone, and Mrs. Vincent felt half provoked with her. "She has not really anything to complain of," she said to herself, "and she cannot expect me to speak to her against Aunt Edith and Nelson. She should make the best of it for the time." As Bee was leaving the schoolroom Mrs. Vincent called her back. "Will you tell Rosy to bring me her Venetian necklace to the drawing-room?" she said; "I want it for a few minutes." She did not tell Beata why she wanted it. It was because she had had a letter that morning from Mr. Furnivale asking her to tell him how many beads there were on Rosy's necklace and their size, as he had found a shop where there were two or three for sale, and he wanted to get one as nearly as possible the same for Beata. Beata went slowly to the nursery. She would much rather have stayed in the schoolroom, lonely and dull though it was. When she got to the nursery she gave Rosy her mother's message, and asked her kindly if she might bring her dolls so that they could play with them together. "I shan't get no work done," said Nelson crossly, "if there's going to be such a litter about." "I'm going to take my necklace to mamma," said Rosy. "You may play with my doll till I come back, Bee." She ran off, and Bee sat down quietly as far away from Nelson as she could. Five or ten minutes passed, and then the door suddenly opened and Rosy burst in with a very red face. "Bee, Nelson," she exclaimed, "my necklace is _gone_. It is indeed. I've hunted _everywhere_. And somebody must have taken it, for I always put it in the same place, in its own little box. You know I do--don't I, Bee?" Bee seemed hardly able to answer. Her face looked quite pale with distress. "Your necklace gone, Rosy," she repeated. Nelson said nothing. "Yes, _gone,_ I tell you," said Rosy. "And I believe it's stolen. It couldn't go of itself, and I _never_ left it about. I haven't had it on for a good while. You know that time I slept in your room, Bee, while Fixie was ill, I got out of the way of wearing it. But I always knew where it was, in its own little box in the far-back corner of the drawer where I keep my best ribbons and jewelry." "Yes," said Bee, "I know. It was there the day I had it out to amuse Fixie." Rosy turned sharply upon her. "Did you put it back that day, Bee?" she said, "I don't believe I've looked at it since. Answer, _did_ you put it back?" "Yes," said Bee earnestly, "yes, indeed; _indeed_ I did. O Rosy, don't get like that," she entreated, clasping her hands, for Rosy's face was growing redder and redder, and her eyes were flashing. "O Rosy, _don't_ get into a temper with me about it. I did, _did_ put it back." But it is doubtful if Rosy would have listened to her. She was fast working herself up to believe that Bee had lost the necklace the day she had had it out for Pixie, and she was so distressed at the loss that she was quite ready to get into a temper with _somebody_--when, to both the children's surprise, Nelson's voice interrupted what Rosy was going to say. "Miss Warwick," she said, with rather a mocking tone--she had made a point of calling Bee "Miss Warwick" since the day Mrs. Vincent had spoken of the little girl by that name--"Miss Warwick did put it back that day, Miss Rosy dear," she said. "For I saw it late that evening when I was putting your things away to help Martha as Master Fixie was ill." She did not explain that she had made a point of looking for the necklace in hopes of finding Bee had _not_ put it back, for you may remember she had been cross and rude to Bee about finding her in Rosy's room. "Well, then, where has it gone? Come with me, Bee, and look for it," said Rosy, rather softening down,--"though I'm _sure_ I've looked everywhere." "I don't think it's any use your taking Miss Warwick to look for it," said Nelson, getting up and laying aside her work. "I'll go with you, Miss Rosy, and if it's in your room I'll undertake to find it. And just you stay quietly here, Miss Bee. Too many cooks spoil the broth." So Bee was left alone again, alone, and even more unhappy than before, for she was _very_ sorry about Rosy's necklace, and besides, she had a miserable feeling that if it was never found she would somehow be blamed for its loss. A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour, what could Rosy and Nelson be doing all this time? The door opened and Bee sprang up. "Have you found it, Rosy?" she cried eagerly. But it was not Rosy, though she was following behind. The first person that came in was Mrs. Vincent. She looked grave and troubled. "Beata," she said, "you have heard about Rosy's necklace. Tell me all about the last time you saw it." "It was when Rosy let Fixie have it to play with," began Bee, and she told all she remembered. "And you are sure--_quite_ sure--you never have seen it since?" "_Quite_ sure," said Bee. "I never touch Rosy's things without her leave." Nelson gave a sort of cough. Bee turned round on her. "If you've anything to say you'd better say it now, before Mrs. Vincent," said Bee, in a tone that, coming from the gentle kindly little girl, surprised every one. "Bee!" exclaimed Mrs. Vincent, "What do you mean? Nelson has said _nothing_ about you." This was quite true. Nelson was too clever to say anything right out. She had only hinted and looked wise about the necklace to Rosy, giving her a feeling that Bee was more likely to have touched it than any one else. Bee was going to speak, but Rosy's mother stopped her. "You have told us all you know," she said. "I don't want to hear any more. But I am surprised at you, Bee, for losing your temper about being simply asked if you had seen the necklace. You might have forgotten at first if you had had it again for Fixie, and you _might_ the second time have forgotten to put it back. But there is nothing to be offended at, in being asked about it." She spoke coldly, and Bee's heart swelled more and more, but she dared not speak. "There is nothing to do," said Mrs. Vincent, "that I can see, except to find out if Fixie could have taken it. I will write to Martha at once and tell her to ask him, and to let us know by return of post." The letter was written and sent. No one waited for the answer more anxiously than Beata. It came by return of post, as Mrs. Vincent had said. But it brought only disappointment. "Master Fixie," Martha wrote, "knew nothing of Miss Rosy's necklace." He could not remember having had it to play with at all, and he seemed to get so worried when she kept on asking about it, that Martha thought it better to say no more, for it was plain he had nothing to tell. "It is very strange he cannot remember playing with it that afternoon," said Mrs. Vincent. "He generally has such a good memory. You are sure you _did_ give it to him to play with, Bee?" "We played with it together. I told him stories about each bead," the little girl replied. And her voice trembled as if she were going to burst into tears. "Then his illness since must have made him forget it," said Mrs. Vincent. But that was all she said. She did not call Bee to her and tell her not to feel unhappy about it--that she knew she could trust every word she said, as she once would have done. But she did give very strict orders that nothing more was to be said about the necklace, for though Nelson had not dared to hint anything unkind about Bee to Mrs. Vincent herself, yet Rosy's mother felt sure that Nelson blamed Bee for the loss, and wished others to do so, and she was afraid of what might be said in the nursery if the subject was still spoken about. So nothing unkind was actually said to Beata, but Rosy's cold manner and careless looks were hard to bear. And the days were drawing near for the long looked forward to fete at Summerlands. CHAPTER XI. A PARCEL AND A FRIGHT. "She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, She gazed in her terror around." --SOUTHEY. But Beata could not look forward to it now. The pleasure seemed to have gone out of everything. "Nobody loves me now, and nobody trusts me," she said sadly to herself. "And I don't know why it is. I can't think of anything I have done to change them all." Her letter to her mother was already written and sent before the answer came from Martha. Bee had hurried it a little at the end because she wanted to have an excuse to herself for not telling her mother how unhappy she was about the loss of the necklace. "If an answer comes from Martha that Fixie had taken it away or put it somewhere, it will be all right again and I shall be quite happy, and then it would have been a pity to write unhappily to poor mother, so far away," she said to herself. And when Martha's letter came and all was not right again, she felt glad that she could not write for another fortnight, and that perhaps by that time she would know better what to say, or that "somehow" things would have grown happier again. For she had promised, "faithfully" promised her mother to tell her truly all that happened, and that if by any chance she was unhappy about anything that she could not speak easily about to Mrs. Vincent,--though Bee's mother had little thought such a thing likely,--she would still write all about it to her own mother. But a week had already passed since that letter was sent. It was growing time to begin to think about another. And no "somehow" had come to put things right again. Bee sat at the schoolroom window one day after Miss Pink had left, looking out on to the garden, where the borders were bright with the early summer flowers, and everything seemed sunny and happy. "I wish I was happy too," thought Bee. And she gently stroked Manchon's soft coat, and wondered why the birds outside and the cat inside seemed to have all they wanted, when a little girl like her felt so sad and lonely. Manchon had grown fond of Bee. She was gentle and quiet, and that was what he liked, for he was no longer so young as he had been. And Rosy's pullings and pushings, when she was not in a good humour and fancied he was in her way, tried his nerves very much. "Manchon," said Bee softly, "you look very wise. Why can't you tell me where Rosy's necklace is?" Manchon blinked his eyes and purred. But, alas, that was all he could do. Just then the door opened and Rosy came in. She was dressed for going out. She had her best hat and dress on, and she looked very well pleased with herself. "I'm going out a drive with auntie," she said. "And mamma says you're to be ready to go a walk with her in half an hour." She was leaving the room, when a sudden feeling made Bee call her back. "Rosy," she said, "do stay a minute. Rosy, I am so unhappy. I've been thinking if I can't write a letter to ask mother to take me away from here. I would, only it would make her so unhappy." Rosy looked a little startled. "Why would you do that?" she said. "I'm sure I've not done anything to you." "But you don't love me any more," said Bee. "You began to leave off loving me when your aunt and Nelson came,--I know you did,--and then since the necklace was lost it's been worse. What can I do, Rosy, what can I say?" "You might own that you've lost it--at least that you forgot to put it back," said Rosy. "But I _did_ put it back. Even Nelson says that," said Bee. "I can't say I didn't when I know I did," she added piteously. "But Nelson thinks you took it another time, and forgot to put it back. And I think so too," said Rosy. To do her justice, she never, like Nelson, thought that Bee had taken the necklace on purpose. She did not even understand that Nelson thought so. "Rosy," said Bee very earnestly, "I did _not_ take it another time. I have never seen it since that afternoon when Fixie had had it and I put it back. Rosy, _don't_ you believe me?" Rosy gave herself an impatient shake. "I don't know," she said. "You might have forgotten. Anyway it was you that had it last, and I wish I'd never given you leave to have it; I'm sure it wouldn't have been lost." Bee turned away and burst into tears. "I _will_ write to mamma and ask her to take me away," she said. Again Rosy looked startled. "If you do that," she said, "it will be very unkind to _my_ mamma. Yours will think we have all been unkind to you, and then she'll write letters to my mamma that will vex her very much. And I'm sure _mamma's_ never been unkind to you. I don't mind if you say _I'm_ unkind; perhaps I am, because I'm very vexed about my necklace. I shall get naughty now it's lost--I know I shall," and so saying, Rosy ran off. Bee left off crying. It was true what Rosy had said. It _would_ make Mrs. Vincent unhappy and cause great trouble if she asked her mother to take her away. A new and braver spirit woke in the little girl. "I won't be unhappy any more," she resolved. "I know I didn't touch the necklace, and so I needn't be unhappy. And then I needn't write anything to trouble mother, for if I get happy again it will be all right." Her eyes were still rather red, but her face was brighter than it had been for some time when she came into the drawing-room, ready dressed for her walk. "Is that you, Bee dear?" said Mrs. Vincent kindly. She too was ready dressed, but she was just finishing the address on a letter. "Why, you are looking quite bright again, my child!" she went on when she looked up at the little figure waiting patiently beside her. "I'm very glad to go out with you," said Bee simply. "And I'm very glad to have you," said Mrs. Vincent. "Aunt Lillias," said Bee, her voice trembling a little, "may I ask you one thing? _You_ don't think I touched Rosy's necklace?" Mrs. Vincent smiled. "_Certainly_ not, dear," she said. "I did at first think you might have forgotten to put it back that day. But after your telling me so distinctly that you _had_ put it back, I felt quite satisfied that you had done so." "But," said Bee, and then she hesitated. "But what?" said Mrs. Vincent, smiling. "I don't think--I _didn't_ think," Bee went on, gaining courage, "that you had been quite the same to me since then." "And you have been fancying all kinds of reasons for it, I suppose!" said Mrs. Vincent. "Well, Bee, the only thing I have been not quite pleased with you for _has_ been your looking so unhappy. I was surprised at your seeming so hurt and vexed at my asking you about the necklace, and since then you have looked so miserable that I had begun seriously to think it might be better for you not to stay with us. If Rosy or any one else has disobeyed me, and gone on talking about the necklace, it is very wrong, but even then I wonder at your allowing foolish words to make you so unhappy. _Has_ any one spoken so as to hurt you?" "No," said Bee, "not exactly, but--" "But you have seen that there were unkind thoughts about you. Well, I am very sorry for it, but at present I can do no more. You are old enough and sensible enough to see that several things have not been as I like or wish lately. But it is often so in this world. I was very sorry for Martha to have to go away, but it could not be helped, Now, Bee, think it over. Would you rather go away, for a time any way, or will you bravely determine not to mind what you know you don't deserve, knowing that _I_ trust you fully?" "Yes," said Bee at once, "I will not mind it any more. And Rosy perhaps," here her voice faltered, "Rosy perhaps will like me better if I don't seem so dull." Mrs. Vincent looked grave when Bee spoke of Rosy, so grave that Bee almost wished she had not said it. "It is very hard," she heard Rosy's mother say, as if speaking to herself, "just when I thought I had gained a better influence over her. _Very_ hard." Bee threw her arms round Mrs. Vincent's neck. "Dear auntie," she said, "_don't_ be unhappy about Rosy. I will be patient, and I know it will come right again, and I won't be unhappy any more." Mrs. Vincent kissed her. "Yes, dear Bee," she said, "we must both be patient and hopeful." And then they went out, and during the walk Beata noticed that Mrs. Vincent talked about other things--old times in India that Bee could remember, and plans for the future when her father and mother should come home again to stay. Only just as they were entering the house on their return, Bee could not help saying, "Aunt Lillias, I _wonder_ if the necklace will never be found." "So do I," said Mrs. Vincent. "I really cannot understand where it can have gone. We have searched so thoroughly that even if Fixie _had_ put it somewhere we would have found it. And, if possibly, he had taken it away with him by mistake, Martha would have seen it." But that was all that was said. A day or two later Rosy came flying into the schoolroom in great excitement. Miss Pinkerton was there at the time, for it was the middle of morning lessons, and she had sent Rosy upstairs to fetch a book she had left in the nursery by mistake. "Miss Pink, Bee!" she continued, "our dresses have come from London. I'm sure it must be them. Just as I passed the backstair door I heard James calling to somebody about a case that was to be taken upstairs, and I peeped over the banisters, and there was a large white wood box, and I saw the carter's man standing waiting to be paid. Do let me go and ask about them, Miss Pink." "No, Rosy, not just now," said Miss Pink. She spoke more firmly than she used to do now, for I think she had learnt a lesson, and Rosy was beginning to understand that when Miss Pink said a thing she meant it to be done. Rosy muttered something in a grumbling tone, and sat down to her lessons. "You are always so ill-natured," she half whispered to Bee. "If you had asked too she would have let us go, but you always want to seem better than any one else." "No, I don't," said Bee, smiling. "I want dreadfully to see the dresses. We'll ask your mother to let us see them together this afternoon." Rosy looked at her with surprise. Lately Beata had never answered her cross speeches like this, but had looked either ready to cry, or had told her she was very unkind or very naughty, which had not mended matters! Rosy was right. The white wood box did contain the dresses, and though Mrs. Vincent was busy that day, as she and Aunt Edith were going a long drive to spend the afternoon and evening with friends at some distance, she understood the little girls' eagerness to see them, and had the box undone and the costumes fully exhibited to please them. They were certainly very pretty, for though the material they were made of was only cotton, they had been copied exactly from an old picture Lady Esther had sent on purpose. The only difference between them was that one of the quilted under skirts was sky blue to suit Rosy's bright complexion and fair hair, and the other was a very pretty shade of rose colour, which, went better with Bee's dark hair and paler face. The children stood entranced, admiring them. "Now, dears, I must put them away," said Mrs. Vincent. "It is really time for me to get ready." "O mamma!" exclaimed Rosy, "do leave them out for us to try on. I can tell Nelson to take them to my room." "No, Rosy," said her mother decidedly. "You must wait to try them on till to-morrow. I want to see them on myself. Besides, they are very delicate in colour, and would be easily soiled. You must be satisfied with what you have seen of them for to-day. Now run and get ready. It is already half-past three." For it had been arranged that Rosy and Bee, with Nelson to take care of them, were to drive part of the way with Mrs. Vincent and her sister-in-law, and to walk back, as it was a very pretty country road. Rosy went off to get ready, shaking herself in the way she often did when she was vexed; and while she was dressing she recounted her grievances to Nelson. "Never mind, Miss Rosy," said that foolish person, "we'll perhaps have a quiet look at your dress this evening when we're all alone. There's no need to say anything about it to Miss Bee." "But mamma said we were not to try them on till to-morrow," said Rosy. "No, not to try them on by yourselves, very likely you would get them soiled. But we'll see." It was pretty late when the children came home. They had gone rather farther than Mrs. Vincent had intended, and coming home they had made the way longer by passing through a wood which had tempted them at the side of the road. They were a little tired and very hungry, and till they had had their tea Rosy was too hungry to think of anything else. But tea over, Bee sat down to amuse herself with a book till bed-time, and Rosy wandered about, not inclined to read, or, indeed, to do anything. Suddenly the thought of the fancy dresses returned to her mind. She ran out of the nursery, and made her way to her aunt's room, where Nelson was generally to be found. She was not there, however. Rosy ran down the passages at that part of the house where the servants' rooms were, to look for her, though she knew that her mother did not like her to do so. "Nelson, Nelson," she cried. Nelson's head was poked out of her room. "What is it, Miss Rosy? It's not your bed-time yet." "No, but I want to look at my dress again. You promised I should." "Well, just wait five minutes. I'm just finishing a letter that one of the men's going to post for me. I'll come to your room, Miss Rosy, and bring a light. It's getting too dark to see." "Be quick then," said Rosy, imperiously. She went back to her room, but soon got tired of waiting there. She did not want to go to the nursery, for Bee was there, and would begin asking her what she was doing. "I'll go to mamma's room," she said to herself, "and just look about to see where she has put the frocks. I'm _almost_ sure she'll have hung them up in her little wardrobe, where she keeps new things often." No sooner said than done. Off ran Rosy to her mother's room. It was getting dusk, dark almost, any way too dark to see clearly. Rosy fumbled about on the mantelpiece till she found the match-box, and though she was generally too frightened of burning her fingers to strike a light herself, this time she managed to do so. There were candles on the dressing-table, and when she had lighted them she proceeded to search. It was not difficult to find what she wanted. The costumes were hanging up in the little wardrobe, as she expected, but too high for her to reach easily. Rosy went to the door, and a little way down the passage, and called Nelson. But no one answered, and it was a good way off to Nelson's room. "Nasty, selfish thing," said Rosy; "she's just going on writing to tease me." But she was too impatient, to go back to her own room and wait there. With the help of a chair she got down the frocks. Bee's came first, of course, because it wasn't wanted--Rosy flung it across the back of a chair, and proceeded to examine her own more closely than she had been able to do before. It _was_ pretty! And so complete--there was even the little white mob-cap with blue ribbons, and a pair of blue shoes with high, though not very high, heels! These last she found lying on the shelf, above the hanging part of the wardrobe. "It is _too_ pretty," said Rosy. "I _must_ try it on." And, quick as thought, she set to work--and nobody could be quicker or cleverer than Rosy when she chose--taking off the dress she had on, and rapidly attiring herself in the lovely costume. It all seemed to fit beautifully,--true, the pale blue shoes looked rather odd beside the sailor-blue stockings she was wearing, and she wondered what kind of stockings her mother intended her to wear at Summerlands--and she could not get the little lace kerchief arranged quite to her taste; but the cap went on charmingly, and so did the long mittens, which were beside the shoes. "There must be stockings too," thought Rosy, "for there seems to be everything else; perhaps they are farther back in the shelf." [Illustration: BY STRETCHING A GOOD DEAL SHE THOUGHT SHE COULD REACH THEM.] She climbed up on the chair again, but she could not see farther into the shelf, so she got down and fetched one of the candles. Then up again--yes--there were two little balls, a pink and a blue, farther back-by stretching a good deal she thought she could reach them. Only the candle was in the way, as she was holding it in one hand. She stooped and set it down on the edge of the chair, and reached up again, and had just managed to touch the little balls she could no longer see, when--what was the matter? What was that rush of hot air up her left leg and side? She looked down, and, in her fright, fell--chair, Rosy, and candle, in a heap on the floor--for she had seen that her skirts were on fire! and, as she fell, she uttered a long piercing scream. CHAPTER XII. GOOD OUT OF EVIL. "Sweet are the uses of adversity."--SHAKESPEARE. A scream that would probably have reached the nursery, which was not very far from Mrs. Vincent's room, had there been any one there to hear it! But as it was, the person who had been there--little Bee--was much nearer than the nursery at the time of Rosy's accident. The house was very silent that evening, and Nelson had not thought of bringing a light; so when it got too dark to read, even with the book pressed close against the window-panes, Bee grew rather tired of waiting there by herself, with nothing to do. "I wonder where Rosy is," she thought, opening the door, and looking out along the dusky passages. And just then she heard Rosy's voice, at some little distance, calling, "Nelson, Nelson." "If she is with Nelson I won't go," thought Bee. "I'll wait till she comes back;" and she came into the empty nursery again, and wished Martha was home. "She always makes the nursery so comfortable," thought Bee. Then it struck her that perhaps it was not very kind of her not to go and see what Rosy wanted--she had not heard any reply to Rosy's call for Nelson. "Her voice sounded as if she was in Aunt Lillias's room," she said to herself. "What can she be wanting? perhaps I'd better go and see." And she set off down the passage. The lamps were not yet lighted; perhaps the servants were less careful than usual, knowing that the ladies would not be home till late, but Bee knew her way about the house quite well. She was close to the door of Mrs. Vincent's room, and had already noticed that it stood slightly ajar, for a light was streaming out, when--she stood for a second half-stupefied with terror--what was it?--what could be the matter?--as Rosy's fearful scream reached her ears. Half a second, and she had rushed into the room--there lay a confused heap on the floor, for Rosy, in her fall, had pulled over the chair; but the first glance showed Bee what was wrong--Rosy was on fire! It was a good thing she had fallen, otherwise, in her wild fright, she would probably have made things worse by rushing about; as it was, she had not had time to get up before Bee was beside her, smothering her down with some great heavy thing, and calling to her to keep still, to "squeeze herself down," so as to put out the flames. The "great thing" was the blankets and counterpane of the bed, which somehow Bee, small as she was, had managed to tear off. And, frightened as Rosy was, the danger was not, after all, so very great, for the quilted under skirt was pretty thick, and her fall had already partly crushed down the fire. It was all over more quickly than it has taken me to tell it, and Rosy at last, half choked with the heavy blankets, and half soaked with the water which Bee had poured over her to make sure, struggled to her feet, safe and uninjured, only the pretty dress hopelessly spoilt! And when all the danger was past, and there was nothing more to do, Nelson appeared at the door, and rushed at her darling Miss Rosy, screaming and crying, while Beata stood by, her handkerchief wrapped round one of her hands, and nobody paying any attention to her. Nelson's screams soon brought the other servants; among them, they got the room cleared of the traces of the accident, and Rosy undressed and put to bed. She was crying from the fright, but she had got no injury at all; her tears, however, flowed on when she thought of what her mother would have to be told, and Bee found it difficult to comfort her. "You saved me, Bee, dear Bee," she said, clinging to her. "And it was because I disobeyed mamma, and I might have been burnt to death. O Bee, just think of it!" and she would not let Beata leave her. It was like this that Mrs. Vincent found them on her return late in the evening. You can fancy how miserable it was for her to be met with such a story, and to know that it was all Rosy's own fault. But it was not all miserable, for never had she known her little girl so completely sorry and ashamed, and so truly grateful to any one as she was now feeling to Beata. And even Aunt Edith's prejudice seemed to have melted away, for she kissed Bee as she said goodnight, and called her a brave, good child. So it was with a thankful little heart that Beata went to bed. Her hand was sore--it had got badly scorched in pressing down the blankets--but she did not think it bad enough to say anything about it except to the cook, who was a kind old woman, and wrapped it up in cotton wool, after well dredging it with flour, and making her promise that if it hurt her in the night she would call her. It did not hurt her, and she slept soundly; but when she woke in the morning her head ached, and she wished she could stay in bed! Rosy was still sleeping--the housemaid, who came to draw the curtains, told her--and she was not to be wakened. "After the fright she had, it is better to sleep it off," the servant said, "though, for some things, it's to be hoped she won't forget it. It should be a lesson to her. But you don't look well, Miss Bee," she went on; "is your head aching, my dear?" "Yes," Bee allowed, "and I can't think why, for I slept very well. What day is it, Phoebe? Isn't it Sunday?" "Yes, Miss Bee. It's Sunday." "I don't think I can go to church. The organ would make my head worse," said Bee, sitting up in bed. "Shall I tell any one that you're not well, Miss Bee?" asked Phoebe. "Oh no, thank you," said Bee, "I daresay it will get better when I'm up." It did seem a little better, but she was looking pale when Mrs. Vincent came to the nursery to see her and Rosy, who had wakened up, none the worse for her fright, but anxious to do all she could for poor Bee when she found out about her sore hand and headache, "Why did you not tell me about your hand last night, dear Bee?" Mrs. Vincent asked. "It didn't hurt much. It doesn't hurt much now," said Bee, "and Fraser looked at it and saw that it was not very bad, and--and--you had had so many things to trouble you, Aunt Lillias," she added, affectionately. "Yes, dear; but, when I think how much worse they might have been, I dare not complain," Rosy's mother replied. Bee did not go to church that day. Her headache was not very bad, but it did not seem to get well, and it was still rather bad when she woke the next morning. And that next morning brought back to all their minds what, for the moment, had been almost forgotten--that it was within three days of the fete at Summerlands!--for there came a note from Lady Esther, giving some particulars about the hour she hoped they would all come, and rejoicing in the promise of fine weather for the children's treat. Rosy's mother read the note aloud. Then she looked at Aunt Edith, and looked at the little girls. They were all together when the letter came. "What is to be done?" said Miss Vincent; "I had really forgotten the fête was to be on Wednesday. Is it impossible to have a new dress made in time?" "Quite impossible," said Mrs. Vincent, "Rosy must cheerfully, or at least patiently, bear what she has brought on herself, and be, as I am sure she is, very thankful that it was no worse." Rosy glanced up quickly. She seemed as if she were going to say something, and the look in her face was quite gentle. "I--I--I _will_ try to be good, mamma," she broke out at last. "And I know I might have been burnt to death if it hadn't been for Bee. And--and--I hope Bee will enjoy the fête." But that was all she could manage. She hurried over the last words; then, bursting into tears, she rushed out of the room. "Poor darling!" said Aunt Edith. "Lillias, are you sure we can do nothing? Couldn't one of her white dresses be done up somehow?" "No," said Mrs. Vincent. "It would only draw attention to her if she was to go dressed differently from the others, and I should not wish that. Besides--oh no--it is much better not." She had hardly said the words when she felt something gently pulling her, and, looking down, there was Bee beside her, trying to whisper something. "Auntie," she said, "would you, oh! _would_ you let Rosy go instead of me, wearing my dress? It would fit her almost as well as her own. And, do you know, I _wouldn't_ care to go alone. It wouldn't be _any_ happiness to me, and it would be such happiness to know that Rosy could go. And I'm afraid I've got a little cold or something, for I've still got a headache, and I'm not sure that it will be better by Wednesday." She looked up entreatingly in Mrs. Vincent's face, and then Rosy's mother noticed how pale and ill she seemed. "My dear little Bee," she said, "you must try to be better by Wednesday. And, you know, dear, though we are all very sorry for Rosy, it is only what she has brought on herself. I hope she has learnt a lesson--more than one lesson--but, if she were to have the pleasure of going to Summerlands, she might not remember it so well." Beata said no more--she could not oppose Rosy's mother--but she shook her head a little sadly. "I don't think Rosy's like that, Aunt Lillias," she said; "I don't think it would make her forget." Beata's headache was not better the next day; and, as the day went on, it grew so much worse that Mrs. Vincent at last sent for the doctor. He said that she was ill, much in the same way that Fixie had been. Not that it was anything she could have caught from him--it was not that kind of illness at all--but it was the first spring either of them had been in England, and he thought that very likely the change of climate had caused it with them both. He was not, he said, anxious about Bee, but still he looked a little grave. She was not strong, and she should not be overworked with lessons, or have anything to trouble or distress her. "She has not been overworked," Mrs. Vincent said. "And she seems very sweet-tempered and gentle. A happy disposition, I should think," said the doctor, as he hastened away. His words made Mrs. Vincent feel rather sad. It was true--Bee had a happy disposition--she had never, till lately, seen her anything but bright and cheery. "My poor little Bee," she thought, "I was hard upon her. I did not quite understand her. In my anxiety about Rosy when her aunt and Nelson came I fear I forgot Bee. But I do trust all that is over, and that Rosy has truly learnt a lesson. And we must all join to make little Bee happy again." She returned to Bee's room. The child was sitting up in bed, her eyes sparkling in her white face--she was very eager about something. "Auntie," she said, "you see I cannot possibly go to-morrow. And you must go, for poor Lady Esther is counting on you to help her. Auntie, you _will_ forgive poor Rosy now _quite_, won't you, and let her go in my dress?" The pleading eyes, the white face, the little hot hands laid coaxingly on hers--it would not have been easy to refuse! Besides, the doctor had said she was neither to be excited nor distressed. The tears were in Mrs. Vincent's eyes as she bent down to kiss the little girl, but she did not let her see them. "I will speak to Rosy, dear," she said. "I will tell her how much you want her to go in your place; and I think perhaps you are right--I don't think it will make her forget." "_Thank_ you, dear auntie," said Bee, as fervently as if Mrs. Vincent had promised her the most delightful treat in the world. That afternoon Bee fell asleep, and slept quietly and peacefully for some time. When she woke she felt better, and she lay still, thinking it was nice and comfortable to be in bed when one felt tired, as she had always done lately; then her eyes wandered round her little room, and she thought how neat and pretty it looked, how pleased her mother would be to see how nice she had everything; and, just as she was thinking this, her glance fell on a little table beside her bed, which had been placed there with a little lemonade and a few grapes. There was something there that had not been on the table before she went to sleep. In a delicate little glass, thin and clear as a soap-bubble, was the most lovely rose Bee had ever seen--rich, soft, _rose_ colour, glowing almost crimson in the centre, and melting into a somewhat paler shade at the edge. [Illustration: 'IT'S A ROSE FROM ROSY.'] "Oh you beauty!" exclaimed Bee, "I wonder who put you there. I would like to scent you"--Bee, like other children I know, always talked of "scenting" flowers; she said "smell" was not a pretty enough word for such pretty things--"but I am afraid of knocking over that lovely glass. It must be one of Aunt Lillias's that she has lent." A little soft laugh came from the side of her bed, and, leaning over, Bee caught sight of a tangle of bright hair. It was Rosy. She had been watching there for Bee to wake. Up she jumped, and, carefully lifting the glass, held it close to Bee. "It isn't mother's glass," she said; "it's your own. It _was_ mother's, but I've bought it for you. Mother let me, because I _did_ so want to do something to please you; and she let me choose the beautifullest rose for you, Bee. I am so glad you like it; It's a rose from Rosy. I've been sitting by you such a time. And though I'm so pleased you like the rose, I _have_ been crying a little, Bee, truly, because you are so good, and about my going to-morrow." "You _are_ going?" said Bee, anxiously. In Rosy's changed way of thinking she became suddenly afraid that she might not wish to go. "Yes," said Rosy, rather gravely, "I am going. Mother is quite pleased for me to go, to please you. In one way I would rather not go, for I know I don't deserve it; and I can't help thinking you wouldn't have been ill if I hadn't done that, and made you have a fright. And it seems such a shame for me to wear _your_ dress, when you've been quite good and _deserve_ the pleasure, and just when I've got to see how kind you are, and we'd have been so happy to go together. And then I've a feeling, Bee, that I _shall_ enjoy it when I get there, and perhaps I shall forget a little about you, and it will be so horrid of me, if I do--and that makes me, wish I wasn't going." "But I want you to enjoy it," said Bee, simply, in her little weak voice. "It wouldn't be nice of me to want you to go if I thought you wouldn't enjoy it. And it's nice of you to tell me how you feel. But I would like you to think of me _this_ way--every time you are having a very nice dance, or that any one says you look so nice, just think, "I wish Bee could see me," or "How nice it will be to tell Bee about it," and, that way, the more you enjoy it the more you'll think of me." "Yes," said Rosy, "that's putting it a very nice way; or, Bee, if there are very nice things to eat, I might think of you another way. I might, perhaps, bring you back some nice biscuits or bonbons--any kind that wouldn't squash in my pocket, you know. I might ask mamma to ask Lady Esther." "Yes," said Bee, "I'm not very hungry, but just a few very nice, rather dry ones, you know, I would like." "I could keep them for Fixie when he comes back," was the thought in her mind. She had not heard anything about when Fixie and Martha were coming back, but she was to have a pleasant surprise the next day. It was a little lonely; for, though Rosy meant to be very, very kind, she was rather too much of a chatterbox not to tire Bee after a while. "Mamma said I wasn't to stay very long," she said; "but don't you mind being alone so much?" "No, I don't think so," said Bee, "and, you know, Phoebe is in the next room if I want her." "I know what you'd like," said Rosy, and off she flew. In two minutes she was back again with something in her arms. It was Manchon! She laid him gently down at the foot of Bee's bed. "He's so 'squisitely clean, you know," she went on, "and I know you're fond of him." "_Very_" said Bee, with great satisfaction. "I like him better than I did," said Rosy, "but still I think he's a sort of a fairy. Why, it shows he is, for now that I'm so good--I mean now that I'm going to be good always--he seems to like me ever so much better. He used to snarl if ever I touched him, and to-day when I said 'I'm going to take you to Bee, Manchon,' he let me take him as good as good." But that evening brought still better company for Bee. She went to sleep early, and she slept well, and when she woke in the morning who do you think was standing beside her? Dear little Fixie, his white face ever so much rounder and rosier, and kind Martha, both smiling with pleasure at seeing her again, though feeling sorry, too, that she was ill. "Zou'll soon be better, Bee, and Fixie will be so good to you, and then p'raps we'll go again to that nice place where we've been, for you to get kite well." So Bee, after all, did not feel at all dull or lonely when Rosy came in to say good-bye, in Bee's pretty dress. And Mrs. Vincent, and even Miss Vincent, kissed her so kindly! Even Nelson, I forgot to say, had put her head in at the door to ask how she was; and when Bee answered her nicely, as she always did, she came in for a moment to tell her how sorry she was Bee could not go to the fete. "For I must say, Miss Bee," she added, "I must say as I think you've acted very pretty, very pretty, indeed, about lending your dress to dear Miss Rosy, bless her." "And, if there's anything I can do for you--" Here Bee's breakfast coming in interrupted her, which Bee, on the whole, was not sorry for. She did not see Rosy that evening, for it was late when they came home, and she was already asleep. But the next morning Bee woke much better, and quite able to listen to Rosy's account of it all. She had enjoyed it very much--of course not _as_ much as if Bee had been there too, she said; but Lady Esther had thought it so sweet of Bee to beg for Rosy to go, and she had sent her the loveliest little basket of bonbons, tied up with pink ribbons, that ever was seen, and still better, she had told Rosy that she had serious thoughts of having a large Christmas-tree party next winter, at which all the children should be dressed out of the fairy tales. "Wouldn't it be lovely?" said Rosy. "We were thinking perhaps you would be Red Riding Hood, and I the white cat. But we can look over all the fairy tales and think about it when you're better, can't we, Bee?" Beata got better much more quickly than Fixie had done. The first day she was well enough to be up she begged leave to write two little letters, one to her mother and one to Colin, who had been very kind; for while she was ill he had written twice to her, which for a schoolboy was a great deal, I think. His letters were meant to be very amusing; but, as they were full of cricket and football, Bee did not find them very easy to understand. She was sitting at the nursery-table, thinking what she could say to show Colin she liked to hear about his games, even though the names puzzled her a little, when Fixie came and stood by her, looking rather melancholy. "What's the matter?" she said. "Zou's writing such a long time," said Fixie, "and Rosy's still at her lessons. I zought when zou was better zou'd play wif me." "I can't play much," said Bee, "for I've still got a funny buzzy feeling in my head, and I'm rather tired." "Yes, I know," said Fixie, with great sympathy, "mine head was like fousands of trains when I was ill. We won't play, Bee, we'll only talk." "Well, I'll just finish my letter," said Bee. "I'll just tell Colin he must tell me all about innings and outings, and all that, when he comes home. Yes--that'll do. "Your affectionate--t-i-o-n-a-t-e--Bee." Now I'll talk to you, Fixie. What a pity we haven't got Rosy's beads to tell stories about!" A queer look came into Fixie's face. "Rosy's beads," he said. "Yes, Rosy's necklace that was lost. And you didn't know where it was gone when Martha asked you--when your mother wrote a letter about it." As she spoke, she drew their two little chairs to what had always been their favourite corner, near a window, which was low enough for them to look out into the pretty garden. "Don't sit there," said Fixie, "I don't like there." "Why not? Don't you remember we were sitting here the last afternoon we were in the nursery--before you went away. You liked it then, when I told you stories about the beads, before they were lost." "Before _zem_ was lost," said Fixie, his face again taking the troubled, puzzled look; "I didn't know it was _zem_--I mean it was somefin else of Rosy's that was lost--lace for her neck, that I'd _never_ seen." Bee's heart began to beat faster with a strange hope. She had seen Fixie's face looking troubled, and she remembered Martha saying how her questioning about the necklace had upset him, and it seemed almost cruel to go on talking about it. But a feeling had come over her that there was something to find out, and now it grew stronger and stronger. "Lace for Rosy's neck," she repeated, "no, Fixie, you must be mistaken. Lace for her neck--" and then a sudden idea struck her,--"can you mean a _necklace?_ Don't you know that a necklace means beads?" Fixie stared at her for a moment, growing very red. Then the redness finished up, like a thundercloud breaking into rain, by his bursting into tears, and hiding his face in Bee's lap. "I didn't know, I didn't know," he cried, "I thought it was some lace that Martha meant. I didn't mean to tell a' untrue, Bee. I didn't like Martha asking me, 'cos it made me think of the beads I'd lost, and I thought p'raps I'd get them up again when I came home, but I can't. I've poked and poked, and I think the mouses have eatened zem." By degrees Bee found out what the poor little fellow meant. The morning after the afternoon when Bee and he had had the necklace, and Bee had put it safely back, he had, unknown to any one, fetched it again for himself, and sat playing with it by the nursery-window, in the corner where the hole in the floor was. Out of idleness, he had amused himself by holding the string of beads at one end, and dropping them down the mysterious hole, "like fishing," he said, till, unluckily, he had dropped them in altogether; and there, no doubt, they were still lying! He was frightened at what he had done, but he meant to tell Bee, and ask her advice. But that very afternoon the doctor came, and he was separated from the other children; and, while he was ill, he seemed to have forgotten about it. When Martha questioned him at the seaside, he had no idea she was speaking of the beads; but he did not like her questions, because they made him remember what he _had_ lost. And then he thought he would try to get the beads out of the hole by poking with a stick when he came home; but he had found he could not manage it, and then he had taken a dislike to that part of the room. All this was told with many sobs and tears, but Bee soothed him as well as she could; and when his mother soon after came to the nursery and heard the story, she was very kind indeed, and made him see how even little wrong-doings, like taking the beads to play with without leave, always bring unhappiness; and still more, how wise and right it is for children to tell at once when they have done wrong, instead of trying to put the wrong right themselves. That was all she said, except that, as she kissed her poor little boy, she told him to tell no one else about it, except Martha, and that she would see what could be done. Bee and Fixie said no more about it; but on that account, I daresay, like the famous parrot, "they thought the more." And once or twice that afternoon, Fixie _could_ not help whispering to Bee, "_Do_ you fink mamma's going to get the beads hooked out?" or, "I hope they won't hurt the mouses that lives down in the hole. _Do_ you fink the mouses has eaten it, p'raps?" Beata was sent early to bed, as she was not yet, of course, counted as quite well; and both she and Fixie slept very soundly--whether they dreamt of Rosy's beads or not I cannot tell. But the next morning Bee felt so much better that she begged to get up quite early. "Not till after you've had your breakfast, Miss Bee," said Martha. "But Mrs. Vincent says you may get up as soon as you like after that, and then you and Miss Rosy and Master Fixie are all to go to her room. She has something to show you." Bee and Fixie looked at each other. They felt sure _they_ knew what it was! But Rosy, who had also come to Bee's room to see how she was, looked very mystified. "I wonder what it can be," she said. "Can it be a parcel come for us? And oh, Martha, by-the-bye, what was that knocking in the nursery last night after we were in bed? I heard Robert's voice, I'm sure. What was he doing?" "He came up to nail down something that was loose," said Martha, quietly; but that was all she would say. They all three marched off to Mrs. Vincent's room as soon as Beata was up and dressed. She was waiting for them. "I am so glad you are so much better this morning, Bee," she said, as she kissed them all; "and now" she went on, "look here, I have a surprise for you all." She lifted a handkerchief which she had laid over something on a little table; and the three children, as they pressed forward, could hardly believe their eyes. For there lay Rosy's necklace, as bright and pretty as ever, and there beside it lay another, just like it at the first glance, though, when it was closely examined, one could see that the patterns on the beads were different; but any way it was just as pretty. "Two," exclaimed Fixie, "_two_ lace-beads, what _is_ the name? Has the mouses made a new one for Bee, dear Bee?" "Yes, for dear Bee," said his mother, smiling, "it is for Bee, though it didn't come from the mouses;" and then she explained to them how "Mr. Furniture" had sent the second necklace for Bee, but that she had thought it better to keep it a while in hopes of Rosy's being found, as she knew that Bee's pleasure in the pretty beads would not have been half so great if Rosy were without hers. How happy they all looked! "What lotses of fairy stories we can make now!" said Fixie--"one for every bead-lace, Bee!" "And, mamma," said Rosy, "I'll keep on being very good now. I daresay I'll be dreadfully good soon; and Bee will be always good too, now, because you know we've got our talismans." Mrs. Vincent smiled, but she looked a little grave. "What is it, mamma?" said Rosy. "Should I say talis_men_, not talismans?" Her mother smiled more this time. "No, it wasn't that. 'Talismans' is quite right. I was only thinking that perhaps it was not very wise of me to have put the idea into your head, Rosy dear, for I want you to learn and feel that, though any little outside help may be a good thing as a reminder, it is only your own self, your own heart, earnestly wishing to be good, that can really make you succeed; and you know where the earnest wishing comes from, and where you are always sure to get help if you ask it, don't you, Rosy?" Rosy got a little red, and looked rather grave. "I _nearly_ always remember to say my prayers," she answered. "Well, let the 'talisman' help you to remember, if ever you are inclined to forget. And it isn't _only_ at getting-up time and going-to-bed time that one may _pray_, as I have often told you, dear children. I really think, Rosy," she went on more lightly, "that it would be nice for you and Bee to wear your necklaces always. I shall like to see them, and I believe it would be almost impossible to spoil or break them." "Only for my fairy stories," said Fixie, "I should have to walk all round Bee and Rosy to see the beads. You will let them take them off, _sometimes_, won't you, mamma?" "Yes, my little man, provided you promise not to send them visits down the 'mouses' holes,'" said his mother, laughing. This is all I can tell you for the present about Rosy and her brothers and little Bee. There is more to tell, as you can easily fancy, for, of course, Rosy did not grow "quite good" all of a sudden, though there certainly was a great difference to be seen in her from the time of her narrow escape--nor was Beata, in spite of _her_ talisman, without faults and failings. Nor was either of them without sorrows and disappointments and difficulties in their lives, bright and happy though they were. If you have been pleased with what I have told you, you must let me know, and I shall try to tell you some more. And again, dear children,--little friends, whom I love so much, though I may never have seen your faces, and though you only know me as somebody who is _very_ happy, when her little stories please you--again, my darlings, I wish you the merriest of merry Christmases for 1882, and every blessing in the new year that will soon be coming! THE END. 
35196	----	Gwen Wynn A Romance of the Wye By Captain Mayne Reid Published by Tinsley Brothers, 8 Catherine Street, Strand, London. This edition dated 1877. Volume One, Chapter I. THE HEROINE. A tourist descending the Wye by boat from the town of Hereford to the ruined Abbey of Tintern, may observe on its banks a small pagoda-like structure; its roof, with a portion of the supporting columns, o'er-topping a spray of evergreens. It is simply a summer-house, of the kiosk or pavilion pattern, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. Though placed conspicuously on an elevated point, the boat traveller obtains view of it only from a reach of the river above. When opposite he loses sight of it; a spinney of tall poplars drawing curtain-like between him and the higher bank. These stand on an oblong island, which extends several hundred yards down the stream, formed by an old channel, now forsaken. With all its wanderings the Wye is not suddenly capricious; still, in the lapse of long ages it has here and there changed its course, forming _aits_, or _eyots_, of which this is one. The tourist will not likely take the abandoned channel. He is bound and booked for Tintern--possibly Chepstow--and will not be delayed by lesser "lions." Besides, his hired boatmen would not deviate from their terms of charter, without adding an extra to their fare. Were he free, and disposed for exploration, entering this unused water way, he would find it tortuous, with scarce any current, save in times of flood; on one side the eyot, a low marshy flat, thickly overgrown with trees; on the other a continuous cliff, rising forty feet sheer, its _facade_ grim and grey, with flakes of reddish hue, where the frost has detached pieces from the rock--the old red sandstone of Herefordshire. Near its entrance he would catch a glimpse of the kiosk on its crest; and, proceeding onward, will observe the tops of laurels and other exotic evergreens, mingling their glabrous foliage with that of the indigenous holly, ivy, and ferns; these last trailing over the cliff's brow, and wreathing it with fillets of verdure, as if to conceal its frowning corrugations. About midway down the old river's bed he will arrive opposite a little embayment in the high bank, partly natural, but in part quarried out of the cliff--as evinced by a flight of steps, leading up at back, chiselled out of the rock _in situ_. The cove thus contrived is just large enough to give room to a row-boat; and, if not out upon the river, one will be in it, riding upon its painter; this attached to a ring in the red sandstone. It is a light two-oared affair--a pleasure-boat, ornamentally painted, with cushioned thwarts, and tiller ropes of coloured cord athwart its stern, which the tourist will have turned towards him, in gold lettering, "The Gwendoline." Charmed by this Idyllic picture, he may forsake his own craft, and ascend to the top of the stair. If so, he will have before his eyes a lawn of park-like expanse, mottled with clumps of coppice, here and there a grand old tree--oak, elm, or chestnut--standing solitary; at the upper end a shrubbery of glistening evergreens, with gravelled walks, fronting a handsome house; or, in the parlance of the estate agent, a noble mansion. That is Llangorren Court, and there dwells the owner of the pleasure-boat, as also prospective owner of the house, with some two thousand acres of land lying adjacent. The boat bears her baptismal name, the surname being Wynn, while people, in a familiar way, speak of her as "Gwen Wynn;" this on account of her being a lady of proclivities and habits that make her somewhat of a celebrity in the neighbourhood. She not only goes boating, but hunts, drives a pair of spirited horses, presides over the church choir, plays its organ, looks after the poor of the parish--nearly all of it her own, or soon to be--and has a bright smile, with a pleasant word, for everybody. If she be outside, upon the lawn, the tourist, supposing him a gentleman, will withdraw; for across the grounds of Llangorren Court there is no "right of way," and the presence of a stranger upon them would be deemed an intrusion. Nevertheless, he would go back down the boat stair reluctantly, and with a sigh of regret, that good manners do not permit his making the acquaintance of Gwen Wynn without further loss of time, or any ceremony of introduction. But my readers are not thus debarred; and to them I introduce her, as she saunters over this same lawn, on a lovely April morn. She is not alone; another lady, by name Eleanor Lees, being with her. They are nearly of the same age--both turned twenty--but in all other respects unlike, even to contrast, though there is kinship between them. Gwendoline Wynn is tall of form, fully developed; face of radiant brightness, with blue-grey eyes, and hair of that chrome-yellow almost peculiar to the Cymri--said to have made such havoc with the hearts of the Roman soldiers, causing these to deplore the day when recalled home to protect their seven-hilled city from Goths and Visigoths. In personal appearance Eleanor Lees is the reverse of all this; being of dark complexion, brown-haired, black-eyed, with a figure slender and _petite_. Withal she is pretty; but it is only prettiness--a word inapplicable to her kinswoman, who is pronouncedly beautiful. Equally unlike are they in mental characteristics; the first-named being free of speech, courageous, just a trifle fast, and possibly a little imperious. The other of a reserved, timid disposition, and habitually of subdued mien, as befits her station; for in this there is also disparity between them--again a contrast. Both are orphans; but it is an orphanage under widely different circumstances and conditions: the one heiress to an estate worth some ten thousand pounds per annum; the other inheriting nought save an old family name--indeed, left without other means of livelihood, than what she may derive from a superior education she has received. Notwithstanding their inequality of fortune, and the very distant relationship--for they are not even near as cousins--the rich girl behaves towards the poor one as though they were sisters. No one seeing them stroll arm-in-arm through the shrubbery, and hearing them hold converse in familiar, affectionate tones, would suspect the little dark damsel to be the paid "companion" of the lady by her side. Yet in such capacity is she residing at Llangorren Court. It is just after the hour of breakfast, and they have come forth in morning robes of light muslin--dresses suitable to the day and the season. Two handsome ponies are upon the lawn, its herbage dividing their attention with the horns of a pet stag, which now and then threaten to assail them. All three, soon as perceiving the ladies, trot towards them; the ponies stretching out their necks to be patted; the cloven-hoofed creature equally courting caresses. They look especially to Miss Wynn, who is more their mistress. On this particular morning she does not seem in the humour for dallying with them; nor has she brought out their usual allowance of lump sugar; but, after a touch with her delicate fingers, and a kindly exclamation, passes on, leaving them behind, to all appearance disappointed. "Where are you going, Gwen?" asks the companion, seeing her step out straight, and apparently with thoughts preoccupied. Their arms are now disunited, the little incident with the animals having separated them. "To the summer-house," is the response. "I wish to have a look at the river. It should show fine this bright morning." And so it does; as both perceive after entering the pavilion, which commands a view of the valley, with a reach of the river above--the latter, under the sun, glistening like freshly polished silver. Gwen views it through a glass--a binocular she has brought out with her; this of itself proclaiming some purpose aforethought, but not confided to the companion. It is only after she has been long holding it steadily to her eye, that the latter fancies there must be some object within its field of view more interesting than the Wye's water, or the greenery on its banks. "What is it?" she naively asks. "You see something?" "Only a boat," answers Gwen, bringing down the glass with a guilty look, as if conscious of being caught. "Some tourist, I suppose, making down to Tintern Abbey--like as not, a London cockney." The young lady is telling a "white lie." She knows the occupant of that boat is nothing of the kind. From London he may be--she cannot tell-- but certainly no sprig of cockneydom--unlike it as Hyperion to the Satyr; at least so she thinks. But she does not give her thought to the companion; instead, concealing it, she adds,--"How fond those town people are of touring it upon our Wye!" "Can you wonder at that?" asks Ellen. "Its scenery is so grand--I should say, incomparable; nothing equal to it in England." "I don't wonder," says Miss Wynn, replying to the question. "I'm only a little bit vexed seeing them there. It's like the desecration of some sacred stream, leaving scraps of newspapers in which they wrap their sandwiches, with other picnicking debris on its banks! To say nought of one's having to encounter the rude fellows that in these degenerate days go a-rowing--shopboys from the towns, farm labourers, colliers, hauliers, all sorts. I've half a mind to set fire to the _Gwendoline_, burn her up, and never again lay hand on an oar." Ellen Lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder. "It would be a pity," she says, in serio-comic tone. "Besides, the poor people are entitled to a little recreation. They don't have too much of it." "Ah, true," rejoins Gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither Tory nor aristocrat. "Well, I've not yet decided on that little bit of incendiarism, and shan't burn the _Gwendoline_--at all events not till we've had another row out of her." Not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in her life was she less thinking of such a thing. For just then she has other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes' time. "By the way," she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we may as well have that row now--whether it's to be the last or not." Cunning creature! She has had it in her mind all the morning; first from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room, looking up the river's reach, with the binocular at her eye, too, to note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down. For one of its occupants is an angler. "The day's superb," she goes on; "sun's not too hot--gentle breeze--just the weather for a row. And the river looks so inviting--seems calling us to come! What say you, Nell?" "Oh! I've no objections." "Let us in, then, and make ready. Be quick about it! Remember it's April, and there may be showers. We mustn't miss a moment of that sweet sunshine." At this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the lawn, disappear within the dwelling. While the anglers boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of Miss Wynn herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river. She had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. Enough, however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them cockneys. One at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. But he, seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight-- that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. She knows not whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. If at the house of any of the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. She is not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. But she is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. For such she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome face. As the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage, she sets, in haste, to effect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy--for she is now alone:-- "I wonder who, and what he can be? A gentleman, of course. But, then, there are gentlemen, and gentlemen; single ones and--" She has the word "married" on her tongue, but refrains speaking it. Instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection-- "Ah, me! That would be a pity--a dis--" Again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without the words. Standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising-- "If one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him! And were it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, I'd put him up to getting that word. But no! It would never do. He'd tell aunt about it; and then Madame la Chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious things to me--the which I mightn't relish. Well; in six months more the old lady's trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate--at least legally. Then I'll be my own mistress; and then--'twill be time enough to consider whether I ought to have--a master. Ha, ha, ha!" So laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she completes the adjustment of her dress, by setting a hat upon her head, and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while in the boat. In fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the room, and on down the stairway. Volume One, Chapter II. THE HERO. Than Vivian Ryecroft--handsomer man never carried sling-jacket over his shoulder, or sabretasche on his hip. For he is in the Hussars--a captain. He is not on duty now, nor anywhere near the scene of it. His regiment is at Aldershot, himself rusticating in Herefordshire--whither he has come to spend a few weeks' leave of absence. Nor is he, at the time of our meeting him, in the saddle, which he sits so gracefully; but in a row-boat on the river Wye--the same just sighted by Gwen Wynn through the double lens of her lorgnette. No more is he wearing the braided uniform and "busby;" but, instead, attired in a suit of light Cheviots, piscator-cut, with a helmet-shaped cap of quilted cotton on his head, its rounded rim of spotless white in striking, but becoming, contrast with his bronzed complexion and dark military moustache. For Captain Ryecroft is no mere stripling nor beardless youth, but a man turned thirty, browned by exposure to Indian suns, experienced in Indian campaigns, from those of Scinde and the Punjaub to that most memorable of all--the Mutiny. Still is he personally as attractive as he ever was--to women, possibly more; among these causing a flutter, with _rapprochement_ towards him almost instinctive, when and wherever they may meet him. In the present many a bright English lady sighs for him, as in the past many a dark damsel of Hindostan. And without his heaving sigh, or even giving them a thought in return. Not that he is of cold nature, or in any sense austere; instead, warm-hearted, of cheerful disposition, and rather partial to female society. But he is not, and never has been, either man-flirt or frivolous trifler; else he would not be fly-fishing on the Wye--for that is what he is doing there--instead of in London, taking part in the festivities of the "season," by day dawdling in Rotten Row, by night exhibiting himself in opera-box or ball-room. In short, Vivian Ryecroft is one of those rare individuals, to a high degree endowed, physically as mentally, without being aware of it, or appearing so; while to all others it is very perceptible. He has been about a fortnight in the neighbourhood, stopping at the chief hotel of a riverine town much affected by fly-fishermen and tourists. Still, he has made no acquaintance with the resident gentry. He might, if wishing it; which he does not, his purpose upon the Wye not being to seek society, but salmon, or rather the sport of taking it. An ardent disciple of the ancient Izaak, he cares for nought else--at least, in the district where he is for the present sojourning. Such is his mental condition, up to a certain morning; when a change comes over it, sudden as the spring of a salmon at the gaudiest or most tempting of his flies--this brought about by a face, of which he has caught sight by merest accident, and while following his favourite occupation. Thus it has chanced:-- Below the town where he is staying, some four or five miles by the course of the stream, he has discovered one of those places called "catches," where the king of river fish delights to leap at flies, whether natural or artificial--a sport it has oft reason to rue. Several times so, at the end of Captain Ryecroft's line and rod; he having there twice hooked a twenty-pounder, and once a still larger specimen, which turned the scale at thirty. In consequence that portion of the stream has become his choicest angling ground, and at least three days in the week he repairs to it. The row is not much going down, but a good deal returning; five miles up stream, most of it strong adverse current. That, however, is less his affair than his oarsman's--a young waterman by name Wingate, whose boat and services the hussar officer has chartered by the week--indeed, engaged them for so long as he may remain upon the Wye. On the morning in question, dropping down the river to his accustomed whipping-place, but at a somewhat later hour than usual, he meets another boat coming up--a pleasure craft, as shown by its style of outside ornament and inside furniture. Of neither does the salmon fisher take much note; his eyes all occupied with those upon the thwarts. There are three of them, two being ladies seated in the stern sheets, the third an oarsman on a thwart well forward, to make better balance. And to the latter the hussar officer gives but a glance--just to observe that he is a serving-man--wearing some of its insignia in the shape of a cockaded hat, and striped stable-waistcoat. And not much more than a glance at one of the former; but a gaze, concentrated and long as good manners will permit, at the other, who is steering; when she passes beyond sight, her face remaining in his memory, vivid as if still before his eyes. All this at a first encounter; repeated in a second, which occurs on the day succeeding, under similar circumstances, and almost in the selfsame spot; then the face, if possible, seeming fairer, and the impression made by it on Vivian Ryecroft's mind sinking deeper--indeed, promising to be permanent. It is a radiant face, set in a luxuriance of bright amber hair--for it is that of Gwendoline Wynn. On the second occasion he has a better view of her, the boats passing nearer to one another; still, not so near as he could wish, good manners again interfering. For all, he feels well satisfied--especially with the thought, that his own gaze earnestly given, though under such restraint, has been with earnestness returned. Would that his secret admiration of its owner were in like manner reciprocated! Such is his reflective wish as the boats widen the distance between; one labouring slowly up, the other gliding swiftly down. His boatman cannot tell who the lady is, nor where she lives. On the second day he is not asked--the question having been put to him on that preceding. All the added knowledge now obtained is the name of the craft that carries her; which, after passing, the waterman, with face turned towards its stern, makes out to be the _Gwendoline_--just as on his own boat--the _Mary_,--though not in such grand golden letters. It may assist Captain Ryecroft in his inquiries, already contemplated, and he makes note of it. Another night passes; another sun shines over the Wye; and he again drops down stream to his usual place of sport--this day only to draw blank, neither catching salmon, nor seeing hair of amber hue; his reflecting on which is, perchance, a cause of the fish not taking to his flies, cast carelessly. He is not discouraged; but goes again on the day succeeding--that same when his boat is viewed through the binocular. He has already formed a half suspicion that the home of the interesting water nymph is not far from that pagoda-like structure, he has frequently noticed on the right bank of the river. For, just below the outlying eyot is where he has met the pleasure-boat, and the old oarsman looked anything but equal to a long pull up stream. Still, between that and the town are several other gentlemen's residences on the river side, with some standing inland. It may be any of them. But it is not, as Captain Ryecroft now feels sure, at sight of some floating drapery in the pavilion, with two female heads showing over its baluster rail; one of them with tresses glistening in the sunlight, bright as sunbeams themselves. He views it through a telescope--for he, too, has come out provided for distant observation--this confirming his conjectures just in the way he would wish. Now there will be no difficulty in learning who the lady is--for of one only does he care to make inquiry. He would order Wingate to hold way, but does not relish the idea of letting the waterman into his secret; and so, remaining silent, he is soon carried beyond sight of the summer-house, and along the outer edge of the islet, with its curtain of tall trees coming invidiously between. Continuing on to his angling ground, he gives way to reflections--at first of a pleasant nature. Satisfactory to think that she, the subject of them, at least lives in a handsome house; for a glimpse got of its upper storey tells it to be this. That she is in social rank a lady, he has hitherto had no doubt. The pretty pleasure craft and its appendages, with the venerable domestic acting as oarsman, are all proofs of something more than mere respectability--rather evidences of style. Marring these agreeable considerations is the thought, he may not to-day meet the pleasure-boat. It is the hour that, from past experience, he might expect it to be out--for he has so timed his own piscatorial excursion. But, seeing the ladies in the summer-house, he doubts getting nearer sight of them--at least for another twenty-four hours. In all likelihood they have been already on the river, and returned home again. Why did he not start earlier? While thus fretting himself, he catches sight of another boat--of a sort very different from the _Gwendoline_--a heavy barge-like affair, with four men in it; hulking fellows, to whom rowing is evidently a new experience. Notwithstanding this, they do not seem at all frightened at finding themselves upon the water. Instead, they are behaving in a way that shows them either very courageous, or very regardless of a danger-- which, possibly, they are not aware of. At short intervals one or other is seen starting to his feet, and rushing fore or aft--as if on an empty coal-waggon, instead of in a boat--and in such fashion, that were the craft at all crank, it would certainly be upset! On drawing nearer them Captain Ryecroft and his oarsman get the explanation of their seemingly eccentric behaviour--its cause made clear by a black bottle, which one of them is holding in his hand, each of the others brandishing tumbler, or tea cup. They are drinking; and that they have been so occupied for some time is evident by their loud shouts, and grotesque gesturing. "They look an ugly lot!" observes the young waterman, viewing them over his shoulder; for, seated at the oars, his back is towards them. "Coal fellows, from the Forest o' Dean, I take it." Ryecroft, with a cigar between his teeth, dreamily thinking of a boat with people in it so dissimilar, simply signifies assent with a nod. But soon he is roused from his reverie, at hearing an exclamation louder than common, followed by words whose import concerns himself and his companion. These are:-- "Dang it, lads! le's goo in for a bit o' a lark! Yonner be a boat coomin' down wi' two chaps in 't; some o' them spick-span city gents! S'pose we gie 'em a capsize?" "Le's do it! Le's duck 'em!" shouted the others, assentingly; he with the bottle dropping it into the boat's bottom, and laying hold of an oar instead. All act likewise, for it is a four-oared craft that carries them; and in a few seconds' time they are rowing it straight for that of the angler's. With astonishment, and fast gathering indignation, the Hussar officer sees the heavy barge coming bow-on for his light fishing skiff, and is thoroughly sensible of the danger; the waterman becoming aware of it at the same instant of time. "They mean mischief," mutters Wingate; "what'd we best do, Captain? If you like I can keep clear, and shoot the _Mary_ past 'em--easy enough." "Do so," returns the salmon fisher, with the cigar still between his teeth--but now held bitterly tight, almost to biting off the stump. "You can keep on!" he adds, speaking calmly, and with an effort to keep down his temper; "that will be the best way, as things stand now. They look like they'd come up from below; and, if they show any ill manners at meeting, we can call them to account on return. Don't concern yourself about your course. I'll see to the steering. There! hard on the starboard oar!" This last, as the two boats have arrived within less than three lengths of one another. At the same time Ryecroft, drawing tight the port tiller-cord, changes course suddenly, leaving just sufficient sea-way for his oarsman to shave past, and avoid the threatened collision. Which is done the instant after--to the discomfiture of the would-be capsizers. As the skiff glides lightly beyond their reach, dancing over the river swell, as if in triumph and to mock them, they drop their oars, and send after it a chorus of yells, mingled with blasphemous imprecations. In a lull between, the Hussar officer at length takes the cigar from his lips, and calls back to them-- "You ruffians! You shall rue it! Shout on--till you're hoarse. There's a reckoning for you, perhaps sooner than you expect." "Yes, ye damned scoun'rels!" adds the young waterman, himself so enraged as almost to foam at the mouth. "Ye'll have to pay dear for sich a dastartly attemp' to waylay Jack Wingate's boat. That will ye." "Bah!" jeeringly retorts one of the roughs. "To blazes wi' you, an' yer boat!" "Ay, to the blazes wi' ye!" echo the others in drunken chorus; and, while their voices are still reverberating along the adjacent cliffs, the fishing skiff drifts round a bend of the river, bearing its owner and his fare out of their sight, as beyond earshot of their profane speech. Volume One, Chapter III. A CHARON CORRUPTED. The lawn of Llangorren Court, for a time abandoned to the dumb quadrupeds, that had returned to their tranquil pasturing, is again enlivened by the presence of the two young ladies; but so transformed, that they are scarce recognisable as the same late seen upon it. Of course, it is their dresses that have caused the change; Miss Wynn now wearing a pea-jacket of navy blue, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat set coquettishly on her head, its ribbons of azure hue trailing over, and prettily contrasting with the plaits of her chrome-yellow hair, gathered in a grand coil behind. But for the flowing skirt below, she might be mistaken for a young mid, whose cheeks as yet show only the down--one who would "find sweethearts in every port." Miss Lees is less nautically attired; having but slipped over her morning dress a paletot of the ordinary kind, and on her head a plumed hat of the Neapolitan pattern. For all, a costume becoming; especially the brigand-like head gear which sets off her finely-chiselled features, and skin dark as any daughter of the South. They are about starting towards the boat-dock, when a difficulty presents itself--not to Gwen, but the companion. "We have forgotten Joseph!" she exclaims. Joseph is an ancient retainer of the Wynn family, who, in its domestic affairs, plays parts of many kinds--among them the _metier_ of boatman. It is his duty to look after the _Gwendoline_, see that she is snug in her dock, with oars and steering apparatus in order; go out with her when his young mistress takes a row on the river, or ferry any one of the family who has occasion to cross it--the last a need by no means rare, since for miles above and below there is nothing in the shape of bridge. "No, we haven't," rejoins Joseph's mistress, answering the exclamation of the companion. "I remembered him well enough--too well." "Why too well?" asks the other, looking a little puzzled. "Because we don't want him." "But surely, Gwen, you wouldn't think of our going alone." "Surely I would, and do. Why not?" "We've never done so before." "Is that any reason we shouldn't now?" "But Miss Linton will be displeased, if not very angry. Besides, as you know, there may be danger on the river." For a short while Gwen is silent, as if pondering on what the other has said. Not on the suggested danger. She is far from being daunted by that. But Miss Linton is her aunt--as already hinted, her legal guardian till of age--head of the house, and still holding authority, though exercising it in the mildest manner. And just on this account it would not be right to outrage it, nor is Miss Wynn the one to do so. Instead, she prefers a little subterfuge, which is in her mind as she makes rejoinder-- "I suppose we must take him along; though it's very vexatious, and for various reasons." "What are they? May I know them?" "You're welcome. For one, I can pull a boat just as well as he, if not better. And for another, we can't have a word of conversation without his hearing it--which isn't at all nice, besides being inconvenient. As I've reason to know, the old curmudgeon is an incorrigible gossip, and tattles all over the parish, I only wish we'd some one else. What a pity I haven't a brother, to go with us! _But not to-day_." The reserving clause, despite its earnestness, is not spoken aloud. In the aquatic excursion intended, she wants no companion of the male kind--above all, no brother. Nor will she take Joseph; though she signifies her consent to it, by desiring the companion to summon him. As the latter starts off for the stable-yard, where the ferryman is usually to be found, Gwen says, in soliloquy-- "I'll take old Joe as far as the boat stairs; but not a yard beyond. I know what will stay him there--steady as a pointer with a partridge six feet from its nose. By the way, have I got my purse with me?" She plunges her hand into one of her pea-jacket pockets; and, there feeling the thing sought for, is satisfied. By this Miss Lees has got back, bringing with her the versatile Joseph-- a tough old servitor of the respectable family type, who has seen some sixty summers, more or less. After a short colloquy, with some questions as to the condition of the pleasure-boat, its oars, and steering gear, the three proceed in the direction of the dock. Arrived at the bottom of the boat stairs, Joseph's mistress, turning to him, says-- "Joe, old boy, Miss Lees and I are going for a row. But, as the day's fine, and the water smooth as glass, there's no need for our having you along with us. So you can stay here till we return." The venerable retainer is taken aback by the proposal. He has never listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone to river without his being aboard. True, it is no business of his; still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety, he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest. He does so, asking: "But, Miss Gwen; what will your aunt say to it? She mayent like you young ladies to go rowin' by yourselves? Besides, Miss, ye know there be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river. 'Deed some v' the roughest and worst o' blaggarts." "Nonsense, Joseph! The Wye isn't the Niger, where we might expect the fate of poor Mungo Park. Why, man, we'll be as safe on it as upon our own carriage drive, or the little fishpond. As for aunt, she won't say anything, because she won't know. Shan't, can't, unless you peach on us. The which, my amiable Joseph, you'll not do--I'm sure you will not?" "How'm I to help it, Miss Gwen? When you've goed off, some o' the house sarvints'll see me here, an', hows'ever I keep my tongue in check--" "Check it now!" abruptly breaks in the heiress, "and stop palavering, Joe! The house servants won't see you--not one of them. When we're off on the river, you'll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above. And to keep you to your anchorage, here's some shining metal." Saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she notes the effect,-- "Do you think it sufficiently heavy? If not--but never mind now. In our absence you can amuse yourself weighing, and counting the coins. I fancy they'll do." She is sure of it, knowing the man's weakness to be money, as it now proves. Her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist. Despite his solicitude for the welfare of the Wynn family, with his habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the _Gwendoline's_ painter. Stepping into the boat, the other Gwendoline takes the oars, Miss Lees seating herself to steer. "All right! Now, Joe, give us a push off." Joseph, having let all loose, does as directed; which sends the light craft clear out of its dock. Then, standing on the bottom step, with an adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads the silver pieces over his palm-- so that he may see how many--and, after counting and contemplating with pleased expression, slips them into his pocket, muttering to himself-- "I dar say it'll be all right. Miss Gwen's a oner to take care o' herself; an' the old lady neen't a know any thin' about it." To make his last words good, he mounts briskly back up the boat stairs, and ensconces himself in the heart of a thick-leaved laurestinus--to the great discomfort of a pair of missel-thrushes, which have there made nest, and commenced incubation. Volume One, Chapter IV. ON THE RIVER. The fair rower, vigorously bending to the oars, soon brings through the bye-way, and out into the main channel of the river. Once in mid-stream, she suspends her stroke, permitting the boat to drift down with the current; which, for a mile below Llangorren, flows gently through meadow land, but a few feet above its own level, and flush with it in times of flood. On this particular day there is none such--no rain having fallen for a week--and the Wye's water is pure and clear. Smooth, too, as the surface of a mirror; only where, now and then, a light zephyr, playing upon it, stirs up the tiniest of ripples; a swallow dips its scimitar wings; or a salmon in bolder dash causes a purl, with circling eddies, whose wavelets extend wider and wider as they subside. So, with the trace of their boat's keel; the furrow made by it instantly closing up, and the current resuming its tranquillity; while their reflected forms-- too bright to be spoken of as shadows--now fall on one side, now on the other, as the capricious curving of the river makes necessary a change of course. Never went boat down the Wye carrying freight more fair. Both girls are beautiful, though of opposite types, and in a different degree; while with one--Gwendoline Wynn--no water Nymph, or Naiad, could compare; her warm beauty in its real embodiment far excelling any conception of fancy, or flight of the most romantic imagination. She is not thinking of herself now; nor, indeed, does she much at any time--least of all in this wise. She is anything but vain; instead, like Vivian Ryecroft, rather underrates herself. And possibly more than ever this morning; for it is with him her thoughts are occupied-- surmising whether his may be with her, but not in the most sanguine hope. Such a man must have looked on many a form fair as hers, won smiles of many a woman beautiful as she. How can she expect him to have resisted, or that his heart is still whole? While thus conjecturing, she sits half turned on the thwart, with oars out of water, her eyes directed down the river, as though in search of something there. And they are; that something a white helmet hat. She sees it not; and as the last thought has caused her some pain, she lets down the oars with a plunge, and recommences pulling; now, and as in spite, at each dip of the blades breaking her own bright image! During all this while Ellen Lees is otherwise occupied; her attention partly taken up with the steering, but as much given to the shores on each side--to the green pasture-land, of which, at intervals, she has a view, with the white-faced "Herefords" straying over it, or standing grouped in the shade of some spreading trees, forming pastoral pictures worthy the pencil of a Morland or Cuyp. In clumps, or apart, tower up old poplars, through whose leaves, yet but half unfolded, can be seen the rounded burrs of the mistletoe, looking like nests of rooks. Here and there, one overhangs the river's bank, shadowing still deep pools, where the ravenous pike lies in ambush for "salmon pink" and such small fry; while on a bare branch above may be observed another of their persecutors--the kingfisher--its brilliant azure plumage in strong contrast with everything on the earth around, and like a bit of sky fallen from above. At intervals it is seen darting from side to side, or in longer flight following the bend of the stream, and causing scamper among the minnows--itself startled and scared by the intrusion of the boat upon its normally peaceful domain. Miss Lees, who is somewhat of a naturalist, and has been out with the District Field Club on more than one "ladies' day," makes note of all these things. As the _Gwendoline_ glides on, she observes beds of the water ranunculus, whose snow-white corollas, bending to the current, are oft rudely dragged beneath; while on the banks above, their cousins of golden sheen, mingling with the petals of yellow and purple loosestrife--for both grow here--with anemones, and pale, lemon-coloured daffodils--are but kissed, and gently fanned, by the balmy breath of Spring. Easily guiding the craft down the slow-flowing stream, she has a fine opportunity of observing Nature in its unrestrained action--and takes advantage of it. She looks with delighted eye at the freshly-opened flowers, and listens with charmed ear to the warbling of the birds--a chorus, on the Wye, sweet and varied as anywhere on earth. From many a deep-lying dell in the adjacent hills she can hear the song of the thrush, as if endeavouring to outdo, and cause one to forget, the matchless strain of its nocturnal rival, the nightingale; or making music for its own mate, now on the nest, and occupied with the cares of incubation. She hears, too, the bold whistling carol of the blackbird, the trill of the lark soaring aloft, the soft sonorous note of the cuckoo, blending with the harsh scream of the jay, and the laughing cackle of the green woodpecker--the last loud beyond all proportion to the size of the bird, and bearing close resemblance to the cry of an eagle. Strange coincidence besides, in the woodpecker being commonly called "eekol"--a name, on the Wye, pronounced with striking similarity to that of the royal bird! Pondering upon this very theme, Ellen has taken no note of how her companion is employing herself. Nor is Miss Wynn thinking of either flowers, or birds. Only when a large one of the latter--a kite-- shooting out from the summit of a wooded hill, stays awhile soaring overhead, does she give thought to what so interests the other. "A pretty sight!" observes Ellen, as they sit looking up at the sharp, slender wings, and long bifurcated tail, cut clear as a cameo against the cloudless sky. "Isn't it a beautiful creature?" "Beautiful, but bad;" rejoins Gwen, "like many other animated things-- too like, and too many of them. I suppose, it's on the look-out for some innocent victim, and will soon be swooping down at it. Ah, me! it's a wicked world, Nell, with all its sweetness! One creature preying upon another--the strong seeking to devour the weak--these ever needing protection! Is it any wonder we poor women, weakest of all, should wish to--" She stays her interrogatory, and sits in silence, abstractedly toying with the handles of the oars, which she is balancing above water. "Wish to do what?" asked the other. "Get married!" answers the heiress of Llangorren, elevating her arms, and letting the blades fall with a plash, as if to drown a speech so bold; withal, watching its effect upon her companion, as she repeats the question in a changed form. "Is it strange, Ellen?" "I suppose not," Ellen timidly replies; blushingly too, for she knows how nearly the subject concerns herself, and half believes the interrogatory aimed at her. "Not at all strange," she adds, more affirmatively. "Indeed very natural, I should say--that is, for women who _are_ poor and weak, and really need a protector. But you, Gwen-- who are neither one nor the other, but instead rich and strong, have no such need." "I'm not so sure of that. With all my riches and strength--for I am a strong creature; as you see, can row this boat almost as ably as a man,"--she gives a vigorous pull or two, as proof, then continuing, "Yes; and I think I've got great courage too. Yet, would you believe it, Nelly, notwithstanding all, I sometimes have a strange fear upon me?" "Fear of what?" "I can't tell. That's the strangest part of it; for I know of no actual danger. Some sort of vague apprehension that now and then oppresses me--lies on my heart, making it heavy as lead--sad and dark as the shadow of that wicked bird upon the water. Ugh!" she exclaims, taking her eyes off it, as if the sight, suggestive of evil, had brought on one of the fear spells she is speaking of. "If it were a magpie," observes Ellen, laughingly, "you might view it with suspicion. Most people do--even some who deny being superstitious. But a kite--I never heard of that being ominous of evil. No more its shadow; which as you see it there is but a small speck compared with the wide bright surface around. If your future sorrows be only in like proportion to your joys, they won't signify much. See! Both the bird and its shadow are passing away--as will your troubles, if you ever have any." "Passing--perhaps, soon to return. Ha! look there. As I've said!" This, as the kite swoops down upon a wood-quest, and strikes at it with outstretched talons. Missing it, nevertheless; for the strong-winged pigeon, forewarned by the other's shadow, has made a quick double in its flight, and so shunned the deadly clutch. Still, it is not yet safe; its tree covert is far off on the wooded slope, and the tyrant continues the chase. But the hawk has its enemy too, in a gamekeeper with his gun. Suddenly it is seen to suspend the stroke of its wings, and go whirling downward; while a shot rings out on the air, and the cushat, unharmed, flies on for the hill. "Good!" exclaims Gwen, resting the oars across her knees, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "The innocent has escaped!" "And for that _you_ ought to be assured, as well as gratified;" puts in the companion, "taking it as a symbol of yourself, and those imaginary dangers you've been dreaming about." "True," assents Miss Wynn, musingly, "but, as you see, the bird found a protector--just by chance, and in the nick of time." "So will you; without any chance, and at such time as may please you." "Oh!" exclaims Gwen, as if endowed with fresh courage. "I don't want one--not I! I'm strong to stand alone." Another tug at the oars to show it. "No," she continues, speaking between the plunges, "I want no protector--at least not yet--nor for a long while." "But there's one wants you," says the companion, accompanying her words with an interrogative glance. "And soon--soon as he can have you." "Indeed! I suppose you mean Master George Shenstone. Have I hit the nail upon the head?" "You have." "Well; what of him?" "Only that everybody observes his attentions to you." "Everybody is a very busy body. Being so observant, I wonder if this everybody has also observed how I receive them?" "Indeed, yes." "How then?" "With favour. 'Tis said you think highly of him." "And so I do. There are worse men in the world than George Shenstone-- possibly few better. And many a good woman would, and might, be glad to become his wife. For all, I know one of a very indifferent sort who wouldn't--that's Gwen Wynn." "But he's very good-looking?" Ellen urges; "the handsomest gentleman in the neighbourhood. Everybody says so." "There your everybody would be wrong again--if they thought as they say. But they don't. I know one who thinks somebody else much handsomer than he." "Who?" asks Miss Lees, looking puzzled. For she has never heard of Gwendoline having a preference, save that spoken of. "The Reverend William Musgrave," replies Gwen, in turn bending inquisitive eyes on her companion, to whose cheeks the answer has brought a flush of colour, with a spasm of pain at the heart. Is it possible her rich relative--the heiress of Llangorren Court--can have set her eyes upon the poor curate of Llangorren Church, where her own thoughts have been secretly straying? With an effort to conceal them now, as the pain caused her, she rejoins interrogatively, but in faltering tone-- "You think Mr Musgrave handsomer than Mr Shenstone?" "Indeed I don't. Who says I do?" "Oh--I thought," stammers out the other, relieved--too pleased just then to stand up for the superiority of the curate's personal appearance--"I thought you meant it that way." "But I didn't. All I said was, that somebody thinks so; and that isn't I. Shall I tell you who it is?" Ellen's heart is again quiet; she does not need to be told, already divining who it is--herself. "You may as well let me," pursues Gwen, in a bantering way. "Do you suppose, Miss Lees, I haven't penetrated your secret long ago? Why, I knew it last Christmas, when you were assisting his demure reverence to decorate the church! Who could fail to observe that pretty hand play, when you two were twining the ivy around the altar-rail? And the holly, you were both so careless in handling--I wonder it didn't prick your fingers to the bone! Why, Nell, 'twas as plain to me, as if I'd been at it myself. Besides, I've seen the same thing scores of times--so has everybody in the parish. Ha! you see, I'm not the only one with whose name this everybody has been busy; the difference being, that about me they've been mistaken, while concerning yourself they haven't; instead, speaking pretty near the truth. Come, now, confess! Am I not right? Don't have any fear, you can trust me." She does confess; though not in words. Her silence is equally eloquent; drooping eyelids, and blushing cheeks, making that eloquence emphatic. She loves Mr Musgrave. "Enough!" says Gwendoline, taking it in this sense; "and, since you've been candid with me, I'll repay you in the same coin. But mind you; it mustn't go further." "Oh! certainly not," assents the other, in her restored confidence about the curate, willing to promise anything in the world. "As I've said," proceeds Miss Wynn, "there are worse men in the world than George Shenstone, and but few better. Certainly none behind hounds, and I'm told he's the crack shot of the county, and the best billiard player of his club. All accomplishments that have weight with us women--some of us. More still; he's deemed good-looking, and is, as you say; known to be of good family and fortune. For all, he lacks one thing that's wanted by--" She stays her speech till dipping the oars--their splash, simultaneous with, and half-drowning, the words, "Gwen Wynn." "What is it?" asks Ellen, referring to the deficiency thus hinted at. "On my word, I can't tell--for the life of me I cannot. It's something undefinable; which one feels without seeing or being able to explain-- just as ether, or electricity. Possibly it is the last. At all events, it's the thing that makes us women fall in love; as no doubt you've found when your fingers were--were--well, so near being pricked by that holly. Ha, ha, ha!" With a merry peal she once more sets to rowing; and for a time no speech passes between them--the only sounds heard being the songs of the birds, in sweet symphony with the rush of the water along the boat's sides, and the rumbling of the oars in their rowlocks. But for a brief interval is there silence between them; Miss Wynn again breaking it by a startled exclamation:--"See!" "Where? where?" "Up yonder! We've been talking of kites and magpies. Behold, two birds of worse augury than either!" They are passing the mouth of a little influent stream, up which at some distance are seen two men, one of them seated in a small boat, the other standing on the bank, talking down to him. He in the boat is a stout, thick-set fellow in velveteens and coarse fur cap, the one above a spare thin man, habited in a suit of black--of clerical, or rather sacerdotal, cut. Though both are partially screened by the foliage, the little stream running between wooded banks, Miss Wynn has recognised them. So, too, does the companion; who rejoins, as if speaking to herself-- "One's the French priest who has a chapel up the river, on the opposite side; the other's that fellow who's said to be such an incorrigible poacher." "Priest and poacher it is! An oddly-assorted pair; though in a sense not so ill-matched either. I wonder what they're about up there, with their heads so close together. They appeared as if not wishing we should see them! Didn't it strike you so, Nelly?" The men are now out of sight; the boat having passed the rivulet's mouth. "Indeed, yes," answered Miss Lees; "the priest, at all events. He drew back among the bushes on seeing us." "I'm sure his reverence is welcome. I've no desire ever to set eyes on him--quite the contrary." "I often meet him on the roads." "I too--and off them. He seems to be about everywhere skulking and prying into people's affairs. I noticed him, the last day of our hunting, among the rabble--on foot, of course. He was close to my horse, and kept watching me out of his owlish eyes, all the time; so impertinently I could have laid the whip over his shoulders. There's something repulsive about the man; I can't bear the sight of him." "He's said to be a great friend and very intimate associate of your worthy cousin, Mr--" "Don't name _him_, Nell! I'd rather not think, much less talk of him. Almost the last words my father ever spoke--never to let Lewin Murdock cross the threshold of Llangorren. No doubt, he had his reasons. My word! this day with all its sunny brightness seems to abound in dark omens. Birds of prey, priests, and poachers! It's enough to bring on one of my fear fits. I now rather regret leaving Joseph behind. Well; we must make haste, and get home again." "Shall I turn the boat back?" asks the steerer. "No; not just yet. I don't wish to repass those two uncanny creatures. Better leave them awhile, so that on returning we mayn't see them, to disturb the priest's equanimity--more like his conscience." The reason is not exactly as assigned; but Miss Lees, accepting it without suspicion, holds the tiller-cords so as to keep the course on down stream. Volume One, Chapter V. DANGERS AHEAD. For another half mile, or so, the _Gwendoline_ is propelled onward, though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. With thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or gives it unequally--so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and, but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the bank. Observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the river--but without suspicion of what is causing it--Miss Lees at length inquires,-- "What's the matter with you, Gwen?" "Oh, nothing," she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the boat, and once more giving attention to the oars. "But why are you looking so often below? I've noticed you do so at least a score of times." If the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the other's mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know that below there is another boat with a man in it, who possesses that unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom Miss Wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. She has not given all her confidence to the companion. Not receiving immediate answer, Ellen again asks-- "Is there any danger you fear?" "None that I know of--at least, for a long way down. Then there are some rough places." "But you are pulling so unsteadily! It takes all my strength to keep in the middle of the river." "Then you pull, and let me do the steering," returns Miss Wynn, pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart, and leaving the oars in their thole pins. Of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places. But Gwen in the stern behaves no better, than when seated amidships. The boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer. Soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both, for a time engrossing it. They have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great velocity--so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while upward 'twill take stronger arms than theirs. Caught in its current, and rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for awhile they do not think of this. Only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a dilemma--Miss Lees being the first to perceive it. "Gracious goodness!" she exclaims, "what are we to do? We can never row back up this rough water--it runs so strong here!" "That's true," says Gwen, preserving her composure. "I don't think we could." "But what's to be the upshot? Joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie sure to know all--if we shouldn't get back in time." "That's true also," again observes Miss Wynn, assentingly, and with an admirable _sang froid_, which causes surprise to the companion. Then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory phrase of three short words from the lips of Miss Wynn. They are--"I have it!" "What have you?" joyfully asks Ellen. "The way to get back--without much trouble; and without disturbing the arrangements we've made with old Joe--the least bit." "Explain yourself!" "We'll keep on down the river to Rock Weir. There we can leave the boat, and walk across the neck to Llangorren. It isn't over a mile, though it's five times that by the course of the stream. At the Weir we can engage some water fellow to take back the _Gwendoline_ to her moorings. Meanwhile, we'll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get to the boat-dock in good time, and give Joseph the cue to hold his tongue about what's happened. Another half-crown will tie it firm and fast, I know." "I suppose there's no help for it," says the companion, assenting, "and we must do as you say." "Of course, we must. As you see, without thinking of it, we've drifted into a very cascade and are now a long way down it. Only a regular waterman could pull up again. Ah! 'twould take the toughest of them, I should say. So--_nolens volens_--we'll have to go on to Rock Weir, which can't be more than a mile now. You may feather your oars, and float a bit. But, by the way, I must look more carefully to the steering. Now, that I remember, there are some awkward bars and eddies about here, and we can't be far from them. I think they're just below the next bend." So saying, she sets herself square in the stern sheets, and closes her fingers firmly upon the tiller-cords. They glide on, but now in silence; the little flurry, with the prospect of peril ahead, making speech inopportune. Soon they are round the bend spoken of, discovering to their view a fresh reach of the river; when again the steerer becomes neglectful of her duty, the expression upon her features, late a little troubled, suddenly changing to cheerfulness, almost joy. Nor is it that the dangerous places have been passed; they are still ahead, and at some distance below. But there is something else ahead to account for the quick transformation--a row-boat drawn up by the river's edge, with men upon the bank beside. Over Gwen Wynn's countenance comes another change, sudden as before, and as before, its expression reversed. She has mistaken the boat; it is not that of the handsome fisherman! Instead, a four-oared craft, manned by four men, for there is this number on the bank. The anglers skiff had in it only two--himself and his oarsman. But she has no need to count heads, nor scrutinise faces. Those now before her eyes are all strange, and far from well favoured; not any of them in the least like the one which has so prepossessed her. And while making this observation another is forced upon her--that their natural plainness is not improved by what they have been doing, and are still-- drinking. Just as the young ladies make this observation, the four men, hearing oars, face towards them. For a moment there is silence, while they in the _Gwendoline_ are being scanned by the quartette on the shore. Through maudlin eyes, possibly, the fellows mistake them for ordinary country lasses, with whom they may take liberties. Whether or not one cries out-- "Petticoats, by gee--ingo!" "Ay!" exclaims another, "a pair o' them. An' sweet wenches they be, too. Look at she wi' the gooldy hair--bright as the sun itself. Lord, meeats! if we had she down in the pit, that head o' her ud gi'e as much light as a dozen Davy's lamps. An't she a bewty? I'm boun' to have a smack fra them red lips o' hers." "No," protests the first speaker, "she be myen. First spoke soonest sarved. That's Forest law." "Never mind, Rob," rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, "she may be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. I'll lay odds the black 'un beats her at kissin'. Le's get grup o' 'em an' see! Coom on, meeats!" Down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which they scramble, each laying hold of an oar. Up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. The strange men being evidently intoxicated, they might expect--were, indeed, half-prepared for--coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing beyond. Within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary of the Llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is threatening? For that there is danger they are now sensible--becoming convinced of it, as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a better view of them. Impossible to mistake the men--roughs from the Forest of Dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude, even dangerous, when drunk. This known, from many a tale told, many a Petty and Quarter Sessions report read in the county newspapers. But it is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech--part of which the ladies have overheard--as in the action they are taking. They in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of, bars and eddies below. No whirlpool--not Maelstrom itself, could fright them as those four men. For it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than drowning. Withal, Gwendoline Wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of mind. Nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid current. Her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the steep "pitches" of the Herefordshire roads, have given her strength of nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with affright, muttering her fears, she but says-- "Keep quiet, Nell! Don't let them see you're scared. It's not the way to treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us." This counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, Ellen Lees utters a terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words--"Dear Gwen! what shall we do?" "Change places," is the reply, calmly but hurriedly made. "Give me the oars! Quick!" While speaking she has started up from the stern, and is making for 'midships. The other, comprehending, has risen at the same instant, leaving the oars to trail. By this the roughs have shoved off from the bank, and are making for mid-stream, their purpose evident--to intercept the _Gwendoline_. But the other Gwendoline has now got settled to the oars; and pulling with all her might, has still a chance to shoot past them. In a few seconds the boats are but a couple of lengths apart, the heavy craft coming bow-on for the lighter; while the faces of those in her, slewed over their shoulders, show terribly forbidding. A glance tells Gwen Wynn 'twould be idle making appeal to them; nor does she. Still she is not silent. Unable to restrain her indignation, she calls out-- "Keep back, fellows! If you run against us, 'twill go ill for you. Don't suppose you'll escape punishment." "Bah!" responds one, "we an't a-frightened at yer threats--not we. That an't the way wi' us Forest chaps. Besides, we don't mean ye any much harm. Only gi'e us a kiss all round, an' then--maybe, we'll let ye go." "Yes; kisses all round!" cries another. "That's the toll ye're got to pay at our pike; an' a bit o' squeeze by way o' boot." The coarse jest elicits a peal of laughter from the other three. Fortunately for those who are its butt, since it takes the attention of the rowers from their oars, and before they can recover a stroke or two lost--the pleasure-boat glides past them, and goes dancing on, as did the fishing skiff. With a yell of disappointment they bring their boat's head round, and row after; now straining at their oars with all strength. Luckily, they lack skill; which, fortunately for herself, the rower of the pleasure-boat possesses. It stands her in stead now, and, for a time, the _Gwendoline_ leads without losing ground. But the struggle is unequal--four to one--strong men, against a weak woman! Verily is she called on to make good her words, when saying she could row almost as ably as a man. And so does she for a time. Withal it may not avail her. The task is too much for her woman's strength, fast becoming exhausted. While her strokes grow feebler, those of the pursuers seem to get stronger. For they are in earnest now; and, despite the bad management of their boat, it is rapidly gaining on the other. "Pull, meeats!" cries one, the roughest of the gang, and apparently the ringleader, "pull like--hic--hic!"--his drunken tongue refuses the blasphemous word. "If ye lay me 'longside that girl wi' the gooe-- goeeldy hair, I'll stan' someat stiff at the `Kite's Nest' whens we get hic--'ome." "All right, Bob!" is the rejoinder, "we'll do that. Ne'er a fear." The prospect of "someat stiff" at the Forest hostelry inspires them to increase their exertion, and their speed proportionately augmented, no longer leaves a doubt of their being able to come up with the pursued boat. Confident of it they commence jeering the ladies--"wenches" they call them--in speech profane, as repulsive. For these, things look black. They are but a couple of boats' length ahead, and near below is a sharp turn in the river's channel; rounding which they will lose ground, and can scarcely fail to be overtaken. What then? As Gwen Wynn asks herself the question, the anger late flashing in her eyes gives place to a look of keen anxiety. Her glances are sent to right, to left, and again over her shoulder, as they have been all day doing, but now with very different design. Then she was searching for a man, with no further thought than to feast her eyes on him; now she is looking for the same, in hopes he may save her from insult--it may be worse. There is no man in sight--no human being on either side of the river! On the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its ledges. On the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call "Help!" Distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats draw near the bend. Before rounding it she will be in the hands of those horrid men--embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms! The thought re-strengthens her own, giving them the energy of desperation. So inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point. Soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with panting breath she exclaims:-- "We're saved, Nelly! We're saved! Thank Heaven for it!" Nelly does thank Heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved--but without in the least comprehending how! Volume One, Chapter VI. A DUCKING DESERVED. Captain Ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing place--just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast his line across the water; as he does the last, saying-- "I shouldn't wonder, Wingate, if we don't see a salmon to-day. I fear that sky's too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for flies." "Ne'er a doubt the fish'll be a bit shy," returns the boatman; "but," he adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, "'tain't so much the colour o' the sky; more like it's that lot of Foresters has frightened them, with their hulk o' a boat makin' as much noise as a Bristol steamer. Wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow. They han't no business on't; an' in my opinion theer ought to be a law 'gainst it--same's for trespassin' after game." "That would be rather hard lines, Jack. These mining gentry need out-door recreation as much as any other sort of people. Rather more I should say, considering that they're compelled to pass the greater part of their time underground. When they emerge from the bowels of the earth to disport themselves on its surface, it's but natural they should like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature, cannot consistently blame them for. Those we've just met are doubtless out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much drink--in some sense an excuse for their conduct. I don't think it at all strange seeing them on the water." "Their faces han't seed much o' it anyhow," observes the waterman, seeming little satisfied with the Captain's reasoning. "And as for their being out on holiday, if I an't mistook, it be holiday as lasts all the year round. Two o' 'em may be miners--them as got the grimiest faces. As for t'other two, I don't think eyther ever touch't pick or shovel in their lives. I've seed both hangin' about Lydbrook, which be a queery place. Besides, one I've seed 'long wi' a man whose company is enough to gi'e a saint a bad character--that's Coracle Dick. Take my word for't, Captain, there ain't a honest miner 'mong that lot--eyther in the way of iron or coal. If there wor I'd be the last man to go again them havin' their holiday; 'cepting I don't think they ought to take it on the river. Ye see what comes o' sich as they humbuggin' about in a boat?" At the last clause of this speech--its Conservatism due to a certain professional jealousy--the Hussar officer cannot resist smiling. He had half forgiven the rudeness of the revellers--attributing it to intoxication--and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all likelihood would be inconvenient. Now, reflecting on Wingate's words, the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. He says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon than how he can chastise the "damned scoun'rels," as his companion has pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision with them. "Lissen!" exclaims the waterman; "that's them shoutin'! Comin' this way, I take it. What should we do to 'em, Captain?" The salmon fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket-- not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten them. "Yes," goes on Wingate, "they be droppin' down again--sure; I dar' say, they've found the tide a bit too strong for 'em up above. An' I don't wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin' they cud guide a boat 'bout the Wye! Jist like mountin' hogs a-horseback!" At this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may be called on to commence it. Almost instantly after he is called on to take action, though not against the four riotous Foresters, but a silly salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. A purl on the water, with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one. For some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to "fighting" it. The line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance. Absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all likelihood now more inebriated than ever. Not till they have well-nigh finished their "fight," and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn towards the boat--Wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike it. Not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing Ryecroft to stop winding his wheel, and stand listening. Only for an instant. Again the voices of men, but now also heard the cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress! They have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. Almost simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and gestures of those occupying both--in the one pursued two young ladies, in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. At a glance the Hussar officer takes in the situation--the waterman as well. The sight saves a salmon's life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage. Down goes Ryecroft's rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff; as he does so hearing thundered in his ears-- "To yours oars, Jack! Make straight for them! Row with all your might!" Jack Wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. As a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he now sees others submitted to the like. No matter about their being ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than enough at seeing who are the insulters. In ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the _Mary_, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. She is set for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it. As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. His first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. But no. It would not be English. Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. True there will be four against two; but what of it? "I think we can manage them, Jack," he mutters through his teeth, "I'm good for two of them--the biggest and best." "An' I t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them! Ye can trust me takin' care o' 'em, Captin." "I know it. Keep to your oars, till I give the word to drop them." "They don't 'pear to a sighted us yet. Too drunk I take it. Like as not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off." "They shan't have the chance. I intend steering bow dead on to them. Don't fear the result. If the _Mary_ get damaged I'll stand the expense of repairs." "Ne'er a mind 'bout that, Captain. I'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to see the lot chastised--specially that big black fellow as did most o' the talkin'." "You shall see it, and soon!" He lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. When he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _Mary_ is within six lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. Only two of the men are at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head. Both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it alongside. So occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach. They only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before. "Coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is-- addressing Miss Wynn. "'Tain't no use you tryin' to get away. I must ha' my kiss. So drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!" "Insolent fellow!" she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger. "Keep your hands off my boat. I command you!" "But I ain't to be c'mmanded, ye minx. Not till I've had a smack o' them lips; an' by Gad I s'll have it." Saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat's gunwale, while with the other he gets hold of the lady's dress, and commences dragging her towards him. Gwen Wynn neither screams, nor calls "Help!" She knows it is near. "Hands off!" cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued crashing as her gunwale goes in. The roughs, facing round, for the first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there. But they are too far gone in drink to heed or submit--at least their leader seems determined to resist. Turning savagely on Ryecroft, he stammers out-- "Hic--ic--who the blazes be you, Mr White Cap! An' what d'ye want wi' me?" "You'll see." At the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the fellow can raise an arm, those of Ryecroft are around him in tight hug. In another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as though but a feather's weight, and flung overboard. Wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot, and is threatening to serve him the same. A plunge, with a wild cry--the man going down like a stone; another, as he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels himself sinking for the second time! The two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries out-- "Lor' o' mercy! Rob'll be drownded! He can't sweem a stroke." "He's a-drownin' now!" adds the other. It is true. For Rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being in the last throes of suffocation! Ryecroft looks regretful--rather alarmed. In chastising the fellow he had gone too far. He must save him! Quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the bottom of the boat; then himself over its side! A splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the drowning man. Not a moment too soon--just as the latter is going down for the third--likely the last time. With the hand of the officer grasping his collar, he is kept above water. But not yet saved. Both are now imperilled--the rescuer and he he would rescue. For, far from the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being whirled rapidly round! A cry from Gwen Wynn--a cry of real alarm, now--the first she has uttered! But before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed--set to rest again--at sight of still another rescuer. The young waterman has leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers. A few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon has both safe in the skiff. The half-drowned, but wholly frightened, Bob is carried back to his comrades' boat, and dumped in among them; Wingate handling him as though he were but a wet coal sack or piece of old tarpaulin. Then giving the "Forest chaps" a bit of his mind he bids them "be off!" And off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather feeling grateful than aggrieved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading. But not now rowed by its owner; for Captain Ryecroft has hold of the oars. In the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all. What matter? If he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on the Wye! And she has lost nothing--risks nothing now--not even the chiding of her aunt! For now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to keep undisturbed the understanding with Joseph. Volume One, Chapter VII. AN INVETERATE NOVEL READER. While these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, Llangorren Court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house, and there are no noisy children to go romping about. It is thus with Llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is Miss Linton, the aunt and legal guardian already alluded to. But, though presiding over the establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a skilled housekeeper who carries the keys. Kitchen matters are not much to Miss Linton's taste, being a dame of the antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back to Bath and Cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth, she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of flirting, at the Regency balls. No longer able to indulge in such delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _Morning Post_ with a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _Court Journal_, and other distributors of fashionable intelligence. In addition she reads no end of novels, her favourites being those which tell of Cupid in his most romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. Of the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus transgress the moralities. Miss Linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow, any more than the limpid waters of the Wye. Nor has she; but reads on, devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press, and are sent her from the Circulating Library. At nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so occupy herself. Even on this same bright April morn, when all nature rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the warm Spring sun, Dorothea Linton is seated in a shady corner of the drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a certain Lord Lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his tenant-farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much likelihood of succeeding. If he fail, it will not be for want of will on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. He will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book. Just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give way, Miss Linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress. To her command "Come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in hand, on which is a card. She is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads-- "Reverend William Musgrave." Only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's daughter. It is fortunate for his Reverence, that before entering within the room another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. Indeed the second caller is shown in first; for, although George Shenstone rung the front door bell after Mr Musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is no domestic of Llangorren but knows the difference between a rich baronet's son and a poor parish curate; as which should have precedence. To this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the Reverend William is now indebted more than he is aware. It has saved him from an outburst of Miss Linton's rather tart temper, which, under the circumstances, otherwise he would have caught. For it so chances that the son of Sir George Shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady of Llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries of Lord Lutestring. Not that the young country gentleman has anything in common with the titled Lothario, who is habitually a dweller in cities. Instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved. There is nothing odd in his calling at that early hour. Sir George is an old friend of the Wynn family--was an intimate associate of Gwen's deceased father--and both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at Llangorren Court _sans ceremonie_. No more is Mr Musgrave's matutinal visit out of order. Though but the curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have become almost a myth to it. For this reason his vicarial representative can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "The Court." There is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor to Miss Linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful Lutestring. It even takes all her partiality for Mr Shenstone to remove its spell, and get him vouchsafed friendly reception. "Miss Linton," he says, speaking first, "I've just dropped in to ask if the young ladies would go for a ride. The day's so fine, I thought they might like to." "Ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing herself from rising. "Yes; no doubt they would like it very much." Mr Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who neither rides nor has a horse. And less Shenstone himself--indeed both--as the lady proceeds. They have been listening, with ears all alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. Instead, they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing. "Nay, I am sure," continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, "they would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--" "But why can't they?" asked Shenstone, impatiently interrupting. "Because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing." "Indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating: "On the river?" "Certainly!" answers the lady, looking surprised. "Why, George; where else could they go rowing! You don't suppose they've brought the boat up to the fishpond!" "Oh, no," he stammers out. "I beg pardon. How very stupid of me to ask such a question. I was only wondering why Miss Gwen--that is, I am a little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask another question?" "Why should I? What is it?" "Only whether--whether she--Miss Gwen, I mean--said anything about riding to-day?" "Not a word--at least not to me." "How long since they went off--may I know, Miss Linton?" "Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast. I wasn't down myself--as I've told you, not feeling very well this morning. But Gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and I presume they went direct to the river." "Do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates Shenstone. "I should hope not," returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. "There's no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me." This with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at Llangorren. "Surely, they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr Shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry. "Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?" "I should say not. More like they'll be hungry, and that will bring them home. What's the hour now? I've been reading a very interesting book, and quite forgot myself. Is it possible?" she exclaims, looking at the ormolu dial on the mantelshelf. "Ten minutes to one! How time does fly, to be sure! I couldn't have believed it near so late--almost luncheon time! Of course you'll stay, gentlemen? As for the girls, if they're not back in time they'll have to go without. Punctuality is the rule of this house--always will be with me. I shan't wait one minute for them." "But, Miss Linton; they may have returned from the river, and are now somewhere about the grounds. Shall I run down to the boat-dock and see?" It is Mr Shenstone who thus interrogates. "If you like--by all means. I shall be too thankful. Shame of Gwen to give us so much trouble! She knows our luncheon hour, and should have been back by this. Thanks, much, Mr Shenstone." As he is bounding off, she calls after--"Don't you be staying too, else you shan't have a pick. Mr Musgrave and I won't wait for any of you. Shall we, Mr Musgrave?" Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. A luncheon for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. Not from any rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in different orbits, with no danger of collision. Simply that he dislikes leaving Miss Linton alone--indeed, dare not. She may be expecting the usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her. He is mistaken. On this particular day it is not desired. Out of courtesy to Mr Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it. She is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter! Volume One, Chapter VIII. A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER. While Mr Musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters, George Shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a mood of mind even less enviable than hers. For he has looked down into the dock, and there sees no Gwendoline--neither boat nor lady--nor is there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it. No sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear--no dipping of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft voices of women. Instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther off, the _hiccol_, laughing, as if in mockery--and at him! Mocking his impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! That it is so his soliloquy tells: "Odd her being out on the river! She promised me to go riding to-day. Very odd indeed! Gwen isn't the same she was--acting strange altogether for the last three or four days. Wonder what it means! By Jove, I can't comprehend it!" His noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over his brow, and there staying. It is not unobserved. Through the leaves of the evergreen Joseph notes the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way--not far from the right one. The old servant soliloquising in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks-- "Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen. The country folk are all talkin' o't; thinkin' she's same on him, as if they knew anything about it. I knows better. An' he ain't no ways confident, else there wouldn't be that queery look on's face. It's the token o' jealousy for sure. I don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar. Ah! it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be. He as love her might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her hair!" Joseph is a Welshman of Bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. He continues-- "I know what's took her on the river, if he don't. Yes--yes, my young lady! Ye thought yerself wonderful clever leavin' old Joe behind, tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid! And d'y 'spose I didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon fisher--sly, but for all that, hot as streaks o' fire? And d'ye think I didn't see Mr Whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself. Oh, no; I noticed nothin' o' all that, not I? 'Twarn't meant for me-- not for Joe--ha, ha!" With a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so _apropos_, he once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher, proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain: "Poor young gentleman! I do pity he to be sure. He are a good sort, an' everybody likes him. So do she, but not the way he want her to. Well; things o' that kind allers do go contrary wise--never seem to run smooth like. I'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't. In such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches be made--that's Heaven. Ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter! What's cheerin' him? The boat coming back? I can't see it from here, nor I don't hear any rattle o' oars!" The change he notes in George Shenstone's manner is not caused by the returning pleasure craft. Simply a reflection which crossing his mind, for the moment tranquillises him. "What a stupid I am!" he mutters self-accusingly. "Now I remember, there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and I suppose she understood in the afternoon. It was so the last time we went out together. By Jove! yes. It's all right, I take it; she'll be back in good time yet." Thus reassured he remains listening. Still more satisfied, when a dull thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in their rowlocks. Were he learned in boating tactics he would know there are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the _Gwendoline_ carries only one. But he is not so skilled--instead, rather averse to aquatics--his chosen home the hunting field, his favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart. It is only when the plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where but one belongs! Alone at that leading boat does he look; with eyes in which, as he continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something like displeasure. The boat he has recognised at the first glance--the _Gwendoline_--as also the two ladies in the stern. But there is also a man on the mid thwart plying the oars. "Who the deuce is he?" Thus to himself George Shenstone puts it. Not old Joe, not the least like him. Nor is it the family Charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that following. Instead, Joseph is now by Mr Shenstone's side, passing him in haste--making to go down the boat stairs! "What's the meaning of all this, Joe?" asks the young man, in stark astonishment. "Meanin' o' what, sir?" returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed innocence. "Be there anythin' amiss?" "Oh, nothing," stammers Shenstone. "Only I supposed you were out with the young ladies. How is it you haven't gone?" "Well, sir, Miss Gwen didn't wish it. The day bein' fine, an' nothing o' flood in the river, she sayed she'd do the rowin' herself." "She hasn't been doing it for all that," mutters Shenstone to himself, as Joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, "Who the deuce is he?" the interrogation as before, referring to him who rows the pleasure-boat. By this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, George Shenstone overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit, but excites him still more--almost to madness. It is Miss Wynn who has commenced it, saying. "You'll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?" This to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the servant. "Oh, thank you!" he returns. "I would, with pleasure; but, as you see, I'm not quite presentable just now--anything but fit for a drawing-room. So I beg you'll excuse me to-day." His saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the top of the stair; who, hearkening further, hears other speeches which, while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging through his soul. Unseen himself--for he has stepped behind the tree lately screening Joseph--he sees Gwen Wynn hold out her hand to be pressed in parting salute--hears her address the stranger in words of gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him! Then the latter leaps out of the pleasure-boat into the other brought alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman; while the ladies ascend the stair--Gwen, lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the eyot, can no more be seen. All this George Shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the blood in chill creep through his veins. Though still puzzled by the wet garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that other enigma, unexplained as painful--the strangeness he has of late observed in the ways of Miss Wynn. Nor is he far out in his fancy, bitter though it be. Not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become aware of his being there; and not then, till Gwen has made some observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the stranger, unfortunately for himself, George Shenstone overhears. "We'll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn't know anything of what's delayed us--at least, not just now. True, if the like had happened to herself--say some thirty or forty years ago--she'd want all the world to hear of it, particularly that portion of the world yclept Cheltenham. The dear old lady! Ha, ha!" After a laugh, continuing: "But, speaking seriously, Nell, I don't wish any one to be the wiser about our bit of an escapade--least of all, a certain young gentleman, whose Christian name begins with a G, and surname with an S." "Those initials answer for mine," says George Shenstone, coming forward and confronting her. "If your observation was meant for me, Miss Wynn, I can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of it." At his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, Gwen Wynn had given a start--feeling guilty, and looking it. Soon, however, reflecting whence he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder. "Ah! you've been overhearing us, Mr Shenstone! Bad luck, you call it. Bad or good, I don't think you are justified in attributing it to chance. When a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady bush, like that laurustinus, for instance, and there stands listening-- intentionally--" Suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too--this on observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly home. With bowed head the baronet's son is stooping towards her, the cloud on his brow telling of sadness--not anger. Seeing it, the old tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:-- "Come, George! there must be no quarrel between you and me. What you've just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to hear. Miss Lees and I have had a little bit of an adventure; and if you'll promise it shan't go further, we'll make you acquainted with it." Addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise--gladly, too. The confidence so offered seems favourable to himself. But, looking for explanation on the instant, he is disappointed. Asking for it, it is denied him, with reason assigned thus: "You forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry as a pair of kingfishers--hawks, I suppose, you'd say, being a game preserver. Never mind about the simile. Let us in to luncheon, if not too late." She steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following, Shenstone behind both. However hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than he. All Gwen's cajoling has not tranquillised his spirit, nor driven out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and white helmet hat. Volume One, Chapter IX. JEALOUS ALREADY. Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too--given to Gwendoline Wynn. He now knows the name of the yellow haired Naiad--for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream. Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. He feels that his fate is sealed--or no longer in his hands, but hers. As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,--reviewing them in the order of their occurrence. Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. Helped as by Heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments. Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! If so, a little service on the Wye goes a long way. Thus reflects he, in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. How different the value put upon it by Gwen Wynn! Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. If he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. Some are dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across the sun's disc. One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above--no vague imagining--but a thing of shape and form--the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man's face, and noting that he was young, and rather handsome. Already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. A gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn. Strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting, seemed to speak of something amiss! What could it mean! Captain Ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the selfsame formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject:--"Who the deuce can _he_ be?" Out upon the river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on:-- "Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! Can't be a brother? I understood her to say she had none. Does he live at Llangorren? No. She said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative--only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. But who the deuce is the gentleman? Might _he_ be a cousin?" So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman, saying: "Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?" "Only the head and shoulders o' one, captain." "Head and shoulders; that's enough. Do you chance to know him?" "I ain't thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr Shenstone." "Who is Mr Shenstone?" "The son o' Sir George." "Sir George! What do you know of _him_?" "Not much to speak of--only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below." The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. It is the _torso_ of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. In truth, a formidable rival! So he reflects, smoking away like mad. After a time, he again observes:--"You've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little trouble?" "Parsonally, I don't, captain. But, now as I see where they live, I know who they be. I've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them--a good deal." The biggest of them! As if she were a salmon! In the boatman's eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation! Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:--"What have you heard of her?" "That she be a _tidy_ young lady. Wonderful fond o' field sport, such as hunting and that like. Fr' all, I may say that up to this day, I never set eyes on her afore." The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of "tidy"--synonymous with "well-behaved." That Miss Wynn is fond of field sports--flood pastimes included--he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river. One thing strikes him as strange--that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. He seeks an explanation:-- "How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know all about these people?" He is unaware that Wingate, though born on the Wye's banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters--his birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon. Still, that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,-- "Lord love ye, sir! That shows how little you understand this river. Why, captain; it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the other than if they wor ten. It comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far between. There's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em more'n they can help; 'specially women--seein' there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's a-flood. That's frequent, summer well as winter." The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house--a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house--struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings. "Whose is it, Jack?" he asks. "B'longs to a man, name o' Murdock." "Odd-looking domicile!" "'Ta'nt a bit more that way than he be--if half what they say 'bout him be true." "Ah! Mr Murdock's a character, then?" "Ay; an' a queery one." "In what respect? what way?" "More'n one--a goodish many." "Specify, Jack?" "Well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time." "Addicted to dipsomania?" "'Dicted to getting dead drunk. I've seen him so, scores o' 'casions." "That's not wise of Mr Murdock." "No, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin' the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'." "Where may that be?" "The Welsh Harp--up at Rogue's Ferry." "Rogue's Ferry? Strange appellation! What sort of place is it? Not very nice, I should say--if the name be at all appropriate." "It's parfitly 'propriate, though I b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed. It got so called after a man the name o' Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh Harp and the ferry too. It's about two mile above, a little ways back. Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about, wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop--one as deals trackways, an' a'nt partickler as to what they take in change--stolen goods welcome as any-- ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth. They got plenty o' them, too. The place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that--a good many as have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary." "Why, Wingate, you astonish me! I was under the impression your Wyeside was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity." "You won't meet much o' either at Rogue's Ferry. If there be an uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there. Them Forest chaps we came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink made them behave as they did--some o' 'em. But drink or no drink it be all the same wi' the Ferry people--maybe worse when they're sober. Any ways they're a rough lot." "With a place of worship in their midst! That ought to do something towards refining them." "Ought; and would, I dare say, if 'twar the right sort--which it a'nt. Instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em--being Roman." "Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?" "By makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever black they be. Men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of crime--'specialty if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls absolution." "Well, Jack; it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the Pope." "Neyther o' Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o' the Rogue's Ferry Chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the whole kit o' them." "What is there specially repulsive about him?" "Don't know as there be any thin' very special, in partickler. Them priests all look bout the same--such o' 'em as I've ever set eyes on. And that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into another. As for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an' everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him. If ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of Rogue's Ferry." "_No_?" he adds, correcting himself. "There be one other in these parts worse than he--if that's possible. A different sort o' man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither." "Who is this other?" "Dick Dempsey--better known by the name of Coracle Dick." "Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask? What sort of fellow is he?" "The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o' Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o' poachers an' night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin' beside salmon. 'Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know." The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying:-- "We've strayed from our subject, Jack--which was the hard drinking owner of yonder house." "Not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so much as his Missus." "Murdock is married, then?" "I won't say that--leastwise I shouldn't like to swear it. All I know is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife. Odd thing she." "Why odd?" "'Cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here." "Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs Murdock differ from the rest of your Herefordshire fair?" "One way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all. 'Stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o' them women I've seed 'bout Cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from India--_ayers_ they call 'em. She a'nt one o' 'em, but French, I've heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness 'tween her an' the priest--he bein' the same." "Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?" "All o' that, captain. If he wor English, he wouldn't--couldn't--be the contemptible sneakin' hound he is. As for Mrs Murdock, I can't say I've seed her more'n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes nowhere; an' it's said nobody visits her nor him--leastwise none o' the old gentry. For all Mr Murdock belongs to the best of them." "He's a gentleman, is he?" "Ought to be--if he took after his father." "Why so?" "Because he wor a squire--regular of the old sort. He's not been so long dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn't been here such a many years--the old lady too--this Murdock's mother. Ah! now I think on't, she wor t'other squire's sister--father to the tallest o' them two young ladies--the one with the reddish hair." "What! Miss Wynn?" "Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen." Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for reflection--not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month--it may be throughout the remainder of his life. Volume One, Chapter X. THE CUCKOO'S GLEN. About a mile above Llangorren Court, but on the opposite side of the Wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of Captain Ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as "Glyngog"--Cymric synonym for "Cuckoo's Glen." Not immediately on the water's edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet. Glyngog House is one of those habitations, common in the county of Hereford as other western shires--puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman's residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. This from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard--a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes. About Glyngog House, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the Elizabethan period--in short that termed Tudor. For its own walls are not altogether stone; instead a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. Of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the Wye--their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking. About this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. Many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for Glyngog was once a Manor-house. Now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the _enceinte_ walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse. For all, the house is not uninhabited. Three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys. Few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. The traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. It can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of overgrowing thorns and trailing brambles. Notwithstanding these disadvantages, Glyngog has something to recommend it--a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of England. He who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather aesthetic, than utilitarian. For the land attached and belonging--some fifty or sixty acres--is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. But the view is superb. Below, the Wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a chain of detached lakes--till sweeping past the Cuckoo's Glen, it runs on in straight reach towards Llangorren. Eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be, interesting in life. Peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys; farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of old homestead trees--now in full leaf, for it is the month of June--here and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy facade of a gentleman's mansion--in the distant background, the dark blue mountains of Monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the Blorenge, Skerrid, and Sugar Loaf. The man who could look on such a picture, without drawing from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world, if not weary of it. And yet just such a man is now viewing it from Glyngog House, or rather the bit of shrubbery ground in front. He is seated on a rustic bench partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for a small japanned tray, on which are tumbler, bottle and jug--the two last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an admixture of both. He is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass. The personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind. Like all these, he looks dilapidated. Not only is his apparel out of repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, with crows' feet ramifying around them. This due not, as with the surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty. Nor yet any of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to drink. Some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead, with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause. And it is. Lewin Murdock--such is the man's name--has led a dissipated life. Not much of it in England; still less in Herefordshire; and only its earlier years in the house he now inhabits--his paternal home. Since boyhood he has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows whither--often seen, however, at Baden, Homburg, and other "hells," punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him. At a later period in Paris, during the Imperial _regime_--worst hell of all. It has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek asylum at Glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a _pied a terre_, on which he may only set his foot, with a mortgage around his neck. For even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent goes not to him. He is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care. The farmer's sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at will; give Lewin Murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and water, and he but laughs. Not that he is of a jovial disposition, not at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to cupidity. For all, land does this--the very thing. No limited tract; but one of many acres in extent--even miles--the land of Llangorren. It is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded. On the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape; in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the "Grange," or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same belonging--as they are. A smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes of Lewin Murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside the door. And the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow on his brow! Not much of an enigma either. That land of Llangorren belonged to his grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin-- Gwendoline Wynn. Were she not, it would be his. Between him and it runs the Wye, a broad deep river. But what its width or depth, compared with that other something between? A barrier stronger and more impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread. For it is but _the thread of a life_. Should it snap, or get accidentally severed, Lewin Murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim himself master of Llangorren, and take possession. He would scarce he human not to think of all this. And being human he does--has thought of it oft, and many a time. With feelings too, beyond the mere prompting of cupidity. These due to a legend handed down to him, telling of an unfair disposal of the Llangorren property; but a pittance given to his mother who married Murdock of Glyngog; while the bulk went to her brother, the father of Gwen Wynn. All matters of testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the grandfather towards the Murdock branch being a clause entitling them to possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out. And of these but one is living--the heroine of our tale. "Only she--but she!" mutters Lewin Murdock, in a tone of such bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass. Volume One, Chapter XI. A WEED BY THE WYESIDE. "Only she--but she!" he repeats, grasping the bottle by the neck, and pouring more brandy into the tumbler. Though speaking _sotto voce_, and not supposing himself overheard, he is, nevertheless--by a woman, who, coming forth from the house, has stepped silently behind him, there pausing. Odd-looking apparition she, seen upon the Wyeside; altogether unlike a native of it, but altogether like one born upon the banks of the Seine, and brought up to tread the Boulevards of Paris--like the latter from the crown of her head to the soles of her high-heeled boots, on whose toes she stands poised and balancing. In front of that ancient English manor-house, she seems grotesquely out of place--as much as a costermonger driving his moke-drawn cart among the Pyramids, or smoking a "Pickwick" by the side of the Sphinx. For all there is nothing mysterious, or even strange in her presence there. She is Lewin Murdoch's wife. If he has left his fortune in foreign lands, with the better part of his life and health, he has thence brought her, his better-half. Physically a fine-looking woman, despite some ravages due to time, and possibly more to crime. Tall and dark as the daughters of the Latinic race, with features beautiful in the past--even still attractive to those not repelled by the beguiling glances of sin. Such were hers, first given to him in a _cafe chantant_ of the Tuileries--oft afterwards repeated in _jardin, bois_, and _bals_ of the demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the Eglise La Madeleine. Busied with his brandy, and again gazing at Llangorren, he has not yet seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an exclamation:-- "_Eh, bien_?" He starts at the interrogatory, turning round. "You think too loud, Monsieur--that is if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself. And you might--seeing that it's a love secret! May I ask who is this _she_ you're soliloquising about? Some of your old English _bonnes amies_, I suppose?" This, with an air of affected jealousy, she is far from feeling. In the heart of the _ex-cocotte_ there is no place for such a sentiment. "Got nothing to do with _bonnes amies_, young or old," he gruffly replies. "Just now I've got something else to think of than sweethearts. Enough occupation for my thoughts in the how I'm to support a wife--yourself, madame." "It wasn't me you meant. No, indeed. Some other, in whom you appear to feel a very profound interest." "There, you're right, it was one other, in whom I feel all that." "_Merci, Monsieur! Ma foi_! your candour deserves all thanks. Perhaps you'll extend it, and favour me with the lady's name? A lady, I presume. The grand Seigneur Lewin Murdock would not be giving his thoughts to less." Ignorance pretended. She knows, or surmises, to whom he has been giving them. For she has been watching him from a window, and observed the direction of his glances. And she has more than a suspicion as to the nature of his reflections; since she is well aware as he of that something besides a river separating them from Llangorren. "Her name?" she again asks, in tone of more demand, her eyes bent searchingly on his. Avoiding her glance, he still pulls away at his pipe, without making answer. "It is a love secret, then? I thought so. It's cruel of you, Lewin! This is the return for giving you--all I had to give!" She may well speak hesitatingly, and hint at a limited sacrifice. Only her hand; and it more than tenderly pressed by scores--ay hundreds--of others, before being bestowed upon him. No false pretence, however, on her part. He knew all that, or should have known it. How could he help? Olympe, the belle of the Jardin Mabille, was no obscurity in the _demi-monde_ of Paris--even in its days of glory under Napoleon le Petite. Her reproach is also a pretence, though possibly with some sting felt. She is drawing on to that term of life termed _passe_, and begins to feel conscious of it. He may be the same. Not that for his opinion she cares a straw--save in a certain sense, and for reasons altogether independent of slighted affection--the very purpose she is now working upon, and for which she needs to hold over him the power she has hitherto had. And well knows she how to retain it, rekindling love's fire when it seems in danger of dying out, either through appeal to his pity, or exciting his jealousy, which she can adroitly do, by her artful French ways and dark flashing eyes. As he looks in them now, the old flame flickers up, and he feels almost as much her slave as when he first became her husband. For all he does not show it. This day he is out of sorts with himself, and her and all the world besides; so instead of reciprocating her sham tenderness--as if knowing it such--he takes another swallow of brandy, and smokes on in silence. Now really incensed, or seeming so, she exclaims:-- "_Perfide_!" adding with a disdainful toss of the head, such as only the dames of the _demi-monde_ know how to give, "Keep your secret! What care I?" Then changing tone, "_Mon Dieu_! France--dear France! Why did I ever leave you?" "Because your dear France became too dear to live in." "Clever _double entendre_! No doubt you think it witty! Dear, or not, better a garret there--a room in its humblest _entresol_ than this. I'd rather serve in a cigar shop--keep a _gargot_ in the Faubourg Montmartre--than lead such a _triste_ life as we're now doing. Living in this wretched kennel of a house, that threatens to tumble on our heads!" "How would you like to live in that over yonder?" He nods towards Llangorren Court. "You are merry, Monsieur. But your jests are out of place--in presence of the misery around us." "You may some day," he goes on, without heeding her observation. "Yes; when the sky falls we may catch larks. You seem to forget that Mademoiselle Wynn is younger than either of us, and by the natural laws of life will outlive both. Must, unless she break her neck in the hunting field, get drowned out of a boat, or meet _some other mischance_." She pronounces the last three words slowly and with marked emphasis, pausing after she has spoken them, and looking fixedly in his face, as if to note their effect. Taking the meerschaum from his mouth, he returns her look--almost shuddering as his eyes meet hers, and he reads in them a glance such as might have been given by Messalina, or the murderess of Duncan. Hardened as his conscience has become through a long career of sin, it is yet tender in comparison with hers. And he knows it, knowing her history, or enough of it--her nature as well--to make him think her capable of anything, even the crime her speech seems to point to-- neither more nor less than-- He dares not think, let alone pronounce, the word. He is not yet up to that; though day by day, as his desperate fortunes press upon him, his thoughts are being familiarised with something akin to it--a dread, dark design, still vague, but needing not much to assume shape, and tempt to execution. And that the tempter is by his side he is more than half conscious. It is not the first time for him to listen to fell speech from those fair lips. To-day he would rather shun allusion to a subject so grave, yet so delicate. He has spent part of the preceding night at the Welsh Harp-- the tavern spoken of by Wingate--and his nerves are unstrung, yet not recovered from the revelry. Instead of asking her what she means by "some other mischance," he but remarks, with an air of careless indifference,-- "True, Olympe; unless something of that sort were to happen, there seems no help for us but to resign ourselves to patience, and live on expectations." "Starve on them, you mean?" This in a tone, and with a shrug, which seem to convey reproach for its weakness. "Well, _cherie_;" he rejoins, "we can at least feast our eyes on the source whence our fine fortunes are to come. And a pretty sight it is, isn't it? _Un coup d'oeil charmant_!" He again turns his eyes upon Llangorren, as also she, and for some time both are silent. Attractive at any time, the Court is unusually so on this same summer's day. For the sun, lighting up the verdant lawn, also shines upon a large white tent there erected--a marquee--from whose ribbed roof projects a signal staff, with flag floating at its peak. They have had no direct information of what all this is for--since to Lewin Murdock and his wife the society of Herefordshire is tabooed. But they can guess from the symbols that it is to be a garden party, or something of the sort, there often given. While they are still gazing its special kind is declared, by figures appearing upon the lawn and taking stand in groups before the tent. There are ladies gaily attired--in the distance looking like bright butterflies--some dressed _a la Diane_, with bows in hand, and quivers slung by their sides, the feathered shafts showing over their shoulders; a proportionate number of gentlemen attendant; while liveried servants stride to and fro erecting the ringed targets. Murdock himself cares little for such things. He has had his surfeit of fashionable life; not only sipped its sweets, but drank its dregs of bitterness. He regards Llangorren with something in his mind more substantial than its sports and pastimes. With different thoughts looks the Parisian upon them--in her heart a chagrin only known to those whose zest for the world's pleasure is of keenest edge, yet checked and baffled from indulgence--ambitions uncontrollable, but never to be attained. As Satan gazed back when hurled out of the Garden of Eden, so she at that scene upon the lawn of Llangorren. No _jardin_ of Paris--not the Bois itself--ever seemed to her so attractive as those grounds, with that aristocratic gathering--a heaven none of her kind can enter, and but few of her country. After long regarding it with envy in her eyes, and spleen in her soul-- tantalised, almost to torture--she faces towards her husband, saying-- "And you've told me, between all that and us, there's but one life--" "Two!" interrupts a voice--not his. Both turning, startled, behold--_Father Rogier_! Volume One, Chapter XII. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING. Father Rogier is a French priest of a type too well known over all the world--the Jesuitical. Spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks Loyola from head to heel. He himself looks no one straight in the face. Confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. And but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep's clothing--rather suggesting it. And in truth is he one; a very Pharisee--Inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret Council over an _Auto da Fe_. What is such a man doing in Herefordshire? What, in Protestant England? Time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. As for instance, when our popular Queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that "no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions," even forbidding them their distinctive dress. Then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal. All that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept--to all appearance forgotten! Now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land--threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff King Hal. No one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk--no matter in what part of England, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon Wyeside. Father Rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere--to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. The same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man's presence upon it. The same craft as the rain maker of South Africa, or the medicine man of the North American Indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilisation, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. Through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault. _Pere_ Rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the propagandist game with some success since his settling in Herefordshire. He has not been quite three years resident on Wyeside, and yet has contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded Marthas and Marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug dwelling-house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest. True, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor. But the Peter's pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious partisanship, can exact. Fear of the Devil, and love of him, are like effective in drawing contributions to the box of the Rugg's Ferry chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest. And if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be genteel--the Murdocks. With the man no false assumption either; neither does he assume, or value it. Different the woman. Born in the Faubourg Montmartre, her father a common _ouvrier_, her mother a _blanchisseuse_--herself a beautiful girl--Olympe Renault soon found her way into a more fashionable quarter. The same ambition made her Lewin Murdock's wife, and has brought her on to England. For she did not many him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking. That was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her heart he never had. That the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from the word he has respondingly pronounced. With step, silent and cat-like--his usual mode of progression--he has come upon them unawares, neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice. On hearing it, and seeing who, Murdock rises to his feet, as he does so saluting. Notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return to him. Besides, born and brought up Roman Catholic, he has that respect for his priest, habitual to a proverb--would have, even if knowing the latter to be the veriest Pharisee that ever wore single-breasted black-coat. Salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit upon, Murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable, asking: "What do you mean, Father Rogier, by `two'?" "What I've said, M'sieu; that there are two between you and that over yonder, or soon will be--in time perhaps ten. A fair paysage it is!" he continues, looking across the river; "a very vale of Tempe, or Garden of the Hesperides. _Parbleu_! I never believed your England so beautiful. Ah! what's going on at Llangorren?" This as his eyes rest upon the tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures. "A _fete champetre_: Mademoiselle making, merry! In honour of the anticipated change, no doubt." "Still I don't comprehend," says Murdock, looking puzzled. "You speak in riddles, Father Rogier." "Riddles easily read, M'sieu. Of this particular one you'll find the interpretation there." This, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of Mrs Murdock's left hand, put upon it by Murdock himself on the day he became her husband. He now comprehends--his quick-witted wife sooner. "Ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "Mademoiselle to be married?" The priest gives an assenting nod. "That's news to me," mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death. "_Moi aussi_! Who, _Pere_? Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?" The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn--if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections! "No," answers the priest. "Not he." "Who then?" asked the two simultaneously. "A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren--widen the breach between you and it--ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged." "_Pere Rogier_!" appeals Murdock, "I pray you speak out! Who is to do this? His name?" "_Le Capitaine Ryecroft_." "Captain Ryecroft! Who--what is he?" "An officer of Hussars--a fine-looking fellow--sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother. _Helas_! I can fancy seeing them now--at play over yonder, on the lawn!" "Captain Ryecroft!" repeats Murdock, musingly; "I never saw--never heard of the man!" "You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he's among those gay toxophilites--Ha! no, he's nearer! What a strange coincidence! The old saw, `speak of the fiend.' There's _your_ fiend, Monsieur Murdock!" He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court. "Which?" asks Murdock, mechanically. "He with the _chapeau blanc_. That's whom you have to fear. The other's but the waterman Wingate--honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear--unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, _mes amis_! Under that conspicuous _kepi_ you behold the future lord of Llangorren." "Never!" exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. "Never!" The French priest and ci-devant French courtesan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both. "You speak excitedly, M'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?" "I don't know," sourly rejoins Murdock; "I suppose it can't be," he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. "Never mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject. You'll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?" "If not putting you to inconvenience." "Nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced--starved, I should rather say. The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our _menu_ for to-day is a very primitive one--bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden." "Monsieur Murdock! It's not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself." "Ah! true," assents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is, conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them--in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures--an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast. So, _Pere_; I am sorry I can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant--you may not be aware, that it is out of season." "It's never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year's _coq_, that hasn't been successful in finding a mate." "But it's close time now," urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman. "Not to those who know how to open it," returns the Frenchman, with a significant shrug. "And suppose we do that to-day?" "I don't understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?" "Well, M'sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn't be offended by my bringing along with me a little present--for Madame here--that we're talking of--salmon and pheasant." The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the _froc_, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird. "Where are they?" asks Murdock mechanically. "You say you've brought them along?" "Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there's my messenger!" He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet. "Coracle Dick!" exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher. "The identical individual," answers the priest, adding, "who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way--for certain purposes. True, he's neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. I find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock-- some day. Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service--for a consideration." While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. A stout, thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. For all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible. His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. In the ample skirt pockets of the coat--each big as a game-bag-- appear two protuberances, that about balance one another--the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice--in the one being a salmon "blotcher" weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant. Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:-- "_Arretez_! They're not commodities that keep well in the sun. Should a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they'd spoil at once. Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. So, worthy Coracle, before uncarting, you'd better take them back to the kitchen." Thus instructed, the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; Mrs Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it--not she. That would be _infra dig_ for the _ancien belle of Mabille_. Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a _slavey_ to assist. The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can drink like a born Hibernian. Nothing of the Good Templar in him. After they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, Murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:-- "_Parbleu_! They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!" He is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. "And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap--foretasting the sweets of which he'll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of Llangorren." "That--never!" exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath. "Never while I live. When I'm dead--" "_Diner_!" interrupts a female voice from the house, that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep. "Madame summons us," says the priest, "we must in, M'sieu. While picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. _Allons_!" Volume One, Chapter XIII. AMONG THE ARROWS. The invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making for as many targets. Only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having a little coterie of acquaintances at her back. Gwen Wynn herself is in this opening contest. Good with the bow, as at the oar--indeed with county celebrity as an archer--carrying the champion badge of her club--it is almost a foregone conclusion she will come off victorious. Soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. She is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. Instead, negligently, and to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. The gathering is large--nearly a hundred people present--and one might come or go without attracting observation. She evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. There is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance. It is not unobserved. A gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause--a suspicion that pains him. It is George Shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows--in short, acting as her _aide-de-camp_. Neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. His glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction--to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up. They are both "prospecting" for the selfsame individual, but with very different ideas--one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. For the expected one is a gentleman-- no other than Vivian Ryecroft. Shenstone knows the Hussar officer has been invited; and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. Were it himself no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds. As time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, Shenstone begins to think he will this day have Miss Wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. There are others present who seek her smiles--some aspiring to her hand--but none he fears so much as the one still absent. Just as he is becoming calm, and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman of the genus "swell," who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory:-- "Who is that fella, Shenstone?" "What fellow?" "He with the vewy peculya head gear? Indian affair--_topee_, I bewieve they call it." "Where?" asks Shenstone, starting and staring to all sides. "Yondaw! Appwoaching from the diwection of the rivaw. Looks a fwesh awival. I take it, he must have come by bawt! Knaw him?" George Shenstone, strong man though he be, visibly trembles. Were Gwen Wynn at that moment to face about, and aim one of her arrows at his breast, it would not bring more pallor upon his cheeks, nor pain to his heart. For he wearing the "peculya head gear" is the man he most fears, and whom he had hoped not to see this day. So much is he affected, he does not answer the question put to him; nor indeed has he opportunity, as just then Miss Wynn, sighting the _topee_ too, suddenly turning, says to him:-- "George! be good enough to take charge of these things." She holds her bow with an arrow she had been affixing to the string. "Yonder's a gentleman just arrived; who you know is a stranger. Aunt will expect me to receive him. I'll be back soon as I've discharged my duty." Delivering the bow and unspent shaft, she glides off without further speech or ceremony. He stands looking after; in his eyes anything but a pleased expression. Indeed, sullen, almost angry, as watching her every movement, he notes the manner of her reception--greeting the new comer with a warmth and cordiality he, Shenstone, thinks uncalled for, however much stranger the man may be. Little irksome to her seems the discharge of that so-called duty; but so exasperating to the baronet's son, he feels like crushing the bow stick between his fingers, or snapping it in twain across his knee! As he stands with eyes glaring upon them, he is again accosted by his inquisitive acquaintance, who asks: "What's the matter, Jawge? Yaw haven't answered my intewogatowy!" "What was it? I forget." "Aw, indeed! That's stwange. I merely wished to know who Mr White Cap is?" "Just what I'd like to know myself. All I can tell you is, that he's an army fellow--in the Cavalry I believe--by name Ryecroft." "Aw yas; Cavalwy. That's evident by the bend of his legs. Wyquoft-- Wyquoft, you say?" "So he calls himself--a captain of Hussars--his own story." This in a tone and with a shrug of insinuation. "But yaw don't think he's an adventuwer?" "Can't say whether he is, or not." "Who's his endawser? How came he intwoduced at Llangowen?" "That I can't tell you." He could though; for Miss Wynn, true to her promise, has made him acquainted with the circumstances of the river adventure, though not those leading to it; and he, true to his, has kept them a secret. In a sense therefore, he could not tell, and the subterfuge is excusable. "By Jawve! The Light Bob appears to have made good use of his time-- however intwoduced. Miss Gwen seems quite familiaw with him; and yondaw the little Lees shaking hands, as though the two had been acquainted evaw since coming out of their cwadles! See! They're dwagging him up to the ancient spinster, who sits enthawned in her chair like a queen of the Tawnament times. Vewy mediaeval the whole affair--vewy!" "Instead, very modern; in my opinion, disgustingly so!" "Why d'y aw say that, Jawge?" "Why! Because in either olden or mediaeval times such a thing couldn't have occurred--here in Herefordshire." "What thing, pway?" "A man admitted into good society without endorsement or introduction. Now-a-days, any one may be so; claim acquaintance with a lady, and force his company upon her, simply from having had the chance to pick up a dropped pocket-handkerchief, or offer his umbrella in a skiff of a shower!" "But, shawly, that isn't how the gentleman yondaw made acquaintance with the fair Gwendoline?" "Oh! I don't say that," rejoins Shenstone with forced attempt at a smile--more natural, as he sees Miss Wynn separate from the group they are gazing at, and come back to reclaim her bow. Better satisfied, now, he is rather worried by his importunate friend, and to get rid of him adds: "If you are really desirous to know how Miss Wynn became acquainted with him, you can ask the lady herself." Not for all the world would the swell put that question to Gwen Wynn. It would not be safe; and thus snubbed he saunters away, before she is up to the spot. Ryecroft, left with Miss Linton, remains in conversation with her. It is not his first interview; for several times already has he been a visitor at Llangorren--introduced by the young ladies as the gentleman who, when the pleasure-boat was caught in a dangerous whirl, out of which old Joseph was unable to extricate it, came to their rescue-- possibly to the saving of their lives! Thus, the version of the adventure, vouchsafed to the aunt--sufficient to sanction his being received at the Court. And the ancient toast of Cheltenham has been charmed with him. In the handsome Hussar officer she beholds the typical hero of her romance reading; so much like it, that Lord Lutestring has long ago gone out of her thoughts--passed from her memory as though he had been but a musical sound. Of all who bend before her this day, the worship of none is so welcome as that of the martial stranger. Resuming her bow, Gwen shoots no better than before. Her thoughts, instead of being concentrated on the painted circles, as her eyes, are half the time straying over her shoulders to him behind, still in a _tete-a-tete_ with the aunt. Her arrows fly wild and wide, scarce one sticking in the straw. In fine, among all the competitors, she counts lowest score--the poorest she has herself ever made. But what matters it? She is only too pleased when her quiver is empty, and she can have excuse to return to Miss Linton, on some question connected with the hospitalities of the house. Observing all this, and much more besides, George Shenstone feels aggrieved--indeed exasperated--so terribly, it takes all his best breeding to withhold him from an exhibition of bad behaviour. He might not succeed were he to remain much longer on the ground--which he does not. As if misdoubting his power of restraint, and fearing to make a fool of himself, he too frames excuse, and leaves Llangorren long before the sports come to a close. Not rudely, or with any show of spleen. He is a gentleman, even in his anger; and bidding a polite, and formal, adieu to Miss Linton, with one equally ceremonious, but more distant, to Miss Wynn, he slips round to the stables, orders his horse, leaps into the saddle, and rides off. Many the day he has entered the gates of Llangorren with a light and happy heart--this day he goes out of them with one heavy and sad. If missed from the archery meeting, it is not by Miss Wynn. Instead, she is glad of his being gone. Notwithstanding the love passion for another now occupying her heart--almost filling it--there is still room there for the gentler sentiment of pity. She knows how Shenstone suffers--how could she help knowing? and pities him. Never more than at this same moment, despite that distant, half disdainful adieu, vouchsafed to her at parting; by him intended to conceal his thoughts, as his sufferings, while but the better revealing them. How men underrate the perception of women! In matters of this kind a very intuition. None keener than that of Gwen Wynn. She knows why he has gone so short away,--well as if he had told her. And with the compassionate thought still lingering, she heaves a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through the gate--going in reckless gallop--but succeeded by one of relief, soon as he is out of sight! In an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending the bow, and making the catgut twang. But now shooting straight-- hitting the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the "gold." For he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but excites her to the display of skill. Captain Ryecroft has taken George Shenstone's place, as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows, she spending them, others of a different kind pass between--the shafts of Cupid--of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both. Volume One, Chapter XIV. BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH. Naturally, Captain Ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at Llangorren. A man of his mien would be so anywhere--if stranger. The old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney's field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion. He, too, wears a distinctive badge--in the white cap. For though our tale is of modern time, it antedates that when Brown began to affect the _pugaree_--sham of Manchester Mills--as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. That on the head of Captain Ryecroft is the regular forage cap with quilted cover. Accustomed to it in India--whence he has but lately returned--he adheres to it in England without thought of its attracting attention and as little caring whether it do or not. It does, however. Insular, we are supremely conservative--some might call it "caddish"--and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called "moustache movement" not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth. For other reasons the officer of Hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. There is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of Llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of George Shenstone. The true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad--these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while Jack Wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; Joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned. Withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized--by some versions actually upset--and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon fishing near by--his name, Ryecroft. And as this tale also circulates among the archers at Llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present. Still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people--many of whom are strangers to one another--no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if Captain Ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. On these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration. None so warmly as those of Gwen Wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. For she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties. In which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to Captain Ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host--which in a sense she is--to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. Even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. Others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. Good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. That which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated! Side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. It may not have been all chance their coming thither--no more the archery party itself. That Gwendoline Wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. But standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent--so much, that each can hear the beating of the other's heart--both brimful of love. At such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession full, candid, and mutual. Instead, at no time is this farther off. If _le joie fait peur_, far more _l'amour_. And with all that has passed is there fear between them. On her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward--in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. On his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. In his several calls at the Court his reception has been both welcome and warm. Still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. But why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there--the same every time--George Shenstone by name? There before him, and staying after! And this very day, what meant Mr Shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? Above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet's son went galloping out of the gate? Having seen the one, and heard the other, Captain Ryecroft has misinterpreted both. No wonder his reluctance to speak words of love. And so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. On a simple utterance now may hinge their life's happiness, or its misery. Nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. They who talk of love's eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases--perhaps its lying. When truly, deeply, felt it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the divinity worshipped. Here, side by side, are two highly organised beings--a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid--both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life--loving each other to their souls' innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! More; for Corydon would fling his arms around his Phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she with like readiness would return. Very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. They stand for a time silent as statues--though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible--as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. And when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another! It is the lady who speaks first:-- "I understand you've been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?" "Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." "Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should say; but altogether the contrary," she laughs, adding-- "And how do you like our Wye?" "Who could help liking it?" "There's been much said of its scenery--in books and newspapers. You really admire it?" "I do, indeed." His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. "I think it the finest in the world." "What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?" "Really--truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?" "Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything--" "Nay, not everything!" he says, interruptingly. "In volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. In some it is superior to them all--Rhine, Rhone, ah! Hippocrene itself!" His tongue is at length getting loosed. "What other respects?" she asks. "The forms reflected in it," he answers hesitatingly. "Not those of vegetation! Surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?" "No; not those." "Our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should. Those wonderful structures--towers, temples, pagodas--of which it has given us the _fac similes_--far excel anything we have on the Wye--or anything in England. Even our Tintern, which we think so very grand, were but as nothing to them. Isn't that so?" "True," he says, assentingly. "One must admit the superiority of Oriental architecture." "But you've not told me what form our English river reflects, so much to your admiration!" He has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. The image is in his mind--her own--with the word upon his tongue, "woman's." But he shrinks from giving it utterance. Instead, retreating from the position he had assumed, he rejoins evasively:-- "The truth is, Miss Wynn, I've had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale landscapes of dear old England. I know none to compare with these of the Wyeside." "It's very pleasing to hear you say that--to me especially. It's but natural I should love our beautiful Wye--I, born on its banks, brought up on them, and, I suppose, likely to--" "What?" he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech. "Be buried on them!" she answers, laughingly. She intended to have said "Stay on them for the rest of my life." "You'll think that a very grave conclusion," she adds, keeping up the laugh. "One at all events very far off--it is to be hoped. An eventuality not to arise, till after you've passed many long and happy days--whether on the Wye, or elsewhere." "Ah! who can tell? The future is a sealed book to all of us." "Yours need not be--at least as regards its happiness. I think that is assured." "Why do you say so, Captain Ryecroft?" "Because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it." He saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could make fate itself--control it, as she can his. And as he would now confess to her--is almost on the eve of it--but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart--for him? "In what way? What mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation. The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively--somewhat confusedly. "Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn--that you so young--so--well, with all the world before you--surely have your happiness in your own hands." If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion. It will need another _seance_--possibly more than one--before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. Natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. With them it is as with the wooing of eagles. She simply rejoins: "I wish it were," adding with a sigh, "Far from it, I fear." He feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma--brought about by his own _gaucherie_--from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape--a house. It is the quaint old habitation of Tudor times. Pointing to it, he says: "A very odd building, that! If I've been rightly informed, Miss Wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?" "I have a cousin who lives there." The shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. He attributes it to the character he has heard of Mr Murdock. His cousin is evidently disinclined to converse about him. And she is; the shadow still staying. If she knew what is at that moment passing within Glyngog--could but hear the conversation carried on at its dining table--it might be darker. It is dark enough in her heart, as on her face--possibly from a presentiment. Ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when Ellen Lees, with the Rev Mr Musgrave as her cavalier attendant--they, too, straying solitarily--approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into the pavilion. So the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end--to both of them unsatisfactory enough. For this day their love must remain unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet secret of each other's heart. Volume One, Chapter XV. A SPIRITUAL ADVISER. While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out. It is early; but the Murdocks, often glad to eat what Americans call a "square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular. In the faces of the trio seated at the table, a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a _mot_ of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words. Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous--has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded--in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion--cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive--neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth 10,000 pounds a year-- that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents. It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered. Still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. True, it might be accomplished, almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. Nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. Olympe Renault, and Gregoire Rogier have entertained thoughts of them--if not more. In the third is the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do moneylenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder--that is different--being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. He would be willing to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property--glad to do it--if he only knew how--but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that. But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating. Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. Whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. But to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation "Never!" Hence their delight at hearing it. During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion, silent upon that paramount in their minds. How different the themes--as love itself from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of Glyngog. While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon--there is no fish slice among the chattels of Mr Murdock--the priest in good appetite, and high glee, pronounces it "crimp." He speaks English like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest. The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with. There is wine without stint; for although Murdoch's town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg's Ferry hostelry having a belief in his _post obit_ expectations. Not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour--have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for "fizz"--some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Moet and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club. Profiting by their aesthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant. At this point the conversation approaches a topic, hitherto held in reserve, Murdock himself starting it:-- "So, my cousin Gwen's going to get married, eh! are you sure of that, Father Rogier?" "I wish I were as sure of going to heaven." "But what sort of man is he? you haven't told us." "Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur--cross between Mars and Phoebus--strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of Medusa--enough of them to make heirs for Llangorren to the end of time--keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine-looking fellow, I can assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance--even were there nothing: more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is." "What more?" "The mode of his introduction to the lady--that quite romantic." "How was he introduced?" "Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone. Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows--Forest of Dean dwellers--offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them--he no other than _le Capitaine Ryecroft_. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be much worth, who didn't know how to improve it--even to terminating in marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle Gwendoline Wynn--to say nought of her personal charms--there are few men who wouldn't wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer, captain, colonel, or whatever his rank, does, I've good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that man will be the master of Llangorren." "I suppose he will;" "must," rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way, or the other. Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier nor she, after a glance from the priest, which seems to say "Wait." He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work. Taking the hint she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil. She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table--poor and _pro forma_--obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her _conge_, and retires. Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes-- of which he carries a case--and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution. "By the way, M'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner--a meal I've greatly enjoyed-- notwithstanding your depreciation of the _menu_. Indeed, a very _bonne bouche_ your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the _pommes de terre_. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope! True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have ought to do with them?" "Why should it?" asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift. "Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream. I wonder at Mademoiselle Wynne venturing so courageously--so _carelessly_ upon it." The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to. "She's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. "About her carelessness, I don't know." "But the young lady certainly is careless--recklessly so. That affair of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage--fickle and capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the bottom she being in it?" "That would be bad." "Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it." "No doubt they would. But what's the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?" "Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it should--a misfortune! But so is the other thing." "What other thing?" "That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. If what I've heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M'sieu." Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms--regularly attends Rogier's chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit after cutting a throat will drop on his knees and repeat a _paternoster_ at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus. "A very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin. "In a worldly sense, you mean? I'm aware, you're not very rich." "In more senses than that. Your Reverence, I've been a great sinner, I admit." "Admission is a good sign--giving promise of repentance, which need never come too late if a man be disposed to it. It is a deep sin the Church cannot condone--a dark crime indeed." "Oh, I haven't done anything deserving the name. Only such as a great many others." "But you might be tempted some day. Whether or not it's my duty, as your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine--how the Vatican views such things. It's after all only a question of balance between good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the amount of good he may do. This world is a ceaseless war between God and the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often to employ the weapons of the latter. In our service the end justifies the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal--ay, even to the taking of life, else why should the great and good Loyola have counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?" "True," grunts Murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, Father Rogier. I confess ignorance in such matters; still, I see reason in what you say." "You may see it clearer if I set the application before you. As for instance, if a man have the right to a certain property, or estate, and is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains to the good cause--that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefiting humanity at large. Such an act is held by the best of our Church authorities to compensate for any sin committed--supposing the money donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate over the evil. And such a man would not only merit absolution, but freely receive it. Now, Monsieur, do you comprehend me?" "Quite," says Murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a half tumbler of brandy--for he has dropped the wine. Withal, he trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears admitting the application to himself. Soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity, which the tempter perceiving, says:-- "You say you have sinned, Monsieur. And if it were only for that you ought to make amends." "In what way could I?" "The way I've been speaking of. Bestow upon the Church the means of doing good, and so deserve indulgence." "Ah! where am I to find this means?" "On the other side of the river." "You forget that there's more than the stream between." "Not much to a man who would be true to himself." "I'm that man all over." The brandy has made him bold, at length untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. "Yes, Pere Rogier; I'm ready for anything that will release me from this damnable fix--debt over the ears--duns every day. Ha! I'd be true to myself, never fear!" "It needs being true to the Church as well." "I'm willing to be that when I have the chance, if ever I have it. And to get it I'd risk life. Not much if I lose it. It's become a burden to me, heavier than I can bear." "You may make it as light as a feather, M'sieu; cheerful as that of any of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at Llangorren--even that of its young mistress." "How, _Pere_?" "By yourself becoming its master." "Ah! if I could." "You can!" "With safety?" "Perfect safety." "And without committing,"--he fears to speak the ugly English word, but expresses the idea in French--"_cette dernier coup_?" "Certainly! Who dreams of that? Not I, M'sieu." "But how is it to be avoided?" "Easily." "Tell me, Father Rogier!" "Not to-night, Murdock!"--he has dropped the distant M'sieu--"Not to-night. It's a matter that calls for reflection--consideration, calm and careful. Time, too. Ten thousand _livres esterlies_ per annum! We must both ponder upon it--sleep nights, and think days, over it-- possibly have to draw Coracle Dick into our deliberations. But not to-night--_Pardieu_! it's ten o'clock! And I have business to do before going to bed. I must be off." "No, your Reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine." "One more then. But let me take it standing--the _tasse d'estrope_, as you call it." Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. But only the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair. "_Bon soir, Monsieur_!" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore. For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. In the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. As he joins her going out, she asks, _sotto voce_:-- "_C'est arrange_?" "Pas encore serait tout suite." This the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair--perhaps some little sober him. Volume One, Chapter XVI. CORACLE DICK. A traveller making the tour of the Wye will now and then see moving along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take for a gigantic tortoise walking upon its tail! Mystified by a sight so abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his back! Still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean-- rival to that of Atlas--and will only be altogether enlightened when the boat-bearer lays down his burden--which, if asked, he will obligingly do--and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an inspection of it. Set square on the sward at his feet, he will look upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave. For he will be looking at a "coracle." Not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design, considering the ends to be accomplished. In addition, historically interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the pages of a novel. Nor will I dismiss it without a word, however it may seem out of place. In shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or Swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving but the rind. The timbers consist of slender saplings--peeled and split to obtain lightness--disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships, still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a band of wickerwork, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in place, itself forming the rail. Over this framework is stretched a covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum. In olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being cheaper. There is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two. This is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set edgeways underneath. In all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of the essential purposes of the coracle is "portage;" and to facilitate this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is borne overland. The bearer then uses his oar--there is but one, a broad-bladed paddle--by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail! In this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure-- unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft I have observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilised nations. The only thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the Esquimaux and the Chippeway Indians. But, though more beautiful this, it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense--in cheapness and readiness. For while the Chippewayan would be stripping his bark from the tree, and re-arming it--to say nought of fitting to the frame timbers, stitching, and paying it--a subject of King Caradoc would have launched his coracle upon the Wye, and paddled it from Plinlimmon to Chepstow; as many a modern Welshman would the same. Above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest--as the first venture upon water of a people--the ancestors of a nation that now rules the sea--their descendants proudly styling themselves its "Lords"--not without right and reason. Why called "coracle" is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted as a derivative from the Latin _corum_--a skin; this being its original covering. But certainly a misconception; since we have historic evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of Albion hundreds of years before these ever saw Roman ship or standard. Besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of "corragh," it floated--still floats--on the waters of the Lerne, far west of anywhere the Romans ever went. Among the common people on the Wye it bears a less ancient appellation--that of "truckle." From whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale--Richard Dempsey. Why the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it, and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge carapace on his shoulders. It serves his purpose better than any other kind of boat, for Dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more of a salmon poacher, and for this--the water branch of his amphibious calling--the coracle has a special adaptation. It can be lifted out of the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the watchful water-bailiff. Despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, Dick has not always come off scot-free. His name has several times figured in the reports of Quarter Sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. This only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of a less venal kind--burglary. As the "job" was done in a distant shire, there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. The worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish trespassing, though there is worse suspected. He whose suspicions are strongest being the waterman, Wingate. But Jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason--the most powerful that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man--rivalry for the affections of a woman. No heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of Cupid; and one has penetrated the heart of Coracle Dick, as deeply as has another that of Jack Wingate. And both from the same how and quiver--the eyes of Mary Morgan. She is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the Wyeside; and being a farmer's daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high but that Love's ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some day scale it. For Evan Morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of limited acreage. Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are not the only ones who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and whose chances seem best. Not that these are at all equal; on the contrary, greatly disproportionate, Dick having the advantage. In his favour is the fact that Farmer Morgan is a Roman Catholic--his wife fanatically so--he, Dempsey, professing the same faith; while Wingate is a Protestant of pronounced type. Under these circumstances Coracle has a friend at head-quarters, in Mrs Morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of Father Rogier. With this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight--indeed would he, were it not for an influence to counteract. He, too, has a partisan inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself. He knows--is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. For all this has passed between Mary Morgan and himself. And nothing of it between her and Richard Dempsey. Instead, on her part, coldness and distant reserve. It would be disdain--ay, scorn--if she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. But, controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would frown. The world--or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and acquainted with the Morgan family--wonders at the favourable reception it vouchsafes to Richard Dempsey--a known and noted poacher. But in justice to Mrs Morgan it should be said, she has but slight acquaintance with the character of the man--only knows it as represented by Rogier. Absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and under the direction, of the priest. In her eyes Coracle Dick is as the latter has painted him, thus-- "A worthy fellow--poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted to fish and game taking, as many another good man. Who wouldn't with such laws--unrighteous--oppressive to the poor? Were they otherwise, the poacher would be a patriot. As for Dempsey, they who speak ill of him are only the envious--envying his good looks, and fine mental qualities. For he's clever, and they can't say nay--energetic, and likely to make his way in the world. Yet, one thing he would make-- that's a good husband to your daughter Mary--one who has the strength and courage to take care of her." So counsels the priest; and as he can make Mrs Morgan believe black white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. If the result rested on her, Coracle Dick would have nothing to fear. But it does not--he knows it does not--and is troubled. With all the influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him--if against him, far more than a counterpoise to Mrs Morgan's religious predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. Still he is not sure; one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter jealousy. And thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never to know the truth. A day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for it is after sundown the revelation reaches him--indeed, nigh on to midnight. His favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve months old. They have been active all through the preceding winter, spring, and summer. It is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack. No shire than that of Hereford more addicted to the joys of the Harvest Home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at the private and particular farm-house. One such is given upon the summit of Garran Hill--a grand gathering, to which all go of the class who attend such assemblages--small farmers with their families, their servants too, male and female. There is a cromlech on the hill's top, around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are set up the symbols of a more modern time--the Maypole--though it is Autumn--with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and cider. And there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone, climbing the greased pole--that of May now so slippery--jumping, racing in sacks, dancing--among other dances the Morris--with a grand _finale_ of fireworks. At this year's fete Farmer Morgan is present, accompanied by his wife and daughter. It need not be said that Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are there too. They are, and have been all the afternoon--ever since the gathering began. But during the hours of daylight neither approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which his eyes are almost constantly turning. The poacher is restrained by a sense of his own unworthiness--a knowledge that there is not the place to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him; while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the watchful mother. With all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with the daughter--only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of Dick Dempsey, who overhears them. It is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are about to send up their final _feu de joie_, Mrs Morgan, treated by numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown less thoughtful of her charge, which gives Jack Wingate the opportunity he has all along been looking for. Sidling up to the girl, he asks in a tone which tells of lovers _en rapport_, mutually, unmistakably-- "When, Mary?" "Saturday night next. The priest's coming to supper. I'll make an errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark." "Where?" "The old place under the big elm." "You're sure you'll be able?" "Sure, never fear, I'll find a way." "God bless you, dear girl. I'll be there, if anywhere on earth." This is all that passes between them. But enough--more than enough--for Richard Dempsey. As a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or imagined. On the countenances of the lovers an expression of contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as Mephistopheles gave to Gretchen escaping from his toils. The curse in Coracle's heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on. Volume One, Chapter XVII. THE "CORPSE-CANDLE." Jack Wingate lives in a little cottage whose bit of garden ground "brinks" the country road where the latter trends close to the Wye at one of its sharpest sinuosities. The cottage is on the convex side of the bend, having the river at back, with a deep drain, or wash, running up almost to its walls, and forming a fence to one side of the garden. This gives the waterman another and more needed advantage--a convenient docking place for his boat. There the _Mary_, moored, swings to her painter in safety; and when a rise in the river threatens he is at hand to see she be not swept off. To guard against such catastrophe he will start up from his bed at any hour of the night, having more than one reason to be careful of the boat; for, besides being his _gagne-pain_, it hears the name, by himself given, of her the thought of whom sweetens his toil and makes his labour light. For her he bends industriously to his oar, as though he believed every stroke made and every boat's length gained was bringing him nearer to Mary Morgan. And in a sense so is it, whichever way the boat's head may be turned; the farther he rows her the grander grows that heap of gold he is hoarding up against the day when he hopes to become a Benedict. He has a belief that if he could but display before the eyes of Farmer Morgan sufficient money to take a little farm for himself and stock it, he might then remove all obstacles between him and Mary--mother's objections and sinister and sacerdotal influence included. He is aware of the difference of rank--that social chasm between--being oft bitterly reminded of it; but, emboldened by Mary's smiles, he has little fear but that he will yet be able to bridge it. Favouring the programme thus traced out, there is, fortunately, no great strain on his resources by way of drawback; only the maintaining of his own mother, a frugal dame--thrifty besides--who, instead of adding to the current expenses, rather curtails them by the adroit handling of her needle. It would have been a distaff in the olden days. Thus helped in his housekeeping, the young waterman is enabled to put away almost every shilling he earns by his oar, and this same summer all through till autumn, which it now is, has been more than usually profitable to him, by reason of his so often having Captain Ryecroft as his fare; for although the Hussar officer no longer goes salmon fishing--he has somehow been spoilt for that--there are other excursions upon which he requires the boat, and as ever generously, even lavishly, pays for it. From one of these the young waterman has but returned; and, after carefully bestowing the _Mary_ at her moorings, stepped inside the cottage. It is Saturday--within one hour of sundown--that same Saturday spoken of "at the Harvest Home." But though Jack is just home, he shows no sign of an intention to stay there; instead, behaves as if he intended going out again, though not in his boat. And he does so intend, for a purpose unsuspected by his mother, to keep that appointment, made hurriedly, and in a half whisper, amid the fracas of the fireworks. The good dame had already set the table for tea, ready against his arrival, covered it with a cloth, snow-white of course. The tea-things superimposed, in addition a dining plate, knife and fork, these for a succulent beefsteak heard hissing on the gridiron almost as soon as the _Mary_ made appearance at the mouth of the wash, and, soon as the boat was docked, done. It is now on the table, alongside the teapot; its savoury odour mingling with the fragrance of the freshly "drawn" tea, fills the cottage kitchen with a perfume to delight the gods. For all, it gives no gratification to Jack Wingate the waterman. The appetising smell of the meat, and the more ethereal aroma of the Chinese shrub, are alike lost upon him. Appetite he has none, and his thoughts are elsewhere. Less from observing his abstraction, than the slow, negligent movements of his knife and fork, the mother asks-- "What's the matter with ye, Jack? Ye don't eat!" "I ain't hungry, mother." "But ye been out since mornin', and tooked nothing wi' you!" "True; but you forget who I ha' been out with. The captain ain't the man to let his boatman be a hungered. We war down the day far as Symond's yat, where he treated me to dinner at the hotel. The daintiest kind o' dinner, too. No wonder at my not havin' much care for eatin' now--nice as you've made things, mother." Notwithstanding the compliment, the old lady is little satisfied--less as she observes the continued abstraction of his manner. He fidgets uneasily in his chair, every now and then giving a glance at the little Dutch clock suspended against the wall, which in loud ticking seems to say, "You'll be late--you'll be late." She suspects something of the cause, but inquires nothing of it. Instead, she but observes, speaking of the patron:--"He be very good to ye, Jack." "Ah! that he be; good to every one as comes nigh o' him--and 's desarvin' it." "But ain't he stayin' in the neighbourhood longer than he first spoke of doin'?" "Maybe he is. Grand gentry such as he ain't like us poor folk. They can go and come whens'ever it please 'em. I suppose he have his reasons for remaining." "Now, Jack, you know he have, an' I've heerd something about 'em myself." "What have you heard, mother?" "Oh, what! Ye han't been a rowin' him up and down the river now nigh on five months without findin' out. An' if you haven't, others have. It's goin' all about that he's after a young lady as lives somewhere below. Tidy girl, they say, tho' I never seed her myself. Is it so, my son? Say!" "Well, mother, since you've put it straight at me in that way, I won't deny it to you, tho' I'm in a manner bound to saycrecy wi' others. It be true that the Captain have some notion o' such a lady." "There be a story, too, o' her bein' nigh drownded an' his saving her out o' a boat. Now, Jack, whose boat could that be if it wa'nt your'n?" "'Twor mine, mother; that's true enough. I would a told you long ago, but he asked me not to talk o' the thing. Besides, I didn't suppose you'd care to hear about it." "Well," she says, satisfied, "'tan't much to me, nor you neyther, Jack; only as the Captain being so kind, we'd both like to know the best about him. If he have took a fancy for the young lady, I hope she return it. She ought after his doin' what he did for her. I han't heerd her name; what be it?" "She's a Miss Wynn, mother. A very rich heiress. 'Deed I b'lieve she ain't a heiress any longer, or won't be, after next Thursday, sin' that day she comes o' age. An' that night there's to be a big party at her place, dancin' an' all sorts o' festivities. I know it because the Captain's goin' there, an' has bespoke the boat to take him." "Wynn, eh? That be a Welsh name. Wonder if she's any kin o' the great Sir Watkin." "Can't say, mother. I believe there be several branches o' the Wynn family." "Yes, and all o' the good sort. If she be one o' the Welsh Wynns, the Captain can't go far astray in having her for his wife." Mrs Wingate is herself of Cymric ancestry, originally from the shire of Pembroke, but married to a man of Montgomery, where Jack was born. It is only of late, in her widowhood, she has become a resident of Herefordshire. "So you think he have a notion o' her, Jack?" "More'n that, mother. I may as well tell ye; he be dead in love wi' her. An' if you seed the young lady herself, ye wouldn't wonder at it. She be most as good-looking as--" Jack suddenly interrupted himself on the edge of a revelation he would rather not make, to his mother nor any one else. For he has hitherto been as careful in keeping his own secret as that of his patron. "As who?" she asks, looking him straight in the face, and with an expression in her eyes of no common interest--that of maternal solicitude. "Who?--well--" he answers confusedly; "I wor goin' to mention the name o' a girl who the people 'bout here think the best-lookin' o' any in the neighbourhood--" "An' nobody more'n yourself, my son. You needn't gi'e her name. I know it." "Oh, mother! what d'ye mean?" he stammers out, with eyes on the but half-eaten beefsteak. "I take it they've been tellin' ye some stories 'bout me." "No, they han't. Nobody's sayed a word about ye relatin' to that. I've seed it for myself, long since, though you've tried hide it. I'm not goin' to blame ye eyther, for I believe she be a tidy proper girl. But she's far aboon you, my son; and ye maun mind how you behave yourself. If the young lady be anythin' like's good-lookin' as Mary Morgan--" "Yes, mother! that's the strangest thing o' all--" He interrupts her, speaking excitedly; again interrupting himself. "What's strangest?" she inquires with a look of wonderment. "Never mind, mother! I'll tell you all about it some other time. I can't now; you see it's nigh nine o' the clock." "Well; an' what if't be?" "Because I may be too late." "Too late for what? Surely you arn't goin' out again the night?" She asks this, seeing him rise up from his chair. "I must, mother." "But why?" "Well, the boat's painter's got frailed, and I want a bit o' whipcord to lap it with. They have the thing at the Ferry shop, and I must get there afores they shut up." A fib, perhaps pardonable, as the thing he designs lapping is not his boat's painter, but the waist of Mary Morgan, and not with slender whipcord, but his own stout arms. "Why won't it do in the mornin'?" asks the ill-satisfied mother. "Well, ye see, there's no knowin' but that somebody may come after the boat. The Captain mayent, but he may, changin' his mind. Anyhow, he'll want her to go down to them grand doin's at Llangowen Court?" "Llangowen Court?" "Yes; that's where the young lady lives." "That's to be on Thursday, ye sayed?" "True; but, then, there may come a fare the morrow, an' what if there do? 'Tain't the painter only as wants splicin', there's a bit o' a leak sprung close to the cutwater, an' I must hae some pitch to pay it." If Jack's mother would only step out, and down to the ditch where the _Mary_ is moored, with a look at the boat, she would make him out a liar. Its painter is smooth and clean as a piece of gimp, not a strand unravelled--while but two or three gallons of bilge water at the boat's bottom attest to there being little or no leakage. But she, good dame, is not thus suspicious, instead so reliant on her son's truthfulness, that, without questioning further, she consents to his going, only with a proviso against his staying, thus appealingly put--"Ye won't be gone long, my son! I know ye won't!" "Indeed I shan't, mother. But why be you so partic'lar about my goin' out--this night more'n any other?" "Because, Jack, this day, more'n most others, I've been feelin' bothered like, and a bit frightened." "Frightened o' what? There han't been nobody to the house--has there?" "No; ne'er a rover since you left me in the mornin'." "Then what's been a scarin' ye, mother?" "'Deed, I don't know, unless it ha' been brought on by the dream I had last night. 'Twer' a dreadful unpleasant one. I didn't tell you o' it 'fore ye went out, thinkin' it might worry ye." "Tell me now, mother." "It hadn't nought to do wi' us ourselves, after all. Only concernin' them as live nearest us." "Ha! the Morgans?" "Yes; the Morgans." "Oh, mother, what did you dream about them?" "That I wor standin' on the big hill above their house, in the middle o' the night, wi' black darkness all round me; and there lookin' down what should I see comin' out o' their door?" "What?" "The canwyll corph!" "The canwyll corph?" "Yes, my son; I seed it--that is I dreamed I seed it--coming just out o' the farm-house door, then through the yard, and over the foot-plank at the bottom o' the orchard, when it went flarin' up the meadows straight towards the ferry. Though ye can't see that from the hill, I dreamed I did; an' seed the candle go on to the chapel an' into the buryin' ground. That woked me." "What nonsense, mother! A ridiklous superstition! I thought you'd left all that sort o' stuff behind, in the mountains o' Montgomery, or Pembrokeshire, where the thing comes from, as I've heerd you say." "No, my son; it's not stuff, nor superstition neyther; though English people say that to put slur upon us Welsh. Your father before ye believed in the _Canwyll Corph_, and wi' more reason ought I, your mother. I never told you, Jack, but the night before your father died I seed it go past our own door, and on to the graveyard o' the church where he now lies. Sure as we stand here there be some one doomed in the house o' Evan Morgan. There be only three in the family. I do hope it an't her as ye might some day be wantin' me to call daughter." "Mother! You'll drive me mad! I tell ye it's all nonsense. Mary Morgan be at this moment healthy and strong--most as much as myself. If the dead candle ye've been dreamin' about we're all o' it true, it couldn't be a burnin' for her. More like for Mrs Morgan, who's half daft by believing in church candles and such things--enough to turn her crazy, if it doesn't kill her outright. As for you, my dear mother, don't let the dream bother you the least bit. An' ye mustn't be feeling lonely, as I shan't be long gone. I'll be back by ten sure." Saying which, he sets his straw hat jauntily on his thick curly hair, gives his guernsey a straightening twitch, and, with a last cheering look and encouraging word to his mother, steps out into the night. Left alone, she feels lonely withal, and more than ever afraid. Instead of sitting down to her needle, or making to remove the tea-things, she goes to the door, and there stays, standing on its threshold and peering into the darkness--for it is a pitch dark night--she sees, or fancies, a light moving across the meadows, as if it came from Farmer Morgan's house, and going in the direction of Rugg's Ferry. While she continues gazing, it twice crosses the Wye, by reason of the river's bend. As no mortal hand could thus carry it, surely it is the _canwyll corph_! Volume One, Chapter XVIII. A CAT IN THE CUPBOARD. Evan Morgan is a tenant-farmer, holding Abergann. By Herefordshire custom, every farm or its stead, has a distinctive appellation. Like the land belonging to Glyngog, that of Abergann lies against the sides of a sloping glen--one of the hundreds or thousands of lateral ravines that run into the valley of the Wye. But, unlike the old manor-house, the domicile of the farmer is at the glen's bottom and near the river's bank; nearer yet to a small influent stream, rapid and brawling, which sweeps past the lower end of the orchard in a channel worn deep into the soft sandstone. Though with the usual imposing array of enclosure walls, the dwelling itself is not large nor the outbuildings extensive; for the arable acreage is limited. This because the ridges around are too high pitched for ploughing, and if ploughed would be unproductive. They are not even in pasture, but overgrown with woods; less for the sake of the timber, which is only scrub, than as a covert for foxes. They are held in hand by Evan Morgan's landlord--a noted Nimrod. For the same reason the farm-house stands in a solitary spot, remote from any other dwelling. The nearest is the cottage of the Wingates-- distant about half a mile, but neither visible from the other. Nor is there any direct road between, only a footpath, which crosses the brook at the bottom of the orchard, thence running over a wooded ridge to the main highway. The last, after passing close to the cottage, as already said, is deflected away from the river by this same ridge, so that when Evan Morgan would drive anywhere beyond the boundaries of his farm, he must pass out through a long lane, so narrow that were he to meet any one driving in, there would be a deadlock. However, there is no danger; as the only vehicles having occasion to use this thoroughfare are his own farm waggon and a lighter `trap' in which he goes to market, and occasionally with his wife and daughter to merry-makings. When the three are in it there is none of his family at home. For he has but one child--a daughter. Nor would he long have her were a half-score of young fellows allowed their way. At least this number would be willing to take her off his hands and give her a home elsewhere. Remote as is the farm-house of Abergann, and narrow the lane leading to it, there are many who would be glad to visit there, if invited. In truth a fine girl is Mary Morgan, tall, bright haired, and with blooming cheeks, beside which red rose leaves would seem _fade_. Living in a town she would be its talk; in a village its belle. Even from that secluded glen has the fame of her beauty gone forth and afar. Of husbands she could have her choice, and among men much richer than her father. In her heart she has chosen one, not only much poorer, but lower in social rank--Jack Wingate. She loves the young waterman, and wants to be his wife; but knows she cannot without the consent of her parents. Not that either has signified opposition, since they have never been asked. Her longings in that direction she has kept secret from them. Nor does she so much dread refusal by the father. Evan Morgan had been himself poor--began life as a farm labourer--and, though now an employer of such, his pride had not kept pace with his prosperity. Instead, he is, as ever, the same modest, unpresuming man, of which the lower middle classes of the English people present many noble examples. From him Jack Wingate would have little to fear on the score of poverty. He is well acquainted with the young waterman's character, knows it to be good, and has observed the efforts he is making to better his condition in life; it may be with suspicion of the motive, at all events, admiringly--remembering his own. And although a Roman Catholic, he is anything but bigoted. Were he the only one to be consulted his daughter might wed with the man upon whom she has fixed her affections, at any time it pleases them--ay, at any place, too, even within the walls of a Protestant Church! By him neither would Jack Wingate be rejected on the score of religion. Very different with his wife. Of all the worshippers who compose the congregation at the Bugg's Ferry Chapel none bend the knee to Baal as low as she; and over no one does Father Rogier exercise such influence. Baneful it is like to be; since not only has he control of the mother's conduct, but through that may also blight the happiness of the daughter. Apart from religious fanaticism, Mrs Morgan is not a bad woman--only a weak one. As her husband, she is of humble birth, and small beginnings; like him, too, neither has prosperity affected her in the sense of worldly ambition. Perhaps better if it had. Instead of spoiling, a little social pride might have been a bar to the dangerous aspirations of Richard Dempsey--even with the priest standing sponsor for him. But she has none, her whole soul being absorbed by blind devotion to a faith which scruples not at anything that may assist in its propagandism. It is the Saturday succeeding the festival of the Harvest Home, a little after sunset, and the priest is expected at Abergann. He is a frequent visitor there; by Mrs Morgan ever made welcome, and treated to the best cheer the farm-house can afford; plate, knife, and fork always placed for him. And, to do him justice, he may be deemed in a way worthy of such hospitality; for he is, in truth, a most entertaining personage; can converse on any subject, and suit his conversation to the company, whether high or low. As much at home with the wife of the Welsh farmer as with the French _ex-cocotte_, and equally so in the companionship of Dick Dempsey, the poacher. In his hours of _far niente_ all are alike to him. This night he is to take supper at Abergann, and Mrs Morgan, seated in the farm house parlour, awaits his arrival. A snug little apartment, tastefully furnished, but with a certain air of austerity, observable in Roman Catholic houses: this by reason of some pictures of saints hanging against the walls, an image of the Virgin and, standing niche-like in a corner, one of the Crucifixion over the mantelshelf, with crosses upon books, and other like symbols. It is near nine o'clock, and the table is already set out. On grand occasions, as this, the farm-house parlour is transformed into dining or supper room, indifferently. The meal intended to be eaten now is more of the former, differing in there being a tea-tray upon the table, with a full service of cups and saucers, as also in the lateness of the hour. But the odoriferous steam escaping from the kitchen, drifted into the parlour when its door is opened, tells of something in preparation more substantial than a cup of tea, with its usual accompaniment of bread and butter. And there is a fat capon roasting upon the spit, with a frying-pan full of sausages on the dresser, ready to be clapped upon the fire at the proper moment--as soon as the expected guest makes his appearance. And in addition to the tea-things, there is a decanter of sherry on the table, and will be another of brandy when brought on--Father Rogier's favourite tipple, as Mrs Morgan has reason to know. There is a full bottle of this--Cognac of best brand--in the larder cupboard, still corked as it came from the "Welsh Harp," where it cost six shillings-- The Rugg's Ferry hostelry, as already intimated, dealing in drinks of a rather costly kind. Mary has been directed to draw the cork, decant, and bring the brandy in, and for this purpose has just gone off to the larder. Thence instantly returning, but without either decanter or Cognac! Instead with a tale which sends a thrill of consternation through her mother's heart. The cat has been in the cupboard, and there made havoc--upset the brandy bottle, and sent it rolling off the shelf on the stone flags of the floor! Broken, of course, and the contents-- No need for further explanation, Mrs Morgan does not seek it. Nor does she stay to reflect on the disaster, but how it may be remedied. It will not mend matters to chastise the cat, nor cry over the spilt brandy, any more than if it were milk. On short reflection she sees but one way to restore the broken bottle-- by sending to the "Welsh Harp" for a whole one. True, it will cost another six shillings, but she recks not of the expense. She is more troubled about a messenger. Where, and how, is one to be had? The farm labourers have long since left. They are all Benedicts, on board wages, and have departed for their respective wives and homes. There is a cow-boy, yet he is also absent; gone to fetch the kine from a far-off pasturing place, and not be back in time; while the one female domestic maid-of-all-work is busy in the kitchen, up to her ears among pots and pans, her face at a red heat over the range. She could not possibly be spared. "It's very vexatious!" exclaims Mrs Morgan, in a state of lively perplexity. "It is, indeed!" assents her daughter. A truthful girl, Mary, in the main; but just now the opposite. For she is not vexed by the occurrence, nor does she deem it a disaster, quite the contrary. And she knows it was no accident, having herself brought it about. It was her own soft fingers, not the cat's claws, that swept that bottle from the shelf, sending it smash upon the stones! Tipped over by no _maladroit_ handling of corkscrew, but downright deliberate intention! A stratagem that may enable her to keep the appointment made among the fireworks--that threat when she told Jack Wingate she would "find away." Thus is she finding it; and in furtherance she leaves her mother no time to consider longer about a messenger. "I'll go!" she says, offering herself as one. The deceit unsuspected, and only the willingness appreciated, Mrs Morgan rejoins: "Do! that's a dear girl! It's very good of you, Mary. Here's the money." While the delighted mother is counting out the shillings, the dutiful daughter whips on her cloak--the night is chilly--and adjusts her hat, the best holiday one, on her head; all the time thinking to herself how cleverly she has done the trick. And with a smile of pardonable deception upon her face, she trips lightly across the threshold, and on through the little flower garden in front. Outside the gate, at an angle of the enclosure wall, she stops, and stands considering. There are two ways to the Ferry, here forking--the long lane and the shorter footpath. Which is she to take? The path leads down along the side of the orchard; and across the brook by the bridge--only a single plank. This spanning the stream, and originally fixed to the rock at both ends, has of late come loose, and is not safe to be traversed, even by day. At night it is dangerous--still more on one dark as this. And danger of no common kind at any time. The channel through which the streams runs is twenty feet deep, with rough boulders in its bed. One falling from above would at least get broken bones. No fear of that to-night, but something as bad, if not worse. For it has been raining throughout the earlier hours of the day, and there in the brook, now a raging torrent. One dropping into it would be swept on to the river, and there surely drowned, if not before. It is no dread of any of these dangers which causes Mary Morgan to stand considering which route she will take. She has stepped that plank on nights dark as this, even since it became detached from the fastenings, and is well acquainted with its ways. Were there nought else, she would go straight over it, and along the footpath, which passes the `big elm.' But it is just because it passes the elm she has now paused and is pondering. Her errand calls for haste, and there she would meet a man sure to delay her. She intends meeting him for all that, and being delayed; but not till on her way back. Considering the darkness and obstructions on the footwalk she may go quicker by the road though roundabout. Returning she can take the path. This thought in her mind, with, perhaps, remembrance of the adage, `business before pleasure,' decides her; and drawing closer her cloak, she sets off along the lane. Volume One, Chapter XIX. A BLACK SHADOW BEHIND. In the shire of Hereford there is no such thing as a village--properly so called. The tourist expecting to come upon one, by the black dot on his guide-book map, will fail to find it. Indeed, he will see only a church with a congregation, not the typical cluster of houses around. But no street, nor rows of cottages, in their midst--the orthodox patch of trodden turf--the "green." Nothing of all that. Unsatisfied, and inquiring the whereabouts of the village itself, he will get answers, only farther confusing him. One will say "here be it," pointing to no place in particular; a second, "thear," with his eye upon the church; a third, "over yonner," nodding to a shop of miscellaneous wares, also intrusted with the receiving and distributing of letters; while a fourth, whose ideas run on drink, looks to a house larger than the rest, having a square pictorial signboard, with red lion _rampant_, fox _passant_, horse's head, or such like symbol--proclaiming it an inn, or public. Not far from, or contiguous to, the church, will be a dwelling-house of special pretension, having a carriage entrance, sweep, and shrubbery of well-grown evergreens--the rectory, or vicarage; at greater distance, two or three cottages of superior class, by their owners styled "villas," in one of which dwells the doctor, a young Esculapius, just beginning practice, or an old one who has never had much; in another, the relict of a successful shopkeeper left with an "independence;" while a third will be occupied by a retired military man--"captain," of course, whatever may have been his rank--possibly a naval officer, or an old salt of the merchant service. In their proper places stand the carpenters shop and smithy, with their array of reapers, rollers, ploughs, and harrows seeking repair; among them perhaps a huge steam-threshing machine, that has burst its boiler, or received other damage. Then there are the houses of the _hoi polloi_, mostly labouring men--their little cottages wide apart, or in twos and threes together, with no resemblance to the formality of town dwellings, but quaint in structure, ivy-clad or honeysuckled, looking and smelling of the country. Farther along the road is an ancient farmstead, its big barns, and other outbuildings, abutting on the highway, which for some distance is strewn with a litter of rotting straw; by its side a muddy pond with ducks and a half-dozen geese, the gander giving tongue as the tourist passes by; if a pedestrian with knapsack on his shoulders the dog barking at him, in the belief he is a tramp or beggar. Such is the Herefordshire village, of which many like may be met along Wyeside. The collection of houses known as Rugg's Ferry is in some respects different. It does not lie on any of the main county thoroughfares, but a cross-country road connecting the two, that lead along the hounding ridges of the river. That passing through it is but little frequented, as the ferry itself is only for foot passengers, though there is a horse boat which can be had when called for. But the place is in a deep crater-like hollow, where the stream courses between cliffs of the old red sandstone, and can only be approached by the steepest "pitches." Nevertheless, Rugg's Ferry has its mark upon the Ordnance map, though not with the little crosslet denoting a church. It could boast of no place of worship whatever till Father Rogier laid the foundation of his chapel. For all, it has once been a brisk place in its days of glory; ere the railroad destroyed the river traffic, and the bargees made it a stopping port, as often the scene of rude, noisy revelry. It is quieter now, and the tourist passing through might deem it almost deserted. He will see houses of varied construction--thirty or forty of them in all--clinging against the cliff in successive terraces, reached by long rows of steps carved out of the rock; cottages picturesque as Swiss _chalets_, with little gardens on ledges, here and there one trellised with grape vines or other climbers, and a round cone-topped cage of wicker holding captive a jackdaw, magpie, or it may be parrot or starling taught to speak. Viewing these symbols of innocence, the stranger will imagine himself to have lighted upon a sort of English Arcadia--a fancy soon to be dissipated perhaps by the parrot or starling saluting him with the exclamatory phrases, `God-damn-ye! go to the devil!--go to the devil!' And while he is pondering on what sort of personage could have instructed the creature in such profanity, he will likely enough see the instructor himself peering out through a partially opened door, his face in startling correspondence with the blasphemous exclamations of the bird. For there are other birds resident at Rugg's Ferry besides those in the cages--several who have themselves been caged in the county gaol. The slightly altered name bestowed upon the place by Jack Wingate, as others, is not so inappropriate. It may seem strange such characters congregating in a spot so primitive and rural, so unlike their customary haunts; incongruous as the ex-belle of Mabille in her high-heeled _bottines_ inhabiting the ancient manor-house of Glyngog. But more of an enigma--indeed, a moral, or psychological puzzle; since one would suppose it the very last place to find them in. And yet the explanation may partly lie in moral and psychological causes. Even the most hardened rogue has his spells of sentiment, during which he takes delight in rusticity; and as the "Ferry" has long enjoyed the reputation of being a place of abode for him and his sort, he is there sure of meeting company congenial. Or the scent after him may have become too hot in the town, or city, where he has been displaying his dexterity; while here the policeman is not a power. The one constable of the district station dislikes taking, and rather steals through it on his rounds. Notwithstanding all this, there are some respectable people among its denizens, and many visitors who are gentlemen. Its quaint picturesqueness attracts the tourist; while a stretch of excellent angling ground, above and below, makes it a favourite with amateur fishermen. Centrally on a platform of level ground, a little back from the river's bank, stands a large three-storey house--the village inn--with a swing sign in front, upon which is painted what resembles a triangular gridiron, though designed to represent a harp. From this the hostelry has its name--the "Welsh Harp!" But however rough the limning, and weather-blanched the board--however ancient the building itself--in its business there are no indications of decay, and it still does a thriving trade. Guests of the excursionist kind occasionally dine there; while in the angling season, _piscator_ stays at it all through spring and summer; and if a keen disciple of Izaak, or an ardent admirer of the Wye scenery, often prolonging his sojourn into late autumn. Besides, from towns not too distant, the sporting tradesmen and fast clerks, after early closing on Saturdays, come hither, and remain over till Monday, for the first train catchable at a station some two miles off. The "Welsh Harp" can provide beds for all, and sitting rooms besides. For it is a roomy _caravanserai_, and if a little rough in its culinary arrangements, has a cellar unexceptionable. Among those who taste its tap are many who know good wine from bad, with others who only judge of the quality by the price; and in accordance with this criterion the Boniface of the "Harp" can give them the very best. It is a Saturday night, and two of those last described connoisseurs, lately arrived at the Wyeside hostelry, are standing before its bar counter, drinking rhubarb sap, which they facetiously call "fizz," and believe to be champagne. As it costs them ten shillings the bottle they are justified in their belief; and quite as well will it serve their purpose. They are young drapers' assistants from a large manufacturing town, out for their hebdomadal holiday, which they have elected to spend in an excursion to the Wye, and a frolic at Rugg's Ferry. They have had an afternoon's boating on the river; and, now returned to the "Harp"--their place of put-up--are flush of talk over their adventures, quaffing the sham "shammy," and smoking "regalias," not anything more genuine. While thus indulging they are startled by the apparition of what seems an angel, but what they know to be a thing of flesh and blood--something that pleases them better--a beautiful woman. More correctly speaking a girl; since it is Mary Morgan who has stepped inside the room set apart for the distributing of drink. Taking the cigars from between their teeth--and leaving the rhubarb juice, just poured into their glasses, to discharge its pent-up gas-- they stand staring at the girl, with an impertinence rather due to the drink than any innate rudeness. They are harmless fellows in their way; would be quiet enough behind their own counters; though fast before that of the "Welsh Harp," and foolish with such a face as that of Mary Morgan beside them. She gives them scant time to gaze on it. Her business is simple, and speedily transacted. "A bottle of your best brandy--the French cognac?" As she makes the demand, placing ten shillings, the price understood, upon the lead-covered counter. The barmaid, a practised hand, quickly takes the article called for from a shelf behind, and passes it across the counter, and with like alertness counting the shillings laid upon it, and sweeping them into the till. It is all over in a few seconds' time; and with equal celerity Mary Morgan, slipping the purchased commodity into her cloak, glides out of the room--vision-like as she entered it. "Who is that young lady?" asks one of the champagne drinkers, interrogating the barmaid. "Young lady!" tartly returns the latter, with a flourish of her heavily chignoned head, "only a farmer's daughter." "Aw!" exclaims the second tippler, in drawling imitation of Swelldom, "only the offspring of a chaw-bacon! she's a monstrously crummy creetya, anyhow." "Devilish nice gal!" affirms the other, no longer addressing himself to the barmaid, who has scornfully shown them the back of her head, with its tower of twisted jute. "Devilish nice gal, indeed! Never saw spicier stand before a counter. What a dainty little fish for a farmer's daughter! Say, Charley! wouldn't you like to be sellin' her a pair of kids--Jouvin's best--helpin' her draw them on, eh?" "By Jove, yes! That would I." "Perhaps you'd prefer it being boots? What a stepper she is, too! S'pose we slide after, and see where she hangs out?" "Capital idea! Suppose we do?" "All right, old fellow! I'm ready with the yard stick--roll off!" And without further exchange of their professional phraseology, they rush out, leaving their glasses half full of the effervescing beverage-- rapidly on the spoil. They have sallied forth to meet disappointment. The night is black as Erebus, and the girl gone out of sight. Nor can they tell which way she has taken; and to inquire might get them "guyed," if not worse. Besides, they see no one of whom inquiry could be made. A dark shadow passes them, apparently the figure of a man; but so dimly descried, and going in such rapid gait, they refrain from hailing him. Not likely they will see more of the "monstrously crummy creetya" that night--they may on the morrow somewhere--perhaps at the little chapel close by. Registering a mental vow to do their devotions there, and recalling the bottle of fizz left uncorked on the counter they return to finish it. And they drain it dry, gulping down several goes of B-and-S, besides, ere ceasing to think of the "devilish nice gal," on whose dainty little fist they would so like fitting kid gloves. Meanwhile, she, who has so much interested the dry goods gentlemen, is making her way along the road which leads past the Widow Wingate's cottage, going at a rapid pace, but not continuously. At intervals she makes stops, and stands listening--her glances sent interrogatively to the front. She acts as one expecting to hear footsteps, or a voice in friendly salutation--and see him saluting, for it is a man. Footsteps are there besides her own, but not heard by her, nor in the direction she is hoping to hear them. Instead, they are behind, and light, though made by a heavy man. For he is treading gingerly as if on eggs--evidently desirous not to make known his proximity. Near he is, and were the light only a little clearer she would surely see him. Favoured by its darkness he can follow close, aided also by the shadowing trees, and still further from her attention being all given to the ground in advance, with thoughts preoccupied. But closely he follows her, but never coming up. When she stops he does the same, moving on again as she moves forward. And so for several pauses, with spells of brisk walking between. Opposite the Wingates' cottage she tarries longer than elsewhere. There was a woman standing in the door, who, however, does not observe her-- cannot--a hedge of holly between. Cautiously parting its spinous leaves and peering through, the young girl takes a survey, not of the woman, whom she well knows, but of a window--the only one in which there is a light. And less the window than the walls inside. On her way to the Ferry she had stopped to do the same; then seeing shadows--two of them-- one a woman's, the other of a man. The woman is there in the door--Mrs Wingate herself; the man, her son, must be elsewhere. "Under the elm, by this," says Mary Morgan, in soliloquy. "I'll find him there,"--she adds, silently gliding past the gate. "Under the elm," mutters the man who follows, adding, "I'll kill her there--ay, both!" Two hundred yards further on, and she reaches the place where the footpath debouches upon the road. There is a stile of the usual rough crossbar pattern, proclaiming a right of way. She stops only to see there is no one sitting upon it--for there might have been--then leaping lightly over, she proceeds along the path. The shadow behind does the same, as though it were a spectre pursuing. And now, in the deeper darkness of the narrow way, arcaded over by a thick canopy of leaves, he goes closer and closer, almost to touching. Were a light at this moment let upon his face, it would reveal features set in an expression worthy of hell itself; and cast farther down, would show a hand closed upon the haft of a long-bladed knife--nervously clutching--every now and then half drawing it from its sheath, as if to plunge its blade into the back of her who is now scarce six steps ahead! And with this dread danger threatening--so close--Mary Morgan proceeds along the forest path, unsuspectingly: joyfully, as she thinks of who is before, with no thought of that behind--no one to cry out, or even whisper, the word: "Beware!" Volume One, Chapter XX. UNDER THE ELM. In more ways than one has Jack Wingate thrown dust in his mother's eyes. His going to the Ferry after a piece of whipcord and a bit of pitch was fib the first; the second his not going there at all--for he has not. Instead, in the very opposite direction; soon as reaching the road, having turned his face towards Abergann, though his objective point is but the "big elm." Once outside the gate he glides along the holly hedge crouchingly, and with head ducked, so that it may not be seen by the good dame, who has followed him to the door. The darkness favouring him, it is not; and congratulating himself at getting off thus deftly, he continues rapidly up the road. Arrived at the stile, he makes stop, saying in soliloquy:-- "I take it she be sure to come; but I'd gi'e something to know which o' the two ways. Bein' so darkish, an' that plank a bit dangerous to cross, I ha' heard--'tan't often I cross it--just possible she may choose the roundabout o' the road. Still, she sayed the big elm, an' to get there she'll have to take the path comin' or goin' back. If I thought comin' I'd steer straight there an' meet her. But s'posin' she prefers the road, that 'ud make it longer to wait. Wonder which it's to be." With hand rested on the top rail of the stile, he stands considering. Since their stolen interchange of speech at the Harvest Home, Mary has managed to send him word she will make an errand to Rugg's Ferry; hence his uncertainty. Soon again he resumes his conjectured soliloquy:-- "'Tan't possible she ha' been to the Ferry, an' goed back again? God help me, I hope not! An' yet there's just a chance. I weesh the Captain hadn't kep' me so long down there. An' the fresh from the rain that delayed us nigh half a hour, I oughtn't to a stayed a minute after gettin' home. But mother cookin' that nice bit o' steak; if I hadn't ate it she'd a been angry, and for certain suspected somethin'. Then listenin' to all that dismal stuff 'bout the corpse-candle. An' they believe it in the shire o' Pembroke! Rot the thing! Tho' I an't myself noways superstishus, it gi'ed me the creeps. Queer, her dreamin' she seed it go out o' Abergann! I do weesh she hadn't told me that; an' I mustn't say word o't to Mary. Tho' she ain't o' the fearsome kind, a thing like that's enough to frighten anyone. Well, what 'd I best do? If she ha' been to the Ferry an's goed home again, then I've missed her, and no mistake! Still, she said she'd be at the elim, an's never broke her promise to me when she cud keep it. A man ought to take a woman at her word--a true woman--an' not be too quick to anticipate. Besides, the surer way's the safer. She appointed the old place, an' there I'll abide her. But what am I thinkin' o'? She may be there now, a waitin' for me!" He doesn't stay by the stile one instant longer, but, vaulting over it, strikes off along the path. Despite the obscurity of the night, the narrowness of the track, and the branches obstructing, he proceeds with celerity. With that part he is familiar--knows every inch of it, well as the way from his door to the place where he docks his boat--at least so far as the big elm, under whose spreading branches he and she have oft clandestinely met. It is an ancient patriarch of the forest; its timber is honeycombed with decay, not having tempted the axe by whose stroke its fellows have long ago fallen, and it now stands amid their progeny, towering over all. It is a few paces distant from the footpath, screened from it by a thicket of hollies interposed between, and extending around. From its huge hollow trunk a buttress, horizontally projected, affords a convenient seat for two, making it the very _beau ideal_ of a trysting-tree. Having got up and under it, Jack Wingate is a little disappointed-- almost vexed--at not finding his sweetheart there. He calls her name-- in the hope she may be among the hollies--at first cautiously and in a low voice, then louder. No reply; she has either not been, or has and is gone. As the latter appears probable enough, he once more blames Captain Ryecroft, the rain, the river flood, the beefsteak--above all, that long yarn about the _canwyll corph_, muttering anathemas against the ghostly superstition. Still she may come yet. It may be but the darkness that's delaying her. Besides, she is not likely to have the fixing of her time. She said she would "find a way;" and having the will--as he believes--he flatters himself she will find it, despite all obstructions. With confidence thus restored, he ceases to pace about impatiently, as he has been doing ever since his arrival at the tree; and, taking a seat on the buttress, sits listening with all ears. His eyes are of little use in the Cimmerian gloom. He can barely make out the forms of the holly bushes, though they are almost within reach of his hand. But his ears are reliable, sharpened by love; and, ere long they convey a sound, to him sweeter than any other ever heard in that wood--even the songs of its birds. It is a swishing, as of leaves softly brushed by the skirts of a woman's dress--which it is. He needs no telling who comes. A subtle electricity, seeming to precede, warns him of Mary Morgan's presence, as though she were already by his side. All doubts and conjectures at an end, he starts to his feet, and steps out to meet her. Soon as on the path he sees a cloaked figure, drawing nigh with a grace of movement distinguishable even in the dim glimmering light. "That you, Mary?" A question mechanical; no answer expected or waited for. Before any could be given she is in his arms, her lips hindered from words by a shower of kisses. Thus having saluted, he takes her hand and leads her among the hollies. Not from precaution, or fear of being intruded upon. Few besides the farm people of Abergann use the right-of-way path, and unlikely any of them being on it at that hour. It is only from habit they retire to the more secluded spot under the elm, hallowed to them by many a sweet remembrance. They sit down side by side; and close, for his arm is around her waist. How unlike the lovers in the painted pavilion at Llangorren! Here there is neither concealment of thought nor restraint of speech--no time given to circumlocution--none wasted in silence. There is none to spare, as she has told him at the moment of meeting. "It's kind o' you comin', Mary," he says, as soon as they are seated. "I knew ye would." "O Jack! What a work I had to get out--the trick I've played mother! You'll laugh when you hear it." "Let's hear it, darling!" She relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. Six shillings thrown away--spilled upon the floor--and all for him! Where is the man who would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice, and from such a worshipper? "You've been to the Ferry, then?" "You see," she says, holding up the bottle. "I weesh I'd known that. I could a met ye on the road, and we'd had more time to be thegither. It's too bad, you havin' to go straight back." "It is. But there's no help for it. Father Rogier will be there before this, and mother mad impatient." Were in light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest's name. She does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has called up. In his heart he curses the Jesuit--often has with his tongue, but not now. He is too delicate to outrage her religious susceptibilities. Still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so much concerning both. "Mary dear!" he rejoins in grave, serious tone, "I don't want to say a word against Father Rogier, seein' how much he be your mother's friend; or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for I don't believe he's the friend o' anybody. Sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and I've got it on my mind that man will some day make mischief between us." "How can he, Jack?" "Ah, how! A many ways. One, his sayin' ugly things about me to your mother--tellin' her tales that ain't true." "Let him--as many as he likes; you don't suppose I'll believe them?" "No, I don't, darling--'deed I don't." A snatched kiss affirms the sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back, but meeting him halfway. For a short time there is silence. With that sweet exchange thrilling their hearts it is natural. He is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has suggested:-- "I know there be a good many who'd give their lives to get the like o' that from your lips, Mary. A soft word, or only a smile. I've heerd talk o' several. But one's spoke of, in particular, as bein' special favourite by your mother, and backed up by the French priest." "Who?" She has an idea who--indeed knows; and the question is only asked to give opportunity of denial. "I dislike mentionin' his name. To me it seems like insultin' ye. The very idea o' Dick Dempsey--" "You needn't say more," she exclaims, interrupting him. "I know what you mean. But you surely don't suppose I could think of him as a sweetheart? That _would_ insult me." "I hope it would; pleezed to hear you say't. For all, he thinks o' you, Mary; not only in the way o' sweetheart, but--" He hesitates. "What?" "I won't say the word. 'Tain't fit to be spoke--about him an' you." "If you mean _wife_--as I suppose you do--listen! Rather than have Richard Dempsey for a husband, I'd die--go down to the river and drown myself! That horrid wretch! I hate him!" "I'm glad to hear you talk that way--right glad." "But why, Jack? You know it couldn't be otherwise! You should--after all that's passed. Heaven be my witness! you I love, and you alone. You only shall ever call me wife. If not--then nobody!" "God bless ye!" he exclaims in answer to her impassioned speech. "God bless you, darling!" in the fervour of his gratitude flinging his arms around, drawing her to his bosom, and showering upon her lips an avalanche of kisses. With thoughts absorbed in the delirium of love, their souls for a time surrendered to it, they hear not a rustling among the late fallen leaves; or, if hearing, supposed it to proceed from bird or beast--the flight of an owl, with wings touching the twigs; or a fox quartering the cover in search of prey. Still less do they see a form skulking among the hollies, black and boding as their shadows. Yet such there is; the figure of a man, but with face more like that of demon--for it is he whose name has just been upon their lips. He has overheard all they have said; every word an added torture, every phrase sending hell to his heart. And now, with jealousy in its last dire throe, every remnant of hope extinguished--cruelly crushed out--he stands, after all, unresolved how to act. Trembling, too; for he is at bottom a coward. He might rush at them and kill both--cut them to pieces with the knife he is holding in his hand. But if only one, and that her, what of himself! He has an instinctive fear of Jack Wingate, who has more than once taught him a subduing lesson. That experience stands the young waterman in stead now, in all likelihood saving his life. For at this moment the moon, rising, flings a faint light through the branches of the trees; and like some ravenous nocturnal prowler that dreads the light of day, Richard Dempsey pushes his knife-blade back into its sheath, slips out from among the hollies, and altogether away from the spot. But not to go back to Rugg's Ferry, nor to his own home. Well for Mary Morgan if he had. By the same glimpse of silvery light warned as to the time, she knows she must needs hasten away; as her lover, that he can no longer detain her. The farewell kiss, so sweet yet painful, but makes their parting more difficult; and, not till after repeating it over and over, do they tear themselves asunder--he standing to look after, she moving off along the woodland path, as nymph or sylphide, with no suspicion that a satyr has preceded her and is waiting not far off, with foul fell intent--no less than the taking of her life. END OF VOLUME ONE. Volume Two, Chapter I. A TARDY MESSENGER. Father Rogier has arrived at Abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the parlour. There is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. He has not come direct from his house at the Ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet grass overhanging. Hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. Spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold. Feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender. For a time he has it all to himself. The farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while Mrs Morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen--to set the frying-pan on the coals. Already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house. Before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantelshelf, within convenient reach. It would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. This is shut, Mrs Morgan having closed it after her as she went out. There is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be reopened, and some one to enter. And so is he, though Mrs Morgan herself is not the some one--but her daughter. Gregoire Rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth--before assuming the cassock a very _mauvais sujet_. Even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex, and a keen eye to female beauty. The fresh, youthful charms of the farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of Olympe, _nee_ Renault. She is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional. But there is a vast difference between the mistress of Glyngog and the maiden of Abergann. Unlike are they as Lucrezia Borgia to that other Lucretia--victim of Tarquin _fils_. And the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. He cannot himself have Mary Morgan for a wife--he does not wish to--but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of Richard Dempsey. Hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher--not all unselfish. Eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. Only Mrs Morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. It will be on the table in a trice. Without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks in a drawl of assumed indifference,-- "Where is Ma'mselle Marie? Not on the sick list, I hope?" "Oh no, your reverence. She was never in better health in her life, I'm happy to say." "Attending to culinary matters, I presume? Bothering herself--on my account, too! Really, madame, I wish you wouldn't take so much trouble when I come to pay you these little visits--calls of duty. Above all, that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire." "She's not--nothing of the kind, Father Rogier." "Dressing, may be? That isn't needed either--to receive poor me." "No; she's not dressing." "Ah! What then? Pardon me for appearing inquisitive. I merely wish to have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in--relating to a matter of the Sunday school. She's at home, isn't she?" "Not just this minute. She soon will be." "What! Out at this hour?" "Yes; she has gone up to the Ferry on an errand. I wonder you didn't meet her! Which way did you come, Father Rogier--the path or the lane?" "Neither--nor from the Ferry. I've been down the river on visitation duty, and came up through the meadows. It's rather a dark night for your daughter to have gone upon an errand! Not alone, I take it?" "Yes; she went alone." "But why, madame?" Mrs Morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the message, but it must come out now. "Well, your reverence," she answers, laughing, "it's rather an amusing matter--as you'll say yourself, when I tell it you." "Tell it, pray!" "It's all through a cat--our big Tom." "Ah, Tom! What _jeu d'esprit_ has he been perpetrating?" "Not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. The mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle--indeed, broke it to pieces." "_Chat maudit_! But what has that to do with your daughter's going to the Ferry?" "Everything. It was a bottle of best French brandy--unfortunately the only one we had in the house. And as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else I could spare. So I've sent Mary to the Welsh Harp for another. I know your reverence prefers brandy to wine." "Madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. But I'm really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. Above all, I regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your Mademoiselle Marie. Henceforth I shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold." "Don't say that, Father Rogier. Please don't. Mary didn't think it disagreeable. I should have been angry with her if she had. On the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. But poor it is--I'm sorry to tell you--and will need the drop of Cognac to make it at all palatable." "You underrate your _menu_, madame; if it be anything like what I've been accustomed to at your table. Still, I cannot help feeling regret at ma'mselle's having been sent to the Ferry--the roads in such condition. And so dark, too--she may have a difficulty in finding her way. Which did she go by--the path or the lane? Your own interrogatory to myself--almost verbatim--_c'est drole_!" With but a vague comprehension of the interpolated French and Latin phrases, the farmer's wife makes rejoinder: "Indeed, I can't say which. I never thought of asking her. However, Mary's a sensible lass, and surely wouldn't think of venturing over the foot plank a night like this. She knows it's loose. Ah!" she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, "there be the moon up! I'm glad of that; she'll see her way now, and get sooner home." "How long is it since she went off?" Mrs Morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming: "Mercy me! It's half-past nine! She's been gone a good hour!" Her surprise is natural. To Rugg's Ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. Twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. How are the other twenty being spent? Buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. Besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. She has not kept it! And what can be keeping _her_? Her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. She can neither tell nor guess. But the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain--greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. Instead, with simulated calmness, he says: "Suppose I step out and see whether she be near at hand?" "If your reverence would. But please don't stay for her. Supper's quite ready, and Evan will be in by the time I get it dished. I wonder what's detaining Mary!" If she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one. "No matter," she continues, cheering up, "the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. If not, she must go--" The priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle the tardy messenger. He is too anxious to learn the cause of delay; and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he hastily claps on his hat--without waiting to defend his feet with the goloshes--then glides out and off across the garden. Mrs Morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression on her face not all contented. Perhaps she too, has a foreboding of evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter's future, and that she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. Or, perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached even her ears. Whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the serving of the supper. If she but knew the tale he, Father Rogier, is so soon to bring back, she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it fainting, if not dead! Volume Two, Chapter II. A FATAL STEP. Having passed out through the gate, Rogier turns along the wall; and, proceeding at a brisk pace to where it ends in an angle, there comes to a halt. On the same spot where about an hour before stopped Mary Morgan--for a different reason. She paused to consider which of the two ways she would take; he has no intention of taking either, or going a step farther. Whatever he wishes to say to her can be said where he now is, without danger of its being overheard at the house--unless spoken in a tone louder than that of ordinary conversation. But it is not on this account he has stopped; simply that he is not sure which of the two routes she will return by--and for him to proceed along either would be to risk the chance of not meeting her at all. But that he has some idea of the way she will come, with suspicion of why and what is delaying her, his mutterings tell: "_Morbleu_! over an hour since she set out! A tortoise could have crawled to the Ferry, and crept back within the time! For a demoiselle with limbs lithe and supple as hers--pah! It can't be the brandy bottle that's the obstruction. Nothing of the kind. Corked, capsuled, wrapped, ready for delivery--in all two minutes, or at most, three! She so ready to run for it, too--herself proposed going! Odd, that to say the least. Only understandable on the supposition of something prearranged. An assignation with the River Triton for sure! Yes; he's the anchor that's been holding her--holds her still. Likely, they're somewhat under the shadow of that wood, now--standing--sitting--ach! I wish I but knew the spot; I'd bring their billing and cooing to an abrupt termination. It will not do for me to go on guesses; I might miss the straying damsel with whom this night I want a word in particular--must have it. Monsieur Coracle may need binding a little faster, before he consents to the service required of him. To ensure an interview with her it is necessary to stay on this spot, however trying to patience." For a second or two he stands motionless, though all the while active in thought, his eyes also restless. These, turning to the wall, show him that it is overgrown with ivy. A massive cluster on its crest projects out, with hanging tendrils, whose tops almost touch the ground. Behind them there is ample room for a man to stand upright, and so be concealed from the eyes of anyone passing, however near. "_Grace a Dieu_!" he exclaims, observing this; "the very place. I must take her by surprise. That's the best way when one wants to learn how the cat jumps. Ha! _cette chat_ Tom; how very opportune his mischievous doings--for Mademoiselle! Well, I must give _Madame la mere_ counsel better to guard against such accidents hereafter; and how to behave when they occur." He has by this ducked his head, and stepped under the arcading evergreen. The position is all he could desire. It gives him a view of both ways by which on that side the farmhouse can be approached. The cart lane is directly before his face, as is also the footpath when he turns towards it. The latter leading, as already said, along a hedge to the orchard's bottom, there crosses the brook by a plank--this being about fifty yards distant from where he has stationed himself. And as there is now moonlight he can distinctly see the frail footbridge, with a portion of the path beyond, where it runs through straggling trees, before entering the thicker wood. Only at intervals has he sight of it, as the sky is mottled with masses of cloud, that every now and then, drifting over the moon's disc, shut off her light with the suddenness of a lamp extinguished. When she shines he can himself be seen. Standing in crouched attitude with the ivy tendrils festooned over his pale, bloodless face, he looks like a gigantic spider behind its web, on the wait for prey--ready to spring forward and seize it. For nigh ten minutes he thus remains watching, all the while impatiently chafing. He listens too; though with little hope of hearing aught to indicate the approach of her expected. After the pleasant _tete-a-tete_, he is now sure she must have held with the waterman, she will be coming along silently, her thoughts in sweet, placid contentment; or she may come on with timid, stealthy steps, dreading rebuke by her mother for having overstayed her time. Just as the priest in bitterest chagrin is promising himself that rebuked she shall be he sees what interrupts his resolves, suddenly and altogether withdrawing his thoughts from Mary Morgan. It is a form approaching the plank, on the opposite side of the stream; not hers, nor woman's; instead the figure of a man! Neither erect nor walking in the ordinary way, but with head held down and shoulders projected forward, as if he were seeking concealment under the bushes that beset the path, for all drawing nigh to the brook with the rapidity of one pursued, and who thinks there is safety only on its other side! "_Sainte Vierge_!" exclaims the priest, _sotto voce_. "What can all that mean? And who--" He stays his self-asked interrogatory, seeing that the skulker has paused too--at the farther end of the plank, which he has now reached. Why? It may be from fear to set foot on it; for indeed is there danger to one not intimately acquainted with it. The man may be a stranger-- some fellow on teams who intends trying the hospitality of the farmhouse--more likely its henroosts, judging by his manner of approach? While thus conjecturing, Rogier sees the skulker stoop down, immediately after hearing a sound, different from the sough of the stream; a harsh grating noise, as of a piece of heavy timber drawn over a rough surface of rock. "Sharp fellow?" thinks the priest; "with all his haste, wonderfully cautious! He's fixing the thing steady before venturing to tread upon it! Ha! I'm wrong; he don't design crossing it after all!" This as the crouching figure erects itself and, instead of passing over the plank, turns abruptly away from it. Not to go back along the path, but up the stream on that same side! And with bent body as before, still seeming desirous to shun observation. Now more than ever mystified, the priest watches him, with eyes keen as those of a cat set for nocturnal prowling. Not long till he learns who the man is. Just then the moon, escaping from a cloud, flashes her full light in his face, revealing features of diabolic expression--that of a murderer striding away from the spot where he has been spilling blood! Rogier recognises Coracle Dick, though still without the slightest idea of what the poacher is doing there. "_Que diantre_!" he exclaims, in surprise; "what can that devil be after! Coming up to the plank and not crossing--Ha! yonder's a very different sort of pedestrian approaching it? Ma'mselle Mary at last!" This as by the same intermittent gleam of moonlight he descries a straw hat, with streaming ribbons, over the tops of the bushes beyond the brook. The brighter image drives the darker one from his thoughts; and, forgetting all about the man, in his resolve to take the woman unawares, he steps out from under the ivy, and makes forward to meet her. He is a Frenchman, and to help her over the footplank will give him a fine opportunity for displaying his cheap gallantry. As he hastens down to the stream, the moon remaining unclouded, he sees the young girl close to it on the opposite side. She approaches with proud carriage, and confident step, her cheeks even under the pale light showing red--flushed with the kisses so lately received, as it were still clinging to them. Her heart yet thrilling with love, strong under its excitement, little suspects she how soon it will cease to beat. Boldly she plants her foot upon the plank, believing, late boasting, a knowledge of its tricks. Alas! there is one with which she is not acquainted--could not be--a new and treacherous one, taught it within the last two minutes. The daughter of Evan Morgan is doomed; one more step will be her last in life! She makes it, the priest alone being witness. He sees her arms flung aloft, simultaneously hearing a shriek; then arms, body, and bridge sink out of sight suddenly, as though the earth had swallowed them! Volume Two, Chapter III. A SUSPICIOUS WAIF. On returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty--a little matter to be settled with his mother. Not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. If questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? He dislikes telling her another lie. It came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while. On reflection he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it. He has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her-- unsuccessfully, as he now knows. While still undetermined, a circumstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. In his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. During one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the door-step. Her attitude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. Her words declare the same. "Why, Jack!" she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, "ye beant a comin' from the Ferry that way?" The interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. No use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly-- "Well, mother, to speak the truth, I ha'nt been to the Ferry at all. An' I must ask you to forgie me for practisin' a trifle o' deception on ye--that 'bout the _Mary_ wantin' repairs." "I suspected it, lad; an' that it wor the tother Mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi' her. Since you've spoke repentful, an' confessed, I ain't a-goin' to worrit ye about it. I'm glad the boat be all right, as I ha' got good news for you." "What?" he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off. "Well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin' but that somebody might be wantin' to hire ye any minnit. There's been one arready." "Who? Not the Captain?" "No, not him. But a grand livery chap; footman or coachman--I ain't sure which--only that he came frae a Squire Powell's, 'bout a mile back." "Oh! I know Squire Powell--him o' New Hall, I suppose it be. What did the sarvint say?" "That if you wasn't engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi' him, for a row down the river." "How far did the man say? If they be bound to Chepstow or even but Tintern, I don't think I could go; unless they start Monday mornin'. I'm 'gaged to the Captain for Thursday, ye know; an if I went the long trip, there'd be all the bother o' gettin' the boat back--an' bare time." "Monday! Why, it's the morrow they want ye." "Sunday! That's queerish, too. Squire Powell's family be a sort o' strict religious, I've heerd." "That's just it. The livery chap sayed it be a church they're goin' to; some curious kind o' old worshippin' place, that lie in a bend o' the river, where carriages ha' difficulty in gettin' to it." "I think I know the one, an' can take them there well enough. What answer did you gie to the man?" "That ye could take 'em, an' would. I know'd you hadn't any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church wouldn't mind its bein' Sunday." "Sartinly not. Why should I?" asks Jack, who is anything but a Sabbatarian. "Where do they weesh the boat to be took? Or am I to wait for 'em here?" "Yes; the man spoke o' them comin' here, an' at a very early hour. Six o'clock. He sayed the clergyman be a friend o' the family, and they're to ha' their breakfasts wi' him, afore goin' to church." "All right! I'll be ready for 'em, come's as early as they may." "In that case, my son; ye better get to your bed at once. Ye've had a hard day o' it, and need rest. Should ye like take a drop o' somethin' 'fores you lie down?" "Well, mother; I don't mind. Just a glass o' your elderberry." She opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine--home made, and by her own hands. Quaffing it, he observes:-- "It be the best stuff I know of to put spirit into a man, an' makes him feel cheery. I've heerd the Captain hisself say, it beats their _Spanish Port_ all to pieces." Though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman, as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for elderberry wine, made in the correct way, _is_ superior to that of Oporto. Curious scientific fact, I believe not generally known, that the soil where grows the _Sambucus_ is that most favourable to the growth of the grape. Without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his glass, and bidding his mother good night, retires to his sleeping room. Getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of Mary Morgan, and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as sweetly to dream of her. There is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. Up he instantly is and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating habiliments, but a suit worn only on Sundays and holidays. The mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived. Hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young Mr Powell, his pretty sister, and two others--a lady and gentleman, also young. Soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. The footman goes with them--the _Mary_ having seats for six. Rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves; gaily, now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day than Sunday. But their boatman is merry also, with memories of the preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their conversation, he likes listening to it. Above all he is pleased with the appearance of Miss Powell, a very beautiful girl; and takes note of the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. Jack is rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own first approaches to Mary Morgan. His eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing Abergann. Out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. It is not yet seven o'clock, but the Morgans are early risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to _Matins_, and possibly Confession at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel. He dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice. Pulling on down he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. For just below Abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices. But further on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow lands of Llangorren. Before turning the bend, where Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar. "What is it, Wingate?" asks young Powell, observing his strange behaviour. "Oh! a waif--that plank floating yonder! I suppose you'd like to pick it up! But remember! it's Sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy." Little think the four who smile at this remark--five with the footman-- what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them. Nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the Rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river--hangs heavy on his heart as lead! Returning, he looks out for the piece of timber; but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman. Kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat's dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to New Hall. Impatient are they to be home. Far more--for a different reason--the waterman; who but stays to tie the boat's painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. The plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart. Not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees. He does not wait for her to speak, but asks excitedly:-- "What's the matter, mother?" The question is mechanical--he almost anticipates the answer, or its nature. "Oh, my son, my son! As I told ye. It _was the canwyll corph_!" Volume Two, Chapter IV. "THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING." There is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of Abergann. Not an excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those at a funeral. And a funeral it is, or soon to be. For, inside there is a chamber of death; a coffin with a corpse--that of her, who, had she lived, would have been Jack Wingate's wife. Mary Morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster. Down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide--her form tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again going down. No one to save her--not an effort at rescue made by the cowardly Frenchman; who, rushing on to the chasm's edge, there stopped,--only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below, foam-crested; only to listen to her agonised cry, further off and more freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom. Once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life's last struggle with death--proclaiming death the conqueror. Then all was over. As he stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been thrown over it. Even the white froth on the water was for the while invisible. He could see nothing--nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh torrent rolling relentlessly on. Of no avail, then, his hurrying back to the house, and raising the alarm. Too late it was to save Mary Morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown up against a bank was it that night recovered. It is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. Though remote the situation of the farm-stead, and sparsely inhabited the district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. This partly from the unusual circumstances of the girl's death, but as much from the respect in which Evan Morgan is held by his neighbours, far and near. They are there in their best attire, men and women alike, Protestants as Catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely feel. Nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause of the fatal occurrence. No hint, or suspicion, that there has been foul play. How could there? So clearly an accident, as pronounced by the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning--brief and purely _pro forma_. Mrs Morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason why. Taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. Even had Wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen it again. The farm labourers and others, accustomed to cross by it, gave testimony as to its having been loose. But of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a different construction on the tale. Father Rogier could have done this; but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. He is now in possession of a secret that will make Richard Dempsey his slave for life--his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may need him, no matter what its iniquity. The hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o'clock. It is now a little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. The men stand outside in groups, some in the little flower garden in front, others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or about the pastures to view the white-faced Herefords and "Bye-land" sheep; of which last Evan Morgan is a noted breeder. Inside the house are the women--some relatives of the deceased, with the farmer's friends and more familiar acquaintances. All admitted to the chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. The corpse is in the coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. There lies the corpse in its white drapery, still untouched by "decay's effacing fingers," beautiful as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity. The stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and going, there are some who remain in the room. Mrs Morgan herself sits beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief; a cluster of women around vainly essaying to comfort her. There is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling almost as much as she. Every now and then his breast heaves in audible sobbing as though the heart within were about to break. None wonder at this; for it is Jack Wingate. Still, there are those who think it strange his being there--above all, as if made welcome. They know not the remarkable change that has taken place in the feelings of Mrs Morgan. Beside that bed of death all who were dear to her daughter, were dear to her now. And she is aware that the young waterman was so. For he has told her, with tearful eyes and sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted. But where is the other, the false one? Not there--never has been since the fatal occurrence. Came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of sepulture. There are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament it--not even Mrs Morgan herself. The thought of the bereaved mother is that he would have ill-befitted being her son. Only a fleeting reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost daughter. The hour for closing the coffin has come. They but await the priest to say some solemn words. He has not yet arrived, though every instant looked for. A personage so important has many duties to perform, and may be detained by them elsewhere. For all, he does not fail. While inside the death chamber they are conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him. Presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin stands beside it, all eyes turned towards him. His are upon the face of the corpse--at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned grief. But continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over his features, as though he saw something that surprised, or unusually interested him. It affects him even to giving a start; so light, however, that no one seems to observe it. Whatever the emotion, he conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its formalities and gestures. The lid is laid on, covering the form of Mary Morgan--for ever veiling her face from the world. Then the pall is thrown over, and all carried outside. There is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. Affection supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. On the shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into procession as it passes, and following. On to the Rugg's Ferry chapel,--into its cemetery, late consecrated. There lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after the usual ceremonial of the Roman Catholic religion covered up, and turfed over. Then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of Mary Morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them. There is one exception; this is a mail not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. Wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. The chapel burying-ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. Then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new made grave. All this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. The darkness favouring him, he is not. Reaching the sacred spot he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. Into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him--one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. It is that known to country people as "The Flower of Love-lies-bleeding" (_Amaranthus caudatus_). Closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. One near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words:-- "Mary, darling! you're wi' the angels now; and I know you'll forgie me, if I've done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. Oh, dear, dear Mary! I'd be only too glad to be lyin' in the grave along wi' ye. As God's my witness I would." For a time he is silent, giving way to his grief--so wild as to seem unbearable. And just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. A plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over! "My mother--my poor mother--no!" These few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. Soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and returning to the boat again rows himself home--but never with so heavy a heart. Volume Two, Chapter V. A FRENCH FEMME DE CHAMBRE. Of all who assisted at the ceremony of Mary Morgan's funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. In his official capacity he did all he could to hasten it; soon as it was over hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying-ground, and into his own house, near by. Such haste would have appeared strange--even indecent--but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the Ferry-boat. Arriving there, the Charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. Along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him--in a walk. Clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though judging by the expression of his countenance he is inclined to it. The route he is on would conduct to Llangorren Court--several miles distant--and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. He does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there--least of all to Gwen Wynn. She might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home. Yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. True to her fashionable instincts and _toilette_ necessities, Miss Linton keeps a French maid, and it is with this damsel Father Rogier designs having an interview. He is thoroughly _en rapport_ with the _femme de chambre_ and through her, aided by the Confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the Court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about. His confidence that he will not have long his walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. With the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate--with almost a certainty of being able to see her. Not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. Rare the park in Herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of Llangorren. Not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion--as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner--but several hundred yards distant. It passes from the river's bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. There is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. But only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed. It is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to Father Rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. Here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the Court attaching a piece of white paper, he has taken out of his pocket. This done with due caution, and care that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by--to await the upshot of his telegraphy. His haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. One of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of Cheltenham takes her accustomed _siesta_--before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. While the mistress sleeps the maid is free to dispose of herself, as she pleases. It was to hit this interlude of leisure Father Rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the _femme de chambre_. Gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. But he knows she will turn up again. And she does, after a short time; coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated. "Ah! _ma bonne_!" he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. "You've been prompt! I didn't expect you quite so soon. Madame la Chatelaine oblivious, I apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?" "Yes, Pere; she was when I stole off. But she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive--earlier than usual. So I must get back immediately." "I'm not going to detain you very long. I chanced to be passing, and thought I might as well have a word with you--seeing it's the hour when you're off duty. By the way, I hear you're about to have grand doings at the Court--a ball, and what not?" "_Oui, m'sieu; oui_." "When is it to be?" "On Thursday. Mademoiselle celebrates _son jour de naissance_--the twenty-first, making her of age. It is to be a grand fete as you say. They've been all last week preparing for it." "Among the invited Le Capitaine Ryecroft, I presume?" "O yes. I saw madame write the note inviting him--indeed took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy." "He visits often at the Court of late?" "Very often--once a week, sometimes twice." "And comes down the river by boat; doesn't he!" "In a boat. Yes--comes and goes that way." Her statement is reliable, as Father Rogier has reason to believe-- having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep's eyes, not at Captain Ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the _Mary_ as either the boat's owner or charterer. "Always comes by water, and returns by it," observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. "You're quite sure of that, _ma fille_?" "Oh, quite, Pere!" "Mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. I think, you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair, at his departure?" "Often! always." "Always?" "_Toujours_! I never knew it otherwise. Either the boat stair, or the pavilion." "Ah! the summer-house! They hold their _tete-a-tete_ there at times; do they?" "Yes; they do." "But not when he leaves at a late hour--as, for instance, when he dines at the Court; which I know he has done several times?" "Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner; and Ma'mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion--to bid adieus. No matter what the time to her. _Ma foi_! I'd risk my word she'll do the same after this grand ball that's to be. And why shouldn't she, Pere Rogier? Is there any harm in it?" The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has. "Oh, no," answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; "no harm, whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more, after the coming birthday number _vingt-un_. But," he adds, dropping the role of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, "I fear I'm keeping you too long. As I've said, chancing to come by I signalled--chiefly to tell you, that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel. With special prayers for a young girl, who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom we've just this day interred. I suppose you've heard?" "No, I haven't. Who Pere?" Her question may appear strange, Rugg's Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court and Abergann still nearer. But for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse, is not only intelligible, but natural enough. Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. "_Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan_." The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive--being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides--heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, Wingate. In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognisant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says "_Bonjour_!" and departs. She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way. Volume Two, Chapter VI. THE POACHER AT HOME. Coracle Dick lives all alone. If he have relatives they are not near, nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. Only some vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against his will; while the mother--is believed dead. Not less solitary is Coracle's place of abode. Situated in a dingle with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. Nor is it near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends; the dell itself being a _cul-de-sac_. Its open end is toward the river, running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering thoroughfare along the stream's edge, unless when its waters are at their lowest. Coracle's house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods squatter. Timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough mason work. Its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for years. The present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening, nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, _pur sang_--at least, so far as is known. And it seems to pay him better than would the cultivation of cabbages--with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and salmon three shillings the pound. He has the river, if not the mere, for his net, and the land for his game; making as free with both as ever did Alan-a-dale. But, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, Coracle is never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the Welsh Harp, as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. Some of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game. But, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few. Indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. He is of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his cups. And though ever ready to stand treat in the Harp tap-room he rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. Then the solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as thieves--often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, 'twould not be well for its owner. More than half time however, the poacher's dwelling is deserted, and oftener at night than by day. Its door shut, and padlocked, tells when the tenant is abroad. Then only a rough lurcher dog--a dangerous animal, too--is guardian of the place. Not that there are any chattels to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. The most valuable moveable inside were not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. It is not always there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some expedition up, down, or across the river. Nor is the dog always at home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial branch of his profession--running down hares or rabbits. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of Mary Morgan consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the Rugg's Ferry chapel. A wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. The autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees of their foliage. Around the dwelling of Dick Dempsey the fallen leaves lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended. Every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but not locked. The hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt open. The coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not anywhere outside--for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in front of a cheerful fire. And before the same sits its master, regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white metal. What these are might be told by the aroma; a stew, smelling strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. Ground game at that, for Coracle is in the act of "jugging" a hare. Handier to no man than him were the recipe of Mrs Glass, for he comes up to all its requirements-- even the primary and essential one--knows how to catch his hare as well as cook it. The stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already has been placed a plate--the time-honoured willow pattern--with a knife and two-pronged fork. There is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle containing brandy, and a tumbler. Drawing his chair up, Coracle commences eating. The hare is a young one--a leveret he has just taken from the stubble--tender and juicy-- delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for which he does not care. Withal, he appears but little to enjoy the meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of hunger. Every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head, he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while listening to sounds outside! At such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair, fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon! This night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being summoned for game trespass. Were that all, he could eat his leveret as composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. But there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him, with shackles at the same time--of being taken handcuffed to the county jail--thence before a court of assize--and finally to the scaffold! He has reason to apprehend all this. Notwithstanding his deep cunning, and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must have witnessed it. Above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a man's voice, which he fancied to be that of Father Rogier. From what he has since heard he is now certain of it. The coroner's inquest, at which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that beyond doubt. His only uncertainty is, whether Rogier saw him by the footbridge, and if so to recognise him. True, the priest has nothing said of him at the 'quest; for all he, Coracle, has his suspicions; now torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering with the plank. No wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a view to keeping up his spirits. Withal he has no remorse. When he recalls the hastily exchanged speeches he overheard upon Garran-hill, with that more prolonged dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has done. Not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. It will not be till he have the other life--that of Jack Wingate. He has dealt the young waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. He has been long plotting his rival's death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish it. And now the thing seems no nearer than ever--this night farther off. In his present frame of mind--with the dread of the gallows upon it--he would be too glad to cry quits, and let Wingate live! Starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper, hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. Then lighting his pipe, and drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking. Not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. Though slight and barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his behaviour. Dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet, the animal gives out an angry growling. Its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling. There is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that way. He would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze. While thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated; this time louder, and with the accompaniment of a voice, saying: "Open your door, Monsieur Dick." Not a policeman, then; only the priest! Volume Two, Chapter VII. A MYSTERIOUS CONTRACT. "Only the priest!" muttered Coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman. Giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, "That you, Father Rogier?" "_C'est moi_!" answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. "Ah! _mon bracconier_! you're having something nice for supper. Judging by the aroma _ragout_ of hare. Hope I haven't disturbed you. Is it hare?" "It was, your Reverence, a bit of leveret." "Was! You've finished then. It is all gone?" "It is. The dog had the remains of it, as ye see." He points to the dish on the floor. "I'm sorry at that--having rather a relish for leveret. It can't be helped, however." "I wish I'd known ye were comin'. Dang the dog!" "No, no! Don't blame the poor dumb brute. No doubt, it too has a taste for hare, seeing it's half hound. I suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?" "Yes, your Reverence. There be a good wheen o' them about." "In that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, I'll have it jugged for myself. By the way, what have you got in that black jack?" "It's brandy." "Well, Monsieur Dick; I'll thank you for a mouthful." "Will you take it neat, or mixed wi' a drop o' water?" "Neat--raw. The night's that, and the two raws will neutralise one another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm." "It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein' out--exposin' yourself in such weather!" "All weathers are alike to me--when duty calls. Just now I'm abroad on a little matter of business that won't brook delay." "Business--wi' me?" "With you, _mon bracconier_!" "What may it be, your Reverence?" "Sit down, and I shall tell you. It's too important to be discussed standing." The introductory dialogue does not tranquillise the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand. After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark: "If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?" "You ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, Father Rogier." "And you'd like to be a rich one?" Thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. Smilingly, he makes reply: "I can't say as I'd have any particular objection. 'Stead, I'd like it wonderful well." "You can be, if so inclined." "I'm ever so inclined, as I've sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this hard work-o'-day world 'tant so easy to get rich." "For you, easy enough. No labour and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows." "Somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?" "No; 'twill need a bigger boat--one that will carry three or four people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?" "I think I do. I've a friend, the name o' Rob Trotter, who's got just sich a boat. He'd lend it me, sure." "Charter it, if he doesn't. Never mind about the price. I'll pay." "When might you want it, your Reverence?" "On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later--say half-past." "And where am I to bring it?" "To the Ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don't leave it to go up to the `Harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. Above all, you're to make no one the wiser of what you're to do, or anything I'm now saying to you. The service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about." "May I have a hint o' what it is?" "Not now; you shall know in good time--when you meet me with the boat. There will be another along with me--may be two--to assist in the affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, _such as you displayed on Saturday night_." No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him. "How--where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror. The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate. "You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, `How?' I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. With the second I'll be more particular, if you wish me. Place--where a certain foot plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It--the plank, I mean--last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?" The man thus interrogated looks more than confused--horrified, well nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him! Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply--sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice: "I don't want to know, one way or the other. Damn the plank! What do I care?" "You shouldn't blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That's not becoming--above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you're excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse." "I beg your Reverence's pardon. I was a bit excited about something." He has calmed down a little, at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest's last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues: "Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I've made you aware--more than once, if I rightly remember--there's no sin so great but that pardon may reach it--if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So, be there with the boat!" "I will, your Reverence; sure as my name's Richard Dempsey." Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come as if led in a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier. "Enough!" returns the priest. "If there be anything else I think of communicating to you before Thursday I'll come again--to-morrow night. So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don't let there be any failure about that, _coute que coute_. And let me again enjoin silence--not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. _Verbum sapientibus_! But as you're not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I suppose my Latin's lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?" To the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,-- "I do, Father Rogier; perfectly." "That's sufficient. And now, _mon bracconier_, I must be gone. Before starting out, however, I'll trench a little further on your hospitality. Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials." Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy--best Cognac from the "Harp" it is--then quaffing it off, bids "bon soir!" and takes departure. Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils--the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil! While thus gloomily cogitating he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind. "Bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech-owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!" And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed; not to sleep, but lie long awake--kept so by that same fear. Volume Two, Chapter VIII. THE GAME OF PIQUE. The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn's natal day--its twenty-first anniversary--and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light. For a grand entertainment is there being given--a ball. The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax--abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all. Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better. The _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way. But as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in Europe" redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour. Strange, that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But in truth, so is it. Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides--Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness! And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the game of piques. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events as friends sorely estranged. She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing-- too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined--all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange in him, thus _fiance_, feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves. In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by--an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she also went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening. Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession. And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later. On both sides it reaches its maximum, when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot. Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell--put at end to _her_ new sprung aspirations, if she has any. It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone--long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a catspaw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before--make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter. "Gwen! you know how I love you--would give my life for you! Will you be--" Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked. "Be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere. "My wife?" She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response. And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says:-- "George, it can never be. Look at that!" She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels. "At what?" he asks, not comprehending. "That ring." She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "Engaged." "O God!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "Is that so?" "It is." For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad. With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies:-- "Dear Gwen! for I must still call you--ever hold you so--my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death--ah, longing for it!" Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a _fanfare_ of the band instruments gives note of another quadrille--the Lancers--about to begin. Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh. Nor is she less sorrowful, only more excited; nigh unto madness, as she sees Captain Ryecroft _vis-a-vis_ with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph! In this moment of Gwen Wynn's supreme misery--acme of jealous spite-- were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "I will!" It is not to be so, however weighty the consequence. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier. Volume Two, Chapter IX. JEALOUS AS A TIGER. It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads. By the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_. Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B and S; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded. Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off. That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady, he has been so often dancing with, to the door. Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman--not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation! It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter. He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged--what might she do when married? He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away. Not resolutely. Besides the half sad, half indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang, but familiar phrase, "having it out." Just as has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good night to some guests--intimate friends--who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _conge_ to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying-- "Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!" "I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness." "Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen!" It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending. The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly-- "O! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course, one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking." "True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for--" "For what?" "A word I wish to speak with you--alone. Can I?" "Oh, certainly." "Not here?" he asks suggestingly. She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps. With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds. Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now. And never, as now, so constrained and silent; for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion. There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished--only burning feebly. She is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying-- "There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy--a sorry hallucination." "I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!" "Oh yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason." "Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation." "You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been passing--this night especially." "Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?" "You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars." "Indeed, I don't; unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone." "More than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!" "Not strange that; seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend." She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick subtle instinct of woman she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored. Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins, sneeringly-- "And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his fathers son; which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger--" Before he can finish she has plucked it off, and drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort-- "You insult me, sir! Take it back!" With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off. He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins, defiantly:-- "If you wish it to end so, let it!" "Yes; let it!" They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor. Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious--the one love of her life is lost--cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears. The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing; but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night. She may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again! At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It is too--" What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead! Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence. Volume Two, Chapter X. STUNNED AND SILENT. Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house and there hospitably entertained--feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him--instead, only saddening the more. Even the blandishments of the French _femme de chambre_ could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars. Seated, pipe in mouth--for Jack too indulges in tobacco--he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg's Ferry. While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears, which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well-trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself-- "Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night--mornin', I ought to say? Wouldn't be a tourist party--starting off so early? No, can't be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! The night so dark--just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business." While thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face. "Yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. If't had been a regular boat's oar I'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins." For once the waterman is in error. It is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. And why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. Were he out in the main channel--two hundred yards above the bye-way--he would see the craft itself with three men in it. But only at that instant; as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys"--flooded by the freshet--and pushed on through them to the bank beyond. Soon it touches _terra firma_, the men spring out; two of them going off towards the grounds of Llangorren Court. The third remains by the boat. Meanwhile, Jack Wingate, in his skiff, continues listening. But hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it; again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. If he but knew how near the two things were together--the burying-ground and the boat--he would not be long in his own. Relieved he is, when at length voices are heard up at the house--calls for carriages--proclaiming the ball about to break up. Still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off. For nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort--a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock--that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected. Instead of footstep, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. Nothing to surprise him that? It is not first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. But it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now--to his astonishment that of anger. "They be quarrelling, I declare," he says to himself. "Wonder what for! Somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball--bit o' jealousy, maybe? I shudn't be surprised if it's about young Mr Shenstone. Sure as eggs is eggs, the Captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. He needn't, though; an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. Course, bein' deep in love, he can't. I seed it long ago. She be mad about him as he o' her--if not madder. Well; I daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel an'll soon blow over. Woe's me! I weesh--" He would say "I weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' Mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek. Fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time. The footstep, so long listened for, is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated! But Wingate does not believe it is that. He knows the Captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. He has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. Unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it! The conjectures of the waterman, are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask--"Are you there, Jack?" The pitchy darkness accounts for the question. Receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. Not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. He seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "Yes; let it!" He knows where the skiff should be--where it was left--beyond the pleasure boat. The dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other--make a gang-plank of the _Gwendoline_. As he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the Forest of Dean fellow? Or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? Neither. He is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black bitter present. Still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off. A command promptly obeyed, and in silence. Jack can see the Captain is out of sorts, and suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. He says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the bye-way. Just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion-- by looking back. And Captain Ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. The light is still there, burning dimly as ever. For all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy _silhouette_--a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it. He knows who it is; it can only be Gwen Wynn. Well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. If he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together--perhaps never more to part in spite. Just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and Captain Ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock. Volume Two, Chapter XI. A STARTLING CRY. During all this while Wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. With face that way he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. Had he any doubt the behaviour of the other would remove it. "Miss Wynn, for sartin," he thinks to himself, but says nothing. Again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill directed. But he forbears making remark. At such a moment his interference might not be tolerated--perhaps resented. And so the silence continues. Not much longer. A thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. It is done for a kindly feeling--for he sees how the other suffers--but in part because he has a reason for it. The observation is-- "We're goin' to have the biggest kind o' a rainpour Captain." The Captain makes no immediate response. Still in the morose mood, communing with his own thoughts, the words fall upon his ear unmeaningly, as if from a distant echo. After a time it occurs to him he has been spoken to and asks-- "What did you observe, Wingate?" "That there be a rain storm threatening o' the grandest sort. There's flood enough now; but afore long it'll be all over the meadows." "Why do you think that? I see no sign. The sky's very much clouded true; but it has been just the same for the last several days." "'Tan't the sky as tells me, Captain." "What then?" "The _heequall_." "The heequall?" "Yes. It's been a cacklin' all through the afternoon and evenin'-- especial loud just as the sun wor settin'. I niver know'd it do that 'ithout plenty o' wet comin' soon after." Ryecroft's interest is aroused, and for the moment forgetting his misery, he says:-- "You're talking enigmas, Jack! At least they are so to me. What is this barometer you seem to place such confidence in? Beast, bird, or fish?" "It be a bird, Captain? I believe the gentry folks calls it a woodpecker; but 'bout here it be more generally known by the name _heequall_." The orthography is according to Jack's orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word. "Anyhow," he proceeds, "it gies warnin' o' rain, same as a weather-glass. When it ha' been laughin' in the mad way it wor most part o' this day, you may look out for a downpour. Besides, the owls ha' been a-doin' their best, too. While I wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin' up an' down the backwash, every now an' then swishin' close to my ear and giein' a screech--as if I hadn't enough o' the disagreeable to think o'. They allus come that way when one's feelin' out o' sorts--just as if they wanted to make things worse. Hark! Did ye hear that, Captain?" "I did." They speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below--down the river. Both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. Distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with Mary Morgan. He knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. Not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar! "That waren't no heequall; nor screech-owl neyther," he says, speaking in a half whisper. "What do you think it was?" asks the Captain, also _sotto voce_. "The scream o' a female. I'm 'most sure 'twor that." "It certainly did seem a woman's voice. In the direction of the Court, too!" "Yes; it comed that way." "I've half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?" "Gie the word, sir! I'm ready." The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman's voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant "brattle," of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird. "Like as not," says Jack, "'twor some o' them sarvint girls screechin' in play, fra havin' had a drop too much to drink. There's a Frenchy thing among 'em as wor gone nigh three sheets i' the wind 'fores I left. I think, Captain, we may as well keep on." The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket. But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the bye-way, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness; no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants. "She has gone away from it," is Ryecroft's reflection to himself. "I wonder if the ring be still on the floor--or, has she taken it with her! I'd give something to know that." Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house--that of a bedroom no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the glass--what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter of George Shenstone. As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman-- "Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!" Once more the boat's head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged--only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction--each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers she who has been snatched away by death! As the _Mary_ runs into the slip of backwater--her accustomed mooring-place--and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking-- "Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?" "No, Jack." "How soon do you think? 'Scuse me for questionin'; but young Mr Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an' a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It's for sea fishin' or duck shootin' or somethin' o' that sort; an' they want to engage the boat most part o' a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o' my askin' when's you'd need me again." "Perhaps never." "Oh! Captain; don't say that. 'Tan't as I care 'bout the boat's hire, or the big pay you've been givin' me. Believe me it ain't. Ye can have me an' the _Mary_ 'ithout a sixpence o' expense--long's ye like. But to think I'm niver to row you again, that 'ud vex me dreadful--maybe more'n ye gi'e me credit for, Captain." "More than I give you credit for! It couldn't, Jack. We've been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. Though I may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don't have any fear of my forgetting you. And now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this." The waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. It is a "tenner," but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a "fiver," still thinks it too much. For it is all extra of his fare. With a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly-- "I can't take it, Captain. You ha' paid me too handsome, arredy." "Nonsense, man! I haven't done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn't for boat hire, nor yourself; only a little douceur, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage--asleep, I take it." "That case I accept. But won't my mother be grieved to hear o' your goin' away--she thinks so much o' ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I'm sure she'd like to speak a partin' word, and thank you for this big gift." "No, no! don't disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards, and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefordshire--if I ever do--she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river it will be in a boat called the _Mary_, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye." Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining-- "I'd call it flattery, Captain, if't had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense; an' that's just why I be so sad to hear ye say you're goin' off for good. I feeled so bad 'bout losin' poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin' you. Good night!" The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the "Good night" is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup. Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for--but one to keep him anchored to life--his aged mother! Volume Two, Chapter XII. MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD. Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night. The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his _impedimenta_, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old campaigner he is not long in making ready for the _route_. His fishing tackle, gun-case and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded. After which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels. But now a difficulty occurs to him--the address! His name of course, but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his. To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier; having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "Court" and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon fisher, but put an end to his military career. Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the ten latest years of his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present. Whither then? One place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home itself-- the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis--the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion--Maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial and he will make it. So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "London" on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering. Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back. Better still with a cigar between his teeth-- powerful help to reflection. Aware of this, Captain Ryecroft lights a "weed," and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, besides the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones--the orthodox hotel article. Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The "fond rage of love" is still active within him. Is it to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all winters?" Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not. "Never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections. Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillised--their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him. "After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she." As in ocean's storm, between the rough surging billows foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_, assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented, ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now-- modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again! But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a hit of gossip between two stable-men--attaches of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver. "Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?" says the former, inquiringly. "Ah! that ye may say," returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "Never knowed a bigger, s'help me. Wine runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't too. I'm so full o' French champagne, I feel most like burstin'." "She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An't she?" "In course is--one o' the grandest. But she an't going to be a _girl_ long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be broke into pair-horse harness." "Wi' who?" "The son o' Sir George Shenstone." "A good match they'll make, I sh'd say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many's the time he's tipped me." There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men having moved off beyond earshot. In all likelihood he would not have listened, had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words--that last spiteful rejoinder--"Yes; let it." His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slips of parchment-- _Mr Vivian Ryecroft, Passenger to London_, _G.W.R_. He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion; again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately--rashly. In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him--he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer--if he receive one-- will depend whether it is to be the last. With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of notepaper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address--only the date. This done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch. With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes-- _Miss Wynn_, _Llangorren Court_. Then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the letter to be dropped into the post box. He knows it will reach her that same day, at an early hour, and its answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going--as his letter tells, the "Langham, London." And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman, along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the Gr.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis. Volume Two, Chapter XIII. A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD. As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department--coachman and head-groom still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full with but half demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies. Inside the house things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of the licence allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _roles_ yawningly, and with reluctance. There are two lady's-maids in the establishment; the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse. As her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her. Not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour. While dressing herself she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke. Not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. The dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent--taken upon a sofa in her young mistress's dressing-room. There awaiting Miss Wynn to assist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything--only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. Starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m! Reflection following:-- "Miss Gwen must be in her bed by this! Wonder why she didn't wake me up? Rang no bell? Surely I'd have heard it? If she did, and I haven't answered--Well; the dear young lady's just the sort not to make any ado about it. I suppose she thought I'd gone to my room, and didn't wish to disturb me? But how could she think that? Besides, she must have passed through here, and seen me on the sofa!" The dressing-room is an ante-chamber of Miss Wynn's sleeping apartment. "She mightn't though,"--the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim,--"Still, it _is_ strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?" Gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. The result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bedchamber door. "Sound asleep! I can't go in now. Mustn't--I daren't awake her." Saying which the negligent attendant slips off to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of Morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock. Conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste--any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet. Her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to Miss Wynn's sleeping room. Not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it. She does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. It is a standing order of the house, and pleased to be precise in its observance--never more than on this morning--she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty. The first of the family proper, appearing down stairs is Eleanor Lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. Notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post. With indifferent success. It is a Metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. Three or four long-winded "leaders," the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of Parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; "Police intelligence," in which there is half a column devoted to Daniel Driscoll, of the Seven Dials, how he blackened the eye of Bridget Sullivan, and bit off Pat Kavanagh's ear, a _crim. con._ or two in all their prurience of detail; Court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness--this is the pabulum of a "London Daily" even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied _clientele_ of readers! Scarce a word of the world's news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action--how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity! If there be anything in England half a century behind the age it is its Metropolitan Press--immeasurably inferior to the Provincial. No wonder the "companion"--educated lady--with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. Ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at. And after glancing at them, Miss Lees drops the bald broadsheet--letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten-- about all it is worth. Having thus settled scores with the newspaper she hardly knows what next to do. She has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. A poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. Two or three for Miss Linton, with quite half a dozen for Gwen. Of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises--knows it to be from Captain Ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification. "There was a coolness between them last night," remarks Miss Lees to herself, "if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. If I were given to making wagers, I'd bet that it tells of his repentance. So soon, though! It must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery. What!" she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription. "One from George Shenstone, too! It, I dare say, is in a different strain, if that I saw--Ha!" she ejaculates, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go Mr Shenstone's epistle, "William! Is it possible--so early?" Not only possible, but an accomplished fact. The reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house. She does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. Nothing _outre_ in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way. Into the morning room Mr Musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. He oft comes for luncheon, and Miss Lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which Miss Linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. Of course, the curate has been at the ball; but, like "Slippery Sam," erst Bishop of Oxford, not much in the dancing room. For all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of Miss Wynn to Captain Ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of Sir George Shenstone--in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. Still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour. Nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than Miss Lees to respond to such interrogation. Their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type--so different from the stormy passionate combat between Gwendoline Wynn and Vivian Ryecroft--they forget all about these--even their existence--as little remembering that of George Shenstone. For a time are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought--one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave. Volume Two, Chapter XIV. "WHERE'S GWEN?" Not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. Too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. Miss Linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast-room, supported by her French _femme de chambre_. Graciously saluting Mr Musgrave, she moves towards the table's head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam--flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. Taking her seat, she asks: "Where's Gwen?" "Not down yet," meekly responds Miss Lees, "at least I haven't seen anything of her." "Ah! she beats us all to-day," remarks the ancient toast of Cheltenham, "in being late," she adds, with a laugh at her little _jeu d'esprit_. "Usually such an early riser, too. I don't remember having ever been up before her. Well, I suppose she's fatigued, poor thing!--quite done up. No wonder, after dancing so much, and with everybody." "Not everybody, aunt!" says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. "There was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. Wasn't it a little strange?" This in a whisper and aside. "Ah! true. You mean Captain Ryecroft?" "Yes." "It was a little strange. I observed it myself. She seemed distant with him, and he with her. Have you any idea of the reason, Nelly?" "Not in the least. Only I fancy something must have come between them." "The usual thing; lover's tiff I suppose. Ah, I've seen a great many of them in my time. How silly men and women are--when they're in love. Are they not, Mr Musgrave?" The curate answers in the affirmative but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself. "Of the two," proceeds the garrulous spinster, "men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!" she exclaims, contradicting herself, "when I think of it, no. I've seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about Beau Brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! Beau Brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! Ha! ha! ha!" There is a _soupcon_ of spleen in the tone of Miss Linton's laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy. "What could be more ridiculous?" she goes on. "When one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. Well;" taking hold of the _cafetiere_, and filling her cup, "it's time for that young lady to be downstairs. If she hasn't been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. Bless me," glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, "it's after eleven, Clarisse," to the _femme de chambre_, still in attendance, "tell Miss Wynn's maid to say to her mistress we're waiting breakfast. _Veet, tray veet_!" she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but Parisian. Off trips the French demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, Miss Wynn's maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. It is the English damsel who delivers it in the vernacular. "Miss Gwen isn't in her room; nor hasn't been all the night long." Miss Linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea fowl's egg, as the maid makes the announcement. Were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete. Dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands: "What do you mean, Gibbons?" Gibbons is the girl's name. "Oh, ma'am! Just what I've said." "Say it again. I can't believe my ears." "That Miss Gwen hasn't slept in her room." "And where has she slept?" "The goodness only knows." "But you ought to know. You're her maid--you undressed her?" "I did not--I am sorry to say," stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused, "very sorry I didn't." "And why didn't you, Gibbons? explain that." Thus brought to book, the peccant Gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. No use concealing aught--it must come out anyhow. "And you're quite sure she has not slept in her room?" interrogates Miss Linton, as yet unable to realise a circumstance so strange and unexpected. "Oh, yes, ma'am. The bed hasn't been lied upon by anybody--neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. And there's her nightdress over the chair, just as I laid it out for her." "Very strange," exclaims Miss Linton, "positively alarming." For all, the old lady is not alarmed yet--at least, not to any great degree. Llangorren Court is a "house of many mansions," and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. And she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. Just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing--entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering. "Search them all!" commands Miss Linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her. They scatter off in different directions, Miss Lees along with them. "It's very extraordinary. Don't you think so?" This to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her. "I do, decidedly. Surely no harm has happened her. I trust not. How could there?" "True, how? Still I'm a little apprehensive, and won't feel satisfied till I see her. How my heart does palpitate, to be sure." She lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it. "Well, Eleanor," she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with Gibbons behind. "What news?" "Not any, aunt." "And you really think she hasn't slept in her room?" "Almost sure she hasn't. The bed, as Gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. Besides, the dress she wore last night isn't there." "Nor anywhere else, ma'am," puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. "As you know, 'twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. I've looked everywhere, and can't find a thing she had on--not so much as a ribbon!" The other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. No word of the missing one--neither sign nor trace of her. At length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. Bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. They go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place--to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. Closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the chinks. Just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young Lovel lost his "own fair bride." And while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of Llangorren Court have the romantic tale in their minds. Not one of them but knows the fine old song of the "Mistletoe Bough." Male and female-- all have heard it sung in that same house, at every Christmas-tide, under the "kissing bush," where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous. It needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertion. Respect for their young mistress--with many of them almost adoration--is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child according to their feelings and attachments. In vain--all in vain. Though certain that no "old oak chest" inside the walls of Llangorren Court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find Gwen Wynn. Dead, or living, she is not in the house. Volume Two, Chapter XV. AGAIN THE ENGAGEMENT RING. The first hurried search, with its noisy excitement, proving fruitless, there follows an interregnum calmer with suspended activity. Indeed, Miss Linton directs it so. Now convinced that her niece has really disappeared from the place, she thinks it prudent to deliberate before proceeding further. She has no thought that the young lady has acted otherwise than of her own will. To suppose her carried off is too absurd--a theory not to be entertained for an instant. And having gone so, the questions are, why and whither? After all, it may be, that at the ball's departing, in the last moment when the guests were departing, moved by a mad prank, she leaped into the carriage of some lady friends, and was whirled home with them, just in the dress she had been dancing in. With such an impulsive creature as Gwen Wynn, the freak was not improbable. Nor is there any one to say nay. In the bustle and confusion of departure the other domestics were busy with their own affairs, and Gibbons sound asleep. And if true a "hue and cry" raised and reaching the outside world would at least beget ridicule, if it did not cause absolute scandal. To avoid this the servants are forbidden to go beyond the confines of the Court, or carry any tale outward--for the time. Beguiled by this hopeful belief, Miss Linton, with the companion assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the heads of three or four families in whose houses her niece must have so abruptly elected to take refuge for the night. Merely to ask if such was the case, the question couched in phrase guarded, and as possible suggestive. These are dispatched by trusted messengers, cautioned to silence; Mr Musgrave himself volunteering a round of calls, at other houses, to make personal inquiry. This matter settled, the old lady waits the result, though without any very sanguine expectations of success. For another theory has presented itself to her mind--that Gwen has run away with Captain Ryecroft! Improbable as the thing might appear--Miss Linton, nevertheless, for a while has faith in it. It was as she might have done, some forty years before, had she but met the right man--such as he. And measuring her niece by the same romantic standard--with Gwen's capriciousness thrown into the account--she ignores everything else; even the absurdity of such a step from its sheer causelessness. That to her is of little weight; no more the fact of the young lady taking flight in a thin dress, with only a shawl upon her shoulders. For Gibbons called upon to give account of her wardrobe, has taken stock, and found everything in its place--every article of her mistress's drapery save the blue silk dress and Indian shawl--hats and bonnets hung up, or in their boxes, but all there, proving her to have gone off bareheaded? Not the less natural, reasons Miss Linton--instead, only a component part in the chapter of contrarieties. So, too, the coolness observed between the betrothed sweethearts throughout the preceding night--their refraining from partnership in the dances--all dissembling on their part, possibly to make the surprise of the after event more piquant and complete. So runs the imagination of the novel-reading spinster, fresh and fervid as in her days of girlhood--passing beyond the trammels of reason-- leaving the bounds of probability. But her new theory is short lived. It receives a death blow from a letter which Miss Lees brings under her notice. It is that superscribed in the handwriting of Captain Ryecroft, which the companion had for the time forgotten; she having no thought that it would have anything to do with the young lady's disappearance. And the letter proves that he can have nothing to do with it. The hotel stamp, the postmark, the time of deposit and delivery are all understood, all contributing to show it must have been posted, if not written, that same morning. Were she with him it would not be there. Down goes the castle of romance Miss Linton has been constructing-- wrecked--scattered as a house of cards. It is quite possible that letter contains something that would throw light upon the mystery, perhaps clear all up; and the old lady would like to open it. But she may not, dare not. Gwen Wynn is not one to allow tampering with her correspondence; and as yet her aunt cannot realise the fact--nor even entertain the supposition--that she is gone for good and for ever. As time passes, however, and the different messengers return, with no news of the missing lady--Mr Musgrave is also back without tidings--the alarm is renewed, and search again set up. It extends beyond the precincts of the house, and the grounds already explored, off into woods and fields, along the banks of river and bye wash, everywhere that offers a likelihood, the slightest, of success. But neither in wood, spinney, or coppice can they find traces of Gwen Wynn; all "draw blank," as George Shenstone would say of a cover where no fox is found. And just as this result is reached, that gentleman himself steps upon the ground, to receive a shock such as he has rarely experienced. The news communicated is a surprise to him; for he has arrived at the Court, knowing nought of the strange incident which has occurred. He has come thither on an afternoon call, not altogether dictated by ceremony. Despite all that has passed--what Gwen Wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand--he does not even yet despair. Who so circumstanced ever does? What man in love, profoundly, passionately as he, could believe his last chance eliminated; or have his ultimate hope extinguished? He had not. Instead, when bidding adieu to her, after the ball, he felt some revival of it, several causes having contributed to its rekindling. Among others, her gracious behaviour to himself, so gratifying; but more, her distant manner towards his rival, which he could not help observing, and saw with secret satisfaction. And still thus reflecting on it, he enters the gates at Llangorren, to be stunned by the strange intelligence there awaiting him--Miss Wynn missing! gone away! run away! perhaps carried off! lost, and cannot be found! For in these varied forms, and like variety of voices, is it conveyed to him. Needless to say, he joins in the search with ardour, but distractedly; suffering all the sadness of a torn and harrowed heart. But to no purpose; no result to soothe or console him. His skill at drawing a cover is of no service here. It is not for a fox "stole away," leaving hot scent behind; but a woman goes without print of foot or trace to indicate the direction; without word left to tell the cause of departure. Withal, George Shenstone continues to seek for her long after the others have desisted. For his views differ from those entertained by Miss Linton, and his apprehensions are of a keener nature. He remains at the Court throughout the evening, making excursions into the adjacent woods, searching, and again exploring everywhere. None of the servants think it strange; all know of his intimate relations with the family. Mr Musgrave remains also; both of them asked to stay dinner--a meal this day eaten _sans facon_, in haste, and under agitation. When, after it, the ladies retire to the drawing-room--the curate along with them--George Shenstone goes out again, and over the grounds. It is now night, and the darkness lures him on; for it was in such she disappeared. And although he has no expectation of seeing her there, some vague thought has drifted into his mind, that in darkness he may better reflect, and something be suggested to avail him. He strays on to the boat stair, looks down into the dock, and there sees the _Gwendoline_ at her moorings. But he thinks only of the other boat, which, as he now knows, on the night before lay alongside her. Has it indeed carried away Gwen Wynn? He fancies it has--he can hardly have a doubt of it. How else is her disappearance to be accounted for? But has she been borne off by force, or went she willingly? These are the questions which perplex him; the conjectured answer to either causing him keenest anxiety. After remaining a short while on the top of the stair, he turns away with a sigh, and saunters on towards the pavilion. Though under the shadow of its roof the obscurity is complete, he, nevertheless, enters and sits down. He is fatigued with the exertions of the afternoon, and the strain upon his nerves through the excitement. Taking a cigar from his case and nipping off the end, he rasps a fusee to light it. But, before the blue fizzing blaze dims down he drops the cigar--to clutch at an object on the floor, whose sparkle has caught his eye. He succeeds in getting hold of it, though not till the fusee has ceased flaming. But he needs no light to tell him what he has in his hand. He knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of Gwen Wynn's fingers--the engagement ring! Volume Two, Chapter XVI. A MYSTERIOUS EMBARKATION. Not in vain had the green woodpecker given out its warning note. As Jack Wingate predicted from it, soon after came a downpour of rain. It was raining as Captain Ryecroft returned to his hotel, as at intervals throughout that day; and now on the succeeding night it is again sluicing down as from a shower bath. The river is in full flood, its hundreds of affluents from Plinlimmon downward, having each contributed its quota, till Vaga, usually so pure, limpid, and tranquil, rolls on in vast turbulent volume, muddy and maddened. There is a strong wind as well, whose gusts now and then, striking the water's surface, lash it into furrows with white frothy crests. On the Wye this night there would be danger for any boat badly manned or unskilfully steered. And yet a boat is about to embark upon it; one which throughout the afternoon has been lying moored in a little branch stream that runs in opposite the lands of Llangorren, a tributary supplied by the dingle in which stands the dwelling of Richard Dempsey. It is the same near whose mouth the poacher and the priest were seen by Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees on the day of their remarkable adventure with the forest roughs. And almost in the same spot is the craft now spoken of; no coracle, however, but a regular pair-oared boat of a kind in common use among Wye watermen. It is lying with bow to the bank, its painter attached to a tree, whose branches extend over it. During the day no one has been near it, and it is not likely that any one has observed it. Some little distance up the brook, and drawn well in under the spreading boughs, that almost touching the water, darkly shadow the surface, it is not visible from the rivers channel: while, along the edge of the rivulet, there is no thoroughfare, nor path of any kind. No more a landing-place where boat is accustomed to put in or remain at moorings. That now there has evidently been brought thither for some temporary purpose. Not till after the going down of the sun is this declared. Then, just as the purple of twilight is changing to the inky blackness of night, and another dash of rain clatters on the already saturated foliage three men are seen moving among the trees that grow thick along the streamlet's edge. They seem not to mind it, although pouring down in torrents; for they have come through the dell, as from Dempsey's house, and are going in the direction of the boat, where there is no shelter. But if they regard not getting wet,--something they do regard; else why should they observe such caution in their movements, and talk in subdued voices? All the more strange this, in a place where there is so little likelihood of their being overheard, or encountering any one to take note of their proceedings. It is only between two of them that conversation is carried on; the third walking far in advance, beyond earshot of speech in the ordinary tone; besides, the noise of the tempest would hinder his hearing them. Therefore, it cannot be on his account they converse guardedly. More likely their constraint is due to the solemnity of the subject; for solemn it is, as their words show. "They'll be sure to find the body in a day or two. Possibly to-morrow, or if not, very soon. A good deal will depend on the state of the river. If this flood continue and the water remain discoloured as now, it may be several days before they light on it. No matter when; your course is clear, Monsieur Murdock." "But what do you advise my doing, _Pere_? I'd like you to lend me your counsel--give me minute directions about everything." "In the first place, then, you must show yourself on the other side of the water, and take an active part in the search. Such a near relative, as you are, 'twould appear strange if you didn't. All the world may not be aware of the little tiff--rather prolonged though--that's been between you. And if it were, your keeping away on such an occasion would give cause for greater scandal. Spite so rancorous! that of itself should excite curious thoughts--suspicions. Naturally enough. A man, whose own cousin is mysteriously missing, not caring to know what has become of her! And when knowing--when `Found drowned,' as she will be--not to show either sympathy or sorrow! _Ma foi_! they might mob you if you didn't!" "That's true enough," grunts Murdock, thinking of the respect in which his cousin is held, and her great popularity throughout the neighbourhood. "You advise my going over to Llangorren?" "Decidedly, I do. Present yourself there to-morrow, without fail. You may make the hour reasonably late; saying that the sinister intelligence has only just reached you at Glyngog--out of the way as it is. You'll find plenty of people at the Court on your arrival. From what I've learnt this afternoon, through my informant resident there, they'll be hot upon the search to-morrow. It would have been more earnest to-day, but for that quaint old creature with her romantic notions; the latest of them, as Clarisse tell me, that Mademoiselle had run away with the Hussar! But it appears a letter has reached the Court in his handwriting, which put a different construction on the affair; proving to them it could be no elopement--at least with him. Under these circumstances, then, to-morrow morning, soon as the sun is up, there'll be a hue and cry all over the country; so loud you couldn't fail to hear, and will be expected to have a voice in it. To do that effectually you must show yourself at Llangorren, and in good time." "There's sense in what you say. You're a very Solomon, Father Rogier. I'll be there, trust me. Is there anything else you think of." The Jesuit is for a time silent, apparently in deep thought. It is a ticklish game the two are playing, and needs careful consideration, with cautious action. "Yes," he at length answers. "There are a good many other things, I think of. But they depend upon circumstances not yet developed by which you will have to be guided. And you must guide yourself, M'sieu, as you best can. It will be quite four days, if not more, ere I can get back. They may even find the body to-morrow--if they should think of employing drags, or other searching apparatus. Still, I fancy, 'twill be some time before they come to a final belief in her being drowned. Don't you, on any account suggest it. And should there be such search, endeavour, in a quiet way, to have it conducted in any direction but the right one. The longer before fishing the thing up, the better it will be for our purposes: you comprehend?" "I do." "When found, as it must be in time, you will know how to show becoming grief; and, if opportunity offer, you may throw out a hint, having reference to _Le Capitaine Ryecroft_. His having gone away from his hotel this morning, no one knows why or whither--decamping in such haste too--that will be sure to fix suspicion upon him--possibly have him pursued and arrested as the murderer of Miss Wynn! Odd succession of events, is it not?" "It is indeed." "Seems as if the very Fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. If we fail now, 'twill be our own fault. And that reminds me there should be no waste of time--must not. One hour of this darkness may be worth an age--or at all events ten thousand pounds per annum. _Allons! vite-vite_?" He steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees. Murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. They do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing--of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. It is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that laid along the boat's bottom timbers it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart. Seeing that he who has thus disposed of it, is Coracle Dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. But the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:-- "Well, _mon bracconier_; have you stowed my luggage?" "It's in the boat, Father Rogier." "And all ready for starting?" "The minute your reverence steps in." "So, well! And now, M'sieu," he adds, turning to Murdock, and again speaking in undertone, "if you play _your_ part skilfully, on return I may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the Lord of Llangorren. Till then, adieu!" Saying which he steps over the boat's side, and takes seat in its stern. Shoved off by sinewy arms, it goes brushing out from under the branches, and is rapidly drifted down towards the river. Lewin Murdock is left standing on the brook's edge, free to go what way he wishes. Soon he starts off, not on return to the empty domicile of the poacher, nor yet direct to his own home: but first to the Welsh Harp--there to gather the gossip of the day, and learn whether the startling tale, soon to be told, has yet reached Rugg's Ferry. Volume Two, Chapter XVII. AN ANXIOUS WIFE. Inside Glyngog House is Mrs Murdock, alone, or with only the two female domestics. But these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is moving about in front at intervals opening the door, and gazing out into the night. A dark stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred the mysterious embarkation of Father Rogier, only an hour later. To her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what errand. It is not him therefore she is expecting, but her husband to bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. So anxiously does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays altogether on the door-step, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in the drawing-room which blazes brightly. There is another in the dining-room, and a table profusely spread--set out for supper with dishes of many kinds--cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by decanters of different wines sparkling attractively. Whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long, has been such scarcity? As no one visits at Glyngog save Father Rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. And he would not, were he there; knowing the answer, better than anyone else. He ought. The cheer upon Lewin Murdock's table, with a cheerfulness observable on Mrs Murdock's face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. As Moses lends money on _post obits_, at "shixty per shent," with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of Glyngog, conducted thither by Gregoire Rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible--the treasury of the Vatican. Yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the Wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream. No wonder there is now brightness upon the face of Olympe Renault, so long shadowed. The sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. Splendour, gaiety, volupte, be hers once more, and more than ever! As she stands in the door of Glyngog, looking down the river, at Llangorren, and through the darkness sees the Court with only one or two windows alight--they but in dim glimmer--she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long--when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of that mansion. But as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. From being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. Still standing in the door she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. Not so to-night. She dreads to see him return intoxicated. Though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman's kind, but for reasons purely prudential. These are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:-- "Gregoire must have got off long ere this--at least two hours ago. He said they'd set out soon as it came night. Half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. If he has gone to the Ferry first, and sets to drinking in the Harp? _Cette auberge maudit_. There's no knowing what he may do, or say. Saying would be worse than doing. A word in his cups--a hint of what has happened--might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! And such danger--_l'prise de corps, mon dieu_!" Her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up. "Surely he will not be so stupid--so insane? Sober he can keep secrets well enough--guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. But the Cognac? Hark Footsteps! His I hope." She listens without stirring from the spot. The tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. Were her husband a Frenchman it would be different. But Lewin Murdock, like all English country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. Not as usual however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober! "He isn't such a fool after all!" Her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out-- "_C'est vous, mon mari_?" "Of course it is. Who else could it be? You don't expect the Father, our only visitor, to-night? You'll not see him for several days to come." "He's gone then?" "Two hours ago. By this he should be miles away; unless he and Coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. No unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly." She still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat's being upset. She is thinking of what may have happened at the Welsh Harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her husband could only have been there. She is less anxious however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual coming from the "_auberge maudite_." "Two hours ago they got off, you say?" "About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed." "They did so?" "Oh, yes." "_Le bagage bien arrange_?" "_Parfaitment_; or as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form; nice as ninepence." She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock. Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man--acting as one with some grave affair on his hands-- feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect--resolved on carrying it to completeness. Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:--"Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?" "Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I've spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear." "And what did you hear?" "Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg's is an out of the way corner--none more so on the Wye--and the Llangorren news hasn't reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don't appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere--for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon." "And has there been no search yet?" "Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to." "What are they? You haven't told me." "Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren." "Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?" "I'll tell you after I've had something to eat and drink. You forget, Olympe, where I've been all the day long--under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his house. True, I've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?" "_Entrez_!" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "_Voila_!" He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it--one third the estate of Llangorren. "Well, _ma cherie_," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there's no help for it." "None," she answers with a comprehension of the circumstances--clearer and fuller than his. "We've made the contract, and must abide by it. If broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life. Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, _les Jesuites_--how sharp their claws, and far reaching!" "Confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table's side. He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day's work is over, and he can afford the indulgence. And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them Miss Linton's reasons for having put restraint upon the search. "The old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration, "she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars--if she don't believe it still! Ha, ha, ha. She'll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. _It_ will settle the business!" Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court. Volume Two, Chapter XVIII. IMPATIENT FOR THE POST. Never man looked with more impatience for a post, than Captain Ryecroft for the night mail from the West, its morning delivery in London. It may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life's fate, assuring his happiness or dooming him to misery. And if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same. It is scarce necessary to say, the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in Herefordshire, and posted before leaving the Wyeside Hotel. Twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the Langham, London, where the response, if any, should reach him. He has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. At earliest in the Langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world. It is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-Hussar-officer pacing the tesselated tiles, outside the deputy-manager's moderately-sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier. It seems an inexorable certainty--though a very vexatious one--that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time--as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. Even postmen are not always punctual, as Vivian Ryecroft has reason to know. That amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the Langham till nearly half-past eight. There is a thick fog, and the street flags are "greasy." That would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one. Dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight. With no abatement of impatience Captain Ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted--a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilised nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp collector shed tears of concupiscence. Scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon boles, Ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him--at the same time giving his name. "No, not any," answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter R, and dealing them off as a pack of cards. "Are you quite sure, sir? Pardon me. I intend starting off within the hour, and expecting a letter of some importance, may I ask you to glance over them again?" In all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the Langham. They are in fact types of the highest _hotel civilisation_. Instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under R; soon as completed saying,-- "No, sir; none for the name of Ryecroft." He bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. The negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes--almost irritates him. It is like a blow repeated--a second slap in his face held up in humiliation--after having forgiven the first. He will not so humble himself--never forgive again. This his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel. The steam-packet service between Folkestone and Boulogne is "tidal." Consulting Bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the Charing Cross station, 1. Therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile. How are they to be occupied? He is not in the mood for amusement. Nothing in London could give him that now--neither afford him a moment's gratification. Perhaps in Paris? And he will try. There men have buried their griefs--women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. In the days of Napoleon the Little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the Imperial _regime_ itself. And he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. In his present frame of mind it is possible. Nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion--love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to, in all likelihood never more met! While waiting for the Folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room--in the Langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best. The marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. It is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. Had he won, with Cook, Bennett, or Roberts as his adversary, 'twould have been all the same. Once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly Nicotian. A cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. This brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street. There to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others, affording the highest happiness on earth. For it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at "All Souls" opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. Such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-bedecked, footmen wearing similar favours--an unusually stylish affair. As in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each--even the raggedest--had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite, Captain Ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. For the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession--at its head--followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall. A sigh, succeeded by a half angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him. On the waiter entering, he cries out-- "Call me a cab." "Hansom, sir?" "No! four-wheeler. And this luggage; get down stairs soon as possible." His impediments are all in travelling trim--but a few necessary articles having been unpacked, and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, speedy descent down the lift. A single pipe of Mr Trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the Langham entrance in twenty seconds time; and in twenty more a traveller's luggage however heavy is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside. His departure so accelerated, Captain Ryecroft--who had already settled his bill--is soon seated in the cab, and carried off. But despatch ends on leaving the Langham. The cab being a four-wheeler crawls along like a tortoise. Fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead will be too early for the Folkestone train. He only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive. Shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows. The hour is too early for Regent Street promenaders. Some distraction, if not amusement, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. In burlesque it reminds him of the Wye, and his waterman Wingate! But just then something else recalls the western river, not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. The cab is passing through Leicester Square, one of the lungs of London, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. It is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. Several of them catch the eye of Captain Ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. It is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the St. James's Hall, for some charitable purpose of Welsh speciality. Programme with list of performers. At their head in largest lettering the queen of the eisteddfod:-- Edith Wynne! To him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence, notwithstanding the difference of orthography. It seems like a Nemesis pursuing him! He grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with a clatter, cries out to the cabman,-- "Drive on, Jarvey, or I'll be late for my train! A shilling extra for time." If cabby's arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the Rosinante goes rattling through the narrow defile of Heming's Row, down King William Street, and across the Strand into the Charing Cross station. Volume Two, Chapter XIX. JOURNEY INTERRUPTED. Captain Ryecroft takes a through ticket for Paris, without thought of breaking journey, and in due time reaches Boulogne. Glad to get out of the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies between Folkestone and the French seaport, he loses not a moment in scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape. Having set foot upon French soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage--how he will get the former _vised_ and the latter looked after with the least trouble to himself. It is not his first visit to France, nor is he unacquainted with that country's customs; therefore knows that a "tip" to _sergent de ville_ or _douanier_ will clear away the obstructions in the shortest possible time--quicker if it be a handsome one. Peeling in his pockets for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of friendly tone. "Captain Ryecroft!" it exclaims in a rich rolling brogue, as of Galway. "Is it yourself? By the powers of Moll Kelly, and it is." "Major Mahon!" "That same, old boy. Give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at Delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. A nate thing, and a close shave, wasn't it? But's what brought you to Boulogne?" The question takes the traveller aback. He is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming. "Come, old comrade!" protests the Major, good-naturedly, "that won't do; it isn't satisfactory for bosom friends, as we've been, and still are, I trust. But, maybe, I make too free, asking your business in Boulogne?" "Not at all, Mahon. I have no business in Boulogne; I'm on the way to Paris." "Oh! a pleasure trip, I suppose." "Nothing of the kind. There's no pleasure for me in Paris or anywhere else." "Aha!" ejaculated the Major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, "what's this, old fellow? Something wrong?" "Oh, not much--never mind." The reply is little satisfactory. But seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the Major continues, apologetically-- "Pardon me, Ryecroft. I've no wish to be inquisitive; but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. It isn't your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan't be, so long as you're in my company--if I can help it." "It's very kind of you, Mahon; and for the short time I'm to be with you I'll do the best I can to be cheerful. It shouldn't be a great effort. I suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?" "What train?" "For Paris." "You're not going to Paris now--not this night?" "I am, straight on." "Neither straight nor crooked, _ma bohil_!" "I must." "Why must you? If you don't expect pleasure there, for what should you be in such haste to reach it? Bother, Ryecroft! you'll break your journey here, and stay a few days with me? I can promise you some little amusement. Boulogne isn't such a dull place just now. The smash of Agra and Masterman's, with Overend and Gurney following suite, has sent hither a host of old Indians, both soldiers and civilians. No doubt you'll find many friends among them. There are lots of pretty girls, too--I don't mean natives, but our countrywomen--to whom I'll have much pleasure in presenting you." "Not for the world, Mahon--not one! I have no desire to extend my acquaintance in that way." "What, turned hater, women too. Well, leaving the fair sex on one side, there's half a dozen of the other here--good fellows as ever stretched legs on mahogany. They're strangers to you, I think; but will be delighted to know you, and do their best to make Boulogne agreeable. Come, old boy. You'll stay? Say the word." "I would, Major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. But, I confess, just now I'm not in the mood for making new acquaintance--least of all among my countrymen.--To tell the truth, I'm going to Paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them." "Nonsense! You're not the man to turn _solitaire_, like Simon Stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! Besides, Paris is not the place for that sort of thing. If you're really determined on keeping out of company for awhile--I won't ask why--remain with me, and we'll take strolls along the sea beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the Boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. Come, Ryecroft, don't deny me. It's so long since we've had a day together, I'm dying to talk over old times--recall our _camaraderie_ in India." For the first time in forty-eight hours Captain Ryecroft's countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness--almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its _patois_ recalling childhood's happy days. And as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts--if not a restoration of happiness--is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. What difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in Paris or Boulogne--if find it he can? "I'm booked to Paris," he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself. "Have you a through ticket?" asks the Major, in an odd way. "Of course I have." "Let me have a squint at it?" further questions the other, holding out his hand. "Certainly. Why do you wish that?" "To see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here." "I don't think it will. In fact, I know it don't. They told me so at Charing Cross." "Then they told you what wasn't true. For it does. See here!" What the Major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. They are the fragments of the torn ticket. "Now, old boy! You're booked for Boulogne." The melancholy smile, up to that time on Ryecroft's face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. With cheerfulness for the time restored, he says: "Well, Major, by that you've cost me at at least one pound sterling. But I'll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for--possibly a week." "A month--a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. I've got a snug little compound in the Rue Tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what's better, a keg of the `raal crayther.' Let's along and have a tumbler of it at once. You'll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. Don't wait for your luggage. These Custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. Is it labelled?" "It is; my name's on everything." "Let me have one of your cards." The card is handed to him. "There, Monsieur," he says, turning to a _douanier_, who respectfully salutes, "take this, and see that all the _baggage_ bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. My servant will come for it. _Garcon_!" This to the driver of a _voiture_, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing. Pushing Captain Ryecroft into the back, and following himself, the Major gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne. Volume Two, Chapter XX. HUE AND CRY. The ponies and pet stag on the lawn at Llangorren wonder what it is all about. So different from the garden parties and archery-meetings, of which they have witnessed many a one! Unlike the latter in their quiet stateliness is the excited crowd at the Court this day; still more, from its being chiefly composed of men. There are a few women, also, but not the slender-waisted creatures, in silks and gossamer muslins, who make up an out-door assemblage of the aristocracy. The sturdy dames and robust damsels now rambling over its grounds and gravelled walks are the dwellers in roadside cottages, who at the words "Murdered or Missing," drop brooms upon half-swept floors, leave babies uncared-for in their cradles, and are off to the indicated spot. And such words have gone abroad from Llangorren Court, coupled with the name of its young mistress. Gwen Wynn is missing, if she be not also murdered. It is the second day after her disappearance, as known to the household; and now it is known throughout the neighbourhood, near and far. The slight scandal dreaded by Miss Linton no longer has influence with her. The continued absence of her niece, with the certainty at length reached that she is not in the house of any neighbouring friend, would make concealment of the matter a grave scandal in itself. Besides, since the half-hearted search of yesterday new facts have come to light; for one, the finding of that ring on the floor of the pavilion. It has been identified not only by the finder, but by Eleanor Lees and Miss Linton herself. A rare cluster of brilliants, besides of value, it has more than once received the inspection of these ladies--both knowing the giver, as the nature of the gift. How comes it to have been there in the summer-house? Dropped, of course; but under what circumstances? Questions perplexing, while the thing itself seriously heightens the alarm. No one, however rich or regardless, would fling such precious stones away; above all, gems so bestowed, and, as Miss Lees has reason to know, prized and fondly treasured. The discovery of the engagement ring deepens the mystery instead of doing aught towards its elucidation. But it also strengthens a suspicion, fast becoming belief, that Miss Wynn went not away of her own accord; instead, has been taken. Robbed, too, before being earned off. There were other rings upon her fingers--diamonds, emeralds, and the like. Possibly in the scramble, on the robbers first seizing hold and hastily stripping her, this particular one had slipped through their fingers, fallen to the floor, and so escaped observation. At night and in the darkness, all likely enough. So for a time run the surmises, despite the horrible suggestion attaching to them, almost as a consequence. For if Gwen Wynn had been robbed she may also be murdered. The costly jewels she wore, in rings, bracelets, and chains, worth many hundreds of pounds, may have been the temptation to plunder her; but the plunderers identified, and fearing punishment, would also make away with her person. It may be abduction, but it has now more the look of murder. By midday the alarm has reached its height--the hue and cry is at its loudest. No longer confined to the family and domestics--no more the relatives and intimate friends--people of all classes and kinds take part in it. The pleasure grounds of Llangorren, erst private and sacred as the Garden of the Hesperides, are now trampled by heavy, hobnailed shoes; while men in smocks, slops, and sheepskin gaiters, stride excitedly to and fro, or stand in groups, all wearing the same expression on their features--that of a sincere, honest anxiety, with a fear some sinister mischance has overtaken Miss Wynn. Many a young farmer is there who has ridden beside her in the hunting-field, often behind her no-ways nettled by her giving him the "lead;" instead, admiring her courage and style of taking fences over which, on his cart nag, he dares not follow--enthusiastically proclaiming her "pluck" at markets, race meetings, and other gatherings wherever came up talk of "Tally-ho." Besides those on the ground drawn thither by sympathetic friendship, and others the idly curious, still others are there in the exercise of official duty. Several magistrates have arrived at Llangorren, among them Sir George Shenstone, chairman of the district bench; the police superintendent also, with several of his blue-coated subordinates. There is a man present about whom remark is made, and who attracts more attention than either justice of the peace or policeman. It is a circumstance unprecedented--a strange sight, indeed--Lewin Murdock at the Court! He is there, nevertheless, taking an active part in the proceedings. It seems natural enough to those who but know him to be the cousin of the missing lady, ignorant of the long family estrangement. Only to intimate friends is there aught singular in his behaving as he now does. But to these, on reflection, his behaviour is quite comprehensible. They construe it differently from the others--the outside spectators. More than one of them, observing the anxious expression upon his face, believe it but a semblance--a mask to hide the satisfaction within his heart--to become joy if Gwen Wynn be found--dead. It is not a thing to be spoken of openly, and no one so speaks of it. The construction put upon Lewin Murdock's motives is confined to the few; for only a few know how much he is interested in the upshot of that search. Again it is set on foot, but not as on the day preceding. Now no mad rushing to and fro of mere physical demonstration. This day there is due deliberation; a council held, composed of the magistrates and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, aided by a lawyer or two, and the talents of an experienced detective. As on the day before, the premises are inspected, the grounds gone over, the fields traversed, the woods as well, while parties proceed up and down the river, and along both sides of the backwash. The eyot also is quartered, and carefully explored from end to end. As yet the drag has not been called into requisition; the deep flood, with a swift, strong current preventing it. Partly that, but as much because the searchers do not as yet believe--cannot realise the fact-- that Gwendoline Wynn is dead, and her body at the bottom of the Wye! Robbed and drowned! Surely it cannot be? Equally incredible that she has drowned herself. Suicide is not thought of--incredible under the circumstances. A third supposition, that she has been the victim of revenge--of a jealous lover's spite--seems alike untenable. She, the heiress, owner of the vast Llangorren estates, to be so dealt with--pitched into the river like some poor cottage girl, who has quarrelled with a brutal sweetheart! The thing is preposterous! And yet this very thing begins to receive credence in the minds of many--of more, as new facts are developed by the magisterial enquiry, carried on inside the house. There a strange chapter of evidence comes out, or rather is elicited. Miss Linton's maid, Clarisse, is the author of it. This sportive creature confesses to having been out on the grounds as the ball was breaking up; and, lingering there till after the latest guest had taken departure, heard high voices, speaking as in anger. They came from the direction of the summer-house, and she recognised them as those of Mademoiselle and Le Capitaine--by the latter meaning Captain Ryecroft. Startling testimony this, when taken in connection with the strayed ring: collateral to the ugly suspicion the latter had already conjured up. Nor is the _femme de chambre_ telling any untruth. She was in the grounds at that same hour, and heard the voices as affirmed. She had gone down to the boat-dock in the hope of having a word with the handsome waterman; and returned from it reluctantly, finding he had betaken himself to his boat. She does not thus state her reason for so being abroad, but gives a different one. She was merely out to have a look at the illumination-- the lamps and transparencies, still unextinguished--all natural enough. And questioned as to why she said nothing of it on the day before, her answer is equally evasive. Partly that she did not suppose the thing worth speaking of, and partly because she did not like to let people know that Mademoiselle had been behaving in that way--quarrelling with a gentleman. In the flood of light just let in, no one any longer thinks that Miss Wynn has been robbed; though it may be that she has suffered something worse. What for could have been the angry words? And the quarrel; how did it end? And now the name Ryecroft is on every tongue, no longer in cautious whisperings, but loudly pronounced. Why is he not here? His absence is strange, unaccountable, under the circumstances. To none seeming more so than to those holding counsel inside, who have been made acquainted with the character of that waif--the gift ring--told he was the giver. He cannot be ignorant of what is passing at Llangorren. True, the hotel where he sojourns is in a town five miles off; but the affair has long since found its way thither, and the streets are full of it. "I think we had better send for him," observes Sir George Shenstone to his brother justices. "What say you, gentlemen?" "Certainly; of course," is the unanimous rejoinder. "And the waterman, too?" queries another. "It appears that Captain Ryecroft came to the ball in a boat. Does anyone know who was his boatman?" "A fellow named Wingate" is the answer given by young Shenstone. "He lives by the roadside, up the river, near Bugg's Ferry." "Possibly he may be here, outside," says Sir George. "Go see!" This to one of the policemen at the door, who hurries off. Almost immediately to return--told by the people that Jack Wingate is not among them. "That's strange, too!" remarks one of the magistrates. "Both should be brought hither at once--if they don't choose to come willingly." "Oh!" exclaims Sir George, "they'll come willingly," no doubt. Let a policeman be despatched for "Wingate. As for Captain Ryecroft, don't you think gentlemen, it would be only politeness to summon him in a different way. Suppose I write a note requesting his presence, with explanations?" "That will be better," say several assenting. This note is written, and a groom gallops off with it; while a policeman on foot makes his way to the cottage of the Widow Wingate. Nothing new transpires in their absence; but on their return--both arriving about the same time--the agitation is intense. For both come back unaccompanied; the groom bringing the report that Captain Ryecroft is no longer at the hotel--had left it on the day before by the first train for London! The policeman's tale is, that Jack Wingate went off on the same day, and about the same early hour; not by rail to London, but in his boat, down the river to the Bristol Channel! Within less than a hour after a police officer is despatched to Chepstow, and further if need be; while the detective, with one of the gentlemen accompanying, takes the next train for the metropolis. Volume Two, Chapter XXI. BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. Major Mahon is a soldier of the rollicking Irish type--good company as ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under the canvas of a tent. Brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve dangling down by his side. This same token almost proclaims that he is no longer in the army. For he is not--having left it disabled at the close of the Indian Mutiny: after the relief of Lucknow, where he also parted with his arm. He is not rich; one reason for his being in Boulogne--convenient place for men of moderate means. There he has rented a house, in which for nearly a twelvemonth he has been residing: a small domicile, _meuble_. Still, large enough for his needs: for the Major, though nigh forty years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not carried out the intention. As a bachelor in the French watering-place, his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants--far better than if it were in an English one. But economy is not his only reason for sojourning in Boulogne. There is another alike creditable to him, or more. He has a sister, much younger than himself, receiving education there; an only sister, for whom he feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her. For all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency. Her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a _pensionnaire_. All these matters are made known to Captain Ryecroft on the day after his arrival at Boulogne. Not in the morning. It has been spent in promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the _jetee_, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, _l'Establissement de Bains_, ending in an hour or two passed at the "cercle" of which the Major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrade, against all protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen "good fellows as ever stretched legs under mahogany." It is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the Major's own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the _Haute Ville_, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the exuberant frankness of the Hibernian heart. Ryecroft, though Irish himself, is of less communicative nature. A native of Dublin, he has Saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the Major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to Paris. He essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows: "What a time it seems, Ryecroft, since you and I have been together--an age! And yet, if I'm not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. Yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. You remember, we met at the `Bag,' and dined there, with Russel, of the Artillery." "Of course I remember it." "I've seen Russel since; about three months ago, when I was over in England. And by the way, 'twas from him I last heard of yourself." "What had he to say about me?" "Only that you were somewhere down west--on the Wye I think--salmon fishing. I know you were always good at casting a fly." "That all he said?" "Well, no;" admits the Major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other's face. "There was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation." "What, may I ask?" "That you'd been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish--a big one, besides--and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you'd captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. Come, old boy! Don't be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?" "Is what true?" asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence. "That you've caught the richest heiress in Herefordshire, or she you, or each the other, as Russel had it, and which is best for both of you. Down on your knees, Ryecroft! Confess!" "Major Mahon! If you wish me to remain your guest for another night-- another hour--you'll not ask me aught about that affair nor even name it. In time I may tell you all; but now to speak of it gives me a pain which even you, one of my oldest, and I believe, truest friends cannot fully understand." "I can at least understand that it's something serious." The inference is drawn less from Ryecroft's words than their tone and the look of utter desolation which accompanies them. "But," continues the Major, greatly moved, "you'll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive? I promise not to press you any more. So let's drop the subject, and speak of something else." "What then?" asks Ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning. "My little sister, if you like. I call her little because she was so when I went out to India. She's now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as flattering friends say, a great beauty. What's better, she's good. You see that building below?" They are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the _enceinte_ of the ancient _cite_. A slope in warlike days serving as the _glacis_, now occupied by dwellings, some of them pretentious, with gardens attached. That which the Major points to is one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man upon stilts of the Landes country could look over. "I see--what of it!" asks the ex-Hussar. "It's the convent where Kate is at school--the prison in which she's confined, I might better say," he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more serious than jocular. It need scarce be said that Major Mahon is a Roman Catholic. His sister being in such a seminary is evidence of that. But he is not bigoted, as Ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark. His old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of it, only observing-- "A very fine mansion it appears--walks, shade trees, arbours, fountains. I had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. They ought to live happily in such a pretty place. But then, shut up, domineered over, coerced, as I've heard they are--ah, liberty! It's the only thing that makes the world worth living in." "Ditto, say I. I echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. If I didn't I might have been long ago a Benedict, with a millstone around my neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the grindstone pattern--in piccaninnies. Instead, I'm free as the breezes, and by the Moll Kelly, intend remaining so!" The Major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. But this is not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a tender one. Perceiving it so, Mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation, remarking-- "It's beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. Suppose we saunter down to the Cercle, and have a game of billiards!" "If it be all the same to you, Mahon, I'd rather not go there to night." "Oh! it's all the same to me. Let us home, then, and warm up with a tumbler of whisky toddy. There were orders left for the kettle to be kept on the boil. I see you still want cheering, and there's nothing will do that like a drop of the _crather_. _Allons_!" Without resisting, Ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart. From the point where they descended the shortest way to the Rue Tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. One of these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which Miss Mahon is at school. As they approach it a _fiacre_ is standing in front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare--a traveller. There is a lamp, and by its light, dim nevertheless, they see that luggage is being taken inside. Some one on a visit to the Convent, or returning after absence. Nothing strange in all that; and neither of the two men make remark upon it, but keep on. Just however, as they are passing the back, about to drive off again, Captain Ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face inside it which causes him to start. "What is it?" asks the Major, who feels the spasmodic movement--the two walking arm-in-arm. "Well! if it wasn't that I am in Boulogne instead of on the banks of the river Wye, I'd swear that I saw a man inside that doorway whom I met not many days ago in the shire of Hereford." "What sort of a man?" "A priest!" "Oh! black's no mark among sheep. The _pretres_ are all alike, as peas or policemen. I'm often puzzled myself to tell one from t'other." Satisfied with this explanation, the ex-Hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the Rue Tintelleries. Entering his house, the Major calls for "matayrials," and they sit down to the steaming punch. But before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for "Captain Ryecroft." The entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this. "Who can be asking for me?" queries Ryecroft, looking towards his host. The Major cannot tell--cannot think--who. But the answer is given by his Irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to Captain Ryecroft, saying:-- "It's for you, yer honner." The name on the card is-- "Mr George Shenstone." Volume Two, Chapter XXII. WHAT DOES HE WANT? "Mr George Shenstone?" queries Captain Ryecroft, reading from the card. "George Shenstone!" he repeats with a look of blank astonishment--"What the deuce does it mean?" "Does what mean?" asks the Major, catching the other's surprise. "Why, this gentleman being here. You see that?" He tosses the card across the table. "Well; what of it?" "Read the name!" "Mr George Shenstone. Don't know the man. Haven't the most distant idea who he is. Have you?" "O, yes." "Old acquaintance; friend, I presume? No enemy, I hope?" "If it be the son of a Sir George Shenstone, of Herefordshire, I can't call him either friend or enemy; and as I know nobody else of the name, I suppose it must be he. If so, what he wants with me is a question I can no more answer than the man in the moon. I must get the answer from himself. Can I take the liberty of asking him into your house, Mahon?" "Certainly, my dear boy! Bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us." "Thanks, Major!" interrupts Ryecroft. "But no, I'd prefer first having a word with him alone. Instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me." "O ho!" ejaculates the Major. "Murtagh!" to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, "show the gentleman into the drawing-room." "Mr Shenstone and I," proceeds Ryecroft in explanation, "have but the very slightest acquaintance. I've only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball--a private one--just three nights ago. 'Twas that very morning I met the priest, I supposed we'd seen up there. 'Twould seem as if everybody on the Wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into France." "Ha--ha--ha! About the _pretre_, no doubt you're mistaken. And maybe this isn't your man, either. The same name, you're sure!" "Quite. The Herefordshire baronet's son is George, as his father, to whose title he is heir. I never heard of his having any other--" "Stay!" interrupts the Major, again glancing at the card, "here's something to help identification--an address--_Ormeston Hall_." "Ah! I didn't observe that." In his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. "Ormeston Hall? Yes, I remember, Sir George's residence is so called. Of course it's the son--must be." "But why do you think he means fight? Something happened between you, eh?" "No; nothing between us, directly." "Ah! Indirectly, then? Of course the old trouble--a woman." "Well; if it be fighting the fellow's after, I suppose it must be about that," slowly rejoins Ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. Now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain George Shenstone has come after him on the part of Miss Wynn. The thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims-- "By Heavens! he shall have what he wants. But I mustn't keep him waiting. Give me that card, Major!" The Major returns it to him, coolly observing-- "If it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, I can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in Boulogne. You haven't told me what your quarrel's about; but from what I know of you, Ryecroft, I take it you're in the right, and you can count on me as a second. Lucky it's my left wing that's clipped. With the right I can shoot straight as ever--should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair." "Thanks, Mahon! You're just the man I'd have asked such a favour from." "The gentleman's inside the dhrawin-room, surr." This from the ex-Royal Irish, who has again presented himself, saluting. "Don't yield the _Sassenach_ an inch?" counsels the Major, a little of the old Celtic hostility stirring within him. "If he demand explanations, hand him over to me. I'll give them to his satisfaction. So, old fellow, be firm!" "Never fear!" returns Ryecroft, as he steps out to receive the unexpected visitor, whose business with him he fully believes to have reference to Gwendoline Wynn. And so has it. But not in the sense he anticipates, nor about the scene on which his thoughts have dwelt. George Shenstone is not there to call him to account for angry words, or rudeness of behaviour. Something more serious; since it was the baronet's son who left Llangorren Court in company with the plain clothes policeman. The latter is still along with him; though not inside the house. He is standing upon the street at a convenient distance; though not with any expectation of being called in, or required for any farther service now, professionally. Holding no writ, nor the right to serve such if he had it, his action hitherto has been simply to assist Mr Shenstone in finding the man suspected of either abduction or murder. But as neither crime is yet proved to have been committed, much less brought home to him, the English policeman has no further errand in Boulogne--while the English gentleman now feels that his is almost as idle and aimless. The impulse which carried him thither, though honourable and gallant, was begot in the heat of blind passion. Gwen Wynn having no brother, he determined to take the place of one, his father not saying nay. And so resolved he had set out to seek the supposed criminal, "interview" him, and then act according to the circumstances, as they should develop themselves. In the finding of his man he has experienced no difficulty. Luggage labelled "Langham Hotel, London," gave him hot scent, as far as the grand _caravanserai_ at the bottom of Portland Place. Beyond it was equally fresh, and lifted with like ease. The traveller's traps re-directed at the Langham "Paris _via_ Folkestone and Boulogne"--the new address there noted by porters and traffic manager--was indication sufficient to guide George Shenstone across the Channel; and cross it he did by the next day's packet for Boulogne. Arrived in the French seaport, he would have gone straight on to Paris-- had he been alone. But accompanied by the policeman the result was different. This--an old dog of the detective breed--soon as setting foot on French soil, went sniffing about among _serjents de ville_ and _douaniers_, the upshot of his investigations being to bring the chase to an abrupt termination--he finding that the game had gone no further. In short, from information received at the Custom House, Captain Ryecroft was run to earth in the Rue Tintelleries, under the roof of Major Mahon. And now that George Shenstone is himself under it, having sent in his card, and been ushered into the drawing-room, he does not feel at his ease; instead greatly embarrassed. Not from any personal fear; he has too much "pluck" for that. It is a sense of delicacy, consequent upon some dread of wrong doing. What, after all, if his suspicions prove groundless, and it turn out that Captain Ryecroft is entirely innocent? His heart, torn by sorrow, exasperated with anger, starting away from Herefordshire he did not thus interrogate. Then he supposed himself in pursuit of an abductor, who, when overtaken, would be found in the company of the abducted. But, meanwhile, both his suspicions and sentiments have undergone a change. How could they otherwise? He pursued, has been travelling openly and without any disguise, leaving traces at every turn and deflection of his route, plain as fingerposts! A man guilty of aught illegal--much more one who has committed a capital crime--would not be acting thus? Besides, Captain Ryecroft has been journeying alone, unaccompanied by man or woman; no one seen with him until meeting his friend, Major Mahon, on the packet landing at Boulogne! No wonder that Mr Shenstone, now _au fait_ to all this--easily ascertained along the route of travel--feels that his errand is an awkward one. Embarrassed when ringing Major Mahon's door bell, he is still more so inside that room, while awaiting the man to whom his card has been taken. For he has intruded himself into the house of a gentleman a perfect stranger to himself--to call his guest to account! The act is inexcusable, rude almost to grotesqueness! But there are other circumstances attendant, of themselves unpleasant enough. The thing he has been tracking up is no timid hare, or cowardly fox; but a man, a soldier, gentleman as himself, who, like a tiger of the jungles, may turn upon and tear him. It is no thought of this, no craven fear which makes him pace Major Mahon's drawing-room floor so excitedly. His agitation is due to a different and nobler cause--the sensibility of the gentleman, with the dread of shame, should he find himself mistaken. But he has a consoling thought. Prompted by honour and affection, he embarked in the affair, and still urged by them he will carry it to the conclusion _coute que coute_. Volume Two, Chapter XXIII. A GUAGE D'AMOUR. Pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, Shenstone at length makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself--there is no fire in the grate--nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. His steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantelshelf; a sparkling object--in short a cigar-case of the beaded pattern. Why should that attract the attention of the young Herefordshire squire, causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? In his lifetime he has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance. But it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he has, that he now stands gazing at it; on the instant after reaching towards, and taking it up. Ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case--he is now sure as he holds it in hand, turning it over and over--seen it before its embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on, cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging them in rows and figures--two hearts central transfixed by a barbed and feathered shaft--all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was never shown him. Many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might be for himself. Now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by the initials Y.R. entwined in monogram, and the words underneath "From Gwen." Three days ago, the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest pain. Not so now. After being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no pledge, could move him to further emotion. He but tosses the headed thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself. Still the little incident is not without effect. It restores his firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. This is still further strengthened, as Ryecroft enters the room, and he looks upon the man who has caused him so much misery. A man feared but not hated--for Shenstone's noble nature and generous disposition hinder him from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities of his rival. A rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would dare even the devil. No tremor in his frame; no unsteadfastness in the glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open door, and with the card in hand, coming towards him. Long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and distant, they coldly salute. Holding out the card Ryecroft says interrogatively-- "Is this meant for me, Mr Shenstone?" "Yes." "Some matter of business, I presume. May I ask what it is?" The formal inquiry, in tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter as upon his haunches. At the same time its evident cynicism stings him to a blunt if not rude rejoinder. "I want to know--what you have done with Miss Wynn." He so challenged starts aback, turning pale. And looking distraught at his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the personal pronoun changed-- "What I have done with Miss Wynn!" Then adding, "Pray explain yourself, sir!" "Come, Captain Ryecroft; you know what I allude to?" "For the life of me I don't." "Do you mean to say you're not aware of what's happened?" "What's happened! When? Where?" "At Llangorren, the night of that hall. You were present; I saw you." "And I saw you, Mr Shenstone. But you don't tell me what happened." "Not at the hall, but after." "Well, and what after?" "Captain Ryecroft, you're either an innocent man, or, the most guilty on the face of the earth." "Stop, sir! Language like yours requires justification, of the gravest kind. I ask an explanation--demand it!" Thus brought to bay, George Shenstone looks straight in the face of the man he has so savagely assailed; there to see neither consciousness of guilt, nor fear of punishment. Instead, honest surprise mingled with keen apprehension; the last not on his own account, but hers of whom they are speaking. Intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear, he says, or thinks to himself: "This man knows nothing of Gwendoline Wynn. If she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered, he is not her murderer." "Captain Ryecroft," he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the revulsion of feeling almost choking him, "if I've been wronging you I ask forgiveness; and you'll forgive. For if I have, you do not--cannot know what has occurred." "I've told you I don't," affirms Ryecroft, now certain that the other speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had himself been thinking of. "For Heaven's sake, Mr Shenstone, explain! What _has_ occurred there?" "Miss Wynn is gone away!" "Miss Wynn gone away! But whither?" "Nobody knows. All that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of the ball, without telling any one--no trace left behind--except--" "Except what?" "A ring--a diamond cluster. I found it myself in the summer-house. You know the place--you know the ring too?" "I do, Mr Shenstone; have reasons, painful ones. But I am not called upon to give them now, nor to you. What could it mean?" he adds, speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off. It connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! "But, sir; please proceed! For God's sake, keep nothing back--tell me everything!" Thus appealed to, Shenstone answers by giving an account of what has occurred at Llangorren Court--all that had transpired previous to his leaving; and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in Boulogne. The manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the other's guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions he had entertained. "Mr Shenstone," returns Ryecroft, "you ask what I am ready and willing to grant--God knows how ready, how willing. If any misfortune has befallen her we are speaking of, however great your grief, it cannot be greater than mine." Shenstone is convinced. Ryecroft's speech, his looks, his whole bearing, are those of a man not only guiltless of wrong to Gwendoline Wynn, but one who, on her account, feels anxiety keen as his own. He stays not to question further; but once more making apologies for his intrusion--which are accepted without anger--he bows himself back into the street. The business of his travelling companion in Boulogne was over some time ago. His is now equally ended; and though without having thrown any new light on the mystery of Miss Wynn's disappearance, still with some satisfaction to himself, he dares not dwell upon. Where is the man who would not rather know his sweetheart dead than see her in the arms of a rival? However ignoble the feeling, or base to entertain it, it is natural to the human heart tortured by jealousy. Too natural, as George Shenstone that night knows, with head tossing upon a sleepless pillow. Too late to catch the Folkestone packet, his bed is in Boulogne--no bed of roses but a couch Procrustean. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Meanwhile, Captain Ryecroft returns to the room where his friend the Major has been awaiting him. Impatiently, though not in the interim unemployed; as evinced by a flat mahogany box upon the table, and beside it a brace of duelling pistols, which have evidently been submitted to examination. They are the "best barkers that can be got in Boulogne." "We shan't need them, Major, after all." "The devil we shan't! He's shown the white feather?" "No, Mahon; instead, proved himself as brave a fellow as ever stood before sword point, or dared pistol bullet?" "Then there's no trouble between you?" "Ah! yes, trouble; but not between us. Sorrow shared by both. We're in the same boat." "In that case, why didn't you bring him in?" "I didn't think of it." "Well; we'll drink his health. And since you say you've both embarked in the same boat--a bad one--here's to your reaching a good haven, and in safety!" "Thanks, Major! The haven I now want to reach, and intend entering ere another sun sets, is the harbour of Folkestone." The Major almost drops his glass. "Why, Ryecroft, you're surely joking?" "No, Mahon; I'm in earnest--dead anxious earnest." "Well, I wonder! No, I don't," he adds, correcting himself. "A man needn't be surprised at anything where there's a woman concerned. May the devil take her, who's taking you away from me!" "Major Mahon!" "Well--well, old boy! Don't be angry. I meant nothing personal, knowing neither the lady, nor the reason for thus changing your mind, and so soon leaving me. Let my sorrow at that be my excuse." "You shall be told it, this night--now!" In another hour Major Mahon is in possession of all that relates to Gwendoline Wynn, known to Vivian Ryecroft; no more wondering at the anxiety of his guest to get back to England; nor doing aught to detain him. Instead, he counsels his immediate return; accompanies him to the first morning packet for Folkestone; and at the parting hand-shake again reminds him of that well-timed grip in the ditch of Delhi, exclaiming-- "God bless you, old boy! Whatever the upshot, remember you've a friend, and a bit of a tent to shelter you in Boulogne--not forgetting a little comfort from the _crayther_!" Volume Two, Chapter XXIV. SUICIDE, OR MURDER. Two more days have passed, and the crowd collected at Llangorren Court is larger than ever. But it is not now scattered, nor are people rushing excitedly about; instead, they stand thickly packed in a close clump, which covers all the carriage sweep in front of the house. For the search is over, the lost one has at length been found. Found, when the flood subsided, and the drag could do its work--_found drowned_! Not far away, nor yet in the main river; but that narrow channel, deep and dark, inside the eyot. In a little angular embayment at the cliff's base, almost directly under the summer-house was the body discovered. It came to the surface soon as touched by the grappling iron, which caught in the loose drapery around it. Left alone for another day it would have risen of itself. Taken out of the water, and borne away to the house, it is now lying in the entrance-hall, upon a long table there set centrally. The hall, though a spacious one, is filled with people; and but for two policemen stationed at the door would be densely crowded. These have orders to admit only the friends and intimates of the family, with those whose duty requires them to be there officially. There is again a council in deliberation; but not as on days preceding. Then it was to inquire into what had become of Gwendoline Wynn, and whether she were still alive; to-day, it is an inquest being held over her dead body! There lies it, just as it came out of the water. But, oh! how unlike what it was before being submerged! Those gossamer things, silks and laces--the dress worn by her at the ball--no more floating and feather-like, but saturated, mud-stained, "clinging like cerements" around a form whose statuesque outlines, even in death, show the perfection of female beauty. And her chrome yellow hair, cast in loose coils about, has lost its silken gloss, and grown darker in hue: while the rich rose red is gone from her cheeks, already swollen and discoloured; so soon had the ruthless water commenced its ravages! No one would know Gwen Wynn now. Seeing that form prostrate and pulseless, who could believe it the same, which but a few nights before was there moving about, erect, lissome, and majestic? Or in that face, dark and disfigured, who could recognise the once radiant countenance of Llangorren's young heiress? Sad to contemplate those mute motionless lips, so late wreathed with smiles, and speaking pleasant words! And those eyes, dulled with "muddy impurity," that so short while ago shone bright and gladsome, rejoicing in the gaiety of youth and the glory of beauty--sparkling, flashing, conquering! All is different now; her hair dishevelled, her dress disordered and dripping, the only things upon her person unchanged being the rings on her fingers, the wrist bracelets, the locket still pendant to her neck-- all gemmed and gleaming as ever, the impure water affecting not their costly purity. And their presence has a significance, proclaiming an important fact, soon to be considered. The Coroner, summoned in haste, has got upon the ground, selected his jury, and gone through the formularies for commencing the inquest. These over, the first point to be established is the identification of the body. There is little difficulty in this; and it is solely through routine, and for form's sake, that the aunt of the deceased lady, her cousin, the lady's-maid, and one or two other domestics are submitted to examination. All testify to their belief that the body before them is that of Gwendoline Wynn. Miss Linton, after giving her testimony, is borne off to her room in hysterics; while Eleanor Lees is led away weeping. Then succeeds inquiry as to how the death has been brought about; whether it be a case of suicide or assassination? If murder the motive cannot have been robbery. The jewellery, of grand value, forbids the supposition of this, checking all conjecture. And if suicide, why? That Miss Wynn should have taken her own life--made away with herself-- is equally impossible of belief. Some time is occupied in the investigation of facts, and drawing deductions. Witnesses of all classes and kinds thought worth the calling are called and questioned. Everything already known, or rumoured, is gone over again, till at length they arrive at the relations of Captain Ryecroft with the drowned lady. They are brought out in various ways, and by different witnesses; but only assume a sinister aspect in the eyes of the jury, on their hearing the tale of the French _femme de chambre_--strengthened, almost confirmed, by the incident of that ring found on the floor of the summer-house. The finder is not there to tell how; but Miss Linton, Miss Lees, and Mr Musgrave, vouch for the fact at second hand. The one most wanted is Vivian Ryecroft himself, and next to him the waterman Wingate. Neither has yet made appearance at Llangorren, nor has either been heard of. The policeman sent after the last has returned to report a bootless expedition. No word of the boatman at Chepstow, nor anywhere else down the river. And no wonder there is not; since young Powell and his friends have taken Jack's boat beyond the river's mouth--duck-shooting along the shores of the Severn sea--there camping out, and sleeping in places far from towns, or stations of the rural constabulary. And the first is not yet expected--cannot be. From London George Shenstone had telegraphed:--"Captain Ryecroft gone to Paris, where he (Shenstone) would follow him." There has been no _telegram_ later to know whether the followed has been found. Even if he have, there has not been time for return from the French metropolis. Just as this conclusion has been reached by the coroner, his jury, the justices, and other gentlemen interested in and assisting at the investigation inside the hall, to the surprise of those on the sweep without, George Shenstone presents himself in their midst; their excited movement with the murmur of voices proclaiming his advent. Still greater their astonishment when, shortly after--within a few seconds-- Captain Ryecroft steps upon the same ground, as though the two had come thither in companionship! And so might it have been believed, but for two hotel hackneys seen drawn up on the drive outside the skirts of the crowd where they delivered their respective fares, after having brought them separately from the railway station. Fellow travellers they have been, but whether friends or not, the people are surprised at the manner of their arrival; or rather, at seeing Captain Ryecroft so present himself. For in the days just past he has been the subject of a horrid suspicion, with the usual guesses and conjectures relating to it and him. Not only has he been freely calumniated, but doubts thrown out that Ryecroft is his real name, and denial of his being an officer of the army, or ever having been; with bold, positive asseveration that he is a swindler and adventurer! All that while Gwen Wynn was but missing. Now that her body is found, since its discovery, still harsher have been the terms applied to him; at length, to culminate, in calling him a murderer! Instead of voluntarily presenting himself at Llangorren alone, arms and limbs free, they expected to see him--if seen at all--with a policeman by his side, and manacles on his wrists! Astonished, also, are those within the hall, though in a milder degree, and from different causes. They did not look for the man to be brought before them handcuffed; but no more did they anticipate seeing him enter almost simultaneously, and side by side, with George Shenstone; they, not having the hackney carriages in sight, taking it for granted that the two have been travelling together. However strange or incongruous the companionship, those noting have no time to reflect about it; their attention being called to a scene that, for a while, fixes and engrosses it. Going wider apart as they approach the table, on which lies the body, Shenstone and Ryecroft take opposite sides--coming to a stand, each in his own attitude. From information already imparted to them they have been prepared to see a corpse, but not such as that! Where is the beautiful woman, by both beloved, fondly, passionately? Can it be possible, that what they are looking upon is she who once was Gwendoline Wynn? Whatever their reflections, or whether alike, neither makes them known in words. Instead, both stand speechless, stunned--withered-like, as two strong trees simultaneously scathed by lightning--the bolt which has blasted them lying between! Volume Two, Chapter XXV. A PLENTIFUL CORRESPONDENCE. If Captain Ryecroft's sudden departure from Herefordshire brought suspicion upon him, his reappearance goes far to remove it. For that this is voluntary soon becomes known. The returned policeman has communicated the fact to his fellow-professionals, it is by them further disseminated among the people assembled outside. From the same source other information is obtained in favour of the man they have been so rashly and gravely accusing. The time of his starting off, the mode of making his journey, without any attempt to conceal his route of travel or cover his tracks--instead, leaving them so marked that any messenger, even the simplest, might have followed and found him. Only a fool fleeing from justice would have so fled, or one seeking to escape punishment for some trivial offence. But not a man guilty of murder. Besides, is he not back there--come of his own accord--to confront his accusers, if any there still be? So runs the reasoning throughout the crowd on the carriage sweep. With the gentlemen inside the house, equally complete is the revolution of sentiment in his favour. For, after the first violent outburst of grief, young Shenstone, in a few whispered words, makes known to them the particulars of his expedition to Boulogne, with that interview in the house of Major Mahon. Himself convinced of his rival's innocence, he urges his conviction on the others. But before their eyes is a sight almost confirmatory of it. That look of concentrated anguish in Captain Ryecroft's eyes cannot be counterfeit. A soldier who sheds tears could not be an assassin; and as he stands in bent attitude, leaning over the table on which lies the corpse, tears are seen stealing down his cheeks, while his bosom rises and falls in quick, convulsive heaving. Shenstone is himself very similarly affected, and the bystanders beholding them are convinced that, in whatever way Gwendoline Wynn may have come by her death, the one is innocent of it as the other. For all, justice requires that the accusations already made, or menaced, against Captain Ryecroft be cleared up. Indeed, he himself demands this, for he is aware of the rumours that have been abroad about him. On this account he is called upon by the Coroner to state what he knows concerning the melancholy subject of their enquiry. But first George Shenstone is examined--as it were by way of skirmish, and to approach, in a manner delicate as possible, the man mainly, though doubtingly accused. The baronet's son, beginning with the night of the ball--the fatal night--tells how he danced repeatedly with Miss Wynn; between two sets walked out with her over the lawn, stopped, and stood for some time under a certain tree, where in conversation she made known to him the fact of her being betrothed by showing him the engagement ring. She did not say who gave it, but he surmised it to be Captain Ryecroft--was sure of its being he--even without the evidence of the engraved initials afterwards observed by him inside it. As it has already been identified by others, he is only asked to state the circumstances under which he found it. Which he does, telling how he picked it up from the floor of the summer-house; but without alluding to his own motives for being there, or acting as he has throughout. As he is not questioned about these, why should he? But there are many hearing him who guess them--not a few quite comprehending all. George Shenstone's mad love for Miss Wynn has been no secret, neither his pursuit of her for many long months, however hopeless it might have seemed to the initiated. His melancholy bearing now, which does not escape observation, would of itself tell the tale. His testimony makes ready the ground for him who is looked upon less in the light of a witness than as one accused, by some once more, and more than ever so. For there are those present who not only were at the ball, but noticed that triangular byplay upon which Shenstone's tale, without his intending it, has thrown a sinister light. Alongside the story of Clarisse, there seems to have been motive, almost enough for murder. An engagement angrily broken off--an actual quarrel--Gwendoline Wynn never afterwards seen alive! That quarrel, too, by the water's edge, on a cliff at whose base her body has been found! Strange-- altogether improbable--that she should have drowned herself. Far easier to believe that he, her _fiance_, in a moment of mad, headlong passion, prompted by fell jealousy, had hurled her over the high bank. Against this returned current of adverse sentiment, Captain Ryecroft is called upon to give his account, and state all he knows. What he will say is weighted with heavy consequences to himself. It may leave him at liberty to depart from the spot voluntarily, as he came, or be taken from it in custody. But he is yet free, and so left to tell his tale, no one interrupting. And without circumlocution he tells it, concealing nought that may be needed for its comprehension--not even his delicate relations to the unfortunate lady. He confesses his love--his proposal of marriage--its acceptance--the bestowal of the ring--his jealousy and its cause--the ebullition of angry words between him and his betrothed--the so-called quarrel--her returning the ring, with the way, and why he did not take it back--because at that painful crisis be neither thought of nor cared for such a trifle. Then parting with, and leaving her within the pavilion, he hastened away to his boat, and was rowed off. But, while passing up stream, he again caught sight of her, still standing in the summer-house, apparently leaning upon, and looking over, its baluster rail. His boat moving on, and trees coming between he no more saw her; but soon after heard a cry--his waterman as well--startling both. It is a new statement in evidence, which startles those listening to him. He could not comprehend, and cannot explain it; though now knowing it must have been the voice of Gwendoline Wynn--perhaps her last utterance in life. He had commanded his boatman to hold way, and they dropped back down stream again to get within sight of the summer-house, but then to see it dark, and to all appearance deserted. Afterwards he proceeded home to his hotel, there to sit up for the remainder of the night, packing and otherwise preparing for his journey--of itself a consequence of the angry parting with his betrothed, and the pledge so slightingly returned. In the morning he wrote to her, directing the letter to be dropped into the post office; which he knew to have been done before his leaving the hotel for the railway station. "Has any letter reached Llangorren Court?" enquires the Coroner, turning from the witness, and putting the question in a general way. "I mean for Miss Wynn--since the night of that ball?" The butler present, stepping forward, answers in the affirmative, saying-- "There are a good many for Miss Gwen since--some almost coming in every post." Although there is, or was, but one Miss Gwen Wynn at Llangorren, the head servant, as the others, from habit calls her `Miss Gwen,' speaking of her as if she were still alive. "It is your place to look after the letters, I believe?" "Yes; I attend to that." "What have you done with those addressed to Miss Wynn?" "I gave them to Gibbons, Miss Gwen's lady's-maid." "Let Gibbons be called again!" directs the Coroner. The girl is brought in the second time, having been already examined at some length, and, as before, confessing her neglect of duty. "Mr Williams," proceeds the examiner, "gave you some letters for your late mistress. What have you done with them?" "I took them upstairs to Miss Gwen's room." "Are they there still?" "Yes; on the dressing table, where she always had the letters left for her." "Be good enough to bring them down here. Bring all." Another pause in the proceedings while Gibbons is off after the now posthumous correspondence of the deceased lady, during which whisperings are interchanged between the Coroner and jurymen, asking questions of one another. They relate to a circumstance seeming strange; that nothing has been said about these letters before--at least to those engaged in the investigation. The explanation, however, is given--a reason evident and easily understood. They have seen the state of mind in which the two ladies of the establishment are--Miss Linton almost beside herself, Eleanor Lees not far from the same. In the excitement of occurrences neither has given thought to letters, even having forgotten the one which so occupied their attention on that day when Gwen was missed from her seat at the breakfast table. It might not have been seen by them then, but for Gibbons not being in the way to take it upstairs as usual. These facts, or rather deductions, are informal, and discussed while the maid is absent on her errand. She is gone but for a few seconds, returning, waiter in hand, with a pile of letters upon it, which she presents in the orthodox fashion. Counted there are more than a dozen of them, the deceased lady having largely corresponded. A general favourite--to say nothing of her youth, beauty, and riches--she had friends far and near; and, as the butler had stated, letters coming by "almost every post"--that but once a day, however, Llangorren lying far from a postal town, and having but one daily delivery. Those upon the tray are from ladies, as can be told by the delicate angular chirography--all except two, that show a rounder and bolder hand. In the presence of her to whom they were addressed-- now speechless and unprotesting--no breach of confidence to open them. One after another their envelopes are torn off, and they are submitted to the jury--those of the lady correspondents first. Not to be deliberately read, but only glanced at, to see if they contain aught relating to the matter in hand. Still, it takes time; and would more were they all of the same pattern--double sheets, with the scrip crossed, and full to the four corners. Fortunately, but a few of them are thus prolix and puzzling; the greater number being notes about the late ball, birthday congratulations, invitations to "at homes," dinner-parties, and such like. Recognising their character, and that they have no relation to the subject of inquiry, the jurymen pass them through their fingers speedily as possible, and then turn with greater expectancy to the two in masculine handwriting. These the Coroner has meanwhile opened, and read to himself, finding one signed "George Shenstone," the other "Vivian Ryecroft." Nobody present is surprised to hear that one of the letters is Ryecroft's. They have been expecting it so. But not that the other is from the son of Sir George Shenstone. A word, however, from the young man himself explains how it came there, leaving the epistle to tell its own tale. For as both undoubtedly bear upon the matter of inquiry, the Coroner has directed both to be read aloud. Whether by chance or otherwise, that of Shenstone is taken first. It is headed-- "Ormeston Hall, 4 a.m., Apres le bal." The date, thus oddly indicated, seems to tell of the writer being in better spirits than might have been expected just at that time; possibly from a still lingering belief that all is not yet hopeless with him. Something of the same runs through the tone of his letter, if not its contents, which are-- "Dear Gwen,--I've got home, but can't turn in without writing you a word, to say that, however sad I feel at what you've told me--and sad I am, God knows--if you think I shouldn't come near you any more--and from what I noticed last night, perhaps I ought not--only say so, and I will not. Your slightest word will be a command to one who, though no longer hoping to have your hand, will still hope and pray for your happiness. That one is,-- "Yours devotedly, if despairingly,-- "George Shenstone. "P.S.--Do not take the trouble of writing an answer. I would rather get it from your lips; and that you may have the opportunity of so giving it, I will call at the Court in the afternoon. Then you can say whether it is to be my last visit there.--G.S." The writer, present and listening, bravely bears himself. It is a terrible infliction, nevertheless, having his love secret thus revealed, his heart, as it were, laid open before all the world. But he is too sad to feel it now; and makes no remark, save a word or two explanatory, in answer to questions from the Coroner. Nor are any comments made upon the letter itself. All are too anxious as to the contents of that other, bearing the signature of the man who is to most of them a stranger. It carries the address of the hotel in which he has been all summer sojourning, and its date is only an hour or two later than that of Shenstone's. No doubt, at the self-same moment the two men were pondering upon the words they intended writing to Gwendoline Wynn--she who now can never read them. Very different in spirit are their epistles, unlike as the men themselves. But, so too, are the circumstances that dictated them, that of Ryecroft reads thus:-- "Gwendoline,--While you are reading this I shall be on my way to London, where I shall stay to receive your answer--if you think it worth while to give one. After parting as we've done, possibly you will not. When you so scornfully cast away that little love-token it told me a tale--I may say a bitter one--that you never really regarded the gift, nor cared for the giver. Is that true, Gwendoline? If not, and I am wronging you, may God forgive me. And I would crave your forgiveness; entreat you to let me replace the ring upon your finger. But if true--and you know best--then you can take it up--supposing it is still upon the floor where you flung it--fling it into the river, and forget him who gave it. "Vivian Ryecroft." To this half-doubting, half-defiant epistle there is also a postscript:-- "I shall be at the Langham Hotel, London, till to-morrow noon; where your answer, if any, will reach me. Should none come, I shall conclude that all is ended between us, and henceforth you will neither need, nor desire, to know my address. "Y.R." The contents of the letter make a vivid impression on all present. Its tone of earnestness, almost anger, could not be assumed or pretended. Beyond doubt, it was written under the circumstances stated; and, taken in conjunction with the writer's statement of other events, given in such a clear, straightforward manner, there is again complete revulsion of feeling in his favour, and once more a full belief in his innocence. Which questioning him by cross-examination fails to shake, instead strengthens; and, when, at length, having given explanation of everything, he is permitted to take his place among the spectators and mourners, it is with little fear of being dragged away from Llangorren Court in the character of a criminal. Volume Two, Chapter XXVI. FOUND DROWNED. As a pack of hounds thrown off the scent, but a moment before hot, now cold, are the Coroner and his jury. But only in one sense like the dogs these human searchers. There is nothing of the sleuth in their search, and they are but too glad to find the game they have been pursuing and lost is a noble stag, instead of a treacherous wicked wolf. Not a doubt remains in their minds of the innocence of Captain Ryecroft--not the shadow of one. If there were, it is soon to be dissipated. For while they are deliberating on what had best next be done, a noise outside, a buzz of voices, excited exclamations, at length culminating in a cheer, tell of some one fresh arrived and received triumphantly. They are not left long to conjecture who the new arrival is. One of the policemen stationed at the door stepping aside tells who--the man after Captain Ryecroft himself most wanted. No need saying it is Jack Wingate. But a word about how the waterman has come thither, arriving at such a time, and why not sooner. It is all in a nutshell. But the hour before he returned from the duck-shooting expedition on the shores of the Severn sea, with his boat brought back by road--on a donkey cart. On arrival at his home, and hearing of the great event at Llangorren, he had launched his skiff, leaped into it, and pulled himself down to the Court as if rowing in a regatta. In the _patois_ of the American prairies he is now "arrove," and, still panting for breath, is brought before the Coroner's Court, and submitted to examination. His testimony confirms that of his old fare--in every particular about which he can testify. All the more credible is it from his own character. The young waterman is well known as a man of veracity--incapable of bearing false witness. When he tells them that after the Captain had joined him, and was still with him in the boat, he not only saw a lady in the little house overhead, but recognised her as the young mistress of Llangorren--when he positively swears to the fact--no one any more thinks that she whose body lies dead was drowned or otherwise injured by the man standing bowed and broken over it. Least of all the other, who alike suffers and sorrows. For soon as Wingate has finished giving evidence, George Shenstone steps forward, and holding out his hand to his late rival, says, in the hearing of all-- "Forgive me, sir, for having wronged you by suspicion! I now make reparation for it in the only way I can--by declaring that I believe you as innocent as myself." The generous behaviour of the baronet's son strikes home to every heart, and his example is imitated by others. Hands from every side are stretched towards that of the stranger, giving it a grasp which tells of their owners being also convinced of his innocence. But the inquest is not yet ended--not for hours. Over the dead body of one in social rank as she, no mere perfunctory investigation would satisfy the public demand, nor would any Coroner dare to withdraw till everything has been thoroughly sifted, and to the bottom. In view of the new facts brought out by Captain Ryecroft and his boatman--above all that cry heard by them--suspicions of foul play are rife as ever, though no longer pointed at him. As everything in the shape of verbal testimony worth taking has been taken, the Coroner calls upon his jury to go with him to the place where the body was taken out of the water. Leaving it in charge of two policemen, they sally forth from the house two and two, he preceding, the crowd pressing close. First they visit the little dock, in which they see two boats--the _Gwendoline_ and _Mary_--lying just as they were on that night when Captain Ryecroft stepped across the one to take his seat in the other. He is with the Coroner--so is Wingate--and both questioned give minute account of that embarkation, again in brief _resume_ going over the circumstances that preceded and followed it. The next move is to the summer-house, to which the distance from the dock is noted, one of the jurymen stepping it--the object to discover how time will correspond to the incidents as detailed. Not that there is any doubt about the truth of Captain Ryecroft's statements, nor those of the boatman; for both are fully believed. The measuring is only to assist in making calculation how long time may have intervened between the lovers' quarrel and the death-like cry, without thought of their having any connection--much less that the one was either cause or consequence of the other. Again there is consultation at the summer-house, with questions asked, some of which are answered by George Shenstone, who shows the spot where he picked up the ring. And outside, standing on the cliff's brink, Ryecroft and the waterman point to the place, near as they can fix it, where their boat was when the sad sound reached their ears, again recounting what they did after. Remaining a while longer on the cliff, the Coroner and jury, with craned necks, look over its edge. Directly below is the little embayment in which the body was found. It is angular, somewhat horse-shoe shaped; the water within stagnant, which accounts for the corpse not having been swept away. There is not much current in the backwash at any part; enough to have carried it off had the drowning been done elsewhere. But beyond doubt it has been there. Such is the conclusion arrived at by the Coroner's jury, firmly established in their minds, at sight of something hitherto unnoticed by them. For though not in a body, individually each had already inspected the place, negligently. But now in official form, with wits on the alert, one looking over detects certain abrasions on the face of the cliff--scratches on the red sandstone--distinguishable by the fresher tint of the rock-- unquestionably made by something that had fallen from above, and what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? They see, moreover, some branches of a juniper bush near the cliff's base, broken, but still clinging. Through that the falling form must have descended! There is no further doubting the fact. There went she over; the only questions undetermined being, whether with her own will, by misadventure, or man's violence. In other words, was it suicide, accident, or murder? To the last many circumstances point, and especially the fact of the body remaining where it went into the water. A woman being drowned accidentally, or drowning herself, in the death struggle would have worked away some distance from the spot she had fallen, or thrown herself in. Still the same would occur if thrown in by another; only that this other might by some means have extinguished life beforehand. This last thought, or surmise, carries Coroner and jury back to the house, and to a more particular examination of the body. In which they are assisted by medical men--surgeons and physicians--several of both being present, unofficially; among them the one who administers to the ailings of Miss Linton. There is none of them who has attended Gwendoline Wynn, who never knew ailment of any kind. Their _post-mortem_ examining does not extend to dissection. There is no need. Without it there are tests which tell the cause of death--that of drowning. Beyond this they can throw no light on the affair, which remains mysterious as ever. Flung back on reasoning of the analytical kind, the Coroner and his jury can come to no other conclusion than that the first plunge into the water, in whatever way made, was almost instantly fatal; and if a struggle followed it ended by the body returning to, and sinking in the same place where it first went down. Among the people outside pass many surmises, guesses, and conjectures. Suspicions also, but no more pointing to Captain Ryecroft. They take another, and more natural, direction. Still nothing has transpired to inculpate any one, or, in the finding of a Coroner's jury, connect man or woman with it. This is at length pronounced in the usual formula, with its customary tag:--"Found Drowned. But how, etc, etc." With such ambiguous rendering the once beautiful body of Gwendoline Wynn is consigned to a coffin, and in due time deposited in the family vault, under the chancel of Llangorren Church. Volume Two, Chapter XXVII. A MAN WHO THINKS IT MURDER. Had Gwendoline Wynn been a poor cottage girl, instead of a rich young lady--owner of estates--the world would soon have ceased to think of her. As it is most people have settled down to the belief that she has simply been the victim of a misadventure, her death due to accident. Only a few have other thoughts, but none that she has committed suicide. The theory of _felo de se_ is not entertained, because not entertainable. For, in addition to the testimony taken at the Coroner's inquest, other facts came out in examination by the magistrates, showing there was no adequate reason why she should put an end to her life. A lover's quarrel of a night's, still less an hour's duration, could not so result. And that there was nothing beyond this Miss Linton is able to say assuredly. Still more Eleanor Lees, who, by confidences exchanged, and mutually imparted, was perfectly _au fait_ to the feelings of her relative and friend--knew her hopes, and her fears, and that among the last there was none to justify the deed of despair. Doubts now and then, for when and where is love without them; but with Gwen Wynn slight, evanescent as the clouds in a summer sky. She was satisfied that Vivian Ryecroft loved her, as that she herself lived. How could it be otherwise? and her behaviour on the night of the ball was only a transient spite which would have passed off soon as the excitement was over, and calm reflection returned. Altogether impossible she could have given way to it so far as in wilful rage to take the last leap into eternity. More likely standing on the cliff's edge, anxiously straining her eyes after the boat which was bearing him away in anger, her foot slipped upon the rock, and she fell over into the flood. So argues Eleanor Lees, and such is the almost universal belief at the close of the inquest, and for some time after. And if not self-destruction, no more could it be murder with a view to robbery. The valuable effects left untouched upon her person forbade supposition of that. If murder, the motive must have been other than the possession of a few hundred pounds' worth of jewellery. So reasons the world at large, naturally enough. For all, there are a few who still cling to a suspicion of there having been foul play; but not now with any reference to Captain Ryecroft. Nor are they the same who had suspected him. Those yet doubting the accidental death are the intimate friends of the Wynn family, who knew of its affairs relating to the property with the conditions on which the Llangorren estates were held. Up to this time only a limited number of individuals has been aware of their descent to Lewin Murdock. And when at length this fact comes out, and still more emphatically by the gentleman himself taking possession of them, the thoughts of the people revert to the mystery of Miss Wynn's death, so unsatisfactory cleared up at the Coroner's inquest. Still the suspicions thus newly aroused, and pointing in another quarter, are confined to those acquainted with the character of the new man suspected. Nor are they many. Beyond the obscure corner of Bugg's Ferry there are few who have ever heard of, still fewer ever seen him. Outside the pale of "society," with most part of his life passed abroad, he is a stranger, not only to the gentry of the neighbourhood, but most of the common people as well. Jack Wingate chanced to have heard of him by reason of his proximity to Bugg's Ferry, and his own necessity for oft going there. But possibly as much on the account of the intimate relations existing between the owner of Glyngog House and Coracle Dick. Others less interested know little of either individual, and when it is told that a Mr Lewin Murdock has succeeded to the estates of Llangorren--at the same time it becoming known that he is the cousin of her whom death has deprived of them--to the general public the succession seems natural enough; since it has been long understood that the lady had no nearer relative. Therefore, only the few intimately familiar with the facts relating to the reversion of the property held fast to the suspicion thus excited. But as no word came out, either at the inquest or elsewhere, and nothing has since arisen to justify it, they also begin to share the universal belief, that for the death of Gwendoline Wynn nobody is to blame. Even George Shenstone, sorely grieving, accepts it thus. Of unsuspicious nature--incapable of believing in a crime so terrible--a deed so dark, as that would infer--he cannot suppose that the gentleman now his nearest neighbour--for the lands of Llangorren adjoin those of his father--has come into possession of them by such foul means as murder. His father may think differently, he knowing more of Lewin Murdock. Not much of his late life, but his earlier, with its surroundings and antecedents. Still Sir George is silent, whatever his thoughts. It is not a subject to be lightly spoken of, or rashly commented upon. There is one who, more than any other, reflects upon the sad fate of her whom he had so fondly loved, and differing from the rest as to how she came to her death--this one is Captain Ryecroft. He, too, might have yielded to the popular impression of its having been accidental, but for certain circumstances that have come to his knowledge, and which he has yet kept to himself. He had not forgotten what was, at an early period, communicated to him by the waterman Wingate, about the odd-looking old house up the glen; nor yet the uneasy manner of Gwendoline Wynn, when once in conversation with her he referred to the place and its occupier. This, with Jack's original story, and other details added, besides incidents that have since transpired, are recalled to him vividly on hearing that the owner of Glyngog has also become owner of Llangorren. It is some time before this news reaches him. For just after the inquest an important matter had arisen affecting some property of his own, which required his presence in Dublin--there for days detaining him. Having settled it, he has returned to the same town and hotel where he had been the summer sojourning. Nor came he back on errand aimless, but with a purpose. Ill-satisfied with the finding of the Coroner's jury, he is determined to investigate the affair in his own way. Accident he does not believe in--least of all, that the lady having made a false step, had fallen over the cliff. When he last saw her she was inside the pavilion, leaning over the baluster rail, breast high; protected by it. If gazing after him and his boat, the position gave her as good a view as she could have. Why should she have gone outside? And the cry heard so soon after? It was not like that of one falling, and so far. In descent it would have been repeated, which it was not! Of suicide he has never entertained a thought--above all, for the reason suggested--jealousy of himself. How could he, while so keenly suffering it for her! No, it could not be that; nor suicide from any cause. The more he ponders upon it, the surer grows he that Gwendoline Wynn has been the victim of a villainous murder. And it is for this reason he has returned to the Wye, first to satisfy himself of the fact; then, if possible, to find the perpetrator, and bring him to justice. As no robber has done the drowning, conjecture is narrowed to a point; his suspicions finally becoming fixed on Lewin Murdock. He may be mistaken, but will not surrender them until he find evidence of their being erroneous, or proof that they are correct. And to obtain it he will devote, if need be, all the rest of his days, with the remainder of his fortune. For what are either now to him? In life he has had but one love, real, and reaching the height of a passion. She who inspired it is now sleeping her last sleep--lying cold in her tomb-- his love and memory of her alone remaining warm. His grief has been great, but its first wild throes have passed and he can reflect calmly--more carefully consider, what he should do. From the first some thoughts about Murdock were in his mind; still only vague. Now, on returning to Herefordshire, and hearing what has happened meanwhile--for during his absence there has been a removal from Glyngog to Llangorren--the occurrence, so suggestive, restores his former train of reflection, placing things in a clearer light. As the hunter, hitherto pursuing upon a cold trail, is excited by finding the slot fresher, so he. And so will he follow it to the end-- the last trace or sign. For no game, however grand--elephant, lion, or tiger--could attract like that he believes himself to be after--a human tiger--a murderer. END OF VOLUME TWO. Volume Three, Chapter I. ONCE MORE UPON THE RIVER. Nowhere in England, perhaps nowhere in Europe, is the autumnal foliage more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the Wye, where it runs through the shire of Hereford. There Vaga threads her way amid woods that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the famed American forests. The beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose-colours along their edges, and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit. Here and there along the high-pitched hill sides flecks of crimson proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the year, daring winter's frosts, and defying its snows. It is autumn now, and the woods of the Wye have donned its dress; no livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen, its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. Brown October elsewhere, is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of the beholder. Instead, the gaudy tapestry hanging from the trees, and the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. Still further is it rejoiced by sounds heard. For the woods of Wyeside are not voiceless, even in winter. Within them the birds ever sing, and although their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,--lacking its leading tenor, the nightingale--still is it alike vociferous and alike splendidly attuned. Bold as ever is the flageolet note of the blackbird; not less loud and sweet the carol of his shyer cousin the thrush; as erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth unabated the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue, prehensile as human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its insect prey. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ October it is; and where the Wye's silver stream, like a grand glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. There are two men in it; one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. The same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and similarly occupied. For he at the oars is Jack Wingate, the steerer Captain Ryecroft. Little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the generous donor for a fare. He has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. Too glad once more to sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-a-vis_ with the Captain, it would ill become him to be inquisitive. Besides, there is a feeling of solemnity in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts of both, and holding speech in restraint. All he knows is that his old fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing business. For it is twilight. His excursion has a different object; but what the boatman cannot tell. No inference could be drawn from the laconic order he received at embarking. "Row me down the river, Jack!" distance and all else left undefined. And down Jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing between them. Both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank. Yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only the memory of one different and less pleasant. For they are thinking of cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in their memory. Ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,-- "This must be about the place where we heard it." Although not a word has been said of what the "it" is, and the remark seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, Wingate well knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:-- "It's the very spot, Captain." "Ah! you know it?" "I do--am sure. You see that big poplar standing on the bank there?" "Yes; well?" "We wor just abreast o' it when ye bid me hold way. In course we must a heard the screech just then." "Hold way now! Pull back a length or two. Steady her. Keep opposite the tree!" The boatman obeys; first pulling the back stroke, then staying his craft against the current. Once more relapsing into silence, Ryecroft sends his gaze down stream, as though noting the distance to Llangorren Court, whose chimneys are visible in the moonlight now on. Then, as if satisfied with some mental observation, he directs the other to row off. But as the kiosk-like structure comes within sight, he orders another pause, while making a minute survey of the summer-house, and the stretch of water between. Part of this is the main channel of the river, the other portion being the narrow way behind the eyot; on approaching which the pavilion is again lost to view, hidden by a tope of tall trees. But once within the bye-way it can be again sighted; and when near the entrance to this the waterman gets the word to pull into it. He is somewhat surprised at receiving this direction. It is the way to Llangorren Court, by the boat-stair, and he knows the people now living there are not friends of his fare--not even acquaintances, so far as he has heard. Surely the Captain is not going to call on Mr Lewin Murdock--in amicable intercourse? So queries Jack Wingate, but only of himself, and without receiving answer. One way or other he will soon get it; and thus consoling himself, he rows on into the narrower channel. Not much farther before getting convinced that the Captain has no intention of making a call at the Court, nor is the _Mary_ to enter that little dock, where more than once she has lain moored beside the _Gwendoline_. When opposite the summer-house he is once more commanded to bring to, with the intimation added: "I'm not going any farther, Jack." Jack ceases stroke, and again holds the skiff so as to hinder it from drifting. Ryecroft sits with eyes turned towards the cliff, taking in its facade from base to summit, as though engaged in a geological study, or trigonometrical calculation. The waterman, for a while wondering what it is all about, soon begins to have a glimmer of comprehension. It is clearer when he is directed to scull the boat up into the little cove where the body was found. Soon as he has her steadied inside it, close up against the cliff's base, Ryecroft draws out a small lamp, and lights it. He then rises to his feet, and leaning forward, lays hold of a projecting point of rock. On that resting his hand, he continues for some time regarding the scratches on its surface, supposed to have been made by the feet of the drowned lady in her downward descent. Where he stands they are close to his eyes, and he can trace them from commencement to termination. And so doing, a shadow of doubt is seen to steal over his face, as though he doubted the finding of the Coroner's jury, and the belief of every one that Gwendoline Wynn had there fallen over. Bending lower, and examining the broken branches of the juniper, he doubts no more, but is sure--convinced of the contrary! Jack Wingate sees him start back with a strange surprised look, at the same time exclaiming,-- "I thought as much! No accident!--no suicide--murdered!" Still wondering, the waterman asks no questions. Whatever it may mean, he expects to be told in time, and is therefore patient. His patience is not tried by having to stay much longer there. Only a few moments more, during which Ryecroft bends over the boat's side, takes the juniper twigs in his hand, one after the other, raises them up as they were before being broken, then lets them gently down again! To his companion he says nothing to explain this apparently eccentric manipulation, leaving Jack to guesses. Only when it is over, and he is apparently satisfied, or with observation exhausted, giving the order,-- "Way, Wingate! Row back--up the river!" With alacrity the waterman obeys; but too glad to get out of that shadowy passage. For a weird feeling is upon him, as he remembers how there the screech owls mournfully cried, as if to make him sadder when thinking of his own lost love. Moving out into the main channel and on up stream, Ryecroft is once more silent and musing. But on reaching the place from which the pavilion can be again sighted, he turns round on the thwart and looks back. It startles him to see a form under the shadow of its roof--a woman!--how different from that he last saw there! The ex-cocotte of Paris--faded flower of the Jardin Mabille--has replaced the fresh beautiful blossom of Wyeside--blighted in its bloom! Volume Three, Chapter II. THE CRUSHED JUNIPER. Notwithstanding the caution with which Captain Ryecroft made his reconnaissance, it was nevertheless observed. And from beginning to end. Before his boat drew near the end of the eyot, above the place where for the second time it had stopped, it came under the eye of a man who chanced to be standing on the cliff by the side of the summer-house. That he was there by accident, or at all events not looking out for a boat could be told by his behaviour on first sighting this; neither by change of attitude nor glance of eye evincing any interest in it. His reflection is-- "Some fellows after salmon, I suppose. Have been up to that famous catching place by the Ferry, and are on the way home downward--to Rock Weir, no doubt? Ha!" The ejaculation is drawn from him by seeing the boat come to a stop, and remain stationary in the middle of the stream. "What's that for?" he asks himself, now more carefully examining the craft. It is still full four hundred yards from him, but the moonlight being in his favour he makes it out to be a pair-oared skiff with two men in it. "They don't seem to be dropping a net," he observes, "nor engaged about anything. That's odd!" Before they came to a stop he heard a murmur of voices, as of speech, a few words, exchanged between them, but too distant for him to distinguish what they had said. Now they are silent, sitting without stir; only a slight movement in the arms of the oarsman to keep the boat in its place. All this seems strange to him observing: not less when a flood of moonlight brighter than usual falls over the boat, and he can tell by the attitude of the man in the stern, with face turned upward, that he is regarding the structure on the cliff. He is not himself standing beside it now. Soon as becoming interested by the behaviour of the men in the boat, from its seeming eccentricity, he had glided back behind a bush, and there now crouches, an instinct prompting him to conceal himself. Soon after he sees the boat moving on, and then for a few seconds it is out of sight, again coming under his view near the upper end of the islet, evidently setting in for the old channel. And while he watches, it enters! As this is a sort of private way, the eyot itself being an adjunct of the ornamental grounds of Llangorren, he wonders whose boat it can be, and what its business there. By the backwash it must be making for the dock and stair; the men in it, or one of them, for the Court. While still surprisedly conjecturing, his ears admonish him that the oars are at rest, and another stoppage has taken place. He cannot see the skiff now, as the high bank hinders. Besides, the narrow passage is arcaded over by trees still in thick foliage; and, though the moon is shining brightly above, scarce a ray reaches the surface of the water. But an occasional creak of an oar in its rowlock, and some words spoken in low tone--so low he cannot make them out--tell him that the stoppage is directly opposite the spot where he is crouching--as predatory animal in wait for its prey. What was at first mere curiosity, and then matter of but slight surprise, is now an object of keen solicitude. For of all places in the world, to him there is none invested with greater interest than that where the boat has been brought to. Why has it stopped there? Why is it staying? For he can tell it is by the silence continuing. Above all, who are the men in it? He asks these questions of himself, but does not stay to reason out the answers. He will best get them by his eyes; and to obtain sight of the skiff and its occupants, he glides a little way along the cliff, looking out for a convenient spot. Finding one, he drops first to his knees, then upon all fours, and crawls out to its edge. Craning his head over, but cautiously, and with a care it shall be under cover of some fern leaves, he has a view of the water below, with the boat on it--only indistinct on account of the obscurity. He can make out the figures of the two men, though not their faces, nor anything by which he may identify them--if already known. But he sees that which helps to a conjecture, at the same sharpening his apprehensions. The boat once more in motion, not moving off, but up into the little cove, where a dead body late lay! Then, as one of the men strikes a match and sets light to a lamp, lighting up his own face with that of the other opposite, he on the bank above at length recognises both. But it is no longer a surprise to him. The presence of the skiff there, the movements of the men in it--like his own, evidently under restraint and stealthy--have prepared him for seeing whom he now sees--Captain Ryecroft and the waterman Wingate. Still he cannot think of what they are after, though he has his suspicions; the place, with something only known to himself, suggesting them--conjecture at first soon becoming certainty, as he sees the ex-officer of Hussars rise to his feet, hold his lamp close to the cliff's face, and inspect the abrasions on the rock! He is not more certain, but only more apprehensive, when the crushed juniper twigs are taken in hand, examined, and let go again. For he has by this divined the object of it all. If any doubt lingered, it is set at rest by the exclamatory words following, which, though but muttered, reach him on the cliff above, heard clear enough-- "No accident--no suicide--murdered!" They carry tremor to his heart, making him feel as a fox that hears the tongue of hound on its track. Still distant, but for all causing it fear, and driving it to think of subterfuge. And of this thinks he, as he lies with his face among the ferns; ponders upon it till the boat has passed back up the dark passage out into the river, and he hears the last light dipping of its oars in the far distance. He even forgets a woman, for whom he was waiting at the summer-house, and who there without finding him has flitted off again. At length rising to his feet, and going a little way, he too gets into a boat--one he finds, with oars aboard, down in the dock. It is not the _Gwendoline_--she is gone. Seating himself on the mid thwart, he takes up the oars, and pulls towards the place lately occupied by the skiff of the waterman. When inside the cove he lights a match, and holds it close to the face of the rock where Ryecroft held his lamp. It burns out and he draws a second across the sand paper; this to show him the broken branches of the juniper, which he also takes in hand and examines. Soon also dropping them, with a look of surprise, followed by the exclamatory phrases-- "Prodigiously strange! I see his drift now. Cunning fellow! On the track he has discovered the trick, and 'twill need another trick to throw him off it. This bush must be uprooted--destroyed." He is in the act of grasping the juniper to pluck it out by the roots. A dwarf thing, this could be easily done. But a thought stays him-- another precautionary forecast, as evinced by his words-- "That won't do." After repeating them, he drops back on the boat's thwart, and sits for a while considering, with eyes turned toward the cliff, ranging it up and down. "Ah!" he exclaims at length, "the very thing; as if the devil himself had fixed it for me! That _will_ do; smash the bush to atoms--blot out everything, as if an earthquake had gone over Llangorren." While thus oddly soliloquising, his eyes are still turned upward, apparently regarding a ledge which, almost loose as a boulder, projects from the bank above. It is directly over the juniper, and if detached from its bed, as it easily might be, would go crashing down, carrying the bush with it. And that same night it does go down. When the morning sun lights up the cliff, there is seen a breakage upon its face just underneath the summer-house. Of course, a landslip, caused by the late rains acting on the decomposed sandstone. But the juniper bush is no longer there; it is gone, root and branch! Volume Three, Chapter III. REASONING BY ANALYSIS. Captain Ryecroft's start at seeing: a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. When he last saw his betrothed alive it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude--leaning over the baluster rail. Besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. He has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her. The incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent; in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. His thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. An important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived, almost proving it correct. Of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. Nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. Before deciding they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. But with their first impression unaltered--or only strengthened-- that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. And what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? Living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. Hence the ambiguity of their verdict. Very different the result reached by Captain Ryecroft after viewing the same. In his Indian campaigns the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the "Light," had his share of scouting experience. It enables him to read "sign" with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff's face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came _down_, since they had been _made from below_! And by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. Then the branches of the juniper. Soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken _inward_, their drooping tops turned _toward_ the cliff, not _from_ it! A falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! Everything indicated their having been crushed from below; not by the same boat's oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it! It was on reaching this conclusion that Captain Ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart. And upon it the ex-officer of Hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream. Since the command given to Wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above--though the other has observed it also. Facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. But the bearing of the Captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections. These are: that Gwendoline Wynn has been surely assassinated: though not by being thrown over the cliff. Possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found--conveyed thither after life was extinct! The scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead; as it had misled everybody but himself. To him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood--done by the hand of another. "No accident--no suicide--murdered!" He is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. The last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. To such a man as he has heard Lewin Murdock to be, an estate worth 10,000 pounds a-year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. Ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal--bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. It may be difficult, impossible; but he will do his best. Embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue--pondering upon it. He is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. He is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. A false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. For this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself; not having given a hint of it to any one. From Jack Wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. Instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. That the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted. First, to find out what Jack's own thoughts are about the whole thing. For since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. Only a few words on the day of the inquest; when Captain Ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind. Once more opposite the poplar he directs the skiff to be brought to. Which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball; apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is. For a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. But no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the Llangorren grounds. The summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it. The waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,--"Don't you believe, Wingate, the cry came from above--I mean from the top of the cliff?" "I'm a'most sure it did. I thought at the time it comed from higher ground still--the house itself. You remember my sayin' so, Captain; and that I took it to be some o' the sarvint girls shoutin' up there?" "I do remember--you did. It was not, alas! But their mistress." "Yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! We now know that." "Think back, Jack! Recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted--everything. Can you?" "I can, an' do. I could all but fancy I hear it now!" "Well; did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff--by accident or otherwise?" "It didn't; an' I don't yet believe it wor--accydent or no accydent." "No! What are your reasons for doubting it?" "Why, if it had been a woman eyther fallin' over or flung, she'd a gied tongue a second time--aye, a good many times--'fore getting silenced. It must a been into the water; an' people don't drown at the first goin' down. She'd a riz to the surface once, if not twice; an' screeched sure. We couldn't a helped hearin' it. Ye remember, Captain, 'twor dead calm for a spell, just precedin' the thunderstorm. When that cry come ye might a heerd the leap o' a trout a quarter mile off. But it worn't repeated--not so much as a mutter." "Quite true. But what do you conclude from its not having been?" "That she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o' somebody when she did it, an' wor silenced instant by bein' choked or smothered; same as they say's done by them scoundrels called garotters." "You said nothing of this at the inquest?" "No, I didn't; for several reasons. One, I wor so took by surprise, just home, an' hearin' what had happened. Besides, the crowner didn't question me on my feelins--only about the facts o' the case. I answered all his questions, clear as I could remember, an' far's I then understood things. But not as I understand them now." "Ah! You have learnt something since?" "Not a thing, Captain. Only what I've been thinkin' o'--by rememberin' a circumstance I'd forgot." "What?" "Well; whiles I wor sittin' in the skiff that night, waitin' for you to come, I heerd a sound different from the hootin' o' them owls." "Indeed! What sort of sound?" "The plashing o' oars. There wor sartin another boat about there, besides this one." "In what direction did you hear them?" "From above. It must ha' been that way. If't had been a boat gone up from below, I'd ha' noticed the stroke again, across the strip o' island. But I didn't." "The same if one had passed on down." "Just so; an' for that reason I now believe it wor comin' down, an' stopped; somewhere just outside the backwash." An item of intelligence new to the Captain, as it is significant. He recalls the hour--between two and three o'clock in the morning. What boat could have been there but his own? And if other, what its business? "You're quite sure there was a boat, Wingate?" he asks, after a pause. "The oars o' one--that I'm quite sure o'. An' where there's smoke fire can't be far off. Yes, Captain, there wor a boat about there. I'm willin' to swear to it." "Have you any idea whose?" "Well, no; only some conjecters. First hearin' the oar, I wor under the idea it might be Dick Dempsey, out salmon stealin'. But at the second plunge I could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. They gied but two or three strokes, an' then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an' there layed." "You don't think it was Dick and his coracle, then?" "I'm sure it worn't the coracle, but ain't so sure about its not bein' him. 'Stead, from what happened that night, an's been a' happenin' ever since, I b'lieve he wor one o' the men in that boat." "You think there were others?" "I do--leastways suspect it." "And who do you suspect besides?" "For one, him as used live up there, but's now livin' in Llangorren." They have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the Cuckoo's Glen, going on. It is to Glyngog House Wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows--for it is untenanted. "You mean Mr Murdock?" "The same, Captain. Though he worn't at the ball, as I've heerd say-- and might a' know'd without tellin'--I've got an idea he beant far off when 'twor breakin' up. An' there wor another there, too, beside Dick Dempsey." "A third! Who?" "He as lives a bit further above." "You mean--?" "The French priest. Them three ain't often far apart; an' if I beant astray in my recknin', they were mighty close thegither that same night, an' nigh Llangorren Court. They're all in, or about, it now--the precious tribang--an' I'd bet big they've got foot in there by the foulest o' foul play. Yes, Captain; sure as we be sittin' in this boat, she as owned the place ha' been murdered--the men as done it bein' Lewin Murdock, Dick Dempsey, and the Roman priest o' Rogues!" Volume Three, Chapter IV. A SUSPICIOUS CRAFT. To the waterman's unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, Captain Ryecroft makes no rejoinder. The last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him. And on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the Llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. For it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself--a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of; but now recalled with vivid distinctness. All the more as he listens to the conjectures of Wingate--about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be. The number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. The time as well; since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. The place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman--rather confirming it. On his way to the Court--his black dress kerseymere protected by India-rubber overalls--Ryecroft, as known, had ridden to Wingate's house, and was thence rowed to Llangorren. His going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. The prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. Besides, his calls at the Court were usually made in the same way; his custom being to ride as far as the Wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. Between his town and the waterman's house there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one which follows the trend of the stream along its edge where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. This, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route Captain Ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to Wingate's cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the Wyeside. In addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him; since only at rare intervals is house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. Even where it passes Rugg's Ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterises it. For this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream; all save the chapel, and the priest's house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees. With the topography of this plan he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. For on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past Rugg's, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. He had got a little beyond the crossing of the Ford road, where it leads out from the river--himself on the other going downwards--when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. The sky at the time moonless he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it--the thing itself being stationary. Despite the obscurity he could make them out to be men, busied around a boat. Something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner--too cautious for honesty--prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. He had himself no need to take precautions for concealment; the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches; arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern. Nor was he called upon to stay long there--only a few seconds after drawing bridle--just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them--when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river. Even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near. Soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. Had the road kept along the river's bank he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below Rugg's it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch; and while ascending this, he ceased to think of them. He might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. There such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. But the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below--up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come. Recalling all this, with what Jack Wingate has just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects: "Might not that boat have been the same whose oars Jack heard down below? And the men in it those whose names he has mentioned? Three of them--that at least in curious correspondence! But the time? About nine, or a little after, as I passed Rugg's Ferry. That appears too early for the after event? No! They may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. Odd, though, their knowing _she_ would be out there. But they need not have known that-- likely did not. More like they meant to enter the house, after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. A night different from the common, everything in confusion, the servants sleeping sounder than usual from having indulged in drink--some of them overcome by it, as I saw myself before leaving. Yes; it's quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration--surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient--in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them! Poor girl!" All this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence; at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying-- "You've come afoot, Captain; an' it be a longish walk to the town, most o' the road muddy. Ye'll let me row you up the river--leastways for a couple o' miles further? Then ye can take the footpath through Powell's meadows." Roused as from a reverie, the Captain looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman's cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. After a little reflection he says in reply:-- "Well, Jack; if it wasn't that I dislike over-working you--" "Don't mention it!" interrupts Jack, "I'll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. It a'nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. Besides, I've got to go up to the Ferry anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. I may as well do it in the boat--'deed better than dragglin' along them roughish roads." "In that case I consent. But you must let me take the oars." "No, Captain. I'd prefer workin' 'em myself; if it be all the same to you." The Captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. Not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling. Nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman's offer. After reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. And for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, for the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the Ferry. It is that he may consider this--be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted--he yields to the boatman's wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern. By a fresh spurt the _Mary_ is carried beyond her mooring-place; as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. It is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight--his mother. Volume Three, Chapter V. MATERNAL SOLICITUDE. "The poor lad! His heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin'! That's plain--spite o' all he try hide it." It is the Widow Wingate, who thus compassionately reflects--the subject her son. She is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat. Captain Ryecroft has taken him down the river. It is on this nocturnal exploration, when the cliff at Llangorren is inspected by lamplight. But she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did Jack himself at starting. A little before sunset, the Captain came to the house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to him, when they started away in the skiff. She saw they went down stream--that is all. She was some little surprised, though; not at the direction taken, but the time of setting out. Had Llangorren been still in possession of the young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have thought nothing strange of it. But in view of the late sad occurrence at the Court, with the change of proprietorship consequent--about all of which she has been made aware--she knows the Captain cannot be bound thither, and therefore wonders whither. Surely, not a pleasure excursion, at such an unreasonable hour--night just drawing down? She would have asked, but had no opportunity. Her son, summoned out of the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come off a job; and the Captain appeared to be in haste. Hence, Jack's going off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the where. It is not this that is now fidgeting her. She is far from being of an inquisitive turn--least of all with her son--and never seeks to pry into his secrets. She knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him. Besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative, especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has a trouble on his mind--in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence. And just this it is she is now bemoaning. She observes how he is suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from Abergann brought him tidings of Mary Morgan's fatal mishap. Of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as he did; but not deeply so long. Many days have passed since that dark one; but since, she has not seen him smile--not once! She begins to fear his sorrow may never know an end. She has heard of broken hearts-- his may be one. Not strange her solicitude. "What make it worse," she says, continuing her soliloquy, "he keep thinkin' that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl's death, by makin' her come out to meet him!"--Jack has told his mother of the interview under the big elm, all about it from beginning to end.--"That hadn't a thing to do wi' it. What happened wor ordained, long afore she left the house. When I dreamed that dream 'bout the corpse candle, I feeled most sure somethin' would come o't; but then seein' it go up the meadows, I wor' althegither convinced. When _it_ burn no human creetur' ha' lit it; an' none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the grave. Who could 'a carried it across the river--that night especial, wi' a flood lippin' full up to the banks? No mortal man, nor woman neyther!" As a native of Pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the _ignis fatuus_ is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past, too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the "stalking horse" of the inhuman wrecker, Mrs Wingate's dream of the _canwyll corph_ was natural enough--a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and wild songs chaunted over her cradle. But her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which accounts for its passing over the stream. And the man was Richard Dempsey, who below had ferried Father Rogier across on his way to the farm of Abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. The priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the coracle. But with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank little craft he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing forgotten all about it. Thence the poacher, detained beyond time in reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the shortest cut up the river bottom to Rugg's Ferry. This carried him twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman's cottage; his coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even thinking of it. Not so much wonder, then, in Mrs Wingate believing she saw the _canwyll corph_. No more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate. "Yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "I knowed it would come! Ah, me! it have come. Poor thing! I hadn't no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't a been so fond o' her. If she'd had badness in her, Jack wouldn't greet and grieve as he be doin' now." Though right in the premises--for Mary Morgan was a good girl--Mrs Wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. But, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. It is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow. It is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there he any sign of them returning. From the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below. Placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. In addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. Her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. Jack was just about starting off for the Ferry to replace them when the Captain came. Now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach Rugg's before the shop closes. If not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. In the widow Wingate's life candles seem to play an important part! However, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant but recognisable. Often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son. For Jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the Wye has but he--none equalling it in _timbre_ and regularity. His mother can tell it, as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb. That it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. In a few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades glistening in the moonlight, the boat between. And now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash--its docking place; when Jack will tell her where they have been, and what for; perhaps, too, the Captain will come inside the cottage and speak a friendly word with her, as he has frequently done. While thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. The skiff is passing onward--proceeding up the river! But she is comforted by seeing a hat held aloft--the salute telling her she is herself seen; and that Jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. It will no doubt terminate at the Ferry, where he will get the candles and comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two birds with one stone. Contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze thinks no longer of candles, or any other light--forgetting even the _canwyll corph_. Volume Three, Chapter VI. A SACRILEGIOUS HAND. Between Wingate's cottage and Rugg's Captain Ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. Now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it--chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. He seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. And just this is he thinking of: his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward. Whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. The time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. It will, but not to-night. He has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon's disc, now low. It is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the Roman Catholic chapel at Rugg's. Soon as abreast of it he commands-- "Hold way, Jack! Keep her steady awhile!" The waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. He is himself interrogated the instant after--thus:-- "You see that shadowed spot under the bank--by the wall?" "I do, Captain." "Is there any landing-place there for a boat?" "None, as I know of. Course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank beant eyther a cliff or a quagmire. The reg'lar landin' place be above--where the ferry punt lays." "But have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?" The question has reference to the place first spoken of. "I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an' the occasion not o' the pleasantest kind. 'Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an' plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it; not wishin' to be obsarved by that sneak o' a priest, nor any o' their Romish lot. Exceptin' my own, I never knew or heard o' another boat bein' laid along there." "All right! Now on!" And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with. For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking; his thoughts concentrated on the one theme--endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself--but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities--how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death. He is still absorbed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking-- "Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right o' way path through Powell's meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you'd like best, an' don't think o' any difference it makes to me." "Thanks, Jack; it's very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There'll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow--it may be for the whole of the day--you'd better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you've an errand at Rugg's--to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed." "Ah! I didn't think o' that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin' me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn't like to disappoint her--for a good deal." "Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I've been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself." "I will--you may rely on me, Captain." The boat is brought against the bank; Ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back "good night," and strikes off along the footpath. Not a moment delays the waterman; but shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut. He is in good time, however; and reaches Rugg's to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open. Going in he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man, who has come to the Ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. It is Joseph Preece, "Old Joe," erst boatman of Llangorren Court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large. Though the acquaintance between him and Wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them--stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. For of late, in the exercise of their respective _metiers_, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened "confab" in the _Gwendoline's_ dock. It is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, Joe being chief spokesman. And now that he has done his shopping, Jack can spare the time to listen. It will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won't mind that. She saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand. So the two stand conversing till the gossipy Joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in the delivery. Then they part, the ex-Charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff. Stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down. A few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. There is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly. He in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. Not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. But he is not gazing, only thinking. A thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. A back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat's bow is against the bank. He steps ashore; ties the painter to a withy; and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him. Dark as is now the night he has no difficulty in finding it. He has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. There are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. But he needs not their guidance. As a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of its master, so he, with memories quickened by affection, makes his way to the place where repose the remains of Mary Morgan. Standing over her grave he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. Then becoming calmer he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. It is the Lord's--he knows no other. Enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his overcharged heart. Feeling better he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him--a remembrance--"The flower of love-lies-bleeding." Is it growing? Not the flower, but the plant. He knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. But the latter--is it still alive and flourishing? In the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch. Once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. He finds the spot, but not the plant. It is gone! Nothing left of it--not a remnant! A sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him! In strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable. "It's that d--d rascal, Dick Dempsey, as ha' done it. Can't a been anybody else? An' if I can but get proof o't, I'll make him repent o' the despicable trick. I will, by the livin' God!" Thus angrily soliloquising, he strides back to his skiff, and getting in rows off. But more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain--threats against Coracle Dick. Volume Three, Chapter VII. A LATE TEA. Mrs Wingate is again growing impatient at her son's continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. The Dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. Jack has often made the return trip to Rugg's in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. How is the odd time being spent by him? Her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. For the moon having gone down it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. The Wye is not a smooth swan pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims-- strong men as women. And her son is upon it! "Where?" she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. He may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back. While thus conjecturing a tinge of sadness steals over the widow's thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way--on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch. "Poor lad!" she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; "he hain't no need now deceivin' his old mother that way. I only wish he had." "How black that sky do look," she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; "An' threatenin' storm, if I bean't mistook. Lucky, Jack ha' intimate acquaintance wi' the river 'tween here and Rugg's--if he hain't goed farther. What a blessin' the boy don't gie way to drink, an's otherways careful! Well, I 'spose there an't need for me feelin' uneasy. For all, I don't like his bein' so late. Mercy me! Nigh on the stroke o' eleven? Ha! What's that? Him I hope." She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber--the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the _Mary_, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full--in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed--a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff. Met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods and together they go in; when he is questioned as to the cause of delay. "Whatever ha kep' ye, Jack? Ye've been a wonderful long time goin' up to the Ferry an' back!" "The Ferry! I went far beyond; up to the footpath over Squire Powell's meadows. There I set Captain out." "Oh! that be it." His answer being satisfactory he is not further interrogated. For she has become busied with an earthenware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of "Horniman's" just brought home--one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot--the orthodox quantity. It is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the Captain, and Mrs Wingate would not consider supper as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating. The pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon "mashed;" and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against Jack's arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick. Occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son's countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light. Nor till she is handing the cup across to him. Then, the fresh lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. Not the sad melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. That has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received! "Whatever be the matter wi' ye, Jack?" she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. "There ha' something happened?" "Oh! nothin' much, mother." "Nothin' much! Then why be ye looking so black?" "What makes you think I'm lookin' that way?" "How can I help thinkin' it? Why, lad; your brow be clouded, same's the sky outside. Come, now tell the truth! Bean't there somethin' amiss?" "Well, mother; since you axe me that way I will tell the truth. Somethin' be amiss; or I ought better say, _missin'_." "Missin'! Be't anybody ha' stoled the things out o' the boat? The balin' pan, or that bit o' cushion in the stern?" "No it ain't; no trifle o' that kind, nor anythin' stealed eyther. 'Stead a thing as ha' been destroyed." "What thing?" "The flower--the plant." "Flower! plant!" "Yes; the Love-lies-bleedin' I set on Mary's grave the night after she wor laid in it. Ye remember my tellin' you, mother?" "Yes--yes; I do." "Well, it ain't there now." "Ye ha' been into the chapel buryin' groun' then?" "I have." "But what made ye go there, Jack?" "Well, mother; passin' the place, I took a notion to go in--a sort o' sudden inclinashun, I couldn't resist. I thought that kneelin' beside her grave, an' sayin' a prayer might do somethin' to lift the weight off o' my heart. It would a done that, no doubt, but for findin' the flower warn't there. Fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till I discovered it wor gone." "But how gone? Ha' the thing been cut off, or pulled up?" "Clear plucked out by the roots. Not a vestige o' it left!" "Maybe 'twer the sheep or goats. They often get into a graveyard; and if I beant mistook I've seen some in that o' the Ferry Chapel. They may have ate it up?" The idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. Not long, however; only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. A sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more. "No, mother!" he at length rejoins; "it han't been done by eyther; but by a human hand--I ought better to say the claw o' a human tiger. No, not tiger; more o' a stinkin' cat!" "Ye suspect somebody, then?" "Suspect! I'm sure, as one can be without seein', that bit o' desecrashun ha' been the work o' Dick Dempsey. But I mean plantin' another in its place, an' watchin' it too. If he pluck it up, an' I know it, they'll need dig another grave in the Rogue's Ferry buryin' groun'--that for receivin' as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else--the d--d scoundrel!" "Dear Jack! don't let your passion get the better o' ye, to speak so sinfully. Richard Dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the Lord will deal wi' him in his own way, an' sure punish him. So leave him to the Lord. After all, what do it matter--only a bit o' weed?" "Weed! Mother, you mistake. That weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin' my heart to Mary's. Settin' it in the sod o' her grave gied me a comfort I can't describe to ye. An' now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. In the spring I hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o' her love as ha' been blighted, an' like it lies bleedin'. But--well, it seems as I can't do nothin' for her now she's dead, as I warn't able while she wor livin'." He covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks. "Oh, my son! don't take on so. Think that she be happy now--in Heaven. Sure she is, from all I ha' heerd o' her." "Yes, mother!" he earnestly affirms, "she is. If ever woman went to the good place, she ha' goed there." "Well, that ought to comfort ye." "It do some. But to think of havin' lost her for good--never again to look at her sweet face. Oh! that be dreadful!" "Sure, it be. But think also that ye an't the only one as ha' to suffer. Nobody escape affliction o' that sort, some time or the other. It's the lot o' all--rich folks as well as we poor ones. Look at the Captain, there! He be sufferin' like yourself. Poor man! I pity him, too." "So do I, mother. An' I ought, so well understandin' how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. I seed it the day--several times noticed tears in his eyes, when we wor talkin' about things that reminded him o' Miss Wynn. When a soldier--a grand fightin' soldier as he ha' been--gies way to weepin', the sorrow must be strong an' deep. No doubt, he be 'most heart-broke, same's myself." "But that an't right, Jack. It isn't intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a' been as are lost to us. Besides, it be sinful." "Well, mother, I'll try to think more cheerful; submittin' to the will o' Heaven." "Ah! There's a good lad! That's the way; an' be assured Heaven won't forsake, but comfort ye yet. Now, let's not say any more about it. You an't eating your supper!" "I han't no great appetite after all." "Never mind; ye must eat, an' the tea'll cheer ye. Hand me your cup, an' let me fill it again." He passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically. "It be very good tea," she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. "But I've something else for you that's better--before you go to bed." "Ye take too much care o' me, mother." "Nonsense, Jack. Ye've had a hard day's work o't. But ye hain't told me what the Captain tooked ye out for, nor where ye went down the river. How far?" "Only as far as Llangorren Court." "But there be new people there now, ye sayed?" "Yes; the Murdocks. Bad lot both man an' wife, though he wor the cousin o' the good young lady as be gone." "Sure, then, the Captain han't been to visit them?" "No, not likely. He an't the kind to consort wi' such as they, for all o' their bein' big folks now." "But there were other ladies livin' at Llangorren. What ha' become o' they?" "They ha' gone to another house somewhere down the river--a smaller one it's sayed. The old lady as wor Miss Wynn's aunt ha' money o' her own, an' the other be livin' 'long wi' her. For the rest there's been a clean out--all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep' bein' a French girl who wor lady's-maid to the old mistress--that's the aunt. She's now the same to the new one, who be French, like herself." "Where ha' ye heerd all this, Jack?" "From Joseph Preece. I met him up at the Ferry, as I wor comin' away from the shop." "He's out too, then?" asks Mrs Wingate, who has of late come to know him. "Yes; same's the others." "Where be the poor man abidin' now?" "Well; that's odd, too. Where do you suppose, mother?" "How should I know, my son? Where?" "In the old house where Coracle Dick used to live!" "What be there so odd in that?" "Why, because Dick's now in his house; ha' got his place at the Court, an's goin' to be somethin' far grander than ever he wor--head keeper." "Ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! That be settin' thief to catch thief!" "Somethin' besides thief, he! A deal worse than that!" "But," pursues Mrs Wingate, without reference to the reflection on Coracle's character, "ye han't yet tolt me what the Captain took down the river." "I an't at liberty to tell any one. Ye understand me, mother?" "Yes, yes; I do." "The Captain ha' made me promise to say nothin' o' his doin's; an', to tell truth, I don't know much about them myself. But what I do know, I'm honour bound to keep dark consarnin' it--even wi' you, mother." She appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation. "In time," he adds, "I'm like enough to know all o' what he's after. Maybe, the morrow." "Ye're to see him the morrow, then?" "Yes; he wants the boat." "What hour?" "He didn't say when, only that he might be needin' me all the day. So I may look out for him early--first thing in the mornin'." "That case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an' ha' a good sleep, so's to start out fresh. First take this. It be the somethin' I promised ye--better than tea." The something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainty superior to port prepared in the same way. Quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the Wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. Not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy--then into it--at length capsized to a sad symphony--the shrieks of a drowning woman! Volume Three, Chapter VIII. THE NEW MISTRESS OF THE MANSION. At Llangorren Court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. Lewin Murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might. There was none to say nay. By the failure of Ambrose Wynn's heirs--in the line through his son and bearing his name--the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom Lewin Murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. He of Glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of Llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. This they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal. Lewin Murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. But in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better half. She has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. Her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of Miss Linton, which had been speedily removed by her--transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. Fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady's-maid, more especially one so expensive as Clarisse; who, as Jack Wingate said, has been dismissed from Miss Linton's establishment--at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. That clever _demoiselle_ was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the Court, to dance attendance on the _ancien belle_ of Mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of Cheltenham. Pleasantly so far; her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. The French adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. Oft gazed she across the Wye at those smiling grounds of Llangorren, as the Fallen Angel back over its walls into the Garden of Eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour--ah! in her estimation, more than angels--women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial--the nearer pleasures of earth and sense. Those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very Paradise in which they disported themselves! Nor does she despair of seeing them at Llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had Gwendoline Wynn. Brought up under the _regime_ of Louis and trained in the school of Eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? True, she is in England, not France; but she thinks it is all the same. And not without some reason for so thinking. The ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated--ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of Paris, was affectionately elapsed by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that touch felt throughout all England, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature--novel writers who know neither decency nor shame--newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity--theatres little better than licensed _bagnios_, and Stock Exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in English history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind--all the old landmarks of England's morality being rapidly obliterated. And all the better for Olympe, _nee_ Renault. Like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the _monde immonde_ of the Second Empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. Seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of Llangorren expects to profit by it. Nor has she the slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter Society. It will not much longer taboo her. She knows that, with very little adroitness, 10,000 pounds a-year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room--aye, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of Hurlingham nor those of Chiswick's Garden. In this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the Restoration and Regency, recalling the painted dolls of the Second Charles, and the Delilahs of the Fourth George; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either. The wife of Lewin Murdock hopes ere long to be among them--once more a _celebrite_, as she was in the Bois de Boulogne, and the _bals_ of the demi-monde. True, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. For by a singular perverseness--unlike Nature's laws in the animal and vegetable world--the outer tentacles of this called "Society" are the last to take hold. But they will yet. Money is all powerful in this free and easy age. Having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the Faubourg Montmartre for her mother, _la blanchisseuse_. She is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the _Court Journal_ or _Morning Post_ in the list of Royal receptions:--"_Mrs Lewin Murdock, presented by the Countess of Devilacare_." And to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if Jenkins be true to his instincts. She need not fear him--he will. She can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the Polar that of magnetic needle. Her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. If, during his adversity he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. But there is another passion to which he now gives loose--his old, unconquerable vice--gaming. Little cares he for the cards of visitors, while those of the gambler delight him; and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter--more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. Besides, some of his old cronies of the "Welsh Harp," who have now _entree_ at Llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood--the black sheep of their respective flocks--are not above being of his company. Where the carrion is the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the "leg" fraternity--in farther flight from London--have found their way into Herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the Court. Night after night, tables are there set out for loo, _ecarte_, _rouge et noir_, or whatever may be called for--in a small way resembling the hells of Homburg, Baden, and Monaco--wanting only the women. Volume Three, Chapter IX. THE GAMBLERS AT LLANGORREN. Among the faces now seen at Llangorren--most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect--there is one familiar to us. Sinister as any; since it is that of Father Rogier. At no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. Frequent as were his visits to Glyngog, they are still more so to Llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary, and somewhat humble, dwelling at Rugg's Ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in: the luxurious couch spread for him at the Court having greater attractions. Whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality, or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead as if demanding it. One ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine _him_ its master. Nor would the supposition be so far astray. As the King-mater controls the King, so can Gregoire Rogier the new Lord of Llangorren--influence him at his will. And this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. That would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. The sword of Loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger--a weapon more suitable to Ultramontanism. Only in Protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed. But the priest of Rugg's Ferry is not in France; and, under the roof of an English gentleman, though a Roman Catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty--before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. Even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. They are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. Nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. They are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at Llangorren Court. So proceed matters under its new administration. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On the same evening that Captain Ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the Court; the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into Wingate's skiff. The hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and Lewin Murdock's guests are men not much given to follow fashions. Besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. No spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. On their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them--packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside. Pretty sight to Mr Murdock's lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect--each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host's house with more or less of that host's money in his pocket. Murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? If he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it. Hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed. Their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. Instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. As said, gambling is his passion--has been for most part of his life--and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. A hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. Soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife--the only lady at the table--who, taking the hint, retires. The gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing--only a _petit verre_ of cognac by way of "corrector." Then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive; from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters; with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the backyard of a London beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman's mansion! While the new master of Llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company--as much as any of them engrossed in the game--its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. She is in the drawing-room, though not alone--Father Rogier alone with her. He, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. In his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company; though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. But just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of Llangorren, about the way things are going on. However much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. Something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview--some words about it having previously passed between them. Seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. But before a dozen words have been exchanged they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it. The interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow Mrs Murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but--as her husband late was--of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. For all having a whole eye to female beauty; which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the Frenchwoman--the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milk-maid nine times dipped in dew. The wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue; for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait; to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. But the intruder is too tipsy to notice them; and advancing invites himself to a seat in front of Mrs Murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her. Rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then muttering a word of excuse saunters off out of the room. She knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. Knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. Were it upon a bench of the Bois, or an arbour in the Jardin, she would make short work of it. But the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. Therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer; some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers. She at length gets rid of him, on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. She will be down again by and by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman's presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment. Once outside the room, instead of turning up the stair-way, she glides along the corridor; then on through the entrance-hall, and then out by the front door. Nor stays she an instant on the steps, or carriage sweep; but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. For there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature. On reaching the place she is disappointed--some little surprised. Rogier is not there; nor can she see him anywhere around! For all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it--only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts, just then of an exciting nature, he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. Not loudly though; since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. Besides, she does not think it necessary; he will come yet, without calling. She steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. Still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him; only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards. But without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs. By this there is another boat in motion; for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock. "Where can Gregoire have gone?" she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient. Several times she puts the question without receiving answer; and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock. "Can it be he?" Continuing to listen she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above? That must now be far away, while this is near--in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it? Yes, it is he; as she discovers, after stepping outside, to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff's edge. For then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match--itself looking like that of Lucifer! What can he be doing down there? Why examining those things, he already knows all about, as she herself? She would call down to him, and inquire. But possibly better not? He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up. And wait she does, at the boat's dock, on the top step of the stair; there receiving him as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion. "What is it?" she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her, "_Quelque chose a tort_?" "More than that. A veritable danger!" "_Comment_? Explain!" "There's a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent." "Who?" "_Le Capitaine de hussards_!" The dialogue that succeeds, between Olympe Renault and Gregoire Rogier, has no reference to Lewin Murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way. Which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do. Volume Three, Chapter X. AN UNWILLING NOVICE. "Am I myself? Dreaming? Or, is it insanity?" It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates. A beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face and a wealth of hair, golden hued. But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers; though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air; but within the walls of a convent. An English girl, though the convent is in France--in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached _pensionnat_ the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde; instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school--she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the _pensionnaires_ are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior. A small apartment the young girl occupies--bedchamber and sitting-room in one--in short, a nun's cloister. Furnished, as such, are, in a style of austere simplicity; pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing table, a washstand with jug and basin--these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer--and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs--that is all. The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner. On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents. A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister; since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it. That she is not there with her own will but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself--insane! A supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment--that particular moment--such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after tells she is in full possession of her senses--only under terrible agitation--distraught with some great trouble. "It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other--Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture--bed, table, chairs, washstand--everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!" Regarding the lavatory utensils--so diminutive as to recall "Gulliver's Travels in Lilliput," if ever read by her--she for a moment seems to forget her misery, as will in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque. It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue--not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast--and she reads the inscription underneath, "_La Mere de Dieu_." The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France! "Oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! I am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!" The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillise her feelings or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself: "Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?" She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched! It is so, or she would not reason as she does. "Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country--and confined--imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering it tantalises-- tortures me!" Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy; no longer of things present, but reverting to the past. "Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn't be here, but in heaven I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall _his_ words--those last words and think--" "Your thoughts are sinful, child!" The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black--the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia, of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun's coif, which partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is "Sister Ursule." She has opened the door noiselessly--as cloister doors are made to open--and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy _silhouette_ in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well-thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud. "Yes?" she continues, "sinful--very sinful! You should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness. And of anything before that you have been thinking of--the wickedness of all." She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation; defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled. Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will became subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the imprisoned English girl makes reply, meekly and appealingly-- "Sister of Mercy, as you are called; have mercy upon me! Tell me why I am here?" "For the good of your soul and its salvation." "But how can that concern any one save myself?" "Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been hitherto leading; and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty--nay, a direct command from God--to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his divine favour. He is all-merciful." "True: He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how I have come to be here, surely I may know?" "You shall in time, _ma fille_. Now you cannot--must not--for many reasons." "What reasons?" "Well; for one, you have been very ill--nigh unto death, indeed." "I know that, without knowing how." "Of course. The accident which came so near depriving you of life was of that sudden nature; and your senses--but I mustn't speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing, that they who have placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I've brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you." She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book--one of those "Aids to Faith" relied upon by the apostles of the _Propaganda_. The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at, or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown and mysterious benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her. "How good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive. "How wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense. "Positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. "I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind." So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock. "O God!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!" Volume Three, Chapter XI. A CHEERFUL KITCHEN. Of all the domestics turned adrift from Llangorren one alone interests us--Joseph Preece--"Old Joe," as his young mistress used familiarly to call him. As Jack Wingate has made his mother aware, Joe has moved into the house formerly inhabited by Coracle Dick; so far changing places with the poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man ere while lived as one of the retainers of the Wynn family. Beyond this the exchange has not extended. Richard Dempsey, under the new _regime_ at Llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was ever held by Joseph Preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned poacher, nor intends doing so. Instead, the versatile Joseph, as if to keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling altogether--that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages and other kinds of wicker-work. Rather is it the resumption of an old business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone on entering the service of Squire Wynn. Having considerable skill in this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him. Only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and more still that of his late mistress, Joe has laid by a little _pecunium_, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having something to do. The old man of many _metiers_ has never led an idle life, and dislikes leading it. Is is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the occupation of Dick Dempsey, though Dick had nothing to do with it. The poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out soon as obtaining his promotion. Then, the place being to let, at a low rent, the ex-Charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a "withey bed" belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the same time. This last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the solitary dwelling stands--and promising a convenient supply of the raw material for his projected manufacture--he has taken a lease of it along with the house. Under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation-- almost ruin--the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his doing the repairs. He has done them; made the roof water-tight; given the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor--in short, rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable. Among other improvements he has partitioned off a second sleeping apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. More still, neatly and tastefully furnished it; the furniture consisting of an iron bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and dressing table with mahogany framed glass on top, three cane chairs, a towel horse, and other etceteras. For himself? No; he has a bedroom besides. And this, by the style of the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. Indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel, suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pincushion, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed glass. They cannot be the belongings of "Old Joe's" wife, nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of Benedict has not been. A bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter. Who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie? In a word, his niece--a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at Llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper--his own. But before entering on parlour duties at the Court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. By her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers' ends many other feats of the _cuisine_ that give him gratification. The old servitor of Squire Wynn is in his way a _gourmet_, and has a tooth for toothsome things. His accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of Amy--Amy Preece, for she is his brother's child. And she is pretty as her name, a bright blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well-rounded, and flesh firm as a Ribston pippin. Her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark scowling features of Coracle Dick--brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware or the whitewash upon its walls. Old Joe rejoices; and if he have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. But this thought suggests another contradicting it. How could he while his young mistress lived? She so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. This she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly, in contrast! And as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing; thus at the change in the Llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. It is now lying just below, at the brook's mouth by the withey bed, where Joe has made a mooring-place for it. The handsome thing would fetch 50 pounds; and many a Wye waterman would give his year's earnings to possess it. Indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it--pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling! All in vain. Old Joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house--sooner go begging--than part with that boat. It oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her--aye for the rest of his life. If he has lost the lady he will cling to the souvenir, which carries her honoured name! But, however, faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. Only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling Gwendoline Wynn to remembrance. On other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. And never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with Jack Wingate, when both were a shopping at Rugg's Ferry. For there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home; which was gladly and off-hand accepted. "A bit o' supper and a drop o' somethin' to send it down," were the old boatman's words specifying the entertainment. The night has come round, and the "bit o' supper" is being prepared by Amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. For, to let out a little secret, the French lady's-maid was not the only feminine at Llangorren Court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing Captain Ryecroft. Raising the curtain still higher, Amy Preece's position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither. Not strange then, but altogether natural. She is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. She would work her fingers off for Jack Wingate. Possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. If not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. Nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. For never in all his life has old Joe met one he so greatly cottons to. His intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer. If his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the "invite" he gave to the expected guest. A gentle tapping at the door tells him the trigger is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out-- "That you, Jack Wingate? O' course it be. Come in!" And in Jack Wingate comes. Volume Three, Chapter XII. QUEER BRIC-A-BRAC. Stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blushingly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping. Old Joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions Jack to another opposite, leaving the space in front clear for Amy to carry on her culinary operations. There are still a few touches to be added--a sauce to be concocted--before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it. Host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old Joe is an oracle. As the other, too, has spent all his days on Vaga's banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood. It is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at Llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. If they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pass off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. It reminds him of many a pleasant Christmas night in the grand servants' hall at the Court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon. His guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. Better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. Within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful--almost himself again. His mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving--not righteous, but sinful. And now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged--and all on his account--he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. At all events his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. Not that he is untrue to the memory of Mary Morgan. Far from it. His feelings are but natural, inevitable. With that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him. But his feelings for Amy Preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. Still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. It even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth the girl's beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. And she possesses something more than beauty--a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by Jack Wingate--modesty. He has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company--contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the Court--Clarisse. And now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals--best from the Forest of Dean. And he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, _vis-a-vis_ to her uncle, and distributing the viands. These are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. He has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, Amy is something of an _artiste de cuisine_. An excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, Jack Wingate might catch himself so reflecting. But not now; not to-night. Such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing. The conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management. It continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. Amy knows her uncle's weakness--which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the "barley bree" that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate. As the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted. Answered in the negative, she bids both "Good night," withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed. But not immediately to fall asleep. Instead she lies awake thinking of Jack Wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. The French _femme de chambre_ would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. Not so the young English girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a nobler sentiment. On the instant of her withdrawal, old Joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their glasses together. "Yer good health, Jack." "Same to yerself, Joe." After this exchange the ex-Charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them--the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobnobbing. "Queer sort o' chap, that Coracle Dick! an't he, Jack?" "Course he be. But why do ye ask? You knowed him afore, well enough." "Not so well's now. He never comed about the Court, 'ceptin' once when fetched there--afore the old Squire on a poachin' case. Lor! what a change! He now head keeper o' the estate." "Ye say ye know him better than ye did? Ha' ye larned anythin' 'bout him o' late?" "That hae I; an' a goodish deal too. More'n one thing as seems kewrous." "If ye don't object tellin' me, I'd like to hear what they be." "Well, one are, that Dick Dempsey ha' been in the practice of somethin' besides poachin'." "That an't no news to me, I ha' long suspected him o' doin's worse than that." "Amongst them did ye include forgin'?" "No; because I never thought o' it. But I believe him to be capable o' it, or anything else. What makes ye think he a' been a forger?" "Well, I won't say forger, for he mayn't a made the things. But for sure he ha' been engaged in passin' them off." "Passin' what off!" "Them!" rejoins Joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table--over a score of coins to all appearance half-crown pieces. "Counterfeits--every one o' 'em!" he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise. "Where did you find them?" asks Jack. "In the corner o' an old cubbord. Furbishin' up the place, I comed across them--besides a goodish grist o' other kewrosities. What would ye think o' my predecessor here bein' a burglar as well as smasher?" "I wouldn't think that noways strange neyther. As I've sayed already, I b'lieve Dick Dempsey to be a man who'd not mind takin' a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad. Burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. But what led ye to think he ha' been also in the housebreaking line?" "These!" answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor, not the table; as he does so exclaiming, "Theere be a lot o' oddities! A complete set o' burglar's tools--far as I can understand them." And so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys--in short, every implement of the cracksman's calling. "And ye found them in the cubbert too?" "No, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. The big bag, wi' its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks--the clift at the back o' the house." "Odd, all o' it! An' the oddest his leavin' such things behind--to tell the tale o' his guilty doin's; I suppose bein' full o' his new fortunes, he's forgot all about them." "But ye han't waited for me to gie the whole o' the cat'logue. There be somethin' more to come." "What more?" asks the young waterman, suprisedly, and with renewed interest. "A thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. I can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an' the house-breakin' implements; but the other beats me dead down, an' I don't know what to make o't. Maybe you can tell. I foun' it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi' a stone in front exact fittin' to an' fillin' its mouth." While speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff--apparently linen--loosely rolled. Unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds:-- "Theer be the eydentical article!" No wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it. For it is a _shroud_! White, with a cross and two letters in red stitched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast! "O God!" cries Jack Wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. "That's the shroud Mary Morgan wor buried in! I can swear to 't. I seed her mother stitch on that cross an' them letters--the ineetials o' her name. An' I seed it on herself in the coffin 'fore't wor closed. Heaven o' mercy! what do it mean?" Amy Preece, lying awake in her bed, hears Jack Wingate's voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. But she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour--even into morning. For before the two men part they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping! Volume Three, Chapter XIII. A BRACE OF BODY-SNATCHERS. What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "You couldn't see your hand before you." I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road. Such a night has drawn down over Rugg's Ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity--as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater--the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, no longer to be seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest--if it have any guest--having gone to bed. Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it. For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into it. Soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing back towards the boat, he says:-- "Hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!" "Ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat's bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately, as though they were pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are--an ordinary set of grave-digger's tools--spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank. He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other--an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent. Inside the sacred precincts they pause; partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen, they could not be, before or now. Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper-- "It be all right, I think. Every livin' sinner--an' there be a good wheen o' that stripe 'bout here--have gone to bed. As for him, blackest o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home. Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. We hain't nothin' to fear, I take it. Let's on to the place. You lay hold o' my skirt, and I'll gie ye the lead. I know the way, every inch o' it." Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step. A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave; beside which they again make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. A month, or so, since the turf had been smoothed over it. The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. But, before going further in their design--body-snatching, or whatever it be--both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted. Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river. At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave--a trick of body-stealers--so as to leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of the tools--spade and shovel--they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside. They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance--even shorter than they anticipated. Within less than eighteen inches of the surface their tools come in contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber--the lid of a coffin. Soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying-- "I tolt ye so--listen!" With the spade's point he again gives the coffin a tap. It returns a hollow sound--too hollow for aught to be inside it! "No body in there!" he adds. "Hadn't we better keep on, an' make sure?" suggests the other. "Sartint we had--an' will." Once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. Then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely--the screws all drawn and gone! Flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin--not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else. There is nothing--only emptiness. The house of the dead is untenanted-- its tenant has been taken away! "I know'd it!" he exclaims, drawing back. "I know'd my poor Mary wor no longer here!" It is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but Jack Wingate, his companion being Joseph Preece. After which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. He is less sad than thoughtful now. But he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf--adjusting the sods with as much exactitude, as though they were laying tesselated tiles! Then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off. On return down stream they reflect in different ways; the old boatman of Llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by Coracle Dick, for the doctors--with a view to earning a dishonest penny. Far otherwise the thoughts of Jack Wingate. He thinks, nay hopes-- almost happily believes--that the body exhumed was not dead--never has been--but that Mary Morgan still lives, breathes, and has being! Volume Three, Chapter XIV. IN WANT OF HELP. "Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt." It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself, being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in Herefordshire. More in conjecture, he proceeds--"They first smothered, I suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A double death as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. Poor girl! I hope not." In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt new serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy. He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel--made it in the day time, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had bespoken Wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before--a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff. But not any more misleading him. If the first "sign" observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below! Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over--then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints! That man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was no other than Father Rogier. The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot. Not this time crouching among the ferns; but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still near enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on beholding the _debacle_, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it. "_Un limier veritable_! A hound that has scented blood, and's determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. Aha! The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner the better." At the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of Gregoire Rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: "No accident--no suicide-- murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, "This makes me all the more sure of it. Miserable trick! Not much Mr Lewin Murdock will gain by it." So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others--much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned. He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes; still believing that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it. "The man's wife must know all about it?" he says, going on in conjectural chain; "and that French priest--he probably the instigator of it? Aye! possibly had a hand in the deed itself? There have been such cases recorded--many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren--as Jack has learned from his friend Joe--there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey--poacher, and what not--he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four acting conjointly have brought it about! "And how am I to bring it home to them? 'Twill be difficult, indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destined has increased the difficulty. "No use taking the `great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. 'Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn't the way--will not do! "And yet I must have some one to assist me. For there is truth in the old saw `Two heads better than one.' Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can't help me in mine. I want a man of my own class; one who--stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but--well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha! Mahon! The man--the very man! Experienced in the world's wickedness, courageous, cool--except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sassenachs--above all devoted to me, as I know; has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do--plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major's my man! "Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, No! Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. To Boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like this. The scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence as well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about them in Boulogne itself; or at all events of the priest. Since I've had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it's the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like it would be a toss up which is one and which t'other. "In any case there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon's sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr and Mrs Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander Hells beyond. I'll go over to Boulogne!" A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. "Well?" "Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?" "Tell him to step up!" "What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow I'm glad he has come. 'Twill save me the trouble of sending for him; as I'd better settle his account before starting off." [Jack has a new score against the Captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.] "Besides there's something I wish to say--a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!" This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside, tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door mat. The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him. "What is it?" asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner. "Somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed." "Ah! Let me hear it!" demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind. "I will, Captain. But it'll take time in the tellin'." "Take as much as you like. I'm at your service. Be seated." Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the Captain is sitting--by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in grave, solemn voice: "I do believe, Captain, _she be still alive_!" Volume Three, Chapter XV. STILL ALIVE. Impossible to depict the expression on Vivian Ryecroft's face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. It is more than surprise--more than astonishment--intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it. "Still alive!" he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. "Alive!" he mechanically repeats. "What do you mean, Wingate? And who?" "My poor girl, Captain. You know." "_His_ girl, not _mine_! Mary Morgan, not Gwendoline Wynn!" reflects Ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow. "I'm almost sure she be still livin'," continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why. Controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly:-- "What leads you to think that way, Wingate? Have you a reason?" "Yes, have I; more'n one. It's about that I ha' come to consult ye." "You've come to astonish me! But proceed!" "Well, sir, as I ha' sayed, it'll take a good bit o' tellin', and a lot o' explanation beside. But since ye've signified I'm free to your time, I'll try and make the story short's I can." "Don't curtail it in any way. I wish to hear all!" The waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life--those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, Mary Morgan. He tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of Coracle Dick, and the sinister interference of Father Rogier. In addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm--their last--and the sad episode soon after succeeding. Something of all this Ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. What he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farm-house of Abergann, while Mary Morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. The first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl's mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. Then the strange behaviour of Father Rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl's face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up--a haste noticed by others as well as Jack Wingate. "But what do you make of all that?" asks Ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other, and still stranger revelations. "How can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? Quite its contrary, I should say." "Stay, Captain! There be more to come." The Captain does stay, listening on. To hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by Wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! He speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. Then goes on to give account of the evening spent with Joseph Preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars' tools, and finally the shroud--that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight! His narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman. "Last night," he says, proceeding with the relation, "or I ought to say this same mornin'--for 'twar after midnight hour--Joe an' myself took the skiff, an' stole up to the chapel graveyard; where we opened her grave, an' foun' the coffin empty! Now, Captain, what do ye think o' the whole thing?" "On my word, I hardly know what to think of it. Mystery seems the measure of the time! This you tell me of is strange--if not stranger than any! What are your own thoughts about it, Jack?" "Well, as I've already sayed, my thoughts be, an' my hopes, that Mary's still in the land o' the livin'." "I hope she is." The tone of Ryecroft's rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following. "But you saw her in her coffin? Waked for two days, as I understood you; then laid in her grave? How could she have lived throughout all that? Surely she was dead!" "So I thought at the time, but don't now." "My good fellow, I fear you are deceiving yourself. I'm sorry having to think so. Why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive--that seems physically impossible!" "Well, Captain, it's just about the possibility of the thing I come to ask your opinion; thinkin' ye'd be acquainted wi' the article itself." "What article?" "The new medicine; it as go by the name o' chloryform." "Ha! you have a suspicion--" "That she ha' been chloryformed, an' so kep' asleep--to be waked up when they wanted her. I've heerd say, they can do such things." "But then she was drowned also? Fell from a foot plank, you told me? And was in the water some time?" "I don't believe it, a bit. It be true enough she got somehow into the water, an' wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o' herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o' the brook. But that wor short after, an' she might still a' ben alive not with standin'. My notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an' knew all along she warn't dead, nohow." "My dear Jack, the thing cannot be possible. Even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father--all of them--must have been cognisant of these facts--if facts?" "I don't forget it, Captain. 'Stead I believe they all wor cognisant o' them--leastways, the mother." "But why should she assist in such a dangerous deception--at risk of her daughter's life?" "That's easy answered. She did it partly o' herself; but more at the biddin' o' the priest, whom she daren't disobey--the weak-minded creature most o' her time given up to sayin' prayers and paternosters. They all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. Wi' her willing I could a' defied the whole lot o' them. Bein' aware o' that their only chance wor to get her out o' my way by some trick--as they ha' indeed got her. Ye may think it strange their takin' all that trouble; but if ye'd seen her ye wouldn't. There worn't on all Wyeside so good lookin' a girl!" Ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance. Despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says--Jack's earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him. "And supposing her to be alive," he asks, "where do you think she is now? Have you any idea?" "I have--leastways a notion." "Where?" "Over the water--in France--the town o' Bolone." "Boulogne!" exclaims the Captain, with a start. "What makes you suppose she is there?" "Something, sir, I han't yet spoke to ye about. I'd a'most forgot the thing, an' might never a thought o't again, but for what ha' happened since. Ye'll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin' ye I had an engagement the next day to take the young Powells down the river?" "I remember it perfectly." "Well; I took them, as agreed; an' that day we went down's fur's Chepstow. But they wor bound for the Severn side a duck shootin'; and next mornin' we started early, afore daybreak. As we were passin' the wharf below Chepstow Bridge, where there wor several craft lyin' in, I noticed one sloop-rigged ridin' at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin' to put to sea. By the light o' a lamp as hung over the taffrail, I read the name on her starn, showin' she wor French, an' belonged to Bolone. I shouldn't ha' thought that anythin' odd, as there be many foreign craft o' the smaller kind puts in at Chepstow. But what did appear odd, an' gied me a start too, wor my seein' a boat by the sloop's side wi' a man in it, who I could a'most sweared wor the Rogue's Ferry priest. There wor others in the boat besides, an' they appeared to be gettin' some sort o' bundle out o' it, an' takin' it up the man-ropes, aboard o' the sloop. But I didn't see any more, as we soon passed out o' sight, goin' on down. Now, Captain, it's my firm belief that man must ha' been the priest, and that thing, I supposed to be a bundle o' marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o' Mary Morgan--not dead, but livin'!" "You astound me, Wingate! Certainly a most singular circumstance! Coincidence too! Boulogne--Boulogne!" "Yes, Captain; by the letterin' on her starn the sloop must ha' belonged there; an' _I'm goin' there myself_." "I too, Jack! We shall go together!" Volume Three, Chapter XVI. A STRANGE FATHER CONFESSOR. "He's gone away--given it up! Be glad, madame!" Father Rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of Llangorren Court, where Mrs Murdock is seated. "What, Gregoire?"--were her husband present it would be "Pere;" but she is alone--"Who's gone away? And why am I to rejoice?" "_Le Capitaine_." "Ha!" she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one. "Are you sure of it? The news seems too good for truth." "It's true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. Whether to stay away is another matter. We must hope he will." "I hope it with all my heart." "And well you may, madame; as I myself. We had more to fear from that _chien de chasse_ than all the rest of the pack--ay, have still, unless he's found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which I fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock-slide. A lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaissance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! Wasn't it, _cherie_?" "Superb! The whole thing from beginning to end! You've proved yourself a wonderful man, Gregoire Rogier." "And I hope worthy of Olympe Renault?" "You have." "_Merci_! So far that's satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. But there's a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. And it must be done quickly, too. I pine to cast off this priestly garb--in which I've been so long miserably masquerading--and enter into the real enjoyments of life. But there's another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day--any hour. Le Capitaine Ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one." "Richard--_le braconnier_--you're thinking of?" "No, no, no! Of him we needn't have the slightest fear. I hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose I can draw tight at the shortest notice. I am far more apprehensive of Monsieur, _votre mari_!" "In what way?" "More than one; but for one, his tongue. There's no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and Monsieur Murdock is hardly ever out of them. Suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about--well, I needn't say what. There's still suspicion abroad--plenty of it,--and like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze." "_C'est vrai_!" "Fortunately, Mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the _fiance_ and the other lover--the rustic and rejected one--Shenstone _fils_. Of him we need take no account. Even if suspicious, he hasn't the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the _ancien hussard_, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. Luck too, in his having no intimacies here, or I believe anywhere in the shire of Hereford. Had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him." "And you do think he has gone for good?" "I do; at least it would seem so. On his second return to the hotel--in haste as it was--he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. So I learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. Further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for London. Of course that means nothing. He may be _en route_ for anywhere beyond--round the globe, if he feel inclined to circumnavigation. And I shall be delighted if he do." He would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred--that in getting his ticket Captain Ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for Boulogne. Still less might Father Rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for London; a first-class for the Captain himself, and a second for the waterman Wingate--travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life. Having heard nothing of this, the sham priest--as he has now acknowledged himself--is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. In short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. Alone the king stands, he tottering; for Lewin Murdock is fast drinking himself to death. It is of him the priest speaks as king:-- "Has he signed the will?" "_Oui_." "When?" "This morning, before he went out. The lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness--" "I know all that," interrupts the priest, "as I should, having sent them. Let me have a look at the document. You have it in the house, I hope?" "In my hand," she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment; "_Le voila_!" She spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it, only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. Well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. A testament made by Lewin Murdock, which, at his death, leaves the Llangorren estate--as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it--to his wife Olympe--_nee_ Renault--for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to Gregoire Rogier, Priest of the Roman Catholic Church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the Convent of --, Boulogne-sur-mer, France. "For that last clause, which is yours, Gregoire, the nuns of Boulogne should be grateful to you, or at all events, the abbess, Lady Superior, or whatever she's called." "So she will," he rejoins with a dry laugh, "when she gets the property so conveyed. Unfortunately for her the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. Nay!" he adds in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, "if some step be not taken to put a stop to what's going on, there won't be much of the Llangorren estate left for any one--not even for yourself, madame. Under the fingers of Monsieur, with the cards in them, it's being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. Even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices--avalanches!" "_Mon Dieu_!" she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed. "I wouldn't be surprised," he continues, "if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the Ferry he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, `Heads and tails, who wins?' Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he's now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards--Jews' eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these _chevaliers d'industrie_ facetiously term their money. If we don't bring all this to a termination, that will you have in your hand won't be worth the price of the parchment it's written upon. _Comprenez-vous, cherie_?" "_Parfaitement_! But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself I haven't an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?" As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put--both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other's wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder--the murder of Lewin Murdock! "_Le pauvre homme_!" ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. "The cognac is killin' him, not by inches, but ells; and I don't believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that." A gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman--an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband! "You think only _days_?" she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband's health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is. "Only days!" he says, as if his voice were an echo. "Still days count in a thing of this kind--aye, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now--gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names--rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one." "Ah! so can I." "Englishmen, too; who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn't any much to blow out; but that isn't a question which affects us--myself as well as you. I've risked everything--reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then--I need not tell you. What we've done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion must be restrained, or he'll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly." "_Vraiment_! I ask you again--have you thought of anything, Gregoire?" He does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. When at length given it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about. "Would it greatly surprise you, if to-night your husband didn't come home to you?" "Certainly not--in the least. Why should it? It wouldn't be the first time by scores--hundreds--for him to stay all night away from me. Aye, and at that same Welsh Harp, too--many's the night." "To your great annoyance, no doubt; if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?" She breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless, as was ever heard in an _allee_ of the Jardin Mabille. When it is ended she adds gravely:-- "The time was when he might have made me so; I may as well admit that. Not now, as you know, Gregoire. Now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, I'd only be too glad to think I should never see his face again. _Le brute ivrogne_!" To this monstrous declaration Rogier laconically rejoins:-- "You may not." Then placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, "If all prosper, as planned, _you will not_!" She neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. She knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband, she no longer care? for, to both become inconvenient. And from what has gone before, she can rely on Rogier with its execution. Volume Three, Chapter XVII. A QUEER CATECHIST. A boat upon the Wye, being polled upward, between Llangorren Court and Rugg's Ferry. There are two men in it, not Vivian Ryecroft and Jack Wingate, but Gregoire Rogier and Richard Dempsey. The _ci-devant_ poacher is at the oars; for in addition to his new post as gamekeeper, he has occasional charge of a skiff, which has replaced the _Gwendoline_. This same morning he rowed his master up to Rugg's, leaving him there; and now, at night, he is on return to fetch him home. The two places being on opposite sides of the river, and the road round about, besides difficult for wheeled vehicles, Lewin Murdock moreover an indifferent horseman, he prefers the water route, and often takes it, as he has done to-day. It is the same on which Father Rogier held that dialogue of sinister innuendo with Madame, and the priest, aware of the boat having to return to the Ferry, avails himself of a seat in it. Not that he dislikes walking, or is compelled to it. For he now keeps a cob, and does his rounds on horseback. But on this particular day he has left his roadster in its stable, and gone down to Llangorren afoot, knowing there would be the skiff to take him back. No scheme of mere convenience dictated this arrangement to Gregoire Rogier. Instead, one of Satanic wickedness, preconceived, and all settled before holding that _tete-a-tete_ with her he has called "cherie." Though requiring a boat for its execution and an oarsman of a peculiar kind--adroit at something besides the handling of oars--not a word of it has yet been imparted to the one who is rowing him. For all, the ex-poacher, accustomed to the priest's moods, and familiar with his ways, can see there is something unusual in his mind, and that he himself is on the eve of being called upon for some new service or sacrifice. No supply of poached fish or game. Things have gone higher than that, and he anticipates some demand of a more serious nature. Still he has not the most distant idea of what it is to be; though certain interrogatories put to him are evidently leading up to it. The first is-- "You're not afraid of water, are you, Dick?" "Not partickler, your Reverence. Why should I?" "Well, your being so little in the habit of washing your face--if I am right in my reckoning, only once a week--may plead my excuse for asking the question." "Oh, Father Rogier! That wor only in the time past, when I lived alone, and the thing worn't worth while. Now, going more into respectable company, I do a little washin' every day." "I'm glad to hear of your improved habits, and that they keep pace with the promotion you've had. But my inquiry had no reference to your ablutions; rather to your capabilities as a swimmer. If I mistake not, you can swim like a fish?" "No, not equal to a fish. That ain't possible." "An otter, then?" "Somethin' nearer he, if ye like," answers Coracle, laughingly. "I supposed as much. Never mind. About the degree of your natatory powers we needn't dispute. I take it they're sufficient for reaching either bank of this river, supposing the skiff to get capsized and you in it?" "Lor, Father Rogier! That wouldn't be nothin'! I could swim to eyther shore, if 'twor miles off." "But could you as you are now--with clothes on, boots, and everything?" "Sartin could I, and carry weight beside." "That will do," rejoins the questioner, apparently satisfied. Then lapsing into silence, and leaving Dick in a very desert of conjectures why he has been so interrogated. The speechless interregnum is not for long. After a minute or two, Rogier, as if freshly awaking from a reverie, again asks-- "Would it upset this skiff if I were to step on the side of it--I mean bearing upon it with all the weight of my body?" "That would it, your Reverence; though ye be but a light weight; tip it over like a tub." "Quite turn it upside down--as your old truckle, eh?" "Well; not so ready as the truckle. Still 'twould go bottom upward. Though a biggish boat, it be one o' the crankiest kind, and would sure capsize wi' the lightiest o' men standin' on its gunn'l rail." "And surer with a heavier one, as yourself, for instance?" "I shouldn't like to try--your Reverence bein' wi' me in the boat." "How would you like, somebody else being with you in it--_if made worth your while_?" Coracle starts at this question, asked in a tone that makes more intelligible the others preceding it, and which have been hitherto puzzling him. He begins to see the drift of the _sub Jove_ confessional to which he is being submitted. "How'd I like it, your Reverence? Well enough; if, as you say, made worth my while. I don't mind a bit o' a wettin' when there's anythin' to be gained by it. Many's the one I've had on a chilly winter's night, as this same be, all for the sake o' a salmon, I wor 'bleeged to sell at less'n half-price. If only showed the way to earn a honest penny by it, I wouldn't wait for the upsettin' o' the boat, but jump overboard at oncst." "That's game in you, Monsieur Dick. But to earn the honest penny you speak of, the upsetting of the boat might be a necessary condition." "Be it so, your Reverence. I'm willing to fulfil that, if ye only bid me. Maybe," he continues in tone of confidential suggestion, "there be somebody as you think ought to get a duckin' beside myself?" "There is somebody, who ought," rejoins the priest, coming nearer to his point. "Nay, must," he continues, "for if he don't the chances are we shall all go down together, and that soon." Coracle sculls on without questioning. He more than half comprehends the figurative speech, and is confident he will ere long receive complete explanation of it. He is soon led a little way further by the priest observing-- "No doubt, _mon ancien braconnier_, you've been gratified by the change that's of late taken place in your circumstances. But perhaps it hasn't quite satisfied you, and you expect to have something more; as I have the wish you should. And you would ere this, but for one who obstinately sets his face against it." "May I know who that one is, Father Rogier?" "You may, and shall; though I should think you scarce need telling. Without naming names, it's he who will be in this boat with you going back to Llangorren." "I thought so. An' if I an't astray, he be the one your Reverence thinks would not be any the worse o' a wettin'?" "Instead, all the better for it. It may cure him of his evil courses-- drinking, card-playing, and the like. If he's not cured of them by some means, and soon, there won't be an acre left him of the Llangorren lands, nor a shilling in his purse. He'll have to go back to beggary, as at Glyngog; while you, Monsieur Coracle, in place of being head-gamekeeper, with other handsome preferments in prospect, will be compelled to return to your shifty life of poaching, night-netting, and all the etceteras. Would you desire that?" "Daanged if I would! An' won't do it if I can help. Shan't if your Reverence'll only show me the way." "There's but one I can think of." "What may that be, Father Rogier?" "Simply to set your foot on the side of this skiff, and tilt it bottom upwards." "It shall be done. When, and where?" "When you are coming back down. The where you may choose for yourself-- such place as may appear safe and convenient. Only take care you don't drown yourself." "No fear o' that. There an't water in the Wye as'll ever drown Dick Dempsey." "No," jocularly returns the priest; "I don't suppose there is. If it be your fate to perish by asphyxia--as no doubt it is--strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed--that being more appropriate to the life you have led. Ha! ha! ha!" Coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. For the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coarse jest. But remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at Abergann he silently submits to it. He may not much longer. He, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of Llangorren Court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the Philistines of Gaza, have it dragged down about their ears. But the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the _role_ of Samson; and however galling the _jeu d'esprit_ of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it. In truth there is no time for further exchange of speech, at least in the skiff. By this they have arrived at the Rugg's Ferry landing-place, where Father Rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in Coracle's ear, and then goes off. His words were-- "A hundred pounds, Dick, if you do it. Twice that for your doing it adroitly!" Volume Three, Chapter XVIII. ALMOST A "VERT." Major Mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house waiting for his dinner to be served, when he sees a _fiacre_ driven up to the door, and inside it the face of a friend. He does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine Irish impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door. "Captain Ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand, and hauling him out of the hackney. "Glad to see you back in Boulogne." Then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he has had seat beside the driver, "Part of your belongings, isn't he?" "Yes, Major; my old Wye waterman, Jack Wingate, of whom I spoke to you. And if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two--" "Don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. The longer you stay with me you'll be conferring the greater favour. Your old room is gaping to receive you; and Murtagh will rig up a berth for your boatman. Murt!" to the ex-Royal Irish, who, hearing the _fracas_, has also come forth, "take charge of Captain Ryecroft's traps, along with Mr Wingate here, and see all safety bestowed. Now, old fellow, step inside. They'll look after the things. You're just in time to do dinner with me. I was about sitting down to it _solus_, awfully lamenting my loneliness. Well; one never knows what luck's in the wind. Rather hard lines for you, however. If I mistake not, my pot's of the poorest this blessed day. But I know you're neither _gourmand_ nor _gourmet_; and that's some consolation. In!" In go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the _fiacre_ fare, look after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to Jack Wingate. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Soon as Captain Ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions--necessary after a sea voyage however short--his host hurries him down to the dining-room. When seated at the table, the Major asks-- "What on earth has delayed you, Vivian? You promised to be back in a week at most. Its months now! Despairing of your return, I had some thought of advertising the luggage you left with me, `if not claimed within a certain time, to be sold for the payment of expenses.' Ha! ha!" Ryecroft echoes the laugh; but so faintly, his friend can see the cloud has not yet lifted; instead, lies heavy and dark as ever. In hopes of doing something to dissipate it, the Major rolls on in his rich Hibernian brogue-- "You've just come in time to save your chattels from the hammer. And now I have you here I mean to keep you. So, old boy, make up your mind to an unlimited sojourn in Boulogne-sur-mer. You will, won't you?" "It's very kind of you, Mahon; but that must depend on--" "On what?" "How I prosper in my errand." "Oh! this time you _have_ an errand? Some business?" "I have." "Well, as you had none before, it gives reason to hope that other matters may be also reversed, and instead of shooting off like a comet, you'll play the part of a fixed star; neither to shoot nor be shot at, as looked likely on the last occasion. But speaking seriously, Ryecroft, as you say you're on business, may I know its nature?" "Not only may, but it's meant you should. Nay, more, Mahon; I want your help in it." "That you can count upon, whatever it be--from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. Only say how I can serve you." "Well, Major, in the first place I would seek your assistance in some inquiries I am about to make." "Inquiries! Have they regard to that young lady you said was lost-- missing from her home! Surely she has been found?" "She has--found drowned!" "Found drowned! God bless me!" "Yes, Mahon. The home from which she was missing knows her no more. Gwendoline Wynn is now in her long home--in Heaven!" The solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker's face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener's mind. It is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them. The Major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation. Which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together. He gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. But Mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly-- "Then you have a suspicion there's been what's commonly called foul play?" "More than a suspicion. I'm sure of it." "The devil! But who do you suspect?" "Who should I, but he now in possession of the property--her cousin, Mr Lewin Murdock. Though I've reason to believe there are others mixed up in it; one of them a Frenchman. Indeed, it's chiefly to make inquiry about him I've come over to Boulogne." "A Frenchman. You know his name?" "I do; at least that he goes by on the other side of the Channel. You remember that night as we were passing the back entrance of the convent where your sister's at school, our seeing a carriage there--a hackney, or whatever it was?" "Certainly I do." "And my saying that the man who had just got out of it, and gone inside, resembled a priest I'd seen but a day or two before?" "Of course I remember all that; and my joking you at the time as to the idleness of you fancying a likeness among sheep; where all are so nearly of the same hue--that black. Something of the sort I said. But what's your argument?" "No argument at all, but a conviction, that the man we saw that night was my Herefordshire priest. I've seen him several times since--had a good square look at him--and feel sure 'twas he." "You haven't yet told me his name?" "Rogier--Father Rogier. So he is called upon the Wye." "And, supposing him identified, what follows?" "A great deal follows, or rather depends on his identification." "Explain, Ryecroft. I shall listen with patience." Ryecroft does explain, continuing his narrative into a second chapter, which includes the doings of the Jesuit on Wyeside, so far as known to him; the story of Jack Wingate's love and loss--the last so strangely resembling his own--the steps afterwards taken by the waterman; in short, everything he can think of that will throw light upon the subject. "A strange tale, truly!" observes the Major, after hearing it to the end. "But does your boatman really believe the priest has resuscitated his dead sweetheart and brought her over here with the intention of of shutting her up in a nunnery?" "He does all that; and certainly not without show of reason. Dead or alive, the priest or some one else has taken the girl out of her coffin, and her grave." "'Twould be a wonderful story, if true--I mean the resuscitation, or resurrection; not the mere disinterment of a body. That's possible, and probable where priests of the Jesuitical school are concerned. And so should the other be, when one considers that they can make statues wink, and pictures shed tears. Oh! yes; Ultramontane magicians can do anything!" "But why," asks Ryecroft, "should they have taken all this trouble about a poor girl--the daughter of a small Herefordshire farmer,--with possibly at the most a hundred pounds, or so, for her dowry? That's what mystifies me!" "It needn't," laconically observes the Major. "These Jesuit gentry have often other motives than money for caging such birds in their convents. Was the girl good looking?" he asks after musing a moment. "Well, of myself I never saw her. By Jack's description she must have been a superb creature--on a par with the angels. True, a lover's judgment is not much to be relied on, but I've heard from others, that Miss Morgan was really a rustic belle--something beyond the common." "Faith! and that may account for the whole thing. I know they like their nuns to be nice looking; prefer that stripe; I suppose, for purposes of proselytising, if nothing more. They'd give a good deal to receive the services of my own sister in that way; have been already bidding for her. By Heavens! I'd rather see her laid in her grave!" The Major's strong declaration is followed by a spell of silence; after which, cooling down a little, he continues-- "You've come, then, to inquire into this convent matter, about--what's the girl's name?--ah! Morgan." "More than the convent matter; though it's in the same connection. I've come to learn what can be learnt about this priest; get his character, with his antecedents. And, if possible, obtain some information respecting the past lives of Mr Lewin Murdock and his French wife; for which I may probably go on to Paris, if not further. To sum up everything, I've determined to sift this mystery to the bottom--unravel it to its last thread. I've already commenced unwinding the clue, and made some little progress. But I want one to assist me. Like a lone hunter on a lost trail, I need counsel from a companion--and help too. You'll stand by me, Mahon?" "To the death, my dear boy! I was going to say the last shilling in my purse. As you don't need that, I say, instead, to the last breath in my body!" "You shall be thanked with the last in mine." "I'm sure of that. And now for a drop of the `crayther,' to warm us to our work. Ho! there, Murt! bring in the `matayreals.'" Which Murtagh does, the dinner-dishes having been already removed. Soon as punches have been mixed, the Major returns to the subject, saying-- "Now then; to enter upon particulars. What step do you wish me to take, first?" "First, to find out who Father Rogier is, and what. That is, on this side; I know what he is on the other. If we can but learn his relations with the convent it might give us a key, capable of opening more than one lock." "There won't be much difficulty in doing that, I take it. All the less, from my little sister Kate being a great pet of the Lady Superior, who has hopes of making a nun of her! Not if I know it! Soon as her schooling's completed she walks out of that seminary, and goes to a place where the moral atmosphere is a trifle purer. You see, old fellow, I'm not very bigoted about our Holy Faith, and in some danger of becoming a `vert.' As for my sister, were it not for a bit of a legacy left on condition of her being educated in a convent, she'd never have seen the inside of one, with my consent; and never will again when out of this one. But money's money; and though the legacy isn't a large one, for her sake I couldn't afford to forfeit it. You comprehend?" "Quite. And you think she will be able to obtain the information, without in any way compromising herself?" "Pretty sure of it. Kate's no simpleton, though she be but a child in years. She'll manage it for me, with the instructions I mean giving her. After all, it may not be so much trouble. In these nunneries, things which are secrets to the world without, are known to every mother's child of them--nuns and novices alike. Gossip's the chief occupation of their lives. If there's been an occurrence such as you speak of--a new bird caged there--above all an English one--it's sure to have got wind--that is inside the walls. And I can trust Kate to catch the breath, and blow it outside. So, Vivian, old boy, drink your toddy, and take things coolly. I think I can promise you that, before many days, or it may be only hours, you shall know whether such a priest as you speak of, be in the habit of coming to that convent; and if so, what for, when he was there last, and everything about the reverend gentleman worth knowing." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Kate Mahon proves equal to the occasion; showing herself quick witted, as her brother boasted her to be. On the third day after, she is able to report to him; that some time previously, how long not exactly known, a young English girl came to the convent, brought thither by a priest named Rogier. The girl is a candidate for the Holy Sisterhood--voluntary of course--to take the veil, soon as her probation be completed. Miss Mahon has not seen the new novice; only heard of her as being a great beauty; for personal charms make noise even in a nunnery. Nor have any of the other _pensionnaires_ been permitted to see or speak with her. All they as yet know is, that she is a blonde, with yellow hair--a grand wealth of it--and goes by the name of "Soeur Marie." "Sister Mary!" exclaims Jack Wingate, as Ryecroft at second-hand communicates the intelligence--at the same time translating the "Soeur Marie." "It's Mary Morgan--my Mary! An' by the Heavens of Mercy," he adds, his arms angrily thrashing the air, "she shall come out o' that convent, or I'll lay my life down at its door." Volume Three, Chapter XIX. THE LAST OF LEWIN MURDOCK. Once more a boat upon the Wye, passing between Rugg's Ferry and Llangorren Court, but this time descending. It is the same boat, and as before with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went up. One of them is--Coracle Dick, still at the oars; while Father Rogier's place in the stern is now occupied by another; not sitting upright as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart. This man is Lewin Murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety--in common parlance, drunk. He has been brought to the boat landing by the landlord of the "Welsh Harp," where he has been all day carousing; and delivered to Dempsey, who now at a late hour of the night is conveying him homeward. His hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head; and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a demi-lune of dark purplish colour underneath. But for an occasional twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips, and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass for dead, as readily as dead drunk. Verily, is the priest's prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the symptoms now displayed Lewin Murdock is doing his best to destroy himself--drinking suicidally! For all, he is not destined thus to die. His end will come even sooner, and it may be easier. It is not distant now, but ominously near, as may be told by looking into the eyes of the man who sits opposite, and recalling the conversation late exchanged between him and Father Rogier. For in those dark orbs a fierce light scintillates, such as is seen in the eyes of the assassin contemplating assassination, or the jungle tiger when within springing distance of its prey. Nothing of all this sees the sot, but lies unconscious, every now and then giving out a snore, regardless of danger, as though everything around were innocent as the pale moonbeams shimmering down upon his cadaverous cheeks. Possibly he is dreaming, and if so, in all likelihood it is of a grand gas-lighted _salon_, with tables of _tapis vert_, carrying packs of playing cards, dice cubes, and ivory counters. Or the _mise en scene_ of his visionary vagaries may be a drinking saloon, where he carouses with boon companions, their gambling limited to a simple tossing of odd and even, "heads or tails." But if dreaming at all, it is not of what is near him. Else, far gone as he is, he would be aroused--instinctively--to make a last struggle for life. For the thing so near is death! The fiend who sits regarding him in this helpless condition--as it were holding Lewin Murdock's life, or the little left of it, in his hand--has unquestionably determined upon taking it. Why he does not do so at once is not because he is restrained by any motive of mercy, or reluctance to the spilling of blood. The heart of the _ci-devant_ poacher, counterfeiter, and cracksman, has been long ago steeled against such silly and sensitive scruples. The postponement of his hellish purpose is due to a mere question of convenience. He dislikes the idea of having to trudge over miles of meadow in dripping garments! True, he could drown the drunken man, and keep himself dry--every stitch. But that would not do. For there will be another coroner's inquest, at which he will have to be present. He has escaped the two preceding; but at this he will be surely called upon, and as principal witness. Therefore he must be able to say he was wet, and prove it as well. Into the river, then, will he go, along with his victim; though there is no need for his taking the plunge till he has got nearer to Llangorren. So ingeniously contriving, he sits with arms mechanically working the oars; his eyes upon the doomed man, as those of a cat having a crippled mouse within easy reach of her claws, at any moment to be drawn in and destroyed! Silently, but rapidly, he rows on, needing no steerer. Between Rugg's Ferry and Llangorren Court he is as familiar with the river's channel as a coachman with the carriage-drive to and from his master's mansion; knows its every curve and crook, every purl and pool, having explored them while paddling his little "truckle." And now, sculling the larger craft, it is all the same. And he pulls on, without once looking over his shoulder; his eyes alone given to what is directly in front of him; Lewin Murdock lying motionless at his feet. As if himself moved by a sudden impulse--impatience, or the thought it might be as well to have the dangerous work over--he ceases pulling, and acts as though he were about to unship the oars. But again he seems suddenly to change his intention; on observing a white fleck by the river's edge, which he knows to be the lime-washed walls of the widow Wingate's cottage, at the same time remembering that the main road passes by it. What if there be some one on the road, or the river's bank, and be seen in the act of capsizing his own boat? True, it is after midnight, and not likely any one abroad--even the latest wayfarer. But there might be; and in such clear moonlight his every movement could be made out. That place will not do for the deed of darkness he is contemplating; and he trembles to think how near he has been to committing himself! Thus warned to the taking of precautions hitherto not thought of, he proceeds onward; summoning up before his mind the different turns and reaches of the river, all the while mentally anathematising the moon. For, besides convenience of place, time begins to press, even trouble him, as he recalls the proverb of the cup and the lip. He is growing nervously impatient--almost apprehensive of failure, through fear of being seen--when rounding a bend he has before him the very thing he is in search of--the place itself. It is a short straight reach, where the channel is narrow, with high banks on both sides, and trees overhanging, whose shadows meeting across shut off the hated light, shrouding the whole water surface in deep obscurity. It is but a little way above the lone farm-house of Abergann, and the mouth of the brook which there runs in. But Coracle Dick is not thinking of either; only of the place being appropriate for his diabolical design. And, becoming satisfied it is so, he delays no longer, but sets about its execution--carrying it out with an adroitness which should fairly entitle him to the double reward promised by the priest. Having unshipped the oars, he starts to his feet; and mounting upon the thwart, there for a second or two stands poised and balancing. Then, stepping to the side, he sets foot on the gunwale rail with his whole body's weight borne upon it. In an instant over goes the boat, careening bottom upwards, and spilling Lewin Murdock, as himself, into the mad surging river! The drunken man goes down like a lump of lead; possibly without pain, or the consciousness of being drowned; only supposing it the continuation of his dream! Satisfied he has gone down, the assassin cares not how. He has enough to think of in saving himself, enough to do swimming in his clothes, even to the boots. He reaches the bank, nevertheless, and climbs up it, exhausted; shivering like a water spaniel, for snow has fallen on Plinlimmon, and its thaw has to do with the freshet in the stream. But the chill of the Wye's water is nought compared with that sent through his flesh, to the very marrow of his bones, on discovering he has crawled out upon the spot--the self-same spot--where the waves gave back another body he had consigned to them--that of Mary Morgan! For a moment he stands horror-struck, with hair on end. The blood curdling in his veins. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he hitches up his dripping trousers, and hurries away from the accursed place--by himself accursed--taking the direction of Llangorren, but giving a wide berth to Abergann. He has no fear of approaching the former in wet garments; instead knows that in this guise he will be all the more warmly welcomed--as he is! Mrs Murdock sits up late for Lewin--though with little expectation of his coming home. Looking out of the window, in the moonlight she sees a man, who comes striding across the carriage sweep, and up into the portico. Rushing to the door to receive him, she exclaims in counterfeit surprise-- "You, Monsieur Richard! Not my husband!" When Coracle Dick has told his sad tale, shaped to suit the circumstances, her half-hysterical ejaculation might be supposed a cry of distress. Instead, it is one of ecstatic delight, she is unable to restrain, at knowing herself now sole owner of the house over her head, and the land for miles around it! Volume Three, Chapter XX. A CHAPTER DIPLOMATIC. Another day has dawned, another sun set upon Boulogne; and Major Mahon is again in his dining-room, with Captain Ryecroft, his sole guest. The cloth has been removed, the Major's favourite after-dinner beverage brought upon the table, and, with punches "brewed" and cigars set alight, they have commenced conversation upon the incidents of the day-- those especially relating to Ryecroft's business in Boulogne. The Major has had another interview with his sister--a short one, snatched while she was out with her school companions for afternoon promenade. It has added some further particulars to those they had already learnt, both about the English girl confined within the nunnery and the priest who conveyed her thither. That the latter was Father Rogier is placed beyond a doubt by a minute description of his person given to Miss Mahon, well known to the individual who gave it. To the nuns within that convent the man's name is familiar--even to his baptismal appellation, Gregoire; for although the Major has pronounced all the sacerdotal fraternity alike, in being black, this particular member of it is of a shade deeper than common--a circumstance of itself going a good way towards his identification. Even within that sacred precinct where he is admitted, a taint attaches to him; though what its nature the young lady has not yet been able to ascertain. The information thus obtained tallies with the estimate of the priest's character, already formed; in correspondence, too, with the theory that he is capable of the crime Captain Ryecroft believes him to have abetted, if not actually committed. Nor is it contradicted by the fact of his being a frequent visitor to the nunnery, and a favourite with the administration thereof; indeed an intimate friend of the Abbess herself. Something more, in a way accounting for all: that the new novice is not the first _agneau d'Angleterre_ he has brought over to Boulogne, and guided into that same fold, more than one of them having ample means, not only to provision themselves, but a surplus for the support of the general sisterhood. There is no word about any of these English lambs having been other than voluntary additions to the French flock; but a whisper circulates within the convent walls, that Father Rogier's latest contribution is a recusant, and if she ever become a nun it will be a _forced_ one; that the thing is _contre coeur_--in short, she protests against it. Jack Wingate can well believe that; still under full conviction that "Soeur Marie" is Mary Morgan; and, despite all its grotesque strangeness and wild improbability, Captain Ryecroft has pretty nearly come to the same conclusion; while the Major, with less knowledge of antecedent circumstances, but more of nunneries, never much doubted it. "About the best way to get the girl out. What's your idea, Mahon?" Ryecroft asks the question in no careless or indifferent way; on the contrary, with a feeling earnestness. For, although the daughter of the Wyeside farmer is nought to him, the Wye waterman is; and he has determined on seeing the latter through--to the end of the mysterious affair. In difficulties Jack Wingate has stood by him, and he will stand by Jack, _coute-qui-coute_. Besides, figuratively speaking, they are still in the same boat. For if Wingate's dead sweetheart, so strangely returned to life, can be also restored to liberty, the chances are she may be the very one wanted to throw light on the other and alas! surer death. Therefore, Captain Ryecroft is not all unselfish in backing up his boatman; nor, as he puts the question, being anxious about the answer. "We'll have to use strategy," returns the Major; not immediately, but after taking a grand gulp out of his tumbler, and a vigorous draw at his _regalia_. "But why should we?" impatiently demands the Captain. "If the girl have been forced in there, and's kept against her will--which by all the probabilities she is--surely she can be got out, on demand being made by her friends?" "That's just what isn't sure--though the demand were made by her own mother, with the father to back it. You forget, old fellow, that you're in France, not England." "But there's a British Consul in Boulogne." "Aye, and a British Foreign Minister, who gives that Consul his instructions; with some queer ideas besides, neither creditable to himself nor his country. I'm speaking of that jaunty diplomat--the `judicious bottle-holder,' who is accustomed to cajole the British public with his blarney about `Civis Romanus sum.'" "True, but does that bear upon our affair?" "It does--almost directly." "In what way? I do not comprehend." "Because you're not up to what's passing over here--I mean at headquarters--the Tuilleries, or St. Cloud, if you prefer it. There the man--if man he can be called--is ruled by the woman; she in her turn the devoted partisan of Pio Nono and the unprincipled Antonelli." "I can understand all that; still I don't quite see its application, or how the English Foreign Minister can be interested in those you allude to?" "I do. But for him, not one of the four worthies spoken of would be figuring as they are. In all probability France would still be a republic instead of an empire, wicked as the world ever saw; and Rome another republic--it maybe all Italy--with either Mazzini or Garibaldi at its head. For, certain as you sit there, old boy, it was the judicious bottle-holder who hoisted Nap into an imperial throne, over that Presidential chair, so ungratefully spurned--scurvily kicked behind after it had served his purpose. A fact of which the English people appear to be yet in purblind ignorance! As they are of another, equally notable, and alike misunderstood: that it was this same _civis Romanus sum_ who restored old Pio to his apostolic chair; those red-breeched ruffians, the Zouaves, being but so much dust thrown into people's eyes--a bone to keep the British bull-dog quiet. He would have growled then, and will yet, when he comes to understand all these transactions; when the cloak of that scoundrelly diplomacy which screens them has rotted into shreds, letting the light of true history shine upon them." "Why, Mahon! I never knew you were such a politician! Much less such a Radical!" "Nothing much of either, old fellow. Only a man who hates tyranny in every shape and form--whether religious or political. Above all, that which owes its existence to the cheapest--the very shabbiest chicanery the world was ever bamboozled with. I like open dealing in all things." "But you are not recommending it, now--in this little convent matter?" "All! that's quite a different affair! There are certain ends that justify certain means--when the Devil must be fought with his own weapons. Ours is of that kind, and we must either use strategy, or give the thing up altogether. By open measures there wouldn't be the slightest chance of our getting this girl out of the convent's clutches. Even then we may fail; but, if successful, it will only be by great craft, some luck, and possibly a good deal of time spent before we accomplish our purpose." "Poor fellow!" rejoins Ryecroft, speaking of the Wye waterman, "he won't like the idea of long waiting. He's madly, terribly impatient. This afternoon as we were passing the Convent I had a difficulty to restrain him from rushing up to its door, ringing the bell, and demanding an interview with the `Soeur Marie'--having his Mary, as he calls her, restored to him on the instant." "It's well you succeeded in hindering that little bit of rashness. Had he done so, 'twould have ended not only in the door being slammed in his face, but another door shut behind his back--that of a gaol; from which he would never have issued till embarking on a voyage to New Caledonia or Cayenne. Aye, both of you might have been so served. For would you believe it Ryecroft, that you, an officer of the boasted H.B.R.A.; rich, and with powerful friends--even you could be not only here imprisoned, but _deporte_, without any one who has interest in you being the wiser; or, if so, having no power to prevent it. France, under the regime of Napoleon le Petit, is not so very different from what it was under the rule of Louis le Grand, and _lettres de cachet_ are now rife as then. Nay, more of them now written, consigning men to a hundred Bastilles instead of one. Never was a people so enslaved as these Johnny Crapauds are at this present time; not only their speech fettered, but their very thoughts held in bondage, or so constrained, they may not impart them to one another. Even intimate friends forbear exchanging confidences, lest one prove false to the other! Nothing free but insincerity and sin; both fostered and encouraged from that knowledge intuitive among tyrants; that wickedness weakens a people, making them easier to rule and ride over. So, my boy, you perceive the necessity of our acting with caution in this business, whatever trouble or time it may take-- don't you?" "I do." "After all," pursues the Major, "it seems to me that time isn't of so much consequence. As regards the girl, they're not going to eat her up. And for the other matters concerning yourself, they'll keep, too. As you say, the scent's become cold; and a few days more or less can't make any difference. Beside, the trails we intend following may in the end all run into one. I shouldn't be at all surprised if this captive damsel has come to the knowledge of something connected with the other affair. Faith, that may be the very reason for their having her conveyed over here, to be cooped up for the rest of her life. In any case, the fact of her abduction, in such an odd outrageous way, would of itself be damning collateral evidence against whoever has done it, showing him or them good for anything. So, the first work on our hands, as the surest, is to get the waterman's sweetheart out of the convent, and safe back to her home in Herefordshire. "That's our course, clearly. But have you any thoughts as to how we should proceed?" "I have; more than thoughts--hopes of success--and sanguine ones." "Good! I'm glad to hear it. Upon what do you base them?" "On that very near relative of mine--Sister Kate. As I've told you, she's a pet of the Lady Superior; admitted into the very _arcana_ of the establishment. And with such privilege, if she can't find a way to communicate with any one therein closeted, she must have lost the mother wit born to her, and brought thither from the `brightest gem of the say.' I don't think she has, or that it's been a bit blunted in Boulogne. Instead, somewhat sharpened by communion with these Holy Sisters; and I've no fear but that 'twill be sharp enough to serve us in the little scheme I've in part sketched out." "Let me hear it, Mahon?" "Kate must obtain an interview with the English girl; or, enough if she can slip a note into her hand. That would go some way towards getting her out--by giving her intimation that friends are near." "I see what you mean," rejoins the Captain, pulling away at his cigar, the other left to finish giving details of the plan he has been mentally projecting. "We'll have to do a little bit of burglary, combined with abduction. Serve them out in their own coin; as it were hoisting the priest on his own petard!" "It will be difficult, I fear." "Of course it will; and dangerous. Likely more the last than the first. But it'll have to be done; else we may drop the thing entirely." "Never, Mahon! No matter what the danger, I for one am willing to risk it. And we can reckon on Jack Wingate. He'll be only too ready to rush into it." "Ah! there might be more danger through his rashness. But it must be held in check. After all, I don't apprehend so much difficulty if things be dexterously managed. Fortunately there's a circumstance in our favour." "What is it?" "A window." "Ah! Where?" "In the Convent of course. That which gives light--not much of it either--to the cloister where the girl is confined. By a lucky chance my sister has learnt the particular one, and seen the window from the outside. It looks over the grounds where the nuns take recreation, now and then allowed intercourse with the school girls. She says it's high up, but not higher than the top of the garden wall; so a ladder that will enable us to scale the one should be long enough to reach the other. I'm more dubious about the dimensions of the window itself. Kate describes it as only a small affair, with an upright bar in the middle--iron, she believes. Wood or iron, we may manage to remove that; but if the Herefordshire bacon has made your farmer's daughter too big to screw herself through the aperture, then it'll be all up a tree with us. However, we must find out before making the attempt to extract her. From what sister has told me, I fancy we can see the window from the Ramparts above. If so, we may make a distant measurement of it by guess work. Now," continues the Major, coming to his programme of action, "what's got to be done first is that your Wye boatman write a billet doux to his old sweetheart--in the terms I shall dictate to him. Then my sister must contrive, in some way, to put it in the girl's hands, or see that she gets it." "And what after?" "Well, nothing much after; only that we must make preparations for the appointment the waterman will make in his epistle." "It may as well be written now--may it not?" "Certainly; I was just thinking of that. The sooner the better. Shall I call him in?" "Do as you think proper, Mahon. I trust everything to you." The Major, rising, rings a bell; which brings Murtagh to the dining-room door. "Murt, tell your guest in the kitchen, we wish a word with him." The face of the Irish soldier vanishes from view, soon after replaced by that of the Welsh waterman. "Step inside, Wingate!" says the Captain; which the other does, and remains standing to hear what the word was wanted. "You can write, Jack--can't you?" It is Ryecroft who puts the inquiry. "Well, Captain; I ain't much o' a penman; but I can scribble a sort o' rough hand after a fashion." "A fair enough hand for Mary Morgan to read it, I dare say." "Oh, sir, I only weesh there wor a chance o' her gettin' a letter from me!" "There is a chance. I think we can promise that. If you'll take this pen and put down what my friend Major Mahon dictates to you, it will in all probability be in her hands ere long." Never was pen more eagerly laid hold of than that offered to Jack Wingate. Then, sitting down to the table as directed, he waits to be told what he is to write. The Major, bent over him, seems cogitating what it should be. Not so, however. Instead, he is occupied with an astronomical problem which is puzzling him. For its solution he appeals to Ryecroft, asking:-- "How about the moon?" "The moon?" "Yes. Which quarter is she in? For the life of me, I can't tell." "Nor I," rejoins the Captain. "I never think of such a thing." "She's in her last," puts in the boatman, accustomed to take note of lunar changes. "It be an old moon now shining all the night, when the sky an't clouded." "You're right, Jack!" says Ryecroft. "Now I remember; it is the old moon." "In which case," adds the Major, "we must wait for the new one. We want darkness after midnight--must have it--else we cannot act. Let me see; when will that be?" "The day week," promptly responds the waterman. "Then she'll be goin' down, most as soon as the sun's self." "That'll do," says the Major. "Now to the pen!" Squaring himself to the table, and the sheet of paper spread before him, Wingate writes to dictation. No words of love, but what inspires him with a hope he may once more speak such in the ears of his beloved Mary! Volume Three, Chapter XXI. A QUICK CONVERSION. "When is this horror to have an end? Only with my life? Am I, indeed, to pass the remainder of my days within this dismal cell? Days so happy, till that the happiest of all--its ill-starred night! And my love so strong, so confident--its reward seeming so nigh--all to be for nought--sweet dreams and bright hopes suddenly, cruelly extinguished! Nothing but darkness now; within my heart, in this gloomy place, everywhere around me! Oh, it is agony! When will it be over?" It is the English girl who thus bemoans her fate--still confined in the convent, and the same cloister. Herself changed, however. Though but a few weeks have passed, the roses of her cheeks have become lilies, her lips wan, her features of sharper outline, the eyes retired in their sockets, with a look of woe unspeakable. Her form, too, has fallen away from the full ripe rounding that characterised it, though the wreck is concealed by a loose drapery of ample folds. For Soeur Marie now wears the garb of the Holy Sisterhood--hating it, as her words show. She is seated on the pallet's edge while giving utterance to her sombre soliloquy; and without change of attitude continues it:-- "Imprisoned I am--that certain! And for no crime. It may be without hostility on the part of those who have done it. Perhaps, better it were so? Then there might be hope of my captivity coming to an end. As it is, there is none--none! I comprehend all now--the reason for bringing me here--keeping me--everything. And that reason remains-- must, as long as I am alive! Merciful heaven!" The exclamatory phrase is almost a shriek; despair sweeping through her soul, as she thinks of why she is there shut up. For hingeing upon that is the hopelessness, almost a dead, drear certainty, she will never have deliverance! Stunned by the terrible reflection, she pauses--even thought for the time stayed. But the throe passing, she again pursues her soliloquy, now in more conjectural strain:-- "Strange that no friend has come after me? No one caring for my fate-- even to inquire! And _he_--no, that is not strange--only sadder, harder to think of. How could I expect, or hope, he would? "But surely it is not so? I may be wronging them all--friends-- relatives--even him? They may not know where I am? Cannot! How could they? I know not myself! Only that it is France, and in a nunnery. But what part of France, and how I came to it, likely they are ignorant as I. "And they may never know! Never find out! If not, oh! what is to become of me? Father in Heaven! Merciful Saviour! help me in my helplessness!" After this frenzied outburst a calmer interval succeeds; in which human instincts as thoughts direct her. She thinks:-- "If I could but find means to communicate with my friends--make known to them where I am, and how, then--Ah! 'tis hopeless. No one allowed near me but the attendant and that Sister Ursule. For compassion from either, I might just as well make appeal to the stones of the floor! The Sister seems to take delight in torturing me--every day doing or saying some disagreeable thing. I suppose, to humble, break, bring me to her purpose--that the taking of the veil. A nun! Never! It is not in my nature, and I would rather die than dissemble it!" "Dissemble!" she repeats in a different accent. "That word helps me to a thought. Why should I not dissemble? I _will_." Thus emphatically pronouncing, she springs to her feet, the expression of her features changing suddenly as her attitude. Then paces the floor to and fro, with hands clasped across her forehead, the white attenuated fingers writhingly entwined in her hair. "They want me to take the veil--the _black_ one! So shall I; the blackest in all the convent's wardrobe if they wish it--aye, crape if they insist on it? Yes, I am resigned now--to that--anything. They can prepare the robes, vestments, all the adornments of their detested mummery; I am prepared, willing, to put them on. It's the only way--my only hope of regaining liberty. I see--am sure of it!" She pauses, as if still but half resolved, then goes on-- "I am compelled to this deception! Is it a sin? If so, God forgive me! But no--it cannot be! 'Tis justified by my wrongs--my sufferings!" Another and longer pause, during which she seems profoundly to reflect. After it--saying: "I shall do so--pretend compliance. And begin this day--this very hour, if the opportunity arise. What should be my first pretence? I must think of it; practice, rehearse it. Let me see. Ah! I have it. The world has forsaken, forgotten me. Why then should I cling to it! Instead, why not in angry spite fling it off--as it has me. That's the way!" A creaking at the cloister door tells of its key turning in the lock. Slight as is the sound, it acts on her as an electric shock, suddenly and altogether changing the cast of her countenance. The instant before half angry, half sad, it is now a picture of pious resignation! Her attitude different also. From striding tragically over the floor she has taken a seat, with a book in her hand, which she seems industriously perusing. It is that "Aid to Faith" recommended, but hitherto unread. She is to all appearance so absorbed in its pages as not to notice the opening of the door, nor the footsteps of one entering. How natural her start, as she hears a voice, and looking up beholds Soeur Ursule! "Ah!" ejaculates the latter, with an exultant air, as of a spider that sees a fly upon the edge of its web, "Glad, Marie, to find you so employed! It promises well, both for the peace of your mind and the good of your soul. You've been foolishly lamenting the world left behind: wickedly too. What is to compare with that to come? As dross-dirt, to gold or diamonds! The book you hold in your hand will tell you so. Doesn't it?" "It does, indeed." "Then profit by its instructions; and be sorry you have not sooner taken counsel from it." "I am sorry, sister Ursule." "It would have comforted you--will now." "It has already. Ah! so much! I would not have believed any book could give me the view of life it has done. I begin to understand what you've been telling me--to see the vanities of this earthly existence, how poor and empty they are in comparison with the bright joys of that other life. Oh! why did I not know it before?" At this moment a singular tableau is exhibited within that Convent cell--two female figures, one seated, the other standing--novice and nun; the former fair and young, the latter ugly as old. And still in greater contrast, the expression upon their faces. That of the girl's downcast, demure, lids over the eyes less as if in innocence than repentant of some sin, while the glances of the woman show pleased surprise, struggling against incredulity! Her suspicion still in the ascendant, Soeur Ursule stands regarding the disciple, so suddenly converted, with a look which seems to penetrate her very soul. It is borne without sign of quailing, and she at length comes to believe the penitence sincere, and that her proselytising powers have not been exerted in vain. Nor is it strange she should so deceive herself. It is far from being the first novice _contre coeur_ she has broken upon the wheel of despair and made content to taking a vow of life-long seclusion from the world. Convinced she has subdued the proud spirit of the English girl, and gloating over a conquest she knows will bring substantial reward to herself, she exclaims prayerfully, in mock pious tone: "Blessed be Holy Mary for this new mercy! On your knees _ma fille_, and pray to her to complete the work she has begun!" And upon her knees drops the novice, while the nun as if deeming herself _de trop_ in the presence of prayer, slips out of the cloister, silently shutting the door. Volume Three, Chapter XXII. A SUDDEN RELAPSE. For some time after the exit of Soeur Ursule, the English girl retains her seat, with the same demure look she had worn in the presence of the nun; while before her face the book is again open, as though she had returned to reading it. One seeing this might suppose her intensely interested in its contents. But she is not even thinking of them! Instead, of a sharp skinny ear, and a steel grey eye--one or other of which she suspects to be covering the keyhole. Her own ear is on the alert to catch sounds outside--the shuffling of feet, the rattle of rosary beads, or the swishing of a dress against the door. She hears none; and at length satisfied that Sister Ursule's suspicions are spent, or her patience exhausted, she draws a free breath--the first since the _seance_ commenced. Then rising to her feet, she steps to a corner of the cell, not commanded by the keyhole; and there dashes the hook down, as though it had been burning her fingers! "My first scene of deception," she mutters to herself--"first act of hypocrisy. Have I not played it to perfection?" She draws a chair into the angle, and sits down upon it. For she is still not quite sure that the spying eye has been withdrawn from the aperture, or whether it may not have returned to it. "Now that I've made a beginning," she murmurs on, "I must think what's to be done in continuance; and how the false pretence is to be kept up. What will _they_ do?--and think? They'll be suspicious for a while, no doubt; look sharply after me, as ever! But that cannot last always; and surely they won't doom me to dwell for ever in this dingy hole. When I've proved my conversion real, by penance, obedience, and the like, I may secure their confidence, and by way of reward, get transferred to a more comfortable chamber. Ah! little care I for the comfort, if convenient,--with a window out of which one could look. Then I might have a hope of seeing--speaking to some one--with heart less hard than Sister Ursule's, and that other creature--a very hag!" "I wonder where the place is? Whether in the country, or in a town among houses? It may be the last--in the very heart of a great city, for all this death-like stillness! They build these religious prisons with walls so thick! And the voices, I from time to time hear, are all women's. Not one of a man amongst them! They must be the Convent people themselves! Nuns and novices! Myself one of the latter! Ha! ha! I shouldn't have known it if Sister Ursule hadn't informed me. Novice, indeed--soon to be a nun! No! but a free woman--or dead! Death would be better than life like this!" The derisive smile that for a moment played upon her features passes off, replaced by the same forlorn woe-begone look, as despair comes back to her heart. For she again recalls what she has read in books--very different from that so contemptuously tossed aside--of girls, young and beautiful as herself--high-born ladies--surreptitiously taken from their homes--shut up as she--never more permitted to look on the sun's light, or bask in its beams, save within the gloomy cloisters of a convent, or its dismally shadowed grounds. The prospect of such future for herself appals her, eliciting an anguished sigh--almost a groan. "Ha!" she exclaims the instant after, and again with altered air, as though something had arisen to relieve her. "There are voices now! Still of women! Laughter! How strange it sounds! So sweet! I've not heard such since I've been here. It's the voice of a girl? It must be--so clear, so joyous. Yes! Surely it cannot come from any of the sisters? They are never joyful--never laugh." She remains listening, soon to hear the laughter again, a second voice joining in it, both with the cheery ring of school girls at play. The sound comes in with the light--it could not well enter otherwise--and aware of this, she stands facing that way, with eyes turned upward. For the window is far above her head. "Would that I could see out! If I only had something on which to stand!" She sweeps the cell with her eyes, to see only the pallet, the frail chairs, a little table with slender legs, and a washstand--all too low. Standing upon the highest, her eyes would still be under the level of the sill. She is about giving it up, when an artifice suggests itself. With wits sharpened, rather than dulled by her long confinement--she bethinks her of a plan, by which she may at least look out of the window. She can do that by upending the bedstead! Rash she would raise it on the instant. But she is not so; instead considerate, more than ever cautious. And so proceeding, she first places a chair against the door in such position that its back blocks the keyhole. Then, dragging bed clothes, mattress, and all to the floor, she takes hold of the wooden framework; and, exerting her whole strength, hoists it on end, tilted like a ladder against the wall. And as such it will answer her purpose, the strong webbing, crossed and stayed, to serve for steps. A moment more, and she has mounted up, and stands, her chin resting on the window's ledge. The window itself is a casement on hinges; one of those antique affairs, iron framed, with the panes set in lead. Small, though big enough for a human body to pass through, but for an upright bar centrally bisecting it. She balancing upon the bedstead, and looking out, thinks not of the bar now, nor takes note of the dimensions of the aperture. Her thoughts, as her glances, are all given to what she sees outside. At the first _coup d'oeil_, the roofs and chimneys of houses, with all their appurtenances of patent smoke-curers, weathercocks, and lightning conductors; among them domes and spires, showing it a town with several churches. Dropping her eyes lower they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey massive wall, high almost as the houses. At a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. For, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. They are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose flowing robes of sombre hue. A few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are--the _pensionnaires_ of the establishment. Her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school girls; who linked arm in arm are walking backward and forward, directly in front. Why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she passes under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside in which she feels an interest! Her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently snatched by stealth--as in fear of being observed by the others. Even her promenading companion seems unaware of them. She inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others. "What can it mean?" she asks herself. "So unlike the rest! Surely not French! Can she be English? She is very--very beautiful!" The last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around--all of them being of the French facial type, while hers are pronouncedly Irish. By this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the glass--dim with dust and spiders' webs--a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her. She starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. Then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it-- "Keep quiet! I know all about you, and why you are there." The gesture is not lost upon the captive. But before she can reflect upon its significance the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter skelter. For it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the _angelus_. In a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one--the schoolgirl with the Irish features and eyes. She, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it significantly exposing something white, she holds half hidden between her fingers! It needs no further gesture to make known her intent. The English girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron casement grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. On the instant of its opening the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and like a flash of light passes through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor. Not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away; so speedily she is still in time to join the _queue_ moving on towards the convent chapel. Cautiously reclosing the window, Soeur Marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside! Despite her burning impatience she does not open it, till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before. For now, as ever, she has need to be circumspect, and with better reasons. At length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads:-- "Mary,--Monday night next after midnight--if you look out of your window you will see friends; among them:-- "Jack Wingate." "Jack Wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "A voice from dear old Wyeside! Hope of delivery at last!" And overcome by her emotion she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most _devotee_ nun in the convent. Volume Three, Chapter XXIII. A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION. It is a moonless November night, and a fog drifting down from the _Pas de Calais_ envelopes Boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. The great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled _soulier_ having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. If a foot passenger be abroad he is some belated individual groping his way home from the _Cafe de billars_ he frequents, or the _Cercle_ to which he belongs. Even the _sergens de ville_ are scarcer than usual; those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside _cabarets_, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded. It is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. For all, there are three men in the streets of Boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. Instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for. They who thus delight in darkness are Major Mahon, Captain Ryecroft, and the waterman, Wingate. Not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character--to release a captive from captivity. The night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the Soeur Marie is to see friends in front of her window. They are the friends; about to attempt taking her out of it. They are not going blindly about the thing. Unlikely old campaigners as Mahon and Ryecroft would. During the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. They are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design. Just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from Mahon's house; and, turning up the Rue Tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient _cite_. The two officers walk arm in arm, Ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the Wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. It is nevertheless a thing altogether different--a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. The errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant. They proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. When any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved _trottoirs_, they make instant stop, and stand listening--speech passing among themselves only in whispers. But as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and, in less than twenty minutes after leaving the Major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. This is in the narrow lane which runs along: the _enceinte_ of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself. They know the _allee_ well; have traversed it scores of times within the last few days, as nights, and could go through it blindfold. And they also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has been selected with an eye to dimensions. While its bearer is easing it off his shoulders, and planting it firmly in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the Major saying-- "We won't all three be needed for the work inside. One of us may remain here--nay, must! Those _sergens de ville_ might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. If caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing--aye, or without them--'twould go ill with us." "Quite true," assents the Captain. "Which of us do you propose staying here? Jack?" "Yes, certainly. And for more reasons than one. Excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms he'd be all on fire--perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl, that had intruded into the rookery. Besides, there's a staff of male servants--for they have such--half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. A big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. Therefore, master Jack _must_ remain here. You tell him he must." Jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. Endorsing them, the Major says-- "Don't be so impatient, my good fellow! It will make but a few seconds' difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. Whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. The fight in the front will be easy. Our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear guard." He thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. How could he otherwise? He is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. And is it not for him they are there; risking liberty--it may be life? Having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do. Simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is _not_ to reply to it. The signal so arranged, Mahon and Ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his Mary is, and yet how far off she still may be! Once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot, which is their objective point. They go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it. The very cats of the Convent could not traverse its grounds more silently. Their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it-- a picture of Madonna on a back ground of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled. But though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving, that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. With that voice from the Wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! They have indeed come. A woman of weak nerves would under the circumstances be excited-- possibly cry out. But Soeur Marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently, waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of macaroni. It is Ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without as yet a word having been exchanged between them. Only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he whispers to her:-- "Keep up your courage, Mary! Your Jack is waiting for you outside the wall. Here, take my hand--" "Mary! My Jack! And you--you--" Her voice becomes inaudible, and she totters back against the wall! "She's swooning--has fainted!" mutters the Major; which Ryecroft already knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking to the earth. "It's the sudden change into the open air," he says. "We must carry her, Major. You go ahead with the ladder, I can manage the girl myself." While speaking he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. No light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather. The Major going in advance with the ladder guides him through the mist; and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, Mahon giving a low whistle as he approachs. It is almost instantly answered by another from the outside, telling them the coast is clear. And in three minutes after they are also on the outside, the girl still resting in Ryecroft's arms. The waterman wishes to relieve him, agonised by the thought that his sweetheart, who has passed unscathed, as it were, through the very gates of death, may after all be dead! He urges it; but Mahon, knowing the danger of delay, forbids any sentimental interference, commanding Jack to re-shoulder the ladder and follow as before. Then striking off in Indian file, the Major first, the Captain with his burden in the centre, the boatman bringing up behind, they retrace their steps towards the Rue Tintelleries. If Ryecroft but knew who he is carrying, he would bear her, if not more tenderly, with far different emotions, and keener solicitude about her recovery from that swoon. It is only after she is out of his arms; and lying upon a couch in Major Mahon's house--the hood drawn back and the light shining on her face-- that he experiences a thrill, strange and wild as ever felt by mortal man! No wonder--seeing it is Gwendoline Wynn! "Gwen!" he exclaims, in a very ecstasy of joy, as her pulsing breast and opened eyes tell of returned consciousness. "Vivian!" is the murmured rejoinder, their lips meeting in delirious contact. Poor Jack Wingate! Volume Three, Chapter XXIV. STARTING ON A CONTINENTAL TOUR. Lewin Murdock is dead, and buried--has been for days. Not in the family vault of the Wynns, though he had the right of having his body there laid. But his widow, who had control of the interment, willed it otherwise. She has repugnance to opening that receptacle of the dead, holding a secret she may well dread disclosure of. There was no very searching enquiry into the cause of the man's death; none such seeming needed. A coroner's inquest, true; but of the most perfunctory kind. Several habitues of the Welsh Harp; with its staff of waiters, testified to having seen him at that hostelry till a late hour of the night on which he was drowned, and far gone in drink. The landlord advanced the narrative a stage, by telling how he conveyed him to the boat, and delivered him to his boatman, Richard Dempsey--all true enough; while Coracle capped the story by a statement of circumstances, in part facts, but the major part fictitious:--how the inebriate gentleman, after lying a while quiet at the bottom of the skiff, suddenly sprung upon his feet, and staggering excitedly about, capsized the craft, spilling both into the water! Some corroboration of this, in the boat having been found floating keel upwards, and the boatman arriving home at Llangorren soaking wet. To his having been in this condition several of the Court domestics, at the time called out of their beds, with purpose _prepense_, were able to bear witness. But Dempsey's testimony is further strengthened, even to confirmation, by himself having since taken to bed, where he now lies dangerously ill of a fever, the result of a cold caught from that chilling _douche_. In this latest inquest the finding of the jury is set forth in two simple words, "Drowned accidentally." No suspicion attaches to any one; and his widow, now wearing the weeds of sombre hue, sorrows profoundly. But her grief is great only in the eyes of the outside world, and the presence of the Llangorren domestics. Alone within her chamber she shows little signs of sorrow; and if possible less when Gregoire Rogier is her companion; which he almost constantly is. If more than half his time at the Court while Lewin Murdock was alive, he is now there nearly the whole of it. No longer as a guest, but as much its master as she is its mistress! For that, matter indeed more; if inference _may_ be drawn from a dialogue occurring between them some time after her husband's death. They are in the library, where there is a strong chest, devoted to the safe keeping of legal documents, wills, leases, and the like--all the paraphernalia of papers relating to the administration of the estate. Rogier is at a table upon which many of these lie, with writing materials besides. A sheet of foolscap is before him, on which he has just scribbled the rough copy of an advertisement intended to be sent to several newspapers. "I think this will do," he says to the widow, who, in an easy chair drawn up in front of the fire, is sipping Chartreuse, and smoking paper cigarettes. "Shall I read it to you?" "No. I don't want to be bothered with the thing in detail. Enough, if you let me hear its general purport." He gives her this in briefest epitome:-- "_The Llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms, manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc, etc_." "_Tres bien_! Have you put down the date? It should be soon." "You're right, _cherie_. Should, and must be. So soon, I fear we won't realise three-fourths of the value. But there's no help for it, with the ugly thing threatening--hanging over our necks like a very sword of Damocles." "You mean the tongue of _le braconnier_?" She has reason to dread it. "No I don't; not in the slightest. There's a sickle too near his own-- in the hands of the reaper, Death." "He's dying, then?" She speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of compassion, but the very reverse. "He is," the other answers, in like unpitying tone; "I've just come from his bedside." "From the cold he caught that night, I suppose?" "Yes; that's partly the cause. But," he adds, with a diabolical grin, "more the medicine he has taken for it." "What mean you, Gregoire?" "Only that Monsieur Dick has been delirious, and I saw danger in it. He was talking too wildly." "You've done something to keep him quiet?" "I have." "What?" "Given him a sleeping draught." "But he'll wake up again; and then--" "Then I'll administer another dose of the anodyne." "What sort of anodyne?" "A _hypodermic_." "Hypodermic! I've never heard of the thing; not even the name!" "A wonderful cure it is--for noisy tongues!" "You excite one's curiosity. Tell me something of its nature?" "Oh, it's very simple; exceedingly so. Only a drop of liquid introduced into the blood; not in the common roundabout way, by pouring down the throat, but direct injection into the veins. The process in itself is easy enough, as every medical practitioner knows. The skill consists in the _kind_ of liquid to be injected. That's one of the occult sciences I learnt in Italy, land of Lucrezia and Tophana; where such branches of knowledge still flourish. Elsewhere it's not much known, and perhaps it's well it isn't; or there might be more widowers, with a still larger proportion of widows." "Poison!" she exclaims involuntarily, adding, in a timid whisper, "Was it, Gregoire?" "Poison!" he echoes, protestingly. "That's too plain a word, and the idea it conveys too vulgar, for such a delicate scientific operation as that I've performed. Possibly, in Monsieur Coracle's case the effect will be somewhat similar; but not the after symptoms. If I haven't made miscalculation as to quantity, ere three days are over it will send him to his eternal sleep; and I'll defy all the medical experts in England to detect traces of poison in him. So don't enquire further, _cherie_. Be satisfied to know the hypodermic will do you a service. And," he adds, with sardonic smile, "grateful if it be never given to yourself." She starts, recoiling in horror. Not at the repulsive confessions she has listened to, but more through personal fear. Though herself steeped in crime, he beside her seems its very incarnation! She has long known him morally capable of anything, and now fancies he may have the power of the famed basilisk to strike her dead with a glance of his eyes! "Bah!" he exclaims, observing her trepidation, but pretending to construe it otherwise. "Why all this emotion about such a _miserable_? He'll have no widow to lament him--inconsolable like yourself. Ha! ha! Besides, for our safety--both of us--his death is as much needed as was the other. After killing the bird that threatened to devour our crops, it would be blind buffoonery to keep the scarecrow standing. I only wish, there were nothing but he between us, and complete security." "But is there still?" she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face. "Certainly there is." "What?" "That little convent matter." "_Mon Dieu_! I supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger." "Probability is the word you mean. In this sweet world there's nothing sure except money--that, too, in hard cash coin. Even at the best we'll have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of those who have assisted us--_Messieurs les Jesuites_. If I could only, as by some magician's wand, convert these clods of Herefordshire into a portable shape, I'd cheat them yet; as I've done already, in making them believe me one of their most ardent _doctrinaires_. Then, _chere amie_, we could at once move from Llangorren Court to a palace by some Lake of Como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other fal-lals, by which Monsieur Bulwer's sham prince humbugged the Lyonese shopkeeper's daughter. Ha! ha! ha!" "But why can't it be done?" "Ah! There the word _impossible_, if you like. What! Convert a landed estate of several thousand acres into cash, _presto-instanter_, as though one were but selling a flock of sheep! The thing can't be accomplished anywhere; least of all in this slow-moving Angleterre, where men look at their money twice--twenty times--before parting with it. Even a mortgage couldn't be managed for weeks--may be months-- without losing quite the moiety of value. But a _bona fide_ sale, for which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! Oh! it's damnable. The thing's been a blunder from beginning to end; all through the squeamishness of Monsieur, _votre mari_. Had he agreed to what I first proposed, and done with Mademoiselle, what should have been done, he might himself still--The simpleton, sot--soft heart, and softer head! Well; it's of no use reviling him now. He paid the forfeit for being a fool. And 'twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after all may turn out shadows, however dark. In the end everything may go right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable way. But what a flutter there'll be among my flock at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes--only to see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! A comical scene, of which I'd like being a spectator. Ha! ha! ha!" She joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. And while they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking admittance. It is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a chrome-coloured envelope--at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch. It bears the address "Rev. Gregoire Rogier, Rugg's Ferry, Herefordshire," and when opened the telegram is seen to have been sent from Folkestone. Its wording is:-- "_The bird has escaped from its cage. Prenez garde_!" Well for the pseudo-priest, and his _chere amie_, that before they read it, the butler had left the room. For though figurative the form of expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly to comprehend them. And with such comprehension, as almost to drive them distracted! He is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing blanched and bloodless; while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half in frenzied anger! It is the last loud cry, or word, to which she gives utterance at Llangorren. And no longer there speaks the priest loudly, or authoritatively. The after hours of that night are spent by both of them, not as the owners of the house, but burglars in the act of breaking it! Up till the hour of dawn, the two might be seen silently flitting from room to room--attended only by Clarisse, who carries the candle-- ransacking drawers and secretaires, selecting articles of _bijouterie_ and _vertu_, of little weight but large value, and packing them in trunks and travelling bags. All of which, under the grey light of morning are taken to the nearest railway station in one of the Court carriages--a large drag-barouche--inside which ride Rogier and Madame Murdock _veuve_; her _femme de chambre_ having a seat beside the coachman, who has been told they are starting on a continental tour. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ And so were they; but it was a tour from which they never returned. Instead, it was extended to a greater distance than they themselves designed, and in a direction neither dreamt of. Since their career, after a years interval, ended in _deportation_ to Cayenne, for some crime committed by them in the South of France. So said the _Semaphore_ of Marseilles. Volume Three, Chapter XXV. CORACLE DICK ON HIS DEATH-BED. As next morning's sun rises over Llangorren Court, it shows a mansion without either master or mistress! Not long to remain so. If the old servants of the establishment had short notice of dismissal, still more brief is that given to its latest retinue. About meridian of that day, after the departure of their mistress, while yet in wonder where she has gone, they receive another shock of surprise, and a more unpleasant one, at seeing a hackney carriage-drive up to the hall door, out of which step two men, evidently no friends to her from whom they have their wages. For one of the men is Captain Ryecroft, the other a police superintendent; who, after the shortest possible parley, directs the butler to parade the complete staff of his fellow domestics, male and female. This with an air and in a tone of authority, which precludes supposition that the thing is a jest. Summoned from all quarters, cellar to garret, and out doors as well, their names, with other particulars, are taken down; and they are told that their services will be no longer required at Llangorren. In short, they are one and all dismissed, without a word about the month's wages or warning! If they get either, 'twill be only as a grace. Then they receive orders to pack up and be off; while Joseph Preece, ex-Charon, who has crossed the river in his boat, with appointment to meet the hackney there, is authorised to take temporary charge of the place; Jack Wingate, similarly bespoke, having come down in his skiff, to stand by him in case of any opposition. None arises. However chagrined by their hasty _sans facon_ discharge, the outgoing domestics seem not so greatly surprised at it. From what they have observed for some time going on, as also something whispered about, they had no great reliance on their places being permanent. So, in silence all submit, though somewhat sulkily; and prepare to vacate quarters they had found fairly snug. There is one, however, who cannot be thus conveniently, or unceremoniously, dismissed--the head-gamekeeper, Richard Dempsey. For, while the others are getting their _mandamus_ to move, the report is brought in that he is lying on his death-bed! So the parish doctor has prognosticated. Also, that he is just then delirious, and saying queer things; some of which repeated to the police "super," tell him his proper place, at that precise moment, is by the bedside of the sick man. Without a second's delay he starts off towards the lodge in which Coracle has been of late domiciled--under the guidance of its former occupant Joseph Preece--accompanied by Captain Ryecroft and Jack Wingate. The house being but a few hundred yards distant from the Court, they are soon inside it, and standing over the bed on which lies the fevered patient; not at rest, but tossing to and fro--at intervals, in such violent manner as to need restraint. The superintendent at once sees it would be idle putting questions to him. If asked his own name, he could not declare it. For he knows not himself--far less those who are around. His face is something horrible to behold. It would but harrow sensitive feelings to give a portraiture of it. Enough to say, it is more like that of demon than man. And his speech, poured as in a torrent from his lips, is alike horrifying--admission of many and varied crimes; in the same breath denying them and accusing others; his contradictory ravings garnished with blasphemous ejaculations. A specimen will suffice, omitting the blasphemy. "It's a lie!" he cries out, just as they are entering the room. "A lie, every word o't! I didn't murder Mary Morgan. Served her right if I had, the jade! She jilted me; an' for that wasp Wingate--dog--cur! I didn't kill her. No; only fixed the plank. If she wor fool enough to step on't that warn't my fault. She did--she did! Ha! ha! ha!" For a while he keeps up the horrid cachinnation, as the glee of Satan exulting over some feat of foul _diablerie_. Then his thoughts changing to another crime, he goes on:-- "The grand girl--the lady! She arn't drowned; nor dead eyther! The priest carried her off in that French schooner. I had nothing to do with it. 'Twar the priest and Mr Murdock. Ha! Murdock! I _did_ drown _him_. No, I didn't. That's another lie! 'Twas himself upset the boat. Let me see--was it? No! he couldn't, he was too drunk. I stood up on the skiff's rail. Slap over it went. What a duckin' I had for it, and a devil o' a swim too! But I did the trick--neatly! Didn't I, your Reverence? Now for the hundred pounds. And you promised to double it--you did! Keep to your bargain, or I'll peach upon you--on all the lot of you--the woman, too--the French woman! She kept that fine shawl, Indian they said it wor. She's got it now. She wanted the diamonds, too, but daren't keep _them_. The shroud! Ha! the shroud! That's all they left _me_. I ought to a' burnt it. But then the devil would a' been after and burned me! How fine Mary looked in that grand dress, wi' all them gewgaws, rings,--chains, an' bracelets, all pure gold! But I drownded her, an' she deserved it. Drownded her twice-- ha--ha--ha!" Again he breaks off with a peal of demoniac laughter, long continued. More than an hour they remain listening to his delirious ramblings, and with interest intense. For despite its incoherence, the disconnected threads joined together make up a tale they can understand; though so strange, so brimful of atrocities, as to seem incredible. All the while he is writhing about on the bed; till at length, exhausted, his head droops over upon the pillow, and he lies for a while quiet--to all appearance dead! But no; there is another throe yet, one horrible as any that has preceded. Looking up, he sees the superintendent's uniform and silver buttons; a sight which produces a change in the expression of his features, as though it had recalled him to his senses. With arms flung out as in defence, he shrieks:-- "Keep back, you--policeman! Hands off, or I'll brain you! Hach! You've got the rope round my neck! Curse the thing! It's choking me. Hach!" And with his fingers clutching at his throat, as if to undo a noose, he gasps out in husky voice: "Gone by God." At this he drops over dead, his last word an oath, his last thought a fancy, that there is a rope around his neck! What he has said in his unconscious confessions lays open many seeming mysteries of this romance, hitherto unrevealed. How the pseudo-priest, Father Rogier, observing a likeness between Miss Wynn and Mary Morgan-- causing him that start as he stood over the coffin, noticed by Jack Wingate--had exhumed the dead body of the latter, the poacher and Murdock assisting him. Then how they had taken it down in the boat to Dempsey's house; soon after, going over to Llangorren, and seizing the young lady, as she stood in the summer-house, having stifled her cries by chloroform. Then, how they carried her across to Dempsey's, and substituted the corpse for the living body--the grave clothes changed for the silken dress with all its adornments--this the part assigned to Mrs Murdock, who had met them at Coracle's cottage. Then, Dick himself hiding away the shroud, hindered by superstitious fear from committing it to the flames. In fine, how Gwendoline Wynn, drugged and still kept in a state of coma, was taken down in a boat to Chepstow, and there put aboard the French schooner _La Chouette_; carried across to Boulogne, to be shut up in a convent for life! All these delicate matters, managed by Father Rogier, backed by _Messieurs les Jesuites_, who had furnished him with the means! One after another, the astounding facts come forth as the raving man continues his involuntary admissions. Supplemented by others already known to Ryecroft and the rest, with the deductions drawn, they complete the unities of a drama, iniquitous as ever enacted. Its motives declare themselves; all wicked save one. This a spark of humanity that had still lingered in the breast of Lewin Murdock; but for which Gwendoline Wynn would never have seen the inside of a nunnery. Instead, while under the influence of the narcotic, her body would have been dropped into the Wye, just as was that wearing her ball dress! And that same body is now wearing another dress, supposed to have been prepared for her--another shroud--reposing in the tomb where all believed Gwen Wynn to have been laid! This last fact is brought to light on the following day; when the family vault of the Wynns is re-opened, and Mrs Morgan--by marks known only to herself--identifies the remains found there as those of her own daughter! Volume Three, Chapter XXVI. THE CALM AFTER THE STORM. Twelve months after the events recorded in this romance of the Wye, a boat-tourist descending the picturesque river, and inquiring about a pagoda-like structure he will see on its western side, would be told it is a summer-house, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. If he ask who the gentleman is, the answer would be, Captain Vivian Ryecroft! For the ex-officer of Hussars is now the master of Llangorren; and, what he himself values higher, the husband of Gwendoline Wynn, once more its mistress. Were the tourist an acquaintance of either, and on his way to make call at the Court, bringing in by the little dock, he would there see a row-boat, on its stern board, in gold lettering "_The Gwendoline_." For the pretty pleasure craft has been restored to its ancient moorings. Still, however, remaining the property of Joseph Preece, who no longer lives in the cast-off cottage of Coracle Dick, but, like the boat itself, is again back and in service at Llangorren. If the day be fine this venerable and versatile individual will be loitering beside it, or seated on one of its thwarts, pipe in mouth, indulging in the _dolce far niente_. And little besides has he to do, since his pursuits are no longer varied, but now exclusively confined to the calling of waterman to the Court. He and his craft are under charter for the remainder of his life, should he wish it so--as he surely will. The friendly visitor keeping on up to the house, if at the hour of luncheon, will in all likelihood there meet a party of old acquaintances--ours, if not his. Besides the beautiful hostess at the table's head, he will see a lady of the "antique brocaded type," who herself once presided there, by name Miss Dorothea Linton; another known as Miss Eleanor Lees; and a fourth, youngest of the quartette, _yclept_ Kate Mahon. For the school girl of the Boulogne Convent has escaped from its austere studies; and is now most; part of her time resident with the friend she helped to escape from its cloisters. Men there will also be at the Llangorren luncheon table; likely three of them, in addition to the host himself. One will be Major Mahon; a second the Reverend William Musgrave; and the third, Mr George Shenstone! Yes; George Shenstone, under the roof, and seated at the table of Gwendoline Wynn, now the wife of Vivian Ryecroft! To explain a circumstance seemingly so singular, it is necessary to call in the aid of a saying, culled from that language richest of all others in moral and metaphysical imagery--the Spanish. It has a proverb, _un claco saca otro claco_--"one nail drives out the other." And, watching the countenance of the baronet's son, so long sad and clouded, seeing how, at intervals, it brightens up--these intervals when his eyes meet those of Kate Mahon--it were easy predicting that in his case the adage will ere long have additional verification. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Were the same tourist to descend the Wye at a date posterior, and again make a call at Llangorren, he would find that some changes had taken place in the interval of his absence. At the boat dock Old Joe would likely be. But not as before in sole charge of the pleasure craft; only pottering about, as a pensioner retired on full pay; the acting and active officer being a younger man, by name Wingate, who is now waterman to the Court. Between these two, however, there is no spite about the displacement--no bickerings nor heartburnings. How could there, since the younger addresses the older as "uncle"; himself in return being styled "nevvy?" No need to say, that this relationship has been brought about by the bright eyes of Amy Preece. Nor is it so new. In the lodge where Jack and Joe live together is a brace of chubby chicks; one of them a boy-- the possible embryo of a Wye waterman--who, dandled upon old Joe's knees, takes delight in weeding his frosted whiskers, while calling him "good grandaddy." As Jack's mother--who is also a member of this happy family--forewarned him, the wildest grief must in time give way, and Nature's laws assert their supremacy. So has he found it; and though still holding Mary Morgan in sacred, honest remembrance, he--as many a true man before, and others as true to come--has yielded to the inevitable. Proceeding on to the Court the friendly visitor will at certain times there meet the same people he met before; but the majority of them having new names or titles. An added number in two interesting olive branches there also, with complexions struggling between _blonde_ and _brunette_, who call Captain and Mrs Ryecroft their papa and mamma; while the lady who was once Eleanor Lees--the "companion"--is now Mrs Musgrave, life companion not to the _curate_ of Llangorren Church, but its _rector_. The living having become vacant, and in the bestowal of Llangorren's heiress, has been worthily bestowed on the Reverend William. Two other old faces, withal young ones, the returned tourist will see at Llangorren--their owners on visit as himself. He might not know either of them by the names they now bear--Sir George and Lady Shenstone. For when he last saw them the gentleman was simply Mr Shenstone, and the lady Miss Mahon. The old baronet is dead, and the young one, succeeding to the title, has also taken upon himself another title--that of husband--proving the Spanish apothegm true, both in the spirit and to the letter. If there be any nail capable of driving out another, it is that sent home by the glance of an Irish girl's eye--at least so thinks Sir George Shenstone, with good reason for thinking it. There are two other individuals, who come and go at the Court--the only ones holding out, and likely to hold, against change of any kind. For Major Mahon is still Major Mahon, rolling on in his rich Irish brogue as ever abhorrent of matrimony. No danger of his becoming a Benedict! And as little of Miss Linton being transformed into a sage woman. It would be strange if she should, with the love novels she continues to devour, and the "Court Intelligence" she gulps down, keeping alive the hallucination that she is still a belle at Bath and Cheltenham. So ends our "Romance of the Wye;" a drama of happy _denouement_ to most of the actors in it; and, as hoped, satisfactory to all who have been spectators. THE END. 
35784	----	GWEN WYNN: A Romance of the Wye. BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. 1905 [Illustration: "I THOUGHT AS MUCH!--NO ACCIDENT!--NO SUICIDE!--MURDERED!"] CONTENTS. PROLOGUE I. THE HEROINE II. THE HERO III. A CHARON CORRUPTED IV. ON THE RIVER V. DANGERS AHEAD VI. A DUCKING DESERVED VII. AN INVETERATE NOVEL READER VIII. A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER IX. JEALOUS ALREADY X. THE CUCKOO'S GLEN XI. A WEED BY THE WYESIDE XII. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING XIII. AMONG THE ARROWS XIV. BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH XV. A SPIRITUAL ADVISER XVI. CORACLE DICK XVII. THE "CORPSE CANDLE" XVIII. A CAT IN THE CUPBOARD XIX. A BLACK SHADOW BEHIND XX. UNDER THE ELM XXI. A TARDY MESSENGER XXII. A FATAL STEP XXIII. A SUSPICIOUS WAIF XXIV. "THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING" XXV. A FRENCH FEMME DE CHAMBRE XXVI. THE POACHER AT HOME XXVII. A MYSTERIOUS CONTRACT XXVIII. THE GAME OF PIQUE XXIX. JEALOUS AS A TIGER XXX. STUNNED AND SILENT XXXI. A STARTLING CRY XXXII. MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD XXXIII. A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD XXXIV. "WHERE'S GWEN?" XXXV. AGAIN THE ENGAGEMENT RING XXXVI. A MYSTERIOUS EMBARKATION XXXVII. AN ANXIOUS WIFE XXXVIII. IMPATIENT FOR THE POST XXXIX. JOURNEY INTERRUPTED XL. HUE AND CRY XLI. BOULOGNE-SUR-MER XLII. WHAT DOES HE WANT? XLIII. A GAGE D'AMOUR XLIV. SUICIDE, OR MURDER XLV. A PLENTIFUL CORRESPONDENCE XLVI. FOUND DROWNED XLVII. A MAN WHO THINKS IT MURDER XLVIII. ONCE MORE UPON THE RIVER XLIX. THE CRUSHED JUNIPER L. REASONING BY ANALYSIS LI. A SUSPICIOUS CRAFT LII. MATERNAL SOLICITUDE LIII. A SACRILEGIOUS HAND LIV. A LATE TEA LV. THE NEW MISTRESS OF THE MANSION LVI. THE GAMBLERS AT LLANGORREN LVII. AN UNWILLING NOVICE LVIII. A CHEERFUL KITCHEN LIX. QUEER BRIC-A-BRAC LX. A BRACE OF BODY-SNATCHERS LXI. IN WANT OF HELP LXII. STILL ALIVE LXIII. A STRANGE FATHER CONFESSOR LXIV. A QUEER CATECHIST LXV. ALMOST A "VERT" LXVI. THE LAST OF LEWIN MURDOCK LXVII. A CHAPTER DIPLOMATIC LXVIII. A QUICK CONVERSION LXIX. A SUDDEN RELAPSE LXX. A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION LXXI. STARTING ON A CONTINENTAL TOUR LXXII. CORACLE DICK ON HIS DEATH-BED LXXIII. THE CALM AFTER THE STORM GWEN WYNN: A Romance of the Wye. PROLOGUE. Hail to thee, Wye--famed river of Siluria! Well deserving fame, worthy of warmest salutation! From thy fountain-head on Plinlimmon's far slope, where thou leapest forth, gay as a girl on her skip-rope, through the rugged rocks of Brecon and Radnor, that like rude men would detain thee, snatching but a kiss for their pains--on, as woman grown, with statelier step, amid the wooded hills of Herefordshire, which treat thee with more courtly consideration--still on, and once more rudely assailed by the bold ramparts of Monmouth--through all thou makest way--in despite all, preserving thy purity! If defiled before espousing the ocean, the fault is not thine, but Sabrina's--sister born of thy birth, she too cradled on Plinlimmon's breast, but since childhood's days separated from thee, and straying through other shrines--perchance leading a less reputable life. No blame to thee, beautiful Vaga--from source to Severn pure as the spring that begets thee--fair to the eye, and full of interest to reflect on. Scarce a reach of thy channel, or curve of thy course, but is redolent of romance, and rich in the lore of history. On thy shores, through the long centuries, has been enacted many a scene of gayest pleasure and sternest strife; many an exciting episode, in which love and hate, avarice and ambition--in short, every human passion has had play. Overjoyed were the Roman Legionaries to behold their silver eagles reflected from thy pellucid wave; though they did not succeed in planting them on thy western shore till after many a tough struggle with the gallant, but ill-starred, Caractacus. Long, too, had the Saxons to battle before they could make good their footing on the Silurian side--as witness the Dyke of Offa. Later, the Normans obtained it only through treachery, by the murder of the princely Llewellyn; and, later still, did the bold Glendower make thy banks the scene of patriotic strife; while, last of all, sawest thou conflict in still nobler cause--as of more glorious remembrance--when the earnest soldiers of the Parliament encountered the so-called Cavaliers, and purged thy shores of the ribald rout, making them pure as thy waters. But, sweet Wye! not all the scenes thou hast witnessed have been of war. Love, too, has stamped thee with many a tender souvenir, many a tale of warm, wild passion. Was it not upon thy banks that the handsome "Harry of Monmouth," hero of Agincourt, first saw the light; there living, till manhood-grown, when he appeared "armed _cap-à-pie_, with beaver on"? And did not thy limpid waters bathe the feet of Fair Rosamond, in childhood's days, when she herself was pure? In thee, also, was mirrored the comely form of Owen Tudor, which caught the eye of a queen--the stately Catherine--giving to England a race of kings; and by thy side the beauteous Saxon, Ædgitha, bestowed her heart and hand on a Cymric prince. Nor are such episodes all of the remote past, but passing now; now, as ever, pathetic--as ever impassioned. For still upon thy banks, Vaga, are men brave, and women fair, as when Adelgisa excited the jealousy of the Druid priestess, or the maid of Clifford Castle captured a king's heart, to become the victim of a queen's vengeance. Not any fairer than the heroine of my tale; and she was born there, there brought up, and there---- Ah! that is the story to be told. CHAPTER I. THE HEROINE. A tourist descending the Wye by boat from the town of Hereford to the ruined Abbey of Tintern, may observe on its banks a small pagoda-like structure; its roof, with a portion of the supporting columns, o'er-topping a spray of evergreens. It is simply a summer-house, of the kiosk or pavilion pattern, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. Though placed conspicuously on an elevated point, the boat traveller obtains view of it only from a reach of the river above. When opposite he loses sight of it; a spinny of tall poplars drawing curtain-like between him and the higher bank. These stand on an oblong island, which extends several hundred yards down the stream, formed by an old channel, now forsaken. With all its wanderings the Wye is not suddenly capricious; still, in the lapse of long ages it has here and there changed its course, forming _aits_, or _eyots_, of which this is one. The tourist will not likely take the abandoned channel. He is bound and booked for Tintern--possibly Chepstow--and will not be delayed by lesser "lions." Besides, his hired boatmen would not deviate from their terms of charter, without adding an extra to their fare. Were he free, and disposed for exploration, entering this unused water-way he would find it tortuous, with scarce any current, save in times of flood; on one side the eyot, a low marshy flat, thickly overgrown with trees; on the other a continuous cliff, rising forty feet sheer, its _façade_ grim and grey, with flakes of reddish hue, where the frost has detached pieces from the rock--the old red sandstone of Herefordshire. Near its entrance he would catch a glimpse of the kiosk on its crest; and, proceeding onward, will observe the tops of laurels and other exotic evergreens, mingling their glabrous foliage with that of the indigenous holly, ivy, and ferns; these last trailing over the cliff's brow, and wreathing it with fillets of verdure, as if to conceal its frowning corrugations. About midway down the old river's bed he will arrive opposite a little embayment in the high bank, partly natural, but in part quarried out of the cliff--as evinced by a flight of steps, leading up at back, chiselled out of the rock _in situ_. The cove thus contrived is just large enough to give room to a row-boat, and if not out upon the river, one will be in it, riding upon its painter; this attached to a ring in the red sandstone. It is a light, two-oared affair--a pleasure-boat, ornamentally painted, with cushioned thwarts, and tiller ropes of coloured cord athwart its stern, which the tourist will have turned towards him, in gold lettering, "THE GWENDOLINE." Charmed by this idyllic picture, he may forsake his own craft, and ascend to the top of the stair. If so, he will have before his eyes a lawn of park-like expanse, mottled with clumps of coppice, here and there a grand old tree--oak, elm, or chestnut--standing solitary; at the upper end a shrubbery of glistening evergreens, with gravelled walks, fronting a handsome house; or, in the parlance of the estate agent, a noble mansion. That is Llangorren Court, and there dwells the owner of the pleasure-boat, as also prospective owner of the house, with some two thousand acres of land lying adjacent. The boat bears her baptismal name, the surname being Wynn, while people, in a familiar way, speak of her as "Gwen Wynn"; this on account of her being a lady of proclivities and habits that make her somewhat of a celebrity in the neighbourhood. She not only goes boating, but hunts, drives a pair of spirited horses, presides over the church choir, plays its organ, looks after the poor of the parish--nearly all of it her own, or soon to be--and has a bright smile, with a pleasant word, for everybody. If she be outside, upon the lawn, the tourist, supposing him a gentleman, will withdraw; for across the grounds of Llangorren Court there is no "right of way," and the presence of a stranger upon them would be deemed an intrusion. Nevertheless, he would go back down the boat-stair reluctantly, and with a sigh of regret, that good manners do not permit his making the acquaintance of Gwen Wynn without further loss of time, or any ceremony of introduction. But my readers are not thus debarred; and to them I introduce her, as she saunters over this same lawn, on a lovely April morn. She is not alone; another lady, by name Eleanor Lees, being with her. They are nearly of the same age--both turned twenty--but in all other respects unlike, even to contrast, though there is kinship between them. Gwendoline Wynn is tall of form, fully developed; face of radiant brightness, with blue-grey eyes, and hair of that chrome yellow almost peculiar to the Cymri--said to have made such havoc with the hearts of the Roman soldiers, causing these to deplore the day when recalled home to protect their seven-hilled city from Goths and Visigoths. In personal appearance Eleanor Lees is the reverse of all this; being of dark complexion, brown-haired, black-eyed, with a figure slender and _petite_. Witha she is pretty; but it is only prettiness--a word inapplicable to her kinswoman, who is pronouncedly beautiful. Equally unlike are they in mental characteristics; the first-named being free of speech, courageous, just a trifle fast, and possibly a little imperious. The other of a reserved, timid disposition, and habitually of subdued mien, as befits her station; for in this there is also disparity between them--again a contrast. Both are orphans; but it is an orphanage under widely different circumstances and conditions: the one heiress to an estate worth some ten thousand pounds per annum, the other inheriting nought save an old family name--indeed, left without other means of livelihood than what she may derive from a superior education she has received. Notwithstanding their inequality of fortune, and the very distant relationship--for they are not even near as cousins--the rich girl behaves towards the poor one as though they were sisters. No one seeing them stroll arm-in-arm through the shrubbery, and hearing them hold converse in familiar, affectionate tones, would suspect the little dark damsel to be the paid "companion" of the lady by her side. Yet in such capacity is she residing at Llangorren Court. It is just after the hour of breakfast, and they have come forth in morning robes of light muslin--dresses suitable to the day and the season. Two handsome ponies are upon the lawn, its herbage dividing their attention with the horns of a pet stag, which now and then threaten to assail them. All three, soon as perceiving the ladies, trot towards them; the ponies stretching out their necks to be patted, the cloven-hoofed creature equally courting caresses. They look especially to Miss Wynn, who is more their mistress. On this particular morning she does not seem in the humour for dallying with them; nor has she brought out their usual allowance of lump sugar; but, after a touch with her delicate fingers, and a kindly exclamation, passes on, leaving them behind, to all appearance disappointed. "Where are you going, Gwen?" asks the companion, seeing her step out straight, and apparently with thoughts preoccupied. Their arms are now disunited, the little incident with the animals having separated them. "To the summer-house," is the response. "I wish to have a look at the river. It should show fine this bright morning." And so it does; as both perceive after entering the pavilion, which commands a view of the valley, with a reach of the river above--the latter, under the sun, glistening like freshly polished silver. Gwen views it through a glass--a binocular she has brought out with her; this of itself proclaiming some purpose aforethought, but not confided to the companion. It is only after she has been long holding it steadily to her eye, that the latter fancies there must be some object within its field of view more interesting than the Wye's water, or the greenery on its banks. "What is it?" she naïvely asks. "You see something?" "Only a boat," answers Gwen, bringing down the glass with a guilty look, as if conscious of being caught. "Some tourist, I suppose, making down to Tintern Abbey--like as not a London cockney." The young lady is telling a "white lie." She knows the occupant of that boat is nothing of the kind. From London he may be--she cannot tell--but certainly no sprig of cockneydom--unlike it as Hyperion to the Satyr; at least so she thinks. But she does not give her thought to the companion; instead, concealing it, she adds,-- "How fond those town people are of touring it upon our Wye!" "Can you wonder at that?" asks Ellen. "Its scenery is so grand--I should say, incomparable; nothing equal to it in England." "I don't wonder," says Miss Wynn, replying to the question. "I'm only a little bit vexed seeing them there. It's like the desecration of some sacred stream, leaving scraps of newspapers in which they wrap their sandwiches, with other picnicing débris on its banks! To say nought of one's having to encounter the rude fellows that in these degenerate days go a-rowing--shopboys from the towns, farm labourers, colliers, hauliers, all sorts. I've half a mind to set fire to the _Gwendoline_, burn her up, and never again lay hand on an oar." Ellen Lees laughs incredulously as she makes rejoinder. "It would be a pity," she says, in serio-comic tone. "Besides, the poor people are entitled to a little recreation. They don't have too much of it." "Ah, true," rejoins Gwen, who, despite her grandeeism, is neither Tory nor aristocrat. "Well, I've not yet decided on that little bit of incendiarism, and shan't burn the _Gwendoline_--at all events not till we've had another row out of her." Not for a hundred pounds would she set fire to that boat, and never in her life was she less thinking of such a thing. For just then she has other views regarding the pretty pleasure craft, and intends taking seat on its thwarts within less than twenty minutes' time. "By the way," she says, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we may as well have that row now--whether it's to be the last or not." Cunning creature! She has had it in her mind all the morning; first from her bed-chamber window, then from that of the breakfast-room, looking up the river's reach, with the binocular at her eye too, to note if a certain boat, with a salmon-rod bending over it, passes down. For one of its occupants is an angler. "The day's superb," she goes on; "sun's not too hot--gentle breeze--just the weather for a row. And the river looks so inviting--seems calling us to come! What say you, Nell?" "Oh! I've no objections." "Let us in, then, and make ready. Be quick about it! Remember it's April, and there may be showers. We mustn't miss a moment of that sweet sunshine." At this the two forsake the summer-house; and, lightly recrossing the lawn, disappear within the dwelling. * * * * * While the angler's boat is still opposite the grounds, going on, eyes are observing it from an upper window of the house; again those of Miss Wynn herself, inside her dressing-room, getting ready for the river. She had only short glimpses of it, over the tops of the trees on the eyot, and now and then through breaks in their thinner spray. Enough, however, to assure her that it contains two men, neither of them cockneys. One at the oars she takes to be a professional waterman. But he seated in the stern is altogether unknown to her, save by sight--that obtained when twice meeting him out on the river. She knows not whence he comes, or where he is residing; but supposes him a stranger to the neighbourhood, stopping at some hotel. If at the house of any of the neighbouring gentry, she would certainly have heard of it. She is not even acquainted with his name, though longing to learn it. But she is shy to inquire, lest that might betray her interest in him. For such she feels, has felt, ever since setting eyes on his strangely handsome face. As the boat again disappears behind the thick foliage she sets, in haste, to affect the proposed change of dress, saying, in soliloquy--for she is now alone,-- "I wonder who, and what he can be? A gentleman, of course. But, then, there are gentlemen and gentlemen; single ones and----" She has the word "married" on her tongue, but refrains speaking it. Instead, she gives utterance to a sigh, followed by the reflection-- "Ah, me! That would be a pity--a dis--" Again she checks herself, the thought being enough unpleasant without the words. Standing before the mirror, and sticking long pins into her hair, to keep its rebellious plaits in their place, she continues soliloquising-- "If one only had a word with that young waterman who rows him! And were it not that my own boatman is such a chatterer, I'd put him up to getting that word. But no! It would never do. He'd tell aunt about it; and then Madame la Chatelaine would be talking all sorts of serious things to me--the which I mightn't relish. Well, in six months more the old lady's trusteeship of this young lady is to terminate--at least legally. Then I'll be my own mistress; and then 'twill be time enough to consider whether I ought to have--a master. Ha, ha, ha!" So laughing, as she surveys her superb figure in a cheval glass, she completes the adjustment of her dress by setting a hat upon her head, and tightening the elastic, to secure against its being blown off while in the boat. In fine, with a parting glance at the mirror, which shows a satisfied expression upon her features, she trips lightly out of the room, and on down the stairway. CHAPTER II. THE HERO. Than Vivian Ryecroft handsomer man never carried sling-jacket over his shoulder, or sabretasche on his hip. For he is in the Hussars--a captain. He is not on duty now, nor anywhere near the scene of it. His regiment is at Aldershot, himself rusticating in Herefordshire--whither he has come to spend a few weeks' leave of absence. Nor is he, at the time of our meeting him, in the saddle, which he sits so gracefully; but in a row-boat on the river Wye--the same just sighted by Gwen Wynn through the double lens of her lorgnette. No more is he wearing the braided uniform and "busby"; but, instead, attired in a suit of light Cheviots, piscator-cut, with a helmet-shaped cap of quilted cotton on his head, its rounded rim of spotless white in striking, but becoming, contrast with his bronzed complexion and dark military moustache. For Captain Ryecroft is no mere stripling nor beardless youth, but a man turned thirty, browned by exposure to Indian suns, experienced in Indian campaigns, from those of Scinde and the Punjaub to that most memorable of all--the Mutiny. Still is he personally as attractive as he ever was--to women, possibly more; among these causing a flutter, with _rapprochement_ towards him almost instinctive, when and wherever they may meet him. In the present many a bright English lady sighs for him, as in the past many a dark damsel of Hindostan; and without his heaving sigh, or even giving them a thought in return. Not that he is of cold nature, or in any sense austere; instead, warm-hearted, of cheerful disposition, and rather partial to female society. But he is not, and never has been, either man-flirt or frivolous trifler; else he would not be fly-fishing on the Wye--for that is what he is doing there--instead of in London, taking part in the festivities of the "season," by day dawdling in Rotten Row, by night exhibiting himself in opera-box or ball-room. In short, Vivian Ryecroft is one of those rare individuals, to a high degree endowed, physically as mentally, without being aware of it, or appearing so; while to all others it is very perceptible. He has been about a fortnight in the neighbourhood, stopping at the chief hotel of a riverine town much affected by fly-fishermen and tourists. Still he has made no acquaintance with the resident gentry. He might, if wishing it; which he does not, his purpose upon the Wye not being to seek society, but salmon, or rather the sport of taking it. An ardent disciple of the ancient Izaak, he cares for nought else--at least, in the district where he is for the present sojourning. Such is his mental condition up to a certain morning; when a change comes over it, sudden as the spring of a salmon at the gaudiest or most tempting of his flies--this brought about by a face, of which he has caught sight by merest accident, and while following his favourite occupation. Thus it has chanced:-- Below the town where he is staying, some four or five miles by the course of the stream, he has discovered one of those places called "catches," where the king of river fish delights to leap at flies, whether natural or artificial--a sport it has oft reason to rue. Several times so at the end of Captain Ryecroft's line and rod; he having there twice hooked a twenty-pounder, and once a still larger specimen, which turned the scale at thirty. In consequence that portion of the stream has become his choicest angling ground, and at least three days in the week he repairs to it. The row is not much going down, but a good deal returning; five miles up stream, most of it strong adverse current. That, however, is less his affair than his oarsman's--a young waterman by name Wingate, whose boat and services the Hussar officer has chartered by the week--indeed, engaged them for so long as he may remain upon the Wye. On the morning in question, dropping down the river to his accustomed whipping-place, but at a somewhat later hour than usual, he meets another boat coming up--a pleasure craft, as shown by its style of outside ornament and inside furniture. Of neither does the salmon fisher take much note; his eyes all occupied with those upon the thwarts. There are three of them, two being ladies seated in the stern sheets, the third an oarsman on a thwart well forward, to make better balance. And to the latter the Hussar officer gives but a glance--just to observe that he is a serving-man, wearing some of its insignia in the shape of a cockaded hat, and striped sable-waistcoat. And not much more than a glance at one of the former; but a gaze, concentrated and long as good manners will permit, at the other, who is steering; when she passes beyond sight, her face remaining in his memory, vivid as if still before his eyes. All this at a first encounter; repeated in a second, which occurs on the day succeeding, under similar circumstances, and almost in the self-same spot; then the face, if possible, seeming fairer, and the impression made by it on Vivian Ryecroft's mind sinking deeper--indeed, promising to be permanent. It is a radiant face, set in a luxuriance of bright amber hair--for it is that of Gwendoline Wynn. On the second occasion he has a better view of her, the boats passing nearer to one another; still, not so near as he could wish, good manners again interfering. For all, he feels well satisfied--especially with the thought, that his own gaze earnestly given, though under such restraint, has been with earnestness returned. Would that his secret admiration of its owner were in like manner reciprocated! Such is his reflective wish as the boats widen the distance between; one labouring slowly up, the other gliding swiftly down. His boatman cannot tell who the lady is, nor where she lives. On the second day he is not asked--the question having been put to him on that preceding. All the added knowledge now obtained is the name of the craft that carries her; which, after passing, the waterman, with face turned towards its stern, makes out to be the _Gwendoline_--just as on his own boat--the _Mary_,--though not in such grand golden letters. It may assist Captain Ryecroft in his inquiries, already contemplated, and he makes note of it. Another night passes; another sun shines over the Wye; and he again drops down stream to his usual place of sport--this day only to draw blank, neither catching salmon, nor seeing hair of amber hue; his reflecting on which is, perchance, a cause of the fish not taking to his flies, cast carelessly. He is not discouraged; but goes again on the day succeeding--that same when his boat is viewed through the binocular. He has already formed a half suspicion that the home of the interesting water nymph is not far from that pagoda-like structure he has frequently noticed on the right bank of the river. For, just below the outlying eyot is where he has met the pleasure-boat, and the old oarsman looked anything but equal to a long pull up stream. Still, between that and the town are several other gentlemen's residences on the river side, with some standing inland. It may be any of them. But it is not, as Captain Ryecroft now feels sure, at sight of some floating drapery in the pavilion, with two female heads showing over its baluster rail; one of them with tresses glistening in the sunlight, bright as sunbeams themselves. He views it through a telescope--for he, too, has come out provided for distant observation--this confirming his conjectures just in the way he would wish. Now there will be no difficulty in learning who the lady is--for of one only does he care to make inquiry. He would order Wingate to hold way, but does not relish the idea of letting the waterman into his secret; and so, remaining silent, he is soon carried beyond sight of the summer-house, and along the outer edge of the islet, with its curtain of tall trees coming invidiously between. Continuing on to his angling ground, he gives way to reflections--at first of a pleasant nature. Satisfactory to think that she, the subject of them, at least lives in a handsome house; for a glimpse got of its upper storey tells it to be this. That she is in social rank a lady, he has hitherto had no doubt. The pretty pleasure craft and its appendages, with the venerable domestic acting as oarsman, are all proofs of something more than mere respectability--rather evidences of style. Marring these agreeable considerations is the thought he may not to-day meet the pleasure-boat. It is the hour that, from past experience, he might expect it to be out--for he has so timed his own piscatorial excursion. But, seeing the ladies in the summer-house, he doubts getting nearer sight of them--at least for another twenty-four hours. In all likelihood they have been already on the river, and returned home again. Why did he not start earlier? While thus fretting himself, he catches sight of another boat--of a sort very different from the _Gwendoline_--a heavy barge-like affair, with four men in it; hulking fellows, to whom rowing is evidently a new experience. Notwithstanding this, they do not seem at all frightened at finding themselves upon the water. Instead, they are behaving in a way that shows them either very courageous, or very regardless of a danger--which, possibly, they are not aware of. At short intervals one or other is seen starting to his feet, and rushing fore or aft--as if on an empty coal-waggon, instead of in a boat--and in such fashion, that were the craft at all crank it would certainly be upset! On drawing nearer them Captain Ryecroft and his oarsman get the explanation of their seemingly eccentric behaviour--its cause made clear by a black bottle, which one of them is holding in his hand, each of the others brandishing tumbler, or teacup. They are drinking; and that they have been so occupied for some time is evident by their loud shouts and grotesque gesturing. "They look an ugly lot!" observes the young waterman, viewing them over his shoulder; for, seated at the oars, his back is towards them. "Coal fellows, from the Forest o' Dean, I take it." Ryecroft, with a cigar between his teeth, dreamily thinking of a boat with people in it so dissimilar, simply signifies assent with a nod. But soon he is roused from his reverie, at hearing an exclamation louder than common, followed by words whose import concerns himself and his companion. These are:-- "Dang it, lads! le's goo in for a bit o' a lark! Yonner be a boat coomin' down wi' two chaps in 't: some o' them spickspan city gents! S'pose we gie 'em a capsize?" "Le's do it! Le's duck 'em!" shouted the others assentingly; he with the bottle dropping it into the boat's bottom, and laying hold of an oar instead. All act likewise, for it is a four-oared craft that carries them; and in a few seconds' time they are rowing it straight for that of the angler's. With astonishment, and fast gathering indignation, the Hussar officer sees the heavy barge coming bow on for his light fishing skiff, and is thoroughly sensible of the danger; the waterman becoming aware of it at the same instant of time. "They mean mischief," mutters Wingate; "what'd we best do, Captain? If you like I can keep clear, and shoot the _Mary_ past 'em--easy enough." "Do so," returns the salmon fisher, with the cigar still between his teeth--but now held bitterly tight, almost to biting off the stump. "You can keep on!" he adds, speaking calmly, and with an effort to keep down his temper; "that will be the best way, as things stand now. They look like they'd come up from below; and, if they show any ill manners at meeting, we can call them to account on return. Don't concern yourself about your course. I'll see to the steering. There! hard on the starboard oar!" This last, as the two boats have arrived within less than three lengths of one another. At the same time Ryecroft, drawing tight the port tiller-cord, changes course suddenly, leaving just sufficient sea-way for his oarsman to shave past, and avoid the threatened collision. Which is done the instant after--to the discomfiture of the would-be capsizers. As the skiff glides lightly beyond their reach, dancing over the river swell, as if in triumph and to mock them, they drop their oars, and send after it a chorus of yells, mingled with blasphemous imprecations. In a lull between, the Hussar officer at length takes the cigar from his lips, and calls back to them-- "You ruffians! You shall rue it! Shout on--till you're hoarse. There's a reckoning for you, perhaps sooner than you expect." "Yes, ye d--d scoun'rels!" adds the young waterman, himself so enraged as almost to foam at the mouth. "Ye'll have to pay dear for sich a dastartly attemp' to waylay Jack Wingate's boat. That will ye." "Bah!" jeeringly retorts one of the roughs. "To blazes wi' you, an' yer boat!" "Ay, to the blazes wi' ye!" echo the others in drunken chorus; and, while their voices are still reverberating along the adjacent cliffs, the fishing skiff drifts round a bend of the river, bearing its owner and his fare out of their sight, as beyond earshot of their profane speech. CHAPTER III. A CHARON CORRUPTED. The lawn of Llangorren Court, for a time abandoned to the dumb quadrupeds, that had returned to their tranquil pasturing, is again enlivened by the presence of the two young ladies; but so transformed, that they are scarce recognisable as the same late seen upon it. Of course, it is their dresses that have caused the change; Miss Wynn now wearing a pea jacket of navy blue, with anchor buttons, and a straw hat set coquettishly on her head, its ribbons of azure hue trailing over, and prettily contrasting with the plaits of her chrome-yellow hair, gathered in a grand coil behind. But for the flowing skirt below, she might be mistaken for a young mid, whose cheeks as yet show only the down--one who would "find sweethearts in every port." Miss Lees is less nautically attired; having but slipped over her morning dress a paletot of the ordinary kind, and on her head a plumed hat of the Neopolitan pattern. For all, a costume becoming; especially the brigand-like head-gear which sets off her finely-chiselled features and skin, dark as any daughter of the South. They are about starting towards the boat-dock, when a difficulty presents itself--not to Gwen, but the companion. "We have forgotten Joseph!" she exclaims. Joseph is an ancient retainer of the Wynn family, who, in its domestic affairs, plays parts of many kinds--among them the _métier_ of boatman. It is his duty to look after the _Gwendoline_, see that she is snug in her dock, with oars and steering apparatus in order; go out with her when his young mistress takes a row on the river, or ferry any one of the family who has occasion to cross it--the last a need by no means rare, since for miles above and below there is nothing in the shape of a bridge. "No, we haven't," rejoins Joseph's mistress, answering the exclamation of the companion. "I remembered him well enough--too well." "Why too well?" asks the other, looking a little puzzled. "Because we don't want him." "But surely, Gwen, you wouldn't think of our going alone." "Surely I would, and do. Why not?" "We've never done so before." "Is that any reason we shouldn't now?" "But Miss Linton will be displeased, if not very angry. Besides, as you know, there may be danger on the river." For a short while Gwen is silent, as if pondering on what the other has said. Not on the suggested danger. She is far from being daunted by that. But Miss Linton is her aunt--as already hinted, her legal guardian till of age--head of the house, and still holding authority, though exercising it in the mildest manner. And just on this account it would not be right to outrage it, nor is Miss Wynn the one to do so. Instead, she prefers a little subterfuge, which is in her mind as she makes rejoinder-- "I suppose we must take him along; though it's very vexatious, and for various reasons." "What are they? May I know them?" "You're welcome. For one, I can pull a boat just as well as he, if not better. And for another, we can't have a word of conversation without his hearing it--which isn't at all nice, besides being inconvenient. As I've reason to know, the old curmudgeon is an incorrigible gossip, and tattles all over the parish; I only wish we'd someone else. What a pity I haven't a brother to go with us! _But not to-day._" The reserving clause, despite its earnestness, is not spoken aloud. In the aquatic excursion intended, she wants no companion of the male kind--above all, no brother. Nor will she take Joseph, though she signifies her consent to it, by desiring the companion to summon him. As the latter starts off for the stable-yard, where the ferryman is usually to be found, Gwen says, in soliloquy-- "I'll take old Joe as far as the boat stairs, but not a yard beyond. I know what will stay him there--steady as a pointer with a partridge six feet from its nose. By the way, have I got my purse with me?" She plunges her hand into one of her pea-jacket pockets; and, there feeling the thing sought for, is satisfied. By this Miss Lees has got back, bringing with her the versatile Joseph--a tough old servitor of the respectable family type, who has seen some sixty summers, more or less. After a short colloquy, with some questions as to the condition of the pleasure-boat, its oars, and steering gear, the three proceed in the direction of the dock. Arrived at the bottom of the boat stairs, Joseph's mistress, turning to him, says-- "Joe, old boy, Miss Lees and I are going for a row; but, as the day's fine, and the water smooth as glass, there's no need for our having you along with us. So you can stay here till we return." The venerable retainer is taken aback by the proposal. He has never listened to the like before; for never before has the pleasure-boat gone to river without his being aboard. True, it is no business of his; still, as an ancient upholder of the family, with its honour and safety, he cannot assent to this strange innovation without entering protest. He does so, asking: "But, Miss Gwen, what will your aunt say to it? She mayent like you young ladies to go rowin' by yourselves? Besides, miss, ye know there be some not werry nice people as moat meet ye on the river. 'Deed some v' the roughiest and worst o' blaggarts." "Nonsense, Joseph! The Wye isn't the Niger, where we might expect the fate of Mungo Park. Why, man, we'll be as safe on it as upon our own carriage drive, or the little fishpond. As for aunt, she won't say anything, because she won't know. Shan't, can't, unless you peach on us. The which, my amiable Joseph, you'll not do--I'm sure you will not." "How'm I to help it, Miss Gwen? When you've goed off, some o' the house sarvints 'll see me here, an', hows'ever I keep my tongue in check----" "Check it now!" abruptly breaks in the heiress, "and stop palavering, Joe. The house servants won't see you--not one of them. When we're off on the river, you'll be lying at anchor in those laurel bushes above. And to keep you to your anchorage, here's some shining metal." Saying which, she slips several shillings into his hand, adding, as she notes the effect-- "Do you think it sufficiently heavy? If not--but never mind now. In our absence you can amuse yourself weighing and counting the coins. I fancy they'll do." She is sure of it, knowing the man's weakness to be money, as it now proves. Her argument is too powerful for his resistance, and he does not resist. Despite his solicitude for the welfare of the Wynn family, with his habitual regard of duty, the ancient servitor, refraining from further protest, proceeds to undo the knot of the _Gwendoline's_ painter. Stepping into the boat, the other Gwendoline takes the oars, Miss Lees seating herself to steer. "All right! Now, Joe, give us a push off." Joseph, having let all loose, does as directed, which sends the light craft clear out of its dock. Then, standing on the bottom step, with an adroit twirl of the thumb, he spreads the silver pieces over his palm--so that he may see how many--and, after counting and contemplating with pleased expression, slips them into his pocket, muttering to himself-- "I dar say it'll be all right. Miss Gwen's a oner to take care o' herself; an' the old lady neen't a know anythin' about it." To make his last words good, he mounts briskly back up the boat stairs, and ensconces himself in the heart of a thick-leaved laurestinus--to the great discomfort of a pair of missel-thrushes, which have there made nest, and commenced incubation. CHAPTER IV. ON THE RIVER. The fair rower, vigorously bending to the oars, soon brings through the bye-way, and out into the main channel of the river. Once in mid-stream she suspends her stroke, permitting the boat to drift down with the current; which, for a mile below Llangorren, flows gently through meadow land but a few feet above its own level, and flush with it in times of flood. On this particular day there is none such--no rain having fallen for a week--and the Wye's water is pure and clear. Smooth, too, as the surface of a mirror; only where, now and then, a light zephyr, playing upon it, stirs up the tiniest of ripples; a swallow dips its scimitar wings; or a salmon in bolder dash causes a purl, with circling eddies, whose wavelets extend wider and wider as they subside. So, with the trace of their boat's keel; the furrow made by it instantly closing up, and the current resuming its tranquillity; while their reflected forms--too bright to be spoken of as shadows--now fall on one side, now on the other, as the capricious curving of the river makes necessary a change of course. Never went boat down the Wye carrying freight more fair. Both girls are beautiful, though of opposite types, and in a different degree; while with one--Gwendolyn Wynn--no water Nymph, or Naiad, could compare; her warm beauty in its real embodiment far excelling any conception of fancy, or flight of the most romantic imagination. She is not thinking of herself now; nor, indeed, does she much at any time--least of all in this wise. She is anything but vain; instead, like Vivian Ryecroft, rather underrates herself. And possibly more than ever this morning; for it is with him her thoughts are occupied--surmising whether his may be with her, but not in the most sanguine hope. Such a man must have looked on many a form fair as hers, won smiles of many a woman beautiful as she. How can she expect him to have resisted, or that his heart is still whole? While thus conjecturing, she sits half turned on the thwart, with oars out of water, her eyes directed down the river, as though in search of something there. And they are; that something a white helmet hat. She sees it not; and as the last thought has caused her some pain, she lets down the oars with a plunge, and recommences pulling; now, and as in spite, at each dip of the blades breaking her own bright image! During all this while Ellen Lees is otherwise occupied; her attention partly taken up with the steering, but as much given to the shores on each side--to the green pasture-land, of which, at intervals, she has a view, with the white-faced "Herefords" straying over it, or standing grouped in the shade of some spreading trees, forming pastoral pictures worthy the pencil of a Morland or Cuyp. In clumps, or apart, tower up old poplars, through whose leaves, yet but half unfolded, can be seen the rounded burrs of the mistletoe, looking like nests of rooks. Here and there one overhangs the river's bank, shadowing still deep pools, where the ravenous pike lies in ambush for "salmon pink" and such small fry; while on a bare branch above may be observed another of their persecutors, the kingfisher, its brilliant azure plumage in strong contrast with everything on the earth around, and like a bit of sky fallen from above. At intervals it is seen darting from side to side, or in longer flight following the bend of the stream, and causing scamper among the minnows--itself startled and scared by the intrusion of the boat upon its normally peaceful domain. Miss Lees, who is somewhat of a naturalist, and has been out with the District Field Club on more than one "ladies' day," makes note of all these things. As the _Gwendoline_ glides on, she observes beds of the water ranunculus, whose snow-white corollas, bending to the current, are oft rudely dragged beneath; while on the banks above, their cousins of golden sheen, mingling with the petals of yellow and purple loose-strife--for both grow here--with anemones, and pale, lemon-coloured daffodils--are but kissed, and gently fanned, by the balmy breath of spring. Easily guiding the craft down the slow-flowing stream, she has a fine opportunity of observing Nature in its unrestrained action, and takes advantage of it. She looks with delighted eye at the freshly-opened flowers, and listens with charmed ear to the warbling of the birds--a chorus, on the Wye, sweet and varied as anywhere on earth. From many a deep-lying dell in the adjacent hills she can hear the song of the thrush, as if endeavouring to outdo, and cause one to forget, the matchless strain of its nocturnal rival, the nightingale; or making music for its own mate, now on the nest, and occupied with the cares of incubation. She hears, too, the bold whistling carol of the blackbird, the trill of the lark soaring aloft, the soft sonorous note of the cuckoo, blending with the harsh scream of the jay, and the laughing cackle of the green woodpecker--the last loud beyond all proportion to the size of the bird, and bearing close resemblance to the cry of an eagle. Strange coincidence besides, in the woodpecker being commonly called "eekol"--a name, on the Wye, pronounced with striking similarity to that of the royal bird! Pondering upon this very theme, Ellen has taken no note of how her companion is employing herself. Nor is Miss Wynn thinking of either flowers, or birds. Only when a large one of the latter, a kite, shooting out from the summit of a wooded hill, stays awhile soaring overhead, does she give thought to what so interests the other. "A pretty sight!" observes Ellen, as they sit looking up at the sharp, slender wings, and long bifurcated tail, cut clear as a cameo against the cloudless sky. "Isn't it a beautiful creature?" "Beautiful, but bad," rejoins Gwen, "like many other animated things--too like, and too many of them. I suppose it's on the look-out for some innocent victim, and will soon be swooping down at it. Ah, me! it's a wicked world, Nell, with all its sweetness! One creature preying upon another, the strong seeking to devour the weak--these ever needing protection! Is it any wonder we poor women, weakest of all, should wish to----" She stays her interrogatory, and sits in silence, abstractedly toying with the handles of the oars, which she is balancing above water. "Wish to do what?" asked the other. "Get married!" answers the heiress of Llangorren, elevating her arms, and letting the blades fall with a plash, as if to drown a speech so bold; withal, watching its effect upon her companion, as she repeats the question in a changed form. "Is it strange, Ellen?" "I suppose not," Ellen timidly replies; blushingly too, for she knows how nearly the subject concerns herself, and half believes the interrogatory aimed at her. "Not at all strange," she adds, more affirmatively. "Indeed very natural, I should say--that is, for women who _are_ poor and weak, and really need a protector. But you, Gwen, who are neither one nor the other, but instead rich and strong, have no such need." "I'm not so sure of that. With all my riches and strength--for I am a strong creature; as you see, can row this boat almost as ably as a man"--she gives a vigorous pull or two, as proof, then continuing, "Yes, and I think I've got great courage too. Yet, would you believe it, Nelly, notwithstanding all, I sometimes have a strange fear upon me?" "Fear of what?" "I can't tell. That's the strangest part of it; for I know of no actual danger. Some sort of vague apprehension that now and then oppresses me--lies on my heart, making it heavy as lead--sad and dark as the shadow of that wicked bird upon the water. Ugh!" she exclaims, taking her eyes off it, as if the sight, suggestive of evil, had brought on one of the fear spells she is speaking of. "If it were a magpie," observes Ellen laughingly, "you might view it with suspicion. Most people do--even some who deny being superstitious. But a kite--I never heard of that being ominous of evil. No more its shadow; which as you see it there is but a small speck compared with the wide bright surface around. If your future sorrows be only in like proportion to your joys, they won't signify much. See! Both the bird and its shadow are passing away--as will your troubles, if you ever have any." "Passing--perhaps, soon to return. Ha! look there. As I've said!" This, as the kite swoops down upon a wood-quest, and strikes at it with outstretched talons. Missing it, nevertheless; for the strong-winged pigeon, forewarned by the other's shadow, has made a quick double in its flight, and so shunned the deadly clutch. Still, it is not yet safe; its tree covert is far off on the wooded slope, and the tyrant continues the chase. But the hawk has its enemy too, in a gamekeeper with his gun. Suddenly it is seen to suspend the stroke of its wings, and go whirling downward; while a shot rings out on the air, and the cushat, unharmed, flies on for the hill. "Good!" exclaims Gwen, resting the oars across her knees, and clapping her hands in an ecstasy of delight. "The innocent has escaped!" "And for that _you_ ought to be assured, as well as gratified," puts in the companion, "taking it as a symbol of yourself, and those imaginary dangers you've been dreaming about." "True," assents Miss Wynn musingly; "but, as you see, the bird found a protector--just by chance, and in the nick of time." "So will you; without any chance, and at such time as may please you." "Oh!" exclaims Gwen, as if endowed with fresh courage. "I don't want one--not I! I'm strong to stand alone." Another tug at the oars to show it. "No," she continues, speaking between the plunges, "I want no protector--at least not yet: nor for a long while." "But there's one wants you," says the companion, accompanying her words with an interrogative glance. "And soon--soon as he can have you." "Indeed! I suppose you mean Master George Shenstone. Have I hit the nail upon the head?" "You have." "Well; what of him?" "Only that everybody observes his attentions to you." "Everybody is a very busy body. Being so observant, I wonder if this everybody has also observed how I receive them?" "Indeed, yes." "How then?" "With favour. 'Tis said you think highly of him." "And so I do. There are worse men in the world than George Shenstone--possibly few better. And many a good woman would, and might, be glad to become his wife. For all, I know one of a very indifferent sort who wouldn't--that's Gwen Wynn." "But he's very good-looking!" Ellen urges; "the handsomest gentleman in the neighbourhood. Everybody says so." "There your everybody would be wrong again--if they thought as they say. But they don't. I know one who thinks somebody else much handsomer than he." "Who?" asks Miss Lees, looking puzzled; for she has never heard of Gwendoline having a preference, save that spoken of. "The Rev. William Musgrave," replies Gwen, in turn bending inquisitive eyes on her companion, to whose cheeks the answer has brought a flush of colour, with a spasm of pain at the heart. Is it possible her rich relative--the heiress of Llangorren Court--can have set her eyes upon the poor curate of Llangorren Church, where her own thoughts have been secretly straying? With an effort to conceal them now, as the pain caused her, she rejoins interrogatively, but in faltering tone,-- "You think Mr. Musgrave handsomer than Mr. Shenstone?" "Indeed I don't! Who says I do?" "Oh--I thought," stammers out the other, relieved--too pleased just then to stand up for the superiority of the curate's personal appearance--"I thought you meant it that way." "But I didn't. All I said was, that somebody thinks so; and that isn't I. Shall I tell you who it is?" Ellen's heart is again quiet; she does not need to be told, already divining who it is--herself. "You may as well let me," pursues Gwen, in a bantering way. "Do you suppose, Miss Lees, I haven't penetrated your secret long ago? Why, I knew it last Christmas, when you were assisting his demure reverence to decorate the church! Who could fail to observe that pretty hand play, when you two were twining the ivy around the altar-rail? And the holly, you were both so careless in handling, I wonder it didn't prick your fingers to the bone! Why, Nell, 'twas as plain to me, as if I'd been at it myself. Besides, I've seen the same thing scores of times, so has everybody in the parish. Ha! you see, I'm not the only one with whose name this everybody has been busy; the difference being, that about me they've been mistaken, while concerning yourself they haven't; instead, speaking pretty near the truth. Come, now, confess! Am I not right? Don't have any fear; you can trust me." She does confess; though not in words. Her silence is equally eloquent; drooping eyelids, and blushing cheeks, making that eloquence emphatic. She loves Mr. Musgrave. "Enough!" says Gwendoline, taking it in this sense; "and, since you have been candid with me, I'll repay you in the same coin. But, mind you, it mustn't go further." "Oh! certainly not," assents the other, in her restored confidence about the curate willing to promise anything in the world. "As I've said," proceeds Miss Wynn, "there are worse men in the world than George Shenstone, and but few better. Certainly none behind hounds, and I'm told he's the crack shot of the county, and the best billiard player of his club--all accomplishments that have weight with us women--some of us. More still; he's deemed good-looking, and is, as you say, known to be of good family and fortune. For all, he lacks one thing that's wanted by----" She stays her speech till dipping the oars--their splash, simultaneous with, and half-drowning, the words, "Gwen Wynn." "What is it?" asks Ellen, referring to the deficiency thus hinted at. "On my word, I can't tell--for the life of me I cannot. It's something undefinable; which one feels without seeing or being able to explain--just as ether, or electricity. Possibly it is the last. At all events, it's the thing that makes us women fall in love; as no doubt you've found when your fingers were--were--well, so near being pricked by that holly. Ha, ha, ha!" With a merry peal she once more sets to rowing; and for a time no speech passes between them, the only sounds heard being the songs of the birds, in sweet symphony with the rush of the water along the boat's sides, and the rumbling of the oars in their rowlocks. But for a brief interval is their silence between them, Miss Wynn again breaking it by a startled exclamation:-- "See!" "Where? where?" "Up yonder! We've been talking of kites and magpies. Behold, two birds of worse augury than either!" They are passing the mouth of a little influent stream, up which at some distance are seen two men, one of them seated in a small boat, the other standing on the bank talking down to him. He in the boat is a stout, thick-set fellow in velveteens and coarse fur cap, the one above a spare thin man, habited in a suit of black--of clerical, or rather sacerdotal, cut. Though both are partially screened by the foliage, the little stream running between wooded banks, Miss Wynn has recognised them. So, too, does the companion; who rejoins, as if speaking to herself-- "One's the French priest who has a chapel up the river, on the opposite side; the other's that fellow who's said to be such an incorrigible poacher." "Priest and poacher it is! An oddly-assorted pair; though in a sense not so ill-matched either. I wonder what they're about up there, with their heads so close together. They appeared as if not wishing we should see them. Didn't it strike you so, Nelly?" The men are now out of sight, the boat having passed the rivulet's mouth. "Indeed, yes," answered Miss Lees; "the priest, at all events. He drew back among the bushes on seeing us." "I'm sure his reverence is welcome. I've no desire ever to set eyes on him--quite the contrary." "I often meet him on the roads." "I too--and off them. He seems to be about everywhere skulking and prying into people's affairs. I noticed him the last day of our hunting, among the rabble--on foot, of course. He was close to my horse, and kept watching me out of his owlish eyes all the time; so impertinently I could have laid the whip over his shoulders. There's something repulsive about the man; I can't bear the sight of him." "He's said to be a great friend and very intimate associate of your worthy cousin, Mr.----." "Don't name _him_, Nell! I'd rather not think, much less talk of him. Almost the last words my father ever spoke--never to let Lewin Murdock cross the threshold of Llangorren. No doubt, he had his reasons. My word! this day with all its sunny brightness seems to abound in dark omens. Birds of prey, priests, and poachers! It's enough to bring on one of my fear fits. I now rather regret leaving Joseph behind. Well, we must make haste and get home again." "Shall I turn the boat back?" asks the steerer. "No; not just yet. I don't wish to repass those two uncanny creatures. Better leave them awhile, so that on returning we mayn't see them, to disturb the priest's equanimity--more like his conscience." The reason is not exactly as assigned; but Miss Lees, accepting it without suspicion, holds the tiller cords so as to keep the course on down stream. CHAPTER V. DANGERS AHEAD. For another half-mile, or so, the _Gwendoline_ is propelled onward, though not running trimly; the fault being in her at the oars. With thoughts still preoccupied, she now and then forgets her stroke, or gives it unequally--so that the boat zig-zags from side to side, and, but for a more careful hand at the tiller, would bring up against the bank. Observing her abstraction, as also her frequent turning to look down the river--but without suspicion of what is causing it--Miss Lees at length inquires,-- "What's the matter with you, Gwen?" "Oh, nothing," she evasively answers, bringing back her eyes to the boat, and once more giving attention to the oars. "But why are you looking so often below? I've noticed you do so at least a score of times." If the questioner could but divine the thoughts at that moment in the other's mind, she would have no need thus to interrogate, but would know that below there is another boat, with a man in it who possesses that unseen something, like ether or electricity, and to catch sight of whom Miss Wynn has been so oft straining her eyes. She has not given all her confidence to the companion. Not receiving immediate answer, Ellen again asked-- "Is there any danger you fear?" "None that I know of--at least, for a long way down. Then there are some rough places." "But you are pulling so unsteadily! It takes all my strength to keep in the middle of the river." "Then you pull, and let me do the steering," returns Miss Wynn, pretending to be in a pout; as she speaks starting up from the thwart, and leaving the oars in their thole pins. Of course, the other does not object; and soon they have changed places. But Gwen in the stern behaves no better than when seated amidships. The boat still keeps going astray, the fault now in the steerer. Soon something more than a crooked course calls the attention of both, for a time engrossing it. They have rounded an abrupt bend, and got into a reach where the river runs with troubled surface and great velocity--so swift there is no need to use oars down stream, while upward 'twill take stronger arms than theirs. Caught in its current, and rapidly, yet smoothly, borne on, for a while they do not think of this. Only a short while; then the thought comes to them in the shape of a dilemma--Miss Lees being the first to perceive it. "Gracious goodness!" she exclaims, "what are we to do? We can never row back up this rough water--it runs so strong here!" "That's true," says Gwen, preserving her composure. "I don't think we could." "But what's to be the upshot? Joseph will be waiting for us, and auntie sure to know all, if we shouldn't get back in time." "That's true also," again observes Miss Wynn assentingly, and with an admirable _sang froid_, which causes surprise to the companion. Then succeeds a short interval of silence, broken by an exclamatory phrase of three short words from the lips of Miss Wynn. They are--"I have it!" "What have you?" joyfully asks Ellen. "The way to get back--without much trouble, and without disturbing the arrangements we've made with old Joe the least bit." "Explain yourself!" "We'll keep on down the river to Rock Weir. There we can leave the boat, and walk across the neck to Llangorren. It isn't over a mile, though it's five times that by the course of the stream. At the Weir we can engage some water fellow to take back the _Gwendoline_ to her moorings. Meanwhile, we'll make all haste, slip into the grounds unobserved, get to the boat-dock in good time, and give Joseph the cue to hold his tongue about what's happened. Another half-crown will tie it firm and fast, I know." "I suppose there's no help for it," says the companion, assenting, "and we must do as you say." "Of course we must. As you see, without thinking of it, we've drifted into a very cascade, and are now a long way down it. Only a regular waterman could pull up again. Ah! 'twould take the toughest of them, I should say. So--_nolens volens_--we'll have to go on to Rock Weir, which can't be more than a mile now. You may feather your oars, and float a bit. But, by the way, I must look more carefully to the steering. Now, that I remember, there are some awkward bars and eddies about here, and we can't be far from them. I think they're just below the next bend." So saying, she sets herself square in the stern sheets, and closes her fingers firmly upon the tiller cords. They glide on, but now in silence; the little flurry, with the prospect of peril ahead, making speech inopportune. Soon they are round the bend spoken of, discovering to their view a fresh reach of the river; when again the steerer becomes neglectful of her duty, the expression upon her features, late a little troubled, suddenly changing to cheerfulness--almost joy. Nor is it that the dangerous places have been passed; they are still ahead, and at some distance below. But there is something else ahead to account for the quick transformation--a row-boat drawn up by the river's edge, with men upon the bank beside. Over Gwen Wynn's countenance comes another change, sudden as before, and as before, its expression reversed. She has mistaken the boat; it is not that of the handsome fisherman! Instead, a four-oared craft, manned by four men, for there is this number on the bank. The angler's skiff had in it only two--himself and his oarsman. But she has no need to count heads, nor scrutinise faces. Those now before her eyes are all strange, and far from well favoured; not any of them in the least like the one which has so prepossessed her. And while making this observation another is forced upon her--that their natural plainness is not improved by what they have been doing, and are still--drinking. Just as the young ladies made this observation, the four men, hearing oars, face towards them. For a moment there is silence, while they in the _Gwendoline_ are being scanned by the quartette on the shore. Through maudlin eyes, possibly, the fellows mistake them for ordinary country lasses, with whom they may take liberties. Whether or not one cries out-- "Petticoats, by gee--ingo!" "Ay!" exclaims another, "a pair o' them. An' sweet wenches they be, too. Look at she wi' the gooldy hair--bright as the sun itself. Lord, meeats! if we had she down in the pit, that head o' her ud gi'e as much light as a dozen Davy's lamps. An't she a bewty? I'm boun' to have a smack fra them red lips o' hers." "No," protests the first speaker, "she be myen. First spoke soonest sarved. That's Forest law." "Never mind, Rob," rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, "she may be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. I'll lay odds the black 'un beats her at kissin'. Le's get grup o' 'em an' see! Coom on, meeats!" Down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which they scramble, each laying hold of an oar. Up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. The strange men being evidently intoxicated, they might expect--were, indeed, half-prepared for--coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing beyond. Within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary of the Llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is threatening? For that there is danger they are now sensible--becoming convinced of it as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a better view of them. Impossible to mistake the men--roughs from the Forest of Dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude, even dangerous, when drunk. This known from many a tale told, many a Petty and Quarter Sessions report read in the county newspapers. But it is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech--part of which the ladies have overheard--as in the action they are taking. They in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of bars and eddies below. No whirlpool, not Maelstrom itself, could fright them as those four men. For it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than drowning. Withal, Gwendoline Wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of mind. Nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid current. Her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the steep "pitches" of the Herefordshire roads, have given her strength of nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with affright, muttering her fears, she but says-- "Keep quiet, Nell! Don't let them see you're scared. It's not the way to treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us." This counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, Ellen Lees utters a terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words-- "Dear Gwen! what shall we do?" "Change places," is the reply, calmly but hurriedly made. "Give me the oars! Quick!" While speaking she has started up from the stern, and is making for 'midships. The other, comprehending, has risen at the same instant, leaving the oars to trail. By this the roughs has shoved off from the bank, and are making for mid-stream, their purpose evident--to intercept the _Gwendoline_. But the other Gwendoline has now got settled to the oars; and pulling with all her might, has still a chance to shoot past them. In a few seconds the boats are but a couple of lengths apart, the heavy craft coming bow-on for the lighter; while the faces of those in her, slewed over their shoulders, show terribly forbidding. A glance tells Gwen Wynn 'twould be idle making appeal to them; nor does she. Still she is not silent. Unable to restrain her indignation, she calls out-- "Keep back, fellows! If you run against us 'twill go ill for you. Don't suppose you'll escape punishment." "Bah!" responds one, "we an't a-frightened at yer threats--not we. That an't the way wi' us Forest chaps. Besides, we don't mean ye any much harm. Only gi'e us a kiss all round, an' then--maybe, we'll let ye go." "Yes; kisses all round!" cries another. "That's the toll ye're got to pay at our pike; an' a bit o' squeeze by way o' boot." The coarse jest elicits a peal of laughter from the other three. Fortunately for those who are its butt, since it takes the attention of the rowers from their oars, and before they can recover a stroke or two lost, the pleasure-boat glides past them, and goes dancing on, as did the fishing skiff. With a yell of disappointment they bring their boat's head round, and row after; now straining at their oars with all strength. Luckily, they lack skill; which, fortunately for herself, the rower of the pleasure-boat possesses. It stands her in stead now, and, for a time, the _Gwendoline_ leads without losing ground. But the struggle is unequal, four to one--strong men against a weak woman! Verily is she called on to make good her words, when saying she could row almost as ably as a man. And so does she for a time. Withal it may not avail her. The task is too much for her woman's strength, fast becoming exhausted. While her strokes grow feebler, those of the pursuers seem to get stronger. For they are in earnest now; and, despite the bad management of their boat, it is rapidly gaining on the other. "Pull, meeats!" cries one, the roughest of the gang, and apparently the ringleader, "pull like--hic--hic!"--his drunken tongue refuses the blasphemous word. "If ye lay me 'longside that girl wi' the gooc--goeeldy hair, I'll stan' someat stiff at the 'Kite's Nest' whens we get hic--'ome." "All right, Bob!" is the rejoinder, "we'll do that. Ne'er a fear." The prospect of "someat stiff" at the Forest hostelry inspires them to increase their exertion, and their speed proportionately augmented, no longer leaves a doubt of their being able to come up with the pursued boat. Confident, of it they commence jeering the ladies--"wenches" they call them--in speech profane, as repulsive. For these, things look black. They are but a couple of boats' length ahead, and near below is a sharp turn in the river's channel; rounding which they will lose ground, and can scarcely fail to be overtaken. What then? As Gwen Wynn asks herself the question, the anger late flashing in her eyes gives place to a look of keen anxiety. Her glances are sent to right, to left, and again over her shoulder, as they have been all day doing, but now with very different design. Then she was searching for a man, with no further thought than to feast her eyes on him; now she is looking for the same, in hopes he may save her from insult--it may be worse. There is no man in sight--no human being on either side of the river! On the right a grim cliff rising sheer, with some goats clinging to its ledges. On the left a grassy slope with browsing sheep, their lambs astretch at their feet; but no shepherd, no one to whom she can call "Help!" Distractedly she continues to tug at the oars; despairingly as the boats draw near the bend. Before rounding it she will be in the hands of those horrid men--embraced by their brawny, bear-like arms! The thought restrengthens her own, giving them the energy of desperation. So inspired, she makes a final effort to elude the ruffian pursuers, and succeeds in turning the point. Soon as round it, her face brightens up, joy dances in her eyes, as with panting breath she exclaims,-- "We're saved, Nelly! We're saved! Thank Heaven for it!" Nelly does thank Heaven, rejoiced to hear they are saved; but without in the least comprehending how! CHAPTER VI. A DUCKING DESERVED. Captain Ryecroft has been but a few minutes at his favourite fishing-place--just long enough to see his tackle in working condition, and cast his line across the water; as he does the last, saying-- "I shouldn't wonder, Wingate, if we don't see a salmon to-day. I fear that sky's too bright for his dainty kingship to mistake feathers for flies." "Ne'er a doubt the fish'll be a bit shy," returns the boatman; "but," he adds, assigning their shyness to a different cause, "'tain't so much the colour o' the sky; more like it's that lot of Foresters has frightened them, with their hulk o' a boat makin' as much noise as a Bristol steamer. Wonder what brings such rubbish on the river anyhow. They han't no business on't; an' in my opinion theer ought to be a law 'gainst it--same's for trespassin' after game." "That would be rather hard lines, Jack. These mining gentry need outdoor recreation as much as any other sort of people. Rather more I should say, considering that they're compelled to pass the greater part of their time underground. When they emerge from the bowels of the earth to disport themselves on its surface, it's but natural they should like a little aquatics; which you, by choice, an amphibious creature, cannot consistently blame them for. Those we've just met are doubtless out for a holiday, which accounts for their having taken too much drink--in some sense an excuse for their conduct. I don't think it at all strange seeing them on the water." "Their faces han't seed much o' it anyhow," observes the waterman, seeming little satisfied with the Captain's reasoning. "And as for their being out on holiday, if I an't mistook, it be holiday as lasts all the year round. Two o' 'em may be miners--them as got the grimiest faces. As for t'other two, I don't think eyther ever touch't pick or shovel in their lives. I've seed both hangin' about Lydbrook, which be a queery place. Besides, one I've seed 'long wi' a man whose company is enough to gi'e a saint a bad character--that's Coracle Dick. Take my word for 't, Captain, there ain't a honest miner 'mong that lot--eyther in the way of iron or coal. If there wor I'd be the last man to go again them havin' their holiday; 'cepting I don't think they ought to take it on the river. Ye see what comes o' sich as they humbuggin' about in a boat?" At the last clause of this speech--its Conservatism due to a certain professional jealousy--the Hussar officer cannot resist smiling. He had half forgotten the rudeness of the revellers--attributing it to intoxication--and more than half repented of his threat to bring them to a reckoning, which might not be called for, but might, and in all likelihood would, be inconvenient. Now, reflecting on Wingate's words, the frown which had passed from off his face again returns to it. He says nothing, however, but sits rod in hand, less thinking of the salmon than how he can chastise the "d--d scoun'rels," as his companion has pronounced them, should he, as he anticipates, again come in collision with them. "Lissen!" exclaims the waterman; "that's them shoutin'! Comin' this way, I take it. What should we do to 'em, Captain?" The salmon-fisher is half determined to reel in his line, lay aside the rod, and take out a revolving pistol he chances to have in his pocket--not with any intention to fire it at the fellows, but only frighten them. "Yes," goes on Wingate, "they be droppin' down again--sure; I dar' say they've found the tide a bit too strong for 'em up above. An' I don't wonder; sich louty chaps as they thinkin' they cud guide a boat 'bout the Wye! Jist like mountin' hogs a-horseback!" At this fresh sally of professional spleen the soldier again smiles, but says nothing, uncertain what action he should take, or how soon he may be called on to commence it. Almost instantly after he is called on to take action, though not against the four riotous Foresters, but a silly salmon, which has conceived a fancy for his fly. A purl on the water, with a pluck quick succeeding, tells of one on the hook, while the whizz of the wheel and rapid rolling out of catgut proclaims it a fine one. For some minutes neither he nor his oarsman has eye or ear for aught save securing the fish, and both bend all their energies to "fighting" it. The line runs out, to be spun up and run off again; his river majesty, maddened at feeling himself so oddly and painfully restrained in his desperate efforts to escape, now rushing in one direction, now another, all the while the angler skilfully playing him, the equally skilled oarsman keeping the boat in concerted accordance. Absorbed by their distinct lines of endeavour they do not hear high words, mingled with exclamations, coming from above; or hearing, do not heed, supposing them to proceed from the four men they had met, in all likelihood now more inebriated than ever. Not till they have well-nigh finished their "fight," and the salmon, all but subdued, is being drawn towards the boat--Wingate, gaff in hand, bending over ready to strike it--not till then do they note other sounds, which even at that critical moment make them careless about the fish, in its last feeble throes, when its capture is good as sure, causing Ryecroft to stop winding his wheel, and stand listening. Only for an instant. Again the voices of men, but now also heard the cry of a woman, as if she sending it forth were in danger or distress! They have no need for conjecture, nor are they long left to it. Almost simultaneously they see a boat sweeping round the bend, with another close in its wake, evidently in chase, as told by the attitudes and gestures of those occupying both--in the one pursued two young ladies, in that pursuing four rough men readily recognisable. At a glance the Hussar officer takes in the situation--the waterman as well. The sight saves a salmon's life, and possibly two innocent women from outrage. Down goes Ryecroft's rod, the boatman simultaneously dropping his gaff; as he does so hearing thundered in his ears-- "To your oars, Jack! Make straight for them! Row with all your might!" Jack Wingate needs neither command to act nor word to stimulate him. As a man he remembers the late indignity to himself; as a gallant fellow he now sees others submitted to the like. No matter about their being ladies; enough that they are women suffering insult; and more than enough at seeing who are the insulters. In ten seconds' time he is on his thwart, oars in hand, the officer at the tiller; and in five more, the _Mary_, brought stem up stream, is surging against the current, going swiftly as if with it. She is set for the big boat pursuing--not now to shun a collision, but seek it. As yet some two hundred yards are between the chased craft and that hastening to its rescue. Ryecroft, measuring the distance with his eyes, is in thought tracing out a course of action. His first instinct was to draw a pistol, and stop the pursuit with a shot. But no; it would not be English. Nor does he need resort to such deadly weapon. True there will be four against two; but what of it? "I think we can manage them, Jack," he mutters through his teeth, "I'm good for two of them--the biggest and best." "An' I t'other two--sich clumsy chaps as them! Ye can trust me takin' care o' 'em, Captin." "I know it. Keep to your oars till I give the word to drop them." "They don't 'pear to a sighted us yet. Too drunk I take it. Like as not when they see what's comin' they'll sheer off." "They shan't have the chance. I intend steering bow dead on to them. Don't fear the result. If the _Mary_ gets damaged I'll stand the expense of repairs." "Ne'er a mind 'bout that, Captain. I'd gi'e the price o' a new boat to see the lot chestised--specially that big black fellow as did most o' the talkin'." "You shall see it, and soon!" He lets go the ropes, to disembarrass himself of his angling accoutrements; which he hurriedly does, flinging them at his feet. When he again takes hold of the steering tackle the _Mary_ is within six lengths of the advancing boats, both now nearly together, the bow of the pursuer overlapping the stern of the pursued. Only two of the men are at the oars; two standing up, one amidships, the other at the head. Both are endeavouring to lay hold of the pleasure-boat, and bring it alongside. So occupied they see not the fishing skiff, while the two rowing, with backs turned, are equally unconscious of its approach. They only wonder at the "wenches," as they continue to call them, taking it so coolly, for these do not seem so much frightened as before. "Coom, sweet lass!" cries he in the bow--the black fellow it is--addressing Miss Wynn. "Tain't no use you tryin' to get away. I must ha' my kiss. So drop yer oars, and ge'et to me!" "Insolent fellow!" she exclaims, her eyes ablaze with anger. "Keep your hands off my boat! I command you!" "But I ain't to be c'mmanded, ye minx. Not till I've had a smack o' them lips; an' by G-- I s'll have it." Saying which he reaches out to the full stretch of his long, ape-like arms, and with one hand succeeds in grasping the boat's gunwale, while with the other he gets hold of the lady's dress, and commences dragging her towards him. Gwen Wynn neither screams, nor calls "Help!" She knows it is near. "Hands off!" cries a voice in a volume of thunder, simultaneous with a dull thud against the side of the larger boat, followed by a continued crashing as her gunwale goes in. The roughs, facing round, for the first time see the fishing skiff, and know why it is there. But they are too far gone in drink to heed or submit--at least their leader seems determined to resist. Turning savagely on Ryecroft, he stammers out-- "Hic--ic--who the blazes be you, Mr. White Cap? An' what d'ye want wi' me?" "You'll see." At the words he bounds from his own boat into the other; and, before the fellow can raise an arm, those of Ryecroft are around him in tight hug. In another minute the hulking scoundrel is hoisted from his feet, as though but a feather's weight, and flung overboard. [Illustration: IN ANOTHER MINUTE THE HULKING SCOUNDREL IS FLUNG OVERBOARD.] Wingate has meanwhile also boarded, grappled on to the other on foot, and is threatening to serve him the same. A plunge, with a wild cry--the man going down like a stone; another, as he comes up among his own bubbles; and a third, yet wilder, as he feels himself sinking for the second time! The two at the oars, scared into a sort of sobriety, one of them cries out-- "Lor' o' mercy! Rob'll be drownded! He can't sweem a stroke." "He's a-drownin' now!" adds the other. It is true. For Rob has again come to the surface, and shouts with feebler voice, while his arms tossed frantically about tell of his being in the last throes of suffocation! Ryecroft looks regretful--rather alarmed. In chastising the fellow he had gone too far. He must save him! Quick as the thought off goes his coat, with his boots kicked into the bottom of the boat; then himself over its side! A splendid swimmer, with a few bold sweeps he is by the side of the drowning man. Not a moment too soon--just as the latter is going down for the third, likely the last time. With the hand of the officer grasping his collar, he is kept above water. But not yet saved. Both are now imperilled--the rescuer and he he would rescue. For, far from the boats, they have drifted into a dangerous eddy, and are being whirled rapidly round! A cry from Gwen Wynn--a cry of real alarm, now--the first she has uttered! But before she can repeat it, her fears are allayed--set to rest again--at sight of still another rescuer. The young waterman has leaped back to his own boat, and is pulling straight for the strugglers. A few strokes, and he is beside them; then, dropping his oars, he soon has both safe in the skiff. The half-drowned, but wholly frightened Rob is carried back to his comrades' boat, and dumped in among them; Wingate handling him as though he were but a wet coal sack, or piece of old tarpaulin. Then giving the "Forest chaps" a bit of his mind he bids them "be off." And off go they, without saying word; as they drop down stream their downcast looks showing them subdued, if not quite sobered, and rather feeling grateful than aggrieved. * * * * * The other two boats soon proceed upward, the pleasure craft leading. But not now rowed by its owner; for Captain Ryecroft has hold of the oars. In the haste, or the pleasurable moments succeeding, he has forgotten all about the salmon left struggling on his line, or caring not to return for it, most likely will lose rod, line, and all. What matter? If he has lost a fine fish, he may have won the finest woman on the Wye! And she has lost nothing--risks nothing now--not even the chiding of her aunt! For now the pleasure-boat will be back in its dock in time to keep undisturbed the understanding with Joseph. CHAPTER VII. AN INVETERATE NOVEL READER. While these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, Llangorren Court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house, and there are no noisy children to go romping about. It is thus with Llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is Miss Linton, the aunt and legal guardian already alluded to. But, though presiding over the establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a skilled housekeeper who carries the keys. Kitchen matters are not much to Miss Linton's taste, being a dame of the antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back to Bath and Cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth, she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of flirting, at the Regency balls. No longer able to indulge in such delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _Morning Post_ with a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _Court Journal_, and other distributors of fashionable intelligence. In addition she reads no end of novels, her favourites being those which tell of Cupid in his most romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. Of the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus transgress the moralities. Miss Linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow, any more than the limpid waters of the Wye. Nor has she; but reads on, devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press, and are sent her from the Circulating Library. At nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so occupy herself. Even on this same bright April morn, when all nature rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the warm Spring sun--Dorothea Linton is seated in a shady corner of the drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a certain Lord Lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his tenant farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much likelihood of succeeding. If he fail, it will not be for want of will on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. He will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book. Just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give way, Miss Linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress. To her command "Come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in hand, on which is a card. She is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads-- "REVEREND WILLIAM MUSGRAVE." Only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's daughter. It is fortunate for his Reverence, that before entering within the room another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. Indeed the second caller is shown in first; for, although George Shenstone rung the front door bell after Mr. Musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is no domestic of Llangorren but knows the difference between a rich baronet's son and a poor parish curate, as which should have precedence. To this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the Reverend William is now indebted more than he is aware. It has saved him from an outburst of Miss Linton's rather tart temper, which, under the circumstances, otherwise he would have caught. For it so chances that the son of Sir George Shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady of Llangorren; welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries of Lord Lutestring. Not that the young country gentleman has anything in common with the titled Lothario, who is habitually a dweller in cities. Instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field sports and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all well-bred, and, what is even better, well-behaved. There is nothing odd in his calling at that early hour. Sir George is an old friend of the Wynn family--was an intimate associate of Gwen's deceased father--and both he and his son have been accustomed to look in at Llangorren Court _san ceremonie_. No more is Mr. Musgrave's matutinal visit out of order. Though but the curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have become almost a myth to it. For this reason his vicarial representative can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "The Court." There is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought of neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor to Miss Linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful Lutestring. It even takes all her partiality for Mr. Shenstone to remove its spell, and get him vouchsafed friendly reception. "Miss Linton," he says, speaking first, "I've just dropped in to ask if the young ladies would go for a ride. The day's so fine, I thought they might like to." "Ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing herself from rising. "Yes; no doubt they would like it very much." Mr. Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who neither rides nor has a horse. And less Shenstone himself--indeed both--as the lady proceeds. They have been listening, with ears all alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. Instead, they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing. "Nay, I am sure," continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, "they would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--" "But why can't they?" asked Shenstone impatiently, interrupting. "Because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing." "Indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating: "On the river?" "Certainly?" answers the lady, looking surprised. "Why, George; where else could they go rowing? You don't suppose they've brought the boat up to the fishpond!" "Oh, no," he stammers out. "I beg pardon. How very stupid of me to ask such a question. I was only wondering why Miss Gwen--that is, I am a little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask another question?" "Why should I? What is it?" "Only whether--whether she--Miss Gwen, I mean--said anything about riding to-day?" "Not a word--at least not to me." "How long since they went off--may I know, Miss Linton?" "Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast. I wasn't down myself--as I've told you, not feeling very well this morning. But Gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and I presume they went direct to the river." "Do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates Shenstone. "I should hope not," returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. "There's no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me." This with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at Llangorren. "Surely they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr. Shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry. "Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?" "I should say not. More like they'll be hungry, and that will bring them home. What's the hour now? I've been reading a very interesting book, and quite forgot myself. Is it possible?" she exclaims, looking at the ormolu dial on the mantel-shelf. "Ten minutes to one! How time does fly, to be sure! I couldn't have believed it near so late--almost luncheon time! Of course you'll stay, gentlemen? As for the girls, if they are not back in time they'll have to go without. Punctuality is the rule of this house--always will be with me. I shan't wait one minute for them." "But, Miss Linton, they may have returned from the river, and are now somewhere about the grounds. Shall I run down to the boat-dock and see?" It is Mr. Shenstone who thus interrogates. "If you like--by all means. I shall be too thankful. Shame of Gwen to give us so much trouble. She knows our luncheon hour, and should have been back by this. Thanks, much, Mr. Shenstone." As he is bounding off, she calls after-- "Don't you be staying too, else you shan't have a pick. Mr. Musgrave and I won't wait for any of you. Shall we, Mr. Musgrave?" Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. A luncheon for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. Not from any rivalry with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in different orbits, with no danger of collision. Simply that he dislikes leaving Miss Linton alone--indeed, dare not. She may be expecting the usual budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her. He is mistaken. On this particular day it is not desired. Out of courtesy to Mr. Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it. She is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter! CHAPTER VIII. A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER. While Mr. Musgrave is boring the elderly spinster about new scarlet cloaks for the girls of the church choir, and other parish matters, George Shenstone is standing on the topmost step of the boat stair, in a mood of mind even less enviable than hers. For he has looked down into the dock, and there sees no Gwendoline--neither boat nor lady--nor is there sign of either upon the water, far as he can command a view of it. No sounds, such as he would wish, and might expect to hear--no dipping of oars, nor, what would be still more agreeable to his ear, the soft voices of women. Instead only the note of a cuckoo, in monotonous repetition, the bird balancing itself on a branch near by; and, farther off, the _hiccol_, laughing, as if in mockery--and at him! Mocking his impatience; ay, something more, almost his misery! That it is so his soliloquy tells: "Odd her being out on the river! She promised me to go riding to-day. Very odd indeed! Gwen isn't the same she was--acting strange altogether for the last three or four days. Wonder what it means? By Jove, I can't comprehend it!" His noncomprehension does not hinder a dark shadow from stealing over his brow, and there staying. It is not unobserved. Through the leaves of the evergreen Joseph notes the pained expression, and interprets it in his own shrewd way--not far from the right one. The old servant soliloquizing in less conjectural strain, says, or rather thinks-- "Master George be mad sweet on Miss Gwen. The country folk are all talkin' o't; thinking she's same on him, as if they knew anything about it. I knows better. An' he ain't no ways confident, else there wouldn't be that queery look on's face. It's the token o' jealousy for sure. I don't believe he have suspicion o' any rival particklar. Ah! it don't need that wi' sich a grand beauty as she be. He as love her might be jealous o' the sun kissing her cheeks, or the wind tossin' her hair!" Joseph is a Welshman of Bardic ancestry, and thinks poetry. He continues-- "I know what's took her on the river, if he don't. Yes--yes, my young lady. Ye thought yerself wonderful clever, leavin' old Joe behind, tellin' him to hide hisself, and bribin' him to stay hid! And d'y 'spose I didn't obsarve them glances exchanged twixt you and the salmon fisher--sly, but, for all that, hot as streaks o' fire? And d'ye think I didn't see Mr. Whitecap going down, afore ye thought o' a row yerself? Oh, no; I noticed nothin' o' all that, not I! 'Twarn't meant for me--not for Joe--ha, ha!" With a suppressed giggle at the popular catch coming in so _apropos_, he once more fixes his eyes on the face of the impatient watcher, proceeding with his soliloquy, though in changed strain: "Poor young gentleman! I do pity he to be sure. He are a good sort, an' everybody likes him. So do she, but not the way he want her to. Well; things o' that kind allers do go contrarywise--never seem to run smooth like. I'd help him myself if 'twar in my power, but it ain't. In such cases help can only come frae the place where they say matches be made--that's Heaven. Ha! he's lookin' a bit brighter! What's cheerin' him? The boat coming back? I can't see it from here, nor I don't hear any rattle o' oars!" The change he notes in George Shenstone's manner is not caused by the returning pleasure craft. Simply a reflection, which crossing his mind, for the moment tranquillizes him. "What a stupid I am!" he mutters self-accusingly. "Now I remember, there was nothing said about the hour we were to go riding, and I suppose she understood in the afternoon. It was so the last time we went out together. By Jove! yes. It's all right, I take it; she'll be back in good time yet." Thus reassured he remains listening. Still more satisfied, when a dull thumping sound, in regular repetition, tells him of oars working in their rowlocks. Were he learned in boating tactics he would know there are two pairs of them, and think this strange too; since the _Gwendoline_ carries only one. But he is not so skilled--instead, rather averse to aquatics--his chosen home the hunting-field, his favourite seat in a saddle, not on a boat's thwart. It is only when the plashing of the oars in the tranquil water of the bye-way is borne clear along the cliff, that he perceives there are two pairs at work, while at the same time he observes two boats approaching the little dock, where but one belongs! Alone at that leading boat does he look: with eyes in which, as he continues to gaze, surprise becomes wonderment, dashed with something like displeasure. The boat he has recognised at the first glance--the _Gwendoline_--as also the two ladies in the stern. But there is also a man on the mid thwart, plying the oars. "Who the deuce is he?" Thus to himself George Shenstone puts it. Not old Joe, not the least like him. Nor is it the family Charon who sits solitary on the thwarts of that following. Instead, Joseph is now by Mr. Shenstone's side, passing him in haste--making to go down the boat stair! "What's the meaning of all this, Joe?" asks the young man, in stark astonishment. "Meanin' o' what, sir?" returns the old boatman, with an air of assumed innocence. "Be there anythin' amiss?" "Oh, nothing," stammers Shenstone. "Only I supposed you were out with the young ladies. How is it you haven't gone?" "Well, sir, Miss Gwen didn't wish it. The day bein' fine, an' nothing o' flood in the river, she sayed she'd do the rowin' herself." "She hasn't been doing it for all that," mutters Shenstone to himself, as Joseph glides past and on down the stair; then repeating, "Who the deuce is he?" the interrogation as before referring to him who rows the pleasure boat. By this it has been brought, bow in, to the dock, its stern touching the bottom of the stair; and, as the ladies step out of it, George Shenstone overhears a dialogue, which, instead of quieting his perturbed spirit, but excites him still more--almost to madness. It is Miss Wynn who has commenced it, saying,-- "You'll come up to the house, and let me introduce you to my aunt?" This to the gentleman who has been pulling her boat, and has just abandoned the oars soon as seeing its painter in the hands of the servant. "Oh, thank you!" he returns. "I would, with pleasure; but, as you see, I'm not quite presentable just now--anything but fit for a drawing-room. So I beg you'll excuse me to-day." His saturated shirt-front, with other garments dripping, tells why the apology; but does not explain either that or aught else to him on the top of the stair, who, hearkening further, hears other speeches, which, while perplexing him, do nought to allay the wild tempest now surging through his soul. Unseen himself--for he has stepped behind the tree lately screening Joseph--he sees Gwen Wynn holding out her hand to be pressed in parting salute--hears her address the stranger in words of gratitude, warm as though she were under some great obligation to him! Then the latter leaps out of the pleasure boat into the other brought alongside, and is rowed away by his waterman: while the ladies ascend the stair--Gwen lingeringly, at almost every step, turning her face towards the fishing skiff, till this, pulled around the upper end of the eyot, can no more be seen. All this George Shenstone observes, drawing deductions which send the blood in chill creep through his veins. Though still puzzled by the wet garments, the presence of the gentleman wearing them seems to solve that other enigma, unexplained as painful--the strangeness he has of late observed in the ways of Miss Wynn. Nor is he far out in his fancy, bitter though it be. Not until the two ladies have reached the stair head do they become aware of his being there; and not then, till Gwen has made some observations to the companion, which, as those addressed to the stranger, unfortunately for himself, George Shenstone overhears. "We'll be in time for luncheon yet, and aunt needn't know anything of what's delayed us--at least, not just now. True, if the like had happened to herself--say some thirty or forty years ago--she'd want all the world to hear of it, particularly that part of the world yclept Cheltenham. The dear old lady! Ha, ha!" After a laugh, continuing: "But, speaking seriously, Nell, I don't wish any one to be the wiser about our bit of an escapade--least of all, a certain young gentleman, whose Christian name begins with a G., and surname with an S." "Those initials answer for mine," says George Shenstone, coming forward and confronting her. "If your observation was meant for me, Miss Wynn, I can only express regret for my bad luck in being within earshot of it." At his appearance, so unexpected and abrupt, Gwen Wynn had given a start, feeling guilty, and looking it. Soon, however, reflecting whence he has come, and hearing what said, she feels less self-condemned than indignant, as evinced by her rejoinder. "Ah! you've been overhearing us, Mr. Shenstone! Bad luck, you call it. Bad or good, I don't think you are justified in attributing it to chance. When a gentleman deliberately stations himself behind a shady bush, like that laurestinus for instance, and there stands listening--intentionally--" Suddenly she interrupts herself, and stands silent too--this on observing the effect of her words, and that they have struck terribly home. With bowed head the baronet's son is stooping towards her, the cloud on his brow telling of sadness--not anger. Seeing it, the old tenderness returns to her, with its familiarity, and she exclaims:-- "Come, George! There must be no quarrel between you and me. What you've just seen and heard, will be all explained by something you have yet to hear. Miss Lees and I have had a little bit of an adventure; and if you'll promise it shan't go further, we'll make you acquainted with it." Addressed in this style, he readily gives the promise--gladly, too. The confidence so offered seems favourable to himself. But, looking for explanation on the instant, he is disappointed. Asking for it, it is denied him, with reason assigned thus: "You forget we've been full four hours on the river, and are as hungry as a pair of kingfishers--hawks, I suppose, you'd say, being a game preserver. Never mind about the simile. Let us in to luncheon, if not too late." She steps hurriedly off towards the house, the companion following, Shenstone behind both. However hungry they, never man went to a meal with less appetite than he. All Gwen's cajoling has not tranquillized his spirit, nor driven out of his thoughts that man with the bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and white helmet hat. CHAPTER IX. JEALOUS ALREADY. Captain Ryecroft has lost more than rod and line; his heart is as good as gone too--given to Gwendoline Wynn. He now knows the name of the yellow-haired Naiad--for this, with other particulars, she imparted to him on return up stream. Neither has her confidence thus extended, nor the conversation leading to it, belied the favourable impression made upon him by her appearance. Instead, so strengthened it, that for the first time in his life he contemplates becoming a benedict. He feels that his fate is sealed--or no longer in his hands, but hers. As Wingate pulls him on homeward, he draws out his cigar case, sets fire to a fresh weed, and, while the blue smoke wreaths up round the rim of his topee, reflects on the incidents of the day,--reviewing them in the order of their occurrence. Circumstances apparently accidental have been strangely in his favour. Helped as by Heaven's own hand, working with the rudest instruments. Through the veriest scum of humanity he has made acquaintance with one of its fairest forms. More than mere acquaintance, he hopes; for surely those warm words, and glances far from cold, could not be the sole offspring of gratitude! If so a little service on the Wye goes a long way. Thus reflects he in modest appreciation of himself, deeming that he has done but little. How different the value put upon it by Gwen Wynn! Still he knows not this, or at least cannot be sure of it. If he were, his thoughts would be all rose-coloured, which they are not. Some are dark as the shadows of the April showers now and then drifting across the sun's disc. One that has just settled on his brow is no reflection from the firmament above--no vague imagining--but a thing of shape and form--the form of a man, seen at the top of the boat-stair, as the ladies were ascending, and not so far off as to have hindered him from observing the man's face, and noting that he was young and rather handsome. Already the eyes of love have caught the keenness of jealousy. A gentleman evidently on terms of intimacy with Miss Wynn. Strange, though, that the look with which he regarded her on saluting seemed to speak of something amiss! What could it mean? Captain Ryecroft has asked this question as his boat was rounding the end of the eyot, with another in the self-same formulary of interrogation, of which but the moment before he was himself the subject:-- "Who the deuce can _he_ be?" Out upon the river, and drawing hard at his Regalia, he goes on:-- "Wonderfully familiar the fellow seemed! Can't be a brother! I understood her to say she had none. Does he live at Llangorren? No. She said there was no one there in the shape of masculine relative--only an old aunt, and that little dark damsel, who is cousin or something of the kind. But who in the deuce is the gentleman? Might _he_ be a cousin?" So propounding questions without being able to answer them, he at length addresses himself to the waterman--saying: "Jack, did you observe a gentleman at the head of the stair?" "Only the head and shoulders o' one, captain." "Head and shoulders? that's enough. Do you chance to know him?" "I ain't thorough sure; but I think he be a Mr. Shenstone." "Who is Mr. Shenstone?" "The son o' Sir George." "Sir George! What do you know of _him_?" "Not much to speak of--only that he be a big gentleman, whose land lies along the river, two or three miles below." The information is but slight, and slighter the gratification it gives. Captain Ryecroft has heard of the rich baronet whose estate adjoins that of Llangorren, and whose title, with the property attached, will descend to an only son. It is the _torso_ of this son he has seen above the red sandstone rock. In truth, a formidable rival! So he reflects, smoking away like mad. After a time, he again observes,-- "You've said you don't know the ladies we've helped out of their little trouble?" "Parsonally, I don't, captain. But, now as I see where they live, I know who they be. I've heerd talk 'bout the biggest o' them--a good deal." The biggest of them! As if she were a salmon! In the boatman's eyes, bulk is evidently her chief recommendation! Ryecroft smiles, further interrogating:-- "What have you heard of her?" "That she be a _tidy_ young lady. Wonderful fond o' field sport, such as hunting and that like. Fr' all, I may say that up to this day, I never set eyes on her afore." The Hussar officer has been long enough in Herefordshire to have learnt the local signification of "tidy"--synonymous with "well-behaved." That Miss Wynn is fond of field sports--flood pastimes included--he has gathered from herself while rowing her up the river. One thing strikes him as strange--that the waterman should not be acquainted with every one dwelling on the river's bank, at least for a dozen miles up and down. He seeks an explanation. "How is it, Jack, that you, living but a short league above, don't know all about these people?" He is unaware that Wingate though born on the Wye's banks, as he has told him, is comparatively a stranger to its middle waters--his birthplace being far up in the shire of Brecon. Still that is not the solution of the enigma, which the young waterman gives in his own way,-- "Lord love ye, sir! That shows how little you understand this river. Why, captain, it crooks an' crooks, and goes wobblin' about in such a way, that folks as lives less'n a mile apart knows no more o' one the other than if they wor ten. It comes o' the bridges bein' so few and far between. There's the ferry boats, true; but people don't take to 'em more'n they can help 'specially women--seein' there be some danger at all times, and a good deal o't when the river's aflood. That's frequent, summer well as winter." The explanation is reasonable; and, satisfied with it, Ryecroft remains for a time wrapt in a dreamy reverie, from which he is aroused as his eyes rest upon a house--a quaint antiquated structure, half timber, half stone, standing not on the river's edge, but at some distance from it up a dingle. The sight is not new to him; he has before noticed the house--struck with its appearance, so different from the ordinary dwellings. "Whose is it, Jack?" he asks. "B'longs to a man, name o' Murdock." "Odd looking domicile!" "Ta'nt a bit more that way than he be--if half what they say 'bout him be true." "Ah! Mr. Murdock's a character, then?" "Ay; an' a queery one." "In what respect? what way?" "More'n one--a goodish many." "Specify, Jack." "Well; for one thing, he a'nt sober to say half o' his time." "Addicted to dipsomania." "'Dicted to getting dead drunk. I've seen him so, scores o' 'casions." "That's not wise of Mr. Murdock." "No, captain; 'ta'nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin' the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin'." "Where may that be?" "The Welsh Harp--up at Rogue's Ferry." "Rogue's Ferry? Strange appellation! What sort of place is it? Not very nice, I should say--if the name be at all appropriate." "It's parfitly 'propriate, though I b'lieve it wa'nt that way bestowed. It got so called after a man the name o' Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh Harp and the ferry too. It's about two mile above, a little ways back. Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o' houses, a bit scattered about, wi' a chapel an' a grocery shop--one as deals truckways, an' a'nt partickler as to what they take in change--stolen goods welcome as any--ay, welcomer, if they be o' worth. They got plenty o' them, too. The place be a regular nest o' poachers, an' worse than that--a good many as have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary." "Why, Wingate, you astonish me! I was under the impression your Wyeside was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity." "You won't meet much o' either at Rogue's Ferry. If there be an uninnocent set on earth it's they as live there. Them Forest chaps we came 'cross a'nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink made them behave as they did--some o' 'em. But drink or no drink it be all the same wi' the Ferry people--maybe worse when they're sober. Any ways they're a rough lot." "With a place of worship in their midst! That ought to do something towards refining them." "Ought; and would, I daresay, if 'twar the right sort--which it a'nt. Instead, o' a kind as only the more corrupts 'em--being Roman." "Oh! A Roman Catholic chapel. But how does it corrupt them?" "By makin' 'em believe they can get cleared of their sins, hows'ever black they be. Men as think that way a'nt like to stick at any sort of crime--'specially if it brings 'em the money to buy what they calls absolution." "Well, Jack, it's very evident you're no friend, or follower, of the Pope." "Neyther o' Pope nor priest. Ah! captain; if you seed him o' the Rogue's Ferry Chapel, you wouldn't wonder at my havin' a dislike for the whole kit o' them." "What is there 'specially repulsive about him?" "Don't know as there be anythin' very special, in partickler. Them priests all look 'bout the same--such o' 'em as I've ever set eyes on. And that's like stoats and weasels, shootin' out o' one hole into another. As for him we're speakin' about, he's here, there, an' everywhere; sneakin' along the roads an' paths, hidin' behind bushes like a cat after birds, an' poppin' out where nobody expects him. If ever there war a spy meaner than another it's the priest of Rogue's Ferry." "No," he adds, correcting himself. "There be one other in these parts worse that he--if that's possible. A different sort o' man, true; and yet they be a good deal thegither." "Who is this other?" "Dick Dempsey--better known by the name of Coracle Dick." "Ah, Coracle Dick! He appears to occupy a conspicuous place in your thoughts, Jack; and rather a low one in your estimation. Why, may I ask? What sort of fellow is he?" "The biggest blaggard as lives on the Wye, from where it springs out o' Plinlimmon to its emptying into the Bristol Channel. Talk o' poachers an' night netters. He goes out by night to catch somethin' beside salmon. 'Taint all fish as comes into his net, I know." The young waterman speaks in such hostile tone both about priest and poacher, that Ryecroft suspects a motive beyond the ordinary prejudice against men who wear the sacerdotal garb, or go trespassing after game. Not caring to inquire into it now, he returns to the original topic, saying,-- "We've strayed from our subject, Jack--which was the hard-drinking owner of yonder house." "Not so far, captain; seein' as he be the most intimate friend the priest have in these parts; though if what's said be true, not nigh so much as his Missus." "Murdock is married, then?" "I won't say that--leastwise I shouldn't like to swear it. All I know is, a woman lives wi' him, s'posed to be his wife. Odd thing she." "Why odd?" "'Cause she beant like any other o' womankind 'bout here." "Explain yourself, Jack. In what does Mrs. Murdock differ from the rest of your Herefordshire fair?" "One way, captain, in her not bein' fair at all. 'Stead, she be dark complected; most as much as one o' them women I've seed 'bout Cheltenham, nursin' the children o' old officers as brought 'em from India--_ayers_ they call 'em. She a'nt one o' 'em, but French, I've heerd say; which in part, I suppose explains the thickness 'tween her an' the priest--he bein' the same." "Oh! His reverence is a Frenchman, is he?" "All o' that, captain. If he wor English, he woudn't--coudn't--be the contemptible sneakin' hound he is. As for Mrs. Murdock, I can't say I've seed her more'n twice in my life. She keeps close to the house; goes nowhere! an' it's said nobody visits her nor him--leastwise none o' the old gentry. For all Mr. Murdock belongs to the best of them." "He's a gentleman, is he?" "Ought to be--if he took after his father." "Why so?" "Because he wor a squire--regular of the old sort. He's not been so long dead. I can remember him myself, though I hadn't been here such a many years--the old lady too--this Murdock's mother. Ah! now I think on't, she wor t'other squire's sister--father to the tallest o' them two young ladies--the one with the reddish hair." "What! Miss Wynn?" "Yes, captain; her they calls Gwen." Ryecroft questions no farther. He has learnt enough to give him food for reflection--not only during the rest of that day, but for a week, a month--it may be throughout the remainder of his life. CHAPTER X. THE CUCKOO'S GLEN. About a mile above Llangorren Court, but on the opposite side of the Wye, stands the house which had attracted the attention of Captain Ryecroft; known to the neighbourhood as "Glyngog"--Cymric synonym for "Cuckoo's Glen." Not immediately on the water's edge, but several hundred yards back, near the head of a lateral ravine which debouches on the valley of the river, to the latter contributing a rivulet. Glyngog House is one of those habitations, common in the county of Hereford as other western shires--puzzling the stranger to tell whether they be gentleman's residence, or but the dwelling of a farmer. This from an array of walls, enclosing yard, garden, even the orchard--a plenitude due to the red sandstone being near, and easily shaped for building purposes. About Glyngog House, however, there is something besides the circumvallation to give it an air of grandeur beyond that of the ordinary farm homestead; certain touches of architectural style which speak of the Elizabethan period--in short that termed Tudor. For its own walls are not altogether stone; instead, a framework of oaken uprights, struts, and braces, black with age, the panelled masonry between plastered and white-washed, giving to the structure a quaint, almost fantastic, appearance, heightened by an irregular roof of steep pitch, with projecting dormers, gables acute angled, overhanging windows, and carving at the coigns. Of such ancient domiciles there are yet many to be met with on the Wye--their antiquity vouched for by the materials used in their construction, when bricks were a costly commodity, and wood to be had almost for the asking. About this one, the enclosing stone walls have been a later erection, as also the pillared gate entrance to its ornamental grounds, through which runs a carriage drive to the sweep in front. Many a glittering equipage may have gone round on that sweep; for Glyngog was once a manor-house. Now it is but the remains of one, so much out of repair as to show smashed panes in several of its windows, while the _enceinte_ walls are only upright where sustained by the upholding ivy; the shrubbery run wild; the walks and carriage drive weed-covered; on the latter neither recent track of wheel, nor hoof-mark of horse. For all, the house is not uninhabited. Three or four of the windows appear sound, with blinds inside them; while at most hours smoke may be seen ascending from at least two of the chimneys. Few approach near enough the place to note its peculiarities. The traveller gets but a distant glimpse of its chimney-pots; for the country road, avoiding the dip of the ravine, is carried round its head, and far from the house. It can only be approached by a long, narrow lane, leading nowhere else, so steep as to deter any explorer save a pedestrian; while he, too, would have to contend with an obstruction of over-growing thorns and trailing brambles. Notwithstanding these disadvantages, Glyngog has something to recommend it--a prospect not surpassed in the western shires of England. He who selected its site must have been a man of tastes rather æsthetic than utilitarian. For the land attached and belonging--some fifty or sixty acres--is barely arable; lying against the abruptly sloping sides of the ravine. But the view is superb. Below, the Wye, winding through a partially wood-covered plain, like some grand constrictor snake; its sinuosities only here and there visible through the trees, resembling a chain of detached lakes--till sweeping past the Cuckoo's Glen, it runs on in straight reach towards Llangorren. Eye of man never looked upon lovelier landscape; mind of man could not contemplate one more suggestive of all that is, or ought to be, interesting in life. Peaceful smokes ascending out of far-off chimneys; farm-houses, with their surrounding walls, standing amid the greenery of old homestead trees--now in full leaf, for it is the month of June--here and there the sharp spire of a church, or the showy façade of a gentleman's mansion--in the distant background, the dark blue mountains of Monmouthshire; among them conspicuous the Blorenge, Skerrid, and Sugar Loaf. The man who could look on such a picture, without drawing from it inspirations of pleasure, must be out of sorts with the world, if not weary of it. And yet just such a man is now viewing it from Glyngog House, or rather the bit of shrubbery ground in front. He is seated on a rustic bench partly shattered, barely enough of it whole to give room beside him for a small japanned tray on which are tumbler, bottle and jug--the two last respectively containing brandy and water; while in the first is an admixture of both. He is smoking a meerschaum pipe, which at short intervals he removes from his mouth to give place to the drinking glass. The personal appearance of this man is in curious correspondence with the bench on which he sits, the walls around, and the house behind. Like all these, he looks dilapidated. Not only is his apparel out of repair, but his constitution too, as shown by hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, with crows feet ramifying around them. This due not, as with the surrounding objects, to age; for he is still under forty. Nor yet any of the natural infirmities to which flesh is heir; but evidently to drink. Some reddish spots upon his nose and flecks on the forehead, with the glass held in shaking hand, proclaims this the cause. And it is. Lewin Murdock--such is the man's name--has led a dissipated life. Not much of it in England; still less in Herefordshire; and only its earlier years in the house he now inhabits--his paternal home. Since boyhood he has been abroad, staying none can say where, and straying no one knows whither--often seen, however, at Baden, Homburg, and other "hells," punting high or low, as the luck has gone for or against him. At a later period in Paris, during the Imperial _régime_--worst hell of all. It has stripped him of everything; driven him out and home, to seek asylum at Glyngog, once a handsome property, now but a _pied à terre_, on which he may only set his foot with a mortgage around his neck. For even the little land left to it is let out to a farmer, and the rent goes not to him. He is, in fact, only a tenant on his patrimonial estate; holding but the house at that, with the ornamental grounds and an acre or two of orchard, of which he takes no care. The farmer's sheep may scale the crumbling walls, and browse the weedy enclosure at will: give Lewin Murdock his meerschaum pipe, with enough brandy and water, and he but laughs. Not that he is of a jovial disposition, not at all given to mirth; only that it takes something more than the pasturage of an old orchard to excite his thoughts, or turn them to cupidity. For all, land does this--the very thing. No limited tract; but one of many acres in extent--even miles--the land of Llangorren. It is now before his face, and under his eyes, as a map unfolded. On the opposite side of the river it forms the foreground of the landscape; in its midst the many-windowed mansion, backed by stately trees, with well-kept grounds, and green pastures; at a little distance the "Grange," or home-farm, and farther off others that look of the same belonging--as they are. A smiling picture it is; spread before the eyes of Lewin Murdock, whenever he sits in his front window, or steps outside the door. And the brighter the sun shines on it, the darker the shadow on his brow. Not much of an enigma either. That land of Llangorren belonged to his grandfather, but now is, or soon will be, the property of his cousin--Gwendoline Wynn. Were she not, it would be his. Between him and it runs the Wye, a broad, deep river. But what its width or depth, compared with that other something between? A barrier stronger and more impassable than the stream, yet seeming slight as a thread. For it is but the _thread of a life_. Should it snap, or get accidentally severed, Lewin Murdock would only have to cross the river, proclaim himself master of Llangorren, and take possession. He would scarce be human not to think of all this. And being human he does--has thought of it oft, and many a time. With feelings too, beyond the mere prompting of cupidity. These due to a legend handed down to him, telling of an unfair disposal of the Llangorren property; but a pittance given to his mother, who married Murdock of Glyngog; while the bulk went to her brother, the father of Gwen Wynn. All matters of testament, since the estate is unentailed; the only grace of the grandfather towards the Murdock branch being a clause entitling them to possession, in the event of the collateral heirs dying out. And of these but one is living--the heroine of our tale. "Only she--but she!" mutters Lewin Murdock, in a tone of such bitterness, that, as if to drown it, he plucks the pipe out of his mouth, and gulps down the last drop in the glass. CHAPTER XI. A WEED BY THE WYESIDE. "Only she--but she!" he repeats, grasping the bottle by the neck, and pouring more brandy into the tumbler. Though speaking _sotto voce_, and not supposing himself overheard, he is, nevertheless--by a woman, who, coming forth from the house, has stepped silently behind him, there pausing. Odd-looking apparition she, seen upon the Wyeside; altogether unlike a native of it, but altogether like one born upon the banks of the Seine, and brought up to tread the Boulevards of Paris--like the latter from the crown of her head to the soles of her high-heeled boots, on whose toes she stands poised and balancing. In front of that ancient English manor-house, she seems grotesquely out of place--as much as a costermonger, driving his moke-drawn cart among the Pyramids, or smoking a "Pickwick" by the side of the Sphinx. For all there is nothing mysterious, or even strange in her presence there. She is Lewin Murdock's wife. If he has left his fortune in foreign lands, with the better part of his life and health, he has thence brought her, his better-half. Physically a fine-looking woman, despite some ravages due to time, and possibly more to crime. Tall and dark as the daughters of the Latinic race, with features beautiful in the past--even still attractive to those not repelled by the beguiling glances of sin. Such were hers, first given to him in a _café chantant_ of the Tuileries--oft afterwards repeated in _jardin_, _bois_, and _bals_ of the demi-monde, till at length she gave him her hand in the Eglise La Madeleine. Busied with his brandy, and again gazing at Llangorren, he has not yet seen her; nor is he aware of her proximity till hearing an exclamation:-- "_Eh, bien?_" He starts at the interrogatory, turning round. "You think too loud, Monsieur--that is if you wish to keep your thoughts to yourself. And you might--seeing that it's a love secret! May I ask who is this _she_ you're soliloquising about? Some of your old English _bonnes amies_, I suppose?" This, with an air of affected jealousy she is far from feeling. In the heart of the _ex-cocotte_ there is no place for such a sentiment. "Got nothing to do with _bonnes amies_, young or old," he gruffly replies. "Just now I've got something else to think of than sweethearts. Enough occupation for my thoughts in the how I'm to support a wife--yourself, madame." "It wasn't me you meant. No, indeed. Some other, in whom you appear to feel a very profound interest." "There you're right, it was one other, in whom I feel all that." "_Merci, Monsieur! Ma foi!_ your candour deserves all thanks. Perhaps you'll extend it, and favour me with the lady's name? A lady, I presume. The grand Seigneur Lewin Murdock would not be giving his thoughts to less." Ignorance pretended. She knows, or surmises, to whom he has been giving them; for she has been watching him from a window, and observed the direction of his glances. And she has more than a suspicion as to the nature of his reflections; since she is well aware as he of that something besides a river separating them from Llangorren. "Her name?" she again asks, in tone of more demand, her eyes bent searchingly on his. Avoiding her glance, he still pulls away at his pipe, without making answer. "It is a love secret, then? I thought so. It's cruel of you, Lewin! This is the return for giving you--all I had to give!" She may well speak hesitatingly, and hint at a limited sacrifice. Only her hand; and it more than tenderly pressed by scores--ay hundreds--of others, before being bestowed upon him. No false pretence, however, on her part. He knew all that, or should have known it. How could he help? Olympe, the belle of the Jardin Mabille, was no obscurity in the _demi-monde_ of Paris--even in its days of glory under Napoleon le Petite. Her reproach is also a pretence, though possibly with some sting felt. She is drawing on to that term of life termed _passé_; and begins to feel conscious of it. He may be the same. Not that for his opinion she cares a straw--save in a certain sense, and for reasons altogether independent of slighted affection--the very purpose she is now working upon, and for which she needs to hold over him the power she has hitherto had. And well knows she how to retain it, rekindling love's fire when it seems in danger of dying out, either through appeal to his pity, or exciting his jealousy, which she can adroitly do, by her artful French ways and dark flashing eyes. As he looks in them now, the old flame flickers up, and he feels almost as much her slave as when he first became her husband. For all he does not show it. This day he is out of sorts with himself, and her, and all the world besides; so instead of reciprocating her sham tenderness--as if knowing it such--he takes another swallow of brandy, and smokes on in silence. Now really incensed, or seeming so, she exclaims:-- "_Perfide!_" adding with a disdainful toss of the head, such as only the dames of the _demi-monde_ know how to give, "Keep your secret! What care I?" Then changing tone, "_Mon Dieu!_ France--dear France! Why did I ever leave you?" "Because your dear France became too dear to live in." "Clever _double entendre_! No doubt you think it witty! Dear, or not, better a garret there--a room in its humblest _entresol_ than this. I'd rather serve in a cigar shop--keep a _gargot_ in the Faubourg Montmartre--than lead such a _triste_ life as we're now doing. Living in this wretched kennel of a house, that threatens to tumble on our heads!" "How would you like to live in that over yonder?" He nods towards Llangorren Court. "You are merry, Monsieur. But your jests are out of place--in presence of the misery around us." "You may some day," he goes on, without heeding her observation. "Yes; when the sky falls we may catch larks. You seem to forget that Mademoiselle Wynn is younger than either of us, and by the natural laws of life will outlive both. Must, unless she break her neck in the hunting-field, get drowned out of a boat, or meet _some other mischance_." She pronounces the last three words slowly and with marked emphasis, pausing after she has spoken them, and looking fixedly in his face, as if to note their effect. Taking the meerschaum from his mouth, he returns her look--almost shuddering as his eyes meet hers, and he reads in them a glance such as might have been given by Messalina, or the murderess of Duncan. Hardened as his conscience has become through a long career of sin, it is yet tender in comparison with hers. And he knows it, knowing her history, or enough of it--her nature as well--to make him think her capable of anything, even the crime her speech seems to point to--neither more nor less than-- He dares not think, let alone pronounce, the word. He is not yet up to that; though day by day, as his desperate fortunes press upon him, his thoughts are being familiarised with something akin to it--a dread, dark design, still vague, but needing not much to assume shape, and tempt to execution. And that the tempter is by his side he is more than half conscious. It is not the first time for him to listen to fell speech from those fair lips. To-day he would rather shun allusion to a subject so grave, yet so delicate. He has spent part of the preceding night at the Welsh Harp--the tavern spoken of by Wingate--and his nerves are unstrung, yet not recovered from the revelry. Instead of asking her what she means by "some other mischance," he but remarks, with an air of careless indifference,-- "True, Olympe; unless something of that sort were to happen, there seems no help for us but to resign ourselves to patience, and live on expectations." "Starve on them, you mean." This in a tone, and with a shrug, which seem to convey reproach for its weakness. "Well, _chèrie_," he rejoins, "we can at least feast our eyes on the source whence our fine fortunes are to come. And a pretty sight it is, isn't it? _Un coup d'oeil charmant!_" He again turns his eyes upon Llangorren, as also she, and for some time both are silent. Attractive at any time, the Court is unusually so on this same summer's day. For the sun, lighting up the verdant lawn, also shines upon a large white tent there erected--a marquee--from whose ribbed roof projects a signal staff, with flag floating at its peak. They have had no direct information of what all this is for--since to Lewin Murdock and his wife the society of Herefordshire is tabooed. But they can guess from the symbols that it is to be a garden party, or something of the sort, there often given. While they are still gazing its special kind is declared, by figures appearing upon the lawn and taking stand in groups before the tent. There are ladies gaily attired--in the distance looking like bright butterflies--some dressed _à la Diane_, with bows in hand, and quivers slung by their sides, the feathered shafts showing over their shoulders; a proportionate number of gentlemen attendant; while liveried servants stride to and fro erecting the ringed targets. Murdock himself cares little for such things. He has had his surfeit of fashionable life; not only sipped its sweets, but drank its dregs of bitterness. He regards Llangorren with something in his mind more substantial than its sports and pastimes. With different thoughts looks the Parisian upon them--in her heart a chagrin only known to those whose zest for the world's pleasure is of keenest edge, yet checked and baffled from indulgence--ambitions uncontrollable, but never to be attained. As Satan gazed back when hurled out of the Garden of Eden, so she at that scene upon the lawn of Llangorren. No _jardin_ of Paris--not the Bois itself--ever seemed to her so attractive as those grounds, with that aristocratic gathering--a heaven none of her kind can enter, and but few of her country. After long regarding it with envy in her eyes, and spleen in her soul--tantalized, almost to torture--she faces towards her husband, saying-- "And you've told me, between all that and us, there's but one life----" "Two!" interrupts a voice--not his. Both turning, startled, behold--_Father Rogier_! CHAPTER XII. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING. Father Rogier is a French priest of a type too well known over all the world--the Jesuitical. Spare of form, thin-lipped, nose with the cuticle drawn across it tight as drum parchment, skin dark and cadaverous, he looks Loyola from head to heel. He himself looks no one straight in the face. Confronted, his eyes fall to his feet, or turn to either side, not in timid abashment, but as those of one who feels himself a felon. And but for his habiliments he might well pass for such; though even the sacerdotal garb, and assumed air of sanctity, do not hinder the suspicion of a wolf in sheep's clothing--rather suggesting it. And in truth is he one; a very Pharisee--Inquisitor to boot, cruel and keen as ever sate in secret Council over an _Auto da Fé_. What is such a man doing in Herefordshire? What, in Protestant England? Time was, and not so long ago, when these questions would have been asked with curiosity, and some degree of indignation. As for instance, when our popular Queen added to her popularity, by somewhat ostentatiously declaring, that "no foreign priest should take tithe or toll in her dominions," even forbidding them their distinctive dress. Then they stole timidly, and sneakingly, through the streets, usually seen hunting in couples, and looking as if conscious their pursuit was criminal, or, at the least, illegal. All that is over now; the ban removed, the boast unkept--to all appearance forgotten! Now they stalk boldly abroad, or saunter in squads, exhibiting their shorn crowns and pallid faces, without fear or shame; instead, triumphantly flouting their vestments in public walks or parks, or loitering in the vestibules of convents and monasteries, which begin to show thick over the land--threatening us with a curse as that anterior to the time of bluff King Hal. No one now thinks it strange to see shovel-hatted priest, or sandalled monk--no matter in what part of England, nor would wonder at one of either being resident upon Wyeside. Father Rogier, one of the former, is there with similar motive, and for the same purpose, his sort are sent everywhere--to enslave the souls of men and get money out of their purses, in order that other men, princes, and priests like himself, may lead luxurious lives, without toil and by trickery. The same old story, since the beginning of the world, or man's presence upon it. The same craft as the rain-maker of South Africa, or the medicine man of the North American Indian; differing only in some points of practice; the religious juggler of a higher civilization, finding his readiest tools not in roots, snake-skins, and rattles, but the weakness of woman. Through this, as by sap and mine, many a strong citadel has been carried, after bidding defiance to the boldest and most determined assault. _Père_ Rogier well knows all this; and by experience, having played the propagandist game with some success since his settling in Herefordshire. He has not been quite three years resident on Wyeside, and yet has contrived to draw around him a considerable coterie of weak-minded Marthas and Marys, built him a little chapel, with a snug dwelling house, and is in a fair way of further feathering his nest. True, his neophytes are nearly all of the humbler class, and poor. But the Peter's pence count up in a remarkable manner, and are paid with a regularity which only blind devotion, or the zeal of religious partizanship, can exact. Fear of the Devil, and love of him, are like effective in drawing contributions to the box of the Rugg's Ferry chapel, and filling the pockets of its priest. And if he have no grand people among his flock, and few disciples of the class called middle, he can boast of at least two claiming to be genteel--the Murdocks. With the man no false assumption either; neither does he assume, or value it. Different the woman. Born in the Faubourg Montmartre, her father a common _ouvrier_, her mother a _blanchisseuse_--herself a beautiful girl--Olympe Renault soon found her way into a more fashionable quarter. The same ambition made her Lewin Murdock's wife, and has brought her on to England. For she did not marry him without some knowledge of his reversionary interest in the land of which they have just been speaking, and at which they are still looking. That was part of the inducement held out for obtaining her hand; her heart he never had. That the priest knows something of the same, indeed all, is evident from the word he has respondingly pronounced. With step, silent and cat-like--his usual mode of progression--he has come upon them unawares, neither having note of his approach till startled by his voice. On hearing it, and seeing who, Murdock rises to his feet, as he does so saluting. Notwithstanding long years of a depraved life, his early training has been that of a gentleman, and its instincts at times return to him. Besides, born and brought up Roman Catholic, he has that respect for his priest habitual to a proverb--would have, even if knowing the latter to be the veriest Pharisee that ever wore single-breasted black coat. Salutations exchanged, and a chair brought out for the new comer to sit upon, Murdock demands explanation of the interrupting monosyllable, asking: "What do you mean, Father Rogier, by 'two'?" "What I've said, M'sieu; that there are two between you and that over yonder, or soon will be--in time perhaps ten. A fair _paysage_ it is!" he continues, looking across the river; "a very vale of Tempé, or Garden of the Hesperides. _Parbleu!_ I never believed your England so beautiful. Ah! what's going on at Llangorren?" This as his eyes rest upon the tent, the flags, and gaily-dressed figures. "A _fête champêtre_: Mademoiselle making merry! In honour of the anticipated change, no doubt." "Still I don't comprehend," says Murdock, looking puzzled. "You speak in riddles, Father Rogier." "Riddles easily read, M'sieu. Of this particular one you'll find the interpretation there." This, pointing to a plain gold ring on the fourth finger of Mrs. Murdock's left hand, put upon it by Murdock himself on the day he became her husband. He now comprehends--his quick-witted wife sooner. "Ha!" she exclaims, as if pricked by a pin, "Mademoiselle to be married?" The priest gives an assenting nod. "That's news to me," mutters Murdock, in a tone more like he was listening to the announcement of a death. "_Moi aussi!_ Who, _Père_? Not Monsieur Shenstone, after all?" The question shows how well she is acquainted with Miss Wynn--if not personally, with her surroundings and predilections! "No," answers the priest. "Not he." "Who then?" asked the two simultaneously. "A man likely to make many heirs to Llangorren--widen the breach between you and it--ah! to the impossibility of that ever being bridged." "_Père Rogier!_" appeals Murdock, "I pray you speak out! Who is to do this? His name?" "_Le Capitaine Ryecroft._" "Captain Ryecroft! Who--what is he?" "An officer of Hussars--a fine-looking fellow--sort of combination of Mars and Apollo; strong as Hercules! As I've said, likely to be father to no end of sons and daughters, with Gwen Wynn for their mother. _Helas!_ I can fancy seeing them now--at play over yonder, on the lawn!" "Captain Ryecroft!" repeats Murdock musingly; "I never saw--never heard of the man!" "You hear of him now, and possibly see him too. No doubt he's among those gay toxophilites--Ha! no, he's nearer! What a strange coincidence! The old saw, 'speak of the fiend.' There's _your_ fiend, Monsieur Murdock!" He points to a boat on the river with two men in it; one of them wearing a white cap. It is dropping down in the direction of Llangorren Court. "Which?" asks Murdock mechanically. "He with the _chapeau blanc_. That's whom you have to fear. The other's but the waterman Wingate--honest fellow enough, whom no one need fear--unless indeed our worthy friend Coracle Dick, his competitor for the smiles of the pretty Mary Morgan. Yes, _mes amis_! Under that conspicuous _kepi_ you behold the future lord of Llangorren." "Never!" exclaims Murdock, angrily gritting his teeth. "Never!" The French priest and ci-devant French courtezan exchange secret, but significant, glances; a pleased expression showing on the faces of both. "You speak excitedly, M'sieu," says the priest, "emphatically, too. But how is it to be hindered?" "I don't know," sourly rejoins Murdock; "I suppose it can't be," he adds, drawing back, as if conscious of having committed himself. "Never mind, now; let's drop the disagreeable subject. You'll stay to dinner with us, Father Rogier?" "If not putting you to inconvenience." "Nay; it's you who'll be inconvenienced--starved, I should rather say. The butchers about here are not of the most amiable type; and, if I mistake not, our _menu_ for to-day is a very primitive one--bacon and potatoes, with some greens from the old garden." "Monsieur Murdock! It's not the fare, but the fashion, which makes a meal enjoyable. A crust and welcome is to me better cheer than a banquet with a grudging host at the head of the table. Besides, your English bacon is a most estimable dish, and with your succulent cabbages delectable. With a bit of Wye salmon to precede, and a pheasant to follow, it were food to satisfy Lucullus himself." "Ah! true," assents the broken-down gentleman, "with the salmon and pheasant. But where are they? My fishmonger, who is conjointly also a game-dealer, is at present as much out with me as is the butcher; I suppose, from my being too much in with them--in their books. Still, they have not ceased acquaintance, so far as calling is concerned. That they do with provoking frequency. Even this morning, before I was out of bed, I had the honour of a visit from both the gentlemen. Unfortunately, they brought neither fish nor meat; instead, two sheets of that detestable blue paper, with red lines and rows of figures--an arithmetic not nice to be bothered with at one's breakfast. So, _Père_, I am sorry I can't offer you any salmon; and as for pheasant--you may not be aware, that it is out of season." "It's never out of season, any more than barn-door fowl; especially if a young last year's _coq_, that hasn't been successful in finding a mate." "But it's close time now," urges the Englishman, stirred by his old instincts of gentleman sportsman. "Not to those who know how to open it," returns the Frenchman with a significant shrug. "And suppose we do that to-day?" "I don't understand. Will your Reverence enlighten me?" "Well, M'sieu; being Whit-Monday, and coming to pay you a visit, I thought you mightn't be offended by my bringing along with me a little present--for Madame here--that we're talking of--salmon and pheasant." The husband, more than the wife, looks incredulous. Is the priest jesting? Beneath the _froc_, fitting tight his thin spare form, there is nothing to indicate the presence of either fish or bird. "Where are they?" asks Murdock mechanically. "You say you've brought them along?" "Ah! that was metaphorical. I meant to say I had sent them. And if I mistake not, they are near now. Yes; there's my messenger!" He points to a man making up the glen, threading his way through the tangle of wild bushes that grow along the banks of the rivulet. "Coracle Dick!" exclaims Murdock, recognising the poacher. "The identical individual," answers the priest, adding, "who, though a poacher, and possibly has been something worse, is not such a bad fellow in his way--for certain purposes. True, he's neither the most devout nor best behaved of my flock; still a useful individual, especially on Fridays, when one has to confine himself to a fish diet. I find him convenient in other ways as well; as so might you, Monsieur Murdock--some day. Should you ever have need of a strong hard hand, with a heart in correspondence, Richard Dempsey possesses both, and would no doubt place them at your service--for a consideration." While Murdock is cogitating on what the last words are meant to convey, the individual so recommended steps upon the ground. A stout thick-set fellow, with a shock of black curly hair coming low down, almost to his eyes, thus adding to their sinister and lowering look. For all a face not naturally uncomely, but one on which crime has set its stamp, deep and indelible. His garb is such as gamekeepers usually wear, and poachers almost universally affect, a shooting coat of velveteen, corduroy smalls, and sheepskin gaiters buttoned over thick-soled shoes iron-tipped at the toes. In the ample skirt pockets of the coat--each big as a game-bag--appear two protuberances, that about balance one another--the present of which the priest has already delivered the invoice--in the one being a salmon "blotcher" weighing some three or four pounds, in the other a young cock pheasant. Having made obeisance to the trio in the grounds of Glyngog, he is about drawing them forth when the priest prevents him, exclaiming:-- "_Arretez!_ They're not commodities that keep well in the sun. Should a water-bailiff, or one of the Llangorren gamekeepers chance to set eyes on them, they'd spoil at once. Those lynx-eyed fellows can see a long way, especially on a day bright as this. So, worthy Coracle, before uncarting, you'd better take them back to the kitchen." Thus instructed the poacher strides off round to the rear of the house; Mrs. Murdock entering by the front door to give directions about dressing the dinner. Not that she intends to take any hand in cooking it--not she. That would be _infra dig._ for the _ancien belle of Mabille_. Poor as is the establishment of Glyngog, it can boast of a plain cook, with a _slavey_ to assist. The other two remain outside, the guest joining his host in a glass of brandy and water. More than one; for Father Rogier, though French, can drink like a born Hibernian. Nothing of the Good Templar in him. After they have been for nigh an hour hobnobbing, conversing, Murdock still fighting shy of the subject, which is nevertheless uppermost in the minds of both, the priest once more approaches it, saying:-- "_Parbleu!_ They appear to be enjoying themselves over yonder!" He is looking at the lawn where the bright forms are flitting to and fro. "And most of all, I should say, Monsieur White Cap--foretasting the sweets of which he'll ere long enter into full enjoyment; when he becomes master of Llangorren." "That--never!" exclaims Murdock, this time adding an oath. "Never while I live. When I'm dead----" "_Diner!_" interrupts a female voice from the house--that of its mistress seen standing on the doorstep. "Madame summons us," says the priest, "we must in, M'sieu. While picking the bones of the pheasant, you can complete your unfinished speech. _Allons!_" CHAPTER XIII. AMONG THE ARROWS. The invited to the archery meeting have nearly all arrived, and the shooting has commenced; half a dozen arrows in the air at a time, making for as many targets. Only a limited number of ladies compete for the first score, each having a little coterie of acquaintances at her back. Gwen Wynn herself is in this opening contest. Good with the bow, as at the oar--indeed with county celebrity as an archer--carrying the champion badge of her club--it is almost a foregone conclusion she will come off victorious. Soon, however, those who are backing her begin to anticipate disappointment. She is not shooting with her usual skill, nor yet earnestness. Instead, negligently, and, to all appearance, with thoughts abstracted; her eyes every now and then straying over the ground, scanning the various groups, as if in search of a particular individual. The gathering is large--nearly a hundred people present--and one might come or go without attracting observation. She evidently expects one to come who is not yet there; and oftener than elsewhere her glances go towards the boat-dock, as if the personage expected should appear in that direction. There is a nervous restlessness in her manner, and after each reconnaissance of this kind, an expression of disappointment on her countenance. It is not unobserved. A gentleman by her side notes it, and with some suspicion of its cause--a suspicion that pains him. It is George Shenstone; who is attending on her, handing the arrows--in short acting as her _aide-de-camp_. Neither is he adroit in the exercise of his duty; instead performs it bunglingly; his thoughts preoccupied, and eyes wandering about. His glances, however, are sent in the opposite direction--to the gate entrance of the park, visible from the place where the targets are set up. They are both "prospecting" for the self-same individual, but with very different ideas--one eagerly anticipating his arrival, the other as earnestly hoping he may not come. For the expected one is a gentleman--no other than Vivian Ryecroft. Shenstone knows the Hussar officer has been invited, and, however hoping or wishing it, has but little faith he will fail. Were it himself, no ordinary obstacle could prevent his being present at that archery meeting, any more than would five-barred gate, or bullfinch, hinder him from keeping up with hounds. As time passes without any further arrivals, and the tardy guest has not yet put in appearance, Shenstone begins to think he will this day have Miss Wynn to himself, or at least without any very formidable competitor. There are others present who seek her smiles--some aspiring to her hand--but none he fears so much as the one still absent. Just as he is becoming calm and confident, he is saluted by a gentleman of the genus "swell," who, approaching, drawls out the interrogatory:-- "Who is that fella, Shenstone?" "What fellow?" "He with the vewy peculya head gear. Indian affair--_topee_, I bewieve they call it." "Where?" asks Shenstone, starting and staring to all sides. "Yondaw! Appwoaching from the diwection of the rivaw. Looks a fwesh awival. I take it he must have come by bawt! Knaw him?" George Shenstone, strong man though he be, visibly trembles. Were Gwen Wynn at that moment to face about, and aim one of her arrows at his breast, it would not bring more pallor upon his cheeks, nor pain to his heart. For he wearing the "peculya head gear" is the man he most fears, and whom he had hoped not to see this day. So much is he affected, he does not answer the question put to him; nor indeed has he opportunity, as just then Miss Wynn, sighting the _topee_ too, suddenly turning, says to him:-- "George! be good enough to take charge of these things." She holds her bow with an arrow she had been affixing to the string. "Yonder's a gentleman just arrived; who you know is a stranger. Aunt will expect me to receive him. I'll be back soon as I've discharged my duty." Delivering the bow and unspent shaft, she glides off without further speech or ceremony. He stands looking after; in his eyes anything but a pleased expression. Indeed sullen, almost angry, as watching her every movement he notes the manner of her reception--greeting the new comer with a warmth and cordiality he, Shenstone, thinks uncalled for, however much stranger the man may be. Little irksome to her seems the discharge of that so-called duty; but so exasperating to the baronet's son, he feels like crushing the bow stick between his fingers, or snapping it in twain across his knee! As he stands with eyes glaring upon them, he is again accosted by his inquisitive acquaintance, who asks: "What's the matter, Jawge? Yaw haven't answered my intewogatowy!" "What was it? I forget." "Aw, indeed! That's stwange. I merely wished to knaw who Mr. White Cap is?" "Just what I'd like to know myself. All I can tell you is, that he's an army fellow--in the Cavalry I believe--by name Ryecroft." "Aw yas; Cavalwy. That's evident by the bend of his legs. Wyquoft--Wyquoft, you say?" "So he calls himself--a captain of Hussars--his own story." This in a tone and with a shrug of insinuation. "But yaw don't think he's an adventuwer?" "Can't say whether he is, or not." "Who's his endawser? How came he intwoduced at Llangowen?" "That I can't tell you." He could though; for Miss Wynn, true to her promise, has made him acquainted with the circumstances of the river adventure, though not those leading to it; and he, true to his, has kept them a secret. In a sense therefore, he could not tell, and the subterfuge is excusable. "By Jawve! The Light Bob appears to have made good use of his time--however intwoduced. Miss Gwen seems quite familiaw with him; and yondaw the little Lees shaking hands, as though the two had been acquainted evaw since coming out of their cwadles! See! They're dwagging him up to the ancient spinster, who sits enthawned in her chair like a queen of the Tawnament times. Vewy mediæval the whole affair--vewy!" "Instead, very modern; in my opinion disgustingly so!" "Why d'yaw say that, Jawge?" "Why! Because in either olden or mediæval times such a thing couldn't have occurred--here in Herefordshire." "What thing, pway?" "A man admitted into good society without endorsement or introduction. Now-a-days any one may be so; claim acquaintance with a lady, and force his company upon her, simply from having had the chance to pick up a dropped pocket-handkerchief, or offer his umbrella in a skiff of a shower!" "But, shawly, that isn't how the gentleman yondaw made acquaintance with the fair Gwendoline?" "Oh! I don't say that," rejoins Shenstone, with forced attempt at a smile--more natural, as he sees Miss Wynn separate from the group they are gazing at, and come back to reclaim her bow. Better satisfied, now, he is rather worried by his importunate friend, and to get rid of him adds: "If you are really desirous to know how Miss Wynn became acquainted with him, you can ask the lady herself." Not for all the world would the swell put that question to Gwen Wynn. It would not be safe; and thus snubbed he saunters away, before she is up to the spot. Ryecroft, left with Miss Linton, remains in conversation with her. It is not his first interview; for several times already has he been a visitor at Llangorren--introduced by the young ladies as the gentleman who, when the pleasure-boat was caught in a dangerous whirl, out of which old Joseph was unable to extricate it, came to their rescue--possibly to the saving of their lives! Thus, the version of the adventure vouchsafed to the aunt--sufficient to sanction his being received at the Court. And the ancient toast of Cheltenham has been charmed with him. In the handsome Hussar officer she beholds the typical hero of her romance reading; so much like it, that Lord Lutestring has long ago gone out of her thoughts--passed from her memory as though he had been but a musical sound. Of all who bend before her this day, the worship of none is so welcome as that of the martial stranger. * * * * * Resuming her bow, Gwen shoots no better than before. Her thoughts, instead of being concentrated on the painted circles, as her eyes, are half the time straying over her shoulders to him behind, still in a _tête-à-tête_ with the aunt. Her arrows fly wild and wide, scarce one sticking in the straw. In fine, among all the competitors, she counts lowest score--the poorest she has herself ever made. But what matters it? She is only too pleased when her quiver is empty, and she can have excuse to return to Miss Linton, on some question connected with the hospitalities of the house. Observing all this, and much more besides, George Shenstone feels aggrieved--indeed exasperated--so terribly, it takes all his best breeding to withhold him from an exhibition of bad behaviour. He might not succeed were he to remain much longer on the ground--which he does not. As if misdoubting his power of restraint, and fearing to make a fool of himself, he too frames excuse, and leaves Llangorren long before the sports come to a close. Not rudely, or with any show of spleen. He is a gentleman, even in his anger; and bidding a polite, and formal, adieu to Miss Linton, with one equally ceremonious, but more distant, to Miss Wynn, he slips round to the stables, orders his horse, leaps into the saddle, and rides off. Many the day he has entered the gates of Llangorren with a light and happy heart--this day he goes out of them with one heavy and sad. If missed from the archery meeting, it is not by Miss Wynn. Instead, she is glad of his being gone. Notwithstanding the love passion for another now occupying her heart--almost filling it--there is still room there for the gentler sentiment of pity. She knows how Shenstone suffers--how could she help knowing?--and pities him. Never more than at this same moment, despite that distant, half-disdainful adieu, vouchsafed to her at parting; by him intended to conceal his thoughts, as his sufferings, while but the better revealing them. How men underrate the perception of women! In matters of this kind a very intuition. None keener than that of Gwen Wynn. She knows why he has gone so short away--well as if he had told her. And with the compassionate thought still lingering, she heaves a sigh; sad as she sees him ride out through the gate--going in reckless gallop--but succeeded by one of relief, soon as he is out of sight! In an instant after, she is gay and gladsome as ever; once more bending the bow, and making the catgut twang. But now shooting straight--hitting the target every time, and not unfrequently lodging a shaft in the "gold." For he who now attends on her, not only inspires confidence, but excites her to the display of skill. Captain Ryecroft has taken George Shenstone's place as her aide-de-camp; and while he hands the arrows, she spending them, others of a different kind pass between them--the shafts of Cupid--of which there is a full quiver in the eyes of both. CHAPTER XIV. BEATING ABOUT THE BUSH. Naturally, Captain Ryecroft is the subject of speculation among the archers at Llangorren. A man of his mien would be so anywhere--if stranger. The old story of the unknown knight suddenly appearing on the tourney's field with closed visor, only recognisable by a love-lock or other favour of the lady whose cause he comes to champion. He, too, wears a distinctive badge--in the white cap. For though our tale is of modern time, it antedates than when Brown began to affect the _pugaree_--sham of Manchester Mills--as an appendage to his cheap straw hat. That on the head of Captain Ryecroft is the regular forage cap, with quilted cover. Accustomed to it in India--whence he has but lately returned--he adheres to it in England, without thought of its attracting attention, and as little caring whether it does or not. It does, however. Insular, we are supremely conservative--some might call it "caddish"--and view innovations with a jealous eye; as witness the so-called "moustache movement" not many years ago, and the fierce controversy it called forth. For other reasons the officer of Hussars is at this same archery gathering a cynosure of eyes. There is a perfume of romance about him; in the way he has been introduced to the ladies of Llangorren; a question asked by others besides the importunate friend of George Shenstone. The true account of the affair with the drunken foresters has not got abroad--these keeping dumb about their own discomfiture; while Jack Wingate, a man of few words, and on this special matter admonished to silence, has been equally close-mouthed; Joseph also mute for reasons already mentioned. Withal, a vague story has currency in the neighbourhood, of a boat, with two young ladies, in danger of being capsized--by some versions actually upset--and the ladies rescued from drowning by a stranger who chanced to be salmon-fishing near by--his name, Ryecroft. And as this tale also circulates among the archers at Llangorren, it is not strange that some interest should attach to the supposed hero of it, now present. Still, in an assemblage so large, and composed of such distinguished people--many of whom are strangers to one another--no particular personage can be for long an object of special concern; and if Captain Ryecroft continue to attract observation, it is neither from curiosity as to how he came there, nor the peculiarity of his head-dress, but the dark handsome features beneath it. On these more than one pair of bright eyes occasionally become fixed, regarding them with admiration. None so warmly as those of Gwen Wynn; though hers neither openly nor in a marked manner. For she is conscious of being under the surveillance of other eyes, and needs to observe the proprieties. In which she succeeds; so well, that no one watching her could tell, much less say, there is aught in her behaviour to Captain Ryecroft beyond the hospitality of host--which in a sense she is--to guest claiming the privileges of a stranger. Even when during an interregnum of the sports the two go off together, and, after strolling for a time through the grounds, are at length seen to step inside the summer-house, it may cause, but does not merit, remark. Others are acting similarly, sauntering in pairs, loitering in shady places, or sitting on rustic benches. Good society allows the freedom, and to its credit. That which is corrupt alone may cavil at it, and shame the day when such confidence be abused and abrogated. Side by side they take stand in the little pavilion, under the shadow of its painted zinc roof. It may not have been all chance their coming thither--no more the archery party itself. That Gwendoline Wynn, who suggested giving it, can alone tell. But standing there with their eyes bent on the river, they are for a time silent, so much, that each can hear the beating of the other's heart--both brimful of love. At such moment one might suppose there could be no reserve or reticence, but confession, full, candid, and mutual. Instead, at no time is this farther off. If _le joie fait peur_, far more _l'amour_. And with all that has passed is there fear between them. On her part springing from a fancy she has been over forward--in her gushing gratitude for that service done, given too free expression to it, and needs being more reserved now. On his side speech is stayed by a reflection somewhat akin, with others besides. In his several calls at the Court his reception has been both welcome and warm. Still, not beyond the bounds of well-bred hospitality. But why on each and every occasion has he found a gentleman there--the same every time--George Shenstone by name? There before him, and staying after! And this very day, what meant Mr. Shenstone by that sudden and abrupt departure? Above all, why her distraught look, with the sigh accompanying it, as the baronet's son went galloping out of the gate? Having seen the one, and heard the other, Captain Ryecroft has misinterpreted both. No wonder his reluctance to speak words of love. And so for a time they are silent, the dread of misconception, with consequent fear of committal, holding their lips sealed. On a simple utterance now may hinge their life's happiness, or its misery. Nor is it so strange, that in a moment fraught with such mighty consequence, conversation should be not only timid, but commonplace. They who talk of love's eloquence, but think of it in its lighter phases--perhaps its lying. When truly, deeply felt, it is dumb, as devout worshipper in the presence of the Divinity worshipped. Here, side by side, are two highly organized beings--a man handsome and courageous, a woman beautiful and aught but timid--both well up in the accomplishments, and gifted with the graces of life--loving each other to their souls' innermost depths, yet embarrassed in manner, and constrained in speech, as though they were a couple of rustics! More; for Corydon would fling his arms around his Phyllis, and give her an eloquent smack, which she, with like readiness would return. Very different the behaviour of these in the pavilion. They stand for a time silent as statues--though not without a tremulous motion, scarce perceptible--as if the amorous electricity around stifled their breathing, for the time hindering speech. And when at length this comes, it is of no more significance than what might be expected between two persons lately introduced, and feeling but the ordinary interest in one another! It is the lady who speaks first:-- "I understand you've been but a short while resident in our neighbourhood, Captain Ryecroft?" "Not quite three months, Miss Wynn. Only a week or two before I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." "Thank you for calling it a pleasure. Not much in the manner, I should say; but altogether the contrary," she laughs, adding-- "And how do you like our Wye?" "Who could help liking it?" "There's been much said of its scenery--in books and newspapers. You really admire it?" "I do, indeed." His preference is pardonable under the circumstances. "I think it the finest in the world." "What! you such a great traveller! In the tropics too; upon rivers that run between groves of evergreen trees, and over sands of gold! Do you really mean that, Captain Ryecroft?" "Really--truthfully. Why not, Miss Wynn?" "Because I supposed those grand rivers we read of were all so much superior to our little Herefordshire stream; in flow of water, scenery, everything----" "Nay, not everything!" he says interruptingly. "In volume of water they may be; but far from it in other respects. In some it is superior to them all--Rhine, Rhone, ah! Hippocrene itself!" His tongue is at length getting loosed. "What other respects?" she asks. "The forms reflected in it," he answers hesitatingly. "Not those of vegetation! Surely our oaks, elms, and poplars cannot be compared with the tall palms and graceful tree ferns of the tropics?" "No; not those." "Our buildings neither, if photography tells truth, which it should. Those wonderful structures--towers, temples, pagodas--of which it has given us the _fac similes_--far excel anything we have on the Wye--or anything in England. Even our Tintern, which we think so very grand, were but as nothing to them. Isn't that so?" "True," he says assentingly. "One must admit the superiority of Oriental architecture." "But you've not told me what form our English river reflects, so much to your admiration!" He has a fine opportunity for poetical reply. The image is in his mind--her own--with the word upon his tongue, "woman's." But he shrinks from giving it utterance. Instead, retreating from the position he had assumed, he rejoins evasively:-- "The truth is, Miss Wynn, I've had a surfeit of tropical scenery, and was only too glad once more to feast my eyes on the hill and dale landscapes of dear old England. I know none to compare with these of the Wyeside." "It's very pleasing to hear you say that--to me especially. It's but natural I should love our beautiful Wye--I, born on its banks, brought up on them, and, I suppose, likely to----" "What?" he asks, observing that she has paused in her speech. "Be buried on them!" she answers laughingly. She intended to have said "Stay on them the rest of my life." "You'll think that a very grave conclusion," she adds, keeping up the laugh. "One at all events very far off--it is to be hoped. An eventuality not to arise, till after you've passed many long and happy days--whether on the Wye, or elsewhere." "Ah! who can tell? The future is a sealed book to all of us." "Yours need not be--at least as regards its happiness. I think that is assured." "Why do you say so, Captain Ryecroft?" "Because it seems to me, as though you had yourself the making of it." He is saying no more than he thinks; far less. For he believes she could make fate itself--control it, as she can his. And as he would now confess to her--is almost on the eve of it--but hindered by recalling that strange look and sigh sent after Shenstone. His fond fancies, the sweet dreams he has been indulging in ever since making her acquaintance, may have been but illusions. She may be playing with him, as he would with a fish on his hook. As yet, no word of love has passed her lips. Is there thought of it in her heart--for him? "In what way? What mean you?" she asks, her liquid eyes turned upon him with a look of searching interrogation. The question staggers him. He does not answer it as he would, and again replies evasively--somewhat confusedly-- "Oh! I only meant, Miss Wynn--that you so young--so--well, with all the world before you--surely have your happiness in your own hands." If he knew how much it is in his he would speak more courageously, and possibly with greater plainness. But he knows not, nor does she tell him. She, too, is cautiously retentive, and refrains taking advantage of his words, full of suggestion. It will need another _séance_--possibly more than one--before the real confidence can be exchanged between them. Natures like theirs do not rush into confession as the common kind. With them it is as with the wooing of eagles. She simply rejoins: "I wish it were," adding with a sigh, "Far from it, I fear." He feels as if he had drifted into a dilemma--brought about by his own _gaucherie_--from which something seen up the river, on the opposite side, offers an opportunity to escape--a house. It is the quaint old habitation of Tudor times. Pointing to it, he says: "A very odd building, that! If I've been rightly informed, Miss Wynn, it belongs to a relative of yours?" "I have a cousin who lives there." The shadow suddenly darkening her brow, with the slightly explicit rejoinder, tells him he is again on dangerous ground. He attributes it to the character he has heard of Mr. Murdock. His cousin is evidently disinclined to converse about him. And she is; the shadow still staying. If she knew what is at that moment passing within Glyngog--could but hear the conversation carried on at its dining table--it might be darker. It is dark enough in her heart, as on her face--possibly from a presentiment. Ryecroft more than ever embarrassed, feels it a relief when Ellen Lees, with the Rev. Mr. Musgrave as her cavalier attendant--they, too, straying solitarily--approach near enough to be hailed, and invited into the pavilion. So the dialogue between the cautious lovers comes to an end--to both of them unsatisfactory enough. For this day their love must remain unrevealed; though never man and woman more longed to learn the sweet secret of each other's heart. CHAPTER XV. A SPIRITUAL ADVISER. While the sports are in progress outside Llangorren Court, inside Glyngog House is being eaten that dinner to commence with salmon in season and end with pheasant out. It is early; but the Murdocks often glad to eat what Americans call a "square meal," have no set hours for eating, while the priest is not particular. In the faces of the trio seated at the table a physiognomist might find interesting study, and note expressions that would puzzle Lavater himself. Nor could they be interpreted by the conversation which, at first, only refers to topics of a trivial nature. But now and then, a _mot_ of double meaning let down by Rogier, and a glance surreptitiously exchanged between him and his countryman, tell that the thoughts of these two are running upon themes different from those about which are their words. Murdock, by no means of a trusting disposition, but ofttimes furiously jealous, has nevertheless, in this respect, no suspicion of the priest, less from confidence than a sort of contempt for the pallid puny creature, whom he feels he could crush in a moment of mad anger. And broken though he be, the stalwart, and once strong, Englishman could still do that. To imagine such a man as Rogier a rival in the affections of his own wife, would be to be little himself. Besides, he holds fast to that proverbial faith in the spiritual adviser, not always well founded--in his case certainly misplaced. Knowing nought of this, however, their exchanged looks, however markedly significant, escape his observation. Even if he did observe, he could not read in them aught relating to love. For, this day there is not; the thoughts of both are absorbed by a different passion--cupidity. They are bent upon a scheme of no common magnitude, but grand and comprehensive--neither more nor less than to get possession of an estate worth £10,000 a year--that Llangorren. They know its value as well as the steward who gives receipts for its rents. It is no new notion with them; but one for some time entertained, and steps considered; still nothing definite either conceived, or determined on. A task, so herculean, as dangerous and difficult, will need care in its conception, and time for its execution. True, it might be accomplished almost instantaneously with six inches of steel, or as many drops of belladonna. Nor would two of the three seated at the table stick at employing such means. Olympe Renault, and Gregorie Rogier have entertained thoughts of them--if not more. In the third is the obstructor. Lewin Murdock would cheat at dice and cards, do money-lenders without remorse, and tradesmen without mercy, ay, steal, if occasion offered; but murder--that is different--being a crime not only unpleasant to contemplate, but perilous to commit. He would be willing to rob Gwendoline Wynn of her property--glad to do it, if he only knew how--but to take away her life, he is not yet up to that. But he is drawing up to it, urged by desperate circumstances, and spurred on by his wife, who loses no opportunity of bewailing their broken fortunes, and reproaching him for them; at her back the Jesuit secretly instructing, and dictating. Not till this day have they found him in the mood for being made more familiar with their design. Whatever his own disposition, his ear has been hitherto deaf to their hints, timidly, and ambiguously given. But to-day things appear more promising, as evinced by his angry exclamation "Never!" Hence their delight at hearing it. During the earlier stages of the dinner, as already said, they converse about ordinary subjects, like the lovers in the pavilion silent upon that paramount in their minds. How different the themes--as love itself from murder! And just as the first word was unspoken in the summer-house at Llangorren, so is the last unheard in the dining-room of Glyngog. While the blotcher is being carved with a spoon--there is no fish slice among the chattels of Mr. Murdock--the priest in good appetite, and high glee pronounces it "crimp." He speaks English like a native, and is even up in its provincialisms; few in Herefordshire whose dialect is of the purest. The phrase of the fishmonger received smilingly, the salmon is distributed and handed across the table; the attendance of the slavey, with claws not over clean, and ears that might be unpleasantly sharp, having been dispensed with. There is wine without stint; for although Murdock's town tradesmen may be hard of heart, in the Welsh Harp there is a tender string he can still play upon; the Boniface of the Rugg's Ferry hostelry having a belief in his _post obit_ expectations. Not such an indifferent wine either, but some of the choicest vintage. The guests of the Harp, however rough in external appearance and rude in behaviour, have wonderfully refined ideas about drink, and may be often heard calling for "fizz"--some of them as well acquainted with the qualities of Möet and Cliquot, as a connoisseur of the most fashionable club. Profiting by their æsthetic tastes, Lewin Murdock is enabled to set wines upon his table of the choicest brands. Light Bordeaux first with the fish, then sherry with the heavier greens and bacon, followed by champagne as they get engaged upon the pheasant. At this point the conversation approaches a topic hitherto held in reserve, Murdock himself starting it:-- "So my Cousin Gwen's going to get married, eh! Are you sure of that, Father Rogier?" "I wish I were as sure of going to heaven." "But what sort of man is he? you haven't told us." "Yes, I have. You forget my description, Monsieur--cross between Mars and Phoebus--strength herculean; sure to be father to a progeny numerous as that which spring from the head of Medusa--enough of them to make heirs for Llangorren to the end of time--keep you out of the property if you lived to be the age of Methuselah. Ah! a fine looking fellow, I can assure you; against whom the baronet's son, with his rubicund cheeks and hay-coloured hair, wouldn't stand the slightest chance--even were there nothing more to recommend the martial stranger. But there is." "What more?" "The mode of his introduction to the lady--that quite romantic." "How was he introduced?" "Well, he made her acquaintance on the water. It appears Mademoiselle Wynn and her companion Lees, were out on the river for a row alone. Unusual that! Thus out, some fellows--Forest of Dean dwellers--offered them insult; from which a gentleman angler, who chanced to be whipping the stream close by, saved them--he no other than _le Capitaine Ryecroft_. With such commencement of acquaintance, a man couldn't be much worth who didn't know how to improve it--even to terminating in marriage if he wished. And with such a rich heiress as Mademoiselle Gwendoline Wynn--to say nought of her personal charms--there are few men who wouldn't wish it so to end. That he, the Hussar officer--captain, colonel, or whatever his rank--does, I've good reason to believe, as also that he will succeed in accomplishing his desires; no more doubt of it than of my being seated at this table. Yes; sure as I sit here that man will be the master of Llangorren." "I suppose he will--must," rejoins Murdock, drawing out the words as though not greatly concerned, one way or the other. Olympe looks dissatisfied, but not Rogier, nor she after a glance from the priest, which seems to say "Wait." He himself intends waiting till the drink has done its work. Taking the hint, she remains silent, her countenance showing calm, as with the content of innocence, while in her heart is the guilt of hell, and the deceit of the devil. She preserves her composure all through, and soon as the last course is ended, with a show of dessert placed upon the table--poor and _pro forma_--obedient to a look from Rogier, with a slight nod in the direction of the door, she makes her _congè_, and retires. Murdock lights his meerschaum, the priest one of his paper cigarettes--of which he carries a case--and for some time they sit smoking and drinking; talking, too, but upon matters with no relation to that uppermost in their minds. They seem to fear touching it, as though it were a thing to contaminate. It is only after repeatedly emptying their glasses, their courage comes up to the standard required; that of the Frenchman first; who, nevertheless, approaches the delicate subject with cautious circumlocution. "By the way, M'sieu," he says, "we've forgotten what we were conversing about, when summoned to dinner--a meal I've greatly enjoyed--notwithstanding your depreciation of the _menu_. Indeed, a very _bonne bouche_ your English bacon, and the greens excellent, as also the _pommes de terre_. You were speaking of some event, or circumstance, to be conditional on your death. What is it? Not the deluge, I hope! True, your Wye is subject to sudden floods; might it have aught to do with them?" "Why should it?" asks Murdock, not comprehending the drift. "Because people sometimes get drowned in these inundations; indeed, often. Scarce a week passes without some one falling into the river, and there remaining, at least till life is extinct. What with its whirls and rapids, it's a very dangerous stream. I wonder at Mademoiselle Wynn venturing so courageously--so _carelessly_ upon it." The peculiar intonation of the last speech, with emphasis on the word carelessly, gives Murdock a glimpse of what it is intended to point to. "She's got courage enough," he rejoins, without appearing to comprehend. "About her carelessness I don't know." "But the young lady certainly is careless--recklessly so. That affair of her going out alone is proof of it. What followed may make her more cautious; still, boating is a perilous occupation, and boats, whether for pleasure or otherwise, are awkward things to manage--fickle and capricious as women themselves. Suppose hers should some day go to the bottom, she being in it?" "That would be bad." "Of course it would. Though, Monsieur Murdock, many men situated as you, instead of grieving over such an accident, would but rejoice at it." "No doubt they would. But what's the use of talking of a thing not likely to happen?" "Oh, true! Still, boat accidents being of such common occurrence, one is as likely to befall Mademoiselle Wynn as anybody else. A pity if it should--a misfortune! But so is the other thing." "What other thing?" "That such a property as Llangorren should be in the hands of heretics, having but a lame title too. If what I've heard be true, you yourself have as much right to it as your cousin. It were better it belonged to a true son of the Church, as I know you to be, M'sieu." Murdock receives the compliment with a grimace. He is no hypocrite; still with all his depravity he has a sort of respect for religion, or rather its outward forms--regularly attends Rogier's chapel, and goes through all the ceremonies and genuflexions, just as the Italian bandit, after cutting a throat, will drop on his knees and repeat a _paternoster_ at hearing the distant bell of the Angelus. "A very poor one," he replies, with a half smile, half grin. "In a worldly sense you mean? I'm aware you're not very rich." "In more senses than that. Your Reverence, I've been a great sinner, I admit." "Admission is a good sign--giving promise of repentance, which need never come too late if a man be disposed to it. It is a deep sin the Church cannot condone--a dark crime indeed." "Oh, I haven't done anything deserving the name. Only such as a great many others." "But you might be tempted some day. Whether or not it's my duty, as your spiritual adviser, to point out the true doctrine--how the Vatican views such things. It's after all only a question of balance between good and evil; that is, how much evil a man may have done, and the amount of good he may do. This world is a ceaseless war between God and the devil; and those who wage it in the cause of the former have often to employ the weapons of the latter. In our service the end justifies the means, even though these be what the world calls criminal--ay, even to the TAKING OF LIFE, else why should the great and good Loyola have counselled drawing the sword, himself using it?" "True," grunts Murdock, smoking hard, "you're a great theologian, Father Rogier. I confess ignorance in such matters; still, I see reason in what you say." "You may see it clearer if I set the application before you. As for instance, if a man have a right to a certain property, or estate, and is kept out of it by a quibble, any steps he might take to possess himself would be justifiable providing he devote a portion of his gains to the good cause--that is, upholding the true faith, and so benefitting humanity at large. Such an act is held by the best of our Church authorities to compensate for any sin committed--supposing the money donation sufficient to make the amount of good it may do preponderate over the evil. And such a man would not only merit absolution, but freely receive it. Now, Monsieur, do you comprehend me?" "Quite," says Murdock, taking the pipe from his mouth and gulping down a half-tumbler of brandy--for he has dropped the wine. Withal, he trembles at the programme thus metaphorically put before him, and fears admitting the application to himself. Soon the more potent spirit takes away his last remnant of timidity, which the tempter perceiving, says:-- "You say you have sinned, Monsieur. And if it were only for that, you ought to make amends." "In what way could I?" "The way I've been speaking of. Bestow upon the Church the means of doing good, and so deserve indulgence." "Ah! where am I to find this means?" "On the other side of the river." "You forget that there's more than the stream between." "Not much to a man who would be true to himself." "I'm that man all over." The brandy has made him bold, at length untying his tongue, while unsteadying it. "Yes, Père Rogier; I'm ready for anything that will release me from this damnable fix--debt over the ears--duns every day. Ha! I'd be true to myself, never fear!" "It needs being true to the Church as well." "I'm willing to be that when I have the chance, if ever I have it. And to get it I'd risk life. Not much if I lose it. It's become a burden to me, heavier than I can bear." "You may make it as light as a feather, M'sieu; cheerful as that of any of those gay gentry you saw disporting themselves on the lawn at Llangorren--even that of its young mistress." "How, _Pére_?" "By yourself becoming its master." "Ah! if I could." "You can!" "With safety?" "Perfect safety." "And without committing"--he fears to speak the ugly English word, but expresses the idea in French--"_cette dernier coup_?" "Certainly! Who dreams of that? Not I, M'sieu." "But how is it to be avoided?" "Easily." "Tell me, Father Rogier!" "Not to-night, Murdock!"--he has dropped the distant M'sieu--"Not to-night. It's a matter that calls for reflection--consideration, calm and careful. Time, too. Ten thousand _livres esterlies_ per annum! We must both ponder upon it--sleep nights, and think days, over it--possibly have to draw Coracle Dick into our deliberations. But not to-night--_Par-dieu!_ it's ten o'clock! And I have business to do before going to bed. I must be off." "No, your Reverence; not till you've had another glass of wine." "One more, then. But let me take it standing--the _tasse d'estrope_, as you call it." Murdock assents; and the two rise up to drink the stirrup cup. But only the Frenchman keeps his feet till the glasses are emptied; the other, now dead drunk, dropping back into his chair. "_Bon soir Monsieur!_" says the priest, slipping out of the room, his host answering only by a snore. For all, Father Rogier does not leave the house so unceremoniously. In the porch outside he takes more formal leave of a woman he there finds waiting for him. As he joins her going out, she asks, _sotto voce_:-- "_C'est arrangé?_" "_Pas encore serait tout suite._" This the sole speech that passes between them; but something besides, which, if seen by her husband, would cause him to start from his chair--perhaps some little sober him. CHAPTER XVI. CORACLE DICK. A traveller making the tour of the Wye will now and then see moving along its banks, or across the contiguous meadows, what he might take for a gigantic tortoise, walking upon his tail! Mystified by a sight so abnormal, and drawing nigh to get an explanation of it, he will discover that the moving object is after all but a man, carrying a boat upon his back! Still the tourist will be astonished at a feat so herculean--rival to that of Atlas--and will only be altogether enlightened when the boat-bearer lays down his burden--which, if asked, he will obligingly do--and permits him, the stranger, to satisfy his curiosity by an inspection of it. Set square on the sward at his feet, he will look upon a craft quaint as was ever launched on lake, stream, or tidal wave. For he will be looking at a "coracle." Not only quaint in construction, but singularly ingenious in design, considering the ends to be accomplished. In addition, historically interesting; so much as to deserve more than passing notice, even in the pages of a novel. Nor will I dismiss it without a word, however it may seem out of place. In shape the coracle bears resemblance to the half of a humming-top, or Swedish turnip cloven longitudinally, the cleft face scooped out leaving but the rind. The timbers consist of slender saplings--peeled and split to obtain lightness--disposed, some fore and aft, others athwart-ships, still others diagonally, as struts and ties, all having their ends in a band of wicker-work, which runs round the gunwale, holding them firmly in place, itself forming the rail. Over this framework is stretched a covering of tarred, and, of course, waterproof canvas, tight as a drum. In olden times it was the skin of ox or horse, but the modern material is better, because lighter, and less liable to decay, besides being cheaper. There is but one seat, or thwart, as the coracle is designed for only a single occupant, though in a pinch it can accommodate two. This is a thin board, placed nearly amidships, partly supported by the wicker rail, and in part by another piece of light scantling, set edgeways underneath. In all things ponderosity is as much as possible avoided, since one of the essential purposes of the coracle is "portage"; and to facilitate this it is furnished with a leathern strap, the ends attached near each extremity of the thwart, to be passed across the breast when the boat is borne overland. The bearer then uses his oar--there is but one, a broad-bladed paddle--by way of walking-stick; and so proceeds, as already said, like a tortoise travelling on its tail! In this convenience of carriage lies the ingenuity of the structure--unique and clever beyond anything in the way of water-craft I have observed elsewhere, either among savage or civilized nations. The only thing approaching it in this respect is the birch bark canoe of the Esquimaux and the Chippeway Indians. But though more beautiful this, it is far behind our native craft in an economic sense--in cheapness and readiness. For while the Chippewayan would be stripping his bark from the tree, and re-arming it--to say nought of fitting to the frame timbers, stitching, and paying it--a subject of King Caradoc would have launched his coracle upon the Wye, and paddled it from Plinlimmon to Chepstow; as many a modern Welshman would the same. Above all, is the coracle of rare historic interest--as the first venture upon water of a people--the ancestors of a nation that now rules the sea--their descendants proudly styling themselves its "Lords"--not without right and reason. Why called "coracle" is a matter of doubt and dispute; by most admitted as a derivative from the Latin _corum_--a skin; this being its original covering. But certainly a misconception; since we have historic evidence of the basket and hide boat being in use around the shores of Albion hundreds of years before these ever saw Roman ship or standard. Besides, at the same early period, under the almost homonym of "corragh," it floated--still floats--on the waters of the Lerne, far west of anywhere the Romans ever went. Among the common people on the Wye it bears a less ancient appellation--that of "truckle." From whatever source the craft derives its name, it has itself given a sobriquet to one of the characters of our tale--Richard Dempsey. Why the poacher is thus distinguished it is not easy to tell; possibly because he, more than any other in his neighbourhood, makes use of it, and is often seen trudging about the river bottoms with the huge carapace on his shoulders. It serves his purpose better than any other kind of boat, for Dick, though a snarer of hares and pheasants, is more of a salmon poacher, and for this--the water branch of his amphibious calling--the coracle has a special adaptation. It can be lifted out of the river, or launched upon it anywhere, without leaving trace; whereas with an ordinary skiff the moorings might be marked, the embarkation observed, and the night netter followed to his netting-place by the watchful water bailiff. Despite his cunning and the handiness of his craft, Dick has not always come off scot-free. His name has several times figured in the reports of Quarter Sessions, and himself in the cells of the county gaol. This only for poaching; but he has also served a spell in prison for crime of a less venal kind--burglary. As the "job" was done in a distant shire, there has been nothing heard of it in that where he now resides. The worst known of him in the neighbourhood is his game and fish trespassing, though there is worse suspected. He whose suspicions are strongest being the waterman Wingate. But Jack may be wronging him, for a certain reason--the most powerful that ever swayed the passion or warped the judgment of man--rivalry for the affections of a woman. No heart, however hardened, is proof against the shafts of Cupid; and one has penetrated the heart of Coracle Dick, as deeply as has another that of Jack Wingate. And both from the same bow and quiver--the eyes of Mary Morgan. She is the daughter of a small farmer who lives by the Wyeside; and being a farmer's daughter, above both in social rank, still not so high but that Love's ladder may reach her, and each lives in hope he may some day scale it. For Evan Morgan holds as a tenant, and his land is of limited acreage. Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are not the only ones who wish to have him for a father-in-law, but the two most earnest, and whose chances seem best. Not that these are at all equal; on the contrary, greatly disproportionate, Dick having the advantage. In his favour is the fact that Farmer Morgan is a Roman Catholic--his wife fanatically so--he, Dempsey, professing the same faith; while Wingate is a Protestant of pronounced type. Under these circumstances Coracle has a friend at headquarters, in Mrs. Morgan, and an advocate who visits there, in the person of Father Rogier. With this united influence in his favour, the odds against the young waterman are great, and his chances might appear slight--indeed would be, were it not for an influence to counteract. He, too, has a partisan inside the citadel, and a powerful one; since it is the girl herself. He knows--is sure of it, as man may be of any truth, communicated to him by loving lips amidst showers of kisses. For all this has passed between Mary Morgan and himself. And nothing of it between her and Richard Dempsey. Instead, on her part, coldness and distant reserve. It would be disdain--ay, scorn--if she dare show it; for she hates the very sight of the man. But, controlled and close watched, she has learnt to smile when she would frown. The world--or that narrow circle of it immediately surrounding and acquainted with the Morgan family--wonders at the favourable reception it vouchsafes to Richard Dempsey--a known and noted poacher. But in justice to Mrs. Morgan it should be said, she has but slight acquaintance with the character of the man--only knows it as represented by Rogier. Absorbed in her paternosters, she gives little heed to ought else; her thoughts, as her actions, being all of the dictation, and under the direction, of the priest. In her eyes Coracle Dick is as the latter has painted him, thus-- "A worthy fellow--poor it is true, but honest withal; a little addicted to fish and game taking, as many another good man. Who wouldn't with such laws--unrighteous, oppressive to the poor? Were they otherwise, the poacher would be a patriot. As for Dempsey, they who speak ill of him are only the envious--envying his good looks, and fine mental qualities. For he's clever, and they can't say nay--energetic, and likely to make his way in the world. Yet, one thing he would make, that's a good husband to your daughter Mary--one who has the strength and courage to take care of her." So counsels the priest; and as he can make Mrs. Morgan believe black white, she is ready to comply with his counsel. If the result rested on her, Coracle Dick would have nothing to fear. But it does not--he knows it does not, and is troubled. With all the influence in his favour, he fears that other influence against him--if against him--far more than a counterpoise to Mrs. Morgan's religious predilections, or the partisanship of his priest. Still he is not sure; one day the slave of sweet confidence, the next a prey to black bitter jealousy. And thus he goes on doting and doubting, as if he were never to know the truth. A day comes when he is made acquainted with it, or, rather, a night; for it is after sundown the revelation reaches him--indeed, nigh on to midnight. His favoured, yet defeated, aspirations, are more than twelve months old. They have been active all through the preceding winter, spring, and summer. It is now autumn; the leaves are beginning to turn sere, and the last sheaves have been gathered to the stack. No shire than that of Hereford more addicted to the joys of the Harvest Home; this often celebrated in a public and general way, instead of at the private and particular farmhouse. One such is given upon the summit of Garran Hill--a grand gathering, to which all go of the class who attend such assemblages--small farmers with their families, their servants too, male and female. There is a cromlech on the hill's top, around which they annually congregate, and beside this ancient relic are set up the symbols of a more modern time--the Maypole--though it is Autumn--with its strings and garlands; the show booths and the refreshment tents, with their display of cakes, fruits, perry, and cider. And there are sports of various kinds, pitching the stone, climbing the greased pole--that of May now so slippery--jumping, racing in sacks, dancing--among other dances the Morris--with a grand _finale_ of fireworks. At this year's fête Farmer Morgan is present, accompanied by his wife and daughter. It need not be said that Dick Dempsey and Jack Wingate are there too. They are, and have been all the afternoon--ever since the gathering began. But during the hours of daylight neither approaches the fair creature to which his thoughts tend, and on which his eyes are almost constantly turning. The poacher is restrained by a sense of his unworthiness--a knowledge that there is not the place to make show of his aspirations to one all believe so much above him; while the waterman is kept back and aloof by the presence of the watchful mother. With all her watchfulness he finds opportunity to exchange speech with the daughter--only a few words, but enough to make hell in the heart of Dick Dempsey, who overhears them. It is at the closing scene of the spectacle, when the pyrotechnists are about to send up their final _feu de joie_, Mrs. Morgan, treated by numerous acquaintances to aniseed and other toothsome drinks, has grown less thoughtful of her charge, which gives Jack Wingate the opportunity he has all along been looking for. Sidling up to the girl, he asks, in a tone which tells of lovers _en rapport_, mutually, unmistakably-- "When, Mary?" "Saturday night next. The priest's coming to supper. I'll make an errand to the shop, soon as it gets dark." "Where?" "The old place under the big elm." "You're sure you'll be able?" "Sure, never fear, I'll find a way." "God bless you, dear girl. I'll be there, if anywhere on earth." That is all that passes between them. But enough--more than enough--for Richard Dempsey. As a rocket, just then going up, throws its glare over his face, as also the others, no greater contrast could be seen or imagined. On the countenances of the lovers an expression of contentment, sweet and serene; on his a look such as Mephistopheles gave to Gretchen, escaping from his toils. The curse in Coracle's heart is but hindered from rising to his lips by a fear of its foiling the vengeance he there and then determines on. CHAPTER XVII. THE "CORPSE CANDLE." Jack Wingate lives in a little cottage whose bit of garden ground "brinks" the country road where the latter trends close to the Wye at one of its sharpest sinuosities. The cottage is on the convex side of the bend, having the river at back, with a deep drain, or wash, running up almost to its walls, and forming a fence to one side of the garden. This gives the waterman another and more needed advantage--a convenient docking place for his boat. There the _Mary_, moored, swings to her painter in safety; and when a rise in the river threatens, he is at hand to see she be not swept off. To guard against such catastrophe he will start up from his bed at any hour of the night, having more than one reason to be careful of the boat; for, besides being his _gagne-pain_, it bears the name, by himself given, of her the thought of whom sweetens his toil and makes his labour light. For her he bends industriously to his oar, as though he believed every stroke made and every boat's length gained was bringing him nearer to Mary Morgan. And in a sense so is it, whichever way the boat's head may be turned; the farther he rows her, the grander grows that heap of gold he is hoarding up against the day when he hopes to become a Benedict. He has a belief that if he could but display before the eyes of Farmer Morgan sufficient money to take a little farm for himself and stock it, he might then remove all obstacles between him and Mary--mother's objections and sinister and sacerdotal influence included. He is aware of the difference of rank--that social chasm between--being oft bitterly reminded of it; but emboldened by Mary's smiles, he has little fear but that he will yet be able to bridge it. Favouring the programme thus traced out, there is, fortunately, no great strain on his resources by way of drawback; only the maintaining of his own mother, a frugal dame--thrifty besides--who, instead of adding to the current expenses, rather curtails them by the adroit handling of her needle. It would have been a distaff in the olden days. Thus helped in his housekeeping, the young waterman is enabled to put away almost every shilling he earns by his oar, and this same summer all through till autumn, which it now is, has been more than usually profitable to him, by reason of his so often having Captain Ryecroft as his fare; for although the Hussar officer no longer goes salmon fishing--he has somehow been spoilt for that--there are other excursions upon which he requires the boat, and as ever generously, even lavishly, pays for it. From one of these the young waterman has but returned; and, after carefully bestowing the _Mary_ at her moorings, stepped inside the cottage. It is Saturday--within one hour of sundown--that same Saturday spoken of "at the Harvest Home." But though Jack is just home, he shows no sign of an intention to stay there; instead, behaves as if he intended going out again, though not in his boat. And he does so intend, for a purpose unsuspected by his mother,--to keep that appointment made hurriedly and in a half whisper, amid the fracas of the fireworks. The good dame had already set the table for tea, ready against his arrival, covered it with a cloth, snow-white of course. The tea-things superimposed, in addition a dining plate, knife and fork, these for a succulent beefsteak heard hissing on the gridiron almost as soon as the _Mary_ made appearance at the mouth of the wash, and, soon as the boat was docked, done. It is now on the table, alongside the teapot; its savoury odour, mingling with the fragrance of the freshly "drawn" tea, fills the cottage kitchen with a perfume to delight the gods. For all, it gives no gratification to Jack Wingate the waterman. The appetizing smell of the meat, and the more ethereal aroma of the Chinese shrub, are alike lost upon him. Appetite he has none, and his thoughts are elsewhere. Less from observing his abstraction, than the slow, negligent movements of his knife and fork, the mother asks-- "What's the matter with ye, Jack? Ye don't eat!" "I ain't hungry, mother." "But ye been out since mornin', and tooked nothing wi' you!" "True; but you forget who I ha' been out with. The captain ain't the man to let his boatman be a hungered. We war down the day far as Symond's yat, where he treated me to dinner at the hotel. The daintiest kind o' dinner, too. No wonder at my not havin' much care for eatin' now--nice as you've made things, mother." Notwithstanding the compliment, the old lady is little satisfied--less as she observes the continued abstraction of his manner. He fidgets uneasily in his chair, every now and then giving a glance at the little Dutch clock suspended against the wall, which in loud ticking seems to say, "You'll be late--you'll be late." She suspects something of the cause, but inquires nothing of it. Instead, she but observes, speaking of the patron:-- "He be very good to ye, Jack." "Ah! that he be; good to every one as comes nigh o' him--and's desarvin' it." "But ain't he stayin' in the neighbourhood longer than he first spoke of doin'?" "Maybe he is. Grand gentry such as he ain't like us poor folk. They can go and come whens'ever it please 'em. I suppose he have his reasons for remaining." "Now, Jack, you know he have, an' I've heerd something about 'em myself." "What have you heard, mother?" "Oh, what! Ye han't been a rowin' him up and down the river now nigh on five months without findin' out. An' if you haven't, others have. It's goin' all about that he's after a young lady as lives somewhere below. Tidy girl, they say, tho' I never seed her myself. Is it so, my son? Say!" "Well, mother, since you've put it straight at me in that way, I won't deny it to you, tho' I'm in a manner bound to saycrecy wi' others. It be true that the Captain have some notion o' such a lady." "There be a story, too, o' her bein' nigh drownded an' his saving her out o' a boat. Now, Jack, whose boat could that be if it wa'nt your'n?" "'Twor mine, mother; that's true enough. I would a-told you long ago, but he asked me not to talk o' the thing. Besides, I didn't suppose you'd care to hear about it." "Well," she says, satisfied, "tan't much to me, nor you neyther, Jack; only as the Captain being so kind, we'd both like to know the best about him. If he have took a fancy for the young lady, I hope she return it. She ought after his doin' what he did for her. I han't heerd her name; what be it?" "She's a Miss Wynn, mother. A very rich heiress. 'Deed I b'lieve she ain't a heiress any longer, or won't be, after next Thursday, sin' that day she comes o' age. An' that night there's to be a big party at her place, dancin' an' all sorts o' festivities. I know it because the Captain's goin' there, an' has bespoke the boat to take him." "Wynn, eh? That be a Welsh name. Wonder if she's any kin o' the great Sir Watkin." "Can't say, mother. I believe there be several branches o' the Wynn family." "Yes, and all o' the good sort. If she be one o' the Welsh Wynns, the Captain can't go far astray in having her for his wife." Mrs. Wingate is herself of Cymric ancestry, originally from the shire of Pembroke, but married to a man of Montgomery, where Jack was born. It is only of late, in her widowhood, she has become a resident of Herefordshire. "So you think he have a notion o' her, Jack?" "More'n that, mother. I may as well tell ye; he be dead in love wi' her. An' if you seed the young lady herself, ye wouldn't wonder at it. She be most as good-looking as----" Jack suddenly interrupted himself on the edge of a revelation he would rather not make, to his mother nor anyone else. For he has hitherto been as careful in keeping his own secret as that of his patron. "As who?" she asks, looking him straight in the face, and with an expression in her eyes of no common interest--that of maternal solicitude. "Who?--well--" he answers confusedly; "I wor goin' to mention the name o' a girl who the people 'bout here think the best lookin' o' any in the neighbourhood----" "An' nobody more'n yourself, my son. You needn't gie her name. I know it." "Oh, mother! what d'ye mean?" he stammers out, with eyes on the but half-eaten beefsteak. "I take it they've been tellin' ye some stories about me." "No, they han't. Nobody's sayed a word about ye relatin' to that. I've seed it for myself, long since, though you've tried to hide it. I'm not goin' to blame ye eyther, for I believe she be a tidy proper girl. But she's far aboon you, my son; and ye maun mind how you behave yourself. If the young lady be anythin' likes good-lookin' as Mary Morgan----" "Yes, mother! that's the strangest thing o' all----" He interrupts her, speaking excitedly; again interrupting himself. "What's strangest?" she inquires, with a look of wonderment. "Never mind, mother! I'll tell you all about it some other time. I can't now; you see its nigh nine o' the clock." "Well; an' what if 't be?" "Because I may be too late." "Too late for what? Surely you arn't goin' out again the night?" She asks this, seeing him rise up from his chair. "I must, mother." "But why?" "Well, the boat's painter's got frailed, and I want a bit o' whipcord to lap it with. They have the thing at the Ferry shop, and I must get there afores they shut up." A fib, perhaps pardonable, as the thing he designs lapping is not his boat's painter, but the waist of Mary Morgan, and not with slender whipcord, but his own stout arms. "Why won't it do in the mornin'?" asks the ill-satisfied mother. "Well, ye see, there's no knowin' but that somebody may come after the boat. The Captain mayent but he may, changin' his mind. Anyhow, he'll want her to go down to them grand doin's at Llangorren Court?" "Llangorren Court?" "Yes; that's where the young lady lives." "That's to be on Thursday, ye sayed?" "True; but, then, there may come a fare the morrow, an' what if there do? 'Tain't the painter only as wants splicing there's a bit o' leak sprung close to the cutwater, and I must hae some pitch to pay it." If Jack's mother would only step out, and down to the ditch where the _Mary_ is moored, with a look at the boat, she would make him out a liar. Its painter is smooth and clean as a piece of gimp, not a strand unravelled--while but two or three gallons of bilge water at the boat's bottom attest to there being little or no leakage. But she, good dame, is not thus suspicious, instead so reliant on her son's truthfulness, that without questioning further, she consents to his going, only with a proviso against his staying, thus appealingly put-- "Ye won't be gone long, my son! I know ye won't!" "Indeed I shan't, mother. But why be you so partic'lar about my goin' out--this night more'n any other?" "Because, Jack, this day, more'n most others, I've been feelin' bothered like, and a bit frightened." "Frightened o' what? There han't been nobody to the house--has there?" "No; ne'er a rover since you left me in the mornin'." "Then what's been a scarin' ye, mother?" "'Deed, I don't know, unless it ha' been brought on by the dream I had last night. 'Twer a dreadful unpleasant one. I didn't tell you o' it 'fore ye went out, thinkin' it might worry ye." "Tell me now, mother." "It hadn't nought to do wi' us ourselves, after all. Only concernin' them as live nearest us." "Ha! the Morgans?" "Yes; the Morgans." "Oh, mother, what did you dream about them?" "That I were standin' on the big hill above their house, in the middle o' the night, wi' black darkness all round me; and there lookin' down what should I see comin' out o' their door?" "What?" "The canwyll corph!" "The canwyll corph?" "Yes, my son; I seed it--that is I dreamed I seed it--coming just out o' the farmhouse door, then through the yard, and over the foot-plank at the bottom o' the orchard, when it went flarin' up the meadows straight towards the ferry. Though ye can't see that from the hill, I dreamed I did; an' seed the candle go on to the chapel an' into the buryin' ground. That woked me." "What nonsense, mother! A ridiklous superstition! I thought you'd left all that sort o' stuff behind, in the mountains o' Montgomery, or Pembrokeshire, where the thing comes from, as I've heerd you say." "No, my son; it's not stuff, nor superstition neyther; though English people say that to put slur upon us Welsh. Your father before ye believed in the _Canwyll Corph_, and wi' more reason ought I, your mother. I never told you, Jack, but the night before your father died I seed it go past our own door, and on to the graveyard o' the church where he now lies. Sure as we stand here there be some one doomed in the house o' Evan Morgan. There be only three in the family. I do hope it an't her as ye might some day be wantin' me to call daughter." "Mother! You'll drive me mad! I tell ye it's all nonsense. Mary Morgan be at this moment healthy and strong--most as much as myself. If the dead candle ye've been dreamin' about were all o' it true, it couldn't be a burnin' for her. More like for Mrs. Morgan, who's half daft by believing in church candles and such things--enough to turn her crazy, if it doesn't kill her outright. As for you, my dear mother, don't let the dream bother you the least bit. An' ye mustn't be feeling lonely, as I shan't be long gone. I'll be back by ten sure." Saying which, he sets his straw hat jauntily on his thick curly hair, gives his guernsey a straightening twitch, and, with a last cheering look and encouraging word to his mother, steps out into the night. Left alone, she feels lonely withal, and more than ever afraid. Instead of sitting down to her needle, or making to remove the tea-things, she goes to the door, and there stays, standing on its threshold and peering into the darkness--for it is a pitch dark night--she sees, or fancies, a light moving across the meadows, as if it came from Farmer Morgan's house, and going in the direction of Rugg's Ferry. While she continues gazing, it twice crosses the Wye, by reason of the river's bend. As no mortal hand could thus carry it, surely it is the _canwyll corph_! CHAPTER XVIII. A CAT IN THE CUPBOARD. Evan Morgan is a tenant-farmer, holding Abergann. By Herefordshire custom, every farm or its stead, has a distinctive appellation. Like the land belonging to Glyngog, that of Abergann lies against the sides of a sloping glen--one of the hundreds or thousands of lateral ravines that run into the valley of the Wye. But, unlike the old manor-house, the domicile of the farmer is at the glen's bottom, and near the river's bank; nearer yet to a small influent stream, rapid and brawling, which sweeps past the lower end of the orchard in a channel worn deep into the soft sandstone. Though with the usual imposing array of enclosure walls, the dwelling itself is not large, nor the outbuildings extensive; for the arable acreage is limited. This because the ridges around are too high pitched for ploughing, and if ploughed would be unproductive. They are not even in pasture, but overgrown with woods; less for the sake of the timber, which is only scrub, than as a covert for foxes. They are held in hand by Evan Morgan's landlord--a noted Nimrod. For the same reason the farmhouse stands in a solitary spot, remote from any other dwelling. The nearest is the cottage of the Wingates--distant about half a mile, but neither visible from the other. Nor is there any direct road between, only a footpath, which crosses the brook at the bottom of the orchard, thence cunning over a wooded ridge to the main highway. The last, after passing close to the cottage, as already said, is deflected away from the river by this same ridge, so that when Evan Morgan would drive anywhere beyond the boundaries of his farm, he must pass out through a long lane, so narrow that were he to meet any one driving in, there would be a dead-lock. However, there is no danger; as the only vehicles having occasion to use this thoroughfare are his own farm waggon and a lighter "trap" in which he goes to market, and occasionally with his wife and daughter to merry-makings. When the three are in it there is none of his family at home. For he has but one child--a daughter. Nor would he long have her were a half-score of young fellows allowed their way. At least this number would be willing to take her off his hands, and give her a home elsewhere. Remote as is the farmhouse of Abergann, and narrow the lane leading to it, there are many who would be glad to visit there, if invited. In truth a fine girl is Mary Morgan, tall, bright-haired, and with blooming cheeks, beside which red rose leaves would seem _fade_. Living in a town she would be its talk; in a village its belle. Even from that secluded glen has the fame of her beauty gone forth and afar. Of husbands she could have her choice, and among men much richer than her father. In her heart she has chosen one, not only much poorer, but lower in social rank--Jack Wingate. She loves the young waterman, and wants to be his wife; but knows she cannot without the consent of her parents. Not that either has signified opposition, since they have never been asked. Her longings in that direction she has kept secret from them. Nor does she so much dread refusal by the father. Evan Morgan had been himself poor--began life as a farm labourer--and, though now an employer of such, his pride had not kept pace with his prosperity. Instead, he is, as ever, the same modest, unpresuming man, of which the lower middle classes of the English people present many noble examples. From him Jack Wingate would have little to fear on the score of poverty. He is well acquainted with the young waterman's character, knows it to be good, and has observed the efforts he is making to better his condition in life; it may be with suspicion of the motive, at all events, admiringly--remembering his own. And although a Roman Catholic, he is anything but bigoted. Were he the only one to be consulted, his daughter might wed with the man upon whom she has fixed her affections, at any time it pleases them--ay, at any place, too, even within the walls of a Protestant Church! By him neither would Jack Wingate be rejected on the score of religion. Very different with his wife. Of all the worshippers who compose the congregation at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel, none bend the knee to Baal as low as she; and over no one does Father Rogier exercise such influence. Baneful it is like to be; since not only has he control of the mother's conduct, but through that may also blight the happiness of the daughter. Apart from religious fanaticism, Mrs. Morgan is not a bad woman--only a weak one. As her husband, she is of humble birth, and small beginnings; like him, too, neither has prosperity affected her in the sense of worldly ambition. Perhaps better if it had. Instead of spoiling, a little social pride might have been a bar to the dangerous aspirations of Richard Dempsey--even with the priest standing sponsor for him. But she has none, her whole soul being absorbed by blind devotion to a faith which scruples not at anything that may assist in its propagandism. * * * * * It is the Saturday succeeding the festival of the Harvest Home, a little after sunset, and the priest is expected at Abergann. He is a frequent visitor there; by Mrs. Morgan ever made welcome, and treated to the best cheer the farmhouse can afford; plate, knife, and fork always placed for him. And, to do him justice, he may be deemed in a way worthy of such hospitality; for he is, in truth, a most entertaining personage; can converse on any subject, and suit his conversation to the company, whether high or low. As much at home with the wife of the Welsh farmer as with the French _ex-cocotte_, and equally so in the companionship of Dick Dempsey, the poacher. In his hours of _far niente_ all are alike to him. This night he is to take supper at Abergann, and Mrs. Morgan, seated in the farmhouse parlour, awaits his arrival. A snug little apartment, tastefully furnished, but with a certain air of austerity, observable in Roman Catholic houses; this by reason of some pictures of saints hanging against the walls, an image of the Virgin and, standing niche-like in a corner, one of the Crucifixion over the mantel-shelf, with crosses upon books, and other like symbols. It is near nine o'clock, and the table is already set out. On grand occasions, as this, the farmhouse parlour is transformed into dining or supper room, indifferently. The meal intended to be eaten now is more of the former, differing in there being a tea-tray upon the table, with a full service of cups and saucers, as also in the lateness of the hour. But the odoriferous steam escaping from the kitchen, drifted into the parlour when its door is opened, tells of something in preparation more substantial than a cup of tea, with its usual accompaniment of bread and butter. And there is a fat capon roasting upon the spit, with a frying-pan full of sausages on the dresser, ready to be clapped upon the fire at the proper moment--as soon as the expected guest makes his appearance. And in addition to the tea-things, there is a decanter of sherry on the table, and will be another of brandy when brought on--Father Rogier's favourite tipple, as Mrs. Morgan has reason to know. There is a full bottle of this--Cognac of best brand--in the larder cupboard, still corked as it came from the "Welsh Harp," where it cost six shillings--the Rugg's Ferry hostelry, as already intimated, dealing in drinks of a rather costly kind. Mary has been directed to draw the cork, decant, and bring the brandy in, and for this purpose has just gone off to the larder. Thence instantly returning, but without either decanter or Cognac! Instead, with a tale which sends a thrill of consternation through her mother's heart. The cat has been in the cupboard, and there made havoc--upset the brandy bottle, and sent it rolling off the shelf on the stone flags of the floor! Broken, of course, and the contents-- No need for further explanation. Mrs. Morgan does not seek it. Nor does she stay to reflect on the disaster, but how it may be remedied. It will not mend matters to chastise the cat, nor cry over the spilt brandy, any more than if it were milk. On short reflection she sees but one way to restore the broken bottle--by sending to the "Welsh Harp" for a whole one. True, it will cost another six shillings, but she recks not of the expense. She is more troubled about a messenger. Where, and how, is one to be had? The farm labourers have long since left. They are all Benedicts, on board wages, and have departed for their respective wives and homes. There is a cowboy, yet he is also absent; gone to fetch the kine from a far-off pasturing place, and not be back in time; while the one female domestic maid-of-all-work is busy in the kitchen, up to her ears among pots and pans, her face at a red heat over the range. She could not possibly be spared. "It's very vexatious!" exclaims Mrs. Morgan, in a state of lively perplexity. "It is indeed!" assents her daughter. A truthful girl, Mary, in the main; but just now the opposite. For she is not vexed by the occurrence, nor does she deem it a disaster--quite the contrary. And she knows it was no accident, having herself brought it about. It was her own soft fingers, not the cat's claws, that swept that bottle from the shelf, sending it smash upon the stones! Tipped over by no _maladroit_ handling of corkscrew, but downright deliberate intention! A stratagem that may enable her to keep the appointment made among the fireworks--that threat when she told Jack Wingate she would "find a way." Thus is she finding it; and in furtherance she leaves her mother no time to consider longer about a messenger. "I'll go!" she says, offering herself as one. The deceit unsuspected, and only the willingness appreciated, Mrs. Morgan rejoins: "Do! that's a dear girl! It's very good of you, Mary. Here's the money." While the delighted mother is counting out the shillings, the dutiful daughter whips on her cloak--the night is chilly--and adjusts her hat, the best holiday one, on her head; all the time thinking to herself how cleverly she has done the trick. And with a smile of pardonable deception upon her face, she trips lightly across the threshold, and on through the little flower garden in front. Outside the gate, at an angle of the enclosure wall, she stops, and stands considering. There are two ways to the Ferry, here forking--the long lane and the shorter footpath. Which is she to take? The path leads down along the side of the orchard, and across the brook by the bridge--only a single plank. This spanning the stream, and originally fixed to the rock at both ends, has of late come loose, and is not safe to be traversed, even by day. At night it is dangerous--still more on one dark as this. And danger of no common kind at any time. The channel through which the stream runs is twenty feet deep, with rough boulders in its bed. One falling from above would at least get broken bones. No fear of that to-night, but something as bad, if not worse. For it has been raining throughout the earlier hours of the day, and there in the brook, now a raging torrent. One dropping into it would be swept on to the river, and there surely drowned, if not before. It is no dread of any of these dangers which causes Mary Morgan to stand considering which route she will take. She has stepped that plank on nights dark as this, even since it became detached from the fastenings, and is well acquainted with its ways. Were there nought else, she would go straight over it, and along the footpath, which passes the "big elm." But it is just because it passes the elm she has now paused, and is pondering. Her errand calls for haste, and there she would meet a man sure to delay her. She intends meeting him for all that, and being delayed; but not till on her way back. Considering the darkness and obstructions on the footwalk she may go quicker by the road, though roundabout. Returning she can take the path. This thought in her mind, with, perhaps, remembrance of the adage, "business before pleasure," decides her; and drawing closer her cloak, she sets off along the lane. CHAPTER XIX. A BLACK SHADOW BEHIND. In the shire of Hereford there is no such thing as a village--properly so called. The tourist expecting to come upon one, by the black dot on his guide-book map, will fail to find it. Indeed, he will see only a church with a congregation, not the typical cluster of houses around. But no street, nor rows of cottages, in their midst--the orthodox patch of trodden turf--the "green." Nothing of all that. Unsatisfied, and inquiring the whereabouts of the village itself, he will get answers only farther confusing him. One will say "here be it," pointing to no place in particular; a second, "thear," with his eye upon the church; a third, "over yonner," nodding to a shop of miscellaneous wares, also intrusted with the receiving and distributing of letters; while a fourth, whose ideas run on drink, looks to a house larger than the rest, having a square pictorial signboard, with red lion _rampant_, fox _passant_, horse's head, or such like symbol--proclaiming it an inn, or public. Not far from, or contiguous to, the church will be a dwelling-house of special pretension, having a carriage entrance, sweep, and shrubbery of well-grown evergreens--the rectory, or vicarage; at greater distance, two or three cottages of superior class, by their owners styled "villas," in one of which dwells the doctor, a young Esculapius, just beginning practice, or an old one who has never had much; in another the relict of a successful shopkeeper left with an "independence"; while a third will be occupied by a retired military man--"captain," of course, whatever may have been his rank--possibly a naval officer, or an old salt of the merchant service. In their proper places stand the carpenter's shop and smithy, with their array of reapers, rollers, ploughs, and harrows seeking repair: among them perhaps a huge steam-threshing machine, that has burst its boiler, or received other damage. Then there are the houses of the _oi polloi_, mostly labouring men--their little cottages wide apart, or in twos and threes together, with no resemblance to the formality of town dwellings, but quaint in structure, ivy-clad or honeysuckled, looking and smelling of the country. Farther along the road is an ancient farmstead, its big barns and other outbuildings abutting on the highway, which for some distance is strewn with a litter of rotting straw; by its side a muddy pond with ducks and a half-dozen geese, the gander giving tongue as the tourist passes by; if a pedestrian with knapsack on his shoulders the dog barking at him, in the belief he is a tramp or beggar. Such is the Herefordshire village, of which many like may be met along Wyeside. The collection of houses known as Rugg's Ferry is in some respects different. It does not lie on any of the main county thoroughfares, but a cross-country road connecting the two, that lead along the bounding ridges of the river. That passing through it is but little frequented, as the ferry itself is only for foot passengers, though there is a horse boat which can be had when called for. But the place is in a deep crater-like hollow, where the stream courses between cliffs of the old red sandstone, and can only be approached by the steepest "pitches." Nevertheless, Rugg's Ferry has its mark upon the Ordnance map, though not with the little crosslet denoting a church. It could boast of no place of worship whatever till Father Rogier laid the foundation of his chapel. For all, it has once been a brisk place in its days of glory; ere the railroad destroyed the river traffic, and the bargees made it a stopping port, as often the scene of rude, noisy revelry. It is quieter now, and the tourist passing through might deem it almost deserted. He will see houses of varied construction--thirty or forty of them in all--clinging against the cliff in successive terraces, reached by long rows of steps carved out of the rock; cottages picturesque as Swiss _chalets_, with little gardens on ledges, here and there one trellised with grape vines or other climbers, and a round cone-topped cage of wicker holding captive a jackdaw, magpie, or it may be parrot or starling taught to speak. Viewing these symbols of innocence, the stranger will imagine himself to have lighted upon a sort of English Arcadia--a fancy soon to be dissipated perhaps by the parrot or starling saluting him with the exclamatory phrases "God-damn-ye! go to the devil!--go to the devil!" And while he is pondering on what sort of personage could have instructed the creature in such profanity, he will likely enough see the instructor himself peering out through a partially opened door, his face in startling correspondence with the blasphemous exclamations of the bird. For there are other birds resident at Rugg's Ferry besides those in the cages--several who have themselves been caged in the county gaol. The slightly altered name bestowed upon the place by Jack Wingate, as others, is not so inappropriate. It may seem strange such characters congregating in a spot so primitive and rural, so unlike their customary haunts; incongruous as the ex-belle of Mabille in her high-heeled _bottines_ inhabiting the ancient manor-house of Glyngog. But more of an enigma--indeed, a moral, or psychological puzzle; since one would suppose it the very last place to find them in. And yet the explanation may partly lie in moral and psychological causes. Even the most hardened rogue has his spells of sentiment, during which he takes delight in rusticity; and as the "Ferry" has long enjoyed the reputation of being a place of abode for him and his sort, he is there sure of meeting company congenial. Or the scent after him may have become too hot in the town, or city, where he has been displaying his dexterity; while here the policeman is not a power. The one constable of the district station dislikes taking, and rather steals through it on his rounds. Notwithstanding all this, there are some respectable people among its denizens, and many visitors who are gentlemen. Its quaint picturesqueness attracts the tourist; while a stretch of excellent angling ground, above and below, makes it a favourite with amateur fishermen. Centrally on a platform of level ground, a little back from the river's bank, stands a large three-story house--the village inn--with a swing sign in front, upon which is painted what resembles a triangular gridiron, though designed to represent a harp. From this the hostelry has its name--the "Welsh Harp!" But however rough the limning, and weather-blanched the board--however ancient the building itself--in its business there are no indications of decay, and it still does a thriving trade. Guests of the excursionist kind occasionally dine there; while in the angling season, _piscator_ stays at it all through spring and summer; and if a keen disciple of Izaak, or an ardent admirer of the Wye scenery, often prolonging his sojourn into late autumn. Besides, from towns not too distant, the sporting tradesmen and fast clerks, after early closing on Saturdays, come hither, and remain over till Monday, for the first train catchable at a station some two miles off. The "Welsh Harp" can provide beds for all, and sitting rooms besides. For it is a roomy _caravanserai_, and if a little rough in its culinary arrangements, has a cellar unexceptionable. Among those who taste its tap are many who know good wine from bad, with others who only judge of the quality by the price; and in accordance with this criterion the Boniface of the "Harp" can give them the very best. It is a Saturday night, and two of those last described connoisseurs, lately arrived at the Wyeside hostelry, are standing before its bar counter, drinking rhubarb sap, which they facetiously call "fizz," and believe to be champagne. As it costs them ten shillings the bottle they are justified in their belief; and quite as well will it serve their purpose. They are young drapers' assistants from a large manufacturing town, out for their hebdomadal holiday, which they have elected to spend in an excursion to the Wye, and a frolic at Rugg's Ferry. They have had an afternoon's boating on the river; and, now returned to the "Harp"--their place of put-up--are flush of talk over their adventures, quaffing the sham "shammy," and smoking "regalias," not anything more genuine. While thus indulging they are startled by the apparition of what seems an angel, but what they know to be a thing of flesh and blood--something that pleases them better--a beautiful woman. More correctly speaking a girl; since it is Mary Morgan who has stepped inside the room set apart for the distributing of drink. Taking the cigars from between their teeth--and leaving the rhubarb juice, just poured into their glasses, to discharge its pent-up gas--they stand staring at the girl, with an impertinence rather due to the drink than any innate rudeness. They are harmless fellows in their way; would be quiet enough behind their own counters, though fast before that of the "Welsh Harp," and foolish with such a face as that of Mary Morgan beside them. She gives them scant time to gaze on it. Her business is simple, and speedily transacted. "A bottle of your best brandy--the French cognac?" As she makes the demand, placing six shillings, the price understood, upon the lead-covered counter. The barmaid, a practised hand, quickly takes the article called for from a shelf behind, and passes it across the counter, and with like alertness counting the shillings laid upon it, and sweeping them into the till. It is all over in a few seconds' time; and with equal celerity Mary Morgan, slipping the purchased commodity into her cloak, glides out of the room--vision-like as she entered it. "Who is that young lady?" asks one of the champagne drinkers, interrogating the barmaid. "Young lady!" tartly returns the latter, with a flourish of her heavily chignoned head, "only a farmer's daughter." "Aw!" exclaims the second tippler, in drawling imitation of Swelldom, "only the offspring of a chaw-bacon! she's a monstrously crummy creetya, anyhow." "Devilish nice gal!" affirms the other, no longer addressing himself to the barmaid, who has scornfully shown them the back of her head, with its tower of twisted jute. "Devilish nice gal, indeed! Never saw spicier stand before a counter. What a dainty little fish for a farmer's daughter! Say, Charley! wouldn't you like to be sellin' her a pair of kids--Jouvin's best--helpin' her draw them on, eh?" "By Jove, yes! That would I." "Perhaps you'd prefer it being boots? What a stepper she is, too! S'pose we slide after, and see where she hangs out?" "Capital idea! Suppose we do?" "All right, old fellow! I'm ready with the yard stick--roll off!" And without further exchange of their professional phraseology, they rush out, leaving their glasses half-full of the effervescing beverage--rapidly on the spoil. They have sallied forth to meet disappointment. The night is black as Erebus, and the girl gone out of sight. Nor can they tell which way she has taken; and to inquire might get them "guyed," if not worse. Besides, they see no one of whom inquiry could be made. A dark shadow passes them, apparently the figure of a man; but so dimly descried, and going in such rapid gait, they refrain from hailing him. Not likely they will see more of the "monstrously crummy creetya" that night--they may on the morrow somewhere--perhaps at the little chapel close by. Registering a mental vow to do their devotions there, and recalling the bottle of fizz left uncorked on the counter, they return to finish it. And they drain it dry, gulping down several goes of B.-and-S., besides, ere ceasing to think of the "devilish nice gal," on whose dainty little fist they would so like fitting kid gloves. Meanwhile, she, who has so much interested the dry goods gentlemen, is making her way along the road which leads past the Widow Wingate's cottage, going at a rapid pace, but not continuously. At intervals she makes stops, and stands listening--her glances sent interrogatively to the front. She acts as one expecting to hear footsteps, or a voice in friendly salutation, and see him saluting--for it is a man. Footsteps are there besides her own, but not heard by her, nor in the direction she is hoping to hear them. Instead, they are behind, and light, though made by a heavy man. For he is treading gingerly as if on eggs--evidently desirous not to make known his proximity. Near he is, and were the light only a little clearer she would surely see him. Favoured by its darkness he can follow close, aided also by the shadowing trees, and still further from her attention being all given to the ground in advance, with thoughts preoccupied. But closely he follows her, but never coming up. When she stops he does the same, moving on again as she moves forward. And so for several pauses, with spells of brisk walking between. Opposite the Wingates' cottage she tarries longer than elsewhere. There was a woman standing in the door, who, however, does not observe her--cannot--a hedge of holly between. Cautiously parting its spinous leaves and peering through, the young girl takes a survey not of the woman, whom she well knows, but of a window--the only one in which there is a light. And less the window than the walls inside. On her way to the Ferry she had stopped to do the same; then seeing shadows--two of them--one a woman's, the other of a man. The woman is there in the door--Mrs. Wingate herself; the man, her son, must be elsewhere. "Under the elm by this," says Mary Morgan, in soliloquy. "I'll find him there," she adds, silently gliding past the gate. "Under the elm," mutters the man who follows, adding, "I'll kill her there--ay, both!" Two hundred yards further on, and she reaches the place where the footpath debouches upon the road. There is a stile of the usual rough crossbar pattern, proclaiming a right of way. She stops only to see there is no one sitting upon it--for there might have been--then leaping lightly over she proceeds along the path. The shadow behind does the same, as though it were a spectre pursuing. And now, in the deeper darkness of the narrow way, arcaded over by a thick canopy of leaves, he goes closer and closer, almost to touching. Were a light at this moment let upon his face, it would reveal features set in an expression worthy of hell itself; and cast farther down, would show a hand closed upon the haft of a long-bladed knife--nervously clutching--every now and then half drawing it from its sheath, as if to plunge its blade into the back of her who is now scarce six steps ahead! And with this dread danger threatening--so close--Mary Morgan proceeds along the forest path, unsuspectingly: joyfully as she thinks of who is before, with no thought of that behind--no one to cry out, or even whisper, the word, "Beware!" CHAPTER XX. UNDER THE ELM. In more ways than one has Jack Wingate thrown dust in his mother's eyes. His going to the Ferry after a piece of whipcord and a bit of pitch was fib the first; the second his not going there at all--for he has not. Instead, in the very opposite direction; soon as reaching the road, having turned his face towards Abergann, though his objective point is but the "big elm." Once outside the gate he glides along the holly hedge crouchingly, and with head ducked, so that it may not be seen by the good dame, who has followed him to the door. The darkness favouring him, it is not; and congratulating himself at getting off thus deftly, he continues rapidly up the road. Arrived at the stile, he makes stop, saying in soliloquy:-- "I take it she be sure to come; but I'd gi'e something to know which o' the two ways. Bein' so darkish, an' that plank a bit dangerous to cross, I ha' heard--'tan't often I cross it--just possible she may choose the roundabout o' the road. Still, she sayed the big elm, an' to get there she'll have to take the path comin' or goin' back. If I thought comin' I'd steer straight there an' meet her. But s'posin' she prefers the road, that 'ud make it longer to wait. Wonder which it's to be." With hand rested on the top rail of the stile, he stands considering. Since their stolen interchange of speech at the Harvest Home, Mary has managed to send him word she will make an errand to Rugg's Ferry; hence his uncertainty. Soon again he resumes his conjectured soliloquy:-- "'Tan't possible she ha' been to the Ferry, an' goed back again? God help me, I hope not! An' yet there's just a chance. I weesh the Captain hadn't kep' me so long down there. An' the fresh from the rain that delayed us nigh half an hour, I oughtn't to a stayed a minute after gettin' home. But mother cookin' that nice bit o' steak; if I hadn't ate it she'd a been angry, and for certain suspected somethin'. Then listenin' to all that dismal stuff 'bout the corpse-candle. An' they believe it in the shire o' Pembroke. Rot the thing! Tho' I an't myself noways superstishus, it gi'ed me the creeps. Queer, her dreamin' she seed it go out o' Abergann! I do weesh she hadn't told me that; an' I mustn't say word o't to Mary. Tho' she ain't o' the fearsome kind, a thing like that's enough to frighten any one. Well, what'd I best do? If she ha' been to the Ferry an's goed home again, then I've missed her, and no mistake! Still, she said she'd be at the elim, an's never broke her promise to me when she cud keep it. A man ought to take a woman at her word--a true woman--an' not be too quick to anticipate. Besides, the surer way's the safer. She appointed the old place, an' there I'll abide her. But what am I thinkin' o'? She may be there now, a-waitin' for me!" He doesn't stay by the stile one instant longer, but, vaulting over it, strikes off along the path. Despite the obscurity of the night, the narrowness of the track, and the branches obstructing, he proceeds with celerity. With that part he is familiar--knows every inch of it, well as the way from his door to the place where he docks his boat--at least so far as the big elm, under whose spreading branches he and she have oft clandestinely met. It is an ancient patriarch of the forest; its timber is honeycombed with decay, not having tempted the axe, by whose stroke its fellows have long ago fallen, and it now stands amid their progeny, towering over all. It is a few paces distant from the footpath, screened from it by a thicket of hollies interposed between, and extending around. From its huge hollow trunk a buttress, horizontally projected, affords a convenient seat for two, making it the very _beau ideal_ of a trysting-tree. Having got up and under it, Jack Wingate is a little disappointed--almost vexed--at not finding his sweetheart there. He calls her name--in the hope she may be among the hollies--at first cautiously and in a low voice, then louder. No reply; she has either not been, or has and is gone. As the latter appears probable enough, he once more blames Captain Ryecroft, the rain, the river flood, the beefsteak--above all, that long yarn about the _canwyll corph_, muttering anathemas against the ghostly superstition. Still she may come yet. It may be but the darkness that's delaying her. Besides, she is not likely to have the fixing of her time. She said she would "find a way"; and having the will--as he believes--he flatters himself she will find it, despite all obstructions. With confidence thus restored, he ceases to pace about impatiently, as he has been doing ever since his arrival at the tree; and, taking a seat on the buttress, sits listening with all ears. His eyes are of little use in the Cimmerian gloom. He can barely make out the forms of the holly bushes, though they are almost within reach of his hand. But his ears are reliable, sharpened by love; and, ere long they convey a sound, to him sweeter than any other ever heard in that wood--even the songs of its birds. It is a swishing, as of leaves softly brushed by the skirts of a woman's dress--which it is. He needs no telling who comes. A subtle electricity, seeming to precede, warns him of Mary Morgan's presence, as though she were already by his side. All doubts and conjectures at an end, he starts to his feet, and steps out to meet her. Soon as on the path he sees a cloaked figure, drawing nigh with a grace of movement distinguishable even in the dim glimmering light. "That you, Mary?" A question mechanical; no answer expected or waited for. Before any could be given she is in his arms, her lips hindered from words by a shower of kisses. Thus having saluted, he takes her hand and leads her among the hollies. Not from precaution, or fear of being intruded upon. Few besides the farm people of Abergann use the right-of-way path, and unlikely any of them being on it at that hour. It is only from habit they retire to the more secluded spot under the elm, hallowed to them by many a sweet remembrance. They sit down side by side; and close, for his arm is around her waist. How unlike the lovers in the painted pavilion at Llangorren! Here there is neither concealment of thought nor restraint of speech--no time given to circumlocution--none wasted in silence. There is none to spare, as she has told him at the moment of meeting. "It's kind o' you comin', Mary," he says, as soon as they are seated. "I knew ye would." "O Jack! What a work I had to get out--the trick I've played mother! You'll laugh when you hear it." "Let's hear it, darling!" She relates the catastrophe of the cupboard, at which he does laugh beyond measure, and with a sense of gratification. Six shillings thrown away--spilled upon the floor--and all for him! Where is the man who would not feel flattered, gratified, to be the shrine of such sacrifice, and from such a worshipper? "You've been to the Ferry, then?" "You see," she says, holding up the bottle. "I weesh I'd known that. I could a met ye on the road, and we'd had more time to be thegither. It's too bad, you havin' to go straight back." "It is. But there's no help for it. Father Rogier will be there before this, and mother mad impatient." Were it light she would see his brow darken at mention of the priest's name. She does not, nor does he give expression to the thoughts it has called up. In his heart he curses the Jesuit--often has with his tongue, but not now. He is too delicate to outrage her religious susceptibilities. Still he cannot be altogether silent on a theme so much concerning both. "Mary, dear!" he rejoins in grave, serious tone, "I don't want to say a word against Father Rogier, seein' how much he be your mother's friend; or, to speak more truthful, her favourite; for I don't believe he's the friend o' anybody. Sartinly, not mine, nor yours; and I've got it on my mind that man will some day make mischief between us." "How can he, Jack?" "Ah, how! A many ways. One, his sayin' ugly things about me to your mother--tellin' her tales that ain't true." "Let him--as many as he likes; you don't suppose I'll believe them?" "No, I don't, darling--'deed I don't." A snatched kiss affirms the sincerity of his words; hers as well, in her lips not being drawn back, but meeting him half-way. For a short time there is silence. With that sweet exchange thrilling their hearts it is natural. He is the first to resume speech; and from a thought the kiss has suggested:-- "I know there be a good many who'd give their lives to get the like o' that from your lips, Mary. A soft word, or only a smile. I've heerd talk o' several. But one's spoke of, in particular, as bein' special favourite by your mother, and backed up by the French priest." "Who?" She has an idea who--indeed knows; and the question is only asked to give opportunity of denial. "I dislike mentionin' his name. To me it seems like insultin' ye. The very idea o' Dick Dempsey----" "You needn't say more," she exclaims, interrupting him. "I know what you mean. But you surely don't suppose I could think of him as a sweetheart? That _would_ insult me." "I hope it would; pleezed to hear you say't. For all, he thinks o' you, Mary; not only in the way o' sweetheart, but----" He hesitates. "What?" "I won't say the word. 'Tain't fit to be spoke--about him an' you." "If you mean _wife_--as I suppose you do--listen! Rather than have Richard Dempsey for a husband, I'd die--go down to the river and drown myself! That horrid wretch! I hate him!" "I'm glad to hear you talk that way--right glad." "But why, Jack? You know it couldn't be otherwise! You should--after all that's passed. Heaven be my witness! you I love, and you alone. You only shall ever call me wife. If not--then nobody!" "God bless ye!" he exclaims in answer to her impassioned speech. "God bless you, darling!" in the fervour of his gratitude flinging his arms around, drawing her to his bosom, and showering upon her lips an avalanche of kisses. With thoughts absorbed in the delirium of love, their souls for a time surrendered to it, they hear not a rustling among the late fallen leaves; or, if hearing, supposed it to proceed from bird or beast--the flight of an owl, with wings touching the twigs; or a fox quartering the cover in search of prey. Still less do they see a form skulking among the hollies, black and boding as their shadows. Yet such there is; the figure of a man, but with face more like that of demon--for it is he whose name has just been upon their lips. He has overheard all they have said; every word an added torture, every phrase sending hell to his heart. And now, with jealousy in its last dire throe, every remnant of hope extinguished--cruelly crushed out--he stands, after all, unresolved how to act. Trembling, too; for he is at bottom a coward. He might rush at them and kill both--cut them to pieces with the knife he is holding in his hand. But if only one, and that her, what of himself? He had an instinctive fear of Jack Wingate, who has more than once taught him a subduing lesson. That experience stands the young waterman in stead now, in all likelihood saving his life. For at this moment the moon, rising, flings a faint light through the branches of the trees; and like some ravenous nocturnal prowler that dreads the light of day, Richard Dempsey pushes his knife-blade back into its sheath, slips out from among the hollies, and altogether away from the spot. But not to go back to Rugg's Ferry, nor to his own home. Well for Mary Morgan if he had. By the same glimpse of silvery light warned as to the time, she knows she must needs hasten away; as her lover, that he can no longer detain her. The farewell kiss, so sweet yet painful, but makes their parting more difficult; and, not till after repeating it over and over, do they tear themselves asunder--he standing to look after, she moving off along the woodland path, as nymph or sylphide, with no suspicion that a satyr has preceded her, and is waiting not far off, with foul fell intent--no less than the taking of her life. CHAPTER XXI. A TARDY MESSENGER. Father Rogier has arrived at Abergann; slipped off his goloshes, left them with his hat in the entrance passage; and stepped inside the parlour. There is a bright coal fire chirping in the grate; for, although not absolutely cold, the air is damp and raw from the rain which has fallen during the earlier hours of the day. He has not come direct from his house at the Ferry, but up the meadows from below, along paths that are muddy, with wet grass overhanging. Hence his having on india-rubber overshoes. Spare of flesh, and thin-blooded, he is sensitive to cold. Feeling it now, he draws a chair to the fire, and sits down with his feet rested on the fender. For a time he has it all to himself. The farmer is still outside, looking after his cattle, and setting things up for the night; while Mrs. Morgan, after receiving him, has made excuse to the kitchen--to set the frying-pan on the coals. Already the sausages can be heard frizzling, while their savoury odour is borne everywhere throughout the house. Before sitting down the priest had helped himself to a glass of sherry; and, after taking a mouthful or two, set it on the mantel-shelf, within convenient reach. It would have been brandy were there any on the table; but, for the time satisfied with the wine, he sits sipping it, his eyes now and then directed towards the door. This is shut, Mrs. Morgan having closed it after her as she went out. There is a certain restlessness in his glances, as though he were impatient for the door to be re-opened, and someone to enter. And so is he, though Mrs. Morgan herself is not the someone--but her daughter. Gregorie Rogier has been a fast fellow in his youth--before assuming the cassock a very _mauvais sujet_. Even now in the maturer age, and despite his vows of celibacy, he has a partiality for the sex, and a keen eye to female beauty. The fresh, youthful charms of the farmer's daughter have many a time made it water, more than the now stale attractions of Olympe, _née_ Renault. She is not the only disciple of his flock he delights in drawing to the confessional. But there is a vast difference between the mistress of Glyngog and the maiden of Abergann. Unlike are they as Lucrezia Borgia to that other Lucretia--victim of Tarquin _fils_. And the priest knows he must deal with them in a very different manner. He cannot himself have Mary Morgan for a wife--he does not wish to--but it may serve his purpose equally well were she to become the wife of Richard Dempsey. Hence his giving support to the pretensions of the poacher--not all unselfish. Eagerly watching the door, he at length sees it pushed open; and by a woman, but not the one he is wishing for. Only Mrs. Morgan re-entering to speak apologies for delay in serving supper. It will be on the table in a trice. Without paying much attention to what she says, or giving thought to her excuses, he asks, in a drawl of assumed indifference,-- "Where is Ma'mselle Marie? Not on the sick list, I hope?" "Oh no, your reverence. She was never in better health in her life, I'm happy to say." "Attending to culinary matters, I presume? Bothering herself--on my account, too! Really, madame, I wish you wouldn't take so much trouble when I come to pay you these little visits--calls of duty. Above all, that ma'mselle should be scorching her fair cheeks before a kitchen fire." "She's not--nothing of the kind, Father Rogier." "Dressing, may be? That isn't needed either--to receive poor me." "No; she's not dressing." "Ah! What then? Pardon me for appearing inquisitive. I merely wish to have a word with her before monsieur, your husband, comes in--relating to a matter of the Sunday school. She's at home, isn't she?" "Not just this minute. She soon will be." "What! Out at this hour?" "Yes; she has gone up to the Ferry on an errand. I wonder you didn't meet her! Which way did you come, Father Rogier--the path or the lane?" "Neither--nor from the Ferry. I've been down the river on visitation duty, and came up through the meadows. It's rather a dark night for your daughter to have gone upon an errand! Not alone, I take it?" "Yes; she went alone." "But why, madame?" Mrs. Morgan had not intended to say anything about the nature of the message, but it must come out now. "Well, your reverence," she answers, laughing, "it's rather an amusing matter--as you'll say yourself, when I tell it you." "Tell it, pray!" "It's all through a cat--our big Tom." "Ah, Tom! What _jeu d'esprit_ has he been perpetrating?" "Not much of a joke, after all; but more the other way. The mischievous creature got into the pantry, and somehow upset a bottle--indeed, broke it to pieces." "_Chat maudit!_ But what has that to do with your daughter's going to the Ferry?" "Everything. It was a bottle of best French brandy--unfortunately the only one we had in the house. And as they say misfortunes never do come single, it so happened our boy was away after the cows, and nobody else I could spare. So I've sent Mary to the Welsh Harp for another. I know your reverence prefers brandy to wine." "Madame, your very kind thoughtfulness deserves my warmest thanks. But I'm really sorry at your having taken all this trouble to entertain me. Above all, I regret its having entailed such a disagreeable duty upon your Mademoiselle Marie. Henceforth I shall feel reluctance in setting foot over your threshold." "Don't say that, Father Rogier. Please don't. Mary didn't think it disagreeable. I should have been angry with her if she had. On the contrary, it was herself proposed going; as the boy was out of the way, and our girl in the kitchen, busy about supper. But poor it is--I'm sorry to tell you--and will need the drop of Cognac to make it at all palatable." "You underrate your _menu_, madame, if it be anything like what I've been accustomed to at your table. Still, I cannot help feeling regret at ma'mselle's having been sent to the Ferry--the roads in such condition. And so dark, too--she may have a difficulty in finding her way. Which did she go by--the path or the lane? Your own interrogatory to myself--almost verbatim--_c'est drole_!" With but a vague comprehension of the interpolated French and Latin phrases, the farmer's wife makes rejoinder: "Indeed, I can't say which. I never thought of asking her. However, Mary's a sensible lass, and surely wouldn't think of venturing over the foot-plank a night like this. She knows it's loose. Ah!" she continues, stepping to the window, and looking out, "there be the moon up! I'm glad of that; she'll see her way now, and get sooner home." "How long is it since she went off?" Mrs. Morgan glances at the clock over the mantel; soon she sees where the hands are, exclaiming: "Mercy me! It's half-past nine! She's been gone a good hour!" Her surprise is natural. To Rugg's Ferry is but a mile, even by the lane and road. Twenty minutes to go and twenty more to return were enough. How are the other twenty being spent? Buying a bottle of brandy across the counter, and paying for it, will not explain; that should occupy scarce as many seconds. Besides, the last words of the messenger, at starting off, were a promise of speedy return. She has not kept it! And what can be keeping _her_? Her mother asks this question, but without being able to answer it. She can neither tell nor guess. But the priest, more suspicious, has his conjectures; one giving him pain--greatly exciting him, though he does not show it. Instead, with simulated calmness, he says: "Suppose I step out and see whether she be near at hand?" "If your reverence would. But please don't stay for her. Supper's quite ready, and Evan will be in by the time I get it dished. I wonder what's detaining Mary!" If she only knew what, she would be less solicitous about the supper, and more about the absent one. "No matter," she continues, cheering up, "the girl will surely be back before we sit down to the table. If not, she must go----" The priest had not stayed to hear the clause threatening to disentitle the tardy messenger. He is too anxious to learn the cause of delay; and, in the hope of discovering it, with a view to something besides, he hastily claps on his hat--without waiting to defend his feet with the goloshes--then glides out and off across the garden. Mrs. Morgan remains in the doorway looking after him, with an expression on her face not all contented. Perhaps she too has a foreboding of evil; or, it may be, she but thinks of her daughter's future, and that she is herself doing wrong by endeavouring to influence it in favour of a man about whom she has of late heard discreditable rumours. Or, perchance, some suspicion of the priest himself may be stirring within her: for there are scandals abroad concerning him, that have reached even her ears. Whatever the cause, there is shadow on her brow, as she watches him pass out through the gate; scarce dispelled by the bright blazing fire in the kitchen, as she returns thither to direct the serving of the supper. If she but knew the tale he, Father Rogier, is so soon to bring back, she might not have left the door so soon, or upon her own feet; more likely have dropped down on its threshold, to be carried from it fainting, if not dead! CHAPTER XXII. A FATAL STEP. Having passed out through the gate, Rogier turns along the wall; and, proceeding at a brisk pace to where it ends in an angle, there comes to a halt. On the same spot where about an hour before stopped Mary Morgan--for a different reason. She paused to consider which of the two ways she would take; he has no intention of taking either, or going a step farther. Whatever he wishes to say to her can be said where he now is, without danger of its being overheard at the house--unless spoken in a tone louder than that of ordinary conversation. But it is not on this account he has stopped; simply that he is not sure which of the two routes she will return by--and for him to proceed along either would be to risk the chance of not meeting her at all. But that he has some idea of the way she will come, with suspicion of why and what is delaying her, his mutterings tell: "_Morbleu!_ over an hour since she set out! A tortoise could have crawled to the Ferry, and crept back within the time! For a demoiselle with limbs lithe and supple as hers--pah! It can't be the brandy bottle that's the obstruction. Nothing of the kind. Corked, capsuled, wrapped, ready for delivery--in all two minutes, or at most, three! She so ready to run for it, too--herself proposed going! Odd, that, to say the least. Only understandable on the supposition of something prearranged. An assignation with the River Triton for sure! Yes; he's the anchor that's been holding her--holds her still. Likely, they're somewhat under the shadow of that wood, now--standing--sitting--ach! I wish I but knew the spot; I'd bring their billing and cooing to an abrupt termination. It will not do for me to go on guesses; I might miss the straying damsel with whom this night I want a word in particular--must have it. Monsieur Coracle may need binding a little faster, before he consents to the service required of him. To ensure an interview with her it is necessary to stay on this spot, however trying to patience." For a second or two he stands motionless, though all the while active in thought, his eyes also restless. These, turning to the wall, show him that it is overgrown with ivy. A massive cluster on its crest projects out, with hanging tendrils, whose tops almost touch the ground. Behind them there is ample room for a man to stand upright, and so be concealed from the eyes of anyone passing, however near. "_Grace à Dieu!_" he exclaims, observing this; "the very place. I must take her by surprise. That's the best way when one wants to learn how the cat jumps. Ha! _cette chat_ Tom; how very opportune his mischievous doings--for Mademoiselle! Well, I must give _Madame la mère_ counsel better to guard against such accidents hereafter; and how to behave when they occur." He has by this ducked his head, and stepped under the arcading evergreen. The position is all he could desire. It gives him a view of both ways by which on that side the farmhouse can be approached. The cart lane is directly before his face, as is also the footpath when he turns towards it. The latter leading, as already said, along a hedge to the orchard's bottom, there crosses the brook by a plank--this being about fifty yards distant from where he has stationed himself. And as there is now moonlight he can distinctly see the frail footbridge, with a portion of the path beyond, where it runs through straggling trees, before entering the thicker wood. Only at intervals has he sight of it, as the sky is mottled with masses of cloud, that every now and then, drifting over the moon's disc, shut off her light with the suddenness of a lamp extinguished. When she shines he can himself be seen. Standing in crouched attitude with the ivy tendrils festooned over his pale, bloodless face, he looks like a gigantic spider behind its web, on the wait for prey--ready to spring forward and seize it. For nigh ten minutes he thus remains watching, all the while impatiently chafing. He listens too; though with little hope of hearing aught to indicate the approach of her expected. After the pleasant _tête-à-tête_, he is now sure she must have held with the waterman, she will be coming along silently, her thoughts in sweet, placid contentment; or she may come on with timid, stealthy steps, dreading rebuke by her mother for having overstayed her time. Just as the priest in bitterest chagrin is promising himself that rebuked she shall be, he sees what interrupts his resolves, suddenly and altogether withdrawing his thoughts from Mary Morgan. It is a form approaching the plank, on the opposite side of the stream; not hers, nor woman's; instead the figure of a man! Neither erect nor walking in the ordinary way, but with head held down and shoulders projected forward, as if he were seeking concealment under the bushes that beset the path, for all drawing nigh to the brook with the rapidity of one pursued, and who thinks there is safety only on its other side! "_Sainte Vierge!_" exclaims the priest, _sotto voce_. "What can all that mean? And who----" He stays his self-asked interrogatory, seeing that the skulker has paused too--at the farther end of the plank, which he has now reached. Why? It may be from fear to set foot on it; for indeed is there danger to one not intimately acquainted with it. The man may be a stranger--some fellow on teamo who intends trying the hospitality of the farmhouse--more likely its henroosts, judging by his manner of approach. While thus conjecturing, Rogier sees the skulker stoop down, immediately after hearing a sound, different from the sough of the stream; a harsh grating noise, as of a piece of heavy timber drawn over a rough surface of rock. "Sharp fellow!" thinks the priest; "with all his haste, wonderfully cautious! He's fixing the thing steady before venturing to tread upon it! Ha! I'm wrong; he don't design crossing it after all!" This as the crouching figure erects itself and, instead of passing over the plank, turns abruptly away from it. Not to go back along the path, but up the stream on that same side! And with bent body as before, still seeming desirous to shun observation. Now more than ever mystified, the priest watches him, with eyes keen as those of a cat set for nocturnal prowling. Not long till he learns who the man is. Just then the moon, escaping from a cloud, flashes her full light in his face, revealing features of diabolic expression--that of a murderer striding away from the spot where he has been spilling blood! Rogier recognises Coracle Dick, though still without the slightest idea of what the poacher is doing there. "_Que diantre!_" he exclaims, in surprise; "what can that devil be after! Coming up to the plank and not crossing! Ha! yonder's a very different sort of pedestrian approaching it? Ma'mselle Mary at last!" This as by the same intermittent gleam of moonlight he descries a straw hat, with streaming ribbons, over the tops of the bushes beyond the brook. The brighter image drives the darker one from his thoughts; and, forgetting all about the man, in his resolve to take the woman unawares, he steps out from under the ivy, and makes forward to meet her. He is a Frenchman, and to help her over the foot-plank will give him a fine opportunity for displaying his cheap gallantry. As he hastens down to the stream, the moon remaining unclouded, he sees the young girl close to it on the opposite side. She approaches with proud carriage, and confident step, her cheeks even under the pale light showing red--flushed with the kisses so lately received, as it were still clinging to them. Her heart yet thrilling with love, strong under its excitement, little suspects she how soon it will cease to beat. Boldly she plants her foot upon the plank, believing, late boasting, a knowledge of its tricks. Alas! there is one with which she is not acquainted--could not be--a new and treacherous one, taught it within the last two minutes. The daughter of Evan Morgan is doomed; one more step will be her last in life. [Illustration: THE DAUGHTER OF EVAN MORGAN IS DOOMED. ONE MORE STEP WILL BE HER LAST.] She makes it, the priest alone being witness. He sees her arms flung aloft, simultaneously hearing a shriek; then arms, body, and bridge sink out of sight suddenly, as though the earth had swallowed them! CHAPTER XXIII. A SUSPICIOUS WAIF. On returning homeward the young waterman bethinks him of a difficulty--a little matter to be settled with his mother. Not having gone to the shop, he has neither whipcord nor pitch to show. If questioned about these commodities, what answer is he to make? He dislikes telling her another lie. It came easy enough before the interview with his sweetheart, but now it is not so much worth while. On reflection, he thinks it will be better to make a clean breast of it. He has already half confessed, and may as well admit his mother to full confidence about the secret he has been trying to keep from her--unsuccessfully, as he now knows. While still undetermined, a circumstance occurs to hinder him from longer withholding it, whether he would or not. In his abstraction he has forgotten all about the moon, now up, and at intervals shining brightly. During one of these he has arrived at his own gate, as he opens it seeing his mother on the doorstep. Her attitude shows she has already seen him, and observed the direction whence he has come. Her words declare the same. "Why, Jack!" she exclaims, in feigned astonishment, "ye bean't a comin' from the Ferry that way?" The interrogatory, or rather the tone in which it is put, tells him the cat is out of the bag. No use attempting to stuff the animal in again; and seeing it is not, he rejoins, laughingly,-- "Well, mother, to speak the truth, I ha'nt been to the Ferry at all. An' I must ask you to forgie me for practisin' a trifle o' deception on ye--that 'bout the _Mary_ wantin' repairs." "I suspected it, lad; an' that it wor the tother Mary as wanted something, or you wanted something wi' her. Since you've spoke repentful, an' confessed, I ain't agoin' to worrit ye about it. I'm glad the boat be all right, as I ha' got good news for you." "What?" he asks, rejoiced at being so easily let off. "Well; you spoke truth when ye sayed there was no knowin' but that somebody might be wantin' to hire ye any minnit. There's been one arready." "Who? Not the Captain?" "No, not him. But a grand livery chap; footman or coachman--I ain't sure which--only that he came frae a Squire Powell's, 'bout a mile back." "Oh! I know Squire Powell--him o' New Hall, I suppose it be. What did the sarvint say?" "That if you wasn't engaged, his young master wants ye to take hisself, and some friends that be staying wi' him, for a row down the river." "How far did the man say? If they be bound to Chepstow, or even but Tintern, I don't think I could go--unless they start Monday mornin'. I'm 'gaged to the Captain for Thursday, ye know; an' if I went the long trip, there'd be all the bother o' gettin' the boat back--an' bare time." "Monday! Why it's the morrow they want ye." "Sunday! That's queerish, too. Squire Powell's family be a sort o' strict religious, I've heerd." "That's just it. The livery chap sayed it be a church they're goin' to; some curious kind o' old worshippin' place, that lie in a bend o' the river, where carriages ha' difficulty in gettin' to it." "I think I know the one, an' can take them there well enough. What answer did you gie to the man?" "That ye could take 'em, an' would. I know'd you hadn't any other bespeak; and since it wor to a church, wouldn't mind its bein' Sunday." "Sartinly not. Why should I?" asks Jack, who is anything but a Sabbatarian. "Where do they weesh the boat to be took? Or am I to wait for 'em here?" "Yes; the man spoke o' them comin' here, an' at a very early hour. Six o'clock. He sayed the clergyman be a friend o' the family, an' they're to ha' their breakfasts wi' him, afore goin' to church." "All right! I'll be ready for 'em, come's as early as they may." "In that case, my son, ye' better get to your bed at once. Ye've had a hard day o' it, and need rest. Should ye like take a drop o' somethin' 'fores you lie down?" "Well, mother, I don't mind. Just a glass o' your elderberry." She opens a cupboard, brings forth a black bottle, and fills him a tumbler of the dark red wine--home made, and by her own hands. Quaffing it, he observes,-- "It be the best stuff that I know of to put spirit into a man, an' makes him feel cheery. I've heerd the Captain hisself say it beats their _Spanish Port_ all to pieces." Though somewhat astray in his commercial geography, the young waterman, as his patron, is right about the quality of the beverage; for elderberry wine, made in the correct way, _is_ superior to that of Oporto. Curious scientific fact, I believe not generally known, that the soil where grows the _Sambucus_ is that most favourable to the growth of the grape. Without going thus deeply into the philosophy of the subject, or at all troubling himself about it, the boatman soon gets to the bottom of his glass, and bidding his mother good-night, retires to his sleeping room. Getting into bed, he lies for a while sweetly thinking of Mary Morgan, and that satisfactory interview under the elm; then goes to sleep as sweetly to dream of her. * * * * * There is just a streak of daylight stealing in through the window as he awakes; enough to warn him that it is time to be up and stirring. Up he instantly is, and arrays himself, not in his everyday boating habiliments, but a suit worn only on Sundays and holidays. The mother, also astir betimes, has his breakfast on the table soon as he is rigged; and just as he finishes eating it, the rattle of wheels on the road in front, with voices, tells him his fare has arrived. Hastening out, he sees a grand carriage drawn up at the gate, double horsed, with coachman and footman on the box; inside young Mr. Powell, his pretty sister, and two others--a lady and gentleman, also young. Soon they are all seated in the boat, the coachman having been ordered to take the carriage home, and bring it back at a certain hour. The footman goes with them--the _Mary_ having seats for six. Rowed down stream, the young people converse among themselves, gaily now and then giving way to laughter, as though it were any other day than Sunday. But their boatman is merry also with memories of the preceding night; and, though not called upon to take part in their conversation, he likes listening to it. Above all, he is pleased with the appearance of Miss Powell, a very beautiful girl, and takes note of the attention paid her by the gentleman who sits opposite. Jack is rather interested in observing these, as they remind him of his own first approaches to Mary Morgan. His eyes, though, are for a time removed from them, while the boat is passing Abergann. Out of the farmhouse chimneys just visible over the tops of the trees, he sees smoke ascending. It is not yet seven o'clock, but the Morgans are early-risers, and by this mother and daughter will be on their way to _Matins_, and possibly Confession at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel. He dislikes to reflect on the last, and longs for the day when he has hopes to cure his sweetheart of such a repulsive devotional practice. Pulling on down, he ceases to think of it, and of her for the time, his attention being engrossed by the management of the boat. For just below Abergann the stream runs sharply, and is given to caprices; but farther on, it once more flows in gentle tide along the meadow-lands of Llangorren. Before turning the bend, where Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees were caught in the rapid current, at the estuary of a sluggish inflowing brook, whose waters are now beaten back by the flooded river, he sees what causes him to start, and hang on the stroke of his oar. "What is it, Wingate?" asks young Powell, observing his strange behaviour. "Oh! a waif--that plank floating yonder! I suppose you'd like to pick it up! But remember! it's Sunday, and we must confine ourselves to works of necessity and mercy." Little think the four who smiled at this remark--five with the footman--what a weird, painful impression the sight of that drifting thing has made on the sixth who is rowing them. Nor does it leave him all that day; but clings to him in the church, to which he goes; at the Rectory, where he is entertained; and while rowing back up the river--hangs heavy on his heart as lead! Returning, he looks out for the piece of timber, but cannot see it; for it is now after night, the young people having stayed dinner with their friend the clergyman. Kept later than they intended, on arrival at the boat's dock they do not remain there an instant; but, getting into the carriage, which has been some time awaiting them, are whirled off to New Hall. Impatient are they to be home. Far more--for a different reason--the waterman, who but stays to tie the boat's painter; and, leaving the oars in her thwarts, hastens into his house. The plank is still uppermost in his thoughts, the presentiment heavy on his heart. Not lighter, as on entering at the door he sees his mother seated with her head bowed down to her knees. He does not wait for her to speak; but asks excitedly:-- "What's the matter, mother?" The question is mechanical--he almost anticipates the answer, or its nature. "Oh, my son, my son! As I told ye. It _was the canwyll corph_!" CHAPTER XXIV. "THE FLOWER OF LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING." There is a crowd collected round the farmhouse of Abergann. Not an excited, or noisy one; instead, the people composing it are of staid demeanour, with that formal solemnity observable on the faces of those at a funeral. And a funeral it is, or soon to be. For, inside there is a chamber of death; a coffin with a corpse--that of her, who, had she lived, would have been Jack Wingate's wife. Mary Morgan has indeed fallen victim to the mad spite of a monster. Down went she into that swollen stream, which, ruthless and cruel as he who committed her to it, carried her off on its engulfing tide--her form tossed to and fro, now sinking, now coming to the surface, and again going down. No one to save her--not an effort at rescue made by the cowardly Frenchman, who, rushing on to the chasm's edge, there stopped, only to gaze affrightedly at the flood surging below, foam crested--only to listen to her agonized cry, farther off and more freely put forth, as she was borne onward to her doom. Once again he heard it, in that tone which tells of life's last struggle with death--proclaiming death the conqueror. Then all was over. As he stood horror-stricken, half-bewildered, a cloud suddenly curtained the moon, bringing black darkness upon the earth, as if a pall had been thrown over it. Even the white froth on the water was for the while invisible. He could see nothing--nothing hear, save the hoarse, harsh torrent rolling relentlessly on. Of no avail, then, his hurrying back to the house, and raising the alarm. Too late it was to save Mary Morgan from drowning; and, only by the accident of her body being thrown up against a bank was it that night recovered. It is the third day after, and the funeral about to take place. Though remote the situation of the farmstead, and sparsely inhabited the district immediately around, the assemblage is a large one. This partly from the unusual circumstances of the girl's death, but as much from the respect in which Evan Morgan is held by his neighbours far and near. They are there in their best attire, men and women alike, Protestants as Catholics, to show a sympathy, which in truth many of them sincerely feel. Nor is there among the people assembled any conjecturing about the cause of the fatal occurrence. No hint or suspicion that there has been foul play. How could there? So clearly an accident, as pronounced by the coroner at his inquiry held the day after the drowning--brief and purely _pro forma_. Mrs. Morgan herself told of her daughter sent on that errand from which she never returned; while the priest, eye-witness, stated the reason why. Taken together, this was enough; though further confirmed by the absent plank, found and brought back on the following day. Even had Wingate rowed back up the river during daylight, he would not have seen it again. The farm labourers and others accustomed to cross by it gave testimony as to its having been loose. But of all whose evidence was called for, one alone could have put a different construction on the tale. Father Rogier could have done this; but did not, having his reasons for withholding the truth. He is now in possession of a secret that will make Richard Dempsey his slave for life--his instrument, willing or unwilling, for such purpose as he may need him, no matter what its iniquity. The hour of interment has been fixed for twelve o'clock. It is now a little after eleven, and everybody has arrived at the house. The men outside in groups, some in the little flower-garden in front, others straying into the farmyard to have a look at the fatting pigs, or about the pastures to view the white-faced Herefords and "Ryeland" sheep, of which last Evan Morgan is a noted breeder. Inside the house are the women--some relatives of the deceased, with the farmer's friends and more familiar acquaintances. All admitted to the chamber of death to take a last look at the dead. The corpse is in the coffin, but with lid not yet screwed on. There lies the corpse in its white drapery, still untouched by "decay's effacing finger," beautiful as living bride, though now a bride for the altar of eternity. The stream passes in and out; but besides those only curious coming and going, there are some who remain in the room. Mrs. Morgan herself sits beside the coffin, at intervals giving way to wildest grief, a cluster of women around vainly essaying to comfort her. There is a young man seated in the corner, who seems to need consoling almost as much as she. Every now and then his breast heaves in audible sobbing, as though the heart within were about to break. None wonder at this; for it is Jack Wingate. Still, there are those who think it strange his being there--above all, as if made welcome. They know not the remarkable change that has taken place in the feelings of Mrs. Morgan. Beside that bed of death, all who were dear to her daughter were dear to her now. And she is aware that the young waterman was so; for he has told her, with tearful eyes and sad, earnest words, whose truthfulness could not be doubted. But where is the other, the false one? Not there--never has been since the fatal occurrence. Came not to the inquest, came not to inquire or condole; comes not now to show sympathy, or take part in the rites of sepulture. There are some who make remark about his absence, though none lament it--not even Mrs. Morgan herself. The thought of the bereaved mother is that he would have ill-befitted being her son. Only a fleeting reflection, her whole soul being engrossed in grief for her lost daughter. The hour for closing the coffin has come. They but await the priest to say some solemn words. He has not yet arrived, though every instant looked for. A personage so important has many duties to perform, and may be detained by them elsewhere. For all, he does not fail. While inside the death chamber they are conjecturing the cause of his delay, a buzz outside, with a shuffling of feet in the passage, tells of way being made for him. Presently he enters the room, and stepping up to the coffin, stands beside it, all eyes turned towards him. His are upon the face of the corpse--at first with the usual look of official gravity and feigned grief. But continuing to gaze upon it, a strange expression comes over his features, as though he saw something that surprised or unusually interested him. It affects him even to giving a start; so light, however, that no one seems to observe it. Whatever the emotion, he conceals it; and in calm voice pronounces the prayer, with all its formalities and gestures. The lid is laid on, covering the form of Mary Morgan--for ever veiling her face from the world. Then the pall is thrown over, and all carried outside. There is no hearse, no plumes, nor paid pall-bearers. Affection supplies the place of this heartless luxury of the tomb. On the shoulders of four men the coffin is borne away, the crowd forming into procession as it passes, and following. On to the Rugg's Ferry chapel,--into its cemetery, late consecrated. There lowered into a grave already prepared to receive it; and, after the usual ceremonial of the Roman Catholic religion, covered up and turfed over. Then the mourners scatter off for their homes, singly or in groups, leaving the remains of Mary Morgan in their last resting-place, only her near relatives with thought of ever again returning to stand over them. There is one exception; this is a man not related to her, but who would have been had she lived. Wingate goes away with the intention ere long to return. The chapel burying ground brinks upon the river, and when the shades of night have descended over it, he brings his boat alongside. Then, fixing her to the bank, he steps out, and proceeds in the direction of the new-made grave. All this cautiously, and with circumspection, as if fearing to be seen. The darkness favouring him, he is not. Reaching the sacred spot, he kneels down, and with a knife, taken from his pockets, scoops out a little cavity in the lately laid turf. Into this he inserts a plant, which he has brought along with him--one of a common kind, but emblematic of no ordinary feeling. It is that known to country people as "The Flower of Love-lies-bleeding" (_Amaranthus caudatus_). Closing the earth around its roots, and restoring the sods, he bends lower, till his lips are in contact with the grass upon the grave. One near enough might hear convulsive sobbing, accompanied by the words:-- "Mary, darling! you're wi' the angels now; and I know you'll forgie me if I've done ought to bring about this dreadful thing. Oh, dear, dear Mary! I'd be only too glad to be lyin' in the grave along wi' ye. As God's my witness, I would." For a time he is silent, giving way to his grief--so wild as to seem unbearable. And just for an instant he himself thinks it so, as he kneels with the knife still open in his hand, his eyes fixed upon it. A plunge with that shining blade with point to his heart, and all his misery would be over! "My mother--my poor mother--no!" These few words, with the filial thought conveyed, save him from suicide. Soon as repeating them, he shuts to his knife, rises to his feet, and, returning to the boat again, rows himself home; but never with so heavy a heart. CHAPTER XXV. A FRENCH FEMME DE CHAMBRE. Of all who assisted at the ceremony of Mary Morgan's funeral, no one seemed so impatient for its termination as the priest. In his official capacity, he did all he could to hasten it--soon as it was over, hurrying away from the grave, out of the burying ground, and into his house near by. Such haste would have appeared strange--even indecent--but for the belief of his having some sacerdotal duty that called him elsewhere; a belief strengthened by their shortly after seeing him start off in the direction of the ferry-boat. Arriving there, the Charon attendant rows him across the river; and, soon as setting foot on the opposite side, he turns face down stream, taking a path that meanders through fields and meadows. Along this he goes rapidly as his legs can carry him--in a walk. Clerical dignity hinders him from proceeding at a run, though, judging by the expression of his countenance, he is inclined to it. The route he is on would conduct to Llangorren Court--several miles distant--and thither is he bound; though the house itself is not his objective point. He does not visit, nor would it serve him to show his face there--least of all to Gwen Wynn. She might not be so rude as to use her riding whip on him, as she once felt inclined in the hunting-field; but she would certainly be surprised to see him at her home. Yet it is one within her house he wishes to see, and is now on the way for it, pretty sure of being able to accomplish his object. True to her fashionable instincts and _toilette_ necessities, Miss Linton keeps a French maid, and it is with this damsel Father Rogier designs having an interview. He is thoroughly _en rapport_ with the _femme de chambre_, and through her, aided by the Confession, kept advised of everything which transpires at the Court, or all he deems it worth while to be advised about. His confidence that he will not have his long walk for nothing rests on certain matters of pre-arrangement. With the foreign domestic he has succeeded in establishing a code of signals, by which he can communicate, with almost a certainty of being able to see her--not inside the house, but at a place near enough to be convenient. Rare the park in Herefordshire through which there is not a right-of-way path, and one runs across that of Llangorren. Not through the ornamental grounds, nor at all close to the mansion--as is frequently the case, to the great chagrin of the owner--but several hundred yards distant. It passes from the river's bank to the county road, all the way through trees, that screen it from view of the house. There is a point, however, where it approaches the edge of the wood, and there one traversing it might be seen from the upper windows. But only for an instant, unless the party so passing should choose to make stop in the place exposed. It is a thoroughfare not much frequented, though free to Father Rogier as any one else; and, now hastening along it, he arrives at that spot where the break in the timber brings the house in view. Here he makes a halt, still keeping under the trees; to a branch of one of them, on the side towards the Court, attaching a piece of white paper he has taken out of his pocket. This done, with due caution and care, that he be not observed in the act, he draws back to the path, and sits down upon a stile close by, to await the upshot of his telegraphy. His haste hitherto explained by the fact, only at certain times are his signals likely to be seen, or could they be attended to. One of the surest and safest is during the early afternoon hours, just after luncheon, when the ancient toast of Cheltenham takes her accustomed _siesta_, before dressing herself for the drive, or reception of callers. While the mistress sleeps, the maid is free to dispose of herself as she pleases. It was to hit this interlude of leisure Father Rogier has been hurrying; and that he has succeeded is soon known to him, by his seeing a form with floating drapery, recognisable as that of the _femme de chambre_. Gliding through the shrubbery, and evidently with an eye to escape observation, she is only visible at intervals; at length lost to his sight altogether as she enters among the thick standing trees. But he knows she will turn up again. And she does after a short time, coming along the path towards the stile where here he is seated. "Ah! _ma bonne!_" he exclaims, dropping on his feet, and moving forward to meet her. "You've been prompt! I didn't expect you quite so soon. Madame la Chatelaine oblivious, I apprehend; in the midst of her afternoon nap?" "Yes, Père; she was when I stole off. But she has given me directions about dressing her, to go out for a drive--earlier than usual. So I must get back immediately." "I'm not going to detain you very long. I chanced to be passing, and thought I might as well have a word with you--seeing it's the hour when you're off duty. By the way, I hear you're about to have grand doings at the Court--a ball, and what not?" "_Oui, m'ssieu; oui._" "When is it to be?" "On Thursday. Mademoiselle celebrates _son jour de naissance_--the twenty-first, making her of age. It is to be a grand fête as you say. They've been all last week preparing for it." "Among the invited, Le Capitaine Ryecroft, I presume?" "Oh, yes. I saw madame write the note inviting him--indeed, took it myself down to the hall table for the post-boy." "He visits often at the Court of late?" "Very often--once a week, sometimes twice." "And comes down the river by boat, doesn't he?" "In a boat. Yes--comes and goes that way." Her statement is reliable, as Father Rogier has reason to believe--having an inkling of suspicion that the damsel has of late been casting sheep's eyes, not at Captain Ryecroft, but his young boatman, and is as much interested in the movements of the _Mary_ as either the boat's owner or charterer. "Always comes by water, and returns by it," observes the priest, as if speaking to himself. "You're quite sure of that, _ma fille_?" "Oh, quite, Père!" "Mademoiselle appears to be very partial to him. I think you told me she often accompanies him down to the boat stair at his departure?" "Often! Always." "Always?" "_Toujours!_ I never knew it otherwise. Either the boat stair or the pavilion." "Ah! the summer-house! They hold their _téte-à-téte_ there at times, do they?" "Yes, they do." "But not when he leaves at a late hour--as, for instance, when he dines at the Court; which I know he has done several times?" "Oh, yes; even then. Only last week he was there for dinner, and Ma'mselle Gwen went with him to his boat, or the pavilion, to bid adieus. No matter what the time to her. _Ma foi!_ I'd risk my word she'll do the same after this grand ball that's to be. And why shouldn't she, Père Rogier? Is there any harm in it?" The question is put with a view of justifying her own conduct, that would be somewhat similar were Jack Wingate to encourage it, which, to say truth, he never has. "Oh, no," answers the priest, with an assumed indifference; "no harm whatever, and no business of ours. Mademoiselle Wynn is mistress of her own actions, and will be more after the coming birthday, number _vingt-un_. But," he adds, dropping the _rôle_ of the interrogator, now that he has got all the information wanted, "I fear I'm keeping you too long. As I've said, chancing to come by, I signalled--chiefly to tell you that next Sunday we have High Mass in the chapel, with special prayers for a young girl who was drowned last Saturday night, and whom we've just this day interred. I suppose you've heard?" "No, I haven't. Who, Père?" Her question may appear strange, Rugg's Ferry being so near to Llangorren Court, and Abergann still nearer. But for reasons already stated, as others, the ignorance of the Frenchwoman as to what has occurred at the farmhouse is not only intelligible, but natural enough. Equally natural, though in a sense very different, is the look of satisfaction appearing in her eyes, as the priest in answer gives the name of the drowned girl. "_Marie, la fille de fermier Morgan._" The expression that comes over her face is, under the circumstances, terribly repulsive--being almost that of joy! For not only has she seen Mary Morgan at the chapel, but something besides--heard her name coupled with that of the waterman, Wingate. In the midst of her strong, sinful emotions, of which the priest is fully cognizant, he finds it a good opportunity for taking leave. Going back to the tree where the bit of signal paper has been left, he plucks it off, and crumbles it into his pocket. Then, returning to the path, shakes hands with her, says "_Bon jour!_" and departs. She is not a beauty, or he would have made his adieus in a very different way. CHAPTER XXVI. THE POACHER AT HOME. Coracle Dick lives all alone. If he have relatives, they are not near, nor does any one in the neighbourhood know aught about them. Only some vague report of a father away off in the colonies, where he went against his will; while the mother--is believed dead. Not less solitary is Coracle's place of abode. Situated in a dingle with sides thickly wooded, it is not visible from anywhere. Nor is it near any regular road; only approachable by a path, which there ends--the dell itself being a _cul-de-sac_. Its open end is toward the river, running in at a point where the bank is precipitous, so hindering thoroughfare along the stream's edge, unless when its waters are at their lowest. Coracle's house is but a hovel, no better than the cabin of a backwoods squatter. Timber structure, too, in part, with a filling up of rough mason work. Its half-dozen perches of garden ground, once reclaimed from the wood, have grown wild again, no spade having touched them for years. The present occupant of the tenement has no taste for gardening, nor agriculture of any kind; he is a poacher, _pur sang_--at least, so far as is known. And it seems to pay him better than would the cultivation of cabbages--with pheasants at nine shillings the brace, and salmon three shillings the pound. He has the river, if not the mere, for his net, and the land for his game--making as free with both as ever did Alan-a-dale. But, whatever the price of fish and game, be it high or low, Coracle is never without good store of cash, spending it freely at the Welsh Harp, as elsewhere; at times so lavishly, that people of suspicious nature think it cannot all be the product of night netting and snaring. Some of it, say scandalous tongues, is derived from other industries, also practised by night, and less reputable than trespassing after game. But, as already said, these are only rumours, and confined to the few. Indeed, only a very few have intimate acquaintance with the man. He is of a reserved, taciturn habit, somewhat surly: not talkative even in his cups. And though ever ready to stand treat in the Harp taproom, he rarely practises hospitality in his own house; only now and then, when some acquaintance of like kidney and calling pays him a visit. Then the solitary domicile has its silence disturbed by the talk of men, thick as thieves--often speech which, if heard beyond its walls, 'twould not be well for its owner. More than half time, however, the poacher's dwelling is deserted, and oftener at night than by day. Its door, shut and padlocked, tells when the tenant is abroad. Then only a rough lurcher dog--a dangerous animal, too--is guardian of the place. Not that there are any chattels to tempt the cupidity of the kleptomaniac. The most valuable movable inside was not worth carrying away; and outside is but the coracle standing in a lean-to shed, propped up by its paddle. It is not always there, and, when absent, it may be concluded that its owner is on some expedition up, down, or across the river. Nor is the dog always at home; his absence proclaiming the poacher engaged in the terrestrial branch of his profession--running down hares or rabbits. * * * * * It is the night of the same day that has seen the remains of Mary Morgan consigned to their resting-place in the burying-ground of the Rugg's Ferry chapel. A wild night it has turned out, dark and stormy. The autumnal equinox is on, and its gales have commenced stripping the trees of their foliage. Around the dwelling of Dick Dempsey the fallen leaves lie thick, covering the ground as with cloth of gold; at intervals torn to shreds, as the wind swirls them up and holds them suspended. Every now and then they are driven against the door, which is shut, but not locked. The hasp is hanging loose, the padlock with its bowed bolt open. The coracle is seen standing upright in the shed; the lurcher not anywhere outside--for the animal is within, lying upon the hearth in front of a cheerful fire. And before the same sits its master, regarding a pot which hangs over it on hooks; at intervals lifting off the lid, and stirring the contents with a long-handled spoon of white metal. What these are might be told by the aroma: a stew, smelling strongly of onions with game savour conjoined. Ground game at that, for Coracle is in the act of "jugging" a hare. Handier to no man than him were the recipe of Mrs. Glass, for he comes up to all its requirements--even the primary and essential one--knows how to catch his hare as well as cook it. The stew is done, dished, and set steaming upon the table, where already has been placed a plate--the time-honoured willow pattern--with a knife and two-pronged fork. There is, besides, a jug of water, a bottle containing brandy, and a tumbler. Drawing his chair up, Coracle commences eating. The hare is a young one--a leveret he has just taken from the stubble--tender and juicy--delicious even without the red-currant jelly he has not got, and for which he does not care. Withal, he appears but little to enjoy the meal, and only eats as a man called upon to satisfy the cravings of hunger. Every now and then, as the fork is being carried to his head, he holds it suspended, with the morsel of flesh on its prongs, while listening to sounds outside! At such intervals the expression upon his countenance is that of the keenest apprehension; and as a gust of wind, unusually violent, drives a leafy branch in loud clout against the door, he starts in his chair, fancying it the knock of a policeman with his muffled truncheon! This night the poacher is suffering from no ordinary fear of being summoned for game trespass. Were that all, he could eat his leveret as composedly as if it had been regularly purchased and paid for. But there is more upon his mind; the dread of a writ being presented to him, with shackles at the same time--of being taken handcuffed to the county jail--thence before a court of assize--and finally to the scaffold! He has reason to apprehend all this. Notwithstanding his deep cunning, and the dexterity with which he accomplished his great crime, a man must have witnessed it. Above the roar of the torrent, mingling with the cries of the drowning girl as she struggled against it, were shouts in a man's voice, which he fancied to be that of Father Rogier. From what he has since heard, he is now certain of it. The coroner's inquest, at which he was not present, but whose report has reached him, puts that beyond doubt. His only uncertainty is, whether Rogier saw him by the footbridge, and if so to recognise him. True, the priest has nothing said of him at the 'quest; for all he, Coracle, has his suspicions; now torturing him almost as much as if sure that he was detected tampering with the plank. No wonder he eats his supper with little relish, or that after every few mouthfuls he takes a swallow of the brandy, with a view to keeping up his spirits. Withal he has no remorse. When he recalls the hastily exchanged speeches he overheard upon Garranhill, with that more prolonged dialogue under the trysting-tree, the expression upon his features is not one of repentance, but devilish satisfaction at the fell deed he has done. Not that his vengeance is yet satisfied. It will not be till he have the other life--that of Jack Wingate. He has dealt the young waterman a blow which at the same time afflicts himself; only by dealing a deadlier one will his own sufferings be relieved. He has been long plotting his rival's death, but without seeing a safe way to accomplish it. And now the thing seems no nearer than ever--this night farther off. In his present frame of mind--with the dread of the gallows upon it--he would be too glad to cry quits, and let Wingate live! Starting at every swish of the wind, he proceeds with his supper, hastily devouring it, like a wild beast; and when at length finished, he sets the dish upon the floor for the dog. Then lighting his pipe, and drawing the bottle nearer to his hand, he sits for a while smoking. Not long before being interrupted by a noise at the door; this time no stroke of wind-tossed waif, but a touch of knuckles. Though slight and barely audible, the dog knows it to be a knock, as shown by his behaviour. Dropping the half-gnawed bone, and springing to its feet, the animal gives out an angry growling. Its master has himself started from his chair, and stands trembling. There is a slit of a door at back convenient for escape; and for an instant his eye is on it, as though he had half a mind to make exit that way. He would blow out the light were it a candle; but cannot as it is the fire, whose faggots are still brightly ablaze. While thus undecided, he hears the knock repeated--this time louder, and with the accompaniment of a voice, saying,-- "Open your door, Monsieur Dick." Not a policeman, then; only the priest! CHAPTER XXVII. A MYSTERIOUS CONTRACT. "Only the priest!" muttered Coracle to himself, but little better satisfied than if it were the policeman. Giving the lurcher a kick to quiet the animal, he pulls back the bolt, and draws open the door, as he does so asking, "That you, Father Rogier?" "_C'est moi!_" answers the priest, stepping in without invitation. "Ah! _mon bracconier!_ you're having something nice for supper. Judging by the aroma ragout of hare. Hope I haven't disturbed you. Is it hare?" "It was, your Reverence, a bit of leveret." "Was! You've finished then. It is all gone?" "It is. The dog had the remains of it, as ye see." He points to the dish on the floor. "I'm sorry at that--having rather a relish for leveret. It can't be helped, however." "I wish I'd known ye were comin'. Dang the dog!" "No, no! Don't blame the poor dumb brute. No doubt it too has a taste for hare, seeing it's half hound. I suppose leverets are plentiful just now, and easily caught, since they can no longer retreat to the standing corn?" "Yes, your Reverence. There be a good wheen o' them about." "In that case, if you should stumble upon one, and bring it to my house, I'll have it jugged for myself. By the way, what have you got in that black jack?" "It's brandy." "Well, Monsieur Dick, I'll thank you for a mouthful." "Will you take it neat, or mixed wi' a drop o' water?" "Neat--raw. The night's that, and the two raws will neutralize one another. I feel chilled to the bones, and a little fatigued, toiling against the storm." "It be a fearsome night. I wonder at your Reverence bein' out--exposin' yourself in such weather!" "All weathers are alike to me--when duty calls. Just now I'm abroad on a little matter of business that won't brook delay." "Business--wi' me?" "With you, _mon bracconier_!" "What may it be, your Reverence?" "Sit down, and I shall tell you. It's too important to be discussed standing." The introductory dialogue does not tranquillize the poacher; instead, further intensifies his fears. Obedient, he takes his seat one side the table, the priest planting himself on the other, the glass of brandy within reach of his hand. After a sip, he resumes speech with the remark,-- "If I mistake not, you are a poor man, Monsieur Dempsey?" "You ain't no ways mistaken 'bout that, Father Rogier." "And you'd like to be a rich one?" Thus encouraged, the poacher's face lights up a little. Smilingly he makes reply,-- "I can't say as I'd have any particular objection. 'Stead, I'd like it wonderful well." "You can be, if so inclined." "I'm ever so inclined, as I've sayed. But how, your Reverence? In this hard work-o'-day world 'tan't so easy to get rich." "For you, easy enough. No labour, and not much more difficulty than transporting your coracle five or six miles across the meadows." "Somethin' to do wi' the coracle, have it?" "No; 'twill need a bigger boat--one that will carry three or four people. Do you know where you can borrow such, or hire it?" "I think I do. I've a friend, the name o' Rob Trotter, who's got just sich a boat. He'd lend it me, sure." "Charter it, if he doesn't. Never mind about the price. I'll pay." "When might you want it, your Reverence?" "On Thursday night, at ten, or a little later--say half-past." "And where am I to bring it?" "To the Ferry; you'll have it against the bank by the back of the Chapel burying-ground, and keep it there till I come to you. Don't leave it to go up to the 'Harp,' or anywhere else; and don't let any one see either the boat or yourself, if you can possibly avoid it. As the nights are now dark at that hour, there need be no difficulty in your rowing up the river without being observed. Above all, you're to make no one the wiser of what you're to do, or anything I'm now saying to you. The service I want you for is one of a secret kind, and not to be prattled about." "May I have a hint o' what it is?" "Not now; you shall know in good time--when you meet me with the boat. There will be another along with me--maybe two--to assist in the affair. What will be required of you is a little dexterity, _such as you displayed on Saturday night_." No need the emphasis on the last words to impress their meaning upon the murderer. Too well he comprehends, starting in his chair as if a hornet had stung him. "How--where?" he gasps out in the confusion of terror. The double interrogatory is but mechanical, and of no consequence. Hopeless any attempt at concealment or subterfuge; as he is aware on receiving the answer, cool and provokingly deliberate. "You have asked two questions, Monsieur Dick, that call for separate replies. To the first, 'How?' I leave you to grope out the answer for yourself, feeling pretty sure you'll find it. With the second I'll be more particular, if you wish me. Place--where a certain foot-plank bridges a certain brook, close to the farmhouse of Abergann. It--the plank, I mean--last Saturday night, a little after nine, took a fancy to go drifting down the Wye. Need I tell you who sent it, Richard Dempsey?" The man thus interrogated looks more than confused--horrified, well-nigh crazed. Excitedly stretching out his hand, he clutches the bottle, half fills the tumbler with brandy, and drinks it down at a gulp. He almost wishes it were poison, and would instantly kill him! Only after dashing the glass down does he make reply--sullenly, and in a hoarse, husky voice,-- "I don't want to know one way or the other. D----n the plank! What do I care?" "You shouldn't blaspheme, Monsieur Dick. That's not becoming--above all, in the presence of your spiritual adviser. However, you're excited, as I see, which is in some sense an excuse." "I beg your Reverence's pardon. I was a bit excited about something." He has calmed down a little at thought that things may not be so bad for him after all. The priest's last words, with his manner, seem to promise secrecy. Still further quieted as the latter continues: "Never mind about what. We can talk of it afterwards. As I've made you aware--more than once, if I rightly remember--there's no sin so great but that pardon may reach it--if repented and atoned for. On Thursday night you shall have an opportunity to make some atonement. So be there with the boat!" "I will, your Reverence, sure as my name's Richard Dempsey." Idle of him to be thus earnest in promising. He can be trusted to come as if led on a string. For he knows there is a halter around his neck, with one end of it in the hand of Father Rogier. "Enough!" returns the priest. "If there be anything else I think of communicating to you before Thursday, I'll come again--to-morrow night. So be at home. Meanwhile, see to securing the boat. Don't let there be any failure about that, _coûte que coûte_. And let me again enjoin silence--not a word to any one, even your friend Rob. _Verbum sapientibus!_ But as you're not much of a scholar, Monsieur Coracle, I suppose my Latin's lost on you. Putting it in your own vernacular, I mean: keep a close mouth, if you don't wish to wear a necktie of material somewhat coarser than either silk or cotton. You comprehend?" To the priest's satanical humour the poacher answers, with a sickly smile,-- "I do, Father Rogier--perfectly." "That's sufficient. And now, _mon bracconier_, I must be gone. Before starting out, however, I'll trench a little further on your hospitality. Just another drop, to defend me from these chill equinoctials." Saying which he leans towards the table, pours out a stoop of the brandy--best Cognac from the "Harp" it is--then quaffing it off, bids "bon soir!" and takes departure. Having accompanied him to the door, the poacher stands upon its threshold looking after, reflecting upon what has passed, anything but pleasantly. Never took he leave of a guest less agreeable. True, things are not quite so bad as he might have expected, and had reason to anticipate. And yet they are bad enough. He is in the toils--the tough, strong meshes of the criminal net, which at any moment may be drawn tight and fast around him; and between policeman and priest there is little to choose. For his own purposes the latter may allow him to live; but it will be as the life of one who has sold his soul to the devil! While thus gloomily cogitating, he hears a sound, which but makes still more sombre the hue of his thoughts. A voice comes pealing up the glen--a wild, wailing cry, as of some one in the extreme of distress. He can almost fancy it the shriek of a drowning woman. But his ears are too much accustomed to nocturnal sounds, and the voices of the woods, to be deceived. That heard was only a little unusual by reason of the rough night--its tone altered by the whistling of the wind. "Bah!" he exclaims, recognising the call of the screech owl, "it's only one o' them cursed brutes. What a fool fear makes a man!" And with this hackneyed reflection he turns back into the house, rebolts the door, and goes to his bed--not to sleep, but lie long awake, kept so by that same fear. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE GAME OF PIQUE. The sun has gone down upon Gwen Wynn's natal day--its twenty-first anniversary--and Llangorren Court is in a blaze of light, for a grand entertainment is there being given--a ball. The night is a dark one; but its darkness does not interfere with the festivities; instead, heightens their splendour, by giving effect to the illuminations. For although autumn, the weather is still warm, and the grounds are illuminated. Parti-coloured lamps are placed at intervals along the walks, and suspended in festoonery from the trees, while the casement windows of the house stand open, people passing in and out of them as if they were doors. The drawing-room is this night devoted to dancing; its carpet taken up, the floor made as slippery as a skating rink with beeswax--abominable custom! Though a large apartment, it does not afford space for half the company to dance in; and to remedy this, supplementary quadrilles are arranged on the smooth turf outside--a string and wind band from the neighbouring town making music loud enough for all. Besides, all do not care for the delightful exercise. A sumptuous spread in the dining-room, with wines at discretion, attracts a proportion of the guests; while there are others who have a fancy to go strolling about the lawn, even beyond the coruscation of the lamps; some who do not think it too dark anywhere, but the darker the better. The _elite_ of at least half the shire is present, and Miss Linton, who is still the hostess, reigns supreme in fine exuberance of spirits. Being the last entertainment at Llangorren over which she is officially to preside, one might imagine she would take things in a different way; but as she is to remain resident at the Court, with privileges but slightly, if at all, curtailed, she has no gloomy forecast of the future. Instead, on this night present she lives as in the past; almost fancies herself back at Cheltenham in its days of splendour, and dancing with the "first gentleman in Europe" redivivus. If her star be going down, it is going in glory, as the song of the swan is sweetest in its dying hour. Strange that on such a festive occasion, with its circumstances attendant, the old spinster, hitherto mistress of the mansion, should be happier than the younger one, hereafter to be! But, in truth so is it. Notwithstanding her great beauty and grand wealth--the latter no longer in prospective, but in actual possession--despite the gaiety and grandeur surrounding her, the friendly greetings and warm congratulations received on all sides--Gwen Wynn is herself anything but gay. Instead, sad, almost to wretchedness! And from the most trifling of causes, though not as by her estimated; little suspecting she has but herself to blame. It has arisen out of an episode, in love's history of common and very frequent occurrence--the game of pique. She and Captain Ryecroft are playing it, with all the power and skill they can command. Not much of the last, for jealousy is but a clumsy fencer. Though accounted keen, it is often blind as love itself; and were not both under its influence, they would not fail to see through the flimsy deceptions they are mutually practising on one another. In love with each other almost to distraction, they are this night behaving as though they were the bitterest enemies, or at all events, as friends sorely estranged. She began it; blamelessly, even with praiseworthy motive; which, known to him, no trouble could have come up between them. But when, touched with compassion for George Shenstone, she consented to dance with him several times consecutively, and in the intervals remained conversing--too familiarly, as Captain Ryecroft imagined--all this with an "engagement ring" on her finger, by himself placed upon it--not strange in him, thus _fiancé_ feeling a little jealous; no more that he should endeavour to make her the same. Strategy, old as hills, or hearts themselves. In his attempt he is, unfortunately, too successful; finding the means near by--an assistant willing and ready to his hand. This in the person of Miss Powell; she who went to church on the Sunday before in Jack Wingate's boat--a young lady so attractive as to make it a nice point whether she or Gwen Wynn be the attraction of the evening. Though only just introduced, the Hussar officer is not unknown to her by name, with some repute of his heroism besides. His appearance speaks for itself, making such impression upon the lady as to set her pencil at work inscribing his name on her card for several dances, round and square, in rapid succession. And so between him and Gwen Wynn the jealous feeling, at first but slightly entertained, is nursed and fanned into a burning flame--the green-eyed monster growing bigger as the night gets later. On both sides it reaches its maximum when Miss Wynn, after a waltz, leaning on George Shenstone's arm, walks out into the grounds, and stops to talk with him in a retired, shadowy spot. Not far off is Captain Ryecroft observing them, but too far to hear the words passing between. Were he near enough for this, it would terminate the strife raging in his breast, as the sham flirtation he is carrying on with Miss Powell--put an end to _her_ new-sprung aspirations, if she has any. It does as much for the hopes of George Shenstone--long in abeyance, but this night rekindled and revived. Beguiled, first by his partner's amiability in so oft dancing with, then afterwards using him as a foil, he little dreams that he is but being made a cat's-paw. Instead, drawing courage from the deception, emboldened as never before, he does what he never dared before--make Gwen Wynn a proposal of marriage. He makes it without circumlocution, at a single bound, as he would take a hedge upon his hunter. "Gwen! you know how I love you--would give my life for you! Will you be----" Only now he hesitates, as if his horse baulked. "Be what?" she asks, with no intention to help him over, but mechanically, her thoughts being elsewhere. "My wife?" She starts at the words, touched by his manly way, yet pained by their appealing earnestness, and the thought she must give denying response. And how is she to give it, with least pain to him? Perhaps the bluntest way will be the best. So thinking, she says,-- "George, it can never be. Look at that!" She holds out her left hand, sparkling with jewels. "At what?" he asks, not comprehending. "That ring." She indicates a cluster of brilliants, on the fourth finger, by itself, adding the word "Engaged." "O God!" he exclaims, almost in a groan. "Is that so?" "It is." For a time there is silence; her answer less maddening than making him sad. With a desperate effort to resign himself, he at length replies,-- "Dear Gwen! for I must still call you--ever hold you so--my life hereafter will be as one who walks in darkness, waiting for death--ah, longing for it!" Despair has its poetry, as love; oft exceeding the last in fervour of expression, and that of George Shenstone causes surprise to Gwen Wynn, while still further paining her. So much she knows not how to make rejoinder, and is glad when a _fanfare_ of the band instrument gives note of another quadrille--the Lancers--about to begin. Still engaged partners for the dance, but not to be for life, they return to the drawing-room, and join in it; he going through its figures with a sad heart and many a sigh. Nor is she less sorrowful--only more excited; nigh unto madness as she sees Captain Ryecroft _vis-à-vis_ with Miss Powell; on his face an expression of content, calm, almost cynical; hers radiant as with triumph! In this moment of Gwen Wynn's supreme misery--acme of jealous spite--were George Shenstone to renew his proposal, she might pluck the betrothal ring from her finger, and give answer, "I will!" It is not to be so, however weighty the consequences. In the horoscope of her life there is yet a heavier. CHAPTER XXIX. JEALOUS AS A TIGER. It is a little after two a.m., and the ball is breaking up. Not a very late hour, as many of the people live at a distance, and have a long drive homeward, over hilly roads. By the fashion prevailing a _galop_ brings the dancing to a close. The musicians, slipping their instruments into cases and baize bags, retire from the room; soon after deserted by all, save a spare servant or two, who make the rounds to look to extinguishing the lamps, with a sharp eye for waifs in the shape of dropped ribbons or _bijouterie_. Gentlemen guests stay longer in the dining-room over claret and champagne "cup," or the more time-honoured B. and S.; while in the hallway there is a crush, and on the stairs a stream of ladies, descending cloaked and hooded. Soon the crowd waxes thinner, relieved by carriages called up, quickly filling, and whirled off. That of Squire Powell is among them; and Captain Ryecroft, not without comment from certain officious observers, accompanies the young lady he has been so often dancing with to the door. Having seen her off with the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, he returns into the porch, and there for a while remains. It is a large portico, with Corinthian columns, by one of which he takes stand, in shadow. But there is a deeper shadow on his own brow, and a darkness in his heart, such as he has never in his life experienced. He feels how he has committed himself, but not with any remorse or repentance. Instead, the jealous anger is still within his breast, ripe and ruthless as ever. Nor is it so unnatural. Here is a woman--not Miss Powell, but Gwen Wynn--to whom he has given his heart--acknowledged the surrender, and in return had acknowledgment of hers--not only this, but offered his hand in marriage--placed the pledge upon her finger, she assenting and accepting--and now, in the face of all, openly, and before his face, engaged in flirtation! It is not the first occasion for him to have observed familiarities between her and the son of Sir George Shenstone; trifling, it is true, but which gave him uneasiness. But to-night things have been more serious, and the pain caused him all-imbuing and bitter. He does not reflect how he has been himself behaving. For to none more than the jealous lover is the big beam unobservable, while the little mote is sharply descried. He only thinks of her ill-behaviour, ignoring his own. If she has been but dissembling, coquetting with him, even that were reprehensible. Heartless, he deems it--sinister--something more, an indiscretion. Flirting while engaged--what might she do when married? He does not wrong her by such direct self-interrogation. The suspicion were unworthy of himself, as of her; and as yet he has not given way to it. Still her conduct seems inexcusable, as inexplicable; and to get explanation of it he now tarries, while others are hastening away. Not resolutely. Besides the half-sad, half-indignant expression upon his countenance, there is also one of indecision. He is debating within himself what course to pursue, and whether he will go off without bidding her good-bye. He is almost mad enough to be ill-mannered; and possibly, were it only a question of politeness, he would not stand upon, or be stayed by, it. But there is more. The very same spiteful rage hinders him from going. He thinks himself aggrieved, and, therefore, justifiable in demanding to know the reason--to use a slang, but familiar phrase "having it out." Just as he has reached this determination, an opportunity is offered him. Having taken leave of Miss Linton, he has returned to the door, where he stands hat in hand, his overcoat already on. Miss Wynn is now also there, bidding good-night to some guests--intimate friends--who have remained till the last. As they move off, he approaches her; she, as if unconsciously, and by the merest chance, lingering near the entrance. It is all pretence on her part, that she has not seen him dallying about; for she has several times, while giving _congè_ to others of the company. Equally feigned her surprise, as she returns his salute, saying,-- "Why, Captain Ryecroft! I supposed you were gone long ago!" "I am sorry, Miss Wynn, you should think me capable of such rudeness." "Captain Ryecroft" and "Miss Wynn," instead of "Vivian" and "Gwen"! It is a bad beginning, ominous of a worse ending. The rejoinder, almost a rebuke, places her at a disadvantage, and she says rather confusedly-- "Oh! certainly not, sir. But where there are so many people, of course one does not look for the formalities of leave-taking." "True; and, availing myself of that, I might have been gone long since, as you supposed, but for----" "For what?" "A word I wish to speak with you--alone. Can I?" "Oh, certainly." "Not here?" he asks suggestingly. She glances around. There are servants hurrying about through the hall, crossing and recrossing, with the musicians coming forth from the dining-room, where they have been making a clearance of the cold fowl, ham, and heel-taps. With quick intelligence comprehending, but without further speech, she walks out into the portico, he preceding. Not to remain there, where eyes would still be on them, and ears within hearing. She has an Indian shawl upon her arm--throughout the night carried while promenading--and again throwing it over her shoulders, she steps down upon the gravelled sweep, and on into the grounds. Side by side they proceed in the direction of the summer-house, as many times before, though never in the same mood as now; and never, as now, so constrained and silent--for not a word passes between them till they reach the pavilion. There is light in it. But a few hundred yards from the house, it came in for part of the illumination, and its lamps are not yet extinguished--only burning feebly. She is the first to enter--he to resume speech, saying,-- "There was a day, Miss Wynn, when, standing on this spot, I thought myself the happiest man in Herefordshire. Now I know it was but a fancy--a sorry hallucination." "I do not understand you, Captain Ryecroft!" "Oh, yes, you do. Pardon my contradicting you; you've given me reason." "Indeed! In what way? I beg, nay, demand, explanation." "You shall have it; though superfluous, I should think, after what has been passing--this night especially." "Oh! this night especially! I supposed you so much engaged with Miss Powell as not to have noticed anything or anybody else. What was it, pray?" "You understand, I take it, without need of my entering into particulars." "Indeed, I don't--unless you refer to my dancing with George Shenstone." "More than dancing with him--keeping his company all through!" "Not strange that, seeing I was left so free to keep it! Besides, as I suppose you know, his father was my father's oldest and most intimate friend." She makes this avowal condescendingly, observing he is really vexed, and thinking the game of contraries has gone far enough. He has given her a sight of his cards, and with the quick, subtle instinct of woman, she sees that among them Miss Powell is no longer chief trump. Were his perception as keen as hers, their jealous conflict would now come to a close, and between them confidence and friendship, stronger than ever, be restored. Unfortunately it is not to be. Still miscomprehending, yet unyielding, he rejoins sneeringly,-- "And I suppose your father's daughter is determined to continue that intimacy with his father's son, which might not be so very pleasant to him who should be your husband! Had I thought of that when I placed a ring upon your finger----" Before he can finish, she has plucked it off, and, drawing herself up to full height, says in bitter retort,-- "You insult me, sir! Take it back!" With the words, the gemmed circlet is flung upon the little rustic table, from which it rolls off. He has not been prepared for such abrupt issue, though his rude speech tempted it. Somewhat sorry, but still too exasperated to confess or show it, he rejoins defiantly,-- "If you wish it to end so, let it!" "Yes; let it!" They part without further speech. He, being nearest the door, goes out first, taking no heed of the diamond cluster which lies sparkling upon the floor. Neither does she touch, or think of it. Were it the Koh-i-noor, she would not care for it now. A jewel more precious--the one love of her life--is lost, cruelly crushed--and, with heart all but breaking, she sinks down upon the bench, draws the shawl over her face, and weeps till its rich silken tissue is saturated with her tears. The wild spasm passed, she rises to her feet, and stands leaning upon the baluster rail, looking out and listening. Still dark, she sees nothing, but hears the stroke of a boat's oars in measured and regular repetition--listens on till the sound becomes indistinct, blending with the sough of the river, the sighing of the breeze, and the natural voices of the night. She may never hear _his_ voice, never look on his face again! At the thought she exclaims, in anguished accent, "This the ending! It is too----" What she designed saying is not said. Her interrupted words are continued into a shriek--one wild cry--then her lips are sealed, suddenly, as if stricken dumb, or dead! Not by the visitation of God. Before losing consciousness, she felt the embrace of brawny arms--knew herself the victim of man's violence. CHAPTER XXX. STUNNED AND SILENT. Down in the boat-dock, upon the thwarts of his skiff, sits the young waterman awaiting his fare. He has been up to the house, and there hospitably entertained--feasted. But with the sorrow of his recent bereavement still fresh, the revelry of the servants' hall had no fascination for him--instead, only saddening him the more. Even the blandishments of the French _femme de chambre_ could not detain him; and fleeing them, he has returned to his boat long before he expects being called upon to use the oars. Seated, pipe in mouth--for Jack too indulges in tobacco--he is endeavouring to put in the time as well as he can; irksome at best with that bitter grief upon him. And it is present all the while, with scarce a moment of surcease, his thoughts ever dwelling on her who is sleeping her last sleep in the burying-ground at Rugg's Ferry. While thus disconsolately reflecting, a sound falls upon his ears which claims his attention, and for an instant or two occupies it. If anything, it was the dip of an oar; but so light that only one with ears well trained to distinguish noises of the kind could tell it to be that. He, however, has no doubt of it, muttering to himself,-- "Wonder whose boat can be on the river this time o' night--mornin', I ought to say? Wouldn't be a tourist party--starting off so early. No; can't be that. Like enough Dick Dempsey out a-salmon stealin'! The night so dark--just the sort for the rascal to be about on his unlawful business." While thus conjecturing, a scowl, dark as the night itself, flits over his own face. "Yes; a coracle!" he continues; "must 'a been the plash o' a paddle. If't had been a regular boat's oar, I'd a heerd the thumpin' against the thole pins." For once the waterman is in error. It is no paddle whose stroke he has heard, nor a coracle impelled by it; but a boat rowed by a pair of oars. And why there is no "thumpin' against the thole pins" is because the oars are muffled. Were he out in the main channel--two hundred yards above the byway--he would see the craft itself with three men in it. But only at that instant, as in the next it is headed into a bed of "witheys"--flooded by the freshet--and pushed on through them to the bank beyond. Soon it touches _terra firma_, the men spring _out_; two of them going off towards the grounds of Llangorren Court. The third remains by the boat. Meanwhile, Jack Wingate, in his skiff, continues listening; but hearing no repetition of the sound that had so slightly reached his ear, soon ceases to think of it, again giving way to his grief, as he returns to reflect on what lies in the chapel cemetery. If he but knew how near the two things were together--the burying-ground and the boat--he would not be long in his own. Relieved he is when at length voices are heard up at the house--calls for carriages--proclaiming the ball about to break up. Still more gratified, as the banging of doors, and the continuous rumble of wheels, tell of the company fast clearing off. For nigh half an hour the rattling is incessant; then there is a lull, and he listens for a sound of a different sort--a footfall on the stone stairs that lead down to the little dock--that of his fare, who may at any moment be expected. Instead of footsteps, he hears voices on the cliff above, off in the direction of the summer-house. Nothing to surprise him that. It is not the first time he has listened to the same, and under very similar circumstances; for soon as hearing he recognises them. But it is the first time for him to note their tone as it is now--to his astonishment that of anger. "They be quarrellin', I declare," he says to himself. "Wonder what for! Somethin' crooked's come between 'em at the ball--bit o' jealousy, maybe. I shudn't be surprised if it's about young Mr. Shenstone. Sure as eggs is eggs, the Captain have ugly ideas consarnin' him. He needn't though, an' wouldn't, if he seed through the eyes o' a sensible man. Course, bein' deep in love, he can't. I seed it long ago. She be mad about him as he o' her--if not madder. Well; I daresay it be only a lovers' quarrel, an'll soon blow over. Woe's me! I weesh----" He would say, "I weesh 'twar only that 'twixt myself an' Mary," but the words break upon his lips, while a scalding tear trickles down his cheek. Fortunately his anguished sorrow is not allowed further indulgence for the time. The footstep so long listened for is at length upon the boat stair; not firm, in its wonted way, but as though he making it were intoxicated! But Wingate does not believe it is that. He knows the Captain to be abstemious, or, at all events, not greatly given to drink. He has never seen him overcome by it; and surely he would not be, on this night in particular. Unless, indeed, it may have to do with the angry speech overheard, or the something thought of preceding it! The conjectures of the waterman are brought to an end by the arrival of his fare at the bottom of the boat stair, where he stops only to ask-- "Are you there, Jack?" The pitchy darkness accounts for the question. Receiving answer in the affirmative, he gropes his way along the ledge of rock, reeling like a drunken man. Not from drink, but the effects of that sharp, defiant rejoinder still ringing in his ears. He seems to hear, in every gust of the wind swirling down from the cliff above, the words, "Yes; let it!" He knows where the skiff should be--where it was left--beyond the pleasure boat. The dock is not wide enough for both abreast, and to reach his own he must go across the other--make a gang-plank of the _Gwendoline_. As he sets foot upon the thwarts of the pleasure craft, has he a thought of what were his feelings when he first planted it there, after ducking the Forest of Dean fellow? Or, stepping off, does he spurn the boat with angry heel, as in angry speech he has done her whose name it bears? Neither. He is too excited and confused to think of the past, or aught but the black, bitter present. Still staggering, he drops down upon the stern sheets of the skiff, commanding the waterman to shove off. A command promptly obeyed, and in silence. Jack can see the Captain is out of sorts, and, suspecting the reason, naturally supposes that speech at such time might not be welcome. He says nothing, therefore; but, bending to his oars, pulls on up the byway. Just outside its entrance a glimpse can be got of the little pavilion--by looking back. And Captain Ryecroft does this, over his shoulder; for, seated at the tiller, his face is from it. The light is still there, burning dimly as ever. For all, he is enabled to trace the outlines of a figure, in shadowy _silhouette_--a woman standing by the baluster rail, as if looking out over it. He knows who it is: it can only be Gwen Wynn. Well were it for both could he but know what she is at that moment thinking. If he did, back would go his boat, and the two again be together--perhaps never more to part in spite. Just then, as if ominous, and in spiteful protest against such consummation, the sombre sandstone cliff draws between, and Captain Ryecroft is carried onward, with heart dark and heavy as the rock. CHAPTER XXXI. A STARTLING CRY. During all this while Wingate has not spoken a word, though he also has observed the same figure in the pavilion. With face that way, he could not avoid noticing it, and easily guesses who she is. Had he any doubt, the behaviour of the other would remove it. "Miss Wynn, for sartin," he thinks to himself, but says nothing. Again turning his eyes upon his patron, he notes the distraught air, with head drooping, and feels the effect in having to contend against the rudder ill-directed. But he forbears making remark. At such a moment his interference might not be tolerated--perhaps resented. And so the silence continues. Not much longer. A thought strikes the waterman, and he ventures a word about the weather. It is done for a kindly feeling--for he sees how the other suffers--but in part because he has a reason for it. The observation is,-- "We're goin' to have the biggest kind o' a rain-pour, Captain." The Captain makes no immediate response. Still in the morose mood, communing with his own thoughts, the words fall upon his ear unmeaningly, as if from a distant echo. After a time it occurs to him he has been spoken to, and asks,-- "What did you observe, Wingate?" "That there be a rain storm threatenin', o' the grandest sort. There's flood enough now; but afore long it'll be all over the meadows." "Why do you think that? I see no sign. The sky's very much clouded, true; but it has been just the same for the last several days." "'Tain't the sky as tells me, Captain." "What then?" "The _heequall_." "The heequall?" "Yes; it's been a-cacklin' all through the afternoon and evenin'--especial loud just as the sun wor settin'. I nivir know'd it do that 'ithout plenty o' wet comin' soon after." Ryecroft's interest is aroused, and for the moment forgetting his misery, he says,-- "You're talking enigmas, Jack! At least, they are so to me. What is this barometer you seem to place such confidence in? Beast, bird, or fish?" "It be a bird, Captain. I believe the gentry folks calls it a woodpecker, but 'bout here it be more generally known by the name _heequall_." The orthography is according to Jack's orthoepy, for there are various spellings of the word. "Anyhow," he proceeds, "it gies warnin' o' rain, same as a weather-glass. When it ha' been laughin' in the mad way it wor most part o' this day, you may look out for a downpour. Besides, the owls ha' been a-doin' their best, too. While I wor waiting for ye in that darksome hole, one went sailin' up an' down the backwash, every now an' then swishin' close to my ear and giein' a screech--as if I hadn't enough o' the disagreeable to think o'. They allus come that way when one's feelin' out o' sorts--just as if they wanted to make things worse. Hark! D'd ye hear that, Captain?" "I did." They speak of a sound that has reached their ears from below--down the river. Both show agitation, but most the waterman; for it resembled a shriek, as of a woman in distress. Distant, just as one he heard across the wooded ridge, on that fatal night after parting with Mary Morgan. He knows now, that must have been her drowning cry, and has often thought since whether, if aware of it at the time, he could have done aught to rescue her. Not strange, that with such a recollection he is now greatly excited by a sound so similar! "That waren't no heequall, nor screech-owl neyther," he says, speaking in a half whisper. "What do you think it was?" asks the Captain, also _sotto voce_. "The scream o' a female. I'm 'most sure 'twor that." "It certainly did seem a woman's voice. In the direction of the Court, too!" "Yes; it comed that way." "I've half a mind to put back, and see if there be anything amiss. What say you, Wingate?" "Gie the word, sir! I'm ready." The boatman has his oars out of water, and holds them so, Ryecroft still undecided. Both listen with bated breath. But, whether woman's voice, or whatever the sound, they hear nothing more of it; only the monotonous ripple of the river, the wind mournfully sighing through the trees upon its banks, and a distant "brattle" of thunder, bearing out the portent of the bird. "Like as not," says Jack, "'twor some o' them sarvint girls screechin' in play, fra havin' had a drop too much to drink. There's a Frenchy thing among 'em as wor gone nigh three sheets i' the wind 'fores I left. I think, Captain, we may as well keep on." The waterman has an eye to the threatening rain, and dreads getting a wet jacket. But his words are thrown away; for, meanwhile, the boat, left to itself, has drifted downward, nearly back to the entrance of the byway, and they are once more within sight of the kiosk on the cliff. There all is darkness--no figure distinguishable. The lamps have burnt out, or been removed by some of the servants. "She has gone away from it," is Ryecroft's reflection to himself. "I wonder if the ring be still on the floor--or, has she taken it with her! I'd give something to know that." Beyond he sees a light in the upper window of the house--that of a bedroom, no doubt. She may be in it, unrobing herself, before retiring to rest. Perhaps standing in front of a mirror, which reflects that form of magnificent outline he was once permitted to hold in his arms, thrilled by the contact, and never to be thrilled so again! Her face in the glass--what the expression upon it? Sadness, or joy? If the former, she is thinking of him; if the latter, of George Shenstone. As this reflection flits across his brain, the jealous rage returns, and he cries out to the waterman,-- "Row back, Wingate! Pull hard, and let us home!" Once more the boat's head is turned upstream, and for a long spell no further conversation is exchanged--only now and then a word relating to the management of the craft, as between rower and steerer. Both have relapsed into abstraction--each dwelling on his own bereavement. Perhaps boat never carried two men with sadder hearts, or more bitter reflections. Nor is there so much difference in the degree of their bitterness. The sweetheart, almost bride, who has proved false, seems to her lover not less lost, than to hers, she who has been snatched away by death! As the _Mary_ runs into the slip of backwater--her accustomed mooring-place--and they step out of her, the dialogue is renewed by the owner asking,-- "Will ye want me the morrow, Captain?" "No, Jack." "How soon do you think? 'Scuse me for questionin'; but young Mr. Powell have been here the day, to know if I could take him an' a friend down the river, all the way to the Channel. It's for sea-fishin' or duck-shootin', or somethin' o' that sort; an' they want to engage the boat most part o' a week. But, if you say the word, they must look out for somebody else. That be the reason o' my askin' when's you'd need me again." "Perhaps never." "Oh! Captain; don't say that. 'Tan't as I care 'bout the boat's hire, or the big pay you've been givin' me. Believe me, it ain't. Ye can have me an' the _Mary_ 'ithout a sixpence o' expense--long's ye like. But to think I'm niver to row you again, that 'ud vex me dreadful--maybe more'n ye gi'e me credit for, Captain." "More than I give you credit for! It couldn't, Jack. We've been too long together for me to suppose you actuated by mercenary motives. Though I may never need your boat again, or see yourself, don't have any fear of my forgetting you. And now, as a souvenir, and some slight recompense of your services, take this." The waterman feels a piece of paper pressed into his hand, its crisp rustle proclaiming it a bank-note. It is a "tenner," but in the darkness he cannot tell, and believing it only a "fiver," still thinks it too much; for it is all extra of his fare. With a show of returning it, and, indeed, the desire to do so, he says protestingly,-- "I can't take it, Captain. You ha' paid me too handsome arready." "Nonsense, man! I haven't done anything of the kind. Besides, that isn't for boat-hire, nor yourself; only a little _douceur_, by way of present to the good dame inside the cottage--asleep, I take it." "That case, I accept. But won't my mother be grieved to hear o' your goin' away--she thinks so much o' ye, Captain. Will ye let me wake her up? I'm sure she'd like to speak a partin' word, and thank you for this big gift." "No, no! don't disturb the dear old lady. In the morning you can give her my kind regards and parting compliments. Say to her, when I return to Herefordshire--if I ever do--she shall see me. For yourself, take my word, should I ever again go rowing on this river, it will be in a boat called the _Mary_, pulled by the best waterman on the Wye." Modest though Jack Wingate be, he makes no pretence of misunderstanding the recondite compliment, but accepts it in its fullest sense, rejoining,-- "I'd call it flattery, Captain, if't had come from anybody but you. But I know ye never talk nonsense, an' that's just why I be so sad to hear ye say you're goin' off for good. I feeled so bad 'bout losin' poor Mary; it makes it worse now losin' you. Good-night!" The Hussar officer has a horse, which has been standing in a little lean-to shed, under saddle. The lugubrious dialogue has been carried on simultaneously with the bridling, and the "Good-night" is said as Ryecroft springs up on his stirrup. Then as he rides away into the darkness, and Jack Wingate stands listening to the departing hoof-stroke, at each repetition more indistinct, he feels indeed forsaken, forlorn; only one thing in the world now worth living for--but one to keep him anchored to life--his aged mother! CHAPTER XXXII. MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD. Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep, but stays awake for the remainder of the night. The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his _impedimenta_, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light, according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old campaigner, he is not long in making ready for the _route_. His fishing tackle, guncase and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded--after which he takes a seat by a table to write out the labels. But now a difficulty occurs to him--the address. His name, of course; but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the Wye. There is no Lethe in that stream for memories like his. To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he ceased to be a soldier, having resigned his commission at the expiration of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "Court" and the grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon-fisher, but put an end to his military career. Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the last ten years of his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place; but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead, his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them, as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India, he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present. Whither then? One place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home itself--the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another metropolis--the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and fashion--Maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the trial, and he will make it. So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "London" on the labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering. Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks best upon his back; better still with a cigar between his teeth--powerful help to reflection. Aware of this Captain Ryecroft lights a "weed," and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment, where, beside the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cushion and squab hard as stones--the orthodox hotel article. Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too; for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room for speculations of the future. The "fond rage of love" is still active within him. It is to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all winters?" Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not. "Never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon returning it, to continue the train of his reflections. Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his thoughts after a time became more tranquillized--their hue sensibly changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him. "After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be pitied than she." As in ocean's storm, between the rough, surging billows, foam-crested, are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_, assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented, ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So reversed his sentiments now--modified from mad anger to gentle forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again! But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices in conversation under his window. It is a bit of a gossip between two stable-men--_attachés_ of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver. "Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?" says the former inquiringly. "Ah! that ye may say," returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "Never knowed a bigger, s'help me. Wine runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't too. I'm so full o' French champagne, I feel most like burstin'." "She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An't she?" "In course is--one of the grandest. But she an't going to be a _girl_ long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be broke into pair-horse harness." "Wi' who?" "The son o' Sir George Shenstone." "A good match they'll make, I sh'd say. Tidier chap than he never stepped inside this yard. Many's the time he's tipped me." There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it; the men have moved off beyond ear shot. In all likelihood he would not have listened had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other words--that last spiteful rejoinder, "Yes; let it." His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slip of parchment,-- _Mr. Vivian Ryecroft,_ _Passenger to London._ _G.W.R._ He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion, again leading him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting inconsiderately--rashly. In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to him--he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that. Only a test letter to draw her out, and, if possible, discover how she too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer--if he receive one--will depend whether it is to be the last. With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of note-paper towards him. It bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an address--only the date. This done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should say. The larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt brevity, he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning despatch. With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes-- _Miss Wynn,_ _Llangorren Court_. Then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the letter to be dropped into the post-box. He knows it will reach her that same day at an early hour, and its answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. It might that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to which he is going--as his letter tells, the "Langham, London." And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman along hilly roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the G.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis. CHAPTER XXXIII. A SLUMBERING HOUSEHOLD. As calm succeeds a storm, so at Llangorren Court on the morning after the ball there was quietude--up to a certain hour more than common. The domestics justifying themselves by the extra services of the preceding night, lie late. Outside is stirring only the gardener with an assistant, at his usual work, and in the yard a stable help or two looking after the needs of the horses. The more important functionaries of this department--coachman and headgroom--still slumber, dreaming of champagne bottles brought back to the servants' hall three parts full, with but half-demolished pheasants, and other fragmentary delicacies. Inside the house, things are on a parallel; there only a scullery and kitchen maid astir. The higher class servitors availing themselves of the license allowed, are still abed, and it is ten as butler, cook, and footman make their appearance, entering on their respective _rôles_ yawningly, and with reluctance. There are two lady's-maids in the establishment--the little French demoiselle attached to Miss Linton, and an English damsel of more robust build, whose special duties are to wait upon Miss Wynn. The former lies late on all days, her mistress not requiring early manipulation; but the maid, "native and to the manner born," is wont to be up betimes. This morning is an exception. After such a night of revelry, slumber holds her enthralled, as in a trance; and she is abed late as any of the others, sleeping like a dormouse. As her dormitory window looks out upon the back yard, the stable clock, a loud striker, at length awakes her--not in time to count the strokes, but a glance at the dial gives her the hour. While dressing herself, she is in a flutter, fearing rebuke--not for having slept so late, but because of having gone to sleep so early. The dereliction of duty, about which she is so apprehensive, has reference to a spell of slumber antecedent--taken upon a sofa in her young mistress's dressing-room. There awaiting Miss Wynn to assist in disrobing her after the ball, the maid dropped over and forgot everything--only remembering who she was, and what her duties, when too late to attend to them. Starting up from the sofa, and glancing at the mantel timepiece, she saw, with astonishment, its hands pointing to half-past 4 a.m.! Reflection following:-- "Miss Gwen must be in bed by this! Wonder why she didn't wake me up? Rang no bell? Surely I'd have heard it? If she did, and I haven't answered--well, the dear young lady's just the sort not to make any ado about it. I suppose she thought I'd gone to my room, and didn't wish to disturb me? But how could she think that? Besides, she must have passed through here, and seen me on the sofa!" The dressing-room is an ante-chamber of Miss Wynn's sleeping apartment. "She mightn't though,"--the contradiction suggested by the lamp burning low and dim. "Still, it _is_ strange, her not calling me, nor requiring my attendance?" Gathering herself up, the girl stands for a while in cogitation. The result is a move across the carpeted floor in soft, stealthy step, and an ear laid close to the keyhole of the bed-chamber door. "Sound asleep! I can't go in now. Mustn't--I daren't awake her." Saying which, the negligent attendant slips to her own sleeping room, a flight higher; and in ten minutes after, is herself once more in the arms of Morpheus; this time retained in them till released, as already said, by the tolling of the stable clock. Conscious of unpardonable remissness, she dresses in careless haste--any way, to be in time for attendance on her mistress, at morning toilet. Her first move is to hurry down to the kitchen, get the can of hot water, and take it up to Miss Wynn's sleeping room. Not to enter, but tap at the door and leave it. She does the tapping; and, receiving no response nor summons from inside, concludes that the young lady is still asleep and not to be disturbed. It is a standing order of the house, and, pleased to be precise in its observance--never more than on this morning--she sets down the painted can, and hurries back to the kitchen, soon after taking her seat by a breakfast table, unusually well spread, for the time to forget about her involuntary neglect of duty. The first of the family proper appearing downstairs is Eleanor Lees; she, too, much behind her accustomed time. Notwithstanding, she has to find occupation for nearly an hour before any of the others join her; and she endeavours to do this by perusing a newspaper which has come by the morning post. With indifferent success. It is a Metropolitan daily, having but little in it to interest her, or indeed any one else; almost barren of news, as if its columns were blank. Three or four long-winded "leaders," the impertinent outpourings of irresponsible anonymity; reports of Parliamentary speeches, four-fifths of them not worth reporting; chatter of sham statesmen, with their drivellings at public dinners; "Police intelligence," in which there is half a column devoted to Daniel Driscoll, of the Seven Dials, how he blackened the eye of Bridget Sullivan, and bit off Pat Kavanagh's ear, a _crim. con._ or two in all their prurience of detail; Court intelligence, with its odious plush and petty paltriness--this is the pabulum of a "London Daily" even the leading one supplies to its easily satisfied _clientèle_ of readers! Scarce a word of the world's news, scarce a word to tell of its real life and action--how beats the pulse, or thrills the heart of humanity! If there be anything in England half a century behind the age, it is its Metropolitan Press--immeasurably inferior to the Provincial. No wonder the "companion"--educated lady--with only such a sheet for her companion, cannot kill time for even so much as an hour. Ten minutes were enough to dispose of all its contents worth glancing at. And after glancing at them, Miss Lees drops the bald broadsheet--letting it fall to the floor to be scratched by the claws of a playful kitten--about all it is worth. Having thus settled scores with the newspaper, she hardly knows what next to do. She has already inspected the superscription of the letters, to see if there be any for herself. A poor, fortuneless girl, of course her correspondence is limited, and there is none. Two or three for Miss Linton, with quite half a dozen for Gwen. Of these last is one in a handwriting she recognises--knows it to be from Captain Ryecroft, even without the hotel stamp to aid identification. "There was a coolness between them last night," remarks Miss Lees to herself, "if not an actual quarrel; to which, very likely, this letter has reference. If I were given to making wagers, I'd bet that it tells of his repentance. So soon, though! It must have been written after he got back to his hotel, and posted to catch the early delivery." "What!" she exclaims, taking up another letter, and scanning the superscription. "One from George Shenstone, too! It, I dare say, is in a different strain, if that I saw----Ha!" she ejaculates, instinctively turning to the window, and letting go Mr. Shenstone's epistle, "William! Is it possible--so early?" Not only possible, but an accomplished fact. The reverend gentleman is inside the gates of the park, sauntering on towards the house. She does not wait for him to ring the bell, or knock; but meets him at the door, herself opening it. Nothing _outre_ in the act, on a day succeeding a night, with everything upside down, and the domestic, whose special duty it is to attend to door-opening, out of the way. Into the morning-room Mr. Musgrave is conducted, where the table is set for breakfast. He oft comes for luncheon, and Miss Lees knows he will be made equally welcome to the earlier meal; all the more to-day, with its heavier budget of news, and grander details of gossip, which Miss Linton will be expecting and delighted to revel in. Of course the curate has been at the ball; but, like "Slippery Sam," erst Bishop of Oxford, not much in the dancing room. For all, he, too, has noticed certain peculiarities in the behaviour of Miss Wynn to Captain Ryecroft, with others having reference to the son of Sir George Shenstone--in short, a triangular play he but ill understood. Still, he could tell by the straws, as they blew about, that they were blowing adversely; though what the upshot, he is yet ignorant, having, as became his cloth, forsaken the scene of revelry at a respectably early hour. Nor does he now care to inquire into it, any more than Miss Lees to respond to such interrogation. Their own affair is sufficient for the time; and engaging in an amorous duel of the milder type--so different from the stormy, passionate combat between Gwendoline Wynn and Vivian Ryecroft--they forget all about these--even their existence--as little remembering that of George Shenstone. For a time there are but two individuals in the world of whom either has a thought--one Eleanor Lees, the other William Musgrave. CHAPTER XXXIV. "WHERE'S GWEN?" Not for long are the companion and curate permitted to carry on the confidential dialogue, in which they had become interested. Too disagreeably soon is it interrupted by a third personage appearing upon the scene. Miss Linton has at length succeeded in dragging herself out of the embrace of the somnolent divinity, and enters the breakfast room, supported by her French _femme de chambre_. Graciously saluting Mr. Musgrave, she moves towards the table's head, where an antique silver urn sends up its curling steam--flanked by tea and coffee pot, with contents already prepared for pouring into their respectively shaped cups. Taking her seat, she asks: "Where's Gwen?" "Not down yet," meekly responds Miss Lees; "at least, I haven't seen anything of her." "Ah! she beats us all to-day," remarks the ancient toast of Cheltenham, "in being late," she adds, with a laugh at her little _jeu d'esprit_. "Usually such an early riser, too. I don't remember having ever been up before her. Well, I suppose she's fatigued, poor thing!--quite done up. No wonder, after dancing so much, and with everybody." "Not everybody, aunt!" says her companion, with a significant emphasis on the everybody. "There was one gentleman she never danced with all the night. Wasn't it a little strange?" This in a whisper, and aside. "Ah! true. You mean Captain Ryecroft?" "Yes." "It was a little strange. I observed it myself. She seemed distant with him, and he with her. Have you any idea of the reason, Nelly?" "Not in the least. Only I fancy something must have come between them." "The usual thing; lovers' tiff, I suppose. Ah, I've seen a great many of them in my time. How silly men and women are--when they're in love! Are they not, Mr. Musgrave?" The curate answers in the affirmative, but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself. "Of the two," proceeds the garrulous spinster, "men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!" she exclaims, contradicting herself--"when I think of it, no. I've seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about Beau Brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! Beau Brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! Ha! ha! ha!" There is a _soupçon_ of spleen in the tone of Miss Linton's laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy. "What could be more ridiculous?" she goes on. "When one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. Well," taking hold of the _cafetière_, and filling her cup, "it's time for that young lady to be downstairs. If she hasn't been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. Bless me," glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, "it's after eleven, Clarisse," to the _femme de chambre_, still in attendance; "tell Miss Wynn's maid to say to her mistress we're waiting breakfast. _Veet, tray veet!_" she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but Parisian. Off trips the French demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, Miss Wynn's maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. It is the English damsel who delivers it in the vernacular. "Miss Gwen isn't in her room; nor hasn't been all the night long." Miss Linton is in the act of removing the top from a guinea-fowl's egg, as the maid makes the announcement. Were it a bomb bursting between her fingers, the surprise could not be more sudden or complete. Dropping egg and cup, in stark astonishment, she demands: "What do you mean, Gibbons?" Gibbons is the girl's name. "Oh, ma'am! just what I've said." "Say it again. I can't believe my ears." "That Miss Gwen hasn't slept in her room." "And where has she slept?" "The goodness only knows." "But you ought to know. You're her maid--you undressed her." "I did not, I am sorry to say," stammered out the girl, confused and self-accused; "very sorry I didn't." "And why didn't you, Gibbons? Explain that." Thus brought to book, the peccant Gibbons confesses to what has occurred in all its details. No use concealing aught--it must come out anyhow. "And you're quite sure she has not slept in her room?" interrogates Miss Linton, as yet unable to realize a circumstance so strange and unexpected. "Oh, yes, ma'am. The bed hasn't been lied upon by anybody--neither sheets or coverlet disturbed. And there's her nightdress over the chair, just as I laid it out for her." "Very strange," exclaims Miss Linton; "positively alarming." For all, the old lady is not alarmed yet--at least, not to any great degree. Llangorren Court is a "house of many mansions," and can boast of a half-score spare bedrooms. And she, now its mistress, is a creature of many caprices. Just possible she has indulged in one after the dancing--entered the first sleeping apartment that chanced in her way, flung herself on a bed or sofa in her ball dress, fallen asleep, and is there still slumbering. "Search them all!" commands Miss Linton, addressing a variety of domestics, whom the ringing of bells has brought around her. They scatter off in different directions, Miss Lees along with them. "It's very extraordinary. Don't you think so?" This to the curate, the only one remaining in the room with her. "I do, decidedly. Surely no harm has happened her. I trust not. How could there?" "True, how? Still, I'm a little apprehensive, and won't feel satisfied till I see her. How my heart does palpitate, to be sure!" She lays her spread palm over the cardiac region, with an expression less of pain, than the affectation of it. "Well, Eleanor," she calls out to the companion, re-entering the room with Gibbons behind. "What news?" "Not any, aunt." "And you really think she hasn't slept in her room?" "Almost sure she hasn't. The bed, as Gibbons told you, has never been touched, nor the sofa. Besides, the dress she wore last night isn't there." "Nor anywhere else, ma'am," puts in the maid; about such matters specially intelligent. "As you know, 'twas the sky-blue silk, with blonde lace over-skirt, and flower-de-loose on it. I've looked everywhere, and can't find a thing she had on--not so much as a ribbon!" The other searchers are now returning in rapid succession, all with a similar tale. No word of the missing one--neither sign nor trace of her. At length the alarm is serious and real, reaching fever height. Bells ring, and servants are sent in every direction. They go rushing about, no longer confining their search to the sleeping apartments, but extending it to rooms where only lumber has place--to cellars almost unexplored, garrets long unvisited, everywhere. Closet and cupboard doors are drawn open, screens dashed aside, and panels parted, with keen glances sent through the chinks. Just as in the baronial castle, and on that same night when young Lovel lost his "own fair bride." And while searching for their young mistress, the domestics of Llangorren Court have the romantic tale in their minds. Not one of them but knows the fine old song of the "Mistletoe Bough." Male and female--all have heard it sung in that same house, at every Christmas-tide, under the "kissing bush," where the pale green branch and its waxen berries were conspicuous. It needs not the mystic memory to stimulate them to zealous exertions. Respect for their young mistress--with many of them almost adoration--is enough; and they search as if for sister, wife, or child, according to their feelings and attachments. In vain--all in vain. Though certain that no "old oak chest" inside the walls of Llangorren Court encloses a form destined to become a skeleton, they cannot find Gwen Wynn. Dead or living, she is not in the house. CHAPTER XXXV. AGAIN THE ENGAGEMENT RING. The first hurried search, with its noisy excitement, proving fruitless, there follows an interregnum calmer with suspended activity. Indeed, Miss Linton directs it so. Now convinced that her niece has really disappeared from the place, she thinks it prudent to deliberate before proceeding further. She has no thought that the young lady has acted otherwise than of her own will. To suppose her carried off is too absurd--a theory not to be entertained for an instant. And having gone so, the questions are, why, and whither? After all, it may be, that at the ball's departing, moved by a mad prank, she leaped into the carriage of some lady friends, and was whirled home with them, just in the dress she had been dancing in. With such an impulsive creature as Gwen Wynn, the freak was not improbable. Nor is there any one to say nay. In the bustle and confusion of departure, the other domestics were busy with their own affairs, and Gibbons sound asleep. And if true, a "hue and cry" raised and reaching the outside world would at least beget ridicule, if it did not cause absolute scandal. To avoid this, the servants are forbidden to go beyond the confines of the Court, or carry any tale outward--for the time. Beguiled by this hopeful belief, Miss Linton, with the companion assisting, scribbles off a number of notes, addressed to the head of three or four families in whose houses her niece must have so abruptly elected to take refuge for the night--merely to ask if such was the case, the question couched in phrase guarded, and as possible suggestive. These are dispatched by trusted messengers, cautioned to silence; Mr. Musgrave himself volunteering a round of calls at other houses, to make personal inquiry. This matter settled, the old lady waits the result, though without any very sanguine expectations of success. For another theory has presented itself to her mind--that Gwen has run away with Captain Ryecroft! Improbable as the thing might appear, Miss Linton, nevertheless for a while has faith in it. It was as she might have done some forty years before, had she but met the right man--such as he. And measuring her niece by the same romantic standard--with Gwen's capriciousness thrown into the account--she ignores everything else; even the absurdity of such a step from its sheer causelessness. That to her is of little weight; no more the fact of the young lady taking flight in a thin dress, with only a shawl upon her shoulders. For Gibbons, called upon to give an account of her wardrobe, has taken stock, and found everything in its place--every article of her mistress's drapery save the blue silk dress and Indian shawl--hats and bonnets hung up or in their boxes, but all there, proving her to have gone off bareheaded? Not the less natural, reasons Miss Linton--instead, only a component part in the chapter of contrarieties. So, too, the coolness observed between the betrothed sweethearts throughout the preceding night--their refraining from partnership in the dances--all dissembling on their part, possibly to make the surprise of the after event more piquant and complete. So runs the imagination of the novel-reading spinster, fresh and fervid as in her days of girlhood--passing beyond the trammels of reason--leaving the bounds of probability. But her theory is short-lived. It receives a death blow from a letter which Miss Lees brings under her notice. It is that superscribed in the handwriting of Captain Ryecroft, which the companion had for the time forgotten; she having no thought that it would have anything to do with the young lady's disappearance. And the letter proves that he can have nothing to do with it. The hotel stamp, the post-mark, the time of deposit and delivery are all understood, all contributing to show it must have been posted, if not written, that same morning. Were she with him, it would not be there. Down goes the castle of romance Miss Linton has been constructing--wrecked--scattered as a house of cards. It is quite possible that letter contains something that would throw light upon the mystery, perhaps clear all up; and the old lady would like to open it. But she may not--dare not. Gwen Wynn is not one to allow tampering with her correspondence; and as yet her aunt cannot realize the fact--nor even entertain the supposition--that she is gone for good and for ever. As time passes, however, and the different messengers return, with no news of the missing lady--Mr. Musgrave is also back without tidings--the alarm is renewed, and search again set up. It extends beyond the precincts of the house, and the grounds already explored, off into woods and fields, along the banks of river and byewash, everywhere that offers a likelihood, the slightest, of success. But neither in wood, spinney, or coppice can they find traces of Gwen Wynn; all "draw blank," as George Shenstone would say of a cover where no fox is found. And just as this result is reached, that gentleman himself steps upon the ground to receive a shock such as he has rarely experienced. The news communicated is a surprise to him, for he has arrived at the Court, knowing nought of the strange incident which has occurred. He has come thither on an afternoon call, not altogether dictated by ceremony. Despite all that has passed--what Gwen Wynn told him, what she showed holding up her hand--he does not even yet despair. Who so circumstanced ever does? What man in love, profoundly, passionately as he, could believe his last chance eliminated, or have his ultimate hope extinguished? He had not. Instead, when bidding adieu to her after the ball, he felt some revival of it, several causes having contributed to its rekindling. Among others, her gracious behaviour to himself, so gratifying; but more, her distant manner towards his rival, which he could not help observing, and saw with secret satisfaction. And still thus reflecting on it, he enters the gates at Llangorren, to be stunned by the strange intelligence there awaiting him--Miss Wynn missing! gone away! run away! perhaps carried off! lost! and cannot be found! For in these varied forms, and like variety of voices, is it conveyed to him. Needless to say, he joins in the search with ardour, but distractedly, suffering all the sadness of a torn and harrowed heart. But to no purpose; no result to soothe or console him. His skill at drawing a cover is of no service here. It is not for a fox "stole away," leaving hot scent behind; but a woman goes without print of foot or trace to indicate the direction, without word left to tell the cause of departure. Withal, George Shenstone continues to seek for her long after the others have desisted. For his views differ from those entertained by Miss Linton, and his apprehensions are of a keener nature. He remains at the Court throughout the evening, making excursions into the adjacent woods, searching, and again exploring everywhere. None of the servants think it strange; all know of his intimate relations with the family. Mr. Musgrave remains also; both of them asked to stay dinner--a meal this day eaten _sans façon_, in haste, and under agitation. When, after it, the ladies retire to the drawing-room--the curate along with them--George Shenstone goes out again, and over the grounds. It is now night, and the darkness lures him on; for it was in such she disappeared. And although he has no expectation of seeing her there, some vague thought has drifted into his mind, that in darkness he may better reflect, and something be suggested to avail him. He strays on to the boat stair, looks down into the dock, and there sees the _Gwendoline_ at her moorings. But he thinks only of the other boat, which, as he now knows, on the night before lay alongside her. Has it indeed carried away Gwen Wynn? He fancies it has--he can hardly have a doubt of it. How else is her disappearance to be accounted for? But has she been borne off by force, or went she willingly? These are the questions which perplex him; the conjectured answer to either causing him keenest anxiety. After remaining a short while on the top of the stair, he turns away with a sigh, and saunters on towards the pavilion. Though under the shadow of its roof the obscurity is complete, he, nevertheless, enters and sits down. He is fatigued with the exertions of the afternoon, and the strain upon his nerves through the excitement. Taking a cigar from his case and nipping off the end, he rasps a fusee to light it. But before the blue fizzing blaze dims down, he drops the cigar to clutch at an object on the floor, whose sparkle has caught his eye. He succeeds in getting hold of it, though not till the fusee has ceased flaming. But he needs no light to tell him what he has got in his hand. He knows it is that which so pained him to see on one of Gwen Wynn's fingers--the engagement ring! CHAPTER XXXVI. A MYSTERIOUS EMBARKATION. Not in vain had the green woodpecker given out its warning note. As Jack Wingate predicted from it, soon after came a downpour of rain. It was raining as Captain Ryecroft returned to his hotel, as at intervals throughout that day; and now on the succeeding night it is again sluicing down as from a shower-bath. The river is in full flood, its hundreds of affluents, from Plinlimmon downward, having each contributed its quota, till Vaga, usually so pure, limpid, and tranquil, rolls on in vast turbulent volume, muddy and maddened. There is a strong wind as well, whose gusts, now and then striking the water's surface, lash it into furrows with white frothy crests. On the Wye this night there would be danger for any boat badly manned or unskilfully steered. And yet a boat is about to embark upon it--one which throughout the afternoon has been lying moored in a little branch stream that runs in opposite the lands of Llangorren, a tributary supplied by the dingle in which stands the dwelling of Richard Dempsey. It is the same near whose mouth the poacher and the priest were seen by Gwen Wynn and Eleanor Lees on the day of their remarkable adventure with the forest roughs. And almost in the same spot is the craft now spoken of; no coracle, however, but a regular pair-oared boat of a kind in common use among Wye watermen. It is lying with bow on the bank, its painter attached to a tree, whose branches extend over it. During the day no one has been near it, and it is not likely that any one has observed it. Some little distance up the brook, and drawn well in under the spreading boughs, that, almost touching the water, darkly shadow the surface, it is not visible from the river's channel: while, along the edge of the rivulet, there is no thoroughfare, nor path of any kind. No more a landing-place where boat is accustomed to put in or remain at moorings. That now there has evidently been brought thither for some temporary purpose. Not till after the going down of the sun is this declared. Then, just as the purple of twilight is changing to the inky blackness of night, and another dash of rain clatters on the already saturated foliage, three men are seen moving among the trees that grow thick along the streamlet's edge. They seem not to mind it, although pouring down in torrents; for they have come through the dell, as from Dempsey's house, and are going in the direction of the boat, where there is no shelter. But if they regard not getting wet,--something they do regard; else why should they observe such caution in their movements, and talk in subdued voices? All the more strange this, in a place where there is so little likelihood of their being overheard, or encountering any one to take note of their proceedings. It is only between two of them that conversation is carried on; the third walking far in advance, beyond earshot of speech in the ordinary tone; besides, the noise of the tempest would hinder his hearing them. Therefore, it cannot be on his account they converse guardedly. More likely their constraint is due to the solemnity of the subject; for solemn it is, as their words show. "They'll be sure to find the body in a day or two. Possibly to-morrow, or, if not, very soon. A good deal will depend on the state of the river. If this flood continue, and the water remain discoloured as now, it may be several days before they light on it. No matter when; your course is clear, Monsieur Murdock." "But what do you advise my doing, _Père_? I'd like you to lend me your counsel--give me minute directions about everything." "In the first place, then, you must show yourself on the other side of the water, and take an active part in the search. Such a near relative, as you are, 'twould appear strange if you didn't. All the world may not be aware of the little tiff--rather prolonged though--that's been between you. And if it were, your keeping away on such an occasion would give cause for greater scandal. Spite so rancorous! that of itself should excite curious thoughts--suspicions. Naturally enough. A man, whose own cousin is mysteriously missing, not caring to know what has become of her! And when knowing--when 'Found drowned,' as she will be--not to show either sympathy or sorrow! _Ma foi!_ they might mob you if you didn't!" "That's true enough," grunts Murdock, thinking of the respect in which his cousin is held, and her great popularity throughout the neighbourhood. "You advise my going over to Llangorren?" "Decidedly I do. Present yourself there to-morrow, without fail. You may make the hour reasonably late, saying that the sinister intelligence has only just reached you at Glyngog--out of the way as it is. You'll find plenty of people at the Court on your arrival. From what I've learnt this afternoon, through my informant resident there, they'll be hot upon the search to-morrow. It would have been more earnest to-day, but for that quaint old creature with her romantic notions; the latest of them, as Clarisse tells me, that Mademoiselle had run away with the Hussar! But it appears a letter has reached the Court in his handwriting, which put a different construction on the affair, proving to them it could be no elopement--at least, with him. Under these circumstances, then, to-morrow morning, soon as the sun is up, there'll be a hue and cry all over the country; so loud you couldn't fail to hear, and will be expected to have a voice in it. To do that effectually, you must show yourself at Llangorren, and in good time." "There's sense in what you say. You're a very Solomon, Father Rogier. I'll be there, trust me. Is there anything else you think of?" The Jesuit is for a time silent, apparently in deep thought. It is a ticklish game the two are playing, and needs careful consideration, with cautious action. "Yes," he at length answers. "There are a good many other things I think of; but they depend upon circumstances not yet developed by which you will have to be guided. And you must yourself, M'ssieu, as you best can. It will be quite four days, if not more, ere I can get back. They may even find the body to-morrow--if they should think of employing drags, or other searching apparatus. Still, I fancy, 'twill be some time before they come to a final belief in her being drowned. Don't you on any account suggest it. And should there be such search, endeavour, in a quiet way, to have it conducted in any direction but the right one. The longer before fishing the thing up, the better it will be for our purposes: you comprehend?" "I do." "When found, as it must be in time, you will know how to show becoming grief; and, if opportunity offer, you may throw out a hint having reference to _Le Capitaine Ryecroft_. His having gone away from his hotel this morning, no one knows why or whither--decamping in such haste too--that will be sure to fix suspicion upon him--possibly have him pursued and arrested as the murderer of Miss Wynn! Odd succession of events, is it not?" "It is indeed." "Seems as if the very Fates were in a conspiracy to favour our design. If we fail now, 'twill be our own fault. And that reminds me there should be no waste of time--must not. One hour of this darkness may be worth an age--or, at all events, ten thousand pounds per annum. _Allons! vite-vite?_" He steps briskly onward, drawing his caped cloak closer to protect him from the rain, now running in rivers down the drooping branches of the trees. Murdock follows; and the two, delayed by a dialogue of such grave character, draw closer to the third who had gone ahead. They do not overtake him, however, till after he has reached the boat, and therein deposited a bundle he has been bearing--of weight sufficient to make him stagger, where the ground was rough and uneven. It is a package of irregular oblong shape, and such size, that, laid along the boat's bottom timbers, it occupies most part of the space forward of the mid-thwart. Seeing that he who has thus disposed of it is Coracle Dick, one might believe it poached salmon, or land game now in season in the act of being transported to some receiver of such commodities. But the words spoken by the priest as he comes up forbid this belief: they are an interrogatory:-- "Well, _mon bracconier_; have you stowed my luggage?" "It's in the boat, Father Rogier." "And all ready for starting?" "The minute your reverence steps in." "So, well! And now, M'ssieu," he adds, turning to Murdock, and again speaking in undertone, "if you play _your_ part skilfully, on return I may find you in a fair way of getting installed as the Lord of Llangorren. Till then, adieu!" Saying which, he steps over the boat's side, and takes seat in its stern. Shoved off by sinewy arms, it goes brushing out from under the branches, and is rapidly drifted down towards the river. Lewin Murdock is left standing on the brook's edge, free to go what way he wishes. Soon he starts off, not on return to the empty domicile of the poacher, nor yet direct to his own home: but first to the Welsh Harp--there to gather the gossip of the day, and learn whether the startling tale, soon to be told, has yet reached Rugg's Ferry. CHAPTER XXXVII. AN ANXIOUS WIFE. Inside Glyngog House is Mrs. Murdock, alone, or with only the two female domestics. But these are back in the kitchen while the ex-cocotte is moving about in front, at intervals opening the door, and a-gazing out into the night--a dark, stormy one; for it is the same in which has occurred the mysterious embarkation of Father Rogier, only an hour later. To her no mystery; she knows whither the priest is bound, and on what errand. It is not him, therefore, she is expecting, but her husband to bring home word that her countryman has made a safe start. So anxiously does she await this intelligence, that, after a time, she stays altogether on the doorstep, regardless of the raw night, and a fire in the drawing-room which blazes brightly. There is another in the dining-room, and a table profusely spread--set out for supper with dishes of many kinds--cold ham and tongue, fowl and game, flanked by decanters of different wines sparkling attractively. Whence all this plenty, within walls where of late and for so long has been such scarcity? As no one visits at Glyngog save Father Rogier, there is no one but he to ask the question. And he would not, were he there; knowing the answer better than any one else. He ought. The cheer upon Lewin Murdock's table, with a cheerfulness observable on Mrs. Murdock's face, are due to the same cause, by himself brought about, or to which he has largely contributed. As Moses lends money on _post obits_, at "shixty per shent," with other expectations, a stream of that leaven has found its way into the ancient manor-house of Glyngog, conducted thither by Gregoire Rogier, who has drawn it from a source of supply provided for such eventualities, and seemingly inexhaustible--the treasury of the Vatican. Yet only a tiny rivulet of silver, but soon, if all goes well, to become a flood of gold grand and yellow as that in the Wye itself, having something to do with the waters of this same stream. No wonder there is now brightness upon the face of Olympe Renault, so long shadowed. The sun of prosperity is again to shine upon the path of her life. Splendour, gaiety, _voluptè_, be hers once more, and more than ever! As she stands in the door of Glyngog, looking down the river, at Llangorren, and through the darkness sees the Court with only one or two windows alight--they but in dim glimmer--she reflects less on how they blazed the night before, with lamps over the lawn, like constellations of stars, than how they will flame hereafter, and ere long--when she herself be the ruling spirit and mistress of the mansion. But as the time passes and no husband home, a cloud steals over her features. From being only impatient, she becomes nervously anxious. Still standing in the door, she listens for footsteps she has oft heard making approach unsteadily, little caring. Not so to-night. She dreads to see him return intoxicated. Though not with any solicitude of the ordinary woman's kind, but for reasons purely prudential. They are manifested in her muttered soliloquy:-- "Gregoire must have got off long ere this--at least two hours ago. He said they'd set out soon as it came night. Half an hour was enough for my husband to return up the meadows home. If he has gone to the Ferry first, and sets to drinking in the Harp! Cette _auberge maudit_. There's no knowing what he may do or say. Saying would be worse than doing. A word in his cups--a hint of what has happened--might undo everything: draw danger upon us all! And such danger--_l'prise de corps, mon Dieu!_" Her cheek blanches at thought of the ugly spectres thus conjured up. "Surely he will not be so stupid--so insane? Sober, he can keep secrets well enough--guard them closely, like most of his countrymen. But the Cognac? Hark! Footsteps! His, I hope." She listens without stirring from the spot. The tread is heavy, with now and then a loud stroke against stones. Were her husband a Frenchman, it would be different. But Lewin Murdock, like all English country gentlemen, affects substantial foot gear; and the step is undoubtedly his. Not as usual, however; to-night firm and regular, telling him to be sober! "He isn't such a fool after all!" Her reflection followed by the inquiry, called out-- "_C'est vous, mon mari?_" "Of course it is. Who else could it be? You don't expect the Father, our only visitor, to-night? You'll not see him for several days to come." "He's gone then?" "Two hours ago. By this he should be miles away; unless he and Coracle have had a capsize, and been spilled out of their boat. No unlikely occurrence with the river running so madly." She still shows unsatisfied, though not from any apprehension of the boat's being upset. She is thinking of what may have happened at the Welsh Harp; for the long interval, since the priest's departure, her husband could only have been there. She is less anxious, however, seeing the state in which he presents himself; so unusual, coming from the "_auberge maudite_." "Two hours ago they got off, you say?" "About that; just as it was dark enough to set out with safety, and no chance of being observed." "They did so?" "Oh, yes." "_Le bagage bien arrangé?_" "_Parfaitement_; or, as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form--nice as nine-pence." She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock. Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man--acting as one with some grave affair on his hands--a feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect--resolved on carrying it to completeness. Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:-- "Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?" "Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I've spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear." "And what did you hear?" "Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg's is an out-of-the-way corner--none more so on the Wye--and the Llangorren news hasn't reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don't appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere--for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon." "And has there been no search yet?" "Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to." "What are they? You haven't told me." "Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren." "Ah! Madame Linton. How has she been taking it?" "I'll tell you after I've had something to eat and drink. You forget, Olympe, where I've been all the day long--under the roof of a poacher, who, of late otherwise employed, hadn't so much as a head of game in his house. True, I've since made call at an hotel, but you don't give me credit for my abstemiousness! What have you got to reward me for it?" "_Entrez!_" she exclaims, leading him into the dining-room, their dialogue so far having been carried on in the porch. "_Voilà!_" He is gratified, though no ways surprised at the set out. He does not need to inquire whence it comes. He, too, knows it is a sacrifice to the rising sun. But he knows also what a sacrifice he will have to make in return for it--one third the estate of Llangorren. "Well, _ma chèrie_," he says, as this reflection occurs to him, "we'll have to pay pretty dear for all this. But I suppose there's no help for it." "None," she answers, with a comprehension of the circumstances clearer and fuller than his. "We've made the contract, and must abide by it. If broken by us, it wouldn't be a question of property, but life. Neither yours nor mine would be safe for a single hour. Ah, monsieur! you little comprehend the power of those gentry, _les Jesuites_--how sharp their claws, and far reaching!" "Confound them!" he exclaims, angrily dropping down upon a chair by the table's side. He eats ravenously, and drinks like a fish. His day's work is over, and he can afford the indulgence. And while they are at supper, he imparts all details of what he has done and heard; among them Miss Linton's reasons for having put restraint upon the search. "The old simpleton!" he says, concluding his narration; "she actually believed my cousin to have run away with that captain of Hussars--if she don't believe it still! Ha, ha, ha! She'll think differently when she sees that body brought out of the water. _It_ will settle the business!" Olympe Renault, retiring to rest, is long kept awake by the pleasant thought, not that for many more nights will she have to sleep in a mean bed at Glyngog, but on a grand couch in Llangorren Court. CHAPTER XXXVIII. IMPATIENT FOR THE POST. Never man looked with more impatience for a post than Captain Ryecroft for the night mail from the West, its morning delivery in London. It may bring him a letter, on the contents of which will turn the hinges of his life's fate, assuring his happiness, or dooming him to misery. And if no letter come, its failure will make misery for him all the same. It is scarce necessary to say the epistle thus expected, and fraught with such grave consequence, is an answer to his own; that written in Herefordshire, and posted before leaving the Wyeside Hotel. Twenty-four hours have since elapsed; and now, on the morning after, he is at the Langham, London, where the response, if any, should reach him. He has made himself acquainted with the statistics of postal time, telling him when the night mail is due, and when the first distribution of letters in the metropolitan district. At earliest in the Langham, which has post and telegraph office within its own walls, this palatial hostelry, unrivalled for convenience, being in direct communication with all parts of the world. It is on the stroke of 8 a.m., and, the ex-Hussar officer, pacing the tesselated tiles outside the deputy-manager's moderately sized room with its front glass-protected, watches for the incoming of the post-carrier. It seems an inexorable certainty--though a very vexatious one--that person, or thing, awaited with unusual impatience, must needs be behind time--as if to punish the moral delinquency of the impatient one. Even postmen are not always punctual, as Vivian Ryecroft has reason to know. That amiable and active individual in coatee of coarse cloth, with red rag facings, flitting from door to door, brisk as a blue-bottle, on this particular morning does not step across the threshold of the Langham till nearly half-past eight. There is a thick fog, and the street flags are "greasy." That would be the excuse for his tardy appearance, were he called upon to give one. Dumping down his sack, and spilling its contents upon the lead-covered sill of the booking-office window, he is off again on a fresh and further flight. With no abatement of impatience, Captain Ryecroft stands looking at the letters being sorted--a miscellaneous lot, bearing the post-marks of many towns and many countries, with the stamps of nearly every civilized nation on the globe; enough of them to make the eyes of an ardent stamp-collector shed tears of concupiscence. Scarcely allowing the sorter time to deposit them in their respective pigeon holes, Ryecroft approaches and asks if there be any for him--at the same time giving his name. "No, not any," answers the clerk, after drawing out all under letter R, and dealing them off as a pack of cards. "Are you quite sure, sir? Pardon me. I intend starting off within the hour, and, expecting a letter of some importance, may I ask you to glance over them again?" In all the world there are no officials more affable than those of the Langham. They are, in fact, types of the highest _hotel civilization_. Instead of showing nettled, he thus appealed to makes assenting rejoinder, accompanying his words with a re-examination of the letters under R; soon as completed saying,-- "No, sir; none for the name of Ryecroft." He bearing this name turns away, with an air of more than disappointment. The negative denoting that no letter had been written in reply, vexes--almost irritates him. It is like a blow repeated--a second slap in his face held up in humiliation--after having forgiven the first. He will not so humble himself--never forgive again. This his resolve as he ascends the great stairway to his room, once more to make ready for travel. The steam-packet service between Folkestone and Boulogne is "tidal." Consulting Bradshaw, he finds the boat on that day leaves the former place at 4 p.m.; the connecting train from the Charing Cross station, 1. Therefore have several hours to be put in meanwhile. How are they to be occupied? He is not in the mood for amusement. Nothing in London could give him that now--neither afford him a moment's gratification. Perhaps in Paris? And he will try. There men have buried their griefs--women as well: too oft laying in the same grave their innocence, honour, and reputation. In the days of Napoleon the Little, a grand cemetery of such; hosts entering it pure and stainless, to become tainted as the Imperial _regimé_ itself. And he, too, may succumb to its influence, sinister as hell itself. In his present frame of mind it is possible. Nor would his be the first noble spirit broken down, wrecked on the reef of a disappointed passion--love thwarted, the loved one never again to be spoken to--in all likelihood never more met! While waiting for the Folkestone train, he is a prey to the most harrowing reflections, and in hope of escaping them, descends to the billiard-room--in the Langham a well-appointed affair, with tables the very best. The marker accommodates him to a hundred up, which he loses. It is not for that he drops the cue disheartened, and retires. Had he won, with Cook, Bennett, or Roberts as his adversary, 'twould have been all the same. Once more mounting to his room, he makes an appeal to the ever-friendly Nicotian. A cigar, backed by a glass of brandy, may do something to soothe, his chafed spirit; and lighting the one, he rings for the other. This brought him, he takes seat by the window, throws up the sash, and looks down upon the street--there to see what gives him a fresh spasm of pain; though to two others affording the highest happiness on earth. For it is a wedding ceremony being celebrated at "All Souls" opposite, a church before whose altar many fashionable couples join hands to be linked together for life. Such a couple is in the act of entering the sacred edifice; carriages drawing up and off in quick succession, coachmen with white rosettes and whips ribbon-decked, footmen wearing similar favours--an unusually stylish affair. As in shining and with smiling faces, the bridal train ascends the steps two by two, disappearing within the portals of the church, the spectators on the nave and around the enclosure rails also looking joyous, as though each--even the raggedest--had a personal interest in the event, from the window opposite Captain Ryecroft observes it with very different feelings. For the thought is before his mind, how near he has been himself to making one in such a procession--at its head--followed by the bitter reflection, he now never shall. A sigh, succeeded by a half-angry ejaculation; then the bell rung with a violence which betrays how the sight has agitated him. On the waiter entering, he cries out,-- "Call me a cab." "Hansom, sir?" "No! four-wheeler. And this luggage get downstairs soon as possible." His impediments are all in travelling trim--but a few necessary articles having been unpacked--and a shilling tossed upon the strapped portmanteau ensures it, with the lot, a speedy descent down the lift. A single pipe of Mr. Trafford's silver whistle brings a cab to the Langham entrance in twenty seconds time, and in twenty more a traveller's luggage, however heavy, is slung to the top, with the lighter articles stowed inside. His departure so accelerated, Captain Ryecroft--who had already settled his bill--is soon seated in the cab, and carried off. But despatch ends on leaving the Langham. The cab, being a four-wheeler, crawls along like a tortoise. Fortunately for the fare he is in no haste now; instead, will be too early for the Folkestone train. He only wanted to get away from the scene of that ceremony, so disagreeably suggestive. Shut up, imprisoned, in the plush-lined vehicle, shabby, and not over clean, he endeavours to beguile time by gazing out at the shop windows. The hour is too early for Regent Street promenaders. Some distraction, if not amusement, he derives from his "cabby's" arms; these working to and fro as if the man were rowing a boat. In burlesque it reminds him of the Wye, and his waterman Wingate! But just then something else recalls the western river not ludicrously, but with another twinge of pain. The cab is passing through Leicester Square, one of the lungs of London, long diseased, and in process of being doctored. It is beset with hoardings, plastered against which are huge posters of the advertising kind. Several of them catch the eye of Captain Ryecroft, but only one holds it, causing him the sensation described. It is the announcement of a grand concert to be given at the St. James's Hall, for some charitable purpose of Welsh speciality. Programme with list of performers. At their head, in largest lettering, the queen of the eisteddfod-- EDITH WYNNE! To him in the cab now a name of galling reminiscence notwithstanding the difference of orthography. It seems like a Nemesis pursuing him! He grasps the leathern strap, and letting down the ill-fitting sash with a clatter, cries out to the cabman,-- "Drive on, Jarvey, or I'll be late for my train! A shilling extra for time." If cabby's arms sparred slowly before, they now work as though he were engaged in catching flies; and with their quickened action, aided by several cuts of a thick-thonged whip, the Rosinante goes rattling through the narrow defile of Heming's Row, down King William Street, and across the Strand into the Charing Cross station. CHAPTER XXXIX. JOURNEY INTERRUPTED. Captain Ryecroft takes a through ticket for Paris, without thought of breaking journey, and in due time reaches Boulogne. Glad to get out of the detestable packet, little better than a ferry-boat, which plies between Folkestone and the French seaport, he loses not a moment in scaling the equally detestable gang-ladder by which alone he can escape. Having set foot upon French soil, represented by a rough cobble-stone pavement, he bethinks of passport and luggage--how he will get the former _vised_ and the latter looked after with the least trouble to himself. It is not his first visit to France, nor is he unacquainted with that country's customs; therefore knows that a "tip" to _sergent de ville_ or _douanier_ will clear away the obstructions in the shortest possible time--quicker if it be a handsome one. Feeling in his pockets for a florin or a half-crown, he is accosted by a voice familiar and of friendly tone. "Captain Ryecroft!" it exclaims, in a rich, rolling brogue, as of Galway. "Is it yourself? By the powers of Moll Kelly, and it is." "Major Mahon!" "The same, old boy. Give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at Delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. A nate thing, and a close shave, wasn't it? But what's brought you to Boulogne?" The question takes the traveller aback. He is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming. "Come, old comrade!" protests the Major, good-naturedly, "that won't do; it isn't satisfactory for bosom friends, as we've been, and still are, I trust. But, maybe, I make too free, asking your business in Boulogne?" "Not at all, Mahon. I have no business in Boulogne; I'm on the way to Paris." "Oh! a pleasure trip, I suppose?" "Nothing of the kind. There's no pleasure for me in Paris or anywhere else." "Aha!" ejaculated the Major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, "what's this, old fellow? Something wrong?" "Oh, not much--never mind." The reply is little satisfactory. But seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the Major continues, apologetically-- "Pardon me, Ryecroft. I've no wish to be inquisitive, but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. It isn't your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan't be so long as you're in my company--if I can help it." "It's very kind of you, Mahon; and for the short time I'm to be with you, I'll do the best I can to be cheerful. It shouldn't be a great effort. I suppose the train will be starting in a few minutes?" "What train?" "For Paris." "You're not going to Paris now--not this night?" "I am, straight on." "Neither straight nor crooked, _ma bohil_!" "I must." "Why must you? If you don't expect pleasure there, for what should you be in such haste to reach it? Bother, Ryecroft! you'll break your journey here, and stay a few days with me? I can promise you some little amusement. Boulogne isn't such a dull place just now. The smash of Agra & Masterman's, with Overend & Gurney following suit, has sent hither a host of old Indians, both soldiers and civilians. No doubt you'll find many friends among them. There are lots of pretty girls, too--I don't mean natives, but our countrywomen--to whom I'll have much pleasure in presenting you." "Not for the world, Mahon--not one! I have no desire to extend my acquaintance in that way." "What, turned hater! women too. Well, leaving the fair sex on one side, there's half a dozen of the other here--good fellows as ever stretched legs on mahogany. They're strangers to you, I think; but will be delighted to know you, and do their best to make Boulogne agreeable. Come, old boy. You'll stay? Say the word." "I would, Major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. But, I confess, just now I'm not in the mood for making new acquaintance--least of all among my countrymen. To tell the truth, I'm going to Paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them." "Nonsense! You're not the man to turn _solitaire_, like Simon Stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! Besides, Paris is not the place for that sort of thing. If you're really determined on keeping out of company for awhile--I won't ask why--remain with me, and we'll take strolls along the sea-beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the Boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. Come, Ryecroft, don't deny me. It's so long since we've had a day together, I'm dying to talk over old times--recall our _camaraderie_ in India." For the first time in forty-eight hours Captain Ryecroft's countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness--almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its patois recalling childhood's happy days. And as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts--if not a restoration of happiness--is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. What difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in Paris or Boulogne--if find it he can? "I'm booked to Paris," he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself. "Have you a through ticket?" asks the Major, in an odd way. "Of course I have." "Let me have a squint at it?" further questions the other, holding out his hand. "Certainly. Why do you wish that?" "To see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here." "I don't think it will. In fact, I know it don't. They told me so at Charing Cross." "Then they told you what wasn't true; for it does. See here!" What the Major calls upon him to look at are some bits of pasteboard, like butterflies, fluttering in the air, and settling down over the copestone of the dock. They are the fragments of the torn ticket. "Now, old boy! you're booked for Boulogne." The melancholy smile, up to that time on Ryecroft's face, broadens into a laugh at the stratagem employed to detain him. With cheerfulness for the time restored, he says: "Well, Major, by that you've cost me at least one pound sterling. But I'll make you recoup it in boarding and lodging me for--possibly a week." "A month--a year, if you should like your lodgings and will stay in them. I've got a snug little compound in the Rue Tintelleries, with room to swing hammocks for us both; besides a bin or two of wine, and, what's better, a keg of the 'raal crayther.' Let's along and have a tumbler of it at once. You'll need it to wash the channel spray out of your throat. Don't wait for your luggage. These Custom-house gentry all know me, and will send it directly after. Is it labelled?" "It is; my name's on everything." "Let me have one of your cards." The card is handed to him. "There, Monsieur," he says, turning to a _douanier_, who respectfully salutes, "take this, and see that all the _bagage_ bearing the name on it be kept safely till called for. My servant will come for it. _Garçon!_" This to the driver of a _voiture_, who, for some time viewing them with expectant eye, makes response by a cut of his whip, and brisk approach to the spot where they are standing. Pushing Captain Ryecroft into the hack, and following himself, the Major gives the French Jehu his address, and they are driven off over the rough, rib-cracking cobbles of Boulogne. CHAPTER XL. HUE AND CRY. The ponies and pet stag on the lawn at Llangorren wonder what it is all about. So different from the garden parties and archery meetings, of which they have witnessed many a one! Unlike the latter in their quiet stateliness is the excited crowd at the Court this day; still more, from its being chiefly composed of men. There are a few women, also, but not the slender-waisted creatures, in silks and gossamer muslins, who make up an outdoor assemblage of the aristocracy. The sturdy dames and robust damsels now rambling over its grounds and gravelled walks are the dwellers in roadside cottages, who at the words "Murdered or Missing," drop brooms upon half-swept floors, leave babies uncared-for in their cradles, and are off to the indicated spot. And such words have gone abroad from Llangorren Court, coupled with the name of its young mistress. Gwen Wynn is missing, if she be not also murdered. It is the second day after her disappearance, as known to the household; and now it is known throughout the neighbourhood, near and far. The slight scandal dreaded by Miss Linton no longer has influence with her. The continued absence of her niece, with the certainty at length reached that she is not in the house of any neighbouring friend, would make concealment of the matter a grave scandal in itself. Besides, since the half-hearted search of yesterday, new facts have come to light; for one, the finding of that ring on the floor of the pavilion. It has been identified not only by the finder, but by Eleanor Lees, and Miss Linton herself. A rare cluster of brilliants, besides of value, it has more than once received the inspection of these ladies--both knowing the giver, as the nature of the gift. How comes it to have been there in the summer-house? Dropped, of course; but under what circumstances? Questions perplexing, while the thing itself seriously heightens the alarm. No one, however rich or regardless, would fling such precious stones away; above all, gems so bestowed, and, as Miss Lees has reason to know, prized and fondly treasured. The discovery of the engagement ring deepens the mystery instead of doing aught towards its elucidation. But it also strengthens a suspicion, fast becoming belief, that Miss Wynn went not away of her own accord; instead, has been taken. Robbed, too, before being carried off. There were other rings upon her fingers--diamonds, emeralds, and the like. Possibly in the scramble, on the robbers first seizing hold and hastily stripping her, this particular one had slipped through their fingers, fallen to the floor, and so escaped observation. At night and in the darkness, all likely enough. So for a time run the surmises, despite the horrible suggestion attaching to them, almost as a consequence. For if Gwen Wynn had been robbed, she may also be murdered. The costly jewels she wore, in rings, bracelets, and chains, worth many hundreds of pounds, may have been the temptation to plunder her; but the plunderers identified, and, fearing punishment, would also make away with her person. It may be abduction, but it has now more the look of murder. By midday the alarm has reached its height--the hue and cry is at its loudest. No longer confined to the family and domestics--no more the relatives and intimate friends--people of all classes and kinds take part in it. The pleasure grounds of Llangorren, erst private and sacred as the Garden of the Hesperides, are now trampled by heavy, hobnailed shoes; while men in smocks, slops, and sheepskin gaiters, stride excitedly to and fro, or stand in groups, all wearing the same expression on their features--that of a sincere, honest anxiety, with a fear some sinister mischance has overtaken Miss Wynn. Many a young farmer is there who has ridden beside her in the hunting-field, often behind her, noways nettled by her giving him the "lead"; instead, admiring her courage and style of taking fences over which, on his cart nag, he dares not follow--enthusiastically proclaiming her "pluck" at markets, race meetings, and other gatherings wherever came up talk of "Tally-ho." Besides those on the ground drawn thither by sympathetic friendship, and others the idly curious, still others are there in the exercise of official duty. Several magistrates have arrived at Llangorren, among them Sir George Shenstone, chairman of the district bench; the police superintendent also, with several of his blue-coated subordinates. There is a man present about whom remark is made, and who attracts more attention than either justice of the peace or policeman. It is a circumstance unprecedented--a strange sight, indeed--Lewin Murdock at the Court! He is there, nevertheless, taking an active part in the proceedings. It seems natural enough to those who but know him to be the cousin of the missing lady, ignorant of the long family estrangement. Only to intimate friends is there aught singular in his behaving as he now does. But to these, on reflection, his behaviour is quite comprehensible. They construe it differently from the others--the outside spectators. More than one of them, observing the anxious expression on his face, believe it but a semblance, a mask to hide the satisfaction within his heart, to become joy if Gwen Wynn be found--dead. It is not a thing to be spoken of openly, and no one so speaks of it. The construction put upon Lewin Murdock's motives is confined to the few, for only a few know how much he is interested in the upshot of that search. Again it is set on foot, but not as on the day preceding. Now no mad rushing to and fro of mere physical demonstration. This day there is due deliberation--a council held, composed of the magistrates and other gentlemen of the neighbourhood, aided by a lawyer or two, and the talents of an experienced detective. As on the day before, the premises are inspected, the grounds gone over, the fields traversed, the woods as well, while parties proceed up and down the river, and along both sides of the backwash. The eyot also is quartered, and carefully explored from end to end. As yet the drag has not been called into requisition, the deep flood, with a swift, strong current, preventing it. Partly that, but as much because the searchers do not as yet believe, cannot realize the fact, that Gwendoline Wynn is dead, and her body at the bottom of the Wye! Robbed and drowned! Surely it cannot be! Equally incredible that she has drowned herself. Suicide is not thought of--incredible under the circumstances. A third supposition, that she has been the victim of revenge--of a jealous lover's spite--seems alike untenable. She, the heiress, owner of the vast Llangorren estates, to be so dealt with--pitched into the river like some poor cottage girl, who has quarrelled with a brutal sweetheart! The thing is preposterous! And yet this very thing begins to receive credence in the minds of many--of more, as new facts are developed by the magisterial inquiry, carried on inside the house. There a strange chapter of evidence comes out, or rather, is elicited. Miss Linton's maid, Clarisse, is the author of it. This sportive creature confesses to having been out in the grounds as the ball was breaking up, and, lingering there till after the latest guest had taken departure, heard high voices, speaking as in anger. They came from the direction of the summer-house, and she recognised them as those of Mademoiselle and Le Capitaine--by the latter meaning Captain Ryecroft. Startling testimony this, when taken in connection with the strayed ring; collateral to the ugly suspicion the latter had already conjured up. Nor is the _femme de chambre_ telling any untruth. She was in the grounds at that same hour, and heard the voices as affirmed. She had gone down to the boat dock in the hope of having a word with the handsome waterman; and returned from it reluctantly, finding he had betaken himself to his boat. She does not thus state her reason for so being abroad, but gives a different one. She was merely out to have a look at the illumination--the lamps and transparencies, still unextinguished--all natural enough. And questioned as to why she said nothing of it on the day before, her answer is equally evasive. Partly that she did not suppose the thing worth speaking of, and partly because she did not like to let people know that Mademoiselle had been behaving in that way--quarrelling with a gentleman. In the flood of light just let in, no one any longer thinks that Miss Wynn has been robbed; though it may be that she has suffered something worse. What for could have been angry words? And the quarrel--how did it end? And now the name Ryecroft is on every tongue, no longer in cautious whisperings, but loudly pronounced. Why is he not here? His absence is strange, unaccountable under the circumstances. To none seeming more so than to those holding counsel inside, who have been made acquainted with the character of that waif--the gift ring--told he was the giver. He cannot be ignorant of what is passing at Llangorren. True, the hotel where he sojourns is in a town five miles off; but the affair has long since found its way thither, and the streets are full of it. "I think we had better send for him," observes Sir George Shenstone to his brother justices. "What say you, gentlemen?" "Certainly; of course," is the unanimous rejoinder. "And the waterman too?" queries another. "It appears that Captain Ryecroft came to the ball in a boat. Does any one know who was his boatman?" "A fellow named Wingate," is the answer given by young Shenstone. "He lives by the roadside, up the river, near Rugg's Ferry." "Possibly he may be here, outside," says Sir George. "Go, see!" This to one of the policemen at the door, who hurries off. Almost immediately to return--told by the people that Jack Wingate is not among them. "That's strange, too!" remarks one of the magistrates. "Both should be brought hither at once--if they don't choose to come willingly." "Oh!" exclaims Sir George, "they'll come willingly, no doubt. Let a policeman be despatched for Wingate. As for Captain Ryecroft, don't you think, gentlemen, it would be only politeness to summon him in a different way. Suppose I write a note requesting his presence, with explanations?" "That will be better," say several assenting. This note is written, and a groom gallops off with it; while a policeman on foot makes his way to the cottage of the Widow Wingate. Nothing new transpires in their absence; but on their return--both arriving about the same time--the agitation is intense. For both come back unaccompanied; the groom bringing the report that Captain Ryecroft is no longer at the hotel--had left it on the day before by the first train for London! The policeman's tale is, that Jack Wingate went off on the same day, and about the same early hour; not by rail to London, but in his boat, down the river to the Bristol Channel! Within less than a hour after, a police officer is despatched to Chepstow, and further, if need be; while the detective, with one of the gentlemen accompanying, takes the next train for the metropolis. CHAPTER XLI. BOULOGNE-SUR-MER. Major Mahon is a soldier of the rollicking Irish type--good company as ever drank wine at a regimental mess-table, or whisky-and-water under the canvas of a tent. Brave in war, too, as evinced by sundry scars of wounds given by the sabres of rebellious sowars, and an empty sleeve dangling down by his side. This same token also proclaims that he is no longer in the army. For he is not--having left it disabled at the close of the Indian Mutiny: after the relief of Lucknow, where he also parted with his arm. He is not rich; one reason for his being in Boulogne--convenient place for men of moderate means. There he has rented a house, in which for nearly a twelve-month he has been residing: a small domicile, _meublé_. Still, large enough for his needs: for the Major, though nigh forty years of age, has never thought of getting married; or, if so, has not carried out the intention. As a bachelor in the French watering-place, his income of five hundred per annum supplies all his wants--far better than if it were in an English one. But economy is not his only reason for sojourning in Boulogne. There is another alike creditable to him, or more. He has a sister, much younger than himself, receiving education there--an only sister, for whom he feels the strongest affection, and likes to be beside her. For all he sees her only at stated times, and with no great frequency. Her school is attached to a convent, and she is in it as a _pensionnaire_. All these matters are made known to Captain Ryecroft on the day after his arrival at Boulogne. Not in the morning. It has been spent in promenading through the streets of the lower town and along the _jetée_, with a visit to the grand lion of the place, _l'Establissement de Bains_, ending in an hour or two passed at the "cercle," of which the Major is a member, and where his old campaigning comrades, against all protestations, is introduced to the half-dozen "good fellows as ever stretched legs under mahogany." It is not till a later hour, however, after a quiet dinner in the Major's own house, and during a stroll upon the ramparts of the _Haute Ville_, that these confidences are given to his guest, with all the exuberant frankness of the Hibernian heart. Ryecroft, though Irish himself, is of a less communicative nature. A native of Dublin, he has Saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the Major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to Paris. He essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows: "What a time it seems, Ryecroft, since you and I have been together--an age! And yet, if I'm not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. Yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. You remember we met at the 'Rag,' and dined there with Russel, of the Artillery." "Of course I remember it." "I've seen Russel since--about three months ago, when I was over in England. And, by the way, 'twas from him I last heard of yourself." "What had he to say about me?" "Only that you were somewhere down west--on the Wye, I think--salmon-fishing. I know you were always good at casting a fly." "That all he said?" "Well, no," admits the Major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other's face. "There was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation." "What, may I ask?" "That you'd been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish--a big one, besides--and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you'd captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. Come, old boy! don't be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?" "Is what true?" asks the other, with an air of assumed innocence. "That you've caught the richest heiress in Herefordshire, or she you, or each the other, as Russel had it, and which is best for both of you. Down on your knees, Ryecroft! Confess!" "Major Mahon! If you wish me to remain your guest for another night--another hour--you'll not ask me aught about that affair, nor even name it. In time I may tell you all; but now, to speak of it gives me a pain which even you, one of my oldest, and, I believe, truest friends, cannot fully understand." "I can at least understand that it's something serious." The inference is drawn less from Ryecroft's words than their tone and the look of utter desolation which accompanies them. "But," continues the Major, greatly moved, "you'll forgive me, old fellow, for being so inquisitive? I promise not to press you any more. So let's drop the subject, and speak of something else." "What, then?" asks Ryecroft, scarce conscious of questioning. "My little sister, if you like. I call her little because she was so when I went out to India. She's now a grown girl, tall as that, and, as flattering friends say, a great beauty. What's better, she's good. You see that building below?" They are on the outer edge of the rampart, looking upon the ground adjacent to the _enceinte_ of the ancient _cité_. A slope in warlike days serving as the _glacis_, now occupied by dwellings, some of them pretentious, with gardens attached. That which the Major points to is one of the grandest, its enclosure large, with walls that only a man upon stilts of the Landes country could look over. "I see--what of it?" asks the ex-Hussar. "It's the convent where Kate is at school--the prison in which she's confined, I might better say," he adds, with a laugh, but in tone more serious than jocular. It need scarce be said that Major Mahon is a Roman Catholic. His sister being in such a seminary is evidence of that. But he is not bigoted, as Ryecroft knows, without drawing the deduction from his last remark. His old friend and fellow-campaigner does not even ask explanation of it, only observing-- "A very fine mansion it appears--walks, shade-trees, arbours, fountains. I had no idea the nuns were so well bestowed. They ought to live happily in such a pretty place. But then, shut up, domineered over, coerced, as I've heard they are--ah, liberty! It's the only thing that makes the world worth living in." "Ditto, say I. I echo your sentiment, old fellow, and feel it. If I didn't, I might have been long ago a Benedict, with a millstone around my neck in the shape of a wife, and half a score of smaller ones of the grindstone pattern--in piccaninnies. Instead, I'm free as the breezes, and by the Moll Kelly, intend remaining so." The Major winds up the ungallant declaration with a laugh. But this is not echoed by his companion, to whom the subject touched upon is a tender one. Perceiving it so, Mahon makes a fresh start in the conversation, remarking-- "It's beginning to feel a bit chilly up here. Suppose we saunter down to the Cercle, and have a game of billiards!" "If it be all the same to you, Mahon, I'd rather not go there to-night." "Oh! it's all the same to me. Let us home, then, and warm up with a tumbler of whisky toddy. There were orders left for the kettle to be kept on the boil. I see you still want cheering, and there's nothing will do that like a drop of the _crather_. _Allons!_" Without resisting, Ryecroft follows his friend down the stairs of the rampart. From the point where they descended the shortest way to the Rue Tintelleries is through a narrow lane not much used, upon which abut only the back walls of gardens, with their gates or doors. One of these, a gaol-like affair, is the entrance to the convent in which Miss Mahon is at school. As they approach it, a _fiâcre_ is standing in front, as if but lately drawn up to deliver its fare--a traveller. There is a lamp, and by its light, dim, nevertheless, they see that luggage is being taken inside. Some one on a visit to the Convent, or returning after absence. Nothing strange in all that; and neither of the two men make remark upon it, but keep on. Just, however, as they are passing the hack, about to drive off again, Captain Ryecroft, looking towards the door still ajar, sees a face inside it which causes him to start. "What is it?" asks the Major, who feels the spasmodic movement--the two walking arm-in-arm. "Well! if it wasn't that I am in Boulogne instead of on the banks of the river Wye, I'd swear that I saw a man inside that doorway whom I met not many days ago in the shire of Hereford." "What sort of a man?" "A priest!" "Oh! black's no mark among sheep. The _prêtres_ are all alike, as peas or policemen. I'm often puzzled myself to tell one from t'other." Satisfied with this explanation, the ex-Hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the Rue Tintelleries. Entering his house, the Major calls for "matayrials," and they sit down to the steaming punch. But before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for "Captain Ryecroft." The entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this. "Who can be asking for me?" queries Ryecroft, looking towards his host. The Major cannot tell--cannot think--who; but the answer is given by his Irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to Captain Ryecroft, saying, "It's for you, yer honner." The name on the card is-- "MR. GEORGE SHENSTONE." CHAPTER XLII. WHAT DOES HE WANT? "Mr. George Shenstone?" queries Captain Ryecroft, reading from the card. "George Shenstone!" he repeats, with a look of blank astonishment--"What the deuce does it mean?" "Does what mean?" asks the Major, catching the other's surprise. "Why, this gentleman being here. You see that?" He tosses the card across the table. "Well, what of it?" "Read the name!" "Mr. George Shenstone. Don't know the man. Haven't the most distant idea who he is. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Old acquaintance; friend, I presume? No enemy, I hope?" "If it be the son of a Sir George Shenstone, of Herefordshire, I can't call him either friend or enemy; and as I know nobody else of the name, I suppose it must be he. If so, what he wants with me is a question I can no more answer than the man in the moon. I must get the answer from himself. Can I take the liberty of asking him into your house, Mahon!" "Certainly, my dear boy! Bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us--" "Thanks, Major!" interrupts Ryecroft. "But no; I'd prefer first having a word with him alone. Instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me." "Oh, oh!" ejaculates the Major. "Murtagh!" to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, "show the gentleman into the drawing-room." "Mr. Shenstone and I," proceeds Ryecroft in explanation, "have but the very slightest acquaintance. I've only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball--a private one--just three nights ago. 'Twas that very morning I met the priest I supposed we'd seen up there. 'Twould seem as if everybody on the Wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into France." "Ha--ha--ha! About the _prêtre_, no doubt you're mistaken. And maybe this isn't your man, either. The same name, you're sure?" "Quite. The Herefordshire baronet's son is George, as his father, to whose title he is heir. I never heard of his having any other----" "Stay!" interrupts the Major, again glancing at the card, "here's something to help identification--an address--_Ormeston Hall_." "Ah! I didn't observe that." In his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. "Ormeston Hall? Yes, I remember, Sir George's residence is so called. Of course it's the son--must be." "But why do you think he means fight? Something happened between you, eh?" "No, nothing between us, directly." "Ah! Indirectly, then? Of course the old trouble--a woman." "Well, if it be fighting the fellow's after, I suppose it must be about that," slowly rejoins Ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. Now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain George Shenstone has come after him on the part of Miss Wynn. The thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims-- "By Heavens! he shall have what he wants. But I mustn't keep him waiting. Give me that card, Major!" The Major returns it to him, coolly observing-- "If it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, I can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in Boulogne. You haven't told me what your quarrel's about; but from what I know of you, Ryecroft, I take it you're in the right, and you can count on me as a second. Lucky it's my left wing that's clipped. With the right I can shoot straight as ever, should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair." "Thanks, Mahon! You're just the man I'd have asked such a favour from." "The gentleman's inside the dhrawin-room, surr." This from the ex-Royal Irish, who has again presented himself, saluting. "Don't yield the _Sassenach_ an inch!" counsels the Major, a little of the old Celtic hostility stirring within him. "If he demands explanations, hand him over to me. I'll give them to his satisfaction. So, old fellow, be firm!" "Never fear!" returns Ryecroft, as he steps out to receive the unexpected visitor, whose business with him he fully believes to have reference to Gwendoline Wynn. And so has it. But not in the sense he anticipates, nor about the scene on which his thoughts have dwelt. George Shenstone is not there to call him to account for angry words, or rudeness of behaviour. Something more serious, since it was the baronet's son who left Llangorren Court in company with the plain-clothes policeman. The latter is still along with him, though not inside the house. He is standing upon the street at a convenient distance, though not with any expectation of being called in, or required for any further service now, professionally. Holding no writ, nor the right to serve such if he had it, his action hitherto has been simply to assist Mr. Shenstone in finding the man suspected of either abduction or murder. But as neither crime is yet proved to have been committed, much less brought home to him, the English policeman has no further errand in Boulogne--while the English gentleman now feels that his is almost as idle and aimless. The impulse which carried him thither, though honourable and gallant, was begot in the heat of blind passion. Gwen Wynn having no brother, he determined to take the place of one, his father not saying nay. And so resolved, he had set out to seek the supposed criminal, "interview" him, and then act according to the circumstances, as they should develop themselves. In the finding of his man he has experienced no difficulty. Luggage labelled "LANGHAM HOTEL, LONDON," gave him hot scent, as far as the grand _caravanserai_ at the bottom of Portland Place. Beyond it was equally fresh, and lifted with like ease. The traveller's traps re-directed at the Langham, "PARIS _via_ FOLKESTONE and BOULOGNE"--the new address there noted by porters and traffic manager--was indication sufficient to guide George Shenstone across the Channel; and cross it he did by the next day's packet for Boulogne. Arrived in the French seaport, he would have gone straight on to Paris had he been alone. But, accompanied by the policeman, the result was different. This--an old dog of the detective breed--soon as setting foot on French soil, went sniffing about among _serjents de ville_ and _douaniers_, the upshot of his investigations being to bring the chase to an abrupt termination--he finding that the game had gone no further. In short, from information received at the Custom House, Captain Ryecroft was run to earth in the Rue Tintelleries, under the roof of Major Mahon. And now that George Shenstone is himself under it, having sent in his card, and been ushered into the drawing-room, he does not feel at his ease; instead, greatly embarrassed; not from any personal fear--he has too much "pluck" for that. It is a sense of delicacy, consequent upon some dread of wrong-doing. What, after all, if his suspicions prove groundless, and it turn out that Captain Ryecroft is entirely innocent? His heart, torn by sorrow, exasperated with anger, starting away from Herefordshire, he did not thus interrogate. Then he supposed himself in pursuit of an abductor, who, when overtaken, would be found in the company of the abducted. But, meanwhile, both his suspicions and sentiments have undergone a change. How could they otherwise? He pursued, has been travelling openly and without any disguise, leaving traces at every turn and deflection of his route, plain as fingerposts! A man guilty of aught illegal, much more one who has committed a capital crime, would not be acting thus. Besides, Captain Ryecroft has been journeying alone, unaccompanied by man or woman; no one seen with him until meeting his friend, Major Mahon, on the packet landing at Boulogne. No wonder that Mr. Shenstone, now _au fait_ to all this--easily ascertained along the route of travel--feels that his errand is an awkward one. Embarrassed when ringing Major Mahon's door-bell, he is still more so inside that room, while awaiting the man to whom his card has been taken. For he has intruded himself into the house of a gentleman a perfect stranger to himself, to call his guest to account. The act is inexcusable, rude almost to grotesqueness! But there are other circumstances attendant, of themselves unpleasant enough. The thing he has been tracking up is no timid hare or cowardly fox; but a man, a soldier, gentleman as himself, who, like a tiger of the jungles, may turn upon and tear him. It is no thought of this, no craven fear, which makes him pace Major Mahon's drawing-room floor so excitedly. His agitation is due to a different and nobler cause--the sensibility of the gentleman, with the dread of shame should he find himself mistaken. But he has a consoling thought. Prompted by honour and affection, he embarked in the affair, and, still urged by them, he will carry it to the conclusion, _coûte que coûte_. CHAPTER XLIII. A GAGE D'AMOUR. Pacing to and fro, with stride jerky and irregular, Shenstone at length makes stop in front of the fireplace, not to warm himself--there is no fire in the grate--nor yet to survey his face in the mirror above. His steps are arrested by something he sees resting upon the mantel-shelf; a sparkling object--in short, a cigar-case of the beaded pattern. Why should that attract the attention of the young Herefordshire squire, causing him to start, as it first catches his eye? In his lifetime he has seen scores of such, without caring to give them a second glance. But it is just because he has looked upon this one before, or fancies he has, that he now stands gazing at it, on the instant after reaching towards and taking it up. Ay, more than once has he seen that same cigar-case--he is now sure as he holds it in his hand, turning it over and over--seen it before its embroidery was finished; watched fair fingers stitching the beads on, cunningly combining the blue and amber and gold, tastefully arranging them in rows and figures--two hearts central, transfixed by a barbed and feathered shaft--all save the lettering he now looks upon, and which was never shown him. Many a time during the months past, he had hoped, and fondly imagined, the skilful contrivance and elaborate workmanship might be for himself. Now he knows better; the knowledge revealed to him by the initials V. R. entwined in a monogram, and the words underneath "FROM GWEN." Three days ago the discovery would have caused him a spasm of keenest pain. Not so now. After being shown that betrothal ring, no gift, no pledge, could move him to further emotion. He but tosses the beaded thing back upon the mantel, with the reflection that he to whom it belongs has been born under a more propitious star than himself. Still, the little incident is not without effect. It restores his firmness, with the resolution to act as originally intended. This is still further strengthened as Ryecroft enters the room, and he looks upon the man who has caused him so much misery. A man feared, but not hated, for Shenstone's noble nature and generous disposition hinder him from being blinded either to the superior personal or mental qualities of his rival. A rival he fears only in the field of love; in that of war or strife of other kind, the doughty young west-country squire would dare even the devil. No tremor in his frame, no unsteadfastness in the glance of his eye, as he regards the other stepping inside the open door, and with the card in his hand, coming towards him. Long ago introduced, and several times in company together, but cool and distant, they coldly salute. Holding out the card, Ryecroft says interrogatively-- "Is this meant for me, Mr. Shenstone?" "Yes." "Some matter of business, I presume. May I ask what it is?" The formal inquiry, in a tone passive and denying, throws the fox-hunter as upon his haunches. At the same time its evident cynicism stings him to a blunt if not rude rejoinder. "I want to know--what you have done with Miss Wynn." He so challenged starts aback, turning pale, and looking distraught at his challenger, while he repeats the words of the latter, with but the personal pronoun changed-- "What I have done with Miss Wynn!" Then adding, "Pray explain yourself, sir!" "Come, Captain Ryecroft, you know what I allude to." "For the life of me I don't." "Do you mean to say you're not aware of what's happened?" "What's happened! When? Where?" "At Llangorren, the night of that ball. You were present--I saw you." "And I saw you, Mr. Shenstone. But you don't tell me what happened." "Not at the ball, but after." "Well, and what after?" "Captain Ryecroft, you're either an innocent man, or the most guilty on the face of the earth." "Stop, sir! Language like yours requires justification of the gravest kind. I ask an explanation--demand it!" Thus brought to bay, George Shenstone looks straight in the face of the man he has so savagely assailed, there to see neither consciousness of guilt, nor fear of punishment. Instead, honest surprise, mingled with keen apprehension; the last, not on his own account, but hers of whom they are speaking. Intuitively, as if whispered by an angel in his ear, he says, or thinks to himself: "This man knows nothing of Gwendoline Wynn. If she has been carried off, it has not been by him; if murdered, he is not her murderer." "Captain Ryecroft," he at length cries out in hoarse voice, the revulsion of feeling almost choking him, "if I've been wronging you, I ask forgiveness, and you'll forgive; for if I have, you do not, cannot know what has occurred." "I've told you I don't," affirms Ryecroft, now certain that the other speaks of something different, and more serious than the affair he had himself been thinking of. "For Heaven's sake, Mr. Shenstone, explain! What _has_ occurred there?" "Miss Wynn is gone away!" "Miss Wynn gone away! But whither?" "Nobody knows. All that can be said is, she disappeared on the night of the ball, without telling any one; no trace left behind--except----" "Except what?" "A ring--a diamond cluster. I found it myself in the summer-house. You know the place--you know the ring, too?" "I do, Mr. Shenstone; have reasons--painful ones. But I am not called upon to give them now, nor to you. What could it mean?" he adds, speaking to himself, thinking of that cry he heard when being rowed off. It connects itself with what he hears now; seems once more resounding in his ears, more than ever resembling a shriek! "But, sir, please proceed! For God's sake keep nothing back; tell me everything!" Thus appealed to, Shenstone answers by giving an account of what has occurred at Llangorren Court--all that had transpired previous to his leaving, and frankly confesses his own reasons for being in Boulogne. The manner in which it is received still further satisfying him of the other's guiltlessness, he again begs to be forgiven for the suspicions he had entertained. "Mr. Shenstone," returns Ryecroft, "you ask what I am ready and willing to grant--God knows how ready, how willing. If any misfortune has befallen her we are speaking of, however great your grief, it cannot be greater than mine." Shenstone is convinced. Ryecroft's speech, his looks, his whole bearing, are those of a man not only guiltless of wrong to Gwendoline Wynn, but one who, on her account, feels anxiety keen as his own. He stays not to question further; but once more making apologies for his intrusion--which are accepted without anger--he bows himself back into the street. The business of his travelling companion in Boulogne was over some time ago. His is now equally ended; and though without having thrown any new light on the mystery of Miss Wynn's disappearance, still with some satisfaction to himself he dares not dwell upon. Where is the man who would not rather know his sweetheart dead than see her in the arms of a rival? However ignoble the feeling, or base to entertain it, it is natural to the human heart tortured by jealousy--too natural, as George Shenstone that night knows, with head tossing upon a sleepless pillow. Too late to catch the Folkestone packet, his bed is in Boulogne--no bed of roses, but a couch of Procrustean. * * * * * Meanwhile, Captain Ryecroft returns to the room where his friend the Major has been awaiting him. Impatiently, though not in the interim unemployed; as evinced by a flat mahogany box upon the table, and beside it a brace of duelling pistols, which have evidently been submitted to examination. They are the "best barkers that can be got in Boulogne." "We shan't need them, Major, after all." "The devil we shan't! He's shown the white feather?" "No, Mahon; instead, proved himself as brave a fellow as ever stood before sword-point, or dared pistol bullet." "Then there's no trouble between you?" "Ah! yes, trouble; but not between us. Sorrow shared by both. We're in the same boat." "In that case, why didn't you bring him in?" "I didn't think of it." "Well, we'll drink his health. And since you say you've both embarked in the same boat--a bad one--here's to your reaching a good haven, and in safety!" "Thanks, Major! The haven I now want to reach, and intend entering ere another sun sets, is the harbour of Folkestone." The Major almost drops his glass. "Why, Ryecroft, you're surely joking?" "No, Mahon; I'm in earnest--dead, anxious earnest." "Well, I wonder! No, I don't," he adds, correcting himself. "A man needn't be surprised at anything where there's a woman concerned. May the devil take her who's taking you away from me!" "Major Mahon!" "Well--well, old boy! Don't be angry. I meant nothing personal, knowing neither the lady, nor the reason for thus changing your mind, and so soon leaving me. Let my sorrow at that be my excuse." "You shall be told it this night--now!" In another hour Major Mahon is in possession of all that relates to Gwendoline Wynn, known to Vivian Ryecroft; no more wondering at the anxiety of his guest to get back to England, nor doing aught to detain him. Instead, he counsels his immediate return; accompanies him to the first morning packet for Folkestone; and at the parting hand-shake again reminds him of that well-timed grip in the ditch of Delhi, exclaiming, "God bless you, old boy! Whatever the upshot, remember you've a friend, and a bit of a tent to shelter you in Boulogne--not forgetting a little comfort from the _crayther_!" CHAPTER XLIV. SUICIDE, OR MURDER. Two more days have passed, and the crowd collected at Llangorren Court is larger than ever. But it is not now scattered, nor are people rushing excitedly about; instead, they stand thickly packed in a close clump, which covers all the carriage sweep in front of the house. For the search is over, the lost one has at length been found--found when the flood subsided, and the drag could do its work--_found drowned_! Not far away, nor yet in the main river; but that narrow channel, deep and dark, inside the eyot. In a little angular embayment at the cliff's base, almost directly under the summer-house was the body discovered. It came to the surface soon as touched by the grappling iron, which caught in the loose drapery around it. Left alone for another day, it would have risen of itself. Taken out of the water, and borne away to the house, it is now lying in the entrance hall, upon a long table there set centrally. The hall, though a spacious one, is filled with people; and but for two policemen stationed at the door, would be densely crowded. These have orders to admit only the friends and intimates of the family, with those whose duty requires them to be there officially. There is again a council in deliberation; but not as on days preceding. Then it was to inquire into what had become of Gwendoline Wynn, and whether she were still alive; to-day it is an inquest being held over her dead body! There lies it, just as it came out of the water. But, oh! how unlike what it was before being submerged! Those gossamer things, silks and laces--the dress worn by her at the ball--no more floating and feather-like, but saturated, mud-stained, "clinging like cerements" around a form whose statuesque outlines, even in death, show the perfection of female beauty. And her chrome yellow hair, cast in loose coils about, has lost its silken gloss, and grown darker in hue: while the rich rose red is gone from her cheeks, already swollen and discoloured; so soon had the ruthless water commenced its ravages! No one would know Gwen Wynn now. Seeing that form prostrate and pulseless, who could believe the same, which but a few nights before was there moving about, erect, lissome, and majestic? Or in that face, dark and disfigured, who could recognise the once radiant countenance of Llangorren's young heiress? Sad to contemplate those mute motionless lips, so late wreathed with smiles, and pleasant words! And those eyes, dulled with "muddy impurity," that so short while ago shone bright and gladsome, rejoicing in the gaiety of youth and the glory of beauty--sparkling, flashing, conquering! All is different now; her hair dishevelled, her dress disordered and dripping, the only things upon her person unchanged being the rings on her fingers, the wrist bracelets, the locket still pendant to her neck--all gemmed and gleaming as ever, the impure water affecting not their costly purity. And their presence has a significance, proclaiming an important fact, soon to be considered. The coroner, summoned in haste, has got upon the ground, selected his jury, and gone through the formularies for commencing the inquest. These over, the first point to be established is the identification of the body. There is little difficulty in this; and it is solely through routine, and for form's sake, that the aunt of the deceased lady, her cousin, the lady's maid, and one or two other domestics, are submitted to examination. All testify to their belief that the body before them is that of Gwendoline Wynn. Miss Linton, after giving her testimony, is borne off to her room in hysterics, while Eleanor Lees is led away weeping. Then succeeds inquiry as to how the death has been brought about; whether it be a case of suicide or assassination? If murder, the motive cannot have been robbery. The jewellery, of grand value, forbids the supposition of this, checking all conjecture. And if suicide, why? That Miss Wynn should have taken her own life--made away with herself--is equally impossible of belief. Some time is occupied in the investigation of facts, and drawing deductions. Witnesses of all classes and kinds thought worth the calling are called and questioned. Everything already known, or rumoured, is gone over again, till at length they arrive at the relations of Captain Ryecroft with the drowned lady. They are brought out in various ways, and by different witnesses; but only assume a sinister aspect in the eyes of the jury on their hearing the tale of the French _femme de chambre_--strengthened, almost confirmed, by the incident of that ring found on the floor of the summer-house. The finder is not there to tell how; but Miss Linton, Miss Lees, and Mr. Musgrave, vouch for the fact at second hand. The one most wanted is Vivian Ryecroft himself, and next him the waterman Wingate. Neither has yet made appearance at Llangorren, nor has either been heard of. The policeman sent after the last has returned to report a bootless expedition. No word of the boatman at Chepstow, nor anywhere else down the river. And no wonder there is not, since young Powell and his friends have taken Jack's boat beyond the river's mouth--duck-shooting along the shores of the Severn sea--there camping out, and sleeping in places far from towns, or stations of the rural constabulary. And the first is not yet expected--cannot be. From London, George Shenstone had telegraphed: "Captain Ryecroft gone to Paris, where he (Shenstone) would follow him." There has been no _telegram_ later to know whether the followed has been found. Even if he have, there has not been time for return from the French metropolis. Just as this conclusion has been reached by the coroner, his jury, the justices, and other gentlemen interested in and assisting at the investigation inside the hall, to the surprise of those on the sweep without, George Shenstone presents himself in their midst; their excited movement with the murmur of voices proclaiming his advent. Still greater their astonishment when, shortly after--within a few seconds--Captain Ryecroft steps upon the same ground, as though the two had come thither in companionship! And so might it have been believed, but for two hotel hackneys seen drawn up on the drive outside the skirts of the crowd, where they delivered their respective fares, after having brought them separately from the railway station. Fellow-travellers they have been, but whether friends or not, the people are surprised at the manner of their arrival; or rather, at seeing Captain Ryecroft so present himself. For in the days just past he has been the subject of a horrid suspicion, with the usual guesses and conjectures relating to it and him. Not only has he been freely calumniated, but doubts thrown out that Ryecroft is his real name, and denial of his being an officer of the army, or ever having been; with bold, positive asseveration that he is a swindler and adventurer! All that while Gwen Wynn was but missing. Now that her body is found, since its discovery, still harsher have been the terms applied to him; at length to culminate in calling him a murderer! Instead of voluntarily presenting himself at Llangorren alone, arms and limbs free, they expected to see him--if seen at all--with a policeman by his side, and manacles on his wrists! Astonished, also, are those within the hall, though in a milder degree, and from different causes. They did not look for the man to be brought before them handcuffed; but no more did they anticipate seeing him enter almost simultaneously, and side by side, with George Shenstone; they, not having the hackney carriages in sight, taking it for granted that the two have been travelling together. However strange or incongruous the companionship, those noting have no time to reflect about it; their attention being called to a scene that, for a while, fixes and engrosses it. Going wider apart as they approach the table on which lies the body, Shenstone and Ryecroft take opposite sides--coming to a stand, each in his own attitude. From information already imparted to them, they have been prepared to see a corpse, but not such as that! Where is the beautiful woman, by both beloved, fondly, passionately? Can it be possible that what they are looking upon is she who once was Gwendoline Wynn! Whatever their reflections, or whether alike, neither makes them known in words. Instead, both stand speechless, stunned--withered-like, as two strong trees simultaneously scathed by lightning--the bolt which has blasted them lying between! CHAPTER XLV. A PLENTIFUL CORRESPONDENCE. If Captain Ryecroft's sudden departure from Herefordshire brought suspicion upon him, his reappearance goes far to remove it. For that this is voluntary soon becomes known. The returned policeman has communicated the fact to his fellow-professionals, it is by them further disseminated among the people assembled outside. From the same source other information is obtained in favour of the man they have been so rashly and gravely accusing. The time of his starting off, the mode of making his journey, without any attempt to conceal his route of travel or cover his tracks--instead, leaving them so marked that any messenger, even the simplest, might have followed and found him. Only a fool fleeing from justice would have so fled, or one seeking to escape punishment for some trivial offence; but not a man guilty of murder. Besides, is he not back there--come of his own accord--to confront his accusers, if any there still be? So runs the reasoning throughout the crowd on the carriage sweep. With the gentlemen inside the house, equally complete is the revolution of sentiment in his favour. For, after the first violent outburst of grief, young Shenstone, in a few whispered words, makes known to them the particulars of his expedition to Boulogne, with that interview in the house of Major Mahon. Himself convinced of his rival's innocence, he urges his conviction on the others. But before their eyes is a sight almost confirmatory of it. That look of concentrated anguish in Captain Ryecroft's eyes cannot be counterfeit. A soldier who sheds tears could not be an assassin; and as he stands in bent attitude leaning over the table on which lies the corpse, tears are seen stealing down his cheeks, while his bosom rises and falls in quick, convulsive heaving. Shenstone is himself very similarly affected, and the bystanders beholding them are convinced that, in whatever way Gwendoline Wynn may have come by her death, the one is innocent of it as the other. For all, justice requires that the accusations already made, or menaced, against Captain Ryecroft be cleared up. Indeed, he himself demands this, for he is aware of the rumours that have been abroad about him. On this account he is called upon by the coroner to state what he knows concerning the melancholy subject of their inquiry. But first George Shenstone is examined--as it were by way of skirmish, and to approach, in a manner delicate as possible, the man mainly, though doubtingly accused. The baronet's son, beginning with the night of the ball--the fatal night--tells how he danced repeatedly with Miss Wynn; between two sets walked out with her over the lawn, stopped, and stood for some time under a certain tree, where in conversation she made known to him the fact of her being betrothed by showing him the engagement ring. She did not say who gave it, but he surmised it to be Captain Ryecroft--was sure of its being he--even without the evidence of the engraved initials afterwards observed by him inside it. As it has already been identified by others, he is only asked to state the circumstances under which he found it. Which he does, telling how he picked it up from the floor of the summer-house; but without alluding to his own motives for being there, or acting as he has throughout. As he is not questioned about these, why should he? But there are many hearing who guess them--not a few quite comprehending all. George Shenstone's mad love for Miss Wynn has been no secret, neither his pursuit of her for many long months, however hopeless it might have seemed to the initiated. His melancholy bearing now, which does not escape observation, would of itself tell the tale. His testimony makes ready the ground for him who is looked upon less in the light of a witness than as one accused, by some once more, and more than ever so. For there are those present who not only were at the ball, but noticed that triangular byplay upon which Shenstone's tale, without his intending it, has thrown a sinister light. Alongside the story of Clarisse, there seems to have been motive, almost enough for murder. An engagement angrily broken off--an actual quarrel--Gwendoline Wynn never afterwards seen alive! That quarrel, too, by the water's edge, on a cliff at whose base her body has been found! Strange--altogether improbable--that she should have drowned herself. Far easier to believe that he, her _fiancé_, in a moment of mad, headlong passion, prompted by fell jealousy, had hurled her over the high bank. Against this returned current of adverse sentiment, Captain Ryecroft is called upon to give his account, and state all he knows. What he will say is weighted with heavy consequences to himself. It may leave him at liberty to depart from the spot voluntarily, as he came, or be taken from it in custody. But he is yet free, and so left to tell his tale, no one interrupting. And without circumlocution he tells it, concealing nought that may be needed for its comprehension--not even his delicate relations to the unfortunate lady. He confesses his love--his proposal of marriage--its acceptance--the bestowal of the ring--his jealousy and its cause--the ebullition of angry words between him and his betrothed--the so-called quarrel--her returning the ring, with the way, and why he did not take it back--because at that painful crisis he neither thought of nor cared for such a trifle. Then parting with, and leaving her within the pavilion, he hastened away to his boat, and was rowed off. But, while passing up stream, he again caught sight of her, still standing in the summer-house, apparently leaning upon, and looking over, its baluster rail. His boat moving on, and trees coming between, he no more saw her; but soon after heard a cry--his waterman as well--startling both. It is a new statement in evidence, which startles those listening to him. He could not comprehend, and cannot explain it; though now knowing it must have been the voice of Gwendoline Wynn--perhaps her last utterance in life. He had commanded his boatman to hold way, and they dropped back down stream again to get within sight of the summer-house, but then to see it dark, and to all appearance deserted. Afterwards he proceeded home to his hotel, there to sit up for the remainder of the night, packing and otherwise preparing for his journey--of itself a consequence of the angry parting with his betrothed, and the pledge so slightingly returned. In the morning he wrote to her, directing the letter to be dropped into the post office; which he knew to have been done before his leaving the hotel for the railway station. "Has any letter reached Llangorren Court?" inquires the coroner, turning from the witness, and putting the question in a general way. "I mean for Miss Wynn, since the night of that ball?" The butler present, stepping forward, answers in the affirmative, saying,-- "There are a good many for Miss Gwen since--some almost coming in every post." Although there is, or was, but one Miss Gwen Wynn at Llangorren, the head servant, as the others, from habit calls her "Miss Gwen," speaking of her as if she were still alive. "It is your place to look after the letters, I believe?" "Yes, I attend to that." "What have you done with those addressed to Miss Wynn?" "I gave them to Gibbons, Miss Gwen's lady's-maid." "Let Gibbons be called again!" directs the coroner. The girl is brought in the second time, having been already examined at some length, and, as before, confessing her neglect of duty. "Mr. Williams," proceeds the examiner, "gave you some letters for your late mistress. What have you done with them?" "I took them upstairs to Miss Gwen's room." "Are they there still?" "Yes; on the dressing table, where she always had the letters left for her." "Be good enough to bring them down here. Bring all." Another pause in the proceedings while Gibbons is off after the now posthumous correspondence of the deceased lady, during which whisperings are interchanged between the coroner and the jurymen, asking questions of one another. They relate to a circumstance seeming strange; that nothing has been said about these letters before--at least, to those engaged in the investigation. The explanation, however, is given--a reason evident and easily understood. They have seen the state of mind in which the two ladies of the establishment are--Miss Linton almost beside herself, Eleanor Lees not far from the same. In the excitement of occurrences, neither has given thought to letters, even having forgotten the one which so occupied their attention on that day when Gwen was missed from her seat at the breakfast table. It might not have been seen by them then, but for Gibbons not being in the way to take it upstairs as usual. These facts, or rather deductions, are informal, and discussed while the maid is absent on her errand. She is gone but for a few seconds, returning, waiter in hand, with a pile of letters upon it, which she presents in the orthodox fashion. Counted, there are more than a dozen of them, the deceased lady having largely corresponded. A general favourite--to say nothing of her youth, beauty, and riches--she had friends far and near; and, as the butler had stated, letters coming by "almost every post"--that but once a day, however, Llangorren lying far from a postal town, and having but one daily delivery. Those upon the tray are from ladies, as can be told by the delicate angular chirography--all except two, that show a rounder and bolder hand. In the presence of her to whom they were addressed--now speechless and unprotesting--no breach of confidence to open them. One after another their envelopes are torn off, and they are submitted to the jury--those of the lady correspondents first. Not to be deliberately read, but only glanced at, to see if they contain aught relating to the matter in hand. Still, it takes time; and would more were they all of the same pattern--double sheets, with the scrip crossed, and full to the four corners. Fortunately, but a few of them are thus prolix and puzzling; the greater number being notes about the late ball, birthday congratulations, invitations to "at homes," dinner parties, and such like. Recognising their character, and that they have no relation to the subject of inquiry, the jurymen pass them through their fingers speedily as possible, and then turn with greater expectancy to the two in masculine handwriting. These the coroner has meanwhile opened, and read to himself, finding one signed "George Shenstone," the other "Vivian Ryecroft." Nobody present is surprised to hear that one of the letters is Ryecroft's. They have been expecting it so. But not that the other is from the son of Sir George Shenstone. A word, however, from the young man himself explains how it came there, leaving the epistle to tell its own tale. For as both undoubtedly bear upon the matter of inquiry, the Coroner has directed both to be read aloud. Whether by chance or otherwise, that of Shenstone is taken first. It is headed-- "Ormeston Hall, 4 a.m., _Après le bal_." The date, thus oddly indicated, seems to tell of the writer being in better spirits than might have been expected just at that time; possibly from a still lingering belief that all is not yet hopeless with him. Something of the same runs through the tone of his letter, if not its contents, which are-- "DEAR GWEN,--I've got home, but can't turn in without writing you a word, to say that, however sad I feel at what you've told me--and sad I am, God knows--if you think I shouldn't come near you any more--and from what I noticed last night, perhaps I ought not--only say so, and I will not. Your slightest word will be a command to one who, though no longer hoping to have your hand, will still hope and pray for your happiness. That one is, "Yours devotedly, if despairingly, "GEORGE SHENSTONE. "P.S.--Do not take the trouble of writing an answer. I would rather get it from your lips; and that you may have the opportunity of so giving it, I will call at the Court in the afternoon. Then you can say whether it is to be my last visit there.--G. S." The writer, present and listening, bravely bears himself. It is a terrible infliction, nevertheless, having his love secret thus revealed--his heart, as it were, laid open before all the world. But he is too sad to feel it now, and makes no remark, save a word or two explanatory, in answer to questions from the coroner. Nor are any comments made upon the letter itself. All are too anxious as to the contents of that other, bearing the signature of the man who is to most of them a stranger. It carries the address of the hotel in which he has been all summer sojourning, and its date is only an hour or two later than that of Shenstone's. No doubt, at the self-same moment, the two men were pondering upon the words they intended writing to Gwendoline Wynn--she who now can never read them. Very different in spirit are their epistles, unlike as the men themselves. But, so too, are the circumstances that dictated them; that of Ryecroft reads thus:-- "GWENDOLINE,--While you are reading this, I shall be on my way to London, where I shall stay to receive your answer--if you think it worth while to give one. After parting as we've done, possibly you will not. When you so scornfully cast away that little love-token, it told me a tale--I may say a bitter one--that you never really regarded the gift, nor cared for the giver. Is that true, Gwendoline? If not, and I am wronging you, may God forgive me. And I would crave your forgiveness; entreat you to let me replace the ring upon your finger. But if true--and you know best--then you can take it up--supposing it is still upon the floor where you flung it--fling it into the river, and forget him who gave it. "VIVIAN RYECROFT." To this half-doubting, half-defiant epistle there is also a postscript:-- "I shall be at the Langham Hotel, London, till to-morrow noon, where your answer, if any, will reach me. Should none come, I shall conclude that all is ended between us, and henceforth you will neither need, nor desire, to know my address. "V. R." The contents of the letter make a vivid impression on all present. Its tone of earnestness, almost anger, could not be assumed or pretended. Beyond doubt, it was written under the circumstances stated; and, taken in conjunction with the writer's statement of other events, given in such a clear, straightforward manner, there is again complete revulsion of feeling in his favour, and once more a full belief in his innocence which questioning him by cross-examination fails to shake, instead strengthens; and when, at length, having given explanation of everything, he is permitted to take his place among the spectators and mourners, it is with little fear of being dragged away from Llangorren Court in the character of a criminal. CHAPTER XLVI. FOUND DROWNED. As a pack of hounds thrown off the scent, but a moment before hot, now cold, are the coroner and his jury. But only in one sense like the dogs these human searchers. There is nothing of the sleuth in their search, and they are but too glad to find the game they have been pursuing and lost is a noble stag, instead of a treacherous, wicked wolf. Not a doubt remains in their minds of the innocence of Captain Ryecroft--not the shadow of one. If there were, it is soon to be dissipated. For while they are deliberating on what had best next be done, a noise outside, a buzz of voices, excited exclamations, at length culminating in a cheer, tell of someone fresh arrived and received triumphantly. They are not left long to conjecture who the new arrival is. One of the policemen stationed at the door stepping aside tells who--the man after Captain Ryecroft himself most wanted. No need saying it is Jack Wingate. But a word about how the waterman has come thither, arriving at such a time, and why not sooner. It is all in a nutshell. But the hour before he returned from the duck-shooting expedition on the shores of the Severn sea, with his boat brought back by road--on a donkey-cart. On arrival at his home, and hearing of the great event at Llangorren, he had launched his skiff, leaped into it, and pulled himself down to the Court as if rowing in a regatta. In the _patois_ of the American prairies he is now "arrove," and, still panting for breath, is brought before the Coroner's Court, and submitted to examination. His testimony confirms that of his old fare--in every particular about which he can testify. All the more credible is it from his own character. The young waterman is well known as a man of veracity--incapable of bearing false witness. When he tells them that after the Captain had joined him, and was still with him in the boat, he not only saw a lady in the little house overhead, but recognised her as the young mistress of Llangorren--when he positively swears to the fact--no one any more thinks that she whose body lies dead was drowned or otherwise injured by the man standing bowed and broken over it. Least of all the other, who alike suffers and sorrows. For soon as Wingate has finished giving evidence, George Shenstone steps forward, and holding out his hand to his late rival, says, in the hearing of all,-- "Forgive me, sir, for having wronged you by suspicion! I now make reparation for it in the only way I can--by declaring that I believe you as innocent as myself." The generous behaviour of the baronet's son strikes home to every heart, and his example is imitated by others. Hands from every side are stretched towards that of the stranger, giving it a grasp which tells of their owners being also convinced of his innocence. But the inquest is not yet ended--not for hours. Over the dead body of one in social rank as she, no mere perfunctory investigation would satisfy the public demand, nor would any coroner dare to withdraw till everything has been thoroughly sifted, and to the bottom. In view of the new facts brought out by Captain Ryecroft and his boatman--above all, that cry heard by them--suspicions of foul play are rife as ever, though no longer pointed at him. As everything in the shape of verbal testimony worth taking has been taken, the coroner calls upon his jury to go with him to the place where the body was taken out of the water. Leaving it in charge of two policemen, they sally forth from the house two and two, he preceding, the crowd pressing close. First they visit the little dock, in which they see two boats--the _Gwendoline_ and _Mary_--lying just as they were on that night when Captain Ryecroft stepped across the one to take his seat in the other. He is with the coroner, so is Wingate, and both questioned give minute account of that embarkation, again in brief _résumé_ going over the circumstances that preceded and followed it. The next move is to the summer-house, to which the distance from the dock is noted, one of the jurymen stepping it--the object to discover how time will correspond to the incidents as detailed. Not that there is any doubt about the truth of Captain Ryecroft's statements, nor those of the boatman; for both are fully believed. The measuring is only to assist in making calculation how long time may have intervened between the lovers' quarrel and the death-like cry, without thought of their having any connection--much less that the one was either cause or consequence of the other. Again there is consultation at the summer-house, with questions asked, some of which are answered by George Shenstone, who shows the spot where he picked up the ring. And outside, standing on the cliff's brink, Ryecroft and the waterman point to the place, near as they can fix it, where their boat was when the sad sound reached their ears, again recounting what they did after. Remaining a while longer on the cliff, the coroner and jury, with craned necks, look over its edge. Directly below is the little embayment in which the body was found. It is angular, somewhat horse-shoe shaped; the water within stagnant, which accounts for the corpse not having been swept away. There is not much current in the backwash at any part; enough to have carried it off had the drowning been done elsewhere. But beyond doubt it has been there. Such is the conclusion arrived at by the Coroner's jury, firmly established in their minds, at sight of something hitherto unnoticed by them. For though not in a body, individually each had already inspected the place, negligently. But now in official form, with wits on the alert, one looking over detects certain abrasions on the face of the cliff--scratches on the red sandstone--distinguishable by the fresher tint of the rock--unquestionably made by something that had fallen from above, and what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? They see, moreover, some branches of a juniper bush near the cliff's base, broken, but still clinging. Through that the falling form must have descended! There is no further doubting the fact. There went she over; the only questions undetermined being, whether with her own will, by misadventure, or man's violence. In other words, was it suicide, accident, or murder. To the last many circumstances point, and especially the fact of the body remaining where it went into the water. A woman being drowned accidentally, or drowning herself, in the death-struggle would have worked away some distance from the spot she had fallen, or thrown herself in. Still, the same would occur if thrown in by another; only that this other might by some means have extinguished life before-hand. This last thought, or surmise, carries coroner and jury back to the house, and to a more particular examination of the body. In which they are assisted by medical men--surgeons and physicians--several of both being present, unofficially; among them the one who administers to the ailings of Miss Linton. There is none of them who has attended Gwendoline Wynn, who never knew ailment of any kind. Their _post-mortem_ examining does not extend to dissection. There is no need. Without it there are tests which tell the cause of death--that of drowning. Beyond this they can throw no light on the affair, which remains mysterious as ever. Flung back on reasoning of the analytical kind, the coroner and his jury can come to no other conclusion than that the first plunge into the water, in whatever way made, was almost instantly fatal; and if a struggle followed, it ended by the body returning to, and sinking in the same place where it first went down. Among the people outside pass many surmises, guesses, and conjectures. Suspicions also, but no more pointing to Captain Ryecroft. They take another, and more natural, direction. Still nothing has transpired to inculpate any one, or, in the finding of a coroner's jury, connect man or woman with it. This is at length pronounced in the usual formula, with its customary tag:--"FOUND DROWNED. BUT HOW, etc., etc." With such ambiguous rendering, the once beautiful body of Gwendoline Wynn is consigned to a coffin, and in due time deposited in the family vault, under the chancel of Llangorren Church. CHAPTER XLVII. A MAN WHO THINKS IT MURDER. Had Gwendoline Wynn been a poor cottage girl, instead of a rich young lady--owner of estates--the world would soon have ceased to think of her. As it is, most people have settled down to the belief that she has simply been the victim of a misadventure, her death due to accident. Only a few have other thoughts, but none that she has committed suicide. The theory of _felo de se_ is not entertained, because not entertainable. For, in addition to the testimony taken at the coroner's inquest, other facts came out in examination by the magistrates, showing there was no adequate reason why she should put an end to her life. A lover's quarrel of a night's, still less an hour's, duration, could not so result. And that there was nothing beyond this, Miss Linton is able to say assuredly. Still more Eleanor Lees, who, by confidences exchanged, and mutually imparted, was perfectly _au fait_ to the feelings of her relative and friend--knew her hopes and her fears, and that among the last there was none to justify the deed of despair. Doubts now and then, for when and where is love without them; but with Gwen Wynn slight, evanescent as the clouds in a summer sky. She was satisfied that Vivian Ryecroft loved her, as that she herself lived. How could it be otherwise? and her behaviour on the night of the ball was only a transient spite which would have passed off soon as the excitement was over, and calm reflection returned. Altogether impossible she could have given way to it so far as in wilful rage to take the last leap into eternity. More likely standing on the cliff's edge, anxiously straining her eyes after the boat which was bearing him away in anger, her foot slipped upon the rock, and she fell over into the flood. So argues Eleanor Lees, and such is the almost universal belief at the close of the inquest, and for some time after. And if not self-destruction, no more could it be murder with a view to robbery. The valuable effects left untouched upon her person forbade supposition of that. If murder, the motive must have been other than the possession of a few hundred pounds' worth of jewellery. So reasons the world at large, naturally enough. For all, there are a few who still cling to a suspicion of there having been foul play; but not now with any reference with Captain Ryecroft. Nor are they the same who had suspected him. Those yet doubting the accidental death are the intimate friends of the Wynn family, who knew of its affairs relating to the property with the conditions on which the Llangorren estates were held. Up to this time only a limited number of individuals has been aware of their descent to Lewin Murdock. And when at length this fact comes out, and still more emphatically by the gentleman himself taking possession of them, the thoughts of the people revert to the mystery of Miss Wynn's death, so unsatisfactorily cleared up at the coroner's inquest. Still, the suspicions thus newly aroused, and pointing in another quarter, are confined to those acquainted with the character of the new man suspected. Nor are they many. Beyond the obscure corner of Rugg's Ferry there are few who have ever heard of, still fewer ever seen him. Outside the pale of "society," with most part of his life passed abroad, he is a stranger, not only to the gentry of the neighbourhood, but most of the common people as well. Jack Wingate chanced to have heard of him by reason of his proximity to Rugg's Ferry, and his own necessity for oft going there. But possibly as much on the account of the intimate relations existing between the owner of Glyngog House and Coracle Dick. Others less interested know little of either individual, and when it is told that a Mr. Lewin Murdock has succeeded to the estates of Llangorren--at the same time it becoming known that he is the cousin of her whom death has deprived of them--to the general public the succession seems natural enough; since it has been long understood that the lady had no nearer relative. Therefore, only the few intimately familiar with the facts relating to the reversion of the property held fast to the suspicion thus excited. But as no word came out, either at the inquest or elsewhere, and nothing has since arisen to justify it, they also begin to share the universal belief, that for the death of Gwendoline Wynn nobody is to blame. Even George Shenstone, sorely grieving, accepts it thus. Of unsuspicious nature, incapable of believing in a crime so terrible, a deed so dark, as that would infer, he cannot suppose that the gentleman, now his nearest neighbour--for the lands of Llangorren adjoin those of his father--has come into possession of them by such foul means as murder. His father may think differently, he knowing more of Lewin Murdock. Not much of his late life, but his earlier, with its surroundings and antecedents. Still Sir George is silent, whatever his thoughts. It is not a subject to be lightly spoken of, or rashly commented upon. There is one who, more than any other, reflects upon the sad fate of her whom he had so fondly loved, and differing from the rest as to how she came to her death; this one is Captain Ryecroft. He, too, might have yielded to the popular impression of its having been accidental, but for certain circumstances that have come to his knowledge, and which he has yet kept to himself. He has not forgotten what was, at an early period, communicated to him by the waterman Wingate, about the odd-looking old house up the glen; nor yet the uneasy manner of Gwendoline Wynn, when once, in conversation with her, he referred to the place and its occupier. This, with Jack's original story, and other details added, besides incidents that have since transpired, are recalled to him vividly on hearing that the owner of Glyngog has also become owner of Llangorren. It is some time before this news reaches him; for, just after the inquest, an important matter had arisen affecting some property of his own, which required his presence in Dublin, there for days detaining him. Having settled it, he has returned to the same town and hotel where he had been the summer sojourning. Nor came he back on errand aimless, but with a purpose. Ill-satisfied with the finding of the coroner's jury, he is determined to investigate the affair in his own way. Accident he does not believe in--least of all that the lady, having made a false step, had fallen over the cliff. When he last saw her, she was inside the pavilion, leaning over the baluster rail, breast high, protected by it. If gazing after him and his boat, the position gave her as good a view as she could have. Why should she have gone outside? And the cry heard so soon after? It was not like that of one falling, and so far. In descent, it would have been repeated, which it was not. Of suicide he has never entertained a thought, above all, for the reason suggested--jealousy of himself. How could he, while so keenly suffering it for her? No; it could not be that--nor suicide from any cause. The more he ponders upon it, the surer grows he that Gwendoline Wynn has been the victim of a villainous murder. And it is for this reason he has returned to the Wye, first to satisfy himself of the fact, then, if possible, to find the perpetrator, and bring him to justice. As no robber has done the drowning, conjecture is narrowed to a point, his suspicions finally becoming fixed on Lewin Murdock. He may be mistaken, but will not surrender them until he find evidence of their being erroneous, or proof that they are correct. And to obtain it he will devote, if need be, all the rest of his days, with the remainder of his fortune. For what are either now to him? In life he has had but one love, real, and reaching the height of a passion. She who inspired it is now sleeping her last sleep--lying cold in her tomb--his love and memory of her alone remaining warm. His grief has been great, but its first wild throes have passed, and he can reflect calmly--more carefully consider what he should do. From the first some thoughts about Murdock were in his mind; still only vague. Now, on returning to Herefordshire, and hearing what has happened meanwhile--for during his absence there has been a removal from Glyngog to Llangorren--the occurrence, so suggestive, restores his former train of reflection, placing things in a clearer light. As the hunter, hitherto pursuing upon a cold trail, is excited by finding the slot fresher, so he. And so will he follow it to the end--the last trace or sign. For no game, however grand--elephant, lion, or tiger--could attract like that he believes himself to be after--a human tiger--a murderer. CHAPTER XLVIII. ONCE MORE UPON THE RIVER. Nowhere in England--perhaps nowhere in Europe--is the autumnal foliage more charmingly tinted than on the banks of the Wye, where it runs through the shire of Hereford. There Vaga threads her way amid woods that appear painted, and in colours almost as vivid as those of the famed American forests. The beech, instead of, as elsewhere, dying off dull bistre, takes a tint of bright amber; the chestnut turns translucent lemon; the oak leaves show rose colours along their edges, and the wych-hazel coral red by its umbels of thickly clustering fruit. Here and there along the high-pitched hill-sides flecks of crimson proclaim the wild cherry, spots of hoar white bespeak the climbing clematis, scarlet the holly with its wax-like berries, and maroon red the hawthorn; while interspersed and contrasting are dashes of green in all its varied shades, where yews, junipers, gorse, ivy, and other indigenous evergreens display their living verdure throughout all the year, daring winter's frosts, and defying its snows. It is autumn now, and the woods of the Wye have donned its dress; no livery of faded green, nor sombre russet, but a robe of gaudiest sheen, its hues scarlet, crimson, green, and golden. Brown October elsewhere, is brilliant here; and though leaves have fallen, and are falling, the sight suggests no thought of decay, nor brings sadness to the heart of the beholder. Instead, the gaudy tapestry, hanging from the trees, and the gay-coloured carpet spread underneath, but gladden it. Still further is it rejoiced by sounds heard. For the woods of Wyeside are not voiceless, even in winter. Within them the birds ever sing, and although their autumn concert may not equal that of spring,--lacking its leading tenor, the nightingale--still is it alike vociferous and alike splendidly attuned. Bold as ever is the flageolet note of the blackbird; not less loud and sweet the carol of his shier cousin the thrush; as erst soft and tender the cooing of the cushat; and with mirth unabated the cackle of the green woodpecker, as with long tongue, prehensile as human hand, it penetrates the ant-hive in search of its insect prey. * * * * * October it is; and where the Wye's silver stream, like a grand glistening snake, meanders amid these woods of golden hue and glorious song, a small row-boat is seen dropping downward. There are two men in it--one rowing, the other seated in the stern sheets, steering. The same individuals have been observed before in like relative position and similarly occupied. For he at the oars is Jack Wingate, the steerer Captain Ryecroft. Little thought the young waterman, when that "big gift"--the ten pound bank-note--was thrust into his palm, he would so soon again have the generous donor for a fare. He has him now, without knowing why, or inquiring. Too glad once more to sit on his boat's thwarts, _vis-à-vis_ with the Captain, it would ill become him to be inquisitive. Besides, there is a feeling of solemnity in their thus again being together, with sadness pervading the thoughts of both, and holding speech in restraint. All he knows is that his old fare has hired him for a row down the river, but bent on no fishing business, for it is twilight. His excursion has a different object; but what, the boatman cannot tell. No inference could be drawn from the laconic order he received at embarking. "Row me down the river, Jack!" distance and all else left undefined. And down Jack is rowing him in regular measured stroke, no words passing between them. Both are silent, as though listening to the plash of the oar-blades, or the roundelay of late singing birds on the river's bank. Yet neither of these sounds has place in their thoughts; instead, only the memory of one different and less pleasant. For they are thinking of cries--shrieks heard by them not so long ago, and still too fresh in their memory. Ryecroft is the first to break silence, saying,-- "This must be about the place where we heard it." Although not a word has been said of what the "it" is, and the remark seems made in soliloquy rather than as an interrogation, Wingate well knows what is meant, as shown by his rejoinder:-- "It's the very spot, Captain." "Ah! you know it?" "I do--am sure. You see that big poplar standing on the bank there?" "Yes; well?" "We wor just abreast o' it when ye bid me hold way. In course we must a heard the screech just then." "Hold way now! Pull back a length or two. Steady her. Keep opposite the tree!" The boatman obeys, first pulling the back stroke, then staying his craft against the current. Once more relapsing into silence, Ryecroft sends his gaze down stream, as though noting the distance to Llangorren Court, whose chimneys are visible in the moonlight now on. Then, as if satisfied with some mental observation, he directs the other to row off. But as the kiosk-like structure comes within sight, he orders another pause, while making a minute survey of the summer-house, and the stretch of water between. Part of this is the main channel of the river, the other portion being the narrow way behind the eyot; on approaching which the pavilion is again lost to view, hidden by a tope of tall trees. But once within the bye-way, it can be again sighted; and when near the entrance to this the waterman gets the word to pull into it. He is somewhat surprised at receiving this direction. It is the way to Llangorren Court, by the boat-stair, and he knows the people now living there are not friends of his fare--not even acquaintances, so far as he has heard. Surely the Captain is not going to call on Mr. Lewin Murdock--in amicable intercourse? So queries Jack Wingate, but only of himself, and without receiving answer. One way or other he will soon get it; and thus consoling himself, he rows on into the narrower channel. Not much farther before getting convinced that the Captain has no intention of making a call at the Court, nor is the _Mary_ to enter that little dock, where more than once she had lain moored beside the _Gwendoline_. When opposite the summer-house, he is once more commanded to bring to, with the intimation added,-- "I'm not going any farther, Jack." Jack ceases stroke, and again holds the skiff so as to hinder it from drifting. Ryecroft sits with eyes turned towards the cliff, taking in its _façade_ from base to summit, as though engaged in a geological study, or trigonometrical calculation. The waterman, for a while wondering what it is all about, soon begins to have a glimmer of comprehension. It is clearer when he is directed to scull the boat up into the little cove where the body was found. Soon as he has her steadied inside it, close up against the cliff's base, Ryecroft draws out a small lamp, and lights it. He then rises to his feet, and, leaning forward, lays hold of a projecting point of rock. On that resting his hand, he continues for some time regarding the scratches on its surface, supposed to have been made by the feet of the drowned lady in her downward descent. Where he stands they are close to his eyes, and he can trace them from commencement to termination. And so doing, a shadow of doubt is seen to steal over his face, as though he doubted the finding of the coroner's jury, and the belief of every one that Gwendoline Wynn had there fallen over. Bending lower, and examining the broken branches of the juniper, he doubts no more, but is sure--convinced of the contrary! Jack Wingate sees him start back with a strange surprised look, at the same time exclaiming,-- "I thought as much! No accident!--no suicide--murdered!" Still wondering, the waterman asks no questions. Whatever it may mean, he expects to be told in time, and is therefore patient. His patience is not tried by having to stay much longer there. Only a few moments more, during which Ryecroft bends over the boat's side, takes the juniper twigs in his hand, one after the other, raises them up as they were before being broken, then lets them gently down again! To his companion he says nothing to explain this apparently eccentric manipulation, leaving Jack to guesses. Only when it is over, and he is apparently satisfied, or with observation exhausted, giving the order,-- "Way, Wingate! Row back--up the river!" With alacrity the waterman obeys, but too glad to get out of that shadowy passage; for a weird feeling is upon him, as he remembers how there the screech owls mournfully cried, as if to make him sadder when thinking of his own lost love. Moving out into the main channel and on up stream, Ryecroft is once more silent and musing. But on reaching the place from which the pavilion can be again sighted, he turns round on the thwart and looks back. It startles him to see a form under the shadow of its roof--a woman!--how different from that he last saw there! The ex-cocotte of Paris--faded flower of the Jardin Mabille--has replaced the fresh beautiful blossom of Wyeside--blighted in its bloom! CHAPTER XLIX. THE CRUSHED JUNIPER. Notwithstanding the caution with which Captain Ryecroft made his reconnaisance, it was nevertheless observed, and from beginning to end. Before his boat drew near the end of the eyot, above the place where for the second time it had stopped, it came under the eye of a man who chanced to be standing on the cliff by the side of the summer-house. That he was there by accident, or at all events not looking out for a boat, could be told by his behaviour on first sighting this; neither by change of attitude nor glance of eye evincing any interest in it. His reflection is,-- "Some fellows after salmon, I suppose. Have been up to that famous catching place by the ferry, and are on the way home downward--to Rock Weir, no doubt! Ha!" The ejaculation is drawn from him by seeing the boat come to a stop, and remain stationary in the middle of the stream. "What's that for?" he asks himself, now more carefully examining the craft. It is still full four hundred yards from him, but the moonlight being in his favour, he makes it out to be a pair-oared skiff with two men in it. "They don't seem to be dropping a net," he observes, "nor engaged about anything. That's odd!" Before they came to a stop, he heard a murmur of voices, as of speech, a few words, exchanged between them, but too distant for him to distinguish what they had said. Now they are silent, sitting without stir; only a slight movement in the arms of the oarsman to keep the boat in its place. All this seems strange to him observing: not less when a flood of moonlight brighter than usual falls over the boat, and he can tell by the attitude of the man in the stern, with face turned upward, that he is regarding the structure on the cliff. He is not himself standing beside it now. Soon as becoming interested by the behaviour of the men in the boat, from its seeming eccentricity, he had glided back behind a bush, and there now crouches, an instinct prompting him to conceal himself. Soon after he sees the boat moving on, and then for a few seconds it is out of sight, again coming under his view near the upper end of the islet, evidently setting in for the old channel. And while he watches, it enters! As this is a sort of private way, the eyot itself being an adjunct of the ornamental grounds of Llangorren, he wonders whose boat it can be, and what its business there. By the backwash, it must be making for the dock and stair; the men in it, or one of them, for the Court. While still surprisedly conjecturing, his ears admonish him that the oars are at rest, and another stoppage has taken place. He cannot see the skiff now, as the high bank hinders. Besides, the narrow passage is arcaded over by trees still in thick foliage; and, though the moon is shining brightly above, scarce a ray reaches the surface of the water. But an occasional creak of an oar in its rowlock, and some words spoken in low tone--so low he cannot make them out--tell him that the stoppage is directly opposite the spot where he is crouching--as predatory animal in wait for its prey. What was at first mere curiosity, and then matter of but slight surprise, is now an object of keen solicitude. For of all places in the world, to him there is none invested with greater interest than that where the boat has been brought to. Why has it stopped there? Why is it staying? For he can tell it is by the silence continuing. Above all, who are the men in it? He asks these questions of himself, but does not stay to reason out the answers. He will best get them by his eyes; and to obtain sight of the skiff and its occupants, he glides a little way along the cliff, looking out for a convenient spot. Finding one, he drops first to his knees, then upon all fours, and crawls out to its edge. Craning his head over, but cautiously, and with a care it shall be under cover of some fern leaves, he has a view of the water below, with the boat on it--only indistinct on account of the obscurity. He can make out the figures of the two men, though not their faces, nor anything by which he may identify them--if already known. But he sees that which helps to a conjecture, at the same sharpening his apprehensions--the boat once more in motion, not moving off, but up into the little cove, where a dead body late lay! Then, as one of the men strikes a match and sets light to a lamp, lighting up his own face with that of the other opposite, he on the bank above at length recognises both. But it is no longer a surprise to him. The presence of the skiff there, the movements of the men in it--like his own, evidently under restraint and stealthy--have prepared him for seeing whom he now sees--Captain Ryecroft and the waterman Wingate. Still, he cannot think of what they are after, though he has his suspicions; the place, with something only known to himself, suggesting them--conjecture at first soon becoming certainty, as he sees the ex-officer of Hussars rise to his feet, hold his lamp close to the cliff's face, and inspect the abrasions on the rock! He is not more certain, but only more apprehensive, when the crushed juniper twigs are taken in hand, examined, and let go again. For he has by this divined the object of it all. If any doubt lingered, it is set at rest by the exclamatory words following, which, though but muttered, reach him on the cliff above, heard clear enough-- "No accident--no suicide--murdered!" They carry tremor to his heart, making him feel as a fox that hears the tongue of hound on its track. Still distant, but for all causing it fear, and driving it to think of subterfuge. And of this thinks he, as he lies with his face among the ferns; ponders upon it till the boat has passed back up the dark passage out into the river, and he hears the last light dipping of its oars in the far distance. He even forgets a woman, for whom he was waiting at the summer-house, and who there without finding him has flitted off again. At length rising to his feet, and going a little way, he too gets into a boat--one he finds, with oars aboard, down in the dock. It is not the _Gwendoline_--she is gone. Seating himself on the mid thwart, he takes up the oars, and pulls towards the place lately occupied by the skiff of the waterman. When inside the cove, he lights a match, and holds it close to the face of the rock where Ryecroft held his lamp. It burns out, and he draws a second across the sand-paper; this to show him the broken branches of the juniper, which he also takes in hand and examines--soon also dropping them, with a look of surprise, followed by the exclamatory phrases-- "Prodigiously strange! I see his drift now. Cunning fellow! On the track he has discovered the trick, and 'twill need another trick to throw him off it. This bush must be uprooted--destroyed." He is in the act of grasping the juniper, to pluck it out by the roots. A dwarf thing, this could be easily done. But a thought stays him--another precautionary forecast, as evinced by his words-- "That won't do." After repeating them, he drops back on the boat's thwart, and sits for a while considering, with eyes turned toward the cliff, ranging it up and down. "Ah!" he exclaims at length, "the very thing; as if the devil himself had fixed it for me! That _will_ do; smash the bush to atoms--blot out everything, as if an earthquake had gone over Llangorren." While thus oddly soliloquising, his eyes are still turned upward, apparently regarding a ledge which, almost loose as a boulder, projects from the bank above. It is directly over the juniper, and if detached from its bed, as it easily might be, would go crashing down, carrying the bush with it. And that same night it does go down. When the morning sun lights up the cliff, there is seen a breakage upon its face just underneath the summer-house. Of course, a landslip, caused by the late rains acting on the decomposed sandstone. But the juniper bush is no longer there; it is gone, root and branch! CHAPTER L. REASONING BY ANALYSIS. Captain Ryecroft's start at seeing a woman within the pavilion was less from surprise than an emotion due to memory. When he last saw his betrothed alive, it was in that same place, and almost in a similar attitude--leaning over the baluster rail. Besides, many other souvenirs cling around the spot, which the sight vividly recalls; and so painfully, that he at once turns his eyes away from it, nor again looks back. He has an idea who the woman is, though personally knowing her not, nor ever having seen her. The incident agitates him a little; but he is soon calm again, and for some time after sits silent--in no dreamy reverie, but actively cogitating, though not of it or her. His thoughts are occupied with a discovery he has made in his exploration just ended. An important one, bearing on the suspicion he had conceived almost proving it correct. Of all the facts that came before the coroner and his jury, none more impressed them, nor perhaps so much influenced their finding, as the tale-telling traces upon the face of the cliff. Nor did they arrive at their conclusion with any undue haste or light deliberation. Before deciding, they had taken boat, and from below more minutely inspected them. But with their first impression unaltered--or only strengthened--that the abrasions on the soft sandstone rock were made by a falling body, and the bush borne down by the same. And what but the body of Gwendoline Wynn? Living or dead, springing off, or pitched over, they could not determine. Hence the ambiguity of their verdict. Very different the result reached by Captain Ryecroft after viewing the same. In his Indian campaigns, the ex-cavalry officer, belonging to the "Light," had his share of scouting experience. It enables him to read "sign" with the skill of trapper or prairie hunter; and on the moment his lamp threw its light against the cliff's face, he knew the scratches were not caused by anything that came _down_, since they had been _made from below_! And by some blunt instrument, as the blade of a boat oar. Then the branches of the juniper. Soon as getting his eyes close to them, he saw they had been broken _inward_, their drooping tops turned _toward_ the cliff, not _from_ it! A falling body would have bent them in an opposite direction, and the fracture been from the upper and inner side! Everything indicated their having been crushed from below--not by the same boat's oar, but likely enough by the hands that held it! It was on reaching this conclusion that Captain Ryecroft gave involuntary utterance to the exclamatory words heard by him lying flat among the ferns above, the last one sending a thrill of fear through his heart. And upon it the ex-officer of Hussars is still reflecting as he returns up stream. Since the command given to Wingate to row him back, he has not spoken, not even to make remark about that suggestive thing seen in the summer-house above--though the other has observed it also. Facing that way, the waterman has his eyes on it for a longer time. But the bearing of the Captain admonishes him that he is not to speak till spoken to; and he silently tugs at his oars, leaving the other to his reflections. These are, that Gwendoline Wynn has been surely assassinated, though not by being thrown over the cliff. Possibly not drowned at all, but her body dropped into the water where found--conveyed thither after life was extinct! The scoring of the rock and the snapping of the twigs, all that done to mislead, as it had misled everybody but himself. To him it has brought conviction that there has been a deed of blood--done by the hand of another. "No accident--no suicide--murdered!" He is not questioning the fact, nor speculating upon the motive now. The last has been already revolved in his mind, and is clear as daylight. To such a man as he has heard Lewin Murdock to be, an estate worth £10,000 a year would tempt to crime, even the capital one, which certainly he has committed. Ryecroft only thinks of how he can prove its committal--bring the deed of guilt home to the guilty one. It may be difficult--impossible; but he will do his best. Embarked in the enterprise, he is considering what will be the best course to pursue--pondering upon it. He is not the man to act rashly at any time, but in a matter of such moment caution is especially called for. He is already on the track of a criminal who has displayed no ordinary cunning, as proved by that misguiding sign. A false move made, or word spoken in careless confidence, by exposing his purpose, may defeat it. For this reason he has hitherto kept his intention to himself--not having given a hint of it to any one. From Jack Wingate it cannot be longer withheld, nor does he wish to withhold it. Instead, he will take him into his confidence, knowing he can do so with safety. That the young waterman is no prating fellow he has already had proof, while of his loyalty he never doubted. First, to find out what Jack's own thoughts are about the whole thing. For since their last being in a boat together, on that fatal night, little speech has passed between them. Only a few words on the day of the inquest, when Captain Ryecroft himself was too excited to converse calmly, and before the dark suspicion had taken substantial shape in his mind. Once more opposite the poplar, he directs the skiff to be brought to. Which done, he sits just as when that sound startled him on return from the ball--apparently thinking of it, as in reality he is. For a minute or so he is silent; and one might suppose he listened, expecting to hear it again. But no; he is only, as on the way down, making note of the distance to the Llangorren grounds. The summer-house he cannot now see, but judges the spot where it stands by some tall trees he knows to be beside it. The waterman observing him, is not surprised when at length asked the question,-- "Don't you believe, Wingate, the cry came from above--I mean from the top of the cliff?" "I'm a'most sure it did. I thought at the time it comed from higher ground still--the house itself. You remember my sayin' so, Captain; and that I took it to be some o' the sarvint girls shoutin' up there." "I do remember--you did. It was not, alas! but their mistress." "Yes; she for sartin, poor young lady! We now know that." "Think back, Jack! Recall it to your mind; the tone, the length of time it lasted--everything. Can you?" "I can, an' do. I could all but fancy I hear it now!" "Well, did it strike you as a cry that would come from one falling over the cliff--by accident, or otherwise?" "It didn't; an' I don't yet believe it wor--accydent or no accydent." "No! What are your reasons for doubting it?" "Why, if it had a been a woman eyther fallin' over or flung, she'd ha' gied tongue a second time--ay, a good many times--'fore getting silenced. It must ha' been into the water, an' people don't drown at the first goin' down. She'd ha' riz to the surface once, if not twice; an' screeched sure. We couldn't ha' helped hearin' it. Ye remember, Captain, 'twor dead calm for a spell just precedin' the thunderstorm. When that cry come, ye might ha' heerd the leap o' a trout a quarter mile off. But it worn't repeated--not so much as a mutter." "Quite true. But what do you conclude from its not having been?" "That she who gied the shriek wor in the grasp o' somebody when she did it, an' wor silenced instant by bein' choked or smothered; same as they say's done by them scoundrels called garroters." "You said nothing of this at the inquest?" "No, I didn't, for several reasons. One, I wor so took by surprise, just home, an' hearin' what had happened. Besides, the crowner didn't question me on my feelin's--only about the facts o' the case. I answered all his questions, clear as I could remember, an' far's I then understood things; but not as I understand them now." "Ah! you have learnt something since?" "Not a thing, Captain--only what I've been thinkin' o', by rememberin' a circumstance I'd forgot." "What?" "Well, whiles I wor sittin' in the skiff that night, waitin' for you to come, I heerd a sound different from the hootin' o' them owls." "Indeed! What sort of sound?" "The plashing o' oars. There wor sartin another boat about there besides this one." "In what direction did you hear them?" "From above. It must ha' been that way. If't had been a boat gone up from below, I'd ha' noticed the stroke again across the strip o' island. But I didn't." "The same if one had passed on down." "Just so; an' for that reason I now believe it wor comin' down, an' stopped somewhere just outside the backwash." An item of intelligence new to the Captain as it is significant. He recalls the hour--between two and three o'clock in the morning. What boat could have been there but his own? And if other, what its business? "You're quite sure there was a boat, Wingate?" he asks, after a pause. "The oars o' one--that I'm quite sure o'. An' where there's smoke, fire can't be far off. Yes, Captain, there wor a boat about there. I'm willin' to swear to it." "Have you any idea whose?" "Well, no; only some conjecter. First hearin' the oar, I wor under the idea it might be Dick Dempsey, out salmon-stealin'. But at the second plunge I could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. They gied but two or three strokes, an' then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an' there layed." "You don't think it was Dick and his coracle, then?" "I'm sure it worn't the coracle, but ain't so sure about its not bein' him. 'Stead, from what happened that night, an's been a-happenin' ever since, I b'lieve he wor one o' the men in that boat." "You think there were others?" "I do--leastways, suspect it." "And who do you suspect besides?" "For one, him as used live up there, but's now livin' in Llangorren." They have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the Cuckoo's Glen, going on. It is to Glyngog House Wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows--for it is untenanted. "You mean Mr. Murdock?" "The same, Captain. Though he worn't at the ball, as I've heerd say--and might ha' know'd without tellin'--I've got an idea he bean't far off when 'twor breakin' up. An' there wor another there, too, beside Dick Dempsey." "A third! Who?" "He as lives a bit further above." "You mean----?" "The French priest. Them three ain't often far apart; an' if I bean't astray in my reck'nin', they were mighty close thegither that same night, an' nigh Llangorren Court. They're all in or about it now, the precious tribang, an' I'd bet big they've got footin' there by the foulest o' foul play. Yes, Captain, sure as we be sittin' in this boat, she as owned the place ha' been murdered, the men as done it bein' Lewin Murdock, Dick Dempsey, and the Roman priest o' Rogues!" CHAPTER LI. A SUSPICIOUS CRAFT. To the waterman's unreserved statement of facts and suspicions, Captain Ryecroft makes no rejoinder. The last are in exact consonance with his own already conceived, the first alone new to him. And on the first he now fixes his thoughts, directing them to that particular one of a boat being in the neighbourhood of the Llangorren grounds about the time he was leaving them. For it, too, has a certain correspondence with something on the same night observed by himself--a circumstance he had forgotten, or ceased to think of, but now recalled with vivid distinctness. All the more as he listens to the conjectures of Wingate, about three men having been in that boat, and whom he supposed them to be. The number is significant as corresponding with what occurred to himself. The time as well, since, but a few hours before, he also had his attention drawn to a boat, under circumstances somewhat mysterious. The place was different; for all not to contradict the supposition of the waterman, rather confirming it. On his way to the Court, his black dress kerseymere protected by india-rubber overalls, Ryecroft, as known, had ridden to Wingate's house, and was thence rowed to Llangorren. His going to a ball by boat, instead of carriage or hotel hackney, was not for the sake of convenience, nor yet due to eccentricity. The prospect of a private interview with his betrothed at parting, as on former occasions expected to be pleasant, was his ruling motive for this arrangement. Besides, his calls at the Court were usually made in the same way, his custom being to ride as far as the Wingate cottage, leave his roadster there, and thence take the skiff. Between his town and the waterman's house, there is a choice of routes, the main country road keeping well away from the river, and a narrower one, which follows the trend of the stream along its edge, where practicable, but also here and there thrown off by meadows subject to inundations, or steep spurs of the parallel ridges. This, an ancient trackway now little used, was the route Captain Ryecroft had been accustomed to take on his way to Wingate's cottage, not from its being shorter or better, but for the scenery, which, far excelling that of the other, equals any upon the Wyeside. In addition, the very loneliness of the road had its charm for him, since only at rare intervals is a house seen by its side, and rarer still living creature encountered upon it. Even where it passes Rugg's Ferry, there intersecting the ford road, the same solitude characterizes it. For this quaint conglomeration of dwellings is on the opposite side of the stream--all save the chapel and the priest's house, standing some distance back from the bank, and screened by a spinney of trees. With the topography of this place he is quite familiar; and now to-night it is vividly recalled to his mind by what the waterman has told him. For on that other night, so sadly remembered, as he was riding past Rugg's, he saw the boat thus brought back to his recollection. He had got a little beyond the crossing of the Ford road, where it leads out from the river--himself on the other going downwards--when his attention was drawn to a dark object against the bank on the opposite side of the stream. The sky at the time moonless, he might not have noticed it, but for other dark objects seen in motion beside it, the thing itself being stationary. Despite the obscurity, he could make them out to be men busied around a boat. Something in their movements, which seemed made in a stealthy manner--too cautious for honesty--prompted him to pull up, and sit in his saddle observing them. He had himself no need to take precautions for concealment, the road at this point passing under old oaks, whose umbrageous branches, arcading over, shadowed the causeway, making it dark around as the interior of a cavern. Nor was he called upon to stay long there--only a few seconds after drawing bridle--just time enough for him to count the men, and see there were three of them, when they stepped over the sides of the boat, pushed her out from the bank, and rowed off down the river. Even then he fancied there was something surreptitious in their proceedings; for the oars, instead of rattling in their rowlocks, made scarce any noise, while their dip was barely audible, though so near. Soon both boat and those on board were out of his sight, and the slight sound made by them beyond his hearing. Had the road kept along the river's bank, he would have followed, and further watched them; but just below Rugg's it is carried off across a ridge, with steep pitch, and while ascending this he ceased to think of them. He might not have thought of them at all, had they made their embarkation at the ordinary landing-place, by the ford and ferry. There such a sight would have been nothing unusual, nor a circumstance to excite curiosity. But the boat, when he first observed it, was lying below, up against the bank by the chapel ground, across which the men must have come. Recalling all this, with what Jack Wingate had just told him, connecting events together, and making comparison of time, place, and other circumstances, he thus interrogatively reflects: "Might not that boat have been the same whose oars Jack heard down below? and the men in it those whose names he had mentioned? Three of them--that at least in curious correspondence? But the time? About nine, or a little after, as I passed Rugg's Ferry. That appears too early for the after event? No; they may have had other arrangements to make before proceeding to their murderous work. Odd, though, their knowing _she_ would be out there. But they need not have known that--likely did not. More like they meant to enter the house after every one had gone away, and there do the deed. A night different from the common, everything in confusion; the servants sleeping sounder than usual, from having indulged in drink--some of them overcome by it, as I saw myself before leaving. Yes; it's quite probable the assassins took all that into consideration--surprised, no doubt, to find their victim so convenient--in fact, as if she had come forth to receive them. Poor girl!" All this chapter of conjectures has been to himself, and in sombre silence, at length broken by the voice of his boatman, saying,-- "You've come afoot, Captain; an' it be a longish walk to the town, most o' the road muddy. Ye'll let me row you up the river--leastways, for a couple o' miles further; then ye can take the footpath through Powell's meadows." Roused as from a reverie, the Captain, looking out, sees they are nearly up to the boatman's cottage, which accounts for the proposal thus made. After a little reflection, he says in reply,-- "Well, Jack, if it wasn't that I dislike overworking you----" "Don't mention it!" interrupts Jack. "I'll be only too pleased to take you all the way to the town itself, if ye say the word. It a'nt so late yet, but to leave me plenty of time. Besides, I've got to go up to the ferry, anyhow, to get some grocery for mother. I may as well do it in the boat--'deed better than dragglin' along them roughish roads." "In that case I consent. But you must let me take the oars." "No, Captain; I'd prefer workin' 'em myself, if it be all the same to you." The Captain does not insist, for in truth he would rather remain at the tiller. Not because he is indisposed for a spell of pulling, nor is it from disinclination to walk, that he has so readily accepted the waterman's offer. After reflecting, he would have asked the favour so courteously extended. And for a reason having nothing to do with convenience, or the fear of fatigue; but a purpose which has just shaped itself in his thoughts, suggested by the mention of the ferry. It is that he may consider this--be left free to follow the train of conjecture which the incident has interrupted--he yields to the boatman's wishes, and keeps his seat in the stern. By a fresh spurt the _Mary_ is carried beyond her mooring place--as she passes it her owner for an instant feathering his oars and holding up his hat. It is a signal to one he sees there, standing outside in the moonlight--his mother. CHAPTER LII. MATERNAL SOLICITUDE. "The poor lad! His heart be sore sad; at times most nigh breakin'! That's plain--spite o' all he try hide it." It is the Widow Wingate who thus compassionately reflects--the subject, her son. She is alone within her cottage, the waterman being away with his boat. Captain Ryecroft has taken him down the river. It is on this nocturnal exploration, when the cliff at Llangorren is inspected by lamp-light. But she knows neither the purpose nor the place, any more than did Jack himself at starting. A little before sunset, the Captain came to the house, afoot and unexpectedly; called her son out, spoke a few words to him, when they started away in the skiff. She saw they went down stream--that is all. She was some little surprised, though--not at the direction taken, but the time of setting out. Had Llangorren been still in possession of the young lady, of whom her son has often spoken to her, she would have thought nothing strange of it. But in view of the late sad occurrence at the Court, with the change of proprietorship consequent--about all of which she has been made aware--she knows the Captain cannot be bound thither, and therefore wonders whither. Surely, not a pleasure excursion, at such an unreasonable hour--night just drawing down? She would have asked, but had no opportunity. Her son, summoned out of the house, did not re-enter; his oars were in the boat, having just come off a job; and the Captain appeared to be in haste. Hence Jack's going off, without, as he usually does, telling his mother the why and the where. It is not this that is now fidgeting her. She is far from being of an inquisitive turn--least of all with her son--and never seeks to pry into his secrets. She knows his sterling integrity, and can trust him. Besides, she is aware that he is of a nature somewhat uncommunicative, especially upon matters that concern himself, and above all when he has a trouble on his mind--in short, one who keeps his sorrows locked up in his breast, as though preferring to suffer in silence. And just this it is she is now bemoaning. She observes how he is suffering, and has been, ever since that hour when a farm labourer from Abergann brought him tidings of Mary Morgan's fatal mishap. Of course she, his mother, expected him to grieve wildly and deeply, as he did; but not deeply so long. Many days have passed since that dark one; but since, she has not seen him smile--not once! She begins to fear his sorrow may never know an end. She has heard of broken hearts--his may be one. Not strange her solicitude. "What make it worse," she says, continuing her soliloquy, "he keep thinkin' that he hae been partways to blame for the poor girl's death, by makin' her come out to meet him!"--Jack has told his mother of the interview under the big elm, all about it, from beginning to end.--"That hadn't a thing to do wi' it. What happened wor ordained, long afore she left the house. When I dreamed that dream 'bout the corpse candle, I feeled most sure somethin' would come o't; but then seein' it go up the meadows, I wor' althegither convinced. When _it_ burn, no human creetur' ha' lit it; an' none can put it out, till the doomed one be laid in the grave. Who could 'a carried it across the river--that night especial, wi' a flood lippin' full up to the banks? No mortal man, nor woman neyther!" As a native of Pembrokeshire, in whose treeless valleys the _ignis fatuus_ is oft seen, and on its dangerous coast cliffs, in times past, too oft the lanthorn of the smuggler, with the "stalking horse" of the inhuman wrecker, Mrs. Wingate's dream of the _canwyll corph_ was natural enough--a legendary reflection from tales told her in childhood, and wild songs chanted over her cradle. But her waking vision, of a light borne up the river bottom, was a phenomenon yet more natural; since in truth was it a real light, that of a lamp, carried in the hands of a man with a coracle on his back, which accounts for its passing over the stream. And the man was Richard Dempsey, who below had ferried Father Rogier across on his way to the farm of Abergann, where the latter intended remaining all night. The priest in his peregrinations, often nocturnal, accustomed to take a lamp along, had it with him on that night, having lit it before entering the coracle; but, with the difficulty of balancing himself in the crank little craft, he had set it down under the thwart, and at landing forgotten all about it. Thence the poacher, detained beyond time in reference to an appointment he meant being present at, had taken the shortest cut up the river bottom to Rugg's Ferry. This carried him twice across the stream, where it bends by the waterman's cottage; his coracle, easily launched and lifted out, enabling him to pass straight over and on, in his haste not staying to extinguish the lamp, nor even thinking of it. Not so much wonder, then, in Mrs. Wingate believing she saw the _canwyll corph_. No more that she believes it still, but less, in view of what has since come to pass; as she supposes, but the inexorable fiat of fate. "Yes!" she exclaims, proceeding with her soliloquy; "I knowed it would come. Poor thing! I hadn't no great knowledge of her myself; but sure she wor a good girl, or my son couldn't had been so fond o' her. If she'd had badness in her, Jack wouldn't greet and grieve as he be doin' now." Though right in the premises--for Mary Morgan was a good girl--Mrs. Wingate is unfortunately wrong in her deductions. But, fortunately for her peace of mind, she is so. It is some consolation to her to think that she whom her son loved, and for whom he so sorrows, was worthy of his love as his sorrow. It is wearing late, the sun having long since set; and still wondering why they went down the river, she steps outside to see if there be any sign of them returning. From the cottage but little can be seen of the stream, by reason of its tortuous course; only a short reach on either side, above and below. Placing herself to command a view of the latter, she stands gazing down it. In addition to maternal solicitude, she feels anxiety of another and less emotional nature. Her tea-caddy is empty, the sugar all expended, and other household things deficient. Jack was just about starting off for the Ferry to replace them when the Captain came. Now it is a question whether he will be home in time to reach Rugg's before the shop closes. If not, there will be a scant supper for him, and he must grope his way lightless to bed; for among the spent commodities were candles, the last one having been burnt out. In the Widow Wingate's life candles seem to play an important part! However, from all anxieties on this score she is at length and ere long relieved; her mind set at rest by a sound heard on the tranquil air of the night, the dip of a boat's oars, distant, but recognisable. Often before listening for the same, she instinctively knows them to be in the hands of her son; for Jack rows with a stroke no waterman on the Wye has but he--none equalling it in _timbre_ and regularity. His mother can tell it as a hen the chirp of her own chick, or a ewe the bleat of its lamb. That it is his stroke she has soon other evidence than her ears. In a few seconds after hearing the oars she sees them, their wet blades glistening in the moonlight, the boat between. And now she only waits for it to be pulled up and into the wash--its docking place--when Jack will tell her where they have been, and what for; perhaps, too, the Captain will come inside the cottage and speak a friendly word with her, as he has frequently done. While thus pleasantly anticipating, she has a disappointment. The skiff is passing onward--proceeding up the river! But she is comforted by seeing a hat held aloft--the salute telling her she is herself seen, and that Jack has some good reason for the prolongation of the voyage. It will no doubt terminate at the ferry, where he will get the candles and comestibles, saving him a second journey thither, and so killing two birds with one stone. Contenting herself with this construction of it, she returns inside the house, touches up the faggots on the fire, and by their cheerful blaze thinks no longer of candles, or any other light--forgetting even the _canwyll corph_. CHAPTER LIII. A SACRILEGIOUS HAND. Between Wingate's cottage and Rugg's, Captain Ryecroft has but slight acquaintance with the river, knows it only by a glimpse had here and there from the road. Now, ascending by boat, he makes note of certain things appertaining to it--chiefly, the rate of its current, the windings of its channel, and the distance between the two places. He seems considering how long a boat might be in passing from one to the other. And just this is he thinking of, his thoughts on that boat he saw starting downward. Whatever his object in all this, he does not reveal it to his companion. The time has not come for taking the waterman into full confidence. It will, but not to-night. He has again relapsed into silence, which continues till he catches sight of an object on the left bank, conspicuous against the sky, beside the moon's disc, now low. It is a cross surmounting a structure of ecclesiastical character, which he knows to be the Roman Catholic chapel at Rugg's. Soon as abreast of it, he commands-- "Hold way, Jack! Keep her steady awhile!" The waterman obeys without questioning why this new stoppage. He is himself interrogated the instant after, thus,-- "You see that shadowed spot under the bank--by the wall?" "I do, Captain." "Is there any landing-place there for a boat?" "None, as I know of. Course a boat may put in anywhere, if the bank bean't eyther a cliff or a quagmire. The reg'lar landin'-place be above, where the ferry punt lays." "But have you ever known of a boat being moored in there?" The question has reference to the place first spoken of. "I have, Captain; my own. That but once, an' the occasion not o' the pleasantest kind. 'Twar the night after my poor Mary wor buried, when I comed to say a prayer over her grave, an' plant a flower on it. I may say I stole there to do it, not wishin' to be obsarved by that sneak o' a priest, nor any o' their Romish lot. Exceptin' my own, I never knew or heard o' another boat bein' laid long there." "All right! Now on!" And on the skiff is sculled up stream for another mile, with little further speech passing between oarsman and steerer; it confined to subjects having no relation to what they have been all the evening occupied with. For Ryecroft is once more in reverie, or rather silently thinking, his thoughts concentrated on the one theme--endeavouring to solve that problem, simple of itself, but with many complications and doubtful ambiguities--how Gwendoline Wynn came by her death. He is still observed in a sea of conjectures, far as ever from its shore, when he feels the skiff at rest; as it ceases motion its oarsman asking-- "Do you weesh me to set you out here, Captain? There be the right-o'-way path through Powell's meadows. Or would ye rather be took on up to the town? Say which you'd like best, an' don't think o' any difference it makes to me." "Thanks, Jack; it's very kind of you, but I prefer the walk up the meadows. There'll be moonlight enough yet. And as I shall want your boat to-morrow--it may be for the whole of the day--you'd better get home and well rested. Besides, you say you've an errand at Rugg's--to the shop there. You must make haste, or it will be closed." "Ah! I didn't think o' that. Obleeged to ye much for remindin' me. I promised mother to get them grocery things the night, and wouldn't like to disappoint her--for a good deal." "Pull in, then, quick, and tilt me out! And, Jack! not a word to any one about where I've been, or what doing. Keep that to yourself." "I will, you may rely on me, Captain." The boat is brought against the bank; Ryecroft leaps lightly to land, calls back, "Good-night," and strikes off along the footpath. Not a moment delays the waterman; but, shoving off, and setting head down stream, pulls with all his strength, stimulated by the fear of finding the shop shut. He is in good time, however, and reaches Rugg's to see a light in the shop window, with its door standing open. Going in, he gets the groceries, and is on return to the landing-place, where he has left his skiff, when he meets with a man who has come to the ferry on an errand somewhat similar to his own. It is Joseph Preece, "Old Joe," erst boatman of Llangorren Court; but now, as all his former fellow-servants, at large. Though the acquaintance between him and Wingate is comparatively of recent date, a strong friendship has sprung up between them--stronger as the days passed, and each saw more of the other. For of late, in the exercise of their respective _metiers_, professionally alike, they have had many opportunities of being together, and more than one lengthened "confab" in the _Gwendoline's_ dock. It is days since they have met, and there is much to talk about, Joe being chief spokesman. And now that he has done his shopping, Jack can spare the time to listen. It will throw him a little later in reaching home; but his mother won't mind that. She saw him go up, and knows he will remember his errand. So the two stand conversing till the gossipy Joseph has discharged himself of a budget of intelligence, taking nigh half an hour in delivery. Then they part, the ex-Charon going about his own business, the waterman returning to his skiff. Stepping into it, and seating himself, he pulls out and down. A few strokes bring him opposite the chapel burying-ground; when all at once, as if stricken by a palsy, his arms cease moving, and the oar-blades drag deep in the water. There is not much current, and the skiff floats slowly. He in it sits with eyes turned towards the graveyard. Not that he can see anything there, for the moon has gone down, and all is darkness. But he is not gazing--only thinking. A thought, followed by an impulse leading to instantaneous action. A back stroke or two of the starboard oar, then a strong tug, and the boat's bow is against the bank. He steps ashore, ties the painter to a withy, and, climbing over the wall, proceeds to the spot so sacred to him. Dark as is now the night, he has no difficulty in finding it. He has gone over that ground before, and remembers every inch of it. There are not many gravestones to guide him, for the little cemetery is of late consecration, and its humble monuments are few and far between. But he needs not their guidance. As a faithful dog by instinct finds the grave of his master, so he, with memories quickened by affection makes his way to the place where repose the remains of Mary Morgan. Standing over her grave, he first gives himself up to an outpouring of grief, heartfelt as wild. Then, becoming calmer, he kneels down beside it, and says a prayer. It is the Lord's--he knows no other. Enough that it gives him relief; which it does, lightening his over-charged heart. Feeling better, he is about to depart, and has again risen erect, when a thought stays him--a remembrance--"The flower of Love-lies-bleeding." Is it growing? Not the flower, but the plant. He knows the former is faded, and must wait for the return of spring. But the latter--is it still alive and flourishing? In the darkness he cannot see, but will be able to tell by the touch. Once more dropping upon his knees, and extending his hands over the grave, he gropes for it. He finds the spot, but not the plant. It is gone! Nothing left of it--not a remnant! A sacrilegious hand has been there, plucked it up, torn it out root and stalk, as the disturbed turf tells him! In strange contrast with the prayerful words late upon his lips, are the angry exclamations to which he now gives utterance; some of them so profane as only under the circumstances to be excusable. "It's that d--d rascal, Dick Dempsey, as ha' done it. Can't ha' been anybody else. An' if I can but get proof o't, I'll make him repent o' the despicable trick. I will, by the livin' G----!" Thus angrily soliloquizing, he strides back to his skiff, and, getting in, rows off. But more than once, on the way homeward, he might be heard muttering words in the same wild strain--threats against Coracle Dick. CHAPTER LIV. A LATE TEA. Mrs. Wingate is again growing impatient at her son's continued absence, now prolonged beyond all reasonable time. The Dutch dial on the kitchen wall shows it to be after ten; therefore two hours since the skiff passed upwards. Jack has often made the return trip to Rugg's in less than one, while the shopping should not occupy him more than ten minutes, or, making every allowance, not twenty. How is the odd time being spent by him? Her impatience becomes uneasiness as she looks out of doors, and observes the hue of the sky. For the moon having gone down, it is now very dark, which always means danger on the river. The Wye is not a smooth swan-pond, and, flooded or not, annually claims its victims--strong men as women. And her son is upon it! "Where?" she asks herself, becoming more and more anxious. He may have taken his fare on up to the town, in which case it will be still later before he can get back. While thus conjecturing, a tinge of sadness steals over the widow's thoughts, with something of that weird feeling she experienced when once before waiting for him in the same way--on the occasion of his pretended errand after whipcord and pitch. "Poor lad!" she says, recalling the little bit of deception she pardoned, and which now more than ever seems pardonable; "he hain't no need now deceivin' his old mother that way. I only wish he had." "How black that sky do look!" she adds, rising from her seat, and going to the door; "an' threatenin' storm, if I bean't mistook. Lucky Jack ha' intimate acquaintance wi' the river 'tween here and Rugg's--if he hain't goed farther. What a blessin' the boy don't gi'e way to drink, an's otherways careful! Well, I s'pose there an't need for me feelin' uneasy. For all, I don't like his bein' so late. Mercy me! nigh on the stroke o' eleven? Ha! What's that? Him, I hope." She steps hastily out, and behind the house, which, fronting the road, has its back towards the river. On turning the corner, she hears a dull thump, as of a boat brought up against the bank; then a sharper concussion of timber striking timber--the sound of oars being unshipped. It comes from the _Mary_, at her mooring-place; as, in a few seconds after, Mrs. Wingate is made aware, by seeing her son approach with his arms full--in one of them a large brown paper parcel, while under the other are his oars. She knows it is his custom to bring the latter up to the shed--a necessary precaution due to the road running so near, and the danger of larking fellows taking a fancy to carry off his skiff. Met by his mother outside, he delivers the grocery goods, and together they go in, when he is questioned as to the cause of delay. "Whatever ha' kep' ye, Jack? Ye've been a wonderful long time goin' up to the ferry an' back!" "The ferry! I went far beyond, up to the footpath over Squire Powell's meadow. There I set Captain out." "Oh! that be it." His answer being satisfactory, he is not further interrogated, for she has become busied with an earthen-ware teapot, into which have been dropped three spoonfuls of "Horniman's" just brought home--one for her son, another for herself, and the odd one for the pot--the orthodox quantity. It is a late hour for tea; but their regular evening meal was postponed by the coming of the Captain, and Mrs. Wingate would not consider supper, as it should be, wanting the beverage which cheers without intoxicating. The pot set upon the hearthstone over some red-hot cinders, its contents are soon "mashed"; and, as nearly everything else had been got ready against Jack's arrival, it but needs for him to take seat by the table, on which one of the new composite candles, just lighted, stands in its stick. Occupied with pouring out the tea, and creaming it, the good dame does not notice anything odd in the expression of her son's countenance; for she has not yet looked at it, in a good light, nor till she is handing the cup across to him. Then, the fresh-lit candle gleaming full in his face, she sees what gives her a start. Not the sad, melancholy cast to which she has of late been accustomed. That has seemingly gone off, replaced by sullen anger, as though he were brooding over some wrong done, or insult recently received! "Whatever be the matter wi' ye, Jack?" she asks, the teacup still held in trembling hand. "There ha' something happened?" "Oh! nothin' much, mother." "Nothin' much! Then why be ye looking so black?" "What makes you think I'm lookin' that way?" "How can I help thinkin' it? Why, lad, your brow be clouded, same's the sky outside. Come now, tell the truth! Bean't there somethin' amiss?" "Well, mother, since you axe me that way, I will tell the truth. Somethin' be amiss; or I ought better say, _missin'_." "Missin'! Be't anybody ha' stoled the things out o' the boat? The balin' pan, or that bit o' cushion in the stern?" "No, it ain't; no trifle o' that kind, nor anythin' stealed eyther. 'Stead, a thing as ha' been destroyed." "What thing?" "The flower--the plant." "Flower! plant!" "Yes; the Love-lies-bleedin' I set on Mary's grave the night after she wor laid in it. Ye remember my tellin' you, mother?" "Yes--yes; I do." "Well, it ain't there now." "Ye ha' been into the chapel buryin' groun', then?" "I have." "But what made ye go there, Jack?" "Well, mother, passin' the place, I took a notion to go in--a sort o' sudden inclinashun I couldn't resist. I thought that kneelin' beside her grave, an' sayin' a prayer, might do somethin' to left the weight off o' my heart. It would ha' done that, no doubt, but for findin' the flower wan't there. Fact, it had a good deal relieved me, till I discovered it wor gone." "But how gone? Ha' the thing been cut off, or pulled up?" "Clear plucked out by the roots. Not a vestige o' it left!" "Maybe 'twer the sheep or goats. They often get into a graveyard; and if I bean't mistook, I've seen some in that o' the ferry chapel. They may have ate it up!" The idea is new to him, and being plausible, he reflects on it, for a time misled. Not long, however, only till remembering what tells him it is fallacious; this, his having set the plant so firmly that no animal could have uprooted it. A sheep or goat might have eaten off the top, but nothing more. "No, mother!" he at length rejoins; "it han't been done by eyther; but by a human hand--I ought better to say the claw o' a human tiger. No, not tiger; more o' a stinkin' cat!" "Ye suspect somebody, then?" "Suspect! I'm sure, as one can be without seein', that bit o' desecrashun ha' been the work o' Dick Dempsey. But I mean plantin' another in its place, an' watchin' it too. If he pluck it up, an' I know it, they'll need dig another grave in the Rogue's Ferry buryin' groun'--that for receivin' as big a rogue as ever wor buried there, or anywhere else, the d----d scoundrel!" "Dear Jack! don't let your passion get the better o' ye, to speak so sinfully. Richard Dempsey be a bad man, no doubt; but the Lord will deal wi' him in His own way, an' sure punish him. So leave him to the Lord. After all, what do it matter--only a bit o' weed?" "Weed! Mother, you mistake. That weed, as ye call it, wor like a silken string, bindin' my heart to Mary's. Settin' it in the sod o' her grave gied me a comfort I can't describe to ye. An' now to find it tore up brings the bitter all back again. In the spring I hoped to see it in bloom, to remind me o' her love as ha' been blighted, an', like it, lies bleedin'. But--well, it seems as I can't do nothin' for her now she's dead, as I warn't able while she wor livin'." He covers his face with his hands to hide the tears now coursing down his cheeks. "Oh, my son! don't take on so. Think that she be happy now--in heaven. Sure she is, from all I ha' heerd o' her." "Yes, mother," he earnestly affirms, "she is. If ever woman went to the good place, she ha' goed there." "Well, that ought to comfort ye." "It do some. But to think of havin' lost her for good--never again to look at her sweet face. Oh! that be dreadful!" "Sure it be. But think also that ye an't the only one as ha' to suffer. Nobody escape affliction o' that sort, some time or the other. It's the lot o' all--rich folks as well as we poor ones. Look at the Captain there! He be sufferin' like yourself. Poor man! I pity him, too." "So do I, mother. An' I ought, so well understandin' how he feel, though he be too proud to let people see it. I seed it the day--several times noticed tears in his eyes when we wor talkin' about things that reminded him o' Miss Wynn. When a soldier--a grand fightin' soldier as he ha' been--gies way to weepin', the sorrow must be strong an' deep. No doubt he be 'most heart-broke, same's myself." "But that an't right, Jack. It isn't intended we should always gie way to grief, no matter how dear they may a' been as are lost to us. Besides, it be sinful." "Well, mother, I'll try to think more cheerful, submittin' to the will o' Heaven." "Ah! There's a good lad! That's the way; an' be assured Heaven won't forsake, but comfort ye yet. Now, let's not say any more about it. You an't eating your supper!" "I han't no great appetite after all." "Never mind; ye must eat, and the tea 'll cheer ye. Hand me your cup, an' let me fill it again." He passes the empty cup across the table, mechanically. "It be very good tea," she says, telling a little untruth for the sake of abstracting his thoughts. "But I've something else for you that's better, before you go to bed." "Ye take too much care o' me, mother." "Nonsense, Jack. Ye've had a hard day's work o't. But ye hain't told me what the Captain tooked ye out for, nor where he went down the river. How far?" "Only as far as Llangorren Court." "But there be new people there now, ye sayed?" "Yes; the Murdocks. Bad lot, both man an' wife, though he wor the cousin o' the good young lady as be gone." "Sure, then, the Captain han't been to visit them?" "No, not likely. He an't the kind to consort wi' such as they, for all o' their bein' big folks now." "But there were other ladies livin' at Llangorren. What ha' become o' they?" "They ha' gone to another house somewhere down the river--a smaller one, it's sayed. The old lady as wor Miss Wynn's aunt ha' money o' her own, and the other be livin' 'long wi' her. For the rest there's been a clean out--all the sarvints sent about their business; the only one kep' bein' a French girl who wor lady's-maid to the old mistress--that's the aunt. She's now the same to the new one, who be French, like herself." "Where ha' ye heerd all this, Jack?" "From Joseph Preece. I met him up at the Ferry, as I wor comin' away from the shop." "He's out too, then?" asks Mrs. Wingate, who has of late come to know him. "Yes; same's the others." "Where be the poor man abidin' now?" "Well, that's odd too. Where do you suppose, mother?" "How should I know, my son? Where?" "In the old house where Coracle Dick used to live!" "What be there so odd in that?" "Why, because Dick's now in his house; ha' got his place at the Court, an's goin' to be somethin' far grander than ever he wor--head keeper." "Ah! poacher turned gamekeeper! That be settin' thief to catch thief!" "Somethin' besides thief, he! A deal worse than that!" "But," pursues Mrs. Wingate, without reference to the reflection on Coracle's character, "ye han't yet tolt me what the Captain took down the river." "I an't at liberty to tell any one. Ye understand me, mother?" "Yes, yes; I do." "The Captain ha' made me promise to say nothin' o' his doin's; an', to tell truth, I don't know much about them myself. But what I do know, I'm honour bound to keep dark consarnin' it--even wi' you, mother." She appreciates his nice sense of honour; and, with her own of delicacy, does not urge him to any further explanation. "In time," he adds, "I'm like enough to know all o' what he's after. Maybe, the morrow." "Ye're to see him the morrow, then?" "Yes; he wants the boat." "What hour?" "He didn't say when, only that he might be needin' me all the day. So I may look out for him early--first thing in the mornin'." "That case ye must get to your bed at oncst, an' ha' a good sleep, so's to start out fresh. First take this. It be the somethin' I promised ye--better than tea." The something is a mug of mulled elderberry wine, which, whether or not better than tea, is certainly superior to port prepared in the same way. Quaffing it down, and betaking himself to bed, under its somniferous influence, the Wye waterman is soon in the land of dreams. Not happy ones, alas! but visions of a river flood-swollen, with a boat upon its seething, frothy surface, borne rapidly on towards a dangerous eddy--then into it--at length capsized to a sad symphony--the shrieks of a drowning woman! CHAPTER LV. THE NEW MISTRESS OF THE MANSION. At Llangorren Court all is changed, from owner down to the humblest domestic. Lewin Murdock has become its master, as the priest told him he some day might. There was none to say nay. By the failure of Ambrose Wynne's heirs--in the line through his son, and bearing his name--the estate of which he was the original testator reverts to the children of his daughter, of whom Lewin Murdock, an only son, is the sole survivor. He of Glyngog is therefore indisputable heritor of Llangorren; and no one disputing it, he is now in possession, having entered upon it soon as the legal formularies could be gone through with. This they have been with a haste which causes invidious remark, if not actual scandal. Lewin Murdock is not the man to care; and, in truth, he is now scarce ever sober enough to feel sensitive, could he have felt so at any time. But in his new and luxurious home, waited on by a staff of servants, with wine at will, so unlike the days of misery spent in the dilapidated manor house, he gives loose rein to his passion for drink; leaving the management of affairs to his dexterous better-half. She has not needed to take much trouble in the matter of furnishing. Her husband, as nearest of kin to the deceased, has also come in for the personal effects, furniture included; all but some belongings of Miss Linton, which had been speedily removed by her--transferred to a little house of her own, not far off. Fortunately, the old lady is not left impecunious; but has enough to keep her in comfort, with an economy, however, that precludes all idea of longer indulging in a lady's maid, more especially one so expensive as Clarisse; who, as Jack Wingate said, has been dismissed from Miss Linton's establishment--at the same time discharging herself by notice formally given. That clever _demoiselle_ was not meant for service in a ten-roomed cottage, even though a detached one; and through the intervention of her patron, the priest, she still remains at the Court, to dance attendance on the _ancien belle_ of Mabille, as she did on the ancient toast of Cheltenham. Pleasantly so far, her new mistress being in fine spirits, and herself delighted with everything. The French adventuress has attained the goal of an ambition long cherished, though not so patiently awaited. Oft gazed she across the Wye at those smiling grounds of Llangorren, as the Fallen Angel back over its walls into the Garden of Eden; oft saw she there assemblages of people to her seeming as angels, not fallen, but in highest favour--ah! in her estimation, more than angels--women of rank and wealth, who could command what she coveted beyond any far-off joys celestial--the nearer pleasures of earth and sense. Those favoured fair ones are not there now, but she herself is; owner of the very Paradise in which they disported themselves! Nor does she despair of seeing them at Llangorren again, and having them around her in friendly intercourse, as had Gwendoline Wynn. Brought up under the _regimé_ of Louis and trained in the school of Eugenie, why need she fear either social slight or exclusion? True, she is in England, not France; but she thinks it is all the same. And not without some reason for so thinking. The ethics of the two countries, so different in days past, have of late become alarmingly assimilated--ever since that hand, red with blood spilled upon the boulevards of France, was affectionately clasped by a Queen on the dock head of Cherbourg. The taint of that touch felt throughout England, has spread over it like a plague; no local or temporary epidemic, but one which still abides, still emitting its noisome effluvia in a flood of prurient literature--novel-writers who know neither decency nor shame--newspaper scribblers devoid of either truth or sincerity--theatres little better than licensed _bagnios_, and Stock Exchange scandals smouching names once honoured in English history, with other scandals of yet more lamentable kind--all the old landmarks of England's morality being rapidly obliterated. And all the better for Olympe, _née_ Renault. Like her sort living by corruption, she instinctively rejoices at it, glories in the _monde immonde_ of the Second Empire, and admires the abnormal monster who has done so much in sowing and cultivating the noxious crop. Seeing it flourish around her, and knowing it on the increase, the new mistress of Llangorren expects to profit by it. Nor has she slightest fear of failure in any attempt she may make to enter Society. It will not much longer taboo her. She knows that, with very little adroitness, £10,000 a year will introduce her into a Royal drawing-room--ay, take her to the steps of a throne; and none is needed to pass through the gates of Hurlingham nor those of Chiswick's Garden. In this last she would not be the only flower of poisonous properties and tainted perfume; instead, would brush skirts with scores of dames wonderfully like those of the Restoration and Regency, recalling the painted dolls of the Second Charles, and the Delilahs of the Fourth George; in bold effrontery and cosmetic brilliance equalling either. The wife of Lewin Murdock hopes ere long to be among them--once more a _célebrité_, as she was in the Bois de Boulogne, and the _bals_ of the demi-monde. True, the county aristocracy have not yet called upon her. For by a singular perverseness--unlike Nature's laws in the animal and vegetable world--the outer tentacles of this called "Society" are the last to take hold. But they will yet. Money is all powerful in this free and easy age. Having that in sufficiency, it makes little difference whether she once sat by a sewing machine, or turned a mangle, as she once has done in the Faubourg Montmartre for her mother, _la blanchisseuse_. She is confident the gentry of the shire will in due time surrender, send in their cards and come of themselves; as they surely will, soon as they see her name in the _Court Journal_ or _Morning Post_, in the list of Royal receptions:--"_Mrs. Lewin Murdock, presented by the Countess of Devilacare_." And to a certainty they shall so read it, with much about her besides, if Jenkins be true to his instincts, she need not fear him--he will. She can trust his fidelity to the star scintillating in a field of plush, as to the Polar that of magnetic needle. Her husband bears his new fortunes in a manner somewhat different; in one sense more soberly, as in another the reverse. If, during his adversity, he indulged in drink, in prosperity he does not spare it. But there is another passion to which he now gives loose--his old, unconquerable vice--gaming. Little cares he for the cards of visitor, while those of the gambler delight him: and though his wife has yet received none of the former, he has his callers to take a hand with him at the latter--more than enough to make up a rubber of whist. Besides, some of his old cronies of the "Welsh Harp," who have now _entrée_ at Llangorren, several young swells of the neighbourhood--the black sheep of their respective flocks--are not above being of his company. Where the carrion is, the eagles congregate, as the vultures; and already two or three of the "leg" fraternity--in farther flight from London--have found their way into Herefordshire, and hover around the precincts of the Court. Night after night, tables are there set out for loo, _écarté, rouge et noir_, or whatever may be called for--in a small way resembling the hells of Homburg, Baden, and Monaco--wanting only the women. CHAPTER LVI. THE GAMBLERS AT LLANGORREN. Among the faces now seen at Llangorren--most of them new to the place, and not a few of forbidding aspect--there is one familiar to us. Sinister as any, since it is that of Father Rogier. At no rare intervals may it be there observed; but almost continuously. Frequent as were his visits to Glyngog, they are still more so to Llangorren, where he now spends the greater part of his time; his own solitary and somewhat humble dwelling at Rugg's Ferry seeing nothing of him for days together, while for nights its celibate bed is unslept in, the luxurious couch spread for him at the Court having greater attractions. Whether made welcome to this unlimited hospitality or not, he comports himself as though he were; seeming noways backward in the reception of it; instead, as if demanding it. One ignorant of his relations with the master of the establishment might imagine _him_ its master. Nor would the supposition be so far astray. As the King-maker controls the King, so can Gregoire Rogier the new Lord of Llangorren--influence him at his will. And this does he; though not openly, or ostensibly. That would be contrary to the tactics taught him, and the practice to which he is accustomed. The sword of Loyola in the hands of his modern apostles has become a dagger--a weapon more suitable to Ultramontanism. Only in Protestant countries to be wielded with secrecy, though elsewhere little concealed. But the priest of Rugg's Ferry is not in France; and, under the roof of an English gentleman, though a Roman Catholic, bears himself with becoming modesty--before strangers and the eyes of the outside world. Even the domestics of the house see nothing amiss. They are new to their places, and as yet unacquainted with the relationships around them. Nor would they think it strange in a priest having control there or anywhere. They are all of his persuasion, else they would not be in service at Llangorren Court. So proceed matters under its new administration. * * * * * On the same evening that Captain Ryecroft makes his quiet excursion down the river to inspect the traces on the cliff, there is a little dinner party at the Court, the diners taking seat by the table just about the time he was stepping into Wingate's skiff. The hour is early; but it is altogether a bachelor affair, and Lewin Murdock's guests are men not much given to follow fashions. Besides, there is another reason; something to succeed the dinner, on which their thoughts are more bent than upon either eating or drinking. No spread of fruit, nor dessert of any kind, but a bout at card-playing, or dice for those who prefer it. On their way to the dining-room they have caught glimpse of another apartment where whist and loo tables are seen, with all the gambling paraphernalia upon them--packs of new cards still in their wrappers, ivory counters, dice boxes with their spotted cubes lying alongside. Pretty sight to Mr. Murdock's lately picked up acquaintances; a heterogeneous circle, but all alike in one respect--each indulging in the pleasant anticipation that he will that night leave his host's house with more or less of that host's money in his pocket. Murdock has himself come easily by it, and why should he not be made as easily to part with it? If he has a plethora of cash, they have a determination to relieve him of at least a portion of it. Hence dinner is eaten in haste, and with little appreciation of the dishes, however dainty; all so longing to be around those tables in another room, and get their fingers on the toys there displayed. Their host, aware of the universal desire, does nought to frustrate it. Instead, he is as eager as any for the fray. As said, gambling is his passion, has been for most part of his life, and he could now no more live without it than go wanting drink. A hopeless victim to the last, he is equally a slave to the first. Soon, therefore, as dessert is brought in, and a glass of the heavier wines gone round, he looks significantly at his wife--the only lady at the table--who, taking the hint, retires. The gentlemen, on their feet at her withdrawal, do not sit down again, but drink standing--only a _petit verre_ of cognac by way of "corrector." Then they hurry off in an unseemly ruck towards the room containing metal more attractive, from which soon after proceed the clinking of coin and the rattle of ebony counters, with words now and then spoken not over nice, but rough, even profane, as though the speakers were playing skittles in the back yard of a London beerhouse, instead of cards under the roof of a country gentleman's mansion! While the new master of Llangorren is thus entertaining his amiable company, as much as any of them engrossed in the game, its new mistress is also playing a part, which may be more reputable, but certainly is more mysterious. She is in the drawing-room, though not alone--Father Rogier alone with her. He, of course, has been one of the dining guests, and said an unctuous grace over the table. In his sacred sacerdotal character it could hardly be expected of him to keep along with the company, though he could take a hand at cards, and play them with as much skill as any gamester of that gathering. But just now he has other fish to fry, and wishes a word in private with the mistress of Llangorren, about the way things are going on. However much he may himself like a little game with its master, and win money from him, he does not relish seeing all the world do the same; no more she. Something must be done to put a stop to it; and it is to talk over this something the two have planned their present interview, some words about it having previously passed between them. Seated side by side on a lounge, they enter upon the subject. But before a dozen words have been exchanged, they are compelled to discontinue, and for the time forego it. The interruption is caused by a third individual, who has taken a fancy to follow Mrs. Murdock into the drawing-room; a young fellow of the squire class, but as her husband late was, of somewhat damaged reputation and broken fortunes. For all having a whole eye to female beauty, which appears to him in great perfection in the face of the Frenchwoman, the rouge upon her cheeks looking the real rose-colour of that proverbial milkmaid nine times dipped in dew. The wine he has been quaffing gives it this hue, for he enters half intoxicated, and with a slight stagger in his gait--to the great annoyance of the lady, and the positive chagrin of the priest, who regards him with scowling glances. But the intruder is too tipsy to notice them, and advancing, invites himself to a seat in front of Mrs. Murdock, at the same time commencing a conversation with her. Rogier, rising, gives a significant side look, with a slight nod towards the window; then, muttering a word of excuse, saunters off out of the room. She knows what it means, as where to follow and find him. Knows also how to disembarrass herself of such as he who remained behind. Were it upon a bench of the Bois, or an arbour in the Jardin, she would make short work of it. But the ex-cocotte is now at the head of an aristocratic establishment, and must act in accordance. Therefore she allows some time to elapse, listening to the speech of her latest admirer--some of it in compliments coarse enough to give offence to ears more sensitive than hers. She at length gets rid of him on the plea of having a headache, and going upstairs to get something for it. She will be down again by-and-by; and so bows herself out of the gentleman's presence, leaving him in a state of fretful disappointment. Once outside the room, instead of turning up the stairway, she glides along the corridor, then on through the entrance hall, and then out by the front door. Nor stays she an instant on the steps or carriage-sweep, but proceeds direct to the summer-house, where she expects to find the priest. For there have they more than once been together, conversing on matters of private and particular nature. On reaching the place, she is disappointed--some little surprised. Rogier is not there, nor can she see him anywhere around. For all that, the gentleman is very near, without her knowing it--only a few paces off, lying flat upon his face among ferns, but so engrossed with thoughts--just then of an exciting nature--he neither hears her light footsteps, nor his own name pronounced. Not loudly, though, since, while pronouncing it, she feared being heard by some other. Besides, she does not think it necessary. He will come yet, without calling. She steps inside the pavilion, and there stands waiting. Still he does not come, nor sees she anything of him--only a boat on the river above, being rowed upwards; but without thought of its having anything to do with her or her affairs. By this there is another boat in motion, for the priest has meanwhile forsaken his spying place upon the cliff, and proceeded down to the dock. "Where can Gregoire have gone?" she asks herself, becoming more and more impatient. Several times she puts the question without receiving answer, and is about starting on return to the house, when longer stayed by a rumbling noise which reaches her ears, coming up from the direction of the dock. "Can it be he?" Continuing to listen, she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above. That must now be far away, while this is near--in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it? Yes, it is he, as she discovers, after stepping outside to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff's edge; for then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match--itself looking like that of Lucifer. What can he be doing down there? Why, examining those things he already knows all about, as she herself. She would call down to him and inquire, but possibly better not. He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up. And wait she does, at the boat's dock, on the top step of the stair, there receiving him, as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion. "What is it?" she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her. "_Quelque chose à tort?_" "More than that. A veritable danger!" "_Comment?_ Explain!" "There's a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent." "Who?" "_Le Capitaine de hussards!_" The dialogue that succeeds between Olympe Renault and Gregoire Rogier has no reference to Lewin Murdock gambling away his money, but the fear of his losing it in quite another way; which, for the rest of that night, gives them something else to think of, as also something to do. CHAPTER LVII. AN UNWILLING NOVICE. "Am I myself? Dreaming? Or is it insanity?" It is a young girl who thus strangely interrogates, a beautiful girl, woman grown, of tall stature, with bright face, and a wealth of hair, golden hued. But what is beauty to her with all these adjuncts? As the flower born to blush unseen, eye of man may not look upon hers, though it is not wasting its sweetness on the desert air, but within the walls of a convent. An English girl, though the convent is in France--in the city of Boulogne-sur-mer; the same in whose attached _pensionnat_ the sister of Major Mahon is receiving education. She is not the girl, for Kate Mahon, though herself beautiful, is no blonde--instead, the very opposite. Besides, this creature of radiant complexion is not attending school: she is beyond the years for that. Neither is she allowed the freedom of the streets, but kept shut up within a cell in the innermost recesses of the establishment, where the _pensionnaires_ are not permitted, save one or two who are favourites with the Lady Superior. A small apartment the young girl occupies--bed-chamber and sitting-room in one; in short, a nun's cloister--furnished, as such are, in a style of austere simplicity: pallet bed along the one side, the other taken up by a plain deal dressing-table, a washstand with jug and basin--these little bigger than tea-bowl and ewer--and a couple of common rush-bottom chairs; that is all. The walls are lime-washed, but most of their surface is concealed by pictures of saints, male and female; while the mother of all is honoured by an image, having a niche to itself, in a corner. On the table are some four or five books, including a Testament and Missal; their bindings, with the orthodox cross stamped upon them, proclaiming the nature of the contents. A literature that cannot be to the liking of the present occupant of the cloister, since she has been there several days without turning over a single leaf, or even taking up one of the volumes to look at it. That she is not there with her own will, but against it, can be told by her words, and as their tone, her manner while giving utterance to them. Seated upon the side of the bed, she has sprung to her feet, and with arms raised aloft and tossed about, strides distractedly over the floor. One seeing her thus might well imagine her to be, what she half fancies herself, insane!--a supposition strengthened by an unnatural lustre in her eyes, and a hectic flush on her cheeks, unlike the hue of health. Still, not as with one suffering bodily sickness, or any physical ailment, but more as from a mind diseased. Seen for only a moment--that particular moment--such would be the conclusion regarding her. But her speech coming after, tells she is in full possession of her senses, only under terrible agitation, distraught with some great trouble. "It must be a convent! But how have I come into it? Into France, too; for surely am I there? The woman who brings my meals is French. So the other--Sister of Mercy, as she calls herself, though she speaks my own tongue. The furniture--bed, table, chairs, washstand--everything of French manufacture. And in all England there is not such a jug and basin as those!" Regarding the lavatory utensils--so diminutive as to recall "Gulliver's travels in Lilliput," if ever read by her--she for a moment seems to forget her misery, even in its very midst, and keenest, at sight of the ludicrous and grotesque. It is quickly recalled, as her glance, wandering around the room, again rests on the little statue--not of marble, but a cheap plaster of Paris cast--and she reads the inscription underneath, "_La Mère de Dieu_." The symbols tell her she is inside a nunnery, and upon the soil of France! "Oh, yes!" she exclaims, "'tis certainly so! I am no more in my native land, but have been carried across the sea!" The knowledge, or belief, does nought to tranquillize her feelings, or explain the situation, to her all mysterious. Instead, it but adds to her bewilderment, and she once more exclaims, almost repeating herself,-- "Am I myself? Is it a dream? Or have my senses indeed forsaken me?" She clasps her hands across her forehead, the white fingers threading the thick folds of her hair, which hangs dishevelled. She presses them against her temples, as if to make sure her brain is still untouched! It is so, or she would not reason as she does. "Everything around shows I am in France. But how came I to it? Who has brought me? What offence have I given God or man, to be dragged from home, from country, and confined--imprisoned! Convent, or whatever it be, imprisoned I am! The door constantly kept locked! That window, so high, I cannot see over its sill! The dim light it lets in telling it was not meant for enjoyment. Oh! Instead of cheering, it tantalizes--tortures me!" Despairingly she reseats herself upon the side of the bed, and with head still buried in her hands, continues her soliloquy--no longer of things present, but reverting to the past. "Let me think again! What can I remember? That night, so happy in its beginning, to end as it did! The end of my life, as I thought, if I had a thought at that time. It was not, though, or I shouldn't be here, but in heaven, I hope. Would I were in heaven now! When I recall _his_ words--those last words and think----" "Your thoughts are sinful, child!" The remark, thus interrupting, is made by a woman, who appears on the threshold of the door, which she had just pushed open. A woman of mature age, dressed in a floating drapery of deep black--the orthodox garb of the Holy Sisterhood, with all its insignia of girdle, bead-roll, and pendant crucifix. A tall, thin personage, with skin like shrivelled parchment, and a countenance that would be repulsive but for the nun's coif, which, partly concealing, tones down its sinister expression. Withal, a face disagreeable to gaze upon; not the less so from its air of sanctity, evidently affected. The intruder is Sister Ursule. She has opened the door noiselessly--as cloister doors are made to open--and stands between its jambs, like a shadowy _silhouette_ in its frame, one hand still holding the knob, while in the other is a small volume, apparently well thumbed. That she has had her ear to the keyhole before presenting herself is told by the rebuke having reference to the last words of the girl's soliloquy, in her excitement uttered aloud. "Yes," she continues, "sinful--very sinful! You should be thinking of something else than the world and its wickedness, and of anything before that you have been thinking of--the wickedness of all." She thus spoken to had neither started at the intrusion, nor does she show surprise at what is said. It is not the first visit of Sister Ursule to her cell, made in like stealthy manner; nor the first austere speech she has heard from the same skinny lips. At the beginning she did not listen to it patiently; instead, with indignation--defiantly, almost fiercely, rejoining. But the proudest spirit can be humbled. Even the eagle, when its wings are beaten to exhaustion against the bars of its cage, will become subdued, if not tamed. Therefore the imprisoned English girl makes reply meekly and appealingly,-- "Sister of Mercy, as you are called, have mercy upon me! Tell me why I am here?" "For the good of your soul and its salvation." "But how can that concern any one save myself?" "Ah! there you mistake, child; which shows the sort of life you've been hitherto leading, and the sort of people surrounding you; who, in their sinfulness, imagine all as themselves. They cannot conceive that there are those who deem it a duty--nay, a direct command from God--to do all in their power for the redemption of lost sinners, and restoring them to his Divine favour. He is all-merciful." "True--He is. I do not need to be told it. Only, who these redemptionists are that take such interest in my spiritual welfare, and how I have come to be here, surely I may know?" "You shall in time, _ma fille_. Now you cannot--must not--for many reasons." "What reasons?" "Well, for one, you have been very ill--nigh unto death, indeed." "I know that, without knowing how." "Of course. The accident which came near depriving you of your life was of that sudden nature; and your senses----But I mustn't speak further about it. The doctor has given strict directions that you're to be kept quiet, and it might excite you. Be satisfied with knowing that they who placed you here are the same who saved your life, and would now rescue your soul from perdition. I've brought you this little volume for perusal. It will help to enlighten you." She stretches out her long bony fingers, handing the book--one of those "Aids to Faith" relied upon by the apostles of the _Propaganda_. The girl mechanically takes it, without looking at or thinking of it; still pondering upon the unknown benefactors, who, as she is told, have done so much for her. "How good of them!" she rejoins, with an air of incredulity, and in tones that might be taken as derisive. "How wicked of you!" retorts the other, taking it in this sense. "Positively ungrateful!" she adds, with the acerbity of a baffled proselytiser. "I am sorry, child, you still cling to your sinful thoughts, and keep up a rebellious spirit in face of all that is being done for your good. But I shall leave you now, and go and pray for you; hoping, on my next visit, to find you in a more proper frame of mind." So saying, Sister Ursule glides out of the cloister, drawing to the door, and silently turning the key in its lock. "O God!" groans the young girl in despair, flinging herself along the pallet, and for the third time interrogating, "Am I myself, and dreaming? Or am I mad? In mercy, Heaven, tell me what it means!" CHAPTER LVIII. A CHEERFUL KITCHEN. Of all the domestics turned adrift from Llangorren, one alone interests us--Joseph Preece--"Old Joe," as his young mistress used familiarly to call him. As Jack Wingate has made his mother aware, Joe has moved into the house formerly inhabited by Coracle Dick; so far changing places with the poacher, who now occupies the lodge in which the old man erewhile lived as one of the retainers of the Wynn family. Beyond this the exchange has not extended. Richard Dempsey, under the new _regimé_ at Llangorren, has been promoted to higher office than was ever held by Joseph Preece; who, on the other hand, has neither turned poacher, nor intends doing so. Instead, the versatile Joseph, as if to keep up his character for versatility, has taken to a new calling altogether--that of basket-making, with the construction of bird-cages, and other kinds of wicker-work. Rather is it the resumption of an old business to which he had been brought up, but abandoned long years agone on entering the service of Squire Wynn. Having considerable skill in this textile trade, he hopes in his old age to make it maintain him. Only in part; for, thanks to the generosity of his former master, and more still that of his late mistress, Joe has laid by a little _pecunium_, nearly enough for his needs; so that, in truth, he has taken to the wicker-working less from necessity than for the sake of having something to do. The old man of many _metiers_ has never led an idle life, and dislikes leading it. It is not by any accident he has drifted into the domicile late in the occupation of Dick Dempsey, though Dick had nothing to do with it. The poacher himself was but a week-to-week tenant, and of course cleared out soon as obtaining his promotion. Then, the place being to let, at a low rent, the ex-charon saw it would suit him; all the better because of a "withey bed" belonging to the same landlord, which was to let at the same time. This last being at the mouth of the dingle in which the solitary dwelling stands--and promising a convenient supply of the raw material for his projected manufacture--he has taken a lease of it along with the house. Under his predecessor the premises having fallen into dilapidation--almost ruin--the old boatman had a bargain of them, on condition of his doing the repairs. He has done them; made the roof water-tight; given the walls a coat of plaster and whitewash; laid a new floor--in short, rendered the house habitable, and fairly comfortable. Among other improvements, he has partitioned off a second sleeping apartment, and not only plastered but papered it. More still, neatly and tastefully furnished it, the furniture consisting of an iron bedstead, painted emerald green, with brass knobs; a new washstand, and dressing table with mahogany-framed glass on the top, three cane chairs, a towel horse, and other etceteras. For himself? No; he has a bedroom besides. And this, by the style of the plenishing, is evidently intended for one of the fair sex. Indeed, one has already taken possession of it, as evinced by some female apparel suspended upon pegs against the wall; a pin-cushion, with a brooch in it, on the dressing table; bracelets and a necklace besides, with two or three scent bottles, and several other toilet trifles scattered about in front of the framed glass. They cannot be the belongings of "Old Joe's" wife nor yet his daughter; for among the many parts he has played in life, that of Benedict has not been. A bachelor he is, and a bachelor he intends staying to the end of the chapter. Who, then, is the owner of the brooch, bracelets, and other bijouterie? In a word, his niece--a slip of a girl who was under-housemaid at Llangorren; like himself, set at large, and now transformed into a full-fledged housekeeper--his own. But before entering on parlour duties at the Court, she had seen service in the kitchen, under the cook; and some culinary skill, then and there acquired, now stands her old uncle in stead. By her deft manipulation, stewed rabbit becomes as jugged hare, so that it would be difficult to tell the difference; while she has at her fingers' ends many other feats of the _cuisine_ that give him gratification. The old servitor of Squire Wynn is in his way a _gourmet_, and has a tooth for toothsome things. His accomplished niece, with somewhat of his own cleverness, bears the pretty name of Amy--Amy Preece, for she is his brother's child. And she is pretty as her name, a bright, blooming girl, rose-cheeked, with form well rounded, and flesh firm as a Ribston pippin. Her cheerful countenance lights up the kitchen late shadowed by the presence and dark, scowling features of Coracle Dick--brightens it even more than the brand-new tin-ware, or the whitewash upon its walls. Old Joe rejoices; and if we have a regret, it is that he had not long ago taken up housekeeping for himself. But this thought suggests another contradicting it. How could he while his young mistress lived? She so much beloved by him, whose many beneficences have made him, as he is, independent for the rest of his days, never more to be harassed by care or distressed by toil, one of her latest largesses, the very last, being to bestow upon him the pretty pleasure craft bearing her own name. This she had actually done on the morning of that day, the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, as it was the last of her life; thus by an act of grand generosity commemorating two events so strangely, terribly in contrast! And as though some presentiment forewarned her of her own sad fate, so soon to follow, she had secured the gift by a scrap of writing; thus at the change in the Llangorren household enabling its old boatman to claim the boat, and obtain it too. It is now lying just below, at the brook's mouth, by the withey bed, where Joe has made a mooring place for it. The handsome thing would fetch £50; and many a Wye waterman would give his year's earnings to possess it. Indeed, more than one has been after it, using arguments to induce its owner to dispose of it--pointing out how idle of him to keep a craft so little suited to his present calling! All in vain. Old Joe would sooner sell his last shirt, or the newly-bought furniture of his house--sooner go begging--than part with that boat. It oft bore him beside his late mistress, so much lamented; it will still bear him lamenting her--ay, for the rest of his life. If he has lost the lady, he will cling to the souvenir which carries her honoured name! But, however faithful the old family retainer, and affectionate in his memories, he does not let their sadness overpower him, nor always give way to the same. Only at times when something turns up more vividly than usual recalling Gwendoline Wynn to remembrance. On other and ordinary occasions he is cheerful enough, this being his natural habit. And never more than on a certain night shortly after that of his chance encounter with Jack Wingate, when both were a-shopping at Rugg's Ferry. For there and then, in addition to the multifarious news imparted to the young waterman, he gave the latter an invitation to visit him in his new home, which was gladly and off-hand accepted. "A bit o' supper and a drop o' somethin' to send it down," were the old boatman's words specifying the entertainment. The night has come round, and the "bit o' supper" is being prepared by Amy, who is acting as though she was never more called upon to practise the culinary art; and, according to her own way of thinking, she never has been. For, to let out a little secret, the French lady's-maid was not the only feminine at Llangorren Court who had cast admiring eyes on the handsome boatman who came there rowing Captain Ryecroft. Raising the curtain still higher, Amy Preece's position is exposed; she, too, having been caught in that same net, spread for neither. Not strange then, but altogether natural. She is now exerting herself to cook a supper that will give gratification to the expected guest. She would work her fingers off for Jack Wingate. Possibly the uncle may have some suspicion of why she is moving about so alertly, and besides looking so pleased like. If not a suspicion, he has a wish and a hope. Nothing in life, now, would be so much to his mind as to see his niece married to the man he has invited to visit him. For never in all his life has old Joe met one he so greatly cottons to. His intercourse with the young waterman, though scarce six months old, seems as if it had been of twice as many years; so friendly and pleasant, he not only wants it continued, but wishes it to become nearer and dearer. If his niece be baiting a trap in the cooking of the supper, he has himself set that trap by the "invite" he gave to the expected guest. A gentle tapping at the door tells him the triangle is touched; and, responding to the signal, he calls out,-- "That you, Jack Wingate? O' course it be. Come in!" And in Jack Wingate comes. CHAPTER LIX. QUEER BRIC-A-BRAC. Stepping over the threshold, the young waterman is warmly received by his older brother of the oar, and blushingly by the girl, whose cheeks are already of a high colour, caught from the fire over which she has been stooping. Old Joe, seated in the chimney corner, in a huge wicker chair of his own construction, motions Jack to another opposite, leaving the space in front clear for Amy to carry on her culinary operations. There are still a few touches to be added--a sauce to be concocted--before the supper can be served; and she is concocting it. Host and guest converse without heeding her, chiefly on topics relating to the bore of the river, about which old Joe is an oracle. As the other, too, has spent all his days on Vaga's banks; but there have been more of them, and he longer resident in that particular neighbourhood. It is too early to enter upon subjects of a more serious nature, though a word now and then slips in about the late occurrence at Llangorren, still wrapped in mystery. If they bring shadows over the brow of the old boatman, these pass off, as he surveys the table which his niece has tastefully decorated with fruits and late autumn flowers. It reminds him of many a pleasant Christmas night in the grand servants' hall at the Court, under holly and mistletoe, besides bowls of steaming punch and dishes of blazing snapdragon. His guest knows something of that same hall; but cares not to recall its memories. Better likes he the bright room he is now seated in. Within the radiant circle of its fire, and the other pleasant surroundings, he is for the time cheerful--almost himself again. His mother told him it was not good to be for ever grieving--not righteous, but sinful. And now, as he watches the graceful creature moving about, actively engaged--and all on his account--he begins to think there may be truth in what she said. At all events, his grief is more bearable than it has been for long days past. Not that he is untrue to the memory of Mary Morgan. Far from it. His feelings are but natural, inevitable. With that fair presence flitting before his eyes, he would not be man if it failed in some way to impress him. But his feelings for Amy Preece do not go beyond the bounds of respectful admiration. Still is it an admiration that may become warmer, gathering strength as time goes on. It even does somewhat on this same night; for, in truth, the girl's beauty is a thing which cannot be glanced at without a wish to gaze upon it again. And she possesses something more than beauty--a gift not quite so rare, but perhaps as much prized by Jack Wingate--modesty. He has noted her shy, almost timid mien, ere now; for it is not the first time he has been in her company--contrasted it with the bold advances made to him by her former fellow-servant at the Court--Clarisse. And now, again, he observes the same bearing, as she moves about through that cheery place, in the light of glowing coals--best from the Forest of Dean. And he thinks of it while seated at the supper table; she at its head, _vis-à-vis_ to her uncle, and distributing the viands. These are no damper to his admiration of her, since the dishes she has prepared are of the daintiest. He has not been accustomed to eat such a meal, for his mother could not cook it; while, as already said, Amy is something of an _artiste de cuisine_. An excellent wife she would make, all things considered; and possibly at a later period, Jack Wingate might catch himself so reflecting; but not now--not to-night. Such a thought is not in his mind; could not be, with that sadder thought still overshadowing. The conversation at the table is mostly between the uncle and himself, the niece only now and then putting in a word; and the subjects are still of a general character, in the main relating to boats and their management. It continues so till the supper things have been cleared off; and in their place appear a decanter of spirits, a basin of lump sugar, and a jug of hot water, with a couple of tumblers containing spoons. Amy knows her uncle's weakness--which is a whisky toddy before going to bed; for it is the "barley bree" that sparkles in the decanter; and also aware that to-night he will indulge in more than one, she sets the kettle on its trivet against the bars of the grate. As the hour has now waxed late, and the host is evidently longing for a more confidential chat with his guest, she asks if there is anything more likely to be wanted. Answered in the negative, she bids both "Good-night," withdraws to the little chamber so prettily decorated for her, and goes to her bed. But not immediately to fall asleep. Instead, she lies awake thinking of Jack Wingate, whose voice, like a distant murmur, she can now and then hear. The _femme de chambre_ would have had her cheek at the keyhole, to catch what he might say. Not so the young English girl, brought up in a very different school; and if she lies awake, it is from no prying curiosity, but kept so by a nobler sentiment. On the instant of her withdrawal, old Joe, who has been some time showing in a fidget for it, hitches his chair closer to the table, desiring his guest to do the same; and the whisky punches having been already prepared, they also bring their glasses together. "Yer good health, Jack." "Same to yerself, Joe." After this exchange, the ex-Charon, no longer constrained by the presence of a third party, launches out into a dialogue altogether different from that hitherto held between them--the subject being the late tenant of the house in which they are hobnobbing. "Queer sort o' chap, that Coracle Dick! an't he, Jack?" "Course he be. But why do ye ask? You knowed him afore, well enough." "Not so well's now. He never comed about the Court, 'ceptin' once when fetched there--afore the old Squire on a poachin' case. Lor! what a change! He now head-keeper o' the estate." "Ye say ye know him better than ye did? Ha' ye larned anythin' 'bout him o' late?" "That hae I, an' a goodish deal too. More'n one thing as seems kewrous." "If ye don't object tellin' me, I'd like to hear what they be." "Well, one are, that Dick Dempsey ha' been in the practice of somethin' besides poachin'." "That an't no news to me. I ha' long suspected him o' doin's worse than that." "Amongst them did ye include forgin'?" "No; because I never thought o' it. But I believe him to be capable o' it, or anything else. What makes ye think he ha' been a forger?" "Well, I won't say forger, for he mayn't ha' made the things. But for sure he ha' been engaged in passin' them off." "Passin' what off!" "Them!" rejoins Joe, drawing a little canvas bag out of his pocket, and spilling its contents upon the table--over a score of coins, to all appearance half-crown pieces. "Counterfeits--every one o' 'em!" he adds, as the other sits staring at them in surprise. "Where did you find them?" asks Jack. "In the corner o' an old cubbord. Furbishin' up the place, I comed across them--besides a goodish grist o' other kewrosities. What would ye think o' my predecessor here bein' a burglar as well as smasher?" "I wouldn't think that noways strange neyther. As I've sayed already, I b'lieve Dick Dempsey to be a man who'd not mind takin' a hand at any mortal thing, howsomever bad--burglary, or even worse, if it wor made worth his while. But what led ye to think he ha' been also in the housebreakin' line?" "These!" answers the old boatman, producing another and larger bag, the more ponderous contents of which he spills out on the floor--not the table--as he does so exclaiming, "Theere be a lot o' oddities! A complete set o' burglar's tools--far as I can understand them." And so are they, jemmies, cold chisels, skeleton keys--in short, every implement of the cracksman's calling. "And ye found them in the cubbert too?" "No, not there, nor yet inside; but on the premises. The big bag, wi' its contents, wor crammed up into a hole in the rocks--the clift at the back o' the house." "Odd, all o' it! An' the oddest his leavin' such things behind--to tell the tale o' his guilty doin's. I suppose bein' full o' his new fortunes, he's forgot all about them." "But ye han't waited for me to gie the whole o' the cat'logue. There be somethin' more to come." "What more?" asks the young waterman, surprisedly, and with renewed interest. "A thing as seems kewrouser than all the rest. I can draw conclusions from the counterfeet coins, an' the housebreakin' implements; but the other beats me dead down, an' I don't know what to make o't. Maybe you can tell. I foun' it stuck up the same hole in the rocks, wi' a stone in front exact fittin' to an' fillin' its mouth." While speaking, he draws open a chest, and takes from it a bundle of some white stuff--apparently linen--loosely rolled. Unfolding, and holding it up to the light, he adds,-- "Theer be the eydentical article!" No wonder he thought the thing strange, found where he had found it; for it is a _shroud_! White, with a cross and two letters in red stitched upon that part which, were it upon a body, both cross and lettering would lie over the breast! "O God!" cries Jack Wingate, as his eyes rest upon the symbol. "That's the shroud Mary Morgan wor buried in! I can swear to 't. I seed her mother stitch on that cross an' them letters--the ineetials o' her name. An' I seed it on herself in the coffin 'fore 't wor closed. Heaven o' mercy! what do it mean?" Amy Preece, lying awake in her bed, hears Jack Wingate's voice excitedly exclaiming, and wonders what that means. But she is not told; nor learns she aught of a conversation which succeeds in more subdued tone; prolonged to a much later hour--even into morning. For before the two men part, they mature a plan for ascertaining why that ghostly thing is still above ground instead of in the grave, where the body it covered is coldly sleeping! CHAPTER LX. A BRACE OF BODY-SNATCHERS. What with the high hills that shut in the valley of the Wye, and the hanging woods that clothe their steep slopes, the nights there are often so dark as to justify the familiar saying, "You couldn't see your hand before you." I have been out on some, when a white kerchief held within three feet of the eye was absolutely invisible; and it required a skilful Jehu, with best patent lamps, to keep carriage wheels upon the causeway of the road. Such a night has drawn down over Rugg's Ferry, shrouding the place in impenetrable gloom. Situated in a concavity--as it were, at the bottom of an extinct volcanic crater--the obscurity is deeper than elsewhere; to-night alike covering the Welsh Harp, detached dwelling houses, chapel, and burying-ground, as with a pall. Not a ray of light scintillates anywhere; for the hour is after midnight, and everybody has retired to rest; the weak glimmer of candles from cottage windows, as the stronger glare through those of the hotel-tavern, are no longer to be seen. In the last every lamp is extinguished, its latest-sitting guest--if it have any guest--having gone to bed. Some of the poachers and night-netters may be astir. If so, they are abroad, and not about the place, since it is just at such hours they are away from it. For all, two men are near by, seemingly moving with as much stealth as any trespassers after fish or game, and with even more mystery in their movements. The place occupied by them is the shadowed corner under the wall of the chapel cemetery, where Captain Ryecroft saw three men embarking on a boat. These are also in a boat; but not one in the act of rowing off from the river's edge; instead, just being brought into it. Soon as its cutwater strikes against the bank, one of the men, rising to his feet, leaps out upon the land, and attaches the painter to a sapling, by giving it two or three turns around the stem. Then facing back towards the boat, he says,-- "Hand me them things; an' look out not to let 'em rattle!" "Ye need ha' no fear 'bout that," rejoins the other, who has now unshipped the oars, and stowed them fore and aft along the thwarts, they not being the things asked for. Then, stooping down, he lifts something out of the boat's bottom, and passes it over the side, repeating the movement three or four times. The things thus transferred from one to the other are handled by both as delicately as though they were pheasant's or plover's eggs, instead of what they are--an ordinary set of grave-digger's tools--spade, shovel, and mattock. There is, besides, a bundle of something soft, which, as there is no danger of its making noise, is tossed up to the top of the bank. He who has flung follows it; and the two gathering up the hardware, after some words exchanged in muttered tone, mount over the cemetery wall. The younger first leaps it, stretching back, and giving a hand to the other--an old man, who finds some difficulty in the ascent. Inside the sacred precincts they pause, partly to apportion the tools, but as much to make sure that they have not hitherto been heard. Seen, they could not be, before or now. Becoming satisfied that the coast is clear, the younger man says in a whisper,-- "It be all right, I think. Every livin' sinner--an' there be a good wheen o' that stripe 'bout here--have gone to bed. As for him, blackest o' the lot, who lives in the house adjoinin', ain't like he's at home. Good as sure down at Llangorren Court, where just now he finds quarters more comfortable. We hain't nothin' to fear, I take it. Let's on to the place. You lay hold o' my skirt, and I'll gie ye the lead. I know the way, every inch o' it." Saying which he moves off, the other doing as directed, and following step for step. A few paces further, and they arrive at a grave, beside which they again make stop. In daylight it would show recently made, though not altogether new. A month or so since the turf had been smoothed over it. The men are now about to disturb it, as evinced by their movements and the implements brought along. But, before going further in their design--body-snatching, or whatever it be--both drop down upon their knees, and again listen intently, as though still in some fear of being interrupted. Not a sound is heard save the wind, as it sweeps in mournful cadence through the trees along the hill slopes, and nearer below, the rippling of the river. At length, convinced they have the cemetery to themselves, they proceed to their work, which begins by their spreading out a sheet on the grass close to and alongside the grave--a trick of body-stealers--so as to leave no traces of their theft. That done, they take up the sods with their hands, carefully, one after another; and, with like care, lay them down upon the sheet, the grass sides underneath. Then, seizing hold of the tools--spade and shovel--they proceed to scoop out the earth, placing it in a heap beside. They have no need to make use of the mattock; the soil is loose, and lifts easily. Nor is their task as excavators of long continuance--even shorter than they anticipated. Within less than eighteen inches of the surface, their tools come into contact with a harder substance, which they can tell to be timber--the lid of a coffin. Soon as striking it, the younger faces round to his companion, saying,-- "I tolt ye so--listen!" With the spade's point he again gives the coffin a tap. It returns a hollow sound--too hollow for aught to be inside it! "No body in there!" he adds. "Hadn't we better keep on, an' make sure?" suggests the other. "Sartint we had--an' will." Once more they commence shovelling out the earth, and continue till it is all cleared from the coffin. Then, inserting the blade of the mattock under the edge of the lid, they raise it up; for it is not screwed down, only laid on loosely--the screws all drawn and gone! Flinging himself on his face, and reaching forward, the younger man gropes inside the coffin--not expecting to feel any body there, but mechanically, and to see if there be aught else. There is nothing--only emptiness. The house of the dead is untenanted--its tenant has been taken away! "I know'd it!" he exclaims, drawing back. "I know'd my poor Mary wor no longer here!" It is no body-snatcher who speaks thus, but Jack Wingate, his companion being Joseph Preece. After which, the young waterman says not another word in reference to the discovery they have both made. He is less sad than thoughtful now. But he keeps his thoughts to himself, an occasional whisper to his companion being merely by way of direction, as they replace the lid upon the coffin, cover all up as before, shake in the last fragments of loose earth from the sheet, and restore the grave turf--adjusting the sods with as much exactitude as though they were laying tesselated tiles! Then, taking up their tools, they glide back to the boat, step into it, and shove off. On return down stream they reflect in different ways, the old boatman of Llangorren still thinking it but a case of body-snatching, done by Coracle Dick, for the doctors, with a view to earning a dishonest penny. Far otherwise the thoughts of Jack Wingate. He thinks, nay, hopes--almost happily believes--that the body exhumed was not dead--never has been--but that Mary Morgan still lives, breathes, and has being! CHAPTER LXI. IN WANT OF HELP. "Drowned? No! Dead before she ever went under the water. Murdered, beyond the shadow of a doubt." It is Captain Ryecroft who thus emphatically affirms. And to himself, being alone, within his room in the Wyeside Hotel; for he is still in Herefordshire. More in conjecture, he proceeds,-- "They first smothered, I suppose, or in some way rendered her insensible; then carried her to the place and dropped her in, leaving the water to complete their diabolical work? A double death, as it were; though she may not have suffered its agonies twice. Poor girl! I hope not." In prosecuting the inquiry to which he has devoted himself, beyond certain unavoidable communications with Jack Wingate, he has not taken any one into his confidence. This partly from having no intimate acquaintances in the neighbourhood, but more because he fears the betrayal of his purpose. It is not ripe for public exposure, far less bringing before a court of justice. Indeed, he could not yet shape an accusation against any one, all that he has learnt now serving only to satisfy him that his original suspicions were correct; which it has done, as shown by his soliloquy. He has since made a second boat excursion down the bye-channel--made it in the daytime, to assure himself there was no mistake in his observations under the light of the lamp. It was for this he had bespoken Wingate's skiff for the following day; for certain reasons reaching Llangorren at the earliest hour of dawn. There and then to see what surprised him quite as much as the unexpected discovery of the night before--a grand breakage from the brow of the cliff; but not any more misleading him. If the first "sign" observed there failed to blind him, so does that which has obliterated it. No natural rock-slide, was the conclusion he came to, soon as setting eyes upon it; but the work of human hands! And within the hour, as he could see by the clods of loosened earth still dropping down and making muddy the water underneath; while bubbles were ascending from the detached boulder lying invisible below! Had he been there only a few minutes earlier, himself invisible, he would have seen a man upon the cliff's crest, busy with a crowbar, levering the rock from its bed, and tilting it over--then carefully removing the marks of the iron implement, as also his own footprints! The man saw him through the blue-grey dawn, in his skiff, coming down the river; just as on the preceding night under the light of the moon. For he thus early astir and occupied in a task as that of Sysiphus, was no other than Father Rogier. The priest had barely time to retreat and conceal himself, as the boat drew down to the eyot--not this time crouching among the ferns, but behind some evergreens, at a farther and safer distance. Still, near enough for him to observe the other's look of blank astonishment on beholding the _debâcle_, and note the expression change to one of significant intelligence as he continued gazing at it. "_Un limier veritable!_" A hound that has scented blood, and's determined to follow it up, till he find the body whence it flowed. Aha! The game must be got out of his way. Llangorren will have to change owners once again, and the sooner, the better. At the very moment these thoughts were passing through the mind of Gregoire Rogier, the "veritable bloodhound" was mentally repeating the same words he had used on the night before: "No accident--no suicide--murdered!" adding, as his eyes ranged over the surface of red sandstone, so altered in appearance, "This makes me all the more sure of it. Miserable trick! Not much Mr. Lewin Murdock will gain by it." So thought he then. But now, days after, though still believing Murdock to be the murderer, he thinks differently about the "trick." For the evidence afforded by the former traces, though slight, and pointing to no one in particular, was, nevertheless, a substantial indication of guilt against somebody; and these being blotted out, there is but his own testimony of their having ever existed. Though himself convinced that Gwendoline Wynn has been assassinated, he cannot see his way to convince others--much less a legal tribunal. He is still far from being in a position openly to accuse, or even name the criminals who ought to be arraigned. He now knows there are more than one, or so supposes, still believing that Murdock has been the principal actor in the tragedy; though others besides have borne part in it. "The man's wife must know all about it," he says, going on in conjectural chain; "and that French priest--he probably the instigator of it. Ay! possibly had a hand in the deed itself. There have been such cases recorded--many of them. Exercising great authority at Llangorren--as Jack has learned from his friend Joe--there commanding everybody and everything! And the fellow Dempsey--poacher, and what not--he, too, become an important personage about the place! Why all this? Only intelligible on the supposition that they have had to do with a death by which they have been all benefited. Yes; all four, acting conjointly, have brought it about! "And how am I to bring it home to them? 'Twill be difficult indeed, if at all possible. Even that slight sign destroyed has increased the difficulty. "No use taking the 'great unpaid' into my confidence, nor yet the sharper stipendiaries. To submit my plans to either magistrate or policeman might be but to defeat them. 'Twould only raise a hue and cry, putting the guilty ones on their guard. That isn't the way--will not do! "And yet I must have some one to assist me; for there is truth in the old saw, 'Two heads better than one,' Wingate is good enough in his way, and willing, but he can't help me in mine. I want a man of my own class; one who----Stay! George Shenstone? No! The young fellow is true as steel and brave as a lion, but--well, lacking brains. I could trust his heart, not his head. Where is he who has both to be relied upon? Ha! Mahon! The man--the very man! Experienced in the world's wickedness, courageous, cool--except when he gets his Irish blood up against the Sassenachs--above all, devoted to me, as I know; he has never forgotten that little service I did him at Delhi. And he has nothing to do--plenty of time at his disposal. Yes; the Major's my man! "Shall I write and ask him to come over here. On second thoughts, no! Better for me to go thither; see him first, and explain all the circumstances. To Boulogne and back's but a matter of forty-eight hours, and a day or two can't make much difference in an affair like this. The scent's cold as it can be, and may be taken up weeks hence 's well as now. If we ever succeed in finding evidence of their guilt, it will, no doubt, be mainly of the circumstantial sort; and much will depend on the character of the individuals accused. Now I think of it, something may be learnt about it in Boulogne itself; or, at all events, of the priest. Since I've had a good look at his forbidding face, I feel certain it's the same I saw inside the doorway of that convent. If not, there are two of the sacerdotal tribe so like, it would be a toss up which is one and which t'other. "In any case, there can be no harm in my making a scout across to Boulogne, and instituting inquiries about him. Mahon's sister being at school in the establishment will enable us to ascertain whether a priest named Rogier holds relations with it, and we may learn something of the repute he bears. Perchance, also, a trifle concerning Mr. and Mrs. Lewin Murdock. It appears that both husband and wife are well known at Homburg, Baden, and other like resorts. Gaming, if not game, birds, in some of their migratory flights they have made short sojourn at the French seaport, to get their hands in for those grander hells beyond. I'll go over to Boulogne!" A knock at the door. On the permission to enter, called out, a hotel porter presents himself. "Well?" "Your waterman, sir, Wingate, says he'd like to see you, if convenient?" "Tell him to step up!" "What can Jack be coming after? Anyhow, I'm glad he has come. 'Twill save me the trouble of sending for him, as I'd better settle his account before starting off." [Jack has a new score against the Captain for boat hire, his services having been retained, exclusively, for some length of time past.] "Besides, there's something I wish to say--a long chapter of instructions to leave with him. Come in, Jack!" This, as a shuffling in the corridor outside tells that the waterman is wiping his feet on the door-mat. The door opening, displays him; but with an expression on his countenance very different from that of a man coming to dun for wages due. More like one entering to announce a death, or some event which greatly agitates him. "What is it?" asks the Captain, observing his distraught manner. "Somethin' queer, sir; very queer indeed." "Ah! Let me hear it!" demands Ryecroft, with an air of eagerness, thinking it relates to himself and the matter engrossing his mind. "I will, Captain. But it'll take time in the tellin'." "Take as much as you like. I'm at your service. Be seated." Jack clutches hold of a chair, and draws it up close to where the Captain is sitting--by a table. Then glancing over his shoulder, and all round the room, to assure himself there is no one within earshot, he says, in a grave, solemn voice,-- "I do believe, Captain, _she be still alive_!" CHAPTER LXII. STILL ALIVE. Impossible to depict the expression on Vivian Ryecroft's face, as the words of the waterman fall upon his ear. It is more than surprise--more than astonishment--intensely interrogative, as though some secret hope once entertained, but long gone out of his heart, had suddenly returned to it. "Still alive!" he exclaims, springing to his feet, and almost upsetting the table. "Alive!" he mechanically repeats. "What do you mean, Wingate? And who?" "My poor girl, Captain. You know." "_His_ girl--not _mine_! Mary Morgan--not Gwendoline Wynn!" reflects Ryecroft within himself, dropping back upon his chair as one stunned by a blow. "I'm almost sure she be still livin'," continues the waterman, in wonder at the emotion his words have called up, though little suspecting why. Controlling it, the other asks, with diminished interest, still earnestly,-- "What leads you to think that way, Wingate? Have you a reason?" "Yes, have I; more'n one. It's about that I ha' come to consult ye." "You've come to astonish me! But proceed!" "Well, sir, as I ha' sayed, it'll take a good bit o' tellin', and a lot o' explanation beside. But since ye've signified I'm free to your time, I'll try and make the story short's I can." "Don't curtail it in any way. I wish to hear all!" The waterman thus allowed latitude, launches forth into a full account of his own life--those chapters of it relating to his courtship of, and betrothal to, Mary Morgan. He tells of the opposition made by her mother, the rivalry of Coracle Dick, and the sinister interference of Father Rogier. In addition, the details of that meeting of the lovers under the elm--their last--and the sad episode soon after succeeding. Something of all this Ryecroft has heard before, and part of it suspected. What he now hears new to him is the account of a scene in the farmhouse of Abergann, while Mary Morgan lay in the chamber of death, with a series of incidents that came under the observation of her sorrowing lover. The first, his seeing a shroud being made by the girl's mother, white, with a red cross, and the initial letters of her name braided over the breast: the same soon afterwards appearing upon the corpse. Then the strange behaviour of Father Rogier on the day of the funeral; the look with which he stood regarding the girl's face as she lay in her coffin; his abrupt exit out of the room; as afterwards his hurried departure from the side of the grave before it was finally closed up--a haste noticed by others as well as Jack Wingate. "But what do you make of all that?" asks Ryecroft, the narrator having paused to gather himself for other and still stranger revelations. "How can it give you a belief in the girl being still alive? Quite its contrary, I should say." "Stay, Captain! There be more to come." The Captain does stay, listening on. To hear the story of the planted and plucked up flower; of another and later visit made by Wingate to the cemetery in daylight, then seeing what led him to suspect, that not only had the plant been destroyed, but all the turf on the grave disturbed! He speaks of his astonishment at this, with his perplexity. Then goes on to give account of the evening spent with Joseph Preece in his new home; of the waifs and strays there shown him; the counterfeit coins, burglars' tools, and finally the shroud--that grim remembrancer, which he recognised at sight! His narrative concludes with his action taken after, assisted by the old boatman. "Last night," he says, proceeding with the relation, "or I ought to say the same mornin'--for 'twar after midnight hour--Joe an' myself took the skiff, an' stole up to the chapel graveyard, where we opened her grave, an' foun' the coffin empty! Now, Captain, what do ye think o' the whole thing?" "On my word, I hardly know what to think of it. Mystery seems the measure of the time! This you tell me of is strange--if not stranger than any! What are your own thoughts about it, Jack?" "Well, as I've already sayed, my thoughts be, an' my hopes, that Mary's still in the land o' the livin'." "I hope she is." The tone of Ryecroft's rejoinder tells of his incredulity, further manifested by his questions following. "But you saw her in her coffin? Waked for two days, as I understood you; then laid in her grave? How could she have lived throughout all that? Surely she was dead!" "So I thought at the time, but don't now." "My good fellow, I fear you are deceiving yourself. I'm sorry having to think so. Why the body has been taken up again is of itself a sufficient puzzle; but alive--that seems physically impossible!" "Well, Captain, it's just about the possibility of the thing I come to ask your opinion; thinkin' ye'd be acquainted wi' the article itself." "What article?" "The new medicine; it as go by the name o' chloryform." "Ha! you have a suspicion----" "That she ha' been chloryformed, an' so kep' asleep--to be waked up when they wanted her. I've heerd say they can do such things." "But then she was drowned also? Fell from a foot plank, you told me? And was in the water some time?" "I don't believe it, a bit. It be true enough she got somehow into the water, an' wor took out insensible, or rather drifted out o' herself, on the bank just below, at the mouth o' the brook. But that wor short after, an' she might still ha' ben alive notwithstandin'. My notion be, that the priest had first put the chloryform into her, or did it then, an' knew all along she warn't dead, nohow." "My dear Jack, the thing cannot be possible. Even if it were, you seem to forget that her mother, father--all of them--must have been cognizant of these facts--if facts?" "I don't forget it, Captain. 'Stead, I believe they all wor cognizant o' them--leastways, the mother." "But why should she assist in such a dangerous deception--at risk of her daughter's life?" "That's easy answered. She did it partly o' herself; but more at the biddin' o' the priest, whom she daren't disobey--the weak-minded creature, most o' her time given up to sayin' prayers and paternosters. They all knowed the girl loved me, and wor sure to be my wife, whatever they might say or do against it. Wi' her willin', I could a' defied the whole lot o' them. Bein' aware o' that, their only chance wor to get her out o' my way by some trick--as they ha' indeed got her. Ye may think it strange their takin' all that trouble; but if ye'd seen her, ye wouldn't. There worn't on all Wyeside so good-lookin' a girl!" Ryecroft again looks incredulous; not smilingly, but with a sad cast of countenance. Despite its improbability, however, he begins to think there may be some truth in what the waterman says--Jack's earnest convictions sympathetically impressing him. "And supposing her to be alive," he asks, "where do you think she is now? Have you any idea?" "I have--leastways, a notion." "Where?" "Over the water--in France--the town o' Bolone." "Boulogne!" exclaims the Captain, with a start. "What makes you suppose she is there?" "Something, sir, I han't yet spoke to ye about. I'd a'most forgot the thing, an' might never ha' thought o't again, but for what ha' happened since. Ye'll remember the night we come up from the ball, my tellin' ye I had an engagement the next day to take the young Powells down the river?" "I remember it perfectly." "Well, I took them, as agreed; an' that day we went down's fur's Chepstow. But they wor bound for the Severn side a duck-shootin'; and next mornin' we started early, afore daybreak. As we were passin' the wharf below Chepstow Bridge, where there wor several craft lyin' in, I noticed one sloop-rigged ridin' at anchor a bit out from the rest, as if about clearin' to put to sea. By the light o' a lamp as hung over the taffrail, I read the name on her starn, showin' she wor French, an' belonged to Bolone. I shouldn't ha' thought than anythin' odd, as there be many foreign craft o' the smaller kind puts in at Chepstow. But what did appear odd, an' gied me a start too, wor my seein' a boat by the sloop's side wi' a man in it, who I could a'most sweared wor the Rogue's Ferry priest. There wor others in the boat besides, an' they appeared to be gettin' some sort o' bundle out o' it, an' takin' it up the man-ropes, aboard o' the sloop. But I didn't see anymore, as we soon passed out o' sight, goin' on down. Now, Captain, it's my firm belief that man must ha' been the priest, and that thing I supposed to be a bundle o' marchandise, neyther more nor less than the body o' Mary Morgan--not dead, but livin'!" "You astound me, Wingate! Certainly a most singular circumstance! Coincidence too! Boulogne--Boulogne!" "Yes, Captain; by the letterin' on her starn the sloop must ha' belonged there; an' _I'm goin' there myself_." "I too, Jack! We shall go together!" CHAPTER LXIII. A STRANGE FATHER CONFESSOR. "He's gone away--given it up! Be glad, madame!" Father Rogier so speaks on entering the drawing-room of Llangorren Court, where Mrs. Murdock is seated. "What, Gregoire?" (Were her husband present, it would be "Père"; but she is alone.) "Who's gone away? And why am I to rejoice?" "_Le Capitaine._" "Ha!" she ejaculates, with a pleased look, showing that the two words have answered all her questions in one. "Are you sure of it? The news seems too good for truth." "It's true, nevertheless; so far as his having gone away. Whether to stay away is another matter. We must hope he will." "I hope it with all my heart." "And well you may, madame; as I myself. We had more to fear from that _chien de chasse_ than all the rest of the pack--ay, have still, unless he's found the scent too cold, and in despair abandoned the pursuit; which I fancy he has, thrown off by that little rock slide. A lucky chance my having caught him at his reconnaisance; and rather a clever bit of strategy so to baffle him! Wasn't it, _chèrie_?" "Superb! The whole thing from beginning to end! You've proved yourself a wonderful man, Gregoire Rogier." "And I hope worthy of Olympe Renault?" "You have." "_Merci!_ So far that's satisfactory; and your slave feels he has not been toiling in vain. But there's a good deal more to be done before we can take our ship safe into port. And it must be done quickly, too. I pine to cast off this priestly garb--in which I've been so long miserably masquerading--and enter into the real enjoyments of life. But there's another, and more potent reason, for using despatch; breakers around us, on which we may be wrecked, ruined any day, any hour. Le Capitaine Ryecroft was not, or is not, the only one." "Richard--_le braconnier_--you're thinking of?" "No, no, no! Of him we needn't have the slightest fear. I hold his lips sealed, by a rope around his neck; whose noose I can draw tight at the shortest notice. I am far more apprehensive of Monsieur, _votre mari_!" "In what way?" "More than one; but for one, his tongue. There's no knowing what a drunken man may do or say in his cups; and Monsieur Murdock is hardly ever out of them. Suppose he gets to babbling, and lets drop something about--well, I needn't say what. There's still suspicion abroad--plenty of it,--and, like a spark applied to tinder, a word would set it ablaze." "_C'est vrai!_" "Fortunately, Mademoiselle had no very near relatives of the male sex, nor any one much interested in her fate, save the _fiancé_ and the other lover--the rustic and rejected one--Shenstone _fils_. Of him we need take no account. Even if suspicious, he hasn't the craft to unravel a clue so cunningly rolled as ours; and for the _ancien hussard_, let us hope he has yielded to despair, and gone back whence he came. Luck, too, in his having no intimacies here, or, I believe, anywhere in the shire of Hereford. Had it been otherwise, we might not so easily have got disembarrassed of him." "And you do think he has gone for good?" "I do; at least, it would seem so. On his second return to the hotel--in haste as it was--he had little luggage; and that he has all taken away with him. So I learnt from one of the hotel people, who professes our faith. Further, at the railway station, that he took ticket for London. Of course that means nothing. He may be _en route_ for anywhere beyond--round the globe, if he feel inclined for circumnavigation. And I shall be delighted if he do." He would not be much delighted had he heard at the railway station of what actually occurred--that in getting his ticket Captain Ryecroft had inquired whether he could not be booked through for Boulogne. Still less might Father Rogier have felt gratification to know, that there were two tickets taken for London; a first-class for the Captain himself, and a second for the waterman Wingate--travelling together, though in separate carriages, as befitted their different rank in life. Having heard nothing of this, the sham priest--as he has now acknowledged himself--is jubilant at the thought that another hostile pawn in the game he has been so skilfully playing has disappeared from the chess-board. In short, all have been knocked over, queen, bishops, knights, and castles. Alone the king stands, he tottering; for Lewin Murdock is fast drinking himself to death. It is of him the priest speaks as king,-- "Has he signed the will?" "_Oui._" "When?" "This morning, before he went out. The lawyer who drew it up came, with his clerk to witness----" "I know all that," interrupts the priest, "as I should, having sent them. Let me have a look at the document. You have it in the house, I hope?" "In my hand," she answers, diving into a drawer of the table by which she sits, and drawing forth a folded sheet of parchment: "_Le voilà!_" She spreads it out, not to read what is written upon it--only to look at the signatures, and see they are right. Well knows he every word of that will, he himself having dictated it. A testament made by Lewin Murdock, which, at his death, leaves the Llangorren estate--as sole owner and last in tail he having the right so to dispose of it--to his wife Olympe--_née_ Renault--for her life; then to his children, should there be any surviving; failing such, to Gregoire Rogier, Priest of the Roman Catholic Church; and in the event of his demise preceding that of the other heirs hereinbefore mentioned, the estate, or what remains of it, to become the property of the Convent of----, Boulogne-sur-mer, France. "For that last clause, which is yours, Gregoire, the nuns of Boulogne should be grateful to you; or at all events, the abbess, Lady Superior, or whatever she's called." "So she will," he rejoins, with a dry laugh, "when she gets the property so conveyed. Unfortunately for her, the reversion is rather distant, and having to pass through so many hands, there may be no great deal left of it, on coming into hers. Nay!" he adds, in exclamation, his jocular tone suddenly changing to the serious, "if some step be not taken to put a stop to what's going on, there won't be much of the Llangorren estate left for any one--not even for yourself, madame. Under the fingers of Monsieur, with the cards in them, it's being melted down as snow on the sunny side of a hill. Even at this self-same moment it may be going off in large slices--avalanches!" "_Mon Dieu!_" she exclaims, with an alarmed air, quite comprehending the danger thus figuratively portrayed. "I wouldn't be surprised," he continues, "if to-day he were made a thousand pounds the poorer. When I left the ferry, he was in the Welsh Harp, as I was told, tossing sovereigns upon its bar counter, 'Heads and tails, who wins?' Not he, you may be sure. No doubt he's now at a gaming-table inside, engaged with that gang of sharpers who have lately got around him, staking large sums on every turn of the cards--Jews' eyes, ponies, and monkeys, as these _chevaliers d'industrie_ facetiously term their money. If we don't bring all this to a termination, that you will have in your hand won't be worth the price of the parchment it's written upon. _Comprenez-vous, chèrie?_" "_Parfaitement!_ But how is it to be brought to a termination. For myself, I haven't an idea. Has any occurred to you, Gregoire?" As the ex-courtesan asks the question, she leans across the little table, and looks the false priest straight in the face. He knows the bent of her inquiry, told it by the tone and manner in which it has been put--both significant of something more than the words might otherwise convey. Still, he does not answer it directly. Even between these two fiends in human form, despite their mutual understanding of each other's wickedness, and the little reason either has for concealing it, there is a sort of intuitive reticence upon the matter which is in the minds of both. For it is murder--the murder of Lewin Murdock! "_Le pauvre homme!_" ejaculates the man, with a pretence at compassionating, under the circumstances ludicrous. "The cognac is killin' him, not by inches, but ells; and I don't believe he can last much longer. It seems but a question of weeks; may be only days. Thanks to the school in which I was trained, I have sufficient medical knowledge to prognosticate that." A gleam as of delight passes over the face of the woman--an expression almost demoniacal; for it is a wife hearing this about her husband! "You think only _days_?" she asks, with an eagerness as if apprehensive about that husband's health. But the tone tells different, as the hungry look in her eye while awaiting the answer. Both proclaim she wishes it in the affirmative; as it is. "Only days!" he says, as if his voice were an echo. "Still, days count in a thing of this kind--ay, even hours. Who knows but that in a fit of drunken bravado he may stake the whole estate on a single turn of cards or cast of dice? Others have done the like before now--gentlemen grander than he, with titles to their names-rich in one hour, beggars in the next. I can remember more than one." "Ah! so can I." "Englishmen, too, who usually wind up such matters by putting a pistol to their heads, and blowing out their brains. True, Monsieur hasn't very much to blow out; but that isn't a question which affects us--myself as well as you. I've risked everything--reputation, which I care least about, if the affair can be brought to a proper conclusion; but should it fail, then--I need not tell you. What we've done, if known, would soon make us acquainted with the inside of an English gaol. Monsieur, throwing away his money in this reckless fashion, must be restrained, or he'll bring ruin to all of us. Therefore some steps must be taken to restrain him, and promptly." "_Vraiment!_ I ask you again--have you thought of anything, Gregoire?" He does not make immediate answer, but seems to ponder over, or hang back upon it. When at length given, it is itself an interrogation, apparently unconnected with what they have been speaking about. "Would it greatly surprise you if to-night your husband didn't come home to you?" "Certainly not--in the least. Why should it? It wouldn't be the first time by scores--hundreds--for him to stay all night away from me. Ay, and at that same Welsh Harp, too--many's the night." "To your great annoyance, no doubt, if it did not make you dreadfully jealous?" She breaks out into a laugh, hollow and heartless as was ever heard in an _allée_ of the Jardin Mabille. When it is ended, she adds gravely,-- "The time was when he might have made me so; I may as well admit that; not now, as you know, Gregoire. Now, instead of feeling annoyed by it, I'd only be too glad to think I should never see his face again. _Le brute ivrogne!_" To this monstrous declaration, Rogier laconically rejoins,-- "You may not." Then, placing his lips close to her ear, he adds in a whisper, "If all prosper, as planned, _you will not_!" She neither starts, nor seeks to inquire further. She knows he has conceived some scheme to disembarrass her of a husband she no longer cares for--to both become inconvenient. And from what has gone before, she can rely on Rogier with its execution. CHAPTER LXIV. A QUEER CATECHIST. A boat upon the Wye, being pulled upward, between Llangorren Court and Rugg's Ferry. There are two men in it--not Vivian Ryecroft and Jack Wingate, but Gregoire Rogier and Richard Dempsey. The _ci-devant_ poacher is at the oars--for, in addition to his new post as gamekeeper, he has occasional charge of a skiff which has replaced the _Gwendoline_. This same morning he rowed his master up to Rugg's, leaving him there; and now, at night, he is on return to fetch him home. The two places being on opposite sides of the river, and the road roundabout, besides difficult for wheeled vehicles, Lewin Murdock, moreover, an indifferent horseman, he prefers the water route, and often takes it, as he has done to-day. It is the same on which Father Rogier held that dialogue of sinister innuendo with Madame, and the priest, aware of the boat having to return to the ferry, avails himself of a seat in it. Not that he dislikes walking, or is compelled to it; for he now keeps a cob, and does his rounds on horseback. But on this particular day he has left his roadster in its stable, and gone down to Llangorren afoot, knowing there would be the skiff to take him back. No scheme of mere convenience dictated this arrangement to Gregoire Rogier. Instead, one of Satanic wickedness, preconceived, and all settled before holding that _tête-à-tête_ with her he has called "chèrie." Though requiring a boat for its execution, and an oarsman of a peculiar kind--adroit at something besides the handling of oars--not a word of it has yet been imparted to the one who is rowing him. For all, the ex-poacher, accustomed to the priest's moods, and familiar with his ways, can see there is something unusual in his mind, and that he himself is on the eve of being called upon for some new service or sacrifice. No supply of poached fish or game. Things have gone higher than that, and he anticipates some demand of a more serious nature. Still, he has not the most distant idea of what it is to be, though certain interrogatories put to him are evidently leading up to it. The first is,-- "You're not afraid of water, are you, Dick?" "Not partickler, your Reverence. Why should I?" "Well, your being so little in the habit of washing your face--if I am right in my reckoning, only once a week--may plead my excuse for asking the question." "Oh, Father Rogier! that wor only in the time past, when I lived alone, and the thing worn't worth while. Now, going more into respectable company, I do a little washin' every day." "I'm glad to hear of your improved habits, and that they keep pace with the promotion you've had. But my inquiry had no reference to your ablutions--rather to your capabilities as a swimmer. If I mistake not, you can swim like a fish?" "No, not equal to a fish. That ain't possible." "An otter, then?" "Somethin' nearer he, if ye like," answers Coracle, laughingly. "I supposed as much. Never mind. About the degree of your natatory powers we needn't dispute. I take it they're sufficient for reaching either bank of this river, supposing the skiff to get capsized, and you in it?" "Lor, Father Rogier! that wouldn't be nothin'! I could swim to eyther shore, if 'twor miles off." "But could you as you are now, with clothes on, boots, and everything?" "Sartin could I, and carry weight beside." "That will do," rejoins the questioner, apparently satisfied; then lapsing into silence, and leaving Dick in a very desert of conjectures why he has been so interrogated. The speechless interregnum is not for long. After a minute or two, Rogier, as if freshly awaking from a reverie, again asks,-- "Would it upset this skiff if I were to step on the side of it--I mean, bearing upon it with all the weight of my body?" "That would it, your Reverence, though ye be but a light weight--tip it over like a tub." "Quite turn it upside down--as your old truckle, eh?" "Well, not so ready as the truckle. Still, 'twould go bottom upward. Though a biggish boat, it be one o' the crankiest kind, and would sure capsize wi' the lightest o' men standin' on its gunn'l rail." "And surer with a heavier one, as yourself, for instance?" "I shouldn't like to try, your Reverence bein' wi' me in the boat." "How would you like, somebody else being with you in it--_if made worth your while_?" Coracle starts at this question, asked in a tone that makes more intelligible the others preceding it, and which have been hitherto puzzling him. He begins to see the drift of the _sub Jove_ confessional to which he is being submitted. "How'd I like it, your Reverence? Well enough, if, as you say, made worth my while. I don't mind a bit o' a wettin' when there's anythin' to be gained by it. Many's the one I've had on a chilly winter's night, as this same be, all for the sake o' a salmon I wor 'bleeged to sell at less'n half-price. If only showed the way to earn a honest penny by it, I wouldn't wait for the upsettin' o' the boat, but jump overboard at onest." "That's game in you, Monsieur Dick. But to earn the honest penny you speak of, the upsetting of the boat might be a necessary condition." "Be it so, your Reverence. I'm willing to fulfil that, if ye only bid me. Maybe," he continues, in a tone of confidential suggestion, "there be somebody as you think ought to get a duckin' beside myself?" "There is somebody who ought," rejoins the priest, coming nearer to his point. "Nay, must," he continues; "for if he don't, the chances are we shall all go down together, and that soon." Coracle skulls on without questioning. He more than half comprehends the figurative speech, and is confident he will ere long receive complete explanation of it. He is soon led a little way further by the priest observing,-- "No doubt, _mon ancien bracconnier_, you've been gratified by the change that's of late taken place in your circumstances. But perhaps it hasn't quite satisfied you, and you expect to have something more--as I have the wish you should. And you would ere this, but for one who obstinately sets his face against it." "May I know who that one is, Father Rogier?" "You may, and shall; though I should think you scarce need telling. Without naming names, it's he who will be in this boat with you going back to Llangorren." "I thought so. An' if I an't astray, he be the one your Reverence thinks would not be any the worse o' a wettin'?" "Instead, all the better for it. It may cure him of his evil courses--drinking, card-playing, and the like. If he's not cured of them by some means, and soon, there won't be an acre left him of the Llangorren lands, nor a shilling in his purse. He'll have to go back to beggary, as at Glyngog; while you, Monsieur Coracle, in place of being head-gamekeeper, with other handsome preferments in prospect, will be compelled to return to your shifty life of poaching, night netting, and all the etceteras. Would you desire that?" "Daanged if I would! An' won't do it if I can help. Shan't, if your Reverence 'll only show me the way." "There's but one I can think of." "What may that be, Father Rogier?" "Simply to set your foot on the side of this skiff, and tilt it bottom upwards." "It shall be done. When, and where?" "When you are coming back down. The where you may choose for yourself--such place as may appear safe and convenient. Only take care you don't drown yourself." "No fear o' that. There an't water in the Wye as'll ever drown Dick Dempsey." "No," jocularly returns the priest; "I don't suppose there is. If it be your fate to perish by asphyxia--as no doubt it is--strong tough hemp, and not weak water, will be the agent employed--that being more appropriate to the life you have led. Ha! ha! ha!" Coracle laughs too, but with the grimace of wolf baying the moon. For the moonlight shining full in his face, shows him not over satisfied with the coarse jest. But remembering how he shifted that treacherous plank bridging the brook at Abergann, he silently submits to it. He, too, is gradually getting his hand upon a lever, which will enable him to have a say in the affairs of Llangorren Court, that they dwelling therein will listen to him, or, like the Philistines of Gaza, have it dragged down about their ears. But the ex-poacher is not yet prepared to enact the _rôle_ of Samson; and however galling the _jeu d'esprit_ of the priest, he swallows it without showing chagrin, far less speaking it. In truth there is no time for further exchange of speech--at least, in the skiff. By this time they have arrived at the Rugg's Ferry landing-place, where Father Rogier, getting out, whispers a few words in Coracle's ear, and then goes off. His words were-- "A hundred pounds, Dick, if you do it. Twice that for your doing it adroitly!" CHAPTER LXV. ALMOST A "VERT." Major Mahon is standing at one of the front windows of his house, waiting for his dinner to be served, when he sees a _fiâcre_ driven up to the door, and inside it the face of a friend. He does not stay for the bell to be rung, but with genuine Irish impulsiveness rushes forth, himself opening the door. "Captain Ryecroft!" he exclaims, grasping the new arrival by the hand, and hauling him out of the hackney. "Glad to see you back in Boulogne." Then adding, as he observes a young man leap down from the box where he has had seat beside the driver, "Part of your belongings, isn't he?" "Yes, Major; my old Wye waterman, Jack Wingate, of whom I spoke to you. And if it be convenient to you to quarter both of us for a day or two----" "Don't talk about convenience, and bar all mention of time. The longer you stay with me, you'll be conferring the greater favour. Your old room is gaping to receive you; and Murtagh will rig up a berth for your boatman. Murt!" to the ex-Royal Irish, who, hearing the _fracas_, has also come forth, "take charge of Captain Ryecroft's traps, along with Mr. Wingate here, and see all safely bestowed. Now, old fellow, step inside. They'll look after the things. You're just in time to do dinner with me. I was about sitting down to it _solus_, awfully lamenting my loneliness. Well, one never knows what luck's in the wind. Rather hard lines for you, however. If I mistake not, my pot's of the poorest this blessed day. But I know you're neither _gourmand_ nor _gourmet;_ and that's some consolation. In!" In go they, leaving the old soldier to settle the _fiâcre_ fare, look after the luggage, and extend the hospitalities of the kitchen to Jack Wingate. * * * * * Soon as Captain Ryecroft has performed some slight ablutions--necessary after a sea voyage however short--his host hurries him down to the dining-room. When seated at the table, the Major asks,-- "What on earth has delayed you, Vivian? You promised to be back in a week at most. It's months now! Despairing of your return, I had some thought of advertising the luggage you left with me, 'if not claimed within a certain time, to be sold for the payment of expenses.' Ha! ha!" Ryecroft echoes the laugh; but so faintly, his friend can see the cloud has not yet lifted; instead, lies heavy and dark as ever. In hopes of doing something to dissipate it, the Major rolls on in his rich Hibernian brogue,-- "You've just come in time to save your chattels from the hammer. And now I have you here, I mean to keep you. So, old boy, make up your mind to an unlimited sojourn in Boulogne-sur-mer. You will, won't you?" "It's very kind of you, Mahon; but that must depend on----" "On what?" "How I prosper in my errand." "Oh! this time you _have_ an errand? Some business?" "I have." "Well, as you had none before, it gives reason to hope that other matters may be also reversed, and instead of shooting off like a comet, you'll play the part of a fixed star; neither to shoot nor be shot at, as looked likely on the last occasion. But speaking seriously, Ryecroft, as you say you're on business, may I know its nature?" "Not only may, but it's meant you should. Nay, more, Mahon; I want your help in it." "That you can count upon, whatever it be--from pitch-and-toss up to manslaughter. Only say how I can serve you." "Well, Major, in the first place I would seek your assistance in some inquiries that I am about to make here." "Inquiries! Have they regard to that young lady you said was lost--missing from her home! Surely she has been found?" "She has--found drowned!" "Found drowned! God bless me!" "Yes, Mahon. The home from which she was missing knows her no more. Gwendoline Wynn is now in her long home--in heaven!" The solemn tone of voice, with the woe-begone expression on the speaker's face, drives all thoughts of hilarity out of the listener's mind. It is a moment too sacred for mirth; and between the two friends, old comrades in arms, for an interval even speech is suspended; only a word of courtesy as the host presses his guest to partake of the viands before them. The Major does not question further, leaving the other to take up the broken thread of the conversation. Which he at length does, holding it in hand, till he has told all that happened since they last sat at that table together. He gives only the facts, reserving his own deductions from them. But Mahon, drawing them for himself, says searchingly-- "Then you have a suspicion there's been what's commonly called foul play?" "More than a suspicion. I'm sure of it." "The devil! But whom do you suspect?" "Whom should I but he now in possession of the property--her cousin, Mr. Lewin Murdock. Though I've reason to believe there are others mixed up in it; one of them a Frenchman. Indeed, it's chiefly to make inquiry about him I've come over to Boulogne." "A Frenchman. You know his name?" "I do; at least, that he goes by on the other side of the Channel. You remember that night as we were passing the back entrance of the convent where your sister's at school, our seeing a carriage there--a hackney, or whatever it was?" "Certainly I do." "And my saying that the man who had just got out of it, and gone inside, resembled a priest I'd seen but a day or two before?" "Of course I remember all that, and my joking you at the time as to the idleness of you fancying a likeness among sheep, where all are so nearly of the same hue--that black. Something of the sort I said. But what's your argument?" "No argument at all, but a conviction, that the man we saw that night was my Herefordshire priest. I've seen him several times since--had a good square look at him--and feel sure 'twas he." "You haven't yet told me his name?" "Rogier--Father Rogier. So he is called upon the Wye." "And, supposing him identified, what follows?" "A great deal follows, or rather, depends on his identification." "Explain, Ryecroft. I shall listen with patience." Ryecroft does explain, continuing his narrative into a second chapter, which includes the doings of the Jesuit on Wyeside, so far as known to him; the story of Jack Wingate's love and loss--the last so strangely resembling his own--the steps afterwards taken by the waterman; in short, everything he can think of that will throw light upon the subject. "A strange tale, truly!" observes the Major, after hearing it to the end. "But does your boatman really believe the priest has resuscitated his dead sweetheart, and brought her over here with the intention of shutting her up in a nunnery?" "He does all that; and certainly not without show of reason. Dead or alive, the priest or some one else has taken the girl out of her coffin, and her grave." "'Twould be a wonderful story, if true--I mean the resuscitation, or resurrection; not the mere disinterment of a body. That's possible, and probable where priests of the Jesuitical school are concerned. And so should the other be, when one considers that they can make statues wink, and pictures shed tears. Oh! yes; Ultramontane magicians can do anything!" "But why," asks Ryecroft, "should they have taken all this trouble about a poor girl--the daughter of a small Herefordshire farmer,--with possibly at the most a hundred pounds or so for her dowry? That's what mystifies me!" "It needn't," laconically observes the Major. "These Jesuit gentry have often other motives than money for caging such birds in their convents. Was the girl good looking?" he asks, after musing a moment. "Well, of myself I never saw her. By Jack's description she must have been a superb creature--on a par with the angels. True, a lover's judgment is not much to be relied on, but I've heard from others, that Miss Morgan was really a rustic belle--something beyond the common." "Faith! and that may account for the whole thing. I know they like their nuns to be nice looking; prefer that stripe; I suppose, for purposes of proselytizing, if nothing more. They'd give a good deal to receive the services of my own sister in that way: have been already bidding for her. By Heavens! I'd rather see her laid in her grave!" The Major's strong declaration is followed by a spell of silence; after which, cooling down a little, he continues,-- "You've come, then, to inquire into this convent matter, about--what's the girl's name?--ah! Morgan." "More than the convent matter; though it's in the same connection. I've come to learn what can be learnt about this priest; get his character, with his antecedents. And, if possible, obtain some information respecting the past lives of Mr. Lewin Murdock and his French wife; for which I may probably go on to Paris, if not farther. To sum up everything, I've determined to sift this mystery to the bottom--unravel it to its last thread. I've already commenced unwinding the clue, and made some little progress. But I want one to assist me. Like a lone hunter on a lost trail, I need counsel from a companion--and help too. You'll stand by me, Mahon?" "To the death, my dear boy! I was going to say the last shilling in my purse. As you don't need that, I say, instead, to the last breath in my body!" "You shall be thanked with the last in mine." "I'm sure of that. And now for a drop of the 'crayther,' to warm us to our work. Ho! there, Murt! bring in the 'matayreals.'" Which Murtagh does, the dinner-dishes having been already removed. Soon as punches have been mixed, the Major returns to the subject, saying,-- "Now then, to enter upon particulars. What step do you wish me to take first?" "First, to find out who Father Rogier is, and what. That is, on this side; I know what he is on the other. If we can but learn his relations with the convent, it might give us a key capable of opening more than one lock." "There won't be much difficulty in doing that, I take it. All the less, from my little sister Kate being a great pet of the Lady Superior, who has hopes of making a nun of her! Not if I know it! Soon as her schooling's completed, she walks out of that seminary, and goes to a place where the moral atmosphere is a trifle purer. You see, old fellow, I'm not very bigoted about our Holy Faith, and in some danger of becoming a 'vert.' As for my sister, were it not for a bit of a legacy left on condition of her being educated in a convent, she'd never have seen the inside of one with my consent; and never will again when out of this one. But money's money; and though the legacy isn't a large one, for her sake, I couldn't afford to forfeit it. You comprehend?" "Quite. And you think she will be able to obtain the information, without in any way compromising herself?" "Pretty sure of it. Kate's no simpleton, though she be but a child in years. She'll manage it for me, with the instructions I mean giving her. After all, it may not be so much trouble. In these nunneries, things which are secrets to the world without, are known to every mother's child of them--nuns and novices alike. Gossip's the chief occupation of their lives. If there's been an occurrence such as you speak of--a new bird caged there--above all, an English one--it's sure to have got wind--that is, inside the walls. And I can trust Kate to catch the breath, and blow it outside. So, Vivian, old boy, drink your toddy, and take things coolly. I think I can promise you that, before many days, or it may be only hours, you shall know whether such a priest as you speak of be in the habit of coming to that convent; and if so, what for, when he was there last, and everything about the reverend gentleman worth knowing." * * * * * Kate Mahon proves equal to the occasion, showing herself quick-witted, as her brother boasted her to be. On the third day after, she is able to report to him, that some time previously--how long not exactly known--a young English girl came to the convent, brought thither by a priest named Rogier. The girl is a candidate for the Holy Sisterhood--voluntary, of course--to take the veil, soon as her probation be completed. Miss Mahon has not seen the new novice--only heard of her as being a great beauty; for personal charms make noise even in a nunnery. Nor have any of the other _pensionaires_ been permitted to see or speak with her. All they as yet know is, that she is a blonde, with yellow hair--a grand wealth of it--and goes by the name of "Soeur Marie." "Sister Mary!" exclaims Jack Wingate, as Ryecroft at second-hand communicates the intelligence--at the same time translating the "Soeur Marie." "It's Mary Morgan--my Mary! An' by the Heavens of Mercy," he adds, his arms angrily thrashing the air, "she shall come out o' that convent, or I'll lay my life down at its door." CHAPTER LXVI. THE LAST OF LEWIN MURDOCK. Once more a boat upon the Wye, passing between Rugg's Ferry and Llangorren Court, but this time descending. It is the same boat, and, as before, with two men in it; though they are not both the same who went up. One of them is Coracle Dick, still at the oars; while Father Rogier's place in the stern is now occupied by another--not sitting upright, as was the priest, but lying along the bottom timbers with head coggled over, and somewhat uncomfortably supported by the thwart. This man is Lewin Murdock, in a state of helpless inebriety--in common parlance, drunk. He has been brought to the boat landing by the landlord of the Welsh Harp, where he has been all day carousing, and delivered to Dempsey, who now, at a late hour of the night, is conveying him homeward. His hat is down by his feet, instead of upon his head; and the moonbeams, falling unobstructed on his face, show it of a sickly whitish hue; while his eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, have each a demilune of dark purplish colour underneath. But for an occasional twitching of the facial muscles, with a spasmodic movement of the lips, and at intervals, a raucous noise through his nostrils, he might pass for dead, as readily as dead drunk. Verily is the priest's prognosis based upon reliable data; for by the symptoms now displayed, Lewin Murdock is doing his best to destroy himself--drinking suicidally! For all, he is not destined thus to die. His end will come even sooner, and, it may be, easier. It is not distant now, but ominously near, as may be told by looking into the eyes of the man who sits opposite, and recalling the conversation late exchanged between him and Father Rogier. For in those dark orbs a fierce light scintillates, such as is seen in the eyes of the assassin contemplating assassination, or the jungle tiger when within springing distance of its prey. Nothing of all this sees the sot, but lies unconscious, every now and then giving out a snore, regardless of danger, as though everything around were innocent as the pale moonbeams shimmering down upon his cadaverous cheeks. Possibly he is dreaming, and if so, in all likelihood it is of a grand gas-lighted _salon_, with tables of _tapis vert_, carrying packs of playing cards, dice cubes, and ivory counters. Or the _mise en scène_ of his visionary vagaries may be a drinking saloon, where he carouses with boon companions, their gambling limited to a simple tossing of odd and even, "heads or tails." But if dreaming at all, it is not of what is near him; else, far gone as he is, he would be aroused--instinctively--to make a last struggle for life. For the thing so near is death. The fiend who sits regarding him in this helpless condition--as it were holding Lewin Murdock's life, or the little left of it, in his hand--has unquestionably determined upon taking it. Why he does not do so at once is not because he is restrained by any motive of mercy, or reluctance to the spilling of blood. The heart of the _ci-devant_ poacher, counterfeiter, and cracksman, has been long ago steeled against such silly and sensitive scruples. The postponement of his hellish purpose is due to a mere question of convenience. He dislikes the idea of having to trudge over miles of meadow in dripping garments! True, he could drown the drunken man, and keep himself dry--every stitch. But that would not do; for there will be another coroner's inquest, at which he will have to be present. He has escaped the two preceding; but at this he will be surely called upon, and as principal witness. Therefore he must be able to say he was wet, and prove it as well. Into the river, then, will he go, along with his victim; though there is no need for his taking the plunge till he has got nearer to Llangorren. So ingeniously contriving, he sits with arms mechanically working the oars; his eyes upon the doomed man, as those of a cat having a crippled mouse within easy reach of her claws, at any moment to be drawn in and destroyed! Silently, but rapidly, he rows on, needing no steerer. Between Rugg's Ferry and Llangorren Court he is as familiar with the river's channel as a coachman with the carriage-drive to and from his master's mansion; knows its every curve and crook, every purl and pool, having explored them while paddling his little "truckle." And now, sculling the larger craft, it is all the same. And he pulls on, without once looking over his shoulder; his eyes alone given to what is directly in front of him--Lewin Murdock lying motionless at his feet. As if himself moved by a sudden impulse--impatience, or the thought it might be as well to have the dangerous work over--he ceases pulling, and acts as though he were about to unship the oars. But again he seems suddenly to change his intention; on observing a white fleck by the river's edge, which he knows to be the lime-washed walls of the widow Wingate's cottage, at the same time remembering that the main road passes by it. What if there be some one on the road, or the river's bank, and be seen in the act of capsizing his own boat? True, it is after midnight, and not likely any one abroad--even the latest wayfarer. But there might be; and in such clear moonlight his every movement could be made out. That place will not do for the deed of darkness he is contemplating; and he trembles to think how near he has been to committing himself! Thus warned to the taking of precautions hitherto not thought of, he proceeds onward, summoning up before his mind the different turns and reaches of the river, all the while mentally anathematising the moon. For, besides convenience of place, time begins to press, even trouble him, as he recalls the proverb of the cup and the lip. He is growing nervously impatient--almost apprehensive of failure, through fear of being seen--when, rounding a bend, he has before him the very thing he is in search of--the place itself. It is a short, straight reach, where the channel is narrow, with high banks on both sides, and trees overhanging, whose shadows, meeting across, shut off the hated light, shrouding the whole water surface in deep obscurity. It is but a little way above the lone farmhouse of Abergann, and the mouth of the brook which there runs in. But Coracle Dick is not thinking of either--only of the place being appropriate for his diabolical design. And, becoming satisfied it is so, he delays no longer, but sets about its execution--carrying it out with an adroitness which should fairly entitle him to the double reward promised by the priest. Having unshipped the oars, he starts to his feet; and mounting upon the thwart, there for a second or two stands poised and balancing. Then, stepping to the side, he sets foot on the gunwale rail with his whole body's weight borne upon it. In an instant over goes the boat, careening bottom upwards, and spilling Lewin Murdock, as himself, into the mad, surging river! The drunken man goes down like a lump of lead; possibly without pain, or the consciousness of being drowned; only supposing it the continuation of his dream! Satisfied he has gone down, the assassin cares not how. He has enough to think of in saving himself, enough to do swimming in his clothes, even to the boots. He reaches the bank, nevertheless, and climbs up it, exhausted; shivering like a water spaniel, for snow has fallen on Plinlimmon, and its thaw has to do with the freshet in the stream. But the chill of the Wye's water is nought compared with that sent through his flesh, to the very marrow of his bones, on discovering he has crawled out upon the spot--the self-same spot--where the waves gave back another body he had consigned to them--that of Mary Morgan! For a moment he stands horror-struck, with hair on end, the blood curdling in his veins. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he hitches up his dripping trousers, and hurries away from the accursed place--by himself accursed--taking the direction of Llangorren, but giving a wide berth to Abergann. He has no fear of approaching the former in wet garments; instead, knows that in this guise he will be all the more warmly welcomed--as he is! Mrs. Murdock sits up late for Lewin--though with little expectation of his coming home. Looking out of the window, in the moonlight she sees a man, who comes striding across the carriage sweep, and up into the portico. Rushing to the door to receive him, she exclaims, in counterfeit surprise,-- "You, Monsieur Richard! Not my husband!" When Coracle Dick has told his sad tale, shaped to suit the circumstances, her half-hysterical ejaculation might be supposed a cry of distress. Instead, it is one of ecstatic delight she is unable to restrain at knowing herself now sole owner of the house over her head, and the land for miles around it! CHAPTER LXVII. A CHAPTER DIPLOMATIC. Another day has dawned, another sun set upon Boulogne; and Major Mahon is again in his dining-room, with Captain Ryecroft, his sole guest. The cloth has been removed, the Major's favourite after-dinner beverage brought upon the table, and, with punches "brewed" and cigars set alight, they have commenced conversation upon the incidents of the day--those especially relating to Ryecroft's business in Boulogne. The Major has had another interview with his sister--a short one, snatched while she was out with her school companions for afternoon promenade. It has added some further particulars to those they had already learnt, both about the English girl confined within the nunnery, and the priest who conveyed her thither. That the latter was Father Rogier is placed beyond a doubt by a minute description of his person given to Miss Mahon, well known to the individual who gave it. To the nuns within that convent the man's name is familiar--even to his baptismal appellation, Gregoire; for although the Major has pronounced all the sacerdotal fraternity alike, in being black, this particular member of it is of a shade deeper than common--a circumstance of itself going a good way towards his identification. Even within that sacred precinct where he is admitted, a taint attaches to him; though what its nature the young lady has not yet been able to ascertain. The information thus obtained tallies with the estimate of the priest's character, already formed; in correspondence, too, with the theory that he is capable of the crime Captain Ryecroft believes him to have abetted, if not actually committed. Nor is it contradicted by the fact of his being a frequent visitor to the nunnery, and a favourite with the administration thereof; indeed, an intimate friend of the Abbess herself. Something more, in a way accounting for all: that the new novice is not the first _agneau d'Angleterre_ he has brought over to Boulogne, and guided into that same fold, more than one of them having ample means, not only to provision themselves, but a surplus for the support of the general sisterhood. There is no word about any of these English lambs having been other than voluntary additions to the French flock; but a whisper circulates within the convent walls, that Father Rogier's latest contribution is a recusant, and if she ever becomes a nun, it will be a _forced_ one; that the thing is _contre coeur_--in short, she protests against it. Jack Wingate can well believe that; still under full conviction that "Soeur Marie" is Mary Morgan; and, despite all its grotesque strangeness and wild improbability, Captain Ryecroft has pretty nearly come to the same conclusion; while the Major, with less knowledge of antecedent circumstances, but more of nunneries, never much doubted it. "About the best way to get the girl out. What's your idea, Mahon?" Ryecroft asks the question in no careless or indifferent way; on the contrary, with a feeling earnestness. For, although the daughter of the Wyeside farmer is nought to him, the Wye waterman is; and he has determined on seeing the latter through--to the end of the mysterious affair. In difficulties Jack Wingate has stood by him, and he will stand by Jack, _coûte-que-coûte_. Besides, figuratively speaking, they are still in the same boat. For if Wingate's dead sweetheart, so strangely returned to life, can be also restored to liberty, the chances are she may be the very one wanted to throw light on the other and, alas! surer death. Therefore, Captain Ryecroft is not all unselfish in backing up his boatman; nor, as he puts the question, being anxious about the answer. "We'll have to use strategy," returns the Major; not immediately, but after taking a grand gulp out of his tumbler, and a vigorous draw at his _regalia_. "But why should we?" impatiently demands the Captain. "If the girl have been forced in there, and's kept against her will--which, by all the probabilities, she is--surely she can be got out, on demand being made by her friends?" "That's just what isn't sure--though the demand were made by her own mother, with the father to back it. You forget, old fellow, that you're in France, not England." "But there's a British Consul in Boulogne." "Ay, and a British Foreign Minister, who gives that Consul his instructions; with some queer ideas besides, neither creditable to himself nor his country. I'm speaking of that jaunty diplomat--the "judicious bottle-holder," who is accustomed to cajole the British public with his blarney about _civis Romanus sum_." "True; but does that bear upon our affair?" "It does--almost directly." "In what way? I do not comprehend." "Because you're not up to what's passing over here--I mean at headquarters--the Tuilleries, or St. Cloud, if you prefer it. There the man--if man he can be called--is ruled by the woman; she in her turn the devoted partisan of Pio Nono and the unprincipled Antonelli." "I can understand all that; still, I don't quite see its application, or how the English Foreign Minister can be interested in those you allude to!" "I do. But for him, not one of the four worthies spoken of would be figuring as they are. In all probability France would still be a republic instead of an empire, wicked as the world ever saw; and Rome another republic--it may be all Italy--with either Mazzini or Garibaldi at its head. For, certain as you sit there, old boy, it was the judicious bottle-holder who hoisted Nap into an imperial throne, over that Presidential chair, so ungratefully spurned--scurvily kicked behind after it had served his purpose. A fact of which the English people appear to be yet in purblind ignorance! as they are of another, equally notable, and alike misunderstood: that it was this same _civis Romanus sum_ who restored old Pio to his apostolic chair; those red-breeched ruffians, the Zouaves, being but so much dust thrown into people's eyes--a bone to keep the British bull-dog quiet. He would have growled then, and will yet, when he comes to understand all these transactions; when the cloak of that scoundrelly diplomacy which screens them has rotted into shreds, letting the light of true history shine upon them." "Why, Mahon! I never knew you were such a politician! much less such a Radical!" "Nothing much of either, old fellow; only a man who hates tyranny in every shape and form--whether religious or political. Above all, that which owes its existence to the cheapest, the very shabbiest, chicanery the world was ever bamboozled with. I like open dealing in all things." "But you are not recommending it now--in this little convent matter?" "Ah! that's quite a different affair! There are certain ends that justify certain means--when the devil must be fought with his own weapons. Ours is of that kind, and we must either use strategy, or give the thing up altogether. By open measures there wouldn't be the slightest chance of our getting this girl out of the convent's clutches. Even then we may fail; but, if successful, it will only be by great craft, some luck, and possibly a good deal of time spent before we accomplish our purpose." "Poor fellow!" rejoins Ryecroft, speaking of the Wye waterman, "he won't like the idea of long waiting. He's madly, terribly impatient. This afternoon, as we were passing the convent, I had a difficulty to restrain him from rushing up to its door, ringing the bell, and demanding an interview with the 'Soeur Marie'--having his Mary, as he calls her, restored to him on the instant." "It's well you succeeded in hindering that little bit of rashness. Had he done so, 'twould have ended not only in the door being slammed in his face, but another door shut behind his back--that of a gaol, from which he would never have issued till embarking on a voyage to New Caledonia or Cayenne. Ay, both of you might have been so served. For would you believe it, Ryecroft, that you, an officer of the boasted H.B.R.A., rich, and with powerful friends--even you could be not only here imprisoned, but _deporté_, without any one who has interest in you being the wiser; or, if so, having no power to prevent it. France, under the _régime_ of Napoleon le Petit, is not so very different from what it was under the rule of Louis le Grand, and _lettres de cachet_ are now rife as then. Nay, more of them now written, consigning men to a hundred bastilles instead of one. Never was a people so enslaved as these Johnny Crapauds are at this present time; not only their speech fettered, but their very thoughts held in bondage, or so constrained, they may not impart them to one another. Even intimate friends forbear exchanging confidences, lest one prove false to the other! Nothing free but insincerity and sin; both fostered and encouraged from that knowledge intuitive among tyrants; that wickedness weakens a people, making them easier to rule and ride over. So, my boy, you perceive the necessity of our acting with caution in this business, whatever trouble or time it may take--don't you?" "I do." "After all," pursues the Major, "it seems to me that time isn't of so much consequence. As regards the girl, they're not going to eat her up. And for the other matters concerning yourself, they'll keep, too. As you say, the scent's become cold; and a few days more or less can't make any difference. Beside, the trails we intend following may in the end all run into one. I shouldn't be at all surprised if this captive damsel has come to the knowledge of something connected with the other affair. Faith, that may be the very reason for their having her conveyed over here, to be cooped up for the rest of her life. In any case, the fact of her abduction, in such an odd, outrageous way, would of itself be damning collateral evidence against whoever has done it, showing him or them good for anything. So, the first work on our hands, as the surest, is to get the waterman's sweetheart out of the convent, and safe back to her home in Herefordshire." "That's our course, clearly. But have you any thoughts as to how we should proceed?" "I have; more than thoughts--hopes of success--and sanguine ones." "Good! I'm glad to hear it. Upon what do you base them?" "On that very near relative of mine--Sister Kate. As I've told you, she's a pet of the Lady Superior; admitted into the very _arcana_ of the establishment. And with such privilege, if she can't find a way to communicate with any one therein closeted, she must have lost the mother wit born to her, and brought thither from the 'brightest gem of the say.' I don't think she has, or that it's been a bit blunted in Boulogne. Instead, somewhat sharpened by communion with these Holy Sisters; and I've no fear but that 'twill be sharp to serve us in the little scheme I've in part sketched out." "Let me hear it, Mahon." "Kate must obtain an interview with the English girl; or, enough if she can slip a note into her hand. That would go some way towards getting her out--by giving her intimation that friends are near." "I see what you mean," rejoins the Captain, pulling away at his cigar, the other left to finish giving details of the plan he has been mentally projecting. "We'll have to do a little bit of burglary, combined with abduction. Serve them out in their own coin; as it were, hoisting the priest on his own petard!" "It will be difficult, I fear." "Of course it will, and dangerous. Likely more the last than the first. But it'll have to be done, else we may drop the thing entirely." "Never, Mahon! No matter what the danger, I for one am willing to risk it. And we can reckon on Jack Wingate. He'll be only too ready to rush into it." "Ah! there might be more danger through his rashness. But it must be held in check. After all, I don't apprehend so much difficulty if things be dexterously managed. Fortunately there's a circumstance in our favour." "What is it?" "A window." "Ah! Where?" "In the convent, of course. That which gives light--not much of it either--to the cloister where the girl is confined. By a lucky chance my sister has learnt the particular one, and seen the window from the outside. It looks over the grounds where the nuns take recreation, now and then allowed intercourse with the school girls. She says it's high up, but not higher than the top of the garden wall; so a ladder that will enable us to scale the one should be long enough to reach the other. I'm more dubious about the dimensions of the window itself. Kate describes it as only a small affair, with an upright bar in the middle--iron, she believes. Wood or iron, we may manage to remove that; but if the Herefordshire bacon has made your farmer's daughter too big to screw herself through the aperture, then it'll be all up a tree with us. However, we must find out before making the attempt to extract her. From what sister has told me, I fancy we can see the window from the Ramparts above. If so, we may make a distant measurement of it by guess work. Now," continues the Major, coming to his programme of action, "what's got to be done first is that your Wye boatman write a _billet doux_ to his old sweetheart--in the terms I shall dictate to him. Then my sister must contrive, in some way, to put it in the girl's hands, or see that she gets it." "And what after?" "Well, nothing much after; only that we must make preparations for the appointment the waterman will make in his epistle." "It may as well be written now--may it not?" "Certainly; I was just thinking of that. The sooner, the better. Shall I call him in?" "Do as you think proper, Mahon. I trust everything to you." The Major, rising, rings a bell, which brings Murtagh to the dining-room door. "Murt, tell your guest in the kitchen we wish a word with him." The face of the Irish soldier vanishes from view, soon after replaced by that of the Welsh waterman. "Step inside, Wingate!" says the Captain; which the other does, and remains standing to hear what the word was wanted. "You can write, Jack, can't you?" It is Ryecroft who puts the inquiry. "Well, Captain, I ain't much o' a penman, but I can scribble a sort o' rough hand after a fashion." "A fair enough hand for Mary Morgan to read it, I dare say." "Oh, sir, I only weesh there wor a chance o' her gettin' a letter from me!" "There is a chance. I think we can promise that. If you'll take this pen and put down what my friend Major Mahon dictates to you, it will in all probability be in her hands ere long." Never was pen more eagerly laid hold of than that offered to Jack Wingate. Then, sitting down to the table as directed, he waits to be told what he is to write. The Major, bent over him, seems cogitating what it should be. Not so, however. Instead, he is occupied with an astronomical problem which is puzzling him. For its solution he appeals to Ryecroft, asking,-- "How about the moon?" "The moon?" "Yes. Which quarter is she in? For the life of me, I can't tell." "Nor I," rejoins the Captain. "I never think of such a thing." "She's in her last," puts in the boatman, accustomed to take note of lunar changes. "It be an old moon now shining all the night, when the sky an't clouded." "You're right, Jack!" says Ryecroft. "Now I remember; it is the old moon." "In which case," adds the Major, "we must wait for the new one. We want darkness after midnight--must have it--else we cannot act. Let me see; when will that be?" "The day week," promptly responds the waterman. "Then she'll be goin' down, most as soon as the sun's self." "That'll do," says the Major. "Now to the pen!" Squaring himself to the table, and the sheet of paper spread before him, Wingate writes to dictation. No words of love, but what inspires him with a hope he may once more speak such in the ears of his beloved Mary! CHAPTER LXVIII. A QUICK CONVERSION. "When is this horror to have an end? Only with my life? Am I, indeed, to pass the remainder of my days within this dismal cell? Days so happy, till that the happiest of all--its ill-starred night! And my love so strong, so confident--its reward seeming so nigh--all to be for nought--sweet dreams and bright hopes suddenly, cruelly extinguished! Nothing but darkness now; within my heart, in this gloomy place, everywhere around me! Oh, it is agony! When will it be over?" It is the English girl who thus bemoans her fate--still confined in the convent, and the same cloister. Herself changed, however. Though but a few weeks have passed, the roses of her cheeks have become lilies, her lips wan, her features of sharper outline, the eyes retired in their sockets, with a look of woe unspeakable. Her form, too, has fallen away from the full ripe rounding that characterized it, though the wreck is concealed by a loose drapery of ample folds. For Soeur Marie now wears the garb of the Holy Sisterhood--hating it, as her words show. She is seated on the pallet's edge while giving utterance to her sombre soliloquy; and without change of attitude, continues it,-- "Imprisoned I am--that's certain! And for no crime. It may be without hostility on the part of those who have done it. Perhaps, better it were so. Then there might be hope of my captivity coming to an end. As it is, there is none--none! I comprehend all now--the reason for bringing me here--keeping me--everything. And that reason remains--must, as long as I am alive! Merciful heaven!" This exclamatory phrase is almost a shriek; despair sweeping through her soul, as she thinks of why she is there shut up. For hinging upon that is the hopelessness, almost a dead, drear certainty, she will never have deliverance! Stunned by the terrible reflection, she pauses--even thought for the time stayed. But the throe passing, she again pursues her soliloquy, now in more conjectural strain,-- "Strange that no friend has come after me! No one caring for my fate--even to inquire! And _he_--no, that is not strange--only sadder, harder to think of. How could I expect or hope he would? "But surely it is not so. I may be wronging them all--friends--relatives--even him. They may not know where I am? Cannot! How could they? I know not myself! only that it is France, and in a nunnery. But what part of France, and how I came to it, likely they are ignorant as I. "And they may never know--never find out! If not, oh! what is to become of me? Father in heaven! Merciful Saviour! help me in my helplessness!" After this phrensied outburst, a calmer interval succeeds, in which human instincts as thoughts direct her. She thinks,-- "If I could but find means to communicate with my friends--make known to them where I am, and how, then--Ah! 'tis hopeless. No one allowed near me but the attendant and that Sister Ursule. For compassion from either, I might just as well make appeal to the stones of the floor! The Sister seems to take delight in torturing me--every day doing or saying some disagreeable thing. I suppose, to humble, break, bring me to her purpose--that the taking of the veil. A nun! Never! It is not in my nature, and I would rather die than dissemble it!" "Dissemble!" she repeats in a different accent. "That word helps me to a thought. Why should I not dissemble? I _will_." Thus emphatically pronouncing, she springs to her feet, the expression of her features changing suddenly as her attitude. Then paces the floor to and fro, with hands clasped across her forehead, the white, attenuated fingers writhingly entwined in her hair. "They want me to take the veil--the _black_ one! So shall I, the blackest in all the convent's wardrobe if they wish it--ay, crape if they insist on it. Yes, I am resigned now--to that--anything. They can prepare the robes, vestments, all the adornments of their detested mummery; I am prepared, willing, to put them on. It's the only way--my only hope of regaining liberty. I see--am sure of it!" She pauses, as if still but half resolved, then goes on,-- "I am compelled to this deception! Is it a sin? If so, God forgive me! But no--it cannot be! 'Tis justified by my wrongs--my sufferings!" Another and longer pause, during which she seems profoundly to reflect. After it, saying,-- "I shall do so--pretend compliance; and begin this day--this very hour, if the opportunity arise. What should be my first pretence? I must think of it; practise, rehearse it. Let me see. Ah! I have it. The world has forsaken, forgotten me. Why then should I cling to it? Instead, why not in angry spite fling it off--as it has me? That's the way!" A creaking at the cloister door tells of its key turning in the lock. Slight as is the sound, it acts on her as an electric shock, suddenly and altogether changing the cast of her countenance. The instant before half angry, half sad, it is now a picture of pious resignation. Her attitude different also. From striding tragically over the floor she has taken a seat, with a book in her hand, which she seems industriously perusing. It is that "Aid to Faith" recommended, but hitherto unread. She is to all appearance so absorbed in its pages as not to notice the opening of the door, nor the footsteps of one entering. How natural her start, as she hears a voice, and, looking up, beholds Soeur Ursule! "Ah!" ejaculates the latter, with an exultant air, as of a spider that sees a fly upon the edge of its web, "Glad, Marie, to find you so employed! It promises well, both for the peace of your mind and the good of your soul. You've been foolishly lamenting the world left behind: wickedly too. What is to compare with that to come? As dross-dirt, to gold or diamonds! The book you hold in your hand will tell you so. Doesn't it?" "It does, indeed." "Then profit by its instructions, and be sorry you have not sooner taken counsel from it." "I am sorry, Sister Ursule." "It would have comforted you--will now." "It has already. Ah! so much! I would not have believed any book could give me the view of life it has done. I begin to understand what you've been telling me--to see the vanities of this earthly existence, how poor and empty they are in comparison with the bright joys of that other life. Oh! why did I not know it before?" At this moment a singular tableau is exhibited within that convent cell--two female figures, one seated, the other standing--novice and nun; the former fair and young, the latter ugly and old. And still in greater contrast the expression upon their faces. That of the girl's downcast, demure lids over the eyes, less as if in innocence than repentant of some sin, while the glances of the woman show pleased surprise, struggling against incredulity! Her suspicion still in the ascendant, Soeur Ursule stands regarding the disciple, so suddenly converted, with a look which seems to penetrate her very soul. It is borne without sign of quailing, and she at length comes to believe the penitence sincere, and that her proselytising powers have not been exerted in vain. Nor is it strange she should so deceive herself. It is far from being the first novice _contre coeur_ she has broken upon the wheel of despair, and made content to taking a vow of lifelong seclusion from the world. Convinced she has subdued the proud spirit of the English girl, and gloating over a conquest she knows will bring substantial reward to herself, she exclaims prayerfully, in mock-pious tone,-- "Blessed be Holy Mary for this new mercy! On your knees _ma fille_, and pray to her to complete the work she has begun!" And upon her knees drops the novice, while the nun, as if deeming herself _de trop_ in the presence of prayer, slips out of the cloister, silently shutting the door. CHAPTER LXIX. A SUDDEN RELAPSE. For some time after the exit of Soeur Ursule, the English girl retains her seat, with the same demure look she had worn in the presence of the nun; while before her face the book is again open, as though she had returned to reading it. One seeing this might suppose her intensely interested in its contents. But she is not even thinking of them! Instead, of a sharp skinny ear, and a steel-grey eye--one or other of which she suspects to be covering the keyhole. Her own ear is on the alert to catch sounds outside--the shuffling of feet, the rattle of rosary beads, or the swishing of a dress against the door. She hears none; and at length satisfied that Sister Ursule's suspicions are spent, or her patience exhausted, she draws a free breath--the first since the _séance_ commenced. Then rising to her feet, she steps to a corner of the cell not commanded by the keyhole, and there dashes the book down, as though it had been burning her fingers! "My first scene of deception," she mutters to herself--"first act of hypocrisy. Have I not played it to perfection?" She draws a chair into the angle, and sits down upon it. For she is still not quite sure that the spying eye has been withdrawn from the aperture, or whether it may not have returned to it. "Now that I've made a beginning," she murmurs on, "I must think what's to be done in continuance, and how the false pretence is to be kept up. What will _they_ do?--and think? They'll be suspicious for a while, no doubt; look sharply after me, as ever! But that cannot last always; and surely they won't doom me to dwell for ever in this dingy hole! When I've proved my conversion real, by penance, obedience, and the like, I may secure their confidence, and by way of reward, get transferred to a more comfortable chamber. Ah! little care I for the comfort, if convenient,--with a window out of which one could look. Then I might have a hope of seeing--speaking to some one with heart less hard than Sister Ursule's, and that other creature--a very hag!" "I wonder where the place is? Whether in the country, or in a town among houses? It may be the last--in the very heart of a great city, for all this death-like stillness! They build these religious prisons with walls so thick! And the voices I from time to time hear are all women's. Not one of a man amongst them! They must be the convent people themselves! Nuns and novices! Myself one of the latter! Ha! ha! I shouldn't have known it if Sister Ursule hadn't informed me. Novice, indeed--soon to be a nun! No! but a free woman--or dead! Death would be better than life like this!" The derisive smile that for a moment played upon her features passes off, replaced by the same forlorn woe-begone look, as despair comes back to her heart. For she again recalls what she has read in books--very different from that so contemptuously tossed aside--of girls young and beautiful as herself--high-born ladies--surreptitiously taken from their homes--shut up as she--never more permitted to look on the sun's light, or bask in its beams, save within the gloomy cloisters of a convent, or its dismally shadowed grounds. The prospect of such future for herself appals her, eliciting an anguished sigh--almost a groan. "Ha!" she exclaims the instant after, and again with altered air, as though something had arisen to relieve her. "There are voices now! Still of women! Laughter! How strange it sounds! So sweet! I've not heard such since I've been here. It's the voice of a girl! It must be--so clear, so joyous. Yes! Surely it cannot come from any of the sisters? They are never joyful--never laugh." She remains listening, soon to hear the laughter again, a second voice joining in it, both with the cheery ring of school girls at play. The sound comes in with the light--it could not well enter otherwise--and aware of this, she stands facing that way, with eyes turned upward. For the window is far above her head. "Would that I could see out! If I only had something on which to stand!" She sweeps the cell with her eyes, to see only the pallet, the frail chairs, a little table with slender legs, and a washstand--all too low. Standing upon the highest, her eyes would still be under the level of the sill. She is about giving it up, when an artifice suggests itself. With wits sharpened, rather than dulled by her long confinement--she bethinks her of a plan, by which she may at least look out of the window. She can do that by upending the bedstead! Rash, she would raise it on the instant. But she is not so; instead, considerate, more than ever cautious. And so proceeding, she first places a chair against the door in such position that its back blocks the keyhole. Then, dragging bed-clothes, mattress, and all to the floor, she takes hold of the wooden framework; and, exerting her whole strength, hoists it on end, tilted like a ladder against the wall. And as such it will answer her purpose, the strong webbing, crossed and stayed, to serve for steps. A moment more, and she has mounted up, and stands, her chin resting on the window's ledge. The window itself is a casement on hinges; one of those antique affairs, iron framed, with the panes set in lead. Small, though big enough for a human body to pass through, but for an upright bar centrally bisecting it. She, balancing upon the bedstead, and looking out, thinks not of the bar now, nor takes note of the dimensions of the aperture. Her thoughts, as her glances, are all given to what she sees outside. At the first _coup d'oeil_, the roofs and chimneys of houses, with all their appurtenances of patent smoke-curers, weathercocks, and lightning conductors; among them domes and spires, showing it a town with several churches. Dropping her eyes lower, they rest upon a garden, or rather a strip of ornamental grounds, tree shaded, with walks, arbours, and seats, girt by a grey massive wall, high almost as the houses. At a glance she takes in these inanimate objects; but does not dwell on any of them. For, soon as looking below, her attention becomes occupied with living forms, standing in groups, or in twos or threes strolling about the grounds. They are all women, and of every age; most of them wearing the garb of the nunnery, loose-flowing robes of sombre hue. A few, however, are dressed in the ordinary fashion of young ladies at a boarding school; and such they are--the _pensionaires_ of the establishment. Her eyes wandering from group to group, after a time become fixed upon two of the school-girls, who, linked arm in arm, are walking backward and forward directly in front. Why she particularly notices them, is that one of the two is acting in a singular manner; every time she passes under the window looking up to it, as though with a knowledge of something inside, in which she feels an interest! Her glances interrogative, are at the same time evidently snatched by stealth--as in fear of being observed by the others. Even her promenading companion seems unaware of them. She inside the cloister, soon as her first surprise is over, regards this young lady with a fixed stare, forgetting all the others. "What can it mean?" she asks herself. "So unlike the rest! Surely not French! Can she be English? She is very--very beautiful!" The last, at least, is true, for the girl is, indeed, a beautiful creature, with features quite different from those around--all of them being of the French facial type, while hers are pronouncedly Irish. By this the two are once more opposite the window, and the girl again looking up, sees behind the glass--dim with dust and spiders' webs--a pale face, with a pair of bright eyes gazing steadfastly at her. She starts; but quickly recovering, keeps on as before. Then as she faces round at the end of the walk, still within view of the window, she raises her hand, with a finger laid upon her lips, seeming to say, plain as words could speak it,-- "Keep quiet! I know all about you, and why you are there." The gesture is not lost upon the captive. But before she can reflect upon its significance, the great convent bell breaks forth in noisy clangour, causing a flutter among the figures outside, with a scattering helter-skelter; for it is the first summons to vespers, soon followed by the tinier tinkle of the _angelus_. In a few seconds the grounds are deserted by all save one--the school-girl with the Irish features and eyes. She, having let go her companion's arm, and lingering behind the rest, makes a quick slant towards the window she has been watching; as she approaches it, significantly exposing something white she holds half hidden between her fingers! It needs no further gesture to make known her intent. The English girl has already guessed it, as told by the iron casement grating back on its rusty hinges, and left standing ajar. On the instant of its opening, the white object parts from the hand that has been holding it, and, like a flash of light, passes through into the darksome cell, falling with a thud upon the floor. Not a word goes with it; for she who has shown such dexterity, soon as delivering the missile, glides away--so speedily, she is still in time to join the _queue_ moving on towards the convent chapel. Cautiously reclosing the window, Soeur Marie descends the steps of her improvised ladder, and takes up the thing that had been tossed in; which she finds to be a letter shotted inside! Despite her burning impatience, she does not open it till after restoring the bedstead to the horizontal, and replacing all as before. For now, as ever, she has need to be circumspect, and with better reasons. At length, feeling secure, all the more from knowing the nuns are at their vesper devotions, she tears off the envelope, and reads,-- "_Mary,--Monday night next, after midnight, if you look out of your window, you will see friends--among them_ "JACK WINGATE." "Jack Wingate!" she exclaims, with a look of strange intelligence lighting up her face. "A voice from dear old Wyeside! Hope of delivery at last!" And overcome by her emotion, she sinks down upon the pallet; no longer looking sad, but with an expression contented, and beatified as that of the most _devoté_ nun in the convent. CHAPTER LXX. A JUSTIFIABLE ABDUCTION. It is a moonless November night, and a fog drifting down from the _Pas de Calais_ envelopes Boulogne in its damp, clammy embrace. The great cathedral clock is tolling twelve midnight, and the streets are deserted, the last wooden-heeled _soulier_ having ceased clattering over their cobble-stone pavements. If a foot passenger be abroad, he is some belated individual groping his way home from the _Café de billars_ he frequents, or the _Cercle_ to which he belongs. Even the _sergens de ville_ are scarcer than usual, those seen being huddled up under the shelter of friendly porches, while the invisible ones are making themselves yet more snug inside _cabarets_, whose openness beyond licensed hours they wink at in return for the accommodation afforded. It is, in truth, a most disagreeable night: cold as dark, for the fog has frost in it. For all, there are three men in the streets of Boulogne who regard neither its chillness nor obscurity. Instead, this last is just what they desire, and for days past have been waiting for. They who thus delight in darkness are Major Mahon, Captain Ryecroft, and the waterman, Wingate. Not because they have thoughts of doing evil, for their purpose is of the very opposite character--to release a captive from captivity. The night has arrived when, in accordance with the promise made on that sheet of paper so dexterously pitched into her cloister, the Soeur Marie is to see friends in front of her window. They are the friends about to attempt taking her out of it. They are not going blindly about the thing. Unlikely old campaigners as Mahon and Ryecroft would. During the interval since that warning summons was sent in, they have made thorough reconnaissance of the ground, taken stock of the convent's precincts and surroundings; in short, considered every circumstance of difficulty and danger. They are therefore prepared with all the means and appliances for effecting their design. Just as the last stroke of the clock ceases its booming reverberation, they issue forth from Mahon's house; and, turning up the Rue Tintelleries, strike along a narrower street, which leads on toward the ancient _cité_. The two officers walk arm in arm, Ryecroft, stranger to the place, needing guidance; while the boatman goes behind, with that carried aslant his shoulder, which, were it on the banks of the Wye, might be taken for a pair of oars. It is, nevertheless, a thing altogether different--a light ladder; though were it hundreds weight he would neither stagger nor groan under it. The errand he is upon knits his sinews, giving him the strength of a giant. They proceed with extreme caution, all three silent as spectres. When any sound comes to their ears, as the shutting to of a door, or distant footfall upon the ill-paved _trottoirs_, they make instant stop, and stand listening--speech passing among themselves only in whispers. But as these interruptions are few, they make fair progress; and in less than twenty minutes after leaving the Major's house, they have reached the spot where the real action is to commence. This is in the narrow lane which runs along the _enciente_ of the convent at back; a thoroughfare little used even in daytime, but after night solitary as a desert, and on this especial night dark as dungeon itself. They know the _allée_ well; have traversed it scores of times within the last few days and nights, and could go through it blindfold. And they also know the enclosure wall, with its exact height, just that of the cloister window beyond, and a little less than their ladder, which has been selected with an eye to dimensions. While its bearer is easing it off his shoulder, and planting it firmly in place, a short whispered dialogue occurs between the other two, the Major saying,-- "We won't all three be needed for the work inside. One of us may remain here--nay, must! Those _sergens de ville_ might be prowling about, or some of the convent people themselves: in which case we'll need warning before we dare venture back over the wall. If caught on the top of it, the petticoats obstructing--ay, or without them--'twould go ill with us." "Quite true," assents the Captain. "Which of us do you propose staying here? Jack?" "Yes, certainly. And for more reasons than one. Excited as he is now, once getting his old flame into his arms, he'd be all on fire--perhaps with noise enough to awake the whole sleeping sisterhood, and bring them clamouring around us, like crows about an owl that had intruded into the rookery. Besides, there's a staff of male servants--for they have such--half a score of stout fellows, who'd show fight. A big bell, too, by ringing which they can rouse the town. Therefore, Master Jack _must_ remain here. You tell him he must." Jack is told, with reasons given, though not exactly the real ones. Endorsing them, the Major says,-- "Don't be so impatient, my good fellow! It will make but a few seconds' difference; and then you'll have your girl by your side, sure. Whereas, acting inconsiderately, you may never set eyes on her. The fight in the front will be easy. Our greatest danger's from behind; and you can do better in every way, as for yourself, by keeping the rear-guard." He thus counselled is convinced: and, though much disliking it, yields prompt obedience. How could he otherwise? He is in the hands of men his superiors in rank as experience. And is it not for him they are there; risking liberty--it may be life? Having promised to keep his impulsiveness in check, he is instructed what to do: simply to lie concealed under the shadow of the wall, and should any one be outside when he hears a low whistle, he is _not_ to reply to it. The signal so arranged, Mahon and Ryecroft mount over the wall, taking the ladder along with them, and leaving the waterman to reflect, in nervous anxiety, how near his Mary is, and yet how far off she still may be! Once inside the garden, the other two strike off along a walk leading in the direction of the spot which is their objective point. They go as if every grain of sand pressed by their feet had a friend's life in it. The very cats of the convent could not traverse its grounds more silently. Their caution is rewarded; for they arrive at the cloister sought, without interruption, to see its casement open, with a pale face in it--a picture of Madonna on a background of black, through the white film looking as if it were veiled. But though dense the fog, it does not hinder them from perceiving that the expression of that face is one of expectancy; nor her from recognising them as the friends who were to be under the window. With that voice from the Wyeside still echoing in her ears, she sees her deliverers at hand! They have indeed come. A woman of weak nerves would, under the circumstances, be excited--possibly cry out. But Soeur Marie is not such; and without uttering a word, even the slightest ejaculation, she stands still, and patiently waits while a wrench is applied to the rotten bar of iron, soon snapping it from its support, as though it were but a stick of maccaroni. [Illustration: A WRENCH IS APPLIED TO THE ROTTEN BAR OF IRON, SOON SNAPPING.] It is Ryecroft who performs this burglarious feat, and into his arms she delivers herself, to be conducted down the ladder; which is done without as yet a word having been exchanged between them. Only after reaching the ground, and there is some feeling of safety, he whispers to her,-- "Keep up your courage, Mary! Your Jack is waiting for you outside the wall. Here, take my hand----" "Mary! My Jack! And you--you----" Her voice becomes inaudible, and she totters back against the wall! "She's swooning--has fainted!" mutters the Major; which Ryecroft already knows, having stretched out his arms, and caught her as she is sinking to the earth. "It's the sudden change into the open air," he says. "We must carry her, Major. You go ahead with the ladder; I can manage the girl myself." While speaking, he lifts the unconscious form, and bears it away. No light weight either, but to strength as his, only a feather. The Major, going in advance with the ladder, guides him through the mist; and in a few seconds they reach the outer wall, Mahon giving a low whistle as he approaches. It is almost instantly answered by another from the outside, telling them the coast is clear. And in three minutes after they are also on the outside, the girl still resting in Ryecroft's arms. The waterman wishes to relieve him, agonized by the thought that his sweetheart, who had passed unscathed, as it were, through the very gates of death, may, after all, be dead! He urges it; but Mahon, knowing the danger of delay, forbids any sentimental interference, commanding Jack to re-shoulder the ladder, and follow as before. Then striking off in Indian file, the Major first, the Captain with his burden in the centre, the boatman bringing up behind, they retrace their steps towards the Rue Tintelleries. If Ryecroft but knew whom he is carrying, he would bear her, if not more tenderly, with far different emotions, and keener solicitude about her recovery from that swoon. It is only after she is out of his arms, and lying upon a couch in Major Mahon's house--the hood drawn back, and the light shining on her face--that he experiences a thrill, strange and wild as ever felt by mortal man! No wonder--seeing it is Gwendoline Wynn! "Gwen!" he exclaims, in a very ecstasy of joy, as her pulsing breast and opened eyes tell of returned consciousness. "Vivian!" is the murmured rejoinder, their lips meeting in delirious contact. Poor Jack Wingate! CHAPTER LXXI. STARTING ON A CONTINENTAL TOUR. Lewin Murdock is dead, and buried--has been for days. Not in the family vault of the Wynns, though he had the right of having his body there laid. But his widow, who had control of the interment, willed it otherwise. She has repugnance to opening that receptacle of the dead, holding a secret she may well dread disclosure of. There was no very searching inquiry into the cause of the man's death--none such seeming needed. A coroner's inquest, true; but of the most perfunctory kind. Several _habitués_ of the Welsh Harp, with its staff of waiters, testified to having seen him at that hostelry till a late hour of the night on which he was drowned, and far gone in drink. The landlord advanced the narrative a stage, by telling how he conveyed him to the boat, and delivered him to his boatman, Richard Dempsey--all true enough; while Coracle capped the story by a statement of circumstances, in part facts, but the major part fictitious: how the inebriate gentleman, after lying awhile quiet at the bottom of the skiff, suddenly sprung upon his feet, and, staggering excitedly about, capsized the craft, spilling both into the water. Some corroboration of this, in the boat having been found floating keel upwards, and the boatman arriving home at Llangorren soaking wet. To his having been in this condition, several of the Court domestics, at the time called out of their beds, with purpose _prepense_, were able to bear witness. But Dempsey's testimony is further strengthened, even to confirmation, by himself having since taken to bed, where he now lies dangerously ill of a fever, the result of a cold caught from that chilling _douche_. In this latest inquest the finding of the jury is set forth in two simple words, "Drowned accidentally." No suspicion attaches to any one; and his widow, now wearing the weeds of sombre hue, sorrows profoundly. But her grief is great only in the eyes of the outside world, and the presence of the Llangorren domestics. Alone within her chamber she shows little signs of sorrow; and, if possible, less when Gregoire Rogier is her companion; which he almost constantly is. If more than half his time at the Court while Lewin Murdock was alive, he is now there nearly the whole of it--no longer as a guest, but as much its master as she is its mistress! For that matter, indeed, more; if inference may be drawn from a dialogue occurring between them some time after her husband's death. They are in the library, where there is a strong chest, devoted to the safe keeping of legal documents, wills, leases, and the like--all the paraphernalia of papers relating to the administration of the estate. Rogier is at a table upon which many of these lie, with writing materials besides. A sheet of foolscap is before him, on which he has just scribbled the rough copy of an advertisement intended to be sent to several newspapers. "I think this will do," he says to the widow, who, in an easy chair drawn up in front of the fire, is sipping Chartreuse, and smoking paper cigarettes. "Shall I read it to you?" "No. I don't want to be bothered with the thing in detail. Enough, if you let me hear its general purport." He gives her this in briefest epitome:-- "_The Llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms, manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc., etc._" "_Tres-bien!_ Have you put down the date? It should be soon." "You're right, _chèrie_. Should, and must be. So soon, I fear we won't realize three-fourths of the value. But there's no help for it, with the ugly thing threatening--hanging over our necks like a very sword of Damocles." "You mean the tongue of _le braconnier_?" She has reason to dread it. "No, I don't; not in the slightest. There's a sickle too near his own--in the hands of the reaper, Death." "He's dying, then?" She speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of compassion, but the very reverse. "He is," the other answers, in like unpitying tone. "I've just come from his bedside." "From the cold he caught that night, I suppose?" "Yes; that's partly the cause. But," he adds, with a diabolical grin, "more the medicine he has taken for it." "What mean you, Gregoire?" "Only that Monsieur Dick has been delirious, and I saw danger in it. He was talking too wildly." "You've done something to keep him quiet?" "I have." "What?" "Given him a sleeping draught." "But he'll wake up again, and then----" "Then I'll administer another dose of the anodyne." "What sort of anodyne?" "A _hypodermic_." "Hypodermic! I've never heard of the thing--not even the name!" "A wonderful cure it is--for noisy tongues!" "You excite one's curiosity. Tell me something of its nature." "Oh, it's very simple--exceedingly so. Only a drop of liquid introduced into the blood--not in the common roundabout way, by pouring down the throat, but direct injection into the veins. The process in itself is easy enough, as every medical practitioner knows. The skill consists in the _kind_ of liquid to be injected. That's one of the occult sciences I learnt in Italy, land of Lucrezia and Tophana, where such branches of knowledge still flourish. Elsewhere it's not much known. And perhaps it's well it isn't, or there might be more widowers, with a still larger proportion of widows." "Poison!" she exclaims involuntarily, adding, in a timid whisper, "Was it, Gregoire?" "Poison!" he echoes, protestingly. "That's too plain a word, and the idea it conveys too vulgar, for such a delicate scientific operation as that I've performed. Possibly, in Monsieur Coracle's case, the effect will be somewhat similar, but not the after symptoms. If I haven't made miscalculation as to quantity, ere three days are over, it will send him to his eternal sleep; and I'll defy all the medical experts in England to detect traces of poison in him. So don't inquire further, _chèrie_. Be satisfied to know the hypodermic will do you a service. And," he adds, with sardonic smile, "grateful if it be never given to yourself." She starts, recoiling in horror--not at the repulsive confessions she has listened to, but more through personal fear. Though herself steeped in crime, he beside her seems its very incarnation! She has long known him morally capable of anything, and now fancies he may have the power of the famed basilisk, to strike her dead with a glance of his eyes! "Bah!" he exclaims, observing her trepidation, but pretending to construe it otherwise. "Why all this emotion about such a _misérable_? He'll have no widow to lament him--inconsolable like yourself. Ha! ha! Besides, for our safety--both of us--his death is as much needed as was the other. After killing the bird that threatened to devour our crops, it would be blind buffoonery to keep the scarecrow standing. I only wish there were nothing but he between us and complete security." "But is there still?" she asks, her alarm taking a new turn, as she observes a slight shade of apprehension pass over his face. "Certainly there is." "What?" "That little convent matter." "_Mon Dieu!_ I supposed it arranged beyond the possibility of danger." "Probability is the word you mean. In this sweet world there's nothing sure except money--that, too, in hard cash coin. Even at the best we'll have to sacrifice a large slice of the estate to satisfy the greed of those who have assisted us--_Messieurs les Jesuites_. If I could only, as by some magician's wand, convert these clods of Herefordshire into a portable shape, I'd cheat them yet; as I've done already, in making them believe me one of their most ardent _doctrinaires_. Then, _chère amie_, we could at once move from Llangorren Court to a palace by some lake of Como, glassing softest skies, with whispering myrtles, and all the other fal-lals, by which Monsieur Bulwer's sham prince humbugged the Lyonese shopkeeper's daughter. Ha! ha! ha!" "But why can't it be done?" "Ah! There the word _impossible_, if you like. What! Convert a landed estate of several thousand acres into cash, _presto-instanter_, as though one were but selling a flock of sheep! The thing can't be accomplished anywhere, least of all in this slow-moving Angleterre, where men look at their money twice--twenty times--before parting with it. Even a mortgage couldn't be managed for weeks--maybe months--without losing quite the moiety of value. But a _bonâ fide_ sale, for which we must wait, and with that cloud hanging over us! Oh, it's damnable! The thing's been a blunder from beginning to end, all through the squeamishness of Monsieur, _votre mari_. Had he agreed to what I first proposed, and done with Mademoiselle what should have been done, he might himself still--the simpleton, sot, soft-heart, and softer head! Well, it's of no use reviling him now. He paid the forfeit for being a fool. And 'twill do no good our giving way to apprehensions, that after all may turn out shadows, however dark. In the end everything may go right, and we can make our midnight flitting in a quiet, comfortable way. But what a flutter there'll be among my flock at the Rugg's Ferry Chapel, when they wake up some fine morning, and rub their eyes, only to see that their good shepherd has forsaken them! A comical scene, of which I'd like being a spectator. Ha! ha! ha!" She joins him in the laugh, for the sally is irresistible. And while they are still ha-ha-ing, a touch at the door tells of a servant seeking admittance. It is the butler who presents himself, salver in hand, on which rests a chrome-coloured envelope--at a glance seen to be a telegraphic despatch. It bears the address "Rev. Gregoire Rogier, Rugg's Ferry, Herefordshire," and when opened, the telegram is seen to have been sent from Folkestone. Its wording is,-- "_The bird has escaped from its cage. Prenez garde!_" Well for the pseudo-priest and his _chère amie_ that before they read it the butler had left the room. For though figurative the form of expression, and cabalistic the words, both man and woman seem instantly to comprehend them; and with such comprehension, as almost to drive them distracted. He is silent, as if struck dumb, his face showing blanched and bloodless, while she utters a shriek, half terrified, half in frenzied anger. It is the last loud cry, or word, to which she gives utterance at Llangorren. And no longer there speaks the priest loudly, or authoritatively. The after hours of that night are spent by both of them, not as the owners of the house, but burglars in the act of breaking it. Up till the hour of dawn, the two might be seen silently flitting from room to room--attended only by Clarisse, who carries the candle--ransacking drawers and secretaires, selecting articles of _bijouterie_ and _vertu_, of little weight, but large value, and packing them in trunks and travelling bags; all of which under the grey light of morning are taken to the nearest railway station in one of the Court carriages--a large drag-barouche--inside which ride Rogier and Madame Murdock _veuve_; her _femme de chambre_ having a seat beside the coachman, who has been told they are starting on a continental tour. * * * * * And so were they; but it was a tour from which they never returned. Instead, it was extended to a greater distance than they themselves designed, and in a direction neither dreamt of; since their career, after a year's interval, ended in _deportation_ to Cayenne, for some crime committed by them in the South of France. So said the _Semaphore_ of Marseilles. CHAPTER LXXII. CORACLE DICK ON HIS DEATH-BED. As next morning's sun rises over Llangorren Court, it shows a mansion without either master or mistress! Not long to remain so. If the old servants of the establishment had short notice of dismissal, still more brief is that given to its latest retinue. About meridian of that day, after the departure of their mistress, while yet in wonder where she has gone, they receive another shock of surprise, and a more unpleasant one, at seeing a hackney carriage drive up to the hall door, out of which step two men, evidently no friends to her from whom they have their wages. For one of the men is Captain Ryecroft, the other a police superintendent; who, after the shortest possible parley, directs the butler to parade the complete staff of his fellow-domestics, male and female. This with an air and in a tone of authority which precludes supposition that the thing is a jest. Summoned from all quarters, cellar to garret, and outdoors as well, their names, with other particulars, are taken down; and they are told that their services will be no longer required at Llangorren. In short, they are one and all dismissed, without a word about the month's wages or warning! If they get either, 'twill be only as a grace. Then they receive orders to pack up and be off; while Joseph Preece, ex-Charon, who has crossed the river in his boat, with appointment to meet the hackney there, is authorized to take temporary charge of the place; Jack Wingate, similarly bespoke, having come down in his skiff, to stand by him in case of any opposition. None arises. However chagrined by their hasty _sans façon_ discharge, the outgoing domestics seem not so greatly surprised at it. From what they have observed for some time going on, as also something whispered about, they had no great reliance on their places being permanent. So, in silence all submit, though somewhat sulkily; and prepare to vacate quarters they had found fairly snug. There is one, however, who cannot be thus conveniently, or unceremoniously, dismissed--the head gamekeeper, Richard Dempsey. For, while the others are getting their _mandamus_ to move, the report is brought in that he is lying on his death-bed! So the parish doctor has prognosticated. Also, that he is just then delirious, and saying queer things; some of which repeated to the police "super," tell him his proper place at that precise moment is by the bedside of the sick man. Without a second's delay, he starts off towards the lodge in which Coracle has been of late domiciled--under the guidance of its former occupant, Joseph Preece--accompanied by Captain Ryecroft and Jack Wingate. The house being but a few hundred yards distant from the Court, they are soon inside it, and standing over the bed on which lies the fevered patient; not at rest, but tossing to and fro--at intervals, in such violent manner as to need restraint. The superintendent at once sees it would be idle putting questions to him. If asked his own name, he could not declare it; for he knows not himself--far less those who are around. His face is something horrible to behold. It would but harrow sensitive feelings to give a portraiture of it. Enough to say, it is more like that of demon than man. And his speech, poured as in a torrent from his lips, is alike horrifying--admission of many and varied crimes, in the same breath denying them and accusing others, his contradictory ravings garnished with blasphemous ejaculations. A specimen will suffice, omitting the blasphemy. "It's a lie!" he cries out, just as they are entering the room. "A lie, every word o't! I didn't murder Mary Morgan. Served her right if I had, the jade! She jilted me; an' for that wasp Wingate--dog--cur! I didn't kill her. No; only fixed the plank. If she wor fool enough to step on't, that warn't my fault. She did--she did! Ha! ha! ha!" For a while he keeps up the horrid cachinnation, as the glee of Satan exulting over some feat of foul _diablerie_. Then his thoughts changing to another crime, he goes on,-- "The grand girl--the lady! She arn't drowned; nor dead eyther! The priest carried her off in that French schooner. I had nothing to do with it. 'Twar the priest and Mr. Murdock. Ha! Murdock! I _did_ drown _him_. No, I didn't. That's another lie! T'was himself upset the boat. Let me see--was it? No! he couldn't--he was too drunk. I stood up on the skiff's rail. Slap over it went. What a duckin' I had for it, and a devil o' a swim too! But I did the trick--neatly! Didn't I, your Reverence? Now for the hundred pounds. And you promised to double it--you did! Keep to your bargain, or I'll peach upon you--on all the lot of you--the woman, too--the French woman! She kept that fine shawl--Indian they said it wor. She's got it now. She wanted the diamonds, too, but daren't keep _them_. The shroud! Ha! the shroud! That's all they left _me_. I ought to 'a burnt it. But then the devil would 'a been after and burned me! How fine Mary looked in that grand dress, wi' all them gewgaws, rings,--chains an' bracelets, all pure gold! But I drownded her, an' she deserved it, that she did. Drownded her twice--ha--ha--ha!" Again he breaks off with a peal of demoniac laughter, long continued. More than an hour they remain listening to his delirious ramblings, and with interest intense. For, despite its incoherence, the disconnected threads joined together make up a tale they can understand; though so strange, so brimful of atrocities, as to seem incredible. All the while he is writhing about on the bed; till at length, exhausted, his head droops over upon the pillow, and he lies for a while quiet--to all appearance dead! But no; there is another throe yet--one horrible as any that has preceded. Looking up, he sees the superintendent's uniform and silver buttons--a sight which produces a change in the expression of his features, as though it had recalled him to his senses. With arms flung out as in defence, he shrieks,-- "Keep back, you ---- policeman! Hands off, or I'll brain you! Hach! You've got the rope round my neck! Curse the thing! It's choking me. Hach!" And with his fingers clutching at his throat, as if to undo a noose, he gasps out in husky voice,-- "Gone, by G----." At this he drops over dead, his last word an oath, his last thought a fancy that there is a rope around his neck! What he has said in his unconscious confessions lays open many seeming mysteries of this romance, hitherto unrevealed. How the pseudo-priest, Father Rogier, observing a likeness between Miss Wynn and Mary Morgan--causing him that start as he stood over the coffin, noticed by Jack Wingate--had exhumed the dead body of the latter, the poacher and Murdock assisting him. Then how they had taken it down in the boat to Dempsey's house; soon after, going over to Llangorren, and seizing the young lady, as she stood in the summer-house, having stifled her cries by chloroform. Then, how they carried her across to Dempsey's, and substituted the corpse for the living body--the grave-clothes changed for the silken dress with all its adornments--this the part assigned to Mrs. Murdock, who had met them at Coracle's cottage. Then, Dick himself hiding away the shroud, hindered by superstitious fear from committing it to the flames. In fine, how Gwendoline Wynn, drugged and still kept in a state of coma, was taken down in a boat to Chepstow, and there put aboard the French schooner _La Chouette_; carried across to Boulogne, to be shut up in a convent for life! All these delicate matters, managed by Father Rogier, backed by _Messieurs les Jesuites_, who had furnished him with the means! One after another the astounding facts come forth as the raving man continues his involuntary admissions. Supplemented by others already known to Ryecroft and the rest, with the deductions drawn, they complete the unities of a drama, iniquitous as ever enacted. Its motives declare themselves--all wicked save one: this a spark of humanity that had still lingered in the breast of Lewin Murdock, but for which Gwendoline Wynn would never have seen the inside of a nunnery. Instead, while under the influence of the narcotic, her body would have been dropped into the Wye, just as was that wearing her ball dress! And that same body is now wearing another dress, supposed to have been prepared for her--another shroud--reposing in the tomb where all believed Gwen Wynn to have been laid! This last fact is brought to light on the following day, when the family vault of the Wynns is re-opened, and Mrs. Morgan--by marks known only to herself--identifies the remains found there as those of her own daughter! CHAPTER LXXIII. THE CALM AFTER THE STORM. Twelve months after the events recorded in this romance of the Wye, a boat-tourist descending the picturesque river, and inquiring about a pagoda-like structure he will see on its western side, would be told it is a summer-house, standing in the ornamental grounds of a gentleman's residence. If he ask who the gentleman is, the answer would be, Captain Vivian Ryecroft! For the ex-officer of Hussars is now the master of Llangorren; and, what he himself values higher, the husband of Gwendoline Wynn, once more its mistress. Were the tourist an acquaintance of either, and on his way to make call at the Court, bringing in by the little dock, he would there see a row boat, on its stern board, in gold lettering, "_The Gwendoline_." For the pretty pleasure craft has been restored to its ancient moorings. Still, however, remaining the property of Joseph Preece, who no longer lives in the cast-off cottage of Coracle Dick, but, like the boat itself, is again back and in service at Llangorren. If the day be fine, this venerable and versatile individual will be loitering beside it, or seated on one of its thwarts, pipe in mouth, indulging in the _dolce far niente_. And little besides has he to do, since his pursuits are no longer varied, but now exclusively confined to the calling of waterman to the Court. He and his craft are under charter for the remainder of his life, should he wish it so--as he surely will. The friendly visitor keeping on up to the house, if at the hour of luncheon, will in all likelihood there meet a party of old acquaintances--ours, if not his. Besides the beautiful hostess at the table's head, he will see a lady of the "antique brocaded type," who herself once presided there, by name Miss Dorothea Linton; another known as Miss Eleanor Lees; and a fourth, youngest of the quartette, _yclept_ Kate Mahon. For the school girl of the Boulogne Convent has escaped from its austere studies, and is now most part of her time resident with the friend she helped to escape from its cloisters. Men there will also be at the Llangorren luncheon table; likely three of them, in addition to the host himself. One will be Major Mahon; a second the Reverend William Musgrave; and the third, Mr. George Shenstone! Yes; George Shenstone, under the roof, and seated at the table of Gwendoline Wynn, now the wife of Vivian Ryecroft! To explain a circumstance seemingly so singular, it is necessary to call in the aid of a saying, culled from that language richest of all others in moral and metaphysical imagery--the Spanish. It has a proverb, _un claco saca otro claco_--"one nail drives out the other." And, watching the countenance of the baronet's son, so long sad and clouded, seeing how, at intervals, it brightens up--these intervals when his eyes meet those of Kate Mahon--it were easy predicting that in his case the adage will ere long have additional verification. * * * * * Were the same tourist to descend the Wye at a date posterior, and again make a call at Llangorren, he would find that some changes had taken place in the interval of his absence. At the boat dock Old Joe would likely be. But not as before in sole charge of the pleasure craft; only pottering about, as a pensioner retired on full pay; the acting and active officer being a younger man, by name Wingate, who is now waterman to the Court. Between these two, however, there is no spite about the displacement--no bickerings nor heartburnings. How could there, since the younger addresses the older as "uncle"; himself in return being styled "nevvy"? No need to say that this relationship has been brought about by the bright eyes of Amy Preece. Nor is it so new. In the lodge where Jack and Joe live together is a brace of chubby chicks; one of them a boy--the possible embryo of a Wye waterman--who, dandled upon old Joe's knees, takes delight in weeding his frosted whiskers, while calling him "good granddaddy." As Jack's mother--who is also a member of this happy family--forewarned him, the wildest grief must in time give way, and Nature's laws assert their supremacy. So has he found it; and though still holding Mary Morgan in sacred, honest remembrance, he--as many a true man before, and others as true to come--has yielded to the inevitable. Proceeding on to the Court, the friendly visitor will at certain times there meet the same people he met before; but the majority of them having new names or titles. An added number in two interesting olive branches there also, with complexions struggling between _blonde_ and _brunette_, who call Captain and Mrs. Ryecroft their papa and mamma; while the lady who was once Eleanor Lees--the "companion"--is now Mrs. Musgrave, life companion, not to the _curate_ of Llangorren Church, but its _rector_. The living having become vacant, and in the bestowal of Llangorren's heiress, has been worthily bestowed on the Reverend William. Two other old faces, withal young ones, the returned tourist will see at Llangorren--their owners on visit as himself. He might not know either of them by the names they now bear--Sir George and Lady Shenstone--for when he last saw them, the gentleman was simply Mr. Shenstone, and the lady Miss Mahon. The old baronet is dead, and the young one, succeeding to the title, has also taken upon himself another title--that of husband--proving the Spanish apothegm true, both in the spirit and to the letter. If there be any nail capable of driving out another, it is that sent home by the glance of an Irish girl's eye--at least, so thinks Sir George Shenstone, with good reason for thinking it. There are two other individuals, who come and go at the Court--the only ones holding out, and likely to hold, against change of any kind. For Major Mahon is still Major Mahon, rolling on in his rich Irish brogue, as ever abhorrent of matrimony. No danger of his becoming a benedict! And as little of Miss Linton being transformed into a sage woman. It would be strange if she should, with the love novels she continues to devour, and the "Court Intelligence" she gulps down, keeping alive the hallucination that she is still a belle at Bath and Cheltenham. So ends our "Romance of the Wye"--a drama of happy _denouement_ to most of the actors in it; and, as hoped, satisfactory to all who have been spectators. THE END 
5227	----	SANT' ILARIO BY F. MARION CRAWFORD AUTHOR OF "MR. ISAACS," "DR. CLAUDIUS," "ZOROASTER," "A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH," ETC. TO My Wife THIS SECOND PART OF "SARACINESCA" IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED CHAPTER I. Two years of service in the Zouaves had wrought a change in Anastase Gouache, the painter. He was still a light man, nervously built, with small hands and feet, and a delicate face; but constant exposure to the weather had browned his skin, and a life of unceasing activity had strengthened his sinews and hardened his compact frame. The clustering black curls were closely cropped, too, while the delicate dark moustache had slightly thickened. He had grown to be a very soldierly young fellow, straight and alert, quick of hand and eye, inured to that perpetual readiness which is the first characteristic of the good soldier, whether in peace or war. The dreamy look that was so often in his face in the days when he sat upon a high stool painting the portrait of Donna Tullia Mayer, had given place to an expression of wide-awake curiosity in the world's doings. Anastase was an artist by nature and no amount of military service could crush the chief aspirations of his intelligence. He had not abandoned work since he had joined the Zouaves, for his hours of leisure from duty were passed in his studio. But the change in his outward appearance was connected with a similar development in his character. He himself sometimes wondered how he could have ever taken any interest in the half-hearted political fumbling which Donna Tullia, Ugo Del Ferice, and others of their set used to dignify by the name of conspiracy. It seemed to him that his ideas must at that time have been deplorably confused and lamentably unsettled. He sometimes took out the old sketch of Madame Mayer's portrait, and setting it upon his easel, tried to realise and bring back those times when she had sat for him. He could recall Del Ferice's mock heroics, Donna Tullia's ill-expressed invectives, and his own half-sarcastic sympathy in the liberal movement; but the young fellow in an old velveteen jacket who used to talk glibly about the guillotine, about stringing-up the clericals to street-lamps and turning the churches into popular theatres, was surely not the energetic, sunburnt Zouave who had been hunting down brigands in the Samnite hills last summer, who spent three-fourths of his time among soldiers like himself, and who had pledged his honour to follow the gallant Charette and defend the Pope as long as he could carry a musket. There is a sharp dividing line between youth and manhood. Sometimes we cross it early, and sometimes late, but we do not know that we are passing from one life to another as we step across the boundary. The world seems to us the same for a while, as we knew it yesterday and shall know it to-morrow. Suddenly, we look back and start with astonishment when we see the past, which we thought so near, already vanishing in the distance, shapeless, confused, and estranged from our present selves. Then, we know that we are men, and acknowledge, with something like a sigh, that we have put away childish things. When Gouache put on the gray jacket, the red sash and the yellow gaiters, he became a man and speedily forgot Donna Tullia and her errors, and for some time afterwards he did not care to recall them. When he tried to remember the scenes at the studio in the Via San Basilio, they seemed very far away. One thing alone constantly reminded him disagreeably of the past, and that was his unfortunate failure to catch Del Ferice when the latter had escaped from Rome in the disguise of a mendicant friar. Anastase had never been able to understand how he had missed the fugitive. It had soon become known that Del Ferice had escaped by the very pass which Gouache was patrolling, and the young Zouave had felt the bitterest mortification in losing so valuable and so easy a prey. He often thought of it and promised himself that he would visit his anger on Del Ferice if he ever got a chance; but Del Ferice was out of reach of his vengeance, and Donna Tullia Mayer had not returned to Rome since the previous year. It had been rumoured of late that she had at last fulfilled the engagement contracted some time earlier, and had consented to be called the Contessa Del Ferice; this piece of news, however, was not yet fully confirmed. Gouache had heard the gossip, and had immediately made a lively sketch on the back of a half-finished picture, representing Donna Tullia, in her bridal dress, leaning upon the arm of Del Ferice, who was arrayed in a capuchin's cowl, and underneath, with his brush, he scrawled a legend, "Finis coronat opus." It was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon of the 23d of September. The day had been rainy, but the sky had cleared an hour before sunset, and there was a sweet damp freshness in the air, very grateful after the long weeks of late summer. Anastase Gouache had been on duty at the Serristori barracks in the Borgo Santo Spirito and walked briskly up to the bridge of Sant' Angelo. There was not much movement in the streets, and the carriages were few. A couple of officers were lounging at the gate of the castle and returned Gouache's salute as he passed. In the middle of the bridge he stopped and looked westward, down the short reach of the river which caught a lurid reflection of the sunset on its eddying yellow surface. He mused a moment, thinking more of the details of his duty at the barracks than of the scene before him. Then he thought of the first time he had crossed the bridge in his Zouave uniform, and a faint smile flickered on his brown features. It happened almost every day that he stopped at the same place, and as particular spots often become associated with ideas that seem to belong to them, the same thought almost always recurred to his mind as he stood there. Then followed the same daily wondering as to how all these things were to end; whether he should for years to come wear the red sash and the yellow gaiters, a corporal of Zouaves, and whether for years he should ask himself every day the same question. Presently, as the light faded from the houses of the Borgo, he turned away with an imperceptible shrug of the shoulders and continued his walk upon the narrow pavement at the side of the bridge. As he descended the step at the end, to the level of the square, a small bright object in a crevice of the stones attracted his attention. He stooped and picked it up. It was a little gold pin, some two inches long, the head beaten out and twisted into the shape of the letter C. Gouache examined it attentively, and saw that it must have been long used, for it was slightly bent in more than one place as though it had often been thrust through some thick material. It told no other tale of its possessor, however, and the young man slipped it into his pocket and went on his way, idly wondering to whom the thing belonged. He reflected that if he had been bent on any important matter he would probably have considered the finding of a bit of gold as a favourable omen; but he was merely returning to his lodging as usual, and had no engagement for the evening. Indeed, he expected no event in his life at that time, and following the train of his meditation he smiled a little when he thought that he was not even in love. For a Frenchman, nearly thirty years of age, the position was an unusual one enough. In Gouache's case it was especially remarkable. Women liked him, he liked them, and he was constantly in the society of some of the most beautiful in the world. Nevertheless, he turned from one to another and found a like pleasure in the conversation of them all. What delighted him in the one was not what charmed him most in the next, but the equilibrium of satisfaction was well maintained between the dark and the fair, the silent beauty and the pretty woman of intelligence. There was indeed one whom he thought more noble in heart and grander in symmetry of form and feature, and stronger in mind than the rest; but she was immeasurably removed from the sphere of his possible devotion by her devoted love of her husband, and he admired her from a distance, even while speaking with her. As he passed the Apollo theatre and ascended the Via di Tordinona the lights were beginning to twinkle in the low doorways, and the gas-lamps, then a very recent innovation in Rome, shone out one by one in the distance. The street is narrow, and was full of traffic, even in the evening. Pedestrians elbowed their way along in the dusk, every now and then flattening themselves against the dingy walls to let a cab or a carriage rush past them, not without real risk of accident. Before the deep, arched gateway of the Orso, one of the most ancient inns in the world, the empty wine-carts were getting ready for the return journey by night across the Campagna, the great bunches of little bells jingling loudly in the dark as the carters buckled the harness on their horses' backs. Just as Gouache reached this place, the darkest and most crowded through which he had to pass, a tremendous clatter and rattle from the Via dell' Orso made the hurrying people draw back to the shelter of the doorsteps and arches. It was clear that a runaway horse was not far off. One of the carters, the back of whose waggon was half-way across the opening of the street, made desperate efforts to make his beast advance and clear the way; but the frightened animal only backed farther up. A moment later the runaway charged down past the tail of the lumbering vehicle. The horse himself just cleared the projecting timbers of the cart, but the cab he was furiously dragging caught upon them while going at full speed and was shivered to pieces, throwing the horse heavily upon the stones, so that he slid along several feet on his head and knees with the fragments of the broken shafts and the wreck of the harness about him. The first man to spring from the crowd and seize the beast's head was Anastase. He did not see that the same instant a large private carriage, drawn by a pair of powerful horses, emerged quickly from the Vicolo dei Soldati, the third of the streets which meet the Via di Tordinona at the Orso. The driver, who owing to the darkness had not seen the disaster which had just taken place, did his best to stop in time; but before the heavy equipage could be brought to a stand Anastase had been thrown to the ground, between the hoofs of the struggling cab-horse and the feet of the startled pair of bays. The crowd closed in as near as was safe, while the confusion and the shouts of the people and the carters increased every minute. The coachman of the private carriage threw the reins to the footman and sprang down to go to the horses' heads. "You have run over a Zouave!" some one shouted from the crowd. "Meno male! Thank goodness it was not one of us!" exclaimed another voice. "Where is he? Get him out, some of you!" cried the coachman as he seized the reins close to the bit. By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or three soldiers of the Antibes legion had made their way to the front and were dragging away the fallen cab-horse. A tall, thin, elderly gentleman, of a somewhat sour countenance, descended from the carriage and stooped over the injured soldier. "It is only a Zouave, Excellency," said the coachman, with a sort of sigh of relief. The tall gentleman lifted Gouache's head a little so that the light from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face. He was quite insensible, and there was blood upon his pale forehead and white cheeks. One of the gendarmes came forward. "We will take care of him, Signore," he said, touching his three-cornered hat. "But I must beg to know your revered name," he added, in the stock Italian phrase. "Capira--I am very sorry--but they say your horses--" "Put him into my carriage," answered the elderly gentleman shortly. "I am the Principe Montevarchi." "But, Excellency--the Signorina---" protested the coachman. The prince paid no attention to the objection and helped the gendarme to deposit Anastase in the interior of the vehicle. Then he gave the man a silver scudo. "Send some one to the Serristori barracks to say that a Zouave has been hurt and is at my house," he said. Therewith he entered the carriage and ordered the coachman to drive home. "In heaven's name, what has happened, papa?" asked a young voice in the darkness, tremulous with excitement. "My dear child, there has been an accident in the street, and this young man has been wounded, or killed--" "Killed! A dead man in the carriage!" cried the young girl in some terror, and shrinking away into the corner. "You should really control your nerves, Faustina," replied her father in austere tones. "If the young man is dead, it is the will of Heaven. If he is alive we shall soon find it out. Meanwhile I must beg you to be calm--to be calm, do you understand?" Donna Faustina Montevarchi made no answer to this parental injunction, but withdrew as far as she could into the corner of the back seat, while her father supported the inanimate body of the Zouave as the carriage swung over the uneven pavement. In a few minutes they rolled beneath a deep arch and stopped at the foot of a broad marble staircase. "Bring him upstairs carefully, and send for a surgeon," said the prince to the men who came forward. Then he offered his arm to his daughter to ascend the steps, as though nothing had happened, and without bestowing another look on the injured soldier. Donna Faustina was just eighteen years old, and had only quitted the convent of the Sacro Cuore a month earlier. It might have been said that she was too young to be beautiful, for she evidently belonged to that class of women who do not attain their full development until a later period. Her figure was almost too slender, her face almost too delicate and ethereal. There was about her a girlish look, an atmosphere of half-saintly maidenhood, which was not so much the expression of her real nature as the effect produced by her being at once very thin and very fresh. There was indeed nothing particularly angelic about her warm brown eyes, shaded by unusually long black lashes; and little wayward locks of chestnut hair, curling from beneath the small round hat of the period, just before the small pink ears, softened as with a breath of worldliness the grave outlines of the serious face. A keen student of women might have seen that the dim religious halo of convent life which still clung to the young girl would soon fade and give way to the brilliancy of the woman of the world. She was not tall, though of fully average height, and although the dress of that time was ill-adapted to show to advantage either the figure or the movements, it was evident, as she stepped lightly from the carriage, that she had a full share of ease and grace. She possessed that unconscious certainty in motion which proceeds naturally from the perfect proportion of all the parts, and which exercises a far greater influence over men than a faultless profile or a dazzling skin. Instead of taking her father's arm, Donna Faustina turned and looked at the face of the wounded Zouave, whom three men had carefully taken from the carriage and were preparing to carry upstairs. Poor Gouache was hardly recognisable for the smart soldier who had crossed the bridge of Sant' Angelo half an hour earlier. His uniform was all stained with mud, there was blood upon his pale face, and his limbs hung down, powerless and limp. But as the young girl looked at him, consciousness returned, and with it came the sense of acute suffering. He opened his eyes suddenly, as men often do when they revive after being stunned, and a short groan escaped from his lips. Then, as he realised that he was in the presence of a lady, he made an effort as though to release himself from the hands of those who carried him, and to stand upon his feet. "Pardon me, Madame," he began to say, but Faustina checked him by a gesture. Meanwhile old Montevarchi had carefully scrutinised the young man's face, and had recognised him, for they had often met in society. "Monsieur Gouache!" he exclaimed in surprise. At the same time he made the men move on with their burden. "You know him, papa?" whispered Donna Faustina as they followed together. "He is a gentleman? I was right?" "Of course, of course," answered her father. "But really, Faustina, had you nothing better to do than to go and look into his face? Imagine, if he had known you! Dear me! If you begin like this, as soon as you are out of the convent--" Montevarchi left the rest of the sentence to his daughter's imagination, merely turning up his eyes a little as though deprecating the just vengeance of heaven upon his daughter's misconduct. "Really, papa--" protested Faustina. "Yes--really, my daughter--I am much surprised," returned her incensed parent, still speaking in an undertone lest the injured man should overhear what was said. They reached the head of the stairs and the men carried Gouache rapidly away; not so quickly, however, as to prevent Faustina from getting another glimpse of his face. His eyes were open and met hers with an expression of mingled interest and gratitude which she did not forget. Then he was carried away and she did not see him again. The Montevarchi household was conducted upon the patriarchal principle, once general in Rome, and not quite abandoned even now, twenty years later than the date of Gouache's accident. The palace was a huge square building facing upon two streets, in front and behind, and opening inwards upon two courtyards. Upon the lower floor were stables, coach-houses, kitchens, and offices innumerable. Above these there was built a half story, called a mezzanino--in French, entresol, containing the quarters of the unmarried sons of the house, of the household chaplain, and of two or three tutors employed in the education of the Montevarchi grandchildren. Next above, came the "piano nobile," or state apartments, comprising the rooms of the prince and princess, the dining-room, and a vast suite of reception-rooms, each of which opened into the next in such a manner that only the last was not necessarily a passage. In the huge hall was the dais and canopy with the family arms embroidered in colours once gaudy but now agreeably faded to a softer tone. Above this floor was another, occupied by the married sons, their wives and children; and high over all, above the cornice of the palace, were the endless servants' quarters and the roomy garrets. At a rough estimate the establishment comprised over a hundred persons, all living under the absolute and despotic authority of the head of the house, Don Lotario Montevarchi, Principe Montevarchi, and sole possessor of forty or fifty other titles. From his will and upon his pleasure depended every act of every member of his household, from his eldest son and heir, the Duca di Bellegra, to that of Pietro Paolo, the under-cook's scullion's boy. There were three sons and four daughters. Two of the sons were married, to wit, Don Ascanio, to whom his father had given his second title, and Don Onorato, who was allowed to call himself Principe di Cantalupo, but who would have no legal claim to that distinction after his father's death. Last of the three came Don Carlo, a young fellow of twenty years, but not yet emancipated from the supervision of his tutor. Of the daughters, the two eldest, Bianca and Laura, were married and no longer lived in Rome, the one having been matched with a Neapolitan and the other with a Florentine. There remained still at home, therefore, the third, Donna Flavia, and the youngest of all the family, Donna Faustina. Though Flavia was not yet two and twenty years of age, her father and mother were already beginning to despair of marrying her, and dropped frequent hints about the advisability of making her enter religion, as they called it; that is to say, they thought she had better take the veil and retire from the world. The old princess Montevarchi was English by birth and education, but thirty-three years of life in Rome had almost obliterated all traces of her nationality. That all-pervading influence, which so soon makes Romans of foreigners who marry into Roman families, had done its work effectually. The Roman nobility, by intermarriage with the principal families of the rest of Europe, has lost many Italian characteristics; but its members are more essentially Romans than the full-blooded Italians of the other classes who dwell side by side with the aristocracy in Rome. When Lady Gwendoline Fontenoy married Don Lotario Montevarchi in the year 1834, she, no doubt, believed that her children would grow up as English as she herself, and that her husband's house would not differ materially from an establishment of the same kind in England. She laughed merrily at the provisions of the marriage contract, which even went so far as to stipulate that she was to have at least two dishes of meat at dinner, and an equivalent on fast-days, a drive every day--the traditional trottata--two new gowns every year, and a woman to wait upon her. After these and similar provisions had been agreed upon, her dowry, which was a large one for those days, was handed over to the keeping of her father-in-law and she was duly married to Don Lotario, who at once assumed the title of Duca di Bellegra. The wedding journey consisted of a fortnight's retirement in the Villa Montevarchi at Frascati, and at the end of that time the young couple were installed under the paternal roof in Rome. Before she had been in her new abode a month the young Duchessa realised the utter hopelessness of attempting to change the existing system of patriarchal government under which she found herself living. She discovered, in the first place, that she would never have five scudi of her own in her pocket, and that if she needed a handkerchief or a pair of stockings it was necessary to obtain from the head of the house not only the permission to buy such necessaries, but the money with which to pay for them. She discovered, furthermore, that if she wanted a cup of coffee or some bread and butter out of hours, those things were charged to her daily account in the steward's office, as though she had been in an inn, and were paid for at the end of the year out of the income arising from her dowry. Her husband's younger brother, who had no money of his own, could not even get a lemonade in his father's house without his father's consent. Moreover, the family life was of such a nature as almost to preclude all privacy. The young Duchessa and her husband had their bedroom in the upper story, but Don Lotario's request that his wife might have a sitting-room of her own was looked upon as an attempt at a domestic revolution, and the privilege was only obtained at last through the formidable intervention of the Duke of Agincourt, the Duchessa's own father. All the family meals, too, were eaten together in the solemn old dining-hall, hung with tapestries and dingy with the dust of ages. The order of precedence was always strictly observed, and though the cooking was of a strange kind, no plate or dish was ever used which was not of solid silver, battered indeed, and scratched, and cleaned only after Italian ideas, but heavy and massive withal. The Duchessa soon learned that the old Roman houses all used silver plates from motives of economy, for the simple reason that metal did not break. But the sensible English woman saw also that although the most rigid economy was practised in many things, there was lavish expenditure in many departments of the establishment. There were magnificent horses in the stables, gorgeously gilt carriages in the coach-houses, scores of domestics in bright liveries at every door. The pay of the servants did not, indeed, exceed the average earnings of a shoe-black in London, but the coats they wore were exceeding glorious with gold lace. It was clear from the first that nothing was expected of Don Lotario's wife but to live peaceably under the patriarchal rule, making no observations and offering no suggestions. Her husband told her that he was powerless to introduce any changes, and added, that since his father and all his ancestors had always lived in the same way, that way was quite good enough for him. Indeed, he rather looked forward to the time when he should be master of the house, having children under him whom he might rule as absolutely and despotically as he was ruled himself. In the course of years the Duchessa absorbed the traditions of her new home, so that they became part of her, and as everything went on unchanged from year to year she acquired unchanging habits which corresponded with her surroundings. Then, when at last the old prince and princess were laid side by side in the vault of the family chapel and she was princess in her turn, she changed nothing, but let everything go on in the same groove, educating her children and managing them, as her husband had been educated and as she herself had been managed by the old couple. Her husband grew more and more like his father, punctilious, rigid; a strict observant in religious matters, a pedant in little things, prejudiced against all change; too satisfied to desire improvement, too scrupulously conscientious to permit any retrogression from established rule, a model of the immutability of an ancient aristocracy, a living paradigm of what always had been and a stubborn barrier against all that might be. Such was the home to which Donna Faustina Montevarchi returned to live after spending eight years in the convent of the Sacro Cuore. During that time she had acquired the French language, a slight knowledge of music, a very limited acquaintance with the history of her own country, a ready memory for prayers and litanies--and her manners. Manners among the Italians are called education. What we mean by the latter word, namely, the learning acquired, is called, more precisely, instruction. An educated person means a person who has acquired the art of politeness. An instructed person means some one who has learnt rather more than the average of what is generally learnt by the class of people to whom he belongs. Donna Faustina was extremely well educated, according to Roman ideas, but her instruction was not, and was not intended to be, any better than that imparted to the young girls with whom she was to associate in the world. As far as her character was concerned, she herself knew very little of it, and would probably have found herself very much embarrassed if called upon to explain what character meant. She was new and the world was very old. The nuns had told her that she must never care for the world, which was a very sinful place, full of thorns, ditches, pitfalls and sinners, besides the devil and his angels. Her sister Flavia, on the contrary, assured her that the world was very agreeable, when mamma happened to go to sleep in a corner during a ball; that all men were deceivers, but that when a man danced well it made no difference whether he were a deceiver or not, since he danced with his legs and not with his conscience; that there was no happiness equal to a good cotillon, and that there were a number of these in every season; and, finally, that provided one did not spoil one's complexion one might do anything, so long as mamma was not looking. To Donna Faustina, these views, held by the nuns on the one hand and by Flavia on the other, seemed very conflicting. She would not, indeed, have hesitated in choosing, even if she had been permitted any choice; for it was clear that, since she had seen the convent side of the question, it would be very interesting to see the other. But, having been told so much about sinners, she was on the look-out for them, and looked forward to making the acquaintance of one of them with a pardonable excitement. Doubtless she would hate a sinner if she saw one, as the nuns had taught her, although the sinner of her imagination was not a very repulsive personage. Flavia probably knew a great many, and Flavia said that society was very amusing. Faustina wished that the autumn months would pass a little more quickly, so that the carnival season might begin. Prince Montevarchi, for his part, intended his youngest daughter to be a model of prim propriety. He attributed to Flavia's frivolity of behaviour the difficulty he experienced in finding her a husband, and he had no intention of exposing himself to a second failure in the case of Faustina. She should marry in her first season, and if she chose to be gay after that, the responsibility thereof might fall upon her husband, or her father-in-law, or upon whomsoever it should most concern; he himself would have fulfilled his duty so soon as the nuptial benediction was pronounced. He knew the fortune and reputation of every marriageable young man in society, and was therefore eminently fitted for the task he undertook. To tell the truth, Faustina herself expected to be married before Easter, for it was eminently fitting that a young girl should lose no time in such matters. But she meant to choose a man after her own heart, if she found one; at all events, she would not submit too readily to the paternal choice nor appear satisfied with the first tolerable suitor who should be presented to her. Under these circumstances it seemed probable that Donna Faustina's first season, which had begun with the unexpected adventure at the corner of the old Orso, would not come to a close without some passage of arms between herself and her father, even though the ultimate conclusion should lead to the steps of the altar. The men carried the wounded Zouave away to a distant room, and Faustina entered the main apartments by the side of the old prince. She sighed a little as she went. "I hope the poor man will get well!" she exclaimed. "Do not disturb your mind about the young man," answered her father. "He will be attended by the proper persons, and the doctor will bleed him and the will of Heaven will be done. It is not the duty of a well-conducted young woman to be thinking of such things, and you may dismiss the subject at once." "Yes, papa," said Faustina submissively. But in spite of the dutiful tone of voice in which she spoke, the dim light of the tall lamps in the antechambers showed a strange expression of mingled amusement and contrariety in the girl's ethereal face. CHAPTER II. "You know Gouache?" asked old Prince Saracinesca, in a tone which implied that he had news to tell. He looked from his daughter-in-law to his son as he put the question, and then went on with his breakfast. "Very well," answered Giovanni. "What about him?" "He was knocked down by a carriage last night. The carriage belonged to Montevarchi, and Gouache is at his house, in danger of his life." "Poor fellow!" exclaimed Corona in ready sympathy. "I am so sorry! I am very fond of Gouache." Giovanni Saracinesca, known to the world since his marriage as Prince of Sant' Ilario, glanced quickly at his wife, so quickly that neither she nor the old gentleman noticed the fact. The three persons sat at their midday breakfast in the dining-room of the Palazzo Saracinesca. After much planning and many discussions the young couple had determined to take up their abode with Giovanni's father. There were several reasons which had led them to this decision, but the two chief ones were that they were both devotedly attached to the old man; and secondly, that such a proceeding was strictly fitting and in accordance with the customs of Romans. It was true that Corona, while her old husband, the Duca d'Astrardente, was alive, had grown used to having an establishment exclusively her own, and both the Saracinesca had at first feared that she would be unwilling to live in her father-in-law's house. Then, too, there was the Astrardente palace, which, could not lie shut up and allowed to go to ruin; but this matter was compromised advantageously by Corona's letting it to an American millionaire who wished to spend the winter in Rome. The rent paid was large, and Corona never could have too much money for her improvements out at Astrardente. Old Saracinesca wished that the tenant might have been at least a diplomatist, and cursed the American by his gods, but Giovanni said that his wife had shown good sense in getting as much as she could for the palace. "We shall not need it till Orsino grows up--unless you marry again," said Sant' Ilario to his father, with a laugh. Now, Orsino was Giovanni's son and heir, aged, at the time of this tale, six months and a few days. In spite of his extreme youth, however, Orsino played a great and important part in the doings of the Saracinesca household. In the first place, he was the heir, and the old prince had been found sitting by his cradle with an expression never seen in his face since Giovanni had been a baby. Secondly, Orsino was a very fine child, swarthy of skin, and hard as a tiger cub, yet having already his mother's eyes, large, coal-black and bright, but deep and soft withal. Thirdly, Orsino had a will of his own, admirably seconded by an enormous lung power. Not that he cried, when he wanted anything. His baby eyes had not yet been seen to shed tears. He merely shouted, loud and long, and thumped the sides of his cradle with his little clenched fists, or struck out straight at anybody who chanced to be within reach. Corona rejoiced in the child, and used to say that he was like his grandfather, his father and his mother all put together. The old prince thought that if this were true the boy would do very well; Corona was the most beautiful dark woman of her time; he himself was a sturdy, tough old man, though his hair and beard were white as snow, and Giovanni was his father's ideal of what a man of his race should be. The arrival of the baby Orsino had been an additional argument in favour of living together, for the child's grandfather could not have been separated from him even by the quarter of a mile which lay between the two palaces. And so it came to pass that they all dwelt under the same roof, and were sitting together at breakfast on the morning of the 24th of September, when the old prince told them of the accident which had happened to Gouache. "How did you hear the news?" asked Giovanni. "Montevarchi told me this morning. He was very much disturbed at the idea of having an interesting young man in his house, with Flavia and Faustina at home." Old Saracinesca smiled grimly. "Why should that trouble him?" inquired Corona. "He has the ancient ideas," replied her father-in-law. "After all--Flavia--" "Yes Flavia, after all--" "I shall be curious to see how the other one turns out," remarked Giovanni. "There seems to be a certain unanimity in our opinion of Flavia. However, I daresay it is mere gossip, and Casa Montevarchi is not a gay place for a girl of her age." "Not gay? How do you know?" asked the old prince. "Does the girl want Carnival to last till All Souls'? Did you ever dine there, Giovannino?" "No--nor any one else who is not a member of the most Excellent Casa Montevarchi." "Then how do you know whether it is gay or not?" "You should hear Ascanio Bellegra describe their life," retorted Giovanni. "And I suppose you describe your life to him, in exchange?" Prince Saracinesca was beginning to lose his temper, as he invariably did whenever he could induce his son to argue any question with him. "I suppose you deplore each other's miserable condition. I tell you what I think, Giovanni. You had better go and live in Corona's house if you are not happy here." "It is let," replied Giovanni with imperturbable calm, but his wife bit her lip to control her rising laughter. "You might travel," growled the old gentleman. "But I am very happy here." "Then what do you mean by talking like that about Casa Montevarchi?" "I fail to see the connection between the two ideas," observed Giovanni. "You live in precisely the same circumstances as Ascanio Bellegra. I think the connection is clear enough. If his life is sad, so is yours." "For downright good logic commend me to my beloved father!" cried Giovanni, breaking into a laugh at last. "A laughing-stock for my children! I have come to this!" exclaimed his father gruffly. But his features relaxed into a good-humoured smile, that was pleasant to see upon his strong dark face. "But, really, I am very sorry to hear this of poor Gouache," said Corona at last, returning to the original subject of their conversation. "I hope it is nothing really dangerous." "It is always dangerous to be run over by a carriage," answered Giovanni. "I will go and see him, if they will let me in." At this juncture Orsino was brought in by his nurse, a splendid creature from Saracinesca, with bright blue eyes and hair as fair as any Goth's, a contrast to the swarthy child she carried in her arms. Immediately the daily ovation began, and each of the three persons began to worship the baby in an especial way. There was no more conversation, after that, for some time. The youngest of the Saracinesca absorbed the attention of the family. Whether he clenched his little fists, or opened his small fat fingers, whether he laughed and crowed at his grandfather's attempts to amuse him, or struck his nurse's rosy cheeks with his chubby hands, the result was always applause and merriment from those who looked on. The scene recalled Joseph's dream, in which the sheaves of his brethren bowed down to his sheaf. After a while, however, Orsino grew sleepy and had to be taken away. Then the little party broke up and separated. The old prince went to his rooms to read and doze for an hour. Corona was called away to see one of the numberless dressmakers whose shadows darken the beginning of a season in town, and Giovanni took his hat and went out. In those days young men of society had very little to do. The other day a German diplomatist was heard to say that Italian gentlemen seemed to do nothing but smoke, spit, and criticise. Twenty years ago their manners might have been described less coarsely, but there was even more truth in the gist of the saying. Not only they did nothing. There was nothing for them to do. They floated about in a peaceful millpool, whose placid surface reflected nothing but their own idle selves, little guessing that the dam whereby their mimic sea was confined, would shortly break with a thundering crash and empty them all into the stream of real life that flowed below. For the few who disliked idleness there was no occupation but literature, and literature, to the Roman mind of 1867, and in the Roman meaning of the word, was scholarship. The introduction to a literary career was supposed to be obtained only by a profound study of the classics, with a view to avoiding everything classical, both in language and ideas, except Cicero, the apostle of the ancient Roman Philistines; and the tendency to clothe stale truisms and feeble sentiments in high-sounding language is still found in Italian prose and is indirectly traceable to the same source. As for the literature of the country since the Latins, it consisted, and still consists, in the works of the four poets, Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, and Petrarch. Leopardi is more read now than then, but is too unhealthily melancholy to be read long by any one. There used to be Roman princes who spent years in committing to memory the verses of those four poets, just as the young Brahman of to-day learns to recite the Rig Veda. That was called the pursuit of literature. The Saracinesca were thought very original and different from other men, because they gave some attention to their estates. It seemed very like business to try and improve the possessions one had inherited or acquired by marriage, and business was degradation. Nevertheless, the Saracinesca were strong enough to laugh at other people's scruples, and did what seemed best in their own eyes without troubling themselves to ask what the world thought. But the care of such matters was not enough to occupy Giovanni all day. He had much time on his hands, for he was an active man, who slept little and rarely needed rest. Formerly he had been used to disappear from Rome periodically, making long journeys, generally ending in shooting expeditions in some half-explored country. That was in the days before his marriage, and his wanderings had assuredly done him no harm. He had seen much of the world not usually seen by men of his class and prejudices, and the acquaintance he had thus got with things and people was a source of great satisfaction to him. But the time had come to give up all this. He was now not only married and settled in his own home, but moreover he loved his wife with his whole heart, and these facts were serious obstacles against roughing it in Norway, Canada, or Transylvania. To travel with Corona and little Orsino seemed a very different matter from travelling with Corona alone. Then there was his father's growing affection for the child, which had to be taken into account in all things. The four had become inseparable, old Saracinesca, Giovanni, Corona, and the baby. Now Giovanni did not regret his old liberty. He knew that he was far happier than he had ever been in his life before. But there were days when the time hung heavily on his hands and his restless nature craved some kind of action which should bring with it a generous excitement. This was precisely what he could not find during the months spent in Rome, and so it fell out that he did very much what most young men of his birth found quite sufficient as an employment; he spent a deal of time in strolling where others strolled, in lounging at the club, and in making visits which filled the hours between sunset and dinner. To him this life was new, and not altogether tasteful; but his friends did not fail to say that Giovanni had been civilised by his marriage with the Astrardente, and was much less reserved than he had formerly been. When Corona went to see the dressmaker, Giovanni very naturally took his hat and went out of the house. The September day was warm and bright, and in such weather it was a satisfaction merely to pace the old Roman streets in the autumn sun. It was too early to meet any of his acquaintance, and too soon in the season for any regular visiting. He did not know what to do, but allowed himself to enjoy the sunshine and the sweet air. Presently, the sight of a couple of Zouaves, talking together at the corner of a street, recalled to his mind the accident which had happened to Gouache. It would be kind to go and see the poor fellow, or, at least, to ask after him. He had known him for some time and had gradually learned to like him, as most people did who met the gifted artist day after day throughout the gaiety of the winter. At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the princess had just finished breakfast. He could hardly ask for Gouache without making a short visit in the drawing-room, and he accordingly submitted, regretting after all that he had come. The old princess bored him, he did not know Faustina, who was just out of the convent, and Flavia, who amused many people, did not amuse him in the least. He inwardly rejoiced that he was married, and that his visit could not be interpreted as a preliminary step towards asking for Flavia's hand. The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry in her prominent blue eyes, as Sant' Ilario entered. She was stout, florid, and not well dressed. Her yellow hair, already half gray, for she was more than fifty years old, was of the unruly kind, and had never looked neat even in her best days. Her bright, clear complexion saved her, however, as it saves hundreds of middle-aged Englishwomen, from that look of peculiar untidiness which belongs to dark-skinned persons who take no trouble about their appearance or personal adornment. In spite of thirty-three years of residence in Rome, she spoke Italian with a foreign accent, though otherwise correctly enough. But she was nevertheless a great lady, and no one would have thought of doubting the fact. Fat, awkwardly dressed, of no imposing stature, with unmanageable hair and prominent teeth, she was not a person to be laughed at. She had what many a beautiful woman lacks and envies--natural dignity of character and manner, combined with a self-possession which is not always found in exalted personages. That repose of manner which is commonly believed to be the heirloom of noble birth is seen quite as often in the low-born adventurer, who regards it as part of his stock-in-trade; and there are many women, and men too, whose position might be expected to place them beyond the reach of what we call shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of social timidity and would rather face alone a charge of cavalry than make a new acquaintance. The Princess Montevarchi was made of braver stuff, however, and if her daughters had not inherited all her unaffected dignity they had at least received their fair share of self-possession. When Sant' Ilario entered, these two young ladies, Donna Flavia and Donna Faustina, were seated one on each side of their mother. The princess extended her hand, the two daughters held theirs demurely crossed upon their knees. Faustina looked at the carpet, as she had been taught to do in the convent. Flavia looked up boldly at Giovanni, knowing by experience that her mother could not see her while greeting the visitor. Sant' Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed to the two young ladies and sat down. "How is Monsieur Gouache?" he asked, going straight to the point. He had seen the look of surprise on the princess's face as he entered, and thought it best to explain himself at once. "Ah, you have heard? Poor man! He is badly hurt, I fear. Would you like to see him?" "Presently, if I may," answered Giovanni. "We are all fond of Gouache. How did the accident happen?" "Faustina ran over him," said Flavia, fixing her dark eyes on Giovanni and allowing her pretty face to assume an expression of sympathy--for the sufferer. "Faustina and papa," she added. "Flavia! How can you say such things!" exclaimed the princess, who spent a great part of her life in repressing her daughter's manner of speech. "Well, mamma--it was the carriage of course. But papa and Faustina were in it. It is the same thing." Giovanni looked at Faustina, but her thin fresh face expressed nothing, nor did she show any intention of commenting on her sister's explanation. It was the first time he had seen her near enough to notice her, and his attention was arrested by something in her looks which surprised and interested him. It was something almost impossible to describe, and yet so really present that it struck Sant' Ilario at once, and found a place in his memory. In the superstitions of the far north, as in the half material spiritualism of Polynesia, that look has a meaning and an interpretation. With us, the interpretation is lost, but the instinctive persuasion that the thing itself is not wholly meaningless remains ineradicable. We say, with a smile at our own credulity, "That man looks as though he had a story," or, "That woman looks as though something odd might happen to her." It is an expression in the eyes, a delicate shade in the features, which speak of many things which we do not understand; things which, if they exist at all, we feel must be inevitable, fatal, and beyond human control. Giovanni looked and was surprised, but Faustina said nothing. "It was very good of the prince to bring him here," remarked Sant' Ilario. "It was very unlike papa," exclaimed Flavia, before her mother could answer. "But very kind, of course, as you say," she added, with a little smile. Flavia had a habit of making rather startling remarks, and of then adding something in explanation or comment, before her hearers had recovered breath. The addition did not always mend matters very much. "Do not interrupt me, Flavia," said her mother, severely. "I beg your pardon, were you speaking, mamma?" asked the young girl, innocently. Giovanni was not amused by Flavia's manners, and waited calmly for the princess to speak. "Indeed," said she, "there was nothing else to be done. As we had run over the poor man--" "The carriage--" suggested Flavia. But her mother took no notice of her. "The least we could do, of course, was to bring him here. My husband would not have allowed him to be taken to the hospital." Flavia again fixed her eyes on Giovanni with a look of sympathy, which, however, did not convey any very profound belief in her father's charitable intentions. "I quite understand," said Giovanni. "And how has he been since you brought him here? Is he in any danger?" "You shall see him at once," answered the princess, who rose and rang the bell, and then, as the servant's footsteps were heard outside, crossed the room to meet him at the door. "Mamma likes to run about," said Flavia, sweetly, in explanation. Giovanni had risen and made as though he would have been of some assistance. The action was characteristic of the Princess Montevarchi. An Italian woman would neither have rung the bell herself, nor have committed such an imprudence as to turn her back upon her two daughters when there was a man in the room. But she was English, and a whole lifetime spent among Italians could not extinguish her activity; so she went to the door herself. Faustina's deep eyes followed her mother as though she were interested to know the news of Gouache. "I hope he is better," she said, quietly. "Of course," echoed Flavia, "So do I. But mamma amuses me so much! She is always in a hurry." Faustina made no answer, but she looked at Sant' Ilario, as though she wondered what he thought of her sister. He returned her gaze, trying to explain to himself the strange attraction of her expression, watching her critically as he would have watched any new person or sight. She did not blush nor avoid his bold eyes, as he would have expected had he realised that he was staring at her. A few minutes later Giovanni found himself in a narrow, high room, lighted by one window, which showed the enormous thickness of the walls in the deep embrasure. The vaulted ceiling was painted in fresco with a representation of Apollo in the act of drawing his bow, arrayed for the time being in his quiver, while his other garments, of yellow and blue, floated everywhere save over his body. The floor of the room was of red bricks, which had once been waxed, and the furniture was scanty, massive and very old. Anastase Gouache lay in one corner in a queer-looking bed covered with a yellow damask quilt the worse for a century or two of wear, upon which faded embroideries showed the Montevarchi arms surmounted by a cardinal's hat. Upon a chair beside the patient lay the little heap of small belongings he had carried in his pocket when hurt, his watch and purse, his cigarettes, his handkerchief and a few other trifles, among which, half concealed by the rest, was the gold pin he had picked up by the bridge on the previous evening. There was a mingled smell of dampness and of stale tobacco in the comfortless room, for the windows were closely shut, in spite of the bright sunshine that flooded the opposite side of the street. Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage and supported by a white pillow, which somehow conveyed the impression of one of those marble cushions upon which in old-fashioned monuments the effigies of the dead are made to lean in eternal prayer, if not in eternal ease. He moved impatiently as the door opened, and then recognising Giovanni, he hailed him in a voice much more lively and sonorous than might have been expected. "You, prince!" he cried, in evident delight. "What saint has brought you?" "I heard of your accident, and so I came to see if I could do anything for you. How are you?" "As you see," replied Gouache. "In a hospitable tomb, with my head tied up like an imperfectly-resurrected Lazarus. For the rest there is nothing the matter with me, except that they have taken away my clothes, which is something of an obstacle to my leaving the house at once. I feel as if I had been in a revolution and had found myself on the wrong side of the barricade--nothing worse than that." "You are in good spirits, at all events. But are you not seriously hurt?" "Oh, nothing--a broken collar-bone somewhere, I believe, and some part of my head gone--I am not quite sure which, and a bad headache, and nothing to eat, and a general sensation as though somebody had made an ineffectual effort to turn me into a sausage." "What does the doctor say?" "Nothing. He is a man of action. He bled me because I had not the strength to strangle him, and poured decoctions of boiled grass down my throat because I could not speak. He has fantastic ideas about the human body." "But you will have to stay here several days," said Giovanni, considerably amused by Gouache's view of his own case. "Several days! Not even several hours, if I can help it." "Things do not go so quickly in Rome. You must be patient." "In order to starve, when there is food as near as the Corso?" inquired the artist. "To be butchered by a Roman phlebotomist, and drenched with infusions of hay by the Principessa Montevarchi, when I might be devising means of being presented to her daughter? What do you take me for? I suppose the young lady with the divine eyes is her daughter, is she not?" "You mean Donna Faustina, I suppose. Yes. She is the youngest, just out of the Sacro Cuore. She was in the drawing-room when I called just now. How did you see her?" "Last night, as they brought me upstairs, I was lucky enough to wake up just as she was looking at me. What eyes! I can think of nothing else. Seriously, can you not help me to get out of here?" "So that you may fall in love with Donna Faustina as soon as possible, I suppose," answered Giovanni with a laugh. "It seems to me that there is but one thing to do, if you are really strong enough. Send for your clothes, get up, go into the drawing-room and thank the princess for her hospitality." "That is easily said. Nothing is done in this house without the written permission of the old prince, unless I am much mistaken. Besides, there is no bell. I might as well be under arrest in the guard-room of the barracks. Presently the doctor will come and bleed me again and the princess will send me some more boiled grass. I am not very fat, as it is, but another day of this diet will make me diaphanous--I shall cast no shadow. A nice thing, to be caught without a shadow on parade!" "I will see what I can do," said Giovanni, rising. "Probably, the best thing would be to send your military surgeon. He will not be so tender as the other leech, but he will get you away at once. My wife wished me to say that she sympathised, and hoped you might soon be well." "My homage and best thanks to the princess," answered Gouache, with a slight change of tone, presumably to be referred to his sense of courtesy in speaking of the absent lady. So Giovanni went away, promising to send the surgeon at once. The latter soon arrived, saw Gouache, and was easily persuaded to order him home without further delay. The artist-soldier would not leave the house without thanking his hostess. His uniform had been cleansed from the stains it had got in the accident, and his left arm was in a sling. The wound on his head was more of a bruise than a cut, and was concealed by his thick black hair. Considering the circumstances he presented a very good appearance. The princess received him in the drawing-room, and Flavia and Faustina were with her, but all three were now dressed to go out, so that the interview was necessarily a short one. Gouache made a little speech of thanks and tried to forget the decoction of mallows he had swallowed, fearing lest the recollection should impart a tone of insincerity to his expression of gratitude. He succeeded very well, and afterwards attributed the fact to Donna Faustina's brown eyes, which were not cast down as they had been when Sant' Ilario had called, but appeared on the contrary to contemplate the new visitor with singular interest. "I am sure my husband will not approve of your going so soon," said the princess in somewhat anxious tones. It was almost the first time she had ever known any step of importance to be taken in her house without her husband's express authority. "Madame," answered Gouache, glancing from Donna Faustina to his hostess, "I am in despair at having thus unwillingly trespassed upon your hospitality, although I need not tell you that I would gladly prolong so charming an experience, provided I were not confined to solitude in a distant chamber. However, since our regimental surgeon pronounces me fit to go home, I have no choice but to obey orders. Believe me, Madame, I am deeply grateful to yourself as well as to the Principe Montevarchi for your manifold kindnesses, and shall cherish a remembrance of your goodness so long as I live." With these words Gouache bowed as though he would be gone and stood waiting for the princess's last word. But before her mother could speak, Faustina's voice was heard. "I cannot tell you how dreadfully we feel--papa and I--at having been the cause of such a horrible accident! Is there nothing we can do to make you forget it?" The princess stared at her daughter in the utmost astonishment at her forwardness. She would not have been surprised if Flavia had been guilty of such imprudence, but that Faustina should thus boldly address a young man who had not spoken to her, was such a shock to her belief in the girl's manners that she did not recover for several seconds. Anastase appreciated the situation, for as he answered, he looked steadily at the mother, although his words were plainly addressed to the brown-eyed beauty. "Mademoiselle is too kind. She exaggerates. And yet, since she has put the question, I will say that I should forget my broken bones very soon if I might be permitted to paint Mademoiselle's portrait. I am a painter," he added, in modest explanation. "Yes," said the princess, "I know. But, really--this is a matter which would require great consideration--and my husband's consent--and, for the present---" She paused significantly, intending to convey a polite refusal, but Gouache completed the sentence. "For the present, until my bones are mended, we will not speak of it. When I am well again I will do myself the honour of asking the prince's consent myself." Flavia leaned towards her mother and whispered into her ear. The words were quite audible, and the girl's dark eyes turned to Gouache with a wicked laugh in them while she was speaking. "Oh, mamma, if you tell papa it is for nothing he will be quite delighted!" Gouache's lip trembled as he suppressed a smile, and the elderly princess's florid cheeks flushed with annoyance. "For the present," she said, holding out her hand rather coldly, "we will not speak of it. Pray let us know of your speedy recovery, Monsieur Gouache." As the artist took his leave he glanced once more at Donna Faustina. Her face was pale and her eyes flashed angrily. She, too, had heard Flavia's stage whisper and was even more annoyed than her mother. Gouache went his way toward his lodging in the company of the surgeon, pondering on the inscrutable mysteries of the Roman household of which he had been vouchsafed a glimpse. He was in pain from his head and shoulder, but insisted that the walk would do him good and refused the cab which his companion had brought. A broken collar-bone is not a dangerous matter, but it can be very troublesome for a while, and the artist was glad to get back to his lodgings and to find himself comfortably installed in an easy chair with something to eat before him, of a more substantial nature than the Principessa Montevarchi's infusions of camomile and mallows. CHAPTER III. While Giovanni was at the Palazzo Montevarchi, and while Corona was busy with her dressmakers, Prince Saracinesca was dozing over the Osservatore Romano in his study. To tell the truth the paper was less dull than usual, for there was war and rumour of war in its columns. Garibaldi had raised a force of volunteers and was in the neighbourhood of Arezzo, beginning to skirmish with the outlying posts of the pontifical army along the frontier. The old gentleman did not know, of course, that on that very day the Italian Government was issuing its proclamation against the great agitator, and possibly if he had been aware of the incident it would not have produced any very strong impression upon his convictions. Garibaldi was a fact, and Saracinesca did not believe that any proclamations would interfere with his march unless backed by some more tangible force. Even had he known that the guerilla general had been arrested at Sinalunga and put in confinement as soon as the proclamation had appeared, the prince would have foreseen clearly enough that the prisoner's escape would be only a question of a few days, since there were manifold evidences that an understanding existed between Ratazzi and Garibaldi of much the same nature as that which in 1860 had been maintained between Garibaldi and Cavour during the advance upon Naples. The Italian Government kept men under arms to be ready to take advantage of any successes obtained by the Garibaldian volunteers, and at the same time to suppress the republican tendencies of the latter, which broke out afresh with every new advance, and disappeared, as by magic, under the depressing influence of a forced retreat. The prince knew all these things, and had reflected upon them so often that they no longer afforded enough interest to keep him awake. The warm September sun streamed into the study and fell upon the paper as it slowly slipped over the old gentleman's knees, while his head sank lower and lower on his breast. The old enamelled clock upon the chimney-piece ticked more loudly, as clocks seem to do when people are asleep and they are left to their own devices, and a few belated flies chased each other in the sunbeams. The silence was broken by the entrance of a servant, who would have withdrawn again when he saw that his master was napping, had not the latter stirred and raised his head before the man had time to get away. Then the fellow came forward with an apology and presented a visiting-card. The prince stared at the bit of pasteboard, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and then laid it upon the table beside him, his eyes still resting on the name, which seemed so much to surprise him. Then he told the footman to introduce the visitor, and a few moments later a very tall man entered the room, hat in hand, and advanced slowly towards him with the air of a person who has a perfect right to present himself but wishes to give his host time to recognise him. The prince remembered the newcomer very well. The closely-buttoned frock-coat showed the man's imposing figure to greater advantage than the dress in which Saracinesca had last seen him, but there was no mistaking the personality. There was the same lean but massive face, broadened by the high cheekbones and the prominent square jaw; there were the same piercing black eyes, set near together under eyebrows that met in the midst of the forehead, the same thin and cruel lips, and the same strongly-marked nose, set broadly on at the nostrils, though pointed and keen. Had the prince had any doubts as to his visitor's identity they would have been dispelled by the man's great height and immense breadth of shoulder, which would have made it hard indeed for him to disguise himself had he wished to do so. But though very much surprised, Saracinesca had no doubts whatever. The only points that were new to him in the figure before him were the outward manner and appearance, and the dress of a gentleman. "I trust I am not disturbing you, prince?" The words were spoken in a deep, clear voice, and with a notable southern accent. "Not at all. I confess I am astonished at seeing you in Rome. Is there anything I can do for you? I shall always be grateful to you for having been alive to testify to the falsehood of that accusation made against my son. Pray sit down. How is your Signora? And the children? All well, I hope?" "My wife is dead," returned the other, and the grave tones of his bass voice lent solemnity to the simple statement. "I am sincerely sorry--" began the prince, but his visitor interrupted him. "The children are well. They are in Aquila for the present. I have come to establish myself in Rome, and my first visit is naturally to yourself, since I have the advantage of being your cousin." "Naturally," ejaculated Saracinesca, though his face expressed considerable surprise. "Do not imagine that I am going to impose myself upon you as a poor relation," continued the other with a faint smile. "Fortune has been kind to me since we met, perhaps as a compensation for the loss I suffered in the death of my poor wife. I have a sufficient independence and can hold my own." "I never supposed--" "You might naturally have supposed that I had come to solicit your favour, though it is not the case. When we parted I was an innkeeper in Aquila. I have no cause to be ashamed of my past profession. I only wish to let you know that it is altogether past, and that I intend to resume the position which my great-grandfather foolishly forfeited. As you are the present head of the family I judged that it was my duty to inform you of the fact immediately." "By all means. I imagined this must be the case from your card. You are entirely in your rights, and I shall take great pleasure in informing every one of the fact. You are the Marchese di San Giacinto, and the inn at Aquila no longer exists." "As these things must be done, once and for always, I have brought my papers to Rome," answered the Marchese. "They are at your disposal, for you certainly have a right to see them, if you like. I will recall to your memory the facts of our history, in case you have forgotten them." "I know the story well enough," said Saracinesca. "Our great-grandfathers were brothers. Yours went to live in Naples. His son grew up and joined the French against the King. His lands were forfeited, he married and died in obscurity, leaving your father, his only son. Your father died young and you again are his only son. You married the Signora Felice--" "Baldi," said the Marchese, nodding in confirmation of the various statements. "The Signora Felice Baldi, by whom you have two children--" "Boys." "Two boys. And the Signora Marchesa, I grieve to hear, is dead. Is that accurate?" "Perfectly. There is one circumstance, connected with our great-grandfathers, which you have not mentioned, but which I am sure you remember." "What is that?" asked the prince, fixing his keen eyes on his companion's face. "It is only this," replied San Giacinto, calmly. "My great-grandfather was two years older than yours. You know he never meant to marry, and resigned the title to his younger brother, who had children already. He took a wife in his old age, and my grandfather was the son born to him. That is why you are so much older than I, though we are of the same generation in the order of descent." "Yes," assented the prince. "That accounts for it. Will you smoke?" Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, looked curiously at his cousin as he took the proffered cigar. There was something abrupt in the answer which attracted his attention and roused his quick suspicions. He wondered whether that former exchange of titles, and consequent exchange of positions were an unpleasant subject of conversation to the prince. But the latter, as though anticipating such a doubt in his companion's mind, at once returned to the question with the boldness which was natural to him. "There was a friendly agreement," he said, striking a match and offering it to the Marchese. "I have all the documents, and have studied them with interest. It might amuse you to see them, some day." "I should like to see them, indeed," answered San Giacinto. "They must be very curious. As I was saying, I am going to establish myself in Rome. It seems strange to me to be playing the gentleman--it must seem even more odd to you." "It would be truer to say that you have been playing the innkeeper," observed the prince, courteously. "No one would suspect it," he added, glancing at his companion's correct attire. "I have an adaptable nature," said the Marchese, calmly. "Besides, I have always looked forward to again taking my place in the world. I have acquired a little instruction--not much, you will say, but it is sufficient as the times go; and as for education, it is the same for every one, innkeeper or prince. One takes off one's hat, one speaks quietly, one says what is agreeable to hear--is it not enough?" "Quite enough," replied the prince. He was tempted to smile at his cousin's definition of manners, though he could see that the man was quite able to maintain his position. "Quite enough, indeed, and as for instruction, I am afraid most of us have forgotten our Latin. You need have no anxiety on that score. But, tell me, how comes it that, having been bred in the south, you prefer to establish yourself in Rome rather than in Naples? They say that you Neapolitans do not like us." "I am a Roman by descent, and I wish to become one in fact," returned the Marchese. "Besides," he added, in a peculiarly grave tone of voice, "I do not like the new order of things. Indeed, I have but one favour to ask of you, and that is a great one." "Anything in my power--" "To present me to the Holy Father as one who desires to become his faithful subject. Could you do so, do you think, without any great inconvenience?" "Eh! I shall be delighted! Magari!" answered the prince, heartily. "To tell the truth, I was afraid you meant to keep your Italian convictions, and that, in Rome, would be against you, especially in these stormy days. But if you will join us heart and soul you will be received with open arms. I shall take great pleasure in seeing you make the acquaintance of my son and his wife. Come and dine this evening." "Thank you," said the Marchese. "I will not fail." After a few more words San Giacinto took his leave, and the prince could not but admire the way in which this man, who had been brought up among peasants, or at best among the small farmers of an outlying district, assumed at once an air of perfect equality while allowing just so much of respect to appear in his manner as might properly be shown by a younger member to the head of a great house. When he was gone Saracinesca rang the bell. "Pasquale," he said, addressing the old butler who answered the summons, "that gentleman who is just gone is my cousin, Don Giovanni Saracinesca, who is called Marchese di San Giacinto. He will dine here this evening. You will call him Eccellenza, and treat him as a member of the family. Go and ask the princess if she will receive me." Pasquale opened his mental eyes very wide as he bowed and left the room. He had never heard of this other Saracinesca, and the appearance of a new member of the family upon the scene, who must, from his appearance, have been in existence between thirty and forty years, struck him as astonishing in the extreme; for the old servant had been bred up in the house from a boy and imagined himself master of all the secrets connected with the Saracinesca household. He was, indeed, scarcely less surprised than his master who, although he had been aware for some time past that Giovanni Saracinesca existed and was his cousin, had never anticipated the event of his coming to Rome, and had expected still less that the innkeeper would ever assume the title to which he had a right and play the part of a gentleman, as he himself had expressed it. There was a strange mixture of boldness and foresight in the way the old prince had received his new relation. He knew the strength of his own position in society, and that the introduction of a humble cousin could not possibly do him harm. At the worst, people might laugh a little among themselves and remark that the Marchese must be a nuisance to the Saracinesca. On the other hand, the prince was struck from the first with the air of self-possession which he discerned in San Giacinto, and foresaw that the man would very probably play a part in Roman life. He was a man who might be disliked, but who could not be despised; and since his claims to consideration were undeniably genuine, it seemed wiser to accept him from the first as a member of the family and unhesitatingly to treat him as such. After all, he demanded nothing to which he had not a clear right from the moment he announced his intention of taking his place in the world, and it was certainly far wiser to receive him cordially at once, than to draw back from acknowledging the relationship because he had been brought up in another sphere. This was the substance of what Prince Saracinesca communicated to his daughter-in-law a few minutes later. She listened patiently to all he had to say, only asking a question now and then in order to understand more clearly what had happened. She was curious to see the man whose name had once been so strangely confounded with her husband's by the machinations of the Conte Del Ferice and Donna Tullia Mayer, and she frankly confessed her curiosity and her satisfaction at the prospect of meeting San Giacinto that evening. While she was talking with the prince, Giovanni unexpectedly returned from his walk. He had turned homewards as soon as he had sent the military surgeon to Gouache. "Well, Giovannino," cried the old gentleman, "the prodigal innkeeper has returned to the bosom of the family." "What innkeeper?" "Your worthy namesake, and cousin, Giovanni Saracinesca, formerly of Aquila." "Does Madame Mayer want to prove that it is he who has married Corona?" inquired Sant 'Ilario with a laugh. "No, though I suppose he is a candidate for marriage. I never was more surprised in my life. His wife is dead. He is rich, or says he is. He has his card printed in full, 'Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto,' in the most correct manner. He wears an excellent coat, and announces his intention of being presented to the Pope and introduced to Roman society." Sant' Ilario stared incredulously at his father, and then looked inquiringly at his wife as though to ask if it were not all a jest. When he was assured that the facts were true he looked grave and slowly stroked his pointed black beard, a gesture which was very unusual with him, and always accompanied the deepest meditation. "There is nothing to be done but to receive him into the family," he said at last. "But I do not wholly believe in his good intentions. We shall see. I shall be glad to make his acquaintance." "He is coming to dinner." The conversation continued for some time and the arrival of San Giacinto was discussed in all its bearings. Corona took a very practical view of the question, and said that it was certainly best to treat him well, thereby relieving her father-in-law of a considerable anxiety. He had indeed feared lest she should resent the introduction of a man who might reasonably be supposed to have retained a certain coarseness of manner from his early surroundings, and he knew that her consent was all-important in such a case, since she was virtually the mistress of the house. But Corona regarded the matter in much the same light as the old gentleman himself, feeling that nothing of such a nature could possibly injure the imposing position of her husband's family, and taking it for granted that no one who had good blood in his veins could ever behave outrageously. Of all the three, Sant' Ilario was the most silent and thoughtful, for he feared certain consequences from the arrival of this new relation which did not present themselves to the minds of the others, and was resolved to be cautious accordingly, even while appearing to receive San Giacinto with all due cordiality. Later in the day he was alone with his father for a few minutes. "Do you like this fellow?" he asked, abruptly. "No," answered the prince. "Neither do I, though I have not seen him." "We shall see," was the old gentleman's answer. The evening came, and at the appointed hour San Giacinto was announced. Both Corona and her husband were surprised at his imposing appearance, as well as at the dignity and self-possession he displayed. His southern accent was not more noticeable than that of many Neapolitan gentlemen, and his conversation, if neither very brilliant nor very fluent, was not devoid of interest. He talked of the agricultural condition of the new Italy, and old Saracinesca and his son were both interested in the subject. They noticed, too, that during dinner no word escaped him which could give any clue to his former occupation or position, though afterwards, when the servants were not present, he alluded more than once with a frank smile to his experiences as an innkeeper. On the whole, he seemed modest and reserved, yet perfectly self-possessed and conscious of his right to be where he was. Such conduct on the part of such a man did not appear so surprising to the Saracinesca household, as it would have seemed to foreigners. San Giacinto had said that he had an adaptable character, and that adaptability is one of the most noticeable features of the Italian race. It is not necessary to discuss the causes of this peculiarity. They would be incomprehensible to the foreigner at large, who never has any real understanding of Italians. I do not hesitate to say that, without a single exception, every foreigner, poet or prose-writer, who has treated of these people has more or less grossly misunderstood them. That is a sweeping statement, when it is considered that few men of the highest genius in our century have not at one time or another set down upon paper their several estimates of the Italian race. The requisite for accurately describing people, however, is not genius, but knowledge of the subject. The poet commonly sees himself in others, and the modern writer upon Italy is apt to believe that he can see others in himself. The reflection of an Italian upon the mental retina of the foreigner is as deceptive as his own outward image is when seen upon the polished surface of a concave mirror; and indeed the character studies of many great men, when the subject is taken from a race not their own, remind one very forcibly of what may be seen by contemplating oneself in the bowl of a bright silver spoon. To understand Italians a man must have been born and bred among them; and even then the harder, fiercer instinct, which dwells in northern blood, may deceive the student and lead him far astray. The Italian is an exceedingly simple creature, and is apt to share the opinion of the ostrich, who ducks his head and believes his whole body is hidden. Foreigners use strong language concerning the Italian lie; but this only proves how extremely transparent the deception is. It is indeed a singular fact, but one which may often be observed, that two Italians who lie systematically will frequently believe each other, to their own ruin, with a childlike faith rarely found north of the Alps. This seems to me to prove that their dishonesty has outgrown their indolent intelligence; and indeed they deceive themselves nearly as often as they succeed in deceiving their neighbours. In a country where a lie easily finds credence, lying is not likely to be elevated to the rank of a fine art. I have often wondered how such men as Cesare Borgia succeeded in entrapping their enemies by snares which a modern northerner would detect from the first and laugh to scorn as mere child's play. There is an extraordinary readiness in Italians to fit themselves and their lives to circumstances whenever they can save themselves trouble by doing so. Their constitutions are convenient to this end, for they are temperate in most things and do not easily fall into habits which they cannot change at will. The desire to avoid trouble makes them the most courteous among nations; and they are singularly obliging to strangers when, by conferring an obligation, they are able to make an acquaintance who will help them to pass an idle hour in agreeable conversation. They are equally surprised, whether a stranger suspects them of making advances for the sake of extracting money from him, or expresses resentment at having been fraudulently induced to part with any cash. The beggar in the street howls like a madman if you refuse an alms, and calls you an idiot to his fellow-mendicant if you give him five centimes. The servant says in his heart that his foreign employer is a fool, and sheds tears of rage and mortification when his shallow devices for petty cheating are discovered. And yet the servant, the beggar, the shopkeeper, and the gentleman, are obliging sometimes almost to philanthropy, and are ever ready to make themselves agreeable. The Marchese di San Giacinto differed from his relations, the Saracinesca princes, in that he was a full-blooded Italian, and not the result of a cosmopolitan race-fusion, like so many of the Roman nobles. He had not the Roman traditions, but, on the other hand, he had his full share of the national characteristics, together with something individual which lifted him above the common herd in point of intelligence and in strength. He was a noticeable man; all the more so because, with many pleasant qualities, his countrymen rarely possess that physical and mental combination of size, energy, and reserve, which inspires the sort of respect enjoyed by imposing personages. As he sat talking with the family after dinner on the evening of his first introduction to the household what passed in his mind and in the minds of his hosts can be easily stated. Sant' Ilario, whose ideas were more clear upon most subjects than those of his father or his wife, said to himself that he did not like the man; that he suspected him, and believed he had some hidden intention in coming to Rome; that it would be wise to watch him perpetually and to question everything he did; but that he was undeniably a relation, possessing every right to consideration, and entitled to be treated with a certain familiarity; that, finally and on the whole, he was a nuisance, to be borne with a good grace and a sufficient show of cordiality. San Giacinto, for his part, was deeply engaged in maintaining the exact standard of manners which he knew to be necessary for the occasion, and his thoughts concerning his relatives were not yet altogether defined. It was his intention to take his place among them, and he was doing his best to accomplish this object as speedily and quietly as possible. He had not supposed that princes and princesses were in any way different from other human beings except by the accidents of wealth and social position. Master of these two requisites there was no reason why he should not feel as much at home with the Saracinesca as he had felt in the society of the mayor and municipal council of Aquila, who possessed those qualifications also, though in a less degree. The Saracinesca probably thought about most questions very much as he himself did, or if there were any difference in their mode of thinking it was due to Roman prejudice and tradition rather than to any peculiarity inherent in the organisation of the members of the higher aristocracy. If he should find himself in any dilemma owing to his ignorance of social details he would not hesitate to apply to the prince for information, since it was by no means his fault if he had been brought up an innkeeper and was now to be a nobleman. His immediate object was to place himself among his equals, and his next purpose was to marry again, in his new rank, a woman of good position and fortune. Of this matter he intended to speak to the prince in due time, when he should have secured the first requisite to his marriage by establishing himself firmly in society. He meant to apply to the prince, ostensibly as to the head of the family, thereby showing a deference to that dignity, which he supposed would be pleasing to the old gentleman; but he had not forgotten in his calculations the pride which old Saracinesca must naturally feel in his race, and which would probably induce him to take very great pains in finding a suitable wife for San Giacinto rather than permit the latter to contract a discreditable alliance. San Giacinto left the house at half-past nine o'clock, under the pretext of another engagement, for he did not mean to weary his relations with too much of his company in the first instance. When he was gone the three looked at each other in silence for some moments. "He has surprisingly good manners, for an innkeeper," said Corona at last. "No one will ever suspect his former life. But I do not like him." "Nor I," said the prince. "He wants something," said Sant' Ilario. "And he will probably get it," he added, after a short pause. "He has a determined face." CHAPTER IV. Anastase Gouache recovered rapidly from his injuries, but not so quickly as he wished. There was trouble in the air, and many of his comrades were already gone to the frontier where the skirmishing with the irregular volunteers of Garibaldi's guerilla force had now begun in earnest. To be confined to the city at such a time was inexpressibly irksome to the gallant young Frenchman, who had a genuine love of fighting in him, and longed for the first sensation of danger and the first shower of whistling bullets. But his inactivity was inevitable, and he was obliged to submit with the best grace he could, hoping only that all might not be over before he was well enough to tramp out and see some service with his companions-in-arms. The situation was indeed urgent. The first article of the famous convention between France and Italy, ratified in September, 1864, read as follows:-- "Italy engages not to attack the actual territory of the Holy Father, and to prevent, even by force, all attack coming from outside against such territory." Relying upon the observance of this chief clause, France had conscientiously executed the condition imposed by the second article, which provided that all French troops should be withdrawn from the States of the Church. The promise of Italy to prevent invasion by force applied to Garibaldi and his volunteers. Accordingly, on the 24th of September, 1867, the Italian Government issued a proclamation against the band and its proceedings, and arrested Garibaldi at Sinalunga, in the neighbourhood of Arezzo. This was the only force employed, and it may be believed that the Italian Government firmly expected that the volunteers would disperse as soon as they found themselves without a leader; and had proper measures been taken for keeping the general in custody this would in all probability have followed very shortly, as his sons, who were left at large, did not possess any of their father's qualifications for leadership. Garibaldi, however, escaped eighteen days later, and again joined his band, which had meanwhile been defeated by the Pope's troops in a few small engagements, and had gained one or two equally insignificant advantages over the latter. As soon as it was known that Garibaldi was again at large, a simultaneous movement began, the numerous Garibaldian emissaries who had arrived in Rome stirring up an attempt at insurrection within the city, while Garibaldi himself made a bold dash and seized Monte Rotondo, another force at the same time striking at Sutbiaco, which, by a strange ignorance of the mountains, Garibaldi appears to have believed to be the southern key to the Campagna. In consequence of the protestations of the French minister to the court of Italy, and perhaps, too, in consequence of the approach of a large body of French troops by sea, the Italian Government again issued a proclamation against Garibaldi, who, however, remained in his strong position at Monte Rotondo. Finally, on the 30th of October, the day on which the French troops re-entered Rome, the Italians made a show of interfering in the Pope's favour, General Menatiea authorising the Italian forces to enter the Papal States in order to maintain order. They did not, however, do more than make a short advance, and no active measures were taken, but Garibaldi was routed on the 3d and 4th of November by the Papal forces, and his band being dispersed the incident was at an end. But for the armed intervention of France the result would have been that which actually came about in 1870, when, the same Convention being still valid, the French were prevented by their own disasters from sending a force to the assistance of the Pope. It is not yet time to discuss the question of the annexation of the States of the Church to the kingdom of Italy. It is sufficient to have shown that the movement of 1867 took place without any actual violation of the letter of the Convention. The spirit in which the Italian Government acted might be criticised at length. It is sufficient however to notice that the Italian Government was, as it still is, a parliamentary one; and to add that parliamentary government, in general, exhibits its weakest side in the emergency of war, as its greatest advantages are best appreciated in times of peace. In the Italian Parliament of that day, as in that of the present time, there was a preponderance of representatives who considered Rome to be the natural capital of the country, and who were as ready to trample upon treaties for the accomplishment of what they believed a righteous end, as most parliaments have everywhere shown themselves in similar circumstances. That majority differed widely, indeed, in opinion from Garibaldi and Mazzini, but they conceived that they had a right to take full advantage of any revolution the latter chanced to bring about, and that it was their duty to their country to direct the stream of disorder into channel which should lead to the aggrandisement of Italy, by making use of Italy's standing army. The defenders of the Papal States found themselves face to face, not with any organised and disciplined force, but with a horde of brutal ruffians and half-grown lads, desperate in that delight of unbridled license which has such attractions for the mob in all countries; and all alike, Zouaves, native troops and Frenchmen, were incensed to the highest degree by the conduct of their enemies. It would be absurd to make the Italian Government responsible for the atrocious defiling of churches, the pillage and the shocking crimes of all sorts, which marked the advance or retreat of the Garibaldians; but it is equally absurd to deny that a majority of the Italians regarded these doings as a means to a very desirable end, and, if they had not been hindered by the French, would have marched a couple of army corps in excellent order to the gates of Rome through the channel opened by a mob of lawless insurgents. Anastase Gouache was disgusted with his state of forced inaction as he paced the crowded pavement of the Corso every afternoon for three weeks after his accident, smoking endless cigarettes, and cursing the fate which kept him an invalid at home when his fellow-soldiers were enjoying themselves amidst the smell of gunpowder and the adventures of frontier skirmishing. It was indeed bad luck, he thought, to have worn the uniform during nearly two years of perfect health and then to be disabled just when the fighting began. He had one consolation, however, in the midst of his annoyance, and he made the most of it. He had been fascinated by Donna Faustina Montevarchi's brown eyes, and for lack of any other interest upon which to expend his energy he had so well employed his time that he was now very seriously in love with that young lady. Among her numerous attractions was one which had a powerful influence on the young artist, namely, the fact that she was, according to all human calculations, absolutely beyond his reach. Nothing had more charm for Gouache, as for many gifted and energetic young men, than that which it must require a desperate effort to get, if it could be got at all. Frenchmen, as well as Italians, consider marriage so much in the light of a mere contract which must be settled between notaries and ratified by parental assent, that to love a young girl seems to them like an episode out of a fairy tale, enchantingly novel and altogether delightful. To us, who consider love as a usual if not an absolutely necessary preliminary to marriage, this point of view is hardly conceivable; but it is enough to tell a Frenchman that you have married your wife because you loved her, and not because your parents or your circumstances arranged the match for you, to hear him utter the loudest exclamations of genuine surprise and admiration, declaring that his ideal of happiness, which he considers of course as quite unattainable, would be to marry the woman of his affections. The immediate result of a state in which that sort of bliss is considered to be generally beyond the grasp of humanity has been to produce the moral peculiarities of the French novel, of the French play, and of the French household, as it is usually exhibited in books and on the stage. The artist-Zouave was made of determined stuff. It was not for nothing that he had won the great prize which brought him to the Academy in Rome, nor was it out of mere romantic idleness that he had thrown over the feeble conspiracies of Madame Mayer and her set in order to wear a uniform. He had profound convictions, though he was not troubled with any great number of them. Each new one which took hold of him marked an epoch in his young life, and generally proved tenacious in proportion as he had formerly regarded it as absurd; and it was a proof of the sound balance of his mind that the three or four real convictions which he had accumulated during his short life were in no way contradictory to each other. On the contrary, each one seemed closely bound up with the rest, and appeared to bring a fresh energy to that direct action which, with Anastase, was the only possible result of any belief whatsoever. There was therefore a goodly store of logic in his madness, and though, like Childe Harold, he had sighed to many, and at present loved but one, yet he was determined, if it were possible, that this loved one should be his; seeing that to sigh for anything, and not to take it if it could be taken, was the part of a boy and not of a strong man. Moreover, although the social difficulties which lay in his way were an obstacle which would have seemed insurmountable to many, there were two considerations which gave Anastase some hope of ultimate success. In the first place Donna Faustina herself was not indifferent; and, secondly, Anastase was no longer the humble student who had come to Rome some years earlier with nothing but his pension in his pocket and his talent in his fingers. He was certainly not of ancient lineage, but since he had attained that position which enabled him to be received as an equal in the great world, and had by his skill accumulated a portion of that filthy lucre which is the platform whereon society moves and has its exclusive being, he had the advantage of talking to Donna Faustina, wherever he met her, in spite of her father's sixty-four quarterings. Nor did those meetings take place only under the auspices of so much heraldry and blazon, as will presently appear. At that period of the year, and especially during such a time of disturbance, there was no such thing as gaiety possible in Rome. People met quietly in little knots at each other's houses and talked over the state of the country, or walked and drove as usual in the villas and on the Pincio. When society cannot be gay it is very much inclined to grow confidential, to pull a long face, and to say things which, if uttered above a whisper, would be considered extremely shocking, but which, being communicated, augmented, criticised, and passed about quickly without much noise, are considered exceedingly interesting. When every one is supposed to be talking of politics it is very easy for every one to talk scandal, and to construct neighbourly biography of an imaginary character which shall presently become a part of contemporary history. On the whole, society would almost as gladly do this as dance. In those days of which I am speaking, therefore, there were many places where two or three, and sometimes as many as ten, were gathered together in council, ostensibly for the purpose of devising means whereby the Holy Father might overcome his enemies, though they were very often engaged in criticising the indecent haste exhibited by their best friends in yielding to the wiles of Satan. There were several of these rallying points, among which may be chiefly noticed the Palazzo Valdarno, the Palazzo Saracinesca, and the Palazzo Montevarchi. In the first of these three it may be observed in passing that there was a division of opinion, the old people being the most rigid of conservatives, while the children declared as loudly as they dared that they were for Victor Emmanuel and United Italy. The Saracinesca, on the other hand, were firmly united and determined to stand by the existing order of things. Lastly, the Montevarchi all took their opinions from the head of the house, and knew very well that they would submit like sheep to be led whichever way was most agreeable to the old prince. The friends who frequented those various gatherings were of course careful to say whatever was most sure to please their hosts, and after the set speeches were made most of them fell to their usual occupation of talking about each other. Gouache was an old friend of the Saracinesca, and came whenever he pleased; since his accident, too, he had become better acquainted with the Montevarchi, and was always a welcome guest, as he generally brought the latest news of the fighting, as well as the last accounts from France, which he easily got through his friendship with the young attaches of his embassy. It is not surprising therefore that he should have found so many opportunities of meeting Donna Faustina, especially as Corona di Sant' Ilario had taken a great fancy to the young girl and invited her constantly to the house. On the very first occasion when Gouache called upon the Princess Montevarchi in order to express again his thanks for the kindness he had received, he found the room half full of people. Faustina was sitting alone, turning over the pages of a book, and no one seemed to pay any attention to her. After the usual speeches to the hostess Gouache sat down beside her. She raised her brown eyes, recognised him, and smiled faintly. "What a wonderful contrast you are enjoying, Donna Faustina," said the Zouave. "How so? I confess it seems monotonous enough." "I mean that it is a great change for you, from the choir of the Sacro Cuore, from the peace of a convent, to this atmosphere of war." "Yes; I wish I were back again." "You do not like what you have seen of the world, Mademoiselle? It is very natural. If the world were always like this its attraction would not be dangerous. It is the pomps and vanities that are delightful." "I wish they would begin then," answered Donna Faustina with more natural frankness than is generally found in young girls of her education. "But were you not taught by the good sisters that those things are of the devil?" asked Gouache with a smile. "Of course. But Flavia says they are very nice." Gouache imagined that Flavia ought to know, but he thought fit to conceal his conviction. "You mean Donna Flavia, your sister, Mademoiselle?" "Yes." "I suppose you are very fond of her, are you not? It must be very pleasant to have a sister so nearly of one's own age in the world." "She is much older than I, but I think we shall be very good friends." "Your family must be almost as much strangers to you as the rest of the world," observed Gouache. "Of course you have only seen them occasionally for a long time past. You are fond of reading, I see." He made this remark to change the subject, and glanced at the book the young girl still held in her hand. "It is a new book," she said, opening the volume at the title-page. "It is Manon Lescaut. Flavia has read it--it is by the Abbe Prevost. Do you know him?" Gouache did not know whether to laugh or to look grave. "Did your mother give it to you?" he asked. "No, but she says that as it is by an abbe, she supposes it must be very moral. It is true that it has not the imprimatur, but being by a priest it cannot possibly be on the Index." "I do not know," replied Gouache, "Prevost was certainly in holy orders, but I do not know him, as he died rather more than a hundred years ago. You see the book is not new." "Oh!" exclaimed Donna Faustina, "I thought it was. Why do you laugh? Am I very ignorant not to know all about it?" "No, indeed. Only, you will pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I offer a suggestion. You see I am French and know a little about these matters. You will permit me?" Faustina opened her brown eyes very wide, and nodded gravely. "If I were you, I would not read that book yet. You are too young." "You seem to forget that I am eighteen years old, Monsieur Gouache." "No, not at all. But five and twenty is a better age to read such books. Believe me," he added seriously, "that story is not meant for you." Faustina looked at him for a few seconds and then laid the volume on the table, pushing it away from her with a puzzled air. Gouache was inwardly much amused at the idea of finding himself the moral preceptor of a young girl he scarcely knew, in the house of her parents, who passed for the most strait-laced of their kind. A feeling of deep resentment against Flavia, however, began to rise beneath his first sensation of surprise. "What are books for?" asked Donna Faustina, with a little sigh. "The good ones are dreadfully dull, and it is wrong to read the amusing ones--until one is married. I wonder why?" Gouache did not find any immediate answer and might have been seriously embarrassed had not Giovanni Sant' Ilario come up just then. Gouache rose to relinquish his seat to the newcomer, and as he passed before the table deftly turned over the book with his finger so that the title should not be visible. It jarred disagreeably on his sensibilities to think that Giovanni might see a copy of Manon Lescaut lying by the elbow of Donna Faustina Montevarchi. Sant' Ilario did not see the action and probably would not have noticed it if he had. Anastase pondered all that afternoon and part of the next morning over his short conversation, and the only conclusion at which he arrived was that Faustina was the most fascinating girl he had ever met. When he compared the result produced in his mind with his accurate recollection of what had passed between them, he laughed at his haste and called himself a fool for yielding to such nonsensical ideas. The conversation of a young girl, he argued, could only be amusing for a short time. He wondered what he should say at their next meeting, since all such talk, according to his notions, must inevitably consist of commonplaces. And yet at the end of a quarter of an hour of such meditation he found that he was constructing an interview which was anything but dull, at least in his own anticipatory opinion. Meanwhile the first ten days of October passed in comparative quiet. The news of Garibaldi's arrest produced temporary lull in the excitement felt in Rome, although the real struggle was yet to come. People observed to each other that strange faces were to be seen in the streets, but as no one could enter without a proper passport, very little anxiety gained the public mind. Gouache saw Faustina very often during the month that followed his accident. Such good fortune would have been impossible under any other circumstances, but, as has been explained, there were numerous little social confabulations on foot, for people were drawn together by a vague sense of common danger, and the frequent meetings of the handsome Zouave with the youngest of the Montevarchi passed unnoticed in the general stir. The old princess indeed often saw the two together, but partly owing to her English breeding, and partly because Gouache was not in the least eligible or possible as a husband for her daughter, she attached no importance to the acquaintance. The news that Garibaldi was again at large caused great excitement, and every day brought fresh news of small engagements along the frontier. Gouache was not yet quite recovered, though he felt as strong as ever, and applied every day for leave to go to the front. At last, on the 22d of October, the surgeon pronounced him to be completely recovered, and Anastase was ordered to leave the city on the following morning at daybreak. As he mounted the sombre staircase of the Palazzo Saracinesca on the afternoon previous to his departure, the predominant feeling in his breast was great satisfaction and joy at being on the eve of seeing active service, and he himself was surprised at the sharp pang he suffered in the anticipation of bidding farewell to his friends. He knew what friend it was whom he dreaded to leave, and how bitter that parting would be, for which three weeks earlier he could have summoned a neat speech expressing just so much of feeling as should be calculated to raise an interest in the hearer, and prompted by just so much delicate regret as should impart a savour of romance to his march on the next day. It was different now. Donna Faustina was in the room, as he had reason to expect, but it was several minutes before Anastase could summon the determination necessary to go to her side. She was standing near the piano, which faced outwards towards the body of the room, but was screened by a semicircular arrangement of plants, a novel idea lately introduced by Corona, who was weary of the stiff old-fashioned way of setting all the furniture against the wall. Faustina was standing at this point therefore, when Gouache made towards her, having done homage to Corona and to the other ladies in the room. His attention was arrested for a moment by the sight of San Giacinto's gigantic figure. The cousin of the house was standing before Flavia Montevarchi, bending slightly towards her and talking in low tones. His magnificent proportions made him by far the most noticeable person in the room, and it is no wonder that Gouache paused and looked at him, mentally observing that the two would make a fine couple. As he stood still he became aware that Corona herself was at his side. He glanced at her with something of inquiry in his eyes, and was about to speak when she made him a sign to follow her. They sat down together in a deserted corner at the opposite end of the room. "I have something to say to you, Monsieur Gouache," she said, in a low voice, as she settled herself against the cushions. "I do not know that I have any right to speak, except that of a good friend--and of a woman." "I am at your orders, princess." "No, I have no orders to give you. I have only a suggestion to make. I have watched you often during the last month. My advice begins with a question. Do you love her?" Gouache's first instinct was to express the annoyance he felt at this interrogation. He moved quickly and glanced sharply at Corona's velvet eyes. Before the words that were on his lips could be spoken he remembered all the secret reverence and respect he had felt for this woman since he had first known her, he remembered how he had always regarded her as a sort of goddess, a superior being, at once woman and angel, placed far beyond the reach of mortals like himself. His irritation vanished as quickly as it had arisen. But Corona had seen it. "Are you angry?" she asked. "If you knew how I worship you, you would know that I am not," answered Gouache with a strange simplicity. For an instant the princess's deep eyes flashed and a dark blush mounted through her olive skin. She drew back, rather proudly. A delicate, gentle smile played round the soldier's mouth. "Perhaps it is your turn to be angry, Madame," he said, quietly. "But you need not be. I would say it to your husband, as I would say it to you in his presence. I worship you. You are the most beautiful woman in the world, the most nobly good. Everybody knows it, why should I not say it? I wish I were a little child, and that you were my mother. Are you angry still?" Corona was silent, and her eyes grew soft again as she looked kindly at the man beside her. She did not understand him, but she knew that he meant to express something which was not bad. Gouache waited for her to speak. "It was not for that I asked you to come with me," she said at last. "I am glad I said it," replied Gouache. "I am going away to-morrow, and it might never have been said. You asked me if I loved her. I trust you. I say, yes, I do. I am going to say good-bye this afternoon." "I am sorry you love her. Is it serious?" "Absolutely, on my part. Why are you sorry? Is there anything unnatural in it?" "No, on the contrary, it is too natural. Our lives are unnatural. You cannot marry her. It seems brutal to tell you so, but you must know it already." "There was once a little boy in Paris, Madame, who did not have enough to eat every day, nor enough clothes when the north wind blew. But he had a good heart. His name was Anastase Gouache." "My dear friend," said Corona, kindly, "the atmosphere of Casa Montevarchi is colder than the north wind. A man may overcome almost anything more easily than the old-fashioned prejudices of a Roman prince." "You do not forbid me to try?" "Would the prohibition make any difference?" "I am not sure." Gouache paused and looked long at the princess. "No," he said at last, "I am afraid not." "In that case I can only say one thing. You are a man of honour. Do your best not to make her uselessly unhappy. Win her if you can, by any fair means. But she has a heart, and I am very fond of the child. If any harm comes to her I shall hold you responsible. If you love her, think what it would be should she love you and be married to another man." A shade of sadness darkened Corona's brow, as she remembered those terrible months of her own life. Gouache knew what she meant and was silent for a few moments. "I trust you," said she, at last. "And since you are going to-morrow, God bless you. You are going in a good cause." She held out her hand as she rose to leave him, and he bent over it and touched it with his lips, as he would have kissed the hand of his mother. Then, skirting the little assembly of people, Anastase went back towards the piano, in search of Donna Faustina. He found her alone, as young girls are generally to be found in Roman drawing-rooms, unless there are two of them present to sit together. "What have you been talking about with the princess?" asked Donna Faustina when Gouache was seated beside her. "Could you see from here?" asked Gouache instead of answering. "I thought the plants would have hindered you." "I saw you kiss her hand when you got up, and so I supposed that the conversation had been serious." "Less serious than ours must be," replied Anastase, sadly. "I was saying good-bye to her, and now--" "Good-bye? Why--?" Faustina checked herself and looked away to hide her pallor. She felt cold, and a slight shiver passed over her slender figure. "I am going to the front to-morrow morning." There was a long silence, during which the two looked at each other from time to time, neither finding courage to speak. Since Gouache had been in the room it had grown dark, and as yet but one lamp had been brought. The young man's eyes sought those he loved in the dusk, and as his hand stole out it met another, a tender, nervous hand, trembling with emotion. They did not heed what was passing near them. As though their silence were contagious, the conversation died away, and there was a general lull, such as sometimes falls upon an assemblage of people who have been talking for some time. Then, through the deep windows there came up a sound of distant uproar, mingled with occasional sharp detonations, few indeed, but the more noticeable for their rarity. Suddenly the door of the drawing-room burst open, and a servant's voice was heard speaking in a loud key, the coarse accents and terrified tone contrasting strangely with the sounds generally heard in such a place. "Excellency! Excellency! The revolution! Garibaldi is at the gates! The Italians are coming! Madonna! Madonna! The revolution, Eccellenza mia!" The man was mad with fear. Every one spoke at once. Some laughed, thinking the man crazy. Others, who had heard the distant noise from the streets, drew back and looked nervously towards the door. Then Sant' Ilario's clear, strong voice, rang like a clarion through the room. "Bar the gates. Shut the blinds all over the house--it is of no use to let them break good windows. Don't stand there shivering like a fool. It is only a mob." Before he had finished speaking, San Giacinto was calmly bolting the blinds of the drawing-room windows, fastening each one as steadily and securely as he had been wont to put up the shutters of his inn at Aquila in the old days. In the dusky corner by the piano Gouache and Faustina were overlooked in the general confusion. There was no time for reflection, for at the first words of the servant Anastase knew that he must go instantly to his post. Faustina's little hand was still clasped in his, as they both sprang to their feet. Then with a sudden movement he clasped her in his arms and kissed her passionately. "Good-bye--my beloved!" The girl's arms were twined closely about him, and her eyes looked up to his with a wild entreaty. "You are safe here, my darling--good-bye!" "Where are you going?" "To the Serristori barracks. God keep you safe till I come back--good-bye!" "I will go with you," said Faustina, with a strange look of determination in her angelic face. Gouache smiled, even then, at the mad thought which presented itself to the girl's mind. Once more he kissed her, and then, she knew not how, he was gone. Other persons had come near them, shutting the windows rapidly, one after the other, in anticipation of danger from without. With instinctive modesty Faustina withdrew her arms from the young man's neck and shrank back. In that moment he disappeared in the crowd. Faustina stared wildly about her for a few seconds, confused and stunned by the suddenness of what had passed, above all by the thought that the man she loved was gone from her side to meet his death. Then without hesitation she left the room. No one hindered her, for the Saracinesca men were gone to see to the defences of the house, and Corona was already by the cradle of her child. No one noticed the slight figure as it slipped through the door and was gone in the darkness of the unlighted halls. All was confusion and noise and flashing of passing lights as the servants hurried about, trying to obey orders in spite of their terror. Faustina glided like a shadow down the vast staircase, slipped through one of the gates just as the bewildered porter was about to close it, and in a moment was out in the midst of the multitude that thronged the dim streets--a mere child and alone, facing a revolution in the dark. CHAPTER V. Gouache made his way as fast as he could to the bridge of Sant' Angelo, but his progress was constantly impeded by moving crowds--bodies of men, women, and children rushing frantically together at the corners of the streets and then surging onward in the direction of the resultant produced by their combined forces in the shock. There was loud and incoherent screaming of women and shouting of men, out of which occasionally a few words could be distinguished, more often "Viva Pio Nono!" or "Viva la Repubblica!" than anything else. The scene of confusion baffled description. A company of infantry was filing out of the castle of Sant' Angelo on to the bridge, where it was met by a dense multitude of people coming from the opposite direction. A squadron of mounted gendarmes came up from the Borgo Nuovo at the same moment, and half a dozen cabs were jammed in between the opposing masses of the soldiers and the people. The officer at the head of the column of foot-soldiers loudly urged the crowd to make way, and the latter, consisting chiefly of peaceable but terrified citizens, attempted to draw back, while the weight of those behind pushed them on. Gouache, who was in the front of the throng, was allowed to enter the file of infantry, in virtue of his uniform, and attempted to get through and make his way to the opposite bank. But with the best efforts he soon found himself unable to move, the soldiers being wedged together as tightly as the people. Presently the crowd in the piazza seemed to give way and the column began to advance again, bearing Gouache backwards in the direction he had come. He managed to get to the parapet, however, by edging sideways through the packed ranks. "Give me your shoulder, comrade!" he shouted to the man next to him. The fellow braced himself, and in an instant the agile Zouave was on the narrow parapet, running along as nimbly as a cat, and winding himself past the huge statues at every half-dozen steps. He jumped down at the other end and ran for the Borgo Santo Spirito at the top of his speed. The broad space was almost deserted and in three minutes he was before the gates of the barracks, which were situated on the right-hand side of the street, just beyond the College of the Penitentiaries and opposite the church of San Spirito in Sassia. Meanwhile Donna Faustina Montevarchi was alone in the streets. In desperate emergencies young and nervously-organised people most commonly act in accordance with the dictates of the predominant passion by which they are influenced. Very generally that passion is terror, but when it is not, it is almost impossible to calculate the consequences which may follow. When the whole being is dominated by love and by the greatest anxiety for the safety of the person loved, the weakest woman will do deeds which might make a brave man blush for his courage. This was precisely Faustina's case. If any man says that he understands women he is convicted of folly by his own speech, seeing that they are altogether incomprehensible. Of men, it may be sufficient for general purposes to say with David that they are all liars, even though we allow that they may be all curable of the vice of falsehood. Of women, however, there is no general statement which is true. The one is brave to heroism, the next cowardly in a degree fantastically comic. The one is honest, the other faithless; the one contemptible in her narrowness of soul, the next supremely noble in broad truth as the angels in heaven; the one trustful, the other suspicious; this one gentle as a dove, that one grasping and venomous as a strong serpent. The hearts of women are as the streets of a great town--some broad and straight and clean; some dim and narrow and winding; or as the edifices and buildings of that same city, wherein there are holy temples, at which men worship in calm and peace, and dens where men gamble away the souls given them by God against the living death they call pleasure, which is doled out to them by the devil; in which there are quiet dwellings, and noisy places of public gathering, fair palaces and loathsome charnel-houses, where the dead are heaped together, even as our dead sins lie ghastly and unburied in that dark chamber of the soul, whose gates open of their own selves and shall not be sealed while there is life in us to suffer. Dost thou boast that thou knowest the heart of woman? Go to, thou more than fool! The heart of woman containeth all things, good and evil; and knowest thou then all that is? Donna Faustina was no angel. She had not that lofty calmness which we attribute to the angelic character. She was very young, utterly inexperienced and ignorant of the world. The idea which over-towers all other ideas was the first which had taken hold upon her, and under its strength she was like a flower before the wind. She was not naturally of the heroic type either, as Corona d'Astrardente had been, and perhaps was still, capable of sacrifice for the ideal of duty, able to suffer torment rather than debase herself by yielding, strong to stem the torrent of a great passion until she had the right to abandon herself to its mighty flood. Faustina was a younger and a gentler woman, not knowing what she did from the moment her heart began to dictate her actions, willing, above all, to take the suggestion of her soul as a command, and, because she knew no evil, rejoicing in an abandonment which might well have terrified one who knew the world. She already loved Anastase intensely. Under the circumstances of his farewell, the startling effect of the announcement of a revolution, the necessity under which, as a soldier, he found himself of leaving her instantly in order to face a real danger, with his first kiss warm upon her lips, and with the frightful conviction that if he left her it might be the last--under all the emotions brought about by these things, half mad with love and anxiety, it was not altogether wonderful that she acted as she did. She could not have explained it, for the impulse was so instinctive that she did not comprehend it, and the deed followed so quickly upon the thought that there was no time for reflection. She fled from the room and from the palace, out into the street, wholly unconscious of danger, like a creature in a dream. The crowd which had impeded Gouache's progress was already thinning when Faustina reached the pavement. She was born and bred in Rome, and as a child, before the convent days, had been taken to walk many a time in the neighbourhood of Saint Peter's. She knew well enough where the Serristori barracks were situated, and turned at once towards Sant' Angelo. There were still many people about, most of them either hurrying in the direction whence the departing uproar still proceeded, or running homewards to get out of danger. Few noticed her, and for some time no one hindered her progress, though it was a strange sight to see a fair young girl, dressed in the fashion of the time which so completely distinguished her from Roman women of lower station, running at breathless speed through the dusky streets. Suddenly she lost her way. Coming down the Via de' Coronari she turned too soon to the right and found herself in the confusing byways which form a small labyrinth around the church of San Salvatore in Lauro. She had entered a blind alley on the left when she ran against two men, who unexpectedly emerged from one of those underground wine-shops which are numerous in that neighbourhood. They were talking in low and earnest tones, and one of them staggered backward as the young girl rushed upon him in the dark. Instinctively the man grasped her and held her tightly by the arms. "Where are you running to, my beauty?" he asked, as she struggled to get away. "Oh, let me go! let me go!" she cried in agonised tones, twisting her slender wrists in his firm grip. The other man stood by, watching the scene. "Better let her go, Peppino," he said. "Don't you see she is a lady?" "A lady, eh?" echoed the other. "Where are you going to, with that angel's face?" "To the Serristori barrack," answered Faustina, still struggling with all her might. At this announcement both men laughed loudly and glanced quickly at each other. They seemed to think the answer a very good joke. "If that is all, you may go, and the devil accompany you. What say you, Gaetano?" Then they laughed again. "Take that chain and brooch as a ricordo--just for a souvenir," said Gaetano, who then himself tore off the ornaments while the other held Faustina's hands. "You are a pretty girl indeed!" he cried, looking at her pale face in the light of the filthy little red lamp that hung over the low door of the wine-shop. "I never kissed a lady in my life." With that he grasped her delicate chin in his foul hand and bent down, bringing his grimy face close to hers. But this was too much. Though Faustina had hitherto fought with all her natural strength against the ruffians, there was a reserved force, almost superhuman, in her slight frame, which was suddenly roused by the threatened outrage. With a piercing shriek she sprang backwards and dashed herself free, sending the two blackguards reeling into the darkness. Then, like a flash she was gone. By chance she took the right turning and in a moment more found herself in the Via di Tordinona, just opposite the entrance of the Apollo theatre. The torn white handbills on the wall, and the projecting shed over the doors told her where she was. By this time the soldiers who had intercepted Gouache's passage across the bridge, as well as the dense crowd, had disappeared, and Faustina ran like the wind along the pavement it had taken the soldier so long to traverse. Like a flitting bird she sped over the broad space beyond and up the Borgo Nuovo, past the long low hospital, wherein the sick and dying lay in their silence, tended by the patient Sisters of Mercy, while all was in excitement without. The young girl ran past the corner. A Zouave was running before her towards the gate of the barrack where a sentinel stood motionless under the lamp, his gray hood drawn over his head and his rifle erect by his shoulder. At that instant a terrific explosion rent the air, followed a moment later by the dull crash of falling fragments of masonry, and then by a long thundering, rumbling sound, dreadful to hear, which lasted several minutes, as the ruins continued to fall in, heaps upon heaps, sending immense clouds of thick dust up into the night air. Then all was still. The little piazza before San Spirito in Sassia was half filled with masses of stone and brickwork and crumbling mortar. A young girl lay motionless upon her face at the corner of the hospital, her white hands stretched out towards the man who lay dead but a few feet before her, crushed under a great irregular mound of stones and rubbish. Beneath the central heap where the barracks had stood lay the bodies of the poor Zouaves, deep buried in wreck of the main building, the greater part of which had fallen across the side street that passes between the Penitenzieri and the Serristori. All was still for many minutes, while the soft light streamed from the high windows of the hospital and faintly illuminated some portion of the hideous scene. Very slowly a few stragglers came in sight, then more, and then by degrees a great dark crowd of awestruck people were collected together and stood afar off, fearing to come near, lest the ruins should still continue falling. Presently the door of the hospital opened and a party of men in gray blouses, headed by three or four gentlemen in black coats--one indeed was in his shirt sleeves--emerged into the silent street and went straight towards the scene of the disaster. They carried lanterns and a couple of stretchers such as are used for bearing the wounded. It chanced that the straight line they followed from the door did not lead them to where the girl was lying, and it was not until after a long and nearly fruitless search that they turned back. Two soldiers only, and both dead, could they find to bring back. The rest were buried far beneath, and it would be the work of many hours to extricate the bodies, even with a large force of men. As the little procession turned sadly back, they found that the crowd had advanced cautiously forward and now filled the street. In the foremost rank a little circle stood about a dark object that lay on the ground, curious, but too timid to touch it. "Signor Professore," said one man in a low voice, "there is a dead woman." The physicians came forward and bent over the body. One of them shook his head, as the bright light of the lantern fell on her face while he raised the girl from the ground. "She is a lady," said one of the others in a low voice. The men brought a stretcher and lifted the girl's body gently from the ground, scarcely daring to touch her, and gazing anxiously but yet in wonder at the white face. When she was laid upon the coarse canvas there was a moment's pause. The crowd pressed closely about the hospital men, and the yellow light of the lanterns was reflected on many strange faces, all bent eagerly forward and down to get a last sight of the dead girl's features. "Andiamo," said one of the physicians in a quiet sad voice. The bearers took up the dead Zouaves again, the procession of death entered the gates of the hospital, and the heavy doors closed behind like the portals of a tomb. The crowd closed again and pressed forward to the ruins. A few gendarmes had come up, and very soon a party of labourers was at work clearing away the lighter rubbish under the lurid glare of pitch torches stuck into the crevices and cracks of the rent walls. The devilish deed was done, but by a providential accident its consequences had been less awful than might have been anticipated. Only one-third of the mine had actually exploded, and only thirty Zouaves were at the time within the building. "Did you see her face, Gaetano?" asked a rough fellow of his companion. They stood together in a dark corner a little aloof from the throng of people. "No, but it must have been she. I am glad I have not that sin on my soul." "You are a fool, Gaetano. What is a girl to a couple of hundred soldiers? Besides, if you had held her tight she would not have got here in time to be killed." "Eh--but a girl! The other vagabonds at least, we have despatched in a good cause. Viva la liberta!" "Hush! There are the gendarmes! This way!" So they disappeared into the darkness whence they had come. It was not only in the Borgo Nuovo that there was confusion and consternation. The first signal for the outbreak had been given in the Piazza Colonna, where bombs had been exploded. Attacks were made upon the prisons by bands of those sinister-looking, unknown men, who for several days had been noticed in various parts of the city. A compact mob invaded the capitol, armed with better weapons than mobs generally find ready to their hands. At the Porta San Paolo, which was rightly judged to be one of the weakest points of the city, a furious attack was made from without by a band of Garibaldians who had crept up near the walls in various disguises during the last two days. More than one of the barracks within the city were assaulted simultaneously, and for a short time companies of men paraded the streets, shouting their cries of "Viva Garibaldi, Viva la liberta!" A few cried "Viva Vittorio!" and "Viva l'Italia!" But a calm observer--and there were many such in Rome that night--could easily see that the demonstration was rather in favour of an anarchic republic than of the Italian monarchy. On the whole, the population showed no sympathy with the insurrection. It is enough to say that this tiny revolution broke out at dusk and was entirely quelled before nine o'clock of the same evening. The attempts made were bold and desperate in many cases, but were supported by a small body of men only, the populace taking no active part in what was done. Had a real sympathy existed between the lower classes of Romans and the Garibaldians the result could not have been doubtful, for the vigour and energy displayed by the rioters would inevitably have attracted any similarly disposed crowd to join in a fray, when the weight of a few hundreds more would have turned the scale at any point. There was not a French soldier in the city at the time, and of the Zouaves and native troops a very large part were employed upon the frontier. Rome was saved and restored to order by a handful of soldiers, who were obliged to act at many points simultaneously, and the insignificance of the original movement may be determined from this fact. It is true that of the two infernal schemes, plotted at once to destroy the troops in a body and to strike terror into the inhabitants, one failed in part and the other altogether. If the whole of the gunpowder which Giuseppe Monti and Gaetano Tognetti had placed in the mine under the Serristori barracks had exploded, instead of only one-third of the quantity, a considerable part of the Borgo Nuovo would have been destroyed; and even the disaster which actually occurred would have killed many hundreds of Zouaves if these had chanced to be indoors at the time. But it is impossible to calculate the damage and loss of life which would have been recorded had the castle of Sant' Angelo and the adjacent fortifications been blown into the air. A huge mine had been laid and arranged for firing in the vaults of one of the bastions, but the plot was betrayed at the very last moment by one of the conspirators. I may add that these men, who were tried, and condemned only to penal servitude, were liberated in 1870, three years later, by the Italian Government, on the ground that they were merely political prisoners. The attempt in which they had been engaged would, however, even in time of declared war, have been regarded as a crime against the law of nations. Rome was immediately declared under a state of siege, and patrols of troops began to parade the streets, sending all stragglers whom they met to their homes, on the admirable principle that it is the duty of every man who finds himself in a riotous crowd to leave it instantly unless he can do something towards restoring order. Persons who found themselves in other people's houses, however, had some difficulty in at once returning to their own, and as it has been seen that the disturbance began precisely at the time selected by society for holding its confabulations, there were many who found themselves in that awkward situation. As the sounds in the street subsided, the excitement in the drawing-room at the Palazzo Saracinesca diminished likewise. Several of those present announced their intention of departing at once, but to this the old prince made serious objections. The city was not safe, he said. Carriages might be stopped at any moment, and even if that did not occur, all sorts of accidents might arise from the horses shying at the noises, or running over people in the crowds. He had his own views, and as he was in his own house it was not easy to dispute them. "The gates are shut," he said, with a cheerful laugh, "and none of you can get out at present. As it is nearly dinner-time you must all dine with me. It will not be a banquet, but I can give you something to eat. I hope nobody is gone already." Every one, at these words, looked at everybody else, as though to see whether any one were missing. "I saw Monsieur Gouache go out," said Flavia Montevarchi. "Poor fellow!" exclaimed the princess, her mother. "I hope nothing will happen to him!" She paused a moment and looked anxiously round the room. "Good Heavens!" she cried suddenly, "where is Faustina?" "She must have gone out of the room with my wife," said Sant' Ilario, quietly. "I will go and see." The princess thought this explanation perfectly natural and waited till he should return. He did not come back, however, so soon as might have been expected. He found his wife just leaving the nursery. Her first impulse had been to go to the child, and having satisfied herself that he had not been carried off by a band of Garibaldians but was sound asleep in his cradle, she was about to rejoin her guests. "Where is Faustina Montevarchi?" asked Giovanni, as though it were the most natural question in the world. "Faustina?" repeated Corona. "In the drawing-room, to be sure. I have not seen her." "She is not there," said Sant' Ilario, in a more anxious tone. "I thought she had come here with you." "She must be with the rest. You have overlooked her in the crowd. Come back with me and see your son--he does not seem to mind revolution in the least!" Giovanni, who had no real doubt but that Faustina was in the house, entered the nursery with his wife, and they stood together by the child's cradle. "Is he not beautiful?" exclaimed Corona, passing her arm affectionately through her husband's, and leaning her cheek on his shoulder. "He is a fine baby," replied Giovanni, his voice expressing more satisfaction than his words. "He will look like my father when he grows up." "I would rather he should look like you," said Corona. "If he could look like you, dear, there would be some use in wishing." Then they both gazed for some seconds at the swarthy little boy, who lay on his pillows, his arms thrown back above his head and his two little fists tightly clenched. The rich blood softly coloured the child's dark cheeks, and the black lashes, already long, like his mother's, gave a singularly expressive look to the small face. Giovanni tenderly kissed his wife and then they softly left the room. As soon as they were outside Sant' Ilario's thoughts returned to Faustina. "She was certainly not in the drawing-room," he said, "I am quite sure. It was her mother who asked for her and everybody heard the question. I dare not go back without her." They stopped together in the corridor, looking at each other with grave faces. "This is very serious," said Corona. "We must search the house. Send the men. I will tell the women. We will meet at the head of the stairs." Five minutes later, Giovanni returned in pursuit of his wife. "She has left the house," he said, breathlessly. "The porter saw her go out." "Good Heavens! Why did he not stop her?" cried Corona. "Because he is a fool!" answered Sant' Ilario, very pale in his anxiety. "She must have lost her head and gone home. I will tell her mother." When it was known in the drawing-room that Donna Faustina Montevarchi had left the palace alone and on foot every one was horrorstruck. The princess turned as white as death, though she was usually very red in the face. She was a brave woman, however, and did not waste words. "I must go home at once," said she. "Please order my carriage and have the gates opened." Giovanni obeyed silently, and a few minutes later the princess was descending the stairs, accompanied by Flavia, who was silent, a phenomenon seldom to be recorded in connection with that vivacious young lady. Giovanni went also, and his cousin, San Giacinto. "If you will permit me, princess, I will go with you," said the latter as they all reached the carriage. "I may be of some use." Just as they rolled out of the deep archway, the explosion of the barracks rent the air, the tremendous crash thundering and echoing through the city. The panes of the carriage-windows rattled as though they would break, and all Rome was silent while one might count a score. Then the horses plunged wildly in the traces and the vehicle struck heavily against one of the stone pillars which stood before the entrance of the palace. The four persons inside could hear the coachman shouting. "Drive on!" cried San Giacinto, thrusting his head out of the window. "Eccellenza--" began the man in a tone of expostulation. "Drive on!" shouted San Giacinto, in a voice that made the fellow obey in spite of his terror. He had never heard such a voice before, so deep, so strong and so savage. They reached the Palazzo Montevarchi without encountering any serious obstacle. In a few minutes they were convinced that Donna Faustina had not been heard of there, and a council was held upon the stairs. Whilst they were deliberating, Prince Montevarchi came out, and with him his eldest son, Bellegra, a handsome man about thirty years old, with blue eyes and a perfectly smooth fair beard. He was more calm than his father, who spoke excitedly, with many gesticulations. "You have lost Faustina!" cried the old man in wild tones. "You have lost Faustina! And in such times as these! Why do you stand there? Oh, my daughter! my daughter! I have so often told you to be careful, Guendalina--move, in the name of God--the child is lost, lost, I tell you! Have you no heart? no feeling? Are you a mother? Signori miei, I am desperate!" And indeed he seemed to be, as he stood wringing his hands, stamping his feet, and vociferating incoherently, while the tears began to flow down his cheeks. "We are going in search of your daughter," said Sant' Ilario. "Pray calm yourself. She will certainly be found." "Perhaps I had better go too," suggested Ascanio Bellegra, rather timidly. But his father threw his arms round him and held him tightly. "Do you think I will lose another child?" he cried. "No, no, no--figlio mio--you shall never go out into the midst of a revolution." Sant' Ilario looked on gravely, though he inwardly despised the poor old man for his weakness. San Giacinto stood against the wall, waiting, with, a grim smile of amusement on his face. He was measuring Ascanio Bellegra with his eye and thought he would not care for his assistance. The princess looked scornfully at her husband and son. "We are losing time," said Sant' Ilario at last to his cousin. "I promise you to bring you your daughter," he added gravely, turning to the princess. Then the two went away together, leaving Prince Montevarchi still lamenting himself to his wife and son. Flavia had taken no part in the conversation, having entered the hall and gone to her room at once. The cousins left the palace together and walked a little way down the street, before either spoke. Then Sant' Ilario stopped short. "Does it strike you that we have undertaken rather a difficult mission?" he asked. "A very difficult one," answered San Giacinto. "Rome is not the largest city in the world, but I have not the slightest idea where to look for that child. She certainly left our house. She certainly has not returned to her own. Between the two, practically, there lies the whole of Rome. I think the best thing to do, will be to go to the police, if any of them can be found." "Or to the Zouaves," said San Giacinto. "Why to the Zouaves? I do not understand you." "You are all so accustomed to being princes that you do not watch each, other. I have done nothing but watch, you all the time. That young lady is in love with Monsieur Gouache." "Really!" exclaimed Sant' Ilario, to whom the idea was as novel and incredible as it could have been to old Montevarchi himself, "really, you must be mistaken. The thing is impossible." "Not at all. That young man took Donna Faustina's hand and held it for some time there by the piano while I was shutting the windows in your drawing-room." San Giacinto did not tell all he had seen. "What?" cried Sant' Ilario. "You are mad--it is impossible!" "On the contrary, I saw it. A moment later Gouache left the room. Donna Faustina must have gone just after him. It is my opinion that she followed him." Before Sant' Ilario could answer, a small patrol of foot-gendarmes came up, and peremptorily ordered the two gentlemen to go home. Sant' Ilario addressed the corporal in charge. He stated his name and that of his cousin. "A lady has been lost," he then said. "She is Donna Faustina Montevarchi--a young lady, very fair and beautiful. She left the Palazzo Saracinesca alone and on foot half an hour ago and has not been heard of. Be good enough to inform the police you meet of this fact and to say that a large reward will be paid to any one who brings her to her father's house--to this palace here." After a few more words the patrol passed on, leaving the two cousins to their own devices. Sant' Ilario was utterly annoyed at the view just presented to him, and could not believe the thing true, though he had no other explanation to offer. "It is of no use to stand here doing nothing," said San Giacinto rather impatiently. "There is another crowd coming, too, and we shall be delayed again. I think we had better separate. I will go one way, and you take the other." "Where will you go?" asked Sant' Ilario. "You do not know your way about---" "As she may be anywhere, we may find her anywhere, so that it is of no importance whether I know the names of the streets or not. You had best think of all the houses to which she might have gone, among her friends. You know them better than I do. I will beat up all the streets between here and your house. When I am tired I will go to your palace." "I am afraid you will not find her," replied Sant' Ilario. "But we must try for the sake of her poor mother." "It is a question of luck," said the other, and they separated at once. San Giacinto turned in the direction of the crowd which was pouring into the street at some distance farther on. As he approached, he heard the name "Serristori" spoken frequently in the hum of voices. "What about the Serristori?" he asked of the first he met. "Have you not heard?" cried the fellow. "It is blown up with gunpowder! There are at least a thousand dead. Half the Borgo Nuovo is destroyed, and they say that the Vatican will go next---" The man would have run on for any length of time, but San Giacinto had heard enough and dived into the first byway he found, intending to escape the throng and make straight for the barracks. He had to ask his way several times, and it was fully a quarter of an hour before he reached the bridge. Thence he easily found the scene of the disaster, and came up to the hospital of Santo Spirito just after the gates had closed behind the bearers of the dead. He mixed with the crowd and asked questions, learning very soon that the first search, made by the people from the hospital, had only brought to light the bodies of two Zouaves and one woman. "And I did not see her," said the man who was speaking, "but they say she was a lady and beautiful as an angel," "Rubbish!" exclaimed another. "She was a little sewing woman who lived in the Borgo Vecchio. And I know it is true because her innamorato was one of the dead Zouaves they picked up." "I don't believe there was any woman at all," said a third. "What should a woman be doing at the barracks?" "She was killed outside," observed the first speaker, a timid old man. "At least, I was told so, but I did not see her." "It was a woman bringing a baby to put into the Rota," [Footnote: The Rota was a revolving box in which foundlings were formerly placed. The box turned round and the infant was taken inside and cared for. It stands at the gate of the Santo Spirito Hospital, and is still visible, though no longer in use.] cried a shrill-voiced washerwoman. "She got the child in and was running away, when the place blew up, and the devil carried her off. And serve her right, for throwing away her baby, poor little thing!" In the light of these various opinions, most of which supported the story that some woman had been carried into the hospital, San Giacinto determined to find out the truth, and boldly rang the bell. A panel was opened in the door, and the porter looked out at the surging crowd. "What do you want?" he inquired roughly, on seeing that admittance had not been asked for a sick or wounded person. "I want to speak with the surgeon in charge," replied San Giacinto. "He is busy," said the man rather doubtfully. "Who are you?" "A friend of one of the persons just killed." "They are dead. You had better wait till morning and come again," suggested the porter. "But I want to be sure that it is my friend who is dead." "Then why do you not give your name? Perhaps you are a Garibaldian. Why should I open?" "I will tell the surgeon my name, if you will call him. There is something for yourself. Tell him I am a Roman prince and must see him for a moment." "I will see if he will come," said the man, shutting the panel in San Giacinto's face. His footsteps echoed along the pavement of the wide hall within. It was long before he came back, and San Giacinto had leisure to reflect upon the situation. He had very little doubt but that the dead woman was no other than Donna Faustina. By a rare chance, or rather in obedience to an irresistible instinct, he had found the object of his search in half an hour, while his cousin was fruitlessly inquiring for the missing girl in the opposite direction. He had been led to the conclusion that she had followed Gouache by what he had seen in the Saracinesca's drawing-room, and by a process of reasoning too simple to suggest itself to an ordinary member of Roman society. What disturbed him most was the thought of the consequences of his discovery, and he resolved to conceal the girl's name and his own if possible. If she were indeed dead, it would be wiser to convey her body to her father's house privately; if she were still alive, secrecy was doubly necessary. In either case it would be utterly impossible to account to the world for the fact that Faustina Montevarchi had been alone in the Borgo Nuovo at such an hour; and San Giacinto had a lively interest in preserving the good reputation of Casa Montevarchi, since he had been meditating for some time past a union with Donna Flavia. At last the panel opened again, and when the porter had satisfied himself that the gentleman was still without, a little door in the heavy gate was cautiously unfastened and San Giacinto went in, bending nearly double to pass under the low entrance. In the great vestibule he was immediately confronted by the surgeon in charge, who was in his shirt sleeves, but had thrown his coat over his shoulders and held it together at the neck to protect himself from the night air. San Giacinto begged him to retire out of hearing of the porter, and the two walked away together. "There was a lady killed just now by the explosion, was there not?" inquired San Giacinto. "She is not dead," replied the surgeon. "Do you know her?" "I think so. Had she anything about her to prove her identity?" "The letter M embroidered on her handkerchief. That is all I know. She has not been here a quarter of an hour. I thought she was dead myself, when we took her up." "She was not under the ruins?" "No. She was struck by some small stone, I fancy. The two Zouaves were half buried, and are quite dead." "May I see them? I know many in the corps. They might be acquaintances." "Certainly. They are close by in the mortuary chamber, unless they have been put in the chapel." The two men entered the grim place, which was dimly lighted by a lantern hanging overhead. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the ghastly details. San Giacinto bent down curiously and looked at the dead men's faces. He knew neither of them, and told the surgeon so. "Will you allow me to see the lady?" he asked. "Pardon me, if I ask a question," said the surgeon, who was a man of middle age, with a red beard and keen grey eyes. "To whom have I the advantage of speaking?" "Signor Professore," replied San Giacinto, "I must tell you that if this is the lady I suppose your patient to be, the honour of one of the greatest families in Rome is concerned, and it is important that strict secrecy should be preserved." "The porter told me that you were a Roman prince," returned the surgeon rather bluntly. "But you speak like a southerner." "I was brought up in Naples. As I was saying, secrecy is very important, and I can assure you that you will earn the gratitude of many by assisting me." "Do you wish to take this lady away at once?" "Heaven forbid! Her mother and sister shall come for her in half an hour." The surgeon thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood staring for a moment or two at the bodies of the Zouaves. "I cannot do it," he said, suddenly looking up at San. Giacinto. "I am master here, and I am responsible. The secret is professional, of course. If I knew you, even by sight, I should not hesitate. As it is, I must ask your name." San Giacinto did not hesitate long, as the surgeon was evidently master of the situation. He took a card from his case and silently handed it to the doctor. The latter took it and read the name, "Don Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto." His face betrayed no emotion, but the belief flashed through his mind that there was no such person in existence. He was one of the leading men in his profession, and knew Prince Saracinesca and Sant' Ilario, but he had never heard of this other Don Giovanni. He knew also that the city was in a state of revolution and that many suspicious persons were likely to gain access to public buildings on false pretences. "Very well," he said quietly. "You are not afraid of dead men, I see. Be good enough to wait a moment here--no one will see you, and you will not be recognised. I will go and see that there is nobody in the way, and you shall have a sight of the young lady." His companion nodded in assent and the surgeon went out through the narrow door. San Giacinto was surprised to hear the heavy key turned in the lock and withdrawn, but immediately accounted for the fact on the theory that the surgeon wished to prevent any one from finding his visitor lest the secret should be divulged. He was not a nervous man, and had no especial horror of being left alone in a mortuary chamber for a few minutes. He looked about him, and saw that the room was high and vaulted. One window alone gave air, and this was ten feet from the floor and heavily ironed. He reflected with a smile that if it pleased the surgeon to leave him there he could not possibly get out. Neither his size nor his phenomenal strength could assist him in the least. There was no furniture in the place. Half a dozen slabs of slate for the bodies were built against the wall, solid and immovable, and the door was of the heaviest oak, thickly studded with huge iron nails. If the dead men had been living prisoners their place of confinement could not have been more strongly contrived. San Giacinto waited a quarter of an hour, and at last, as the surgeon did not return, he sat down upon one of the marble slabs and, being very hungry, consoled himself by lighting a cigar, while he meditated upon the surest means of conveying Donna Faustina to her father's house. At last he began to wonder how long he was to wait. "I should not wonder," he said to himself, "if that long-eared professor had taken me for a revolutionist." He was not far wrong, indeed. The surgeon had despatched a messenger for a couple of gendarmes and had gone about his business in the hospital, knowing very well that it would take some time to find the police while the riot lasted, and congratulating himself upon having caught a prisoner who, if not a revolutionist, was at all events an impostor, since he had a card printed with a false name. CHAPTER VI. The improvised banquet at the Palazzo Saracinesca was not a merry one, but the probable dangers to the city and the disappearance of Faustina Montevarchi furnished matter for plenty of conversation. The majority inclined to the belief that the girl had lost her head and had run home, but as neither Sant' Ilario nor his cousin returned, there was much speculation. The prince said he believed that they had found Faustina at her father's house and had stayed to dinner, whereupon some malicious person remarked that it needed a revolution in Rome to produce hospitality in such a quarter. Dinner was nearly ended when Pasquale, the butler, whispered to the prince that a gendarme wanted to speak with him on very important business. "Bring him here," answered old Saracinesca, aloud. "There is a gendarme outside," he added, addressing his guests, "he will tell us all the news. Shall we have him here?" Every one assented enthusiastically to the proposition, for most of those present were anxious about their houses, not knowing what had taken place during the last two hours. The man was ushered in, and stood at a distance holding his three-cornered hat in his hand, and looking rather sheepish and uncomfortable. "Well?" asked the prince. "What is the matter? We all wish to hear the news." "Excellency," began the soldier, "I must ask many pardons for appearing thus---" Indeed his uniform was more or less disarranged and he looked pale and fatigued. "Never mind your appearance. Speak up," answered old Saracinesca in encouraging tones. "Excellency," said the man, "I must apologise, but there is a gentleman who calls himself Don Giovanni, of your revered name---" "I know there is. He is my son. What about him?" "He is not the Senior Principe di Sant' Ilario, Excellency--he calls himself by another name--Marchese di--di--here is his card, Excellency." "My cousin, San Giacinto, then. What about him, I say?" "Your Excellency has a cousin---" stammered the gendarme. "Well? Is it against the law to have cousins?" cried the prince. "What is the matter with my cousin?" "Dio mio!" exclaimed the soldier in great agitation. "What a combination! Your Excellency's cousin is in the mortuary chamber at Santo Spirito!" "Is he dead?" asked Saracinesca in a lower voice, but starting from his chair. "No," cried the man, "questo e il male! That is the trouble! He is alive and very well!" "Then what the devil is he doing in the mortuary chamber?" roared the prince. "Excellency, I beseech your pardon, I had nothing to do with locking up the Signor Marchese. It was the surgeon, Excellency, who took him for a Garibaldian. He shall be liberated at once---" "I should think so!" answered Saracinesca, savagely. "And what business have your asses of surgeons with gentlemen? My hat, Pasquale. And how on earth came my cousin to be in Santo Spirito?" "Excellency, I know nothing, but I had to do my duty." "And if you know nothing how the devil do you expect to do your duty! I will have you and the surgeon and the whole of Santo Spirito and all the patients, in the Carceri Nuove, safe in prison before morning! My hat, Pasquale, I say!" Some confusion followed, during which the gendarme, who was anxious to escape all responsibility in the matter of San Giacinto's confinement, left the room and descended the grand staircase three steps at a time. Mounting his horse he galloped back through the now deserted streets to the hospital. Within two minutes after his arrival San Giacinto heard the bolt of the heavy lock run back in the socket and the surgeon entered the mortuary chamber. San Giacinto had nearly finished his cigar and was growing impatient, but the doctor made many apologies for his long absence. "An unexpected relapse in a dangerous case, Signor Marchese," he said in explanation. "What would you have? We doctors are at the mercy of nature! Pray forgive my neglect, but I could send no one, as you did not wish to be seen. I locked the door, so that nobody might find you here. Pray come with me, and you shall see the young lady at once." "By all means," replied San Giacinto. "Dead men are poor company, and I am in a hurry." The surgeon led the way to the accident ward and introduced his companion to a small clean room in which a shaded lamp was burning. A Sister of Mercy stood by the white bed, upon which lay a young girl, stretched out at her full length. "You are too late," said the nun very quietly. "She is dead, poor child." San Giacinto uttered a deep exclamation of horror and was at the bedside even before the surgeon. He lifted the fair young creature in his arms and stared at the cold face, holding it to the light. Then with a loud cry of astonishment he laid down his burden. "It is not she, Signor Professore," he said. "I must apologise for the trouble I have given you. Pray accept my best thanks. There is a resemblance, but it is not she." The doctor was somewhat relieved to find himself freed from the responsibility which, as San Giacinto had told him, involved the honour of one of the greatest families in Rome. Before speaking, he satisfied himself that the young woman was really dead. "Death often makes faces look alike which have no resemblance to each other in life," he remarked as he turned away. Then they both left the room, followed at a little distance by the sister who was going to summon the bearers to carry away her late charge. As the two men descended the steps, the sound of loud voices in altercation reached their ears, and as they emerged into the vestibule, they saw old Prince Saracinesca flourishing his stick in dangerous proximity to the head of the porter. The latter had retreated until he stood with his back against the wall. "I will have none of this lying," shouted the irate nobleman. "The Marchese is here--the gendarme told me he was in the mortuary chamber--if he is not produced at once I will break your rascally neck---" The man was protesting as fast and as loud as his assailant threatened him. "Eh! My good cousin!" cried San Giacinto, whose unmistakable voice at once made the prince desist from his attack and turn round. "Do not kill the fellow! I am alive and well, as you see." A short explanation ensued, during which the surgeon was obliged to admit that as San Giacinto had no means of proving any identity he, the doctor in charge, had thought it best to send for the police, in view of the unquiet state of the city. "But what brought you here?" asked old Saracinesca, who was puzzled to account for his cousin's presence in the hospital. San Giacinto had satisfied his curiosity and did not care a pin for the annoyance to which he had been subjected. He was anxious, too, to get away, and having half guessed the surgeon's suspicions was not at all surprised by the revelation concerning the gendarme. "Allow me to thank you again," he said politely, turning to the doctor. "I have no doubt you acted quite rightly. Let us go," he added, addressing the prince. The porter received a coin as consolation money for the abuse he had sustained, and the two cousins found themselves in the street. Saracinesca again asked for an explanation. "Very simple," replied San Giacinto. "Donna Faustina was not at her father's house, so your son and I separated to continue our search. Chancing to find myself here--for I do not know my way about the city--I learnt the news of the explosion, and was told that two Zouaves had been found dead and had been taken into the hospital. Fearing lest one of them might have been Gouache, I succeeded in getting in, when I was locked up with the dead bodies, as you have heard. Gouache, by the bye, was not one of them." "It is outrageous---" began Saracinesca, but his companion did not allow him to proceed. "It is no matter," he said, quickly. "The important thing is to find Donna Faustina. I suppose you have no news of her." "None. Giovanni had not come home when the gendarme appeared." "Then we must continue the search as best we can," said San Giacinto. Thereupon they both got into the prince's cab and drove away. It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of Zouaves crossed the bridge of Sant' Angelo. There had been some sharp fighting at the Porta San Paolo, at the other extremity of Rome, and the men were weary. But rest was not to be expected that night, and the tired soldiers were led back to do sentry duty in the neighbourhood of their quarters. The officer halted the little body in the broad space beyond. "Monsieur Gouache," said the lieutenant, "you will take a corporal's guard and maintain order in the neighbourhood of the barracks--if there is anything left of them," he added with a mournful laugh. Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed themselves behind him. The officer was a good friend of his. "I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Monsieur Gouache?" "Not I, mon lieutenant. It is no matter." "Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour. I will see that you are relieved before morning. Shoulder arms! March!" So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo Nuovo with his men at his heels. Among the number there was the son of a French duke, an English gentleman whose forefathers had marched with the Conqueror as their descendant now marched behind the Parisian artist, a young Swiss doctor of law, a couple of red-headed Irish peasants, and two or three others. When they reached the scene of the late catastrophe the place was deserted. The men who had been set to work at clearing away the rubbish had soon found what a hopeless task they had undertaken; and the news having soon spread that only the regimental musicians were in the barracks at the time, and that these few had been in all probability in the lower story of the building, where the band-room was situated, all attempts at finding the bodies were abandoned until the next day. Gouache and many others had escaped death almost miraculously, for five minutes had not elapsed after they had started at the double-quick for the Porta San Paolo, when the building was blown up. The news had of course been brought to them while they were repulsing the attack upon the gate, but it was not until many hours afterwards that a small detachment could safely be spared to return to their devastated quarters. Gouache himself had been just in time to join his comrades, and with them had seen most of the fighting. He now placed his men at proper distances along the street, and found leisure to reflect upon what had occurred. He was hungry and thirsty, and grimy with gunpowder, but there was evidently no prospect of getting any refreshment. The night, too, was growing cold, and he found it necessary to walk briskly about to keep himself warm. At first he tramped backwards and forwards, some fifty paces each way, but growing weary of the monotonous exercise, he began to scramble about among the heaps of ruins. His quick imagination called up the scene as it must have looked at the moment of the explosion, and then reverted with a sharp pang to the thought of his poor comrades-in-arms who lay crushed to death many feet below the stones on which he trod. Suddenly, as he leaned against a huge block, absorbed in his thoughts, the low wailing of a woman's voice reached his ears. The sound proceeded apparently from no great distance, but the tone was very soft and low. Gradually, as he listened, he thought he distinguished words, but such words as he had not expected to hear, though they expressed his own feeling well enough. "Requiem eternam dona eis!" It was quite distinct, and the accents sounded strangely familiar. He held his breath and strained every faculty to catch the sounds. "Requiem sempiternam--sempiternam--sempiternam!" The despairing tones trembled at the third repetition, and then the voice broke into passionate sobbing. Anastase did not wait for more. At first he had half believed that what he heard was due to his imagination, but the sudden weeping left no doubt that it was real. Cautiously he made his way amongst the ruins, until he stopped short in amazement not unmingled with horror. In an angle where a part of the walls was still standing, a woman was on her knees, her hands stretched wildly out before her, her darkly-clad figure faintly revealed by the beams of the waning moon. The covering had fallen back from her head upon her shoulders, and the struggling rays fell upon her beautiful features, marking their angelic outline with delicate light. Still Anastase remained motionless, scarcely believing his eyes, and yet knowing that lovely face too well not to believe. It was Donna Faustina Montevarchi who knelt there at midnight, alone, repeating the solemn words from the mass for the dead; it was for him that she wept, and he knew it. Standing there upon the common grave of his comrades, a wild joy filled the young man's heart, a joy such as must be felt to be known, for it passes the power of earthly words to tell it. In that dim and ghastly place the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at noonday in a fair country; the crumbling masonry and blocks of broken stone grew more lovely than the loveliest flowers, and from the dark figure of that lonely heart-broken woman the man who loved her saw a radiance proceeding which overflowed and made bright at once his eyes and his heart. In the intensity of his emotion, the hand which lay upon the fallen stone contracted suddenly and broke off a fragment of the loosened mortar. At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head. Her eyes were wide and wild, and as she started to her feet she uttered a short, sharp cry, and staggered backward against the wall. In a moment Anastase was at her side, supporting her and looking into her face. "Faustina!" During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and silent upon him, stiffening herself and holding her face away from his. It was as though his ghost had risen out of the earth and embraced her. Then the wild look shivered like a mask and vanished, her features softened and the colour rose to her cheeks for an instant. Very slowly she drew him towards her, her eyes fixed on his; their lips met in a long, sweet kiss--then her strength forsook her and she swooned away in his arms. Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning against the wall, and then knelt down by her side. He did not know what to do, and had he known, it would have availed him little. His instinct told him that she would presently recover consciousness and his emotions had so wholly overcome him that he could only look at her lovely face as her head rested upon his arm. But while he waited a great fear began to steal into his heart. He asked himself how Faustina had come to such a place, and how her coming was to be accounted for. It was long past midnight, now, and he guessed what trouble and anxiety there would be in her father's house until she was found. He represented to himself in quick succession the scenes which would follow his appearance at the Palazzo Montevarchi with the youngest daughter of the family in his arms--or in a cab, and he confessed to himself that never lover had been in such straits. Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head softly on his breast, sighing again, in the happy consciousness that he was safe, and then at last she sat up and looked him in the face. "I was so sure you were killed," said she, in her soft voice. "My darling!" he exclaimed, pressing her to his side. "Are you not glad to be alive?" she asked. "For my sake, at least! You do not know what I have suffered." Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting all the unheard-of difficulties of his situation in the happiness of holding her in his arms. His silence, indeed, was more eloquent than any words could have been. "My beloved!" he said at last, "how could you run such risks for me? Do you think I am worthy of so much love? And yet, if loving you can make me worthy of you, I am the most deserving man that ever lived--and I live only for you. But for you I might as well be buried under our feet here with my poor comrades. But tell me, Faustina, were you not afraid to come? How long have you been here? It is very late--it is almost morning." "Is it? What does it matter, since you are safe? You ask how I came? Did I not tell you I would follow you? Why did you run on without me? I ran here very quickly, and just as I saw the gates of the barracks there was a terrible noise and I was thrown down, I cannot tell how. Soon I got to my feet and crept under a doorway. I suppose I must have fainted, for I thought you were killed. I saw a soldier before me, just when it happened, and he must have been struck. I took him for you. When I came to myself there were so many people in the street that I could not move from where I was. Then they went away, and I came here while the workmen tried to move the stones, and I watched them and begged them to go on, but they would not, and I had nothing to give them, so they went away too, and I knew that I should have to wait until to-morrow to find you--for I would have waited--no one should have dragged me away--ah! my darling--my beloved! What does anything matter now that you are safe!" For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, both knowing that the situation could not last, but neither willing to speak the word which must end it. Gouache, indeed, was in a twofold difficulty. Not only was he wholly at a loss for a means of introducing Faustina into her father's house unobserved at such an hour; he was in command of the men stationed in the neighbourhood, and to leave his post under any circumstances whatever would be a very grave breach of duty. He could neither allow Faustina to return alone, nor could he accompany her. He could not send one of his men for a friend to help him, since to take any one into his confidence was to ruin the girl's reputation in the eyes of all Rome. To find a cab at that time of night was almost out of the question. The position seemed desperate. Faustina, too, was a mere child, and it was impossible to explain to her the social consequences of her being discovered with him. "I think, perhaps," said she after a happy silence, and in rather a timid voice--"I think, perhaps, you had better take me home now. They will be anxious, you know," she added, as though fearing that he should suspect her of wishing to leave him. "Yes, I must take you home," answered Gouache, somewhat absently. To her his tone sounded cold. "Are you angry, because I want to go?" asked the young girl, looking lovingly into his face. "Angry? No indeed, darling! I ought to have taken you home at once--but I was too happy to think of it. Of course your people must be terribly anxious, and the question is how to manage your entrance. Can you get into the house unseen? Is there any way? Any small door that is open?" "We can wake the porter," said Faustina, simply. "He will let us in." "It would not do. How can I go to your father and tell him that I found you here? Besides, the porter knows me." "Well, if he does, what does it matter?" "He would talk about it to other servants, and all Rome would know it to-morrow. You must go home with a woman, and to do that we must find some one you know. It would be a terrible injury to you to have such a story repeated abroad." "Why?" To this innocent question Gouache did not find a ready answer. He smiled quietly and pressed her to his side more closely. "The world is a very bad place, dearest. I am a man and know it. You must trust me to do what is best. Will you?" "How can you ask? I will always trust you." "Then I will tell you what we will do. You must go home with the Princess Sant' Ilario." "With Corona? But--" "She knows that I love you, and she is the only woman in Rome whom I would trust. Do not be surprised. She asked me if it was true, and I said it was. I am on duty here, and you must wait for me while I make the rounds of my sentries--it will not take five minutes. Then I will take you to the Palazzo Saracinesca. I shall not be missed here for an hour." "I will do whatever you wish," said Faustina. "Perhaps that is best. But I am afraid everybody will be asleep. Is it not very late?" "I will wake them up if they are sleeping." He left her to make his round and soon assured himself that his men were not napping. Then before he returned he stopped at the corner of a street and by the feeble moonlight scratched a few words on a leaf from his notebook. "Madame," he wrote, "I have found Donna Faustina Montevarchi, who had lost her way. It is absolutely necessary that you should accompany her to her father's house. You are the only person whom I can trust. I am at your gate. Bring something in the way of a cloak to disguise her with." He signed his initials and folded the paper, slipping it into his pocket where he could readily find it. Then he went back to the place where Faustina was waiting. He helped her out of the ruins, and passing through a side street so as to avoid the sentinels, they made their way rapidly to the bridge. The sentry challenged Gouache who gave the word at once and was allowed to pass on with his charge. In less than a quarter of an hour they were at the Palazzo Saracinesca. Gouache made Faustina stand in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite side of the street and advanced to the great doors. A ray of light which passed through the crack of a shutter behind the heavy iron grating on one side of the arch showed that the porter was up. Anastase drew his bayonet from his side and tapped with its point against the high window. "Who is there?" asked the porter, thrusting his head out. "Is the Principe di Sant' Ilario still awake?" asked Gouache. "He is not at home. Heaven knows where he is. What do you want? The princess is sitting up to wait for the prince." "That will do as well," replied Anastase. "I am sent with this note from the Vatican. It needs an immediate answer. Be good enough to say that I was ordered to wait." The explanation satisfied the porter, to whom the sight of a Zouave was just then more agreeable than usual. He put his arm out through the grating and took the paper. "It does not look as though it came from the Vatican," he remarked doubtfully, as he turned the scrap to the light of his lamp. "The cardinal is waiting--make haste!" said Gouache. It struck him that even if the man could read a little, which was not improbable, the initials A. G., being those of Cardinal Antonelli in reversed order would be enough to frighten the fellow and make him move quickly. This, indeed was precisely what occurred. In five minutes the small door in the gate was opened and Gouache saw Corona's tall figure step out into the street. She hesitated a moment when she saw the Zouave alone, and then closed the door with a snap behind her. Gouache bowed quickly and gave her his arm. "Let us be quick," he said, "or the porter will see us. Donna Faustina is under that doorway. You know how grateful I am--there is no time to say it." Corona said nothing but hastened to Faustina's side. The latter put her arms about her friend's neck and kissed her. The princess threw a wide cloak over the young girl's shoulders and drew the hood over her head. "Let us be quick," said Corona, repeating Gouache's words. They walked quickly away in silence, and no one spoke until they leached the Palazzo Montevarchi. Explanations were impossible, and every one was too much absorbed by the danger of the situation to speak of anything else. When they were a few steps from the gate Corona stopped. "You may leave us here," she said coldly, addressing Gouache. "But, princess, I will see you home," protested the latter, somewhat surprised by her tone. "No--I will take a servant back with me. Will you be good enough to leave us?" she asked almost haughtily, as Gouache still lingered. He had no choice but to obey her commands, though for some time he could not explain to himself the cause of the princess's behaviour. "Goodnight, Madame. Good-night, Mademoiselle," he said, quietly. Then with a low bow he turned away and disappeared in the darkness. In five minutes he had reached the bridge, running at the top of his speed, and he regained his post without his absence having been observed. When the two women were alone, Corona laid her hand upon Faustina's shoulder and looked down into the girl's face. "Faustina, my child," she said, "how could you be led into such a wild scrape?" "Why did you treat him so unkindly?" asked the young girl with flashing eyes. "It was cruel and unkind--" "Because he deserved it," answered Corona, with rising anger. "How could he dare--from my house--a mere child like you---" "I do not know what you imagine," said Faustina in a tone of deep resentment. "I followed him to the Serristori barracks, and I fainted when they were blown up. He found me and brought me to you, because he said I could not go back to my father's house with him. If I love him what is that to you?" "It is a great deal to me that he should have got you into this trouble." "He did not. If it is trouble, I got myself into it. Do you love him yourself that you are so angry?" "I!" cried Corona in amazement at the girl's audacity. "Poor Gouache!" she added with a half-scornful, half-pitying laugh. "Come, child! Let us go in. We cannot stand here all night talking. I will tell your mother that you lost your way in our house and were found asleep in a distant room. The lock was jammed, and you could not get out." "I think I will simply tell the truth," answered Faustina. "You will do nothing of the kind," said Corona, sternly. "Do you know what would happen? You would be shut up in a convent by your father for several years, and the world would say that I had favoured your meetings with Monsieur Gouache. This is no trifling matter. You need say nothing. I will give the whole explanation myself, and take the responsibility of the falsehood upon my own shoulders." "I promised him to do as he bid me," replied Faustina. "I suppose he would have me follow your advice, and so I will. Are you still angry, Corona?" "I will try not to be, if you will be sensible." They knocked at the gate and were soon admitted. The whole household was on foot, though it was past one o'clock. It is unnecessary to describe the emotions of Faustina's relations, nor their gratitude to Corona, whose explanation they accepted at once, with a delight which may easily be imagined. "But your porter said he had seen her leave your house," said the Princess Montevarchi, recollecting the detail and anxious to have it explained. "He was mistaken, in his fright," returned Corona, calmly. "It was only my maid, who ran out to see what was the matter and returned soon afterwards." There was nothing more to be said. The old prince and Ascanio Bellegra walked home with Corona, who refused to wait until a carriage could be got ready, on the ground that her husband might have returned from the search and might be anxious at her absence. She left her escort at her door and mounted the steps alone. As she was going up the porter came running after her. "Excellency," he said in low tones, "the Signor Principe came back while you were gone, and I told him that you had received a note from the Vatican and had gone away with the Zouave who brought it. I hope I did right---" "Of course you did," replied Corona. She was a calm woman and not easily thrown off her guard, but as she made her answer she was conscious of an unpleasant sensation wholly new to her. She had never done anything concerning which she had reason to ask herself what Giovanni would think of it. For the first time since her marriage with him she knew that she had something to conceal. How, indeed, was it possible to tell him the story of Faustina's wild doings? Giovanni was a man who knew the world, and had no great belief in its virtues. To tell him what had occurred would be to do Faustina an irreparable injury in his eyes. He would believe his wife, no doubt, but he would tell her that Faustina had deceived her. She cared little what he might think of Gouache, for she herself was incensed against him, believing that he must certainly have used some persuasion to induce Faustina to follow him, mad as the idea seemed. Corona had little time for reflection, however. She could not stand upon the stairs, and as soon as she entered the house she must meet her husband. She made up her mind hurriedly to do what in most cases is extremely dangerous. Giovanni was in her boudoir, pale and anxious. He had forgotten that he had not dined that evening and was smoking a cigarette with short sharp puffs. "Thank God!" he cried, as his wife entered the room. "Where have you been, my darling?" "Giovanni," said Corona, gravely, laying her two hands on his shoulders, "you know you can trust me--do you not?" "As I trust Heaven," he answered, tenderly. "You must trust me now, then," said she. "I cannot tell you where I have been. I will tell you some day, you have my solemn promise. Faustina Montevarchi is with her mother. I took her back, and told them she had followed me from the room, had lost her way in the house, and had accidentally fastened a door which she could not open. You must support the story. You need only say that I told you so, because you were out at the time. I will not lie to you, so I tell you that I invented the story." Sant' Ilario was silent for a few minutes, during which he looked steadily into his wife's eyes, which met his without flinching. "You shall do as you please, Corona," he said at last, returning the cigarette to his lips and still looking at her. "Will you answer me one question?" "If I can without explaining." "That Zouave who brought the message from the Vatican--was he Gouache?" Corona turned her eyes away, annoyed at the demand. To refuse to answer was tantamount to admitting the truth, and she would not lie to her husband. "It was Gouache," she said, after a moment's hesitation. "I thought so," answered Sant' Ilario in a low voice. He moved away, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. "Very well," he continued, "I will remember to tell the story as you told it to me, and I am sure you will tell me the truth some day." "Of course," said Corona. "And I thank you, Giovanni, with my whole heart! There is no one like you, dear." She sat down in a chair beside him as he stood, and taking his hand she pressed it to her lips. She knew well enough what a strange thing she had asked, and she was indeed grateful to him. He stooped down and kissed her forehead. "I will always trust you," he said, softly. "Tell me, dear one, has this matter given you pain? Is it a secret that will trouble you?" "Not now," she answered, frankly. Giovanni was in earnest when he promised to trust his wife. He knew, better than any living man, how well worthy she was of his utmost confidence, and he meant what he said. It must be confessed that the situation was a trying one to a man of his temper, and the depth of his love for Corona can be judged from the readiness with which he consented to her concealing anything from him. Every circumstance connected with what had happened that evening was strange, and the conclusion, instead of elucidating the mystery, only made it more mysterious still. His cousin's point-blank declaration that Faustina and Gouache were in love was startling to all his ideas and prejudices. He had seen Gouache kiss Corona's hand in a corner of the drawing-room, a proceeding which he did not wholly approve, though it was common enough. Then Gouache and Faustina had disappeared. Then Faustina had been found, and to facilitate the finding it had been necessary that Corona and Gouache should leave the palace together at one o'clock in the morning. Finally, Corona had appealed to his confidence in her and had taken advantage of it to refuse any present explanation whatever of her proceedings. Corona was a very noble and true woman, and he had promised to trust her. How far he kept his word will appear hereafter. CHAPTER VII. When San Giacinto heard Corona's explanation of Faustina's disappearance, he said nothing. He did not believe the story in the least, but if every one was satisfied there was no reason why he should not be satisfied also. Though he saw well enough that the tale was a pure invention, and that there was something behind it which was not to be known, the result was, on the whole, exactly what he desired. He received the thanks of the Montevarchi household for his fruitless exertions with a smile of gratification, and congratulated the princess upon the happy issue of the adventure. He made no present attempt to ascertain the real truth by asking questions which would have been hard to answer, for he was delighted that the incident should be explained away and forgotten at once. Donna Faustina's disappearance was of course freely discussed and variously commented, but the general verdict of the world was contrary to San Giacinto's private conclusions. People said that the account given by the family must be true, since it was absurd to suppose that a child just out of the convent could be either so foolish or so courageous as to go out alone at such a moment. No other hypothesis was in the least tenable, and the demonstration offered must be accepted as giving the only solution of the problem. San Giacinto told no one that he thought differently. It was before all things his intention to establish himself firmly in Roman society, and his natural tact told him that the best way to accomplish this was to offend no one, and to endorse without question the opinion of the majority. Moreover, as a part of his plan for assuring his position consisted in marrying Faustina's sister, his interest lay manifestly in protecting the good name of her family by every means in his power. He knew that old Montevarchi passed for being one of the most rigid amongst the stiff company of the strait-laced, and that the prince was as careful of the conduct of his children, as his father had formerly been in regard to his own doings. Ascanio Bellegra was the result of this home education, and already bid fair to follow in his parent's footsteps. Christian virtues are certainly not incompatible with manliness, but the practice of them as maintained by Prince Montevarchi had made his son Ascanio a colourless creature, rather non-bad than good, clothed in a garment of righteousness that fitted him only because his harmless soul had no salient bosses of goodness, any more than it was disfigured by any reprehensible depressions capable of harbouring evil. There is a class of men in certain states of society who are manly, but not masculine. There is nothing paradoxical in the statement, nor is it a mere play upon the meanings of words. There are men of all ages, young, middle-aged, and old, who possess many estimable virtues, who show physical courage wherever it is necessary, who are honourable, strong, industrious, and tenacious of purpose, but who undeniably lack something which belongs to the ideal man, and which, for want of a better word, we call the masculine element. When we shall have microscopes so large and powerful that a human being shall be as transparent under the concentrated light of the lenses as the tiniest insect when placed in one of our modern instruments, then, perhaps, the scientist of the future may discover the causes of this difference. I believe, however, that it does not depend upon the fact of one man having a few ounces more of blood in his veins than another. The fact lies deeper hidden than that, and may puzzle the psychologist as well as the professor of anthropology. For us it exists, and we cannot explain it, but must content ourselves with comparing the phenomena which proceed from these differences of organisation. At the present day the society of the English-speaking races seems to favour the growth of the creature who is only manly but not masculine, whereas outside the pale of that strange little family which calls itself "society" the masculinity of man is more striking than among other races. Not long ago a French journalist said that many of the peculiarities of the English-speaking peoples proceeded from the omnipresence of the young girl, who reads every novel that appears, goes to every theatre, and regulates the tone of conversation and literature by her never-absent innocence. Cynics, if there are still representatives of a school which has grown ridiculous, may believe this if they please; the fact remains that it is precisely the most masculine class of men who show the strongest predilection for the society of the most refined women, and who on the whole show the greatest respect for all women in general. The masculine man prefers the company of the other sex by natural attraction, and would perhaps rather fight with other men, or at least strive to outdo them in the struggle for notoriety, power, or fame, than spend his time in friendly conversation with them, no matter how interesting the topic selected. This point of view may be regarded as uncivilised, but it may be pointed out that it is only in the most civilised countries that the society of women is accessible to all men of their own social position. No one familiar with Eastern countries will pretend that Orientals shut up their women because they enjoy their company so much as to be unwilling to share the privilege with their friends. San Giacinto was pre-eminently a masculine man, as indeed were all the Saracinesca, in a greater or less degree. He understood women instinctively, and, with a very limited experience of the world, knew well enough the strength of their influence. It was characteristic of him that he had determined to marry almost as soon as he had got a footing in Roman society. He saw clearly that if he could unite himself with a powerful family he could exercise a directing power over the women which must ultimately give him all that he needed. Through his cousins he had very soon made the acquaintance of the Montevarchi household, and seeing that there were two marriageable daughters, he profited by the introduction. He would have preferred Faustina, perhaps, but he foresaw that he should find fewer difficulties in obtaining her sister for his wife. The old prince and princess were in despair at seeing her still unmarried, and it was clear that they were not likely to find a better match for her than the Marchese di San Giacinto. He, on his part, knew that his past occupation was a disadvantage to him in the eyes of the world, although he was the undoubted and acknowledged cousin of the Saracinesca, and the only man of the family besides old Leone and his son Sant' Ilario. His two boys, also, were a drawback, since his second wife's children could not inherit the whole of the property he expected to leave. But his position was good, and Flavia was not generally considered to be likely to marry, so that he had good hopes of winning her. It was clear to him from the first that there must be some reason why she had not married, and the somewhat disparaging remarks concerning her which he heard from time to time excited his curiosity. As he had always intended to consult the head of his family upon the matter he now determined to do so at once. He was not willing, indeed, to let matters go any further until he had ascertained the truth concerning her, and he was sure that Prince Saracinesca would tell him everything at the first mention of a proposal to marry her. The old gentleman had too much pride to allow his cousin to make an unfitting match. Accordingly, on the day following the events last narrated San Giacinto called after breakfast and found the prince, as usual, alone in his study. He was not dozing, however, for the accounts of the last night's doings in the Osservatore Romano were very interesting. "I suppose you have heard all about Montevarchi's daughter?" asked Saracinesca, laying his paper aside and giving his hand to San Giacinto. "Yes, and I am delighted at the conclusion of the adventure, especially as I have something to ask you about another member of the family." "I hope Flavia has not disappeared now," remarked the prince. "I trust not," answered San Giacinto with a laugh. "I was going to ask you whether I should have your approval if I proposed to marry her." "This is a very sudden announcement," said Saracinesca with some surprise. "I must think about it. I appreciate your friendly disposition vastly, my dear cousin, in asking my opinion, and I will give the matter my best consideration." "I shall be very grateful," replied the younger man, gravely. "In my position I feel bound to consult you. I should do so in any case for the mere benefit of your advice, which is very needful to one who, like myself, is but a novice in the ways of Rome." Saracinesca looked keenly at his cousin, as though expecting to discover some touch of irony in his tone or expression. He remembered the fierce altercations he had engaged in with Giovanni when he had wished the latter to marry Tullia Mayer, and was astonished to find San Giacinto, over whom he had no real authority at all, so docile and anxious for his counsel. "I suppose you would like to know something about her fortune," he said at last. "Montevarchi is rich, but miserly. He could give her anything he liked." "Of course it is important to know what he would like to give," replied San Giacinto with a smile. "Of course. Very well. There are two daughters already married. They each had a hundred thousand scudi. It is not so bad, after all, when you think what a large family he has--but he could have given more. As for Flavia, he might do something generous for the sake of---" The old gentleman was going to say, for the sake of getting rid of her, and perhaps his cousin thought as much. The prince checked himself, however, and ended his sentence rather awkwardly. "For the sake of getting such a fine fellow for a husband," he said. "Why is she not already married?" inquired San Giacinto with a very slight inclination of his head, as an acknowledgment of the flattering speech whereby the prince had helped himself out of his difficulty. "Who knows!" ejaculated the latter enigmatically. "Is there any story about her? Was she ever engaged to be married? It is rather strange when one thinks of it, for she is a handsome girl. Pray be quite frank--I have taken no steps in the matter." "The fact is that I do not know. She is not like other girls, and as she gives her father and mother some trouble in society, I suppose that young men's fathers have been afraid to ask for her. No. I can assure you that there is no story connected with her. She has a way of stating disagreeable truths that terrifies Montevarchi. She was delicate as a child and was brought up at home, so of course she has no manners." "I should have thought she should have better manners for that," remarked San Giacinto. The prince stared at him in surprise. "We do not think so here," he answered after a moment's pause. "On the whole, I should say that for a hundred and twenty thousand you might marry her, if you are so inclined--and if you can manage her. But that is a matter for you to judge." "The Montevarchi are, I believe, what you call a great family?" "They are not the Savelli, nor the Frangipani--nor the Saracinesca either. But they are a good family--good blood, good fortune, and what Montevarchi calls good principles." "You think I could not do better than marry Donna Flavia, then?" "It would be a good marriage, decidedly. You ought to have married Tullia Mayer. If she had not made a fool of herself and an enemy of me, and if you had turned up two years ago--well, there were a good many objections to her, and stories about her, too. But she was rich--eh! that was a fortune to be snapped up by that scoundrel Del Ferice!" "Del Ferice?" repeated San Giacinto. "The same who tried to prove that your son was married by copying my marriage register?" "The same. I will tell you the rest of the story some day. Then at that time there was Bianca Valdarno--but she married a Neapolitan last year; and the Rocca girl, but Onorato Cantalupo got her and her dowry--Montevarchi's second son--and--well, I see nobody now, except Flavia's sister Faustina. Why not marry her? It is true that her father means to catch young Frangipani, but he will have no such luck, I can tell him, unless he will part with half a million." "Donna Faustina is too young," said San Giacinto, calmly. "Besides, as they are sisters and there is so little choice, I may say that I prefer Donna Flavia, she is more gay, more lively." "Vastly more, I have no doubt, and you will have to look after her, unless you can make her fall in love with you." Saracinesca laughed at the idea. "With me!" exclaimed San Giacinto, joining in his cousin's merriment. "With me, indeed! A sober widower, between thirty and forty! A likely thing! Fortunately there is no question of love in this matter. I think I can answer for her conduct, however." "I would not be the man to raise your jealousy!" remarked Saracinesca, laughing again as he looked admiringly at his cousin's gigantic figure and lean stern face. "You are certainly able to take care of your wife. Besides, I have no doubt that Flavia will change when she is married. She is not a bad girl--only a little too fond of making fun of her father and mother, and after all, as far as the old man is concerned, I do not wonder. There is one point upon which you must satisfy him, though--I am not curious, and do not ask you questions, but I warn you that glad as he will be to marry his daughter, he will want to drive a bargain with you and will inquire about your fortune." San Giacinto was silent for a few moments and seemed to be making a calculation in his head. "Would a fortune equal to what he gives her be sufficient?" he asked at length. "Yes. I fancy so," replied the prince looking rather curiously at his cousin. "You see," he continued, "as you have children by your first marriage, Montevarchi would wish to see Flavia's son provided for, if she has one. That is your affair. I do not want to make suggestions." "I think," said San Giacinto after another short interval of silence, "that I could agree to settle something upon any children which may be born. Do you think some such arrangement would satisfy Prince Montevarchi?" "Certainly, if you can agree about the terms. Such things are often done in these cases." "I am very grateful for your advice. May I count upon your good word with the prince, if he asks your opinion?" "Of course," answered Saracinesca, readily, if not very cordially. He had not at first liked his cousin, and although he had overcome his instinctive aversion to the man, the feeling was momentarily revived with more than its former force by the prospect of being perhaps called upon to guarantee, in a measure, San Giacinto's character as a suitable husband for Flavia. He had gone too far already however, for since he had given his approval to the scheme it would not become him to withhold his cooperation, should his assistance be in any way necessary in order to bring about the marriage. The slight change of tone as he uttered the last words had not escaped San Giacinto, however. His perceptions were naturally quick and were sharpened by the peculiarities of his present position, so that he understood Saracinesca's unwillingness to have a hand in the matter almost better than the prince understood it himself. "I trust that I shall not be obliged to ask your help," remarked San Giacinto. "I was, indeed, more anxious for your goodwill than for any more material aid." "You have it, with all my heart," said Saracinesca warmly, for he was a little ashamed of his coldness. San Giacinto took his leave and went away well satisfied with what he had accomplished, as indeed he had good cause to be. Montevarchi's consent to the marriage was not doubtful, now that San Giacinto was assured that he was able to fulfil the conditions which would be asked, and the knowledge that he was able to do even more than was likely to be required of him gave him additional confidence in the result. To tell the truth, he was strongly attracted by Flavia; and though he would assuredly have fought with his inclination had it appeared to be misplaced, he was pleased with the prospect of marrying a woman who would not only strengthen his position in society, but for whom he knew that he was capable of a sincere attachment. Marriage, according to his light, was before all things a contract entered into for mutual advantage; but he saw no reason why the fulfilment of such a contract should not be made as agreeable as possible. The principal point was yet to be gained, however, and as San Giacinto mounted the steps of the Palazzo Montevarchi he stopped more than once, considering for the last time whether he were doing wisely or not. On the whole he determined to proceed, and made up his mind that he would go straight to the point. Flavia's father was sitting in his study when San Giacinto arrived, and the latter was struck by the contrast between the personalities and the modes of life of his cousin whom he had just left and of the man to whom he was about to propose himself as a son-in-law. The Saracinesca were by no means very luxurious men, but they understood the comforts of existence better than most Romans of that day. If there was massive old-fashioned furniture against the walls and in the corners of the huge rooms, there were on the other hand soft carpets for the feet and cushioned easy-chairs to sit in. There were fires on the hearths when the weather was cold, and modern lamps for the long winter evenings. There were new books on the tables, engravings, photographs, a few objects of value and beauty not jealously locked up in closets, but looking as though they were used, if useful, or at least as if some one derived pleasure from looking at them. The palace itself was a stern old fortress in the midst of the older part of the city, but within there was a genial atmosphere of generous living, and, since Sant' Ilario's marriage with Corona, an air of refinement and good taste such as only a woman can impart to the house in which she dwells. The residence of the Montevarchi was very different. Narrow strips of carpet were stretched in straight lines across cold marble floors, from one door to another. Instead of open fires in the huge chimney-places, pans of lighted charcoal were set in the dim, empty rooms. Half a dozen halls were furnished alike. Each had three marble tables and twelve straight-backed chairs ranged against the walls, the only variety being that some were covered with red damask and some with green. Vast old-fashioned mirrors, set in magnificent frames built into the wall, reflected vistas of emptiness and acres of cold solitude. Nor were the rooms where the family met much better. There were more tables and more straight-backed chairs there than in the outer halls, but that was all. The drawing-room had a carpet, which for many years had been an object of the greatest concern to the prince, who never left Rome for the months of August and September until he had assured himself that this valuable object had been beaten, dusted, peppered, and sewn up in a linen case as old as itself, that is to say, dating from a quarter of a century back. That carpet was an extravagance to which his father had been driven by his English daughter-in-law; it was the only one of which he had ever been guilty, and the present head of the family meant that it should last his lifetime, and longer too, if care could preserve it. The princess herself had been made to remember for five and twenty years that since she had obtained a carpet she must expect nothing else in the way of modern improvements. It was the monument of a stupendous energy which she had expended entirely in that one struggle, and the sight of it reminded her of her youth. Long ago she had submitted once and for ever to the old Roman ways, and though she knew that a very little saved from the expense of maintaining a score of useless servants and a magnificent show equipage would suffice to make at least one room in the house comfortable for her use, she no longer sighed at the reflection, but consoled herself with making her children put up with the inconveniences she herself had borne so long and so patiently. Prince Montevarchi's private room was as comfortless as the rest of the house. Narrow, high, dim, carpetless, insufficiently warmed in winter by a brazier of coals, and at present not warmed at all, though the weather was chilly; furnished shabbily with dusty shelves, a writing-table, and a few chairs with leather seats, musty with an ancient mustiness which seemed to be emitted by the rows of old books and the moth-eaten baize cover of the table--the whole place looked more like the office of a decayed notary than the study of a wealthy nobleman of ancient lineage. The old gentleman himself entered the room a few seconds after San Giacinto had been ushered in, having slipped out to change his coat when his visitor was announced. It was a fixed principle of his life to dress as well as his neighbours when they could see him, but to wear threadbare garments whenever he could do so unobserved. He greeted San Giacinto with a grave dignity which contrasted strangely with the weakness and excitement he had shown on the previous night. "I wish to speak to you upon a delicate subject," began the younger man, after seating himself upon one of the high-backed chairs which cracked ominously under his weight. "I am at your service," replied the old gentleman, inclining his head politely. "I feel," continued San Giacinto, "that although my personal acquaintance with you has unfortunately been of short duration, the familiarity which exists between your family and mine will entitle what I have to say to a share of your consideration. The proposal which I have to make has perhaps been made by others before me and has been rejected. I have the honour to ask of you the hand of your daughter." "Faustina, I suppose?" asked the old prince in an indifferent tone, but looking sharply at his companion out of his small keen eyes. "Pardon me, I refer to Donna Flavia Montevarchi." "Flavia?" repeated the prince, in a tone of unmistakable surprise, which however was instantly moderated to the indifferent key again as he proceeded. "You see, we have been thinking so much about my daughter Faustina since last night that her name came to my lips quite naturally." "Most natural, I am sure," answered San Giacinto; who, however, had understood at once that his suit was to have a hearing. He then remained silent. "You wish to marry Flavia, I understand," remarked the prince after a pause. "I believe you are a widower, Marchese. I have heard that you have children." "Two boys." "Two boys, eh? I congratulate you. Boys, if brought up in Christian principles, are much less troublesome than girls. But, my dear Marchese, these same boys are an obstacle--a very serious obstacle." "Less serious than you may imagine, perhaps. My fortune does not come under the law of primogeniture. There is no fidei commissum. I can dispose of it as I please." "Eh, eh! But there must be a provision," said Montevarchi, growing interested in the subject. "That shall be mutual," replied San Giacinto, gravely. "I suppose you mean to refer to my daughter's portion," returned the other with more indifference. "It is not much, you know--scarcely worth mentioning. I am bound to tell you that, in honour." "We must certainly discuss the matter, if you are inclined to consider my proposal." "Well, you know what young women's dowries are in these days, my dear Marchese. We are none of us very rich." "I will make a proposal," said San Giacinto. "You shall give your daughter a portion. Whatever be the amount, up to a reasonable limit, which you choose to give, I will settle a like sum in such a manner that at my death it shall revert to her, and to her children by me, if she have any." "That amounts merely to settling upon herself the dowry I give her," replied Montevarchi, sharply. "I give you a scudo for your use. You settle my scudo upon your wife, that is all." "Not at all," returned San Giacinto. "I do not wish to have control of her dowry---" "The devil! Oh--I see--how stupid of me--I am indeed so old that I cannot count any more! How could I make such a mistake? Of course, it would be exactly as you say. Of course it would." "It would not be so as a general rule," said San Giacinto, calmly, "because most men would not consent to such an arrangement. That, however, is my proposal." "Oh! For the sake of Flavia, a man would do much, I am sure," answered the prince, who began to think that his visitor was in love with the girl, incredible as such a thing appeared to him. The younger man made no answer to this remark, however, and waited for Montevarchi to state his terms. "How much shall we say?" asked the latter at length. "That shall be for you to decide. Whatever you give I will give, if I am able." "Ah, yes! But how am I to know what you are able to give, dear Marchese?" The prince suspected that San Giacinto's offer, if he could be induced to make one, would not be very large. "Am I to understand," inquired San Giacinto, "that if I name the amount to be settled so that at my death it goes to my wife and her children by me for ever, you will agree to settle a like sum upon Donna Flavia in her own right? If so, I will propose what I think fair." Montevarchi looked keenly at his visitor for some moments, then looked away and hesitated. He was very anxious to marry Flavia at once, and he had many reasons for supposing that San Giacinto was not very rich. "How about the title?" he asked suddenly. "My title, of course, goes to my eldest son by my first marriage. But if you are anxious on that score I think my cousin would willingly confer one of his upon the eldest son of your daughter. It would cost him nothing, and would be a sort of compensation to me for my great-grandfather's folly." "How?" asked Montevarchi. "I do not understand." "I supposed you knew the story. I am the direct descendant of the elder branch. There was an agreement between two brothers of the family, by which the elder resigned the primogeniture in favour of the younger who was then married. The elder, who took the San Giacinto title, married late in life and I am his great-grandson. If he had not acted so foolishly I should be in my cousin's shoes. You see it would be natural for him to let me have some disused title for one of my children in consideration of this fact. He has about a hundred, I believe. You could ask him, if you please." San Giacinto's grave manner assured Montevarchi of the truth of the story. He hesitated a moment longer, and then made up his mind. "I agree to your proposal, my dear Marchese," he said, with unusual blandness of manner. "I will settle one hundred and fifty thousand scudi in the way I stated," said San Giacinto, simply. The prince started from his chair. "One--hundred--and--fifty--thousand!" he repeated slowly. "Why, it is a fortune in itself! Dear me! I had no idea you would name anything so large---" "Seven thousand five hundred scudi a year, at five per cent," remarked the younger man in a businesslike tone. "You give the same. That will insure our children an income of fifteen thousand scudi. It is not colossal, but it should suffice. Besides, I have not said that I would not leave them more, if I chanced to have more to leave." The prince had sunk back into his chair, and sat drumming on the table with his long thin fingers. His face wore an air of mingled surprise and bewilderment. To tell the truth, he had expected that San Giacinto would name about fifty thousand as the sum requisite. He did not know whether to be delighted at the prospect of marrying his daughter so well or angry at the idea of having committed himself to part with so much money. "That is much more than I gave my other daughters," he said at last, in a tone of hesitation. "Did you give the money to them or to their husbands?" inquired San Giacinto. "To their husbands, of course." "Then allow me to point out that you will now be merely settling money in your own family, and that the case is very different. Not only that, but I am settling the same sum upon your family, instead of taking your money for my own use. You are manifestly the gainer by the transaction." "It would be the same, then, if I left Flavia the money at my death, since it remains in the family," suggested the prince, who sought an escape from his bargain. "Not exactly," argued San Giacinto. "First there is the yearly interest until your death, which I trust is yet very distant. And then there is the uncertainty of human affairs. It will be necessary that you invest the money in trust, as I shall do, at the time of signing the contract. Otherwise there would be no fairness in the arrangement." "So you say that you are descended from the elder branch of the Saracinesca. How strange are the ways of Providence, my dear Marchese!" "It was a piece of great folly on the part of my great-grandfather," replied the other, shrugging his shoulders. "You should never say that a man will not marry until he is dead." "Ah no! The ways of heaven are inscrutable! It is not for us poor mortals to attempt to change them. I suppose that agreement of which you speak was made in proper form and quite regular." "I presume so, since no effort was ever made to change the dispositions established by it." "I suppose so--I suppose so, dear Marchese. It would be very interesting to see those papers." "My cousin has them," said San Giacinto. "I daresay he will not object. But, pardon me if I return to a subject which is very near my heart. Do I understand that you consent to the proposal I have made? If so, we might make arrangements for a meeting to take place between our notaries." "One hundred and fifty thousand," said Montevarchi, slowly rubbing his pointed chin with his bony lingers. "Five per cent--seven thousand five hundred--a mint of money, Signor Marchese, a mint of money! And these are hard times. What a rich man you must be, to talk so lightly about such immense sums! Well, well--you are very eloquent, I must consent, and by strict economy I may perhaps succeed in recovering the loss." "You must be aware that it is not really a loss," argued San Giacinto, "since it is to remain with your daughter and her children, and consequently with your family." "Yes, I know. But money is money, my friend," exclaimed the prince, laying his right hand on the old green tablecover and slowly drawing his crooked nails over the cloth, as though he would like to squeeze gold out of the dusty wool. There was something almost fierce in his tone, too, as he uttered the words, and his small eyes glittered unpleasantly. He knew well enough that he was making a good bargain and that San Giacinto was a better match than he had ever hoped to get for Flavia. So anxious was he, indeed, to secure the prize that he entirely abstained from asking any questions concerning San Giacinto's past life, whereby some obstacle might have been raised to the intended marriage. He promised himself that the wedding should take place at once. "It is understood," he continued, after a pause, "that we or our notaries shall appear with the money in cash, and that it shall be immediately invested as we shall jointly decide, the settlements being made at the same time and on the spot." "Precisely so," replied San Giacinto. "No money, no contract." "In that case I will inform my daughter of my decision." "I shall be glad to avail myself of an early opportunity to pay my respects to Donna Flavia." "The wedding might take place on the 30th of November, my dear Marchese. The 1st of December is Advent Sunday, and no marriages are permitted during Advent without a special licence." "An expensive affair, doubtless," remarked San Giacinto, gravely, in spite of his desire to laugh. "Yes. Five scudi at least," answered Montevarchi, impressively. "Let us by all means be economical." "The Holy Church is very strict about these matters, and you may as well keep the money." "I will," replied San Giacinto, rising to go. "Do not let me detain you any longer. Pray accept my warmest thanks, and allow me to say that I shall consider it a very great honour to become your son-in-law." "Ah, indeed, you are very good, my dear Marchese. As for me I need consolation. Consider a father's feelings, when he consigns his beloved daughter--Flavia is an angel upon earth, my friend--when, I say, a father gives his dear child, whom he loves as the apple of his eye, to be carried off by a man--a man even of your worth! When your children are grown up, you will understand what I suffer." "I quite understand," said San Giacinto in serious tones. "It shall be the endeavour of my life to make you forget your loss. May I have the honour of calling to-morrow at this time?" "Yes, my dear Marchese, yes, my dear son--forgive a father's tenderness. To-morrow at this time, and---" he hesitated. "And then--some time before the ceremony, perhaps--you will give us the pleasure of your company at breakfast, I am sure, will you not? We are very simple people, but we are hospitable in our quiet way. Hospitality is a virtue," he sighed a little. "A necessary virtue," he added with some emphasis upon the adjective. "It will give me great pleasure," replied San Giacinto. Therewith he left the room and a few moments later was walking slowly homewards, revolving in his mind the probable results of his union with the Montevarchi family. When Montevarchi was alone, he smiled pleasantly to himself, and took out of a secret drawer a large book of accounts, in the study of which he spent nearly half an hour, with evident satisfaction. Having carefully locked up the volume, and returned the sliding panel to its place, he sent for his wife, who presently appeared. "Sit down, Guendalina," he said. "I will change my coat, and then I have something important to say to you." He had quite forgotten the inevitable change in his satisfaction over the interview with San Giacinto, but the sight of the princess recalled the necessity for economy. It had been a part of the business of his life to set her a good example in this respect. When he came back he seated himself before her. "My dear, I have got a husband for Flavia," were his first words. "At last!" exclaimed the princess. "I hope he is presentable," she added. She knew that she could trust her husband in the matter of fortune. "The new Saracinesca--the Marchese di San Giacinto." Princess Montevarchi's ruddy face expressed the greatest astonishment, and her jaw dropped as she stared at the old gentleman. "A pauper!" she exclaimed when she had recovered herself enough to speak. "Perhaps, Guendalina mia--but he settles a hundred and fifty thousand scudi on Flavia and her heirs for ever, the money to be paid on the signing of the contract. That does not look like pauperism. Of course, under the circumstances I agreed to do the same. It is settled on Flavia, do you understand? He does not want a penny of it, not a penny! Trust your husband for a serious man of business, Guendalina." "Have you spoken to Flavia? It certainly looks like a good match. There is no doubt about his being of the Saracinesca, of course. How could there be? They have taken him to their hearts. But how will Flavia behave?" "What a foolish question, my dear!" exclaimed Montevarchi. "How easily one sees that you are English! She will be delighted, I presume. And if not, what difference does it make?" "I would not have married you against my will, Lotario," observed the princess. "For my part, I had no choice. My dear father said simply, 'My son, you will pay your respects to that young lady, who is to be your wife. If you wish to marry anyone else, I will lock you up.' And so I did. Have I not been a faithful husband to you, Guendalina, through more than thirty years?" The argument was unanswerable, and Montevarchi had employed it each time one of his children was married. In respect of faithfulness, at least, he had been a model husband. "It is sufficient," he added, willing to make a concession to his wife's foreign notions, "that there should be love on the one side, and Christian principles on the other. I can assure you that San Giacinto is full of love, and as for Flavia, my dear, has she not been educated by you?" "As for Flavia's Christian principles, my dear Lotario, I only hope they may suffice for her married life. She is a terrible child to have at home. But San Giacinto looks like a determined man. I shall never forget his kindness in searching for Faustina last night. He was devotion itself, and I should not have been surprised had he wished to marry her instead." "That exquisite creature is reserved for a young friend of ours, Guendalina. Do me the favour never to speak of her marrying anyone else." The princess was silent for a moment, and then began to make a series of inquiries concerning the proposed bridegroom, which it is unnecessary to recount. "And now we will send for Flavia," said Montevarchi, at last. "Would it not be best that I should tell her?" asked his wife. "My dear," he replied sternly, "when matters of grave importance have been decided it is the duty of the head of the house to communicate the decision to the persons concerned." So Flavia was sent for, and appeared shortly, her pretty face and wicked black eyes expressing both surprise and anticipation. She was almost as dark as San Giacinto himself, though of a very different type. Her small nose had an upward turn which disturbed her mother's ideas of the fitness of things, and her thick black hair waved naturally over her forehead. Her figure was graceful and her movements quick and spontaneous. The redness of her lips showed a strong vitality, which was further confirmed by the singular brightness of her eyes. She was no beauty, especially in a land where the dark complexion predominates, but she was very pretty and possessed something of that mysterious quality which charms without exciting direct admiration. "Flavia," said her father, addressing her in solemn tones, "you are to be married, my dear child. I have sent for you at once, because there was no time to be lost, seeing that the wedding must take place before the beginning of Advent. The news will probably give you pleasure, but I trust you will reflect upon the solemnity of such engagements and lay aside---" "Would you mind telling me the name of my husband?" inquired Flavia, interrupting the paternal lecture. "The man I have selected for my son-in-law is one whom all women would justly envy you, were it not that envy is an atrocious sin, and one which I trust you will henceforth endeavour---" "To drown, crush out and stamp upon in the pursuit of true Christian principles," said Flavia with a laugh. "I know all about envy. It is one of the seven deadlies. I can tell you them all, if you like." "Flavia, I am amazed!" cried the princess, severely. "I had not expected this conduct of my daughter," said Montevarchi. "And though I am at present obliged to overlook it, I can certainly not consider it pardonable. You will listen with becoming modesty and respect to what I have to say." "I am all modesty, respect and attention--but I would like to know his name, papa--please consider that pardonable!" "I do not know why I should not tell you that, and I shall certainly give you all such information concerning him as it is proper that you should receive. The fact that he is a widower need not surprise you, for in the inscrutable ways of Providence some men are deprived of their wives sooner than others. Nor should his age appear to you in the light of an obstacle--indeed there are no obstacles---" "A widower--old--probably bald--I can see him already. Is he fat, papa?" "He approaches the gigantic; but as I have often told you, Flavia, the qualities a wise father should seek in choosing a husband for his child are not dependent upon outward---" "For heaven's sake, mamma," cried Flavia, "tell me the creature's name!" "The Marchese di San Giacinto--let your father speak, and do not interrupt him." "While you both insist on interrupting me," said Montevarchi, "it is impossible for me to express myself." "I wish it were!" observed Flavia, under her breath. "You are speaking of the Saracinesca cousin, San Giacinto? Not so bad after all." "It is very unbecoming in a young girl to speak of men by their last names---" "Giovanni, then. Shall I call him Giovanni?" "Flavia!" exclaimed the princess. "How can you be so undutiful! You should speak of him as the Marchese di San Giacinto." "Silence!" cried the prince. "I will not be interrupted! The Marchese di San Giacinto will call to-morrow, after breakfast, and will pay his respects to you. You will receive him in a proper spirit." "Yes, papa," replied Flavia, suddenly growing meek, and folding her hands submissively. "He has behaved with unexampled liberality," continued Montevarchi, "and I need hardly say that as the honour of our house was concerned I have not allowed myself to be outdone. Since you refuse to listen to the words of fatherly instruction which it is natural I should speak on this occasion, you will at least remember that your future husband is entirely such a man as I would have chosen, that he is a Saracinesca, as well as a rich man, and that he has been accustomed in the women of his family to a greater refinement of manner than you generally think fit to exhibit in the presence of your father." "Yes, papa. May I go, now?" "If your conscience will permit you to retire without a word of gratitude to your parents, who in spite of the extreme singularities of your behaviour have at last provided you with a suitable husband; if, I say, you are capable of such ingratitude, then, Flavia, you may certainly go." "I was going to say, papa, that I thank you very much for my husband, and mamma, too." Thereupon she kissed her father's and her mother's hands with great reverence and turned to leave the room. Her gravity forsook her, however, before she reached the door. "Evviva! Hurrah!" she cried, suddenly skipping across the intervening space and snapping her small fingers like a pair of castanets. "Evviva! Married at last! Hurrah!" And with this parting salute she disappeared. When she was gone, her father and mother looked at each other, as they had looked many times before in the course of Flavia's life. They had found little difficulty in bringing up their other children, but Flavia was a mystery to them both. The princess would have understood well enough a thorough English girl, full of life and animal spirits, though shy and timid in the world, as the elderly lady had herself been in her youth. But Flavia's character was incomprehensible to her northern soul. Montevarchi understood the girl better, but loved her even less. What seemed odd in her to his wife, to him seemed vulgar and ill-bred, for he would have had her like the rest, silent and respectful in his presence, and in awe of him as the head of the house, if not in fact, at least in manner. But Flavia's behaviour was in the eyes of Romans a very serious objection to her as a wife for any of their sons, for in their view moral worth was necessarily accompanied by outward gravity and decorum, and a light manner could only be the visible sign of a giddy heart. "If only he does not find out what she is like!" exclaimed the princess at last. "I devoutly trust that heaven in its mercy may avert such a catastrophe from our house," replied Montevarchi, who, however, seemed to be occupied in adding together certain sums upon his fingers. San Giacinto understood Flavia better than either of her parents; and although his marriage with her was before all things a part of his plan for furthering his worldly interests, it must be confessed that he had a stronger liking for the girl than her father would have considered indispensable in such affairs. The matter was decided at once, and in a few days the preliminaries were settled between the lawyers, while Flavia exerted the utmost pressure possible upon the parental purse in the question of the trousseau. It may seem strange that at the time when all Rome was convulsed by an internal revolution, and when the temporal power appeared to be in very great danger, Montevarchi and San Giacinto should have been able to discuss so coolly the conditions of the marriage, and even to fix the wedding day. The only possible explanation of this fact is that neither of them believed in the revolution at all. It is a noticeable characteristic of people who are fond of money that they do not readily believe in any great changes. They are indeed the most conservative of men, and will count their profits at moments of peril with a coolness which would do honour to veteran soldiers. Those who possess money put their faith in money and give no credence to rumours of revolution which are not backed by cash. Once or twice in history they have been wrong, but it must be confessed that they have very generally been right. As for San Giacinto, his own interests were infinitely more absorbing to his attention than those of the world at large, and being a man of uncommonly steady nerves, it seems probable that he would have calmly pursued his course in the midst of much greater disturbances than those which affected Rome at that time. CHAPTER VIII. When Anastase Gouache was at last relieved from duty and went home in the gray dawn of the twenty-third, he lay down to rest expecting to reflect upon the events of the night. The last twelve hours had been the most eventful of his life; indeed less than that time had elapsed since he had bid farewell to Faustina in the drawing-room of the Palazzo Saracinesca, and yet the events which had occurred in that short space had done much towards making him another man. The change had begun two years earlier, and had progressed slowly until it was completed all at once by a chain of unforeseen circumstances. He realised the fact, and as this change was not disagreeable to him he set himself to think about it. Instead of reviewing what had happened, however, he did what was much more natural in his case, he turned upon his pillow and fell fast asleep. He was younger than his years, though he counted less than thirty, and his happy nature had not yet formed that horrible habit of wakefulness which will not yield even to bodily fatigue. He lay down and slept like a boy, disturbed by no dreams and troubled by no shadowy revival of dangers or emotions past. He had placed a gulf between himself and his former life. What had passed between him and Faustina, might under other circumstances have become but a romantic episode in the past, to be thought of with a certain tender regret, half fatuous, half genuine, whenever the moonlight chanced to cast the right shadow and the artist's mind was in the contemplative mood. The peculiar smell of broken masonry, when it is a little damp, would recall the impression, perhaps; an old wall knocked to pieces by builders would, through his nostrils, bring vividly before him that midnight meeting amid the ruins of the barracks, just as the savour of a certain truffle might bring back the memory of a supper at Voisin's, or as, twenty years hence, the pasty grittiness of rough maize bread would make him remember the days when he was chasing brigands in the Samnite hills. But this was not to be the case this time. There was more matter for reminiscence than a ray of moonlight on a fair face, or the smell of crumbling mortar. There was a deep and sincere devotion on both sides, in two persons both singularly capable of sincerity, and both foresaw that the result of this love could never be indifference. The end could only be exceeding happiness, or mortal sorrow. Anastase and Faustina were not only themselves in earnest; each knew instinctively that the other would be faithful, a condition extremely rare in ordinary cases. Each recognised that the obstacles were enormous, but neither doubted for a moment that means would be found to overcome them. In some countries the marriage of these two would have been a simple matter enough. A man of the world, honourable, successful, beginning to be famous, possessed of some fortune, might aspire to marry any one he pleased in lands where it is not a disgrace to have acquired the means of subsistence by one's own talent and industry. Artists and poets have sometimes made what are called great marriages. But in Rome, twenty years ago, things were very different. It is enough to consider the way in which Montevarchi arranged to dispose of his daughter Flavia to understand the light in which he would have regarded Faustina's marriage with Anastase Gouache. The very name of Gouache would have raised a laugh in the Montevarchi household had any one suggested that a woman of that traditionally correct race could ever make it her own. There were persons in Rome, indeed, who might have considered the matter more leniently. Corona Sant' Ilario was one of these; but her husband and father-in-law would have opened their eyes as wide as old Lotario Montevarchi himself, had the match been discussed before them. Their patriarchally exclusive souls would have been shocked and the dear fabric of their inborn prejudices shaken to its deepest foundations. It was bad enough, from the point of view of potential matrimony, to earn money, even if one had the right to prefix "Don" to one's baptismal name. But to be no Don and to receive coin for one's labour was a far more insurmountable barrier against intermarriage with the patriarchs than hereditary madness, toothless old age, leprosy, or lack of money. Gouache had acquired enough knowledge of Roman life to understand this, and nothing short of physical exhaustion would have prevented his spending his leisure in considering the means of overcoming such stupendous difficulties. When he awoke his situation presented itself clearly enough to his mind, however, and occupied his thoughts throughout the remainder of the day. Owing to the insurrection his departure was delayed for twenty-four hours, and his duty was likely to keep him busily engaged during the short time that remained to him. The city was in a state of siege and there would be a perpetual service of patrols, sentries and general maintenance of order. The performance of labours almost mechanical left him plenty of time for reflection, though he found it hard to spare a moment in which to see any of his friends. He was very anxious to meet the Princess Sant' Ilario, whose conduct on the previous night had seriously alarmed him. It was to her that he looked for assistance in his troubles and the consciousness that she was angry with him was a chief source of distress. In the course of the few words he had exchanged with her, she had made it sufficiently clear to him that although she disapproved in principle of his attachment to Faustina, she would do nothing to hinder his marriage if he should be able to overcome the obstinacy of the girl's parents. He was at first at a loss to explain her severity to him when she had left her house to take Faustina home. Being wholly innocent of any share in the latter's mad course, it did not at first enter his mind that Corona could attribute to him any blame in the matter. On the contrary, he knew that if the girl's visit to the ruined barracks remained a secret, this would be owing quite as much to his own discretion and presence of mind as to the princess's willingness to help him. Not a little, too, was due to good luck, since the least difference in the course of events must have led to immediate discovery. A little thought led him to a conclusion which wounded his pride while it explained Corona's behaviour. It was evident that she had believed in a clandestine meeting, prearranged between the lovers at the instigation of Gouache himself, and she had probably supposed this meeting to be only the preliminary to a runaway match. How, indeed, could Faustina have expected to escape observation, even had there been no revolution in Rome, that night? Corona clearly thought that the girl had never intended to come back, that Gouache had devised means for their departure, and that Faustina had believed the elopement possible in the face of the insurrection. Anastase, on finding himself in the small hours of the morning with Faustina on his hands and knowing that discovery must follow soon after day-break, had boldly brought her to the Palazzo Saracinesca and had demanded Corona's assistance. As the artist thought the matter over, he became more and more convinced that he had understood the princess's conduct, and the reflection made him redden with shame and anger. He determined to seize the first moment that presented itself for an explanation with the woman who had wronged him. He unexpectedly found himself at liberty towards five o'clock in the afternoon and made haste at once to reach the Palazzo Saracinesca. Knowing that no one would be allowed to be in the streets after dark, he felt sure of finding Corona without visitors, and expected the most favourable opportunity for talking over the subject which distressed him. After waiting several minutes in one of the outer halls he was ushered in, and to his extreme annoyance found himself in the midst of a family party. He had not counted upon the presence of the men of the household, and the fact that the baby was also present did not facilitate matters. Old Saracinesca greeted him warmly; Sant' Ilario looked grave; Corona herself looked up from her game with little Orsino, nodded and uttered a word of recognition, and then returned to her occupation. Conversation under these circumstances was manifestly impossible, and Gouache wished he had not had the unlucky idea of calling. There was nothing to be done, however, but to put on a brave face and make the best of it. "Well, Monsieur Gouache," inquired the old prince, "and how did you spend the night?" He could scarcely have asked a question better calculated to disturb the composure of everyone present except the baby. Anastase could not help looking at Corona, who looked instinctively at her husband, while the latter gazed at Gouache, wondering what he would say. All three turned a shade paler, and during a very few seconds there was an awkward silence. "I spent the night very uncomfortably," replied Anastase, after hesitating a little. "We were driven from pillar to post, repelling attacks, doing sentry duty, clearing the streets, marching and countermarching. It was daylight when I was relieved." "Indeed!" exclaimed Sant' Ilario. "I had supposed that you had remained all night at the Porta San Paolo. But there are many contradictory accounts. I was in some anxiety until I was assured that you had not been blown up in that infernal plot." Gouache was on the point of asking who had told Giovanni that he had escaped, but fortunately checked himself, and endeavoured to turn the conversation to the disaster at the barracks. Thereupon old Saracinesca, whose blood was roused by the atrocity, delivered a terrible anathema against the murderous wretches who had ruined the building, and expressed himself in favour of burning them alive, a fate, indeed, far too good for them. Anastase profited by the old gentleman's eloquence to make advances to the baby. Little Orsino, however, struck him a vigorous blow in the face with his tiny fist and yelled lustily. "He does not like strangers," remarked Corona, coldly. She rose with the child in her arms and moved towards the door, Gouache following her with the intention of opening it for her to go out. The prince was still thundering out curses against the conspirators, and Anastase attempted to say a word unobserved as Corona passed him. "Will you not give me a hearing?" he asked in a low tone, accompanying his words with an imploring look. Corona raised her eyebrows slightly as though surprised, but his expression of genuine contrition softened her heart a little and rendered her answer perhaps a trifle less unkind than she had meant it to be. "You should be satisfied--since I keep your secret," she said, and passed quickly out. When Gouache turned after closing the door he was aware that Sant' Ilario had been watching him, by the fixed way in which he was now looking in another direction. The Zouave wished more and more fervently that he had not come to the house, but resolved to prolong his visit in the hope that Corona might return. Sant' Ilario was unaccountably silent, but his father kept up a lively conversation, needing only an occasional remark from Gouache to give a fillip to his eloquence. This situation continued during nearly half an hour, at the end of which time Anastase gave up all hope of seeing Corona again. The two men evidently did not expect her to return, for they had made themselves comfortable and had lighted their cigarettes. "Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache," said the old prince, cordially shaking him by the hand. "I hope we shall see you back again alive and well in a few days." While he was speaking Giovanni had rung the bell for the servant to show the visitor out, an insignificant action, destined to produce a rather singular result. Sant' Ilario himself, feeling that after all he might never see Gouache alive again, repented a little of his coldness, and while the latter stood ready to go, detained him with a question as to his destination on leaving the city. This resulted in a lively discussion of Garibaldi's probable movements, which lasted several minutes. Corona in the meantime had taken Orsino back to his nurse, and had bidden her maid let her know when the visitor in the drawing-room was gone. The woman went to the hall, and when Giovanni rang the bell, returned to inform her mistress of the fact, supposing that Gouache would go at once. Corona waited a few minutes, and then went back to the sitting-room, which was at the end of the long suite of apartments. The result was that she met Anastase in one of the rooms on his way out, preceded by the footman, who went on towards the hall after his mistress had passed. Corona and Gouache were left face to face and quite alone in the huge dim drawing-room. Gouache had found his opportunity and did not hesitate. "Madame," he said, "I beg your pardon for trespassing on your time, but I have a serious word to say. I am going to the frontier and am as likely to be killed as any one else. On the faith of a man who may be dead to-morrow, I am wholly innocent of what happened last night. If I come back I will prove it to you some day. If not, will you believe me, and not think of me unkindly?" Corona hesitated and stood leaning against the heavy curtain of a window for a moment. Though the room was very dim, she could see the honest look in the young man's eyes and she hesitated before she answered. She had heard that day that two of her acquaintances had fallen fighting against the Garibaldians and she knew that Anastase was speaking of a very near possibility when he talked of being killed. There were many chances that he was telling the truth, and she felt how deeply she should regret her unbelief if he should indeed meet his fate before they met again. "You tell me a strange thing," she said at last. "You ask me to believe that this poor girl, of her own free will and out of love for you, followed you out of this room last night into the midst of a revolution. It is a hard thing to believe---" "And yet I implore you to believe it, princess. A man who should love her less than I, would be the basest of men to speak thus of her love. God knows, if things had been otherwise, I would not have let you know. But was there any other way of taking her home? Did I not do the only thing that was at all possible to keep last night's doings a secret? I love her to such a point that I glory in her love for me. If I could have shielded her last night by giving up my life, you know that I would have ended my existence that very moment. It would have done no good. I had to confide in some one, and you, who knew half my secret, since I had told you I loved her, were the only person who could be allowed to guess the remainder. If it could profit her that you should think me a villain, you might think me so--even you, whom I reverence beyond all women save her. But to let you think so would be to degrade her, and that you shall not do. You shall not think that she has been so foolish as to pin her faith on a man who would lead her to destruction--ah! if I loved her less I could tell you better what I mean." Corona was moved by his sincerity, if not by his arguments. She saw all the strangeness of the situation; how he had been forced to confide in some one, and how it seemed better in his eyes that she should know how Faustina had really behaved, than think that the young girl had agreed to a premeditated meeting. She was touched and her heart relented. "I believe you," she said. "Forgive me if I have wronged you." "Thank you, thank you, dear princess!" cried Gouache, taking her hand and touching it with his lips. "I can never thank you as I would. And now, good-bye--I am going. Will you give me your blessing, as my mother would?" He smiled, as he recalled the conversation of the previous evening. "Good-bye," answered Corona. "May all blessings go with you." He turned away and she stood a moment looking after him as he disappeared in the gloom. She was sorry for him in her heart and repented a little of having treated him so harshly. And yet, as soon as he was gone she began to doubt again, wondering vaguely whether she had not been deceived. There was an odd fascination about the soldier-artist which somehow influenced her in his favour when he was present, and of which she was not conscious until he was out of her sight. Now that she was alone, she found herself considering how this peculiar charm which he possessed would be likely to affect a young girl like Faustina, and she was obliged to acknowledge that it would account well enough for the latter's foolish doings. She could not look into Gouache's eyes and doubt what he said, but she found it hard afterwards to explain the faith she put in him. She was roused from her short reflection by her husband who, without being observed by her, had come to her side. Seeing that she did not return to the sitting-room when Gouache was gone he had come in search of her, and by the merest chance had overheard the last words which had passed between her and Anastase, and had seen how the latter fervently kissed her hand. The phrase in which she had wished him good luck rang unpleasantly in his ears and startled the inmost sensibilities of his nature. He remembered how she had blessed him once, in her calm, gentle way, on that memorable night of the Frangipani ball nearly three years before, and there was a similarity between the words she had used then and the simple expression which had now fallen from her lips. Giovanni stood beside her now and laid his hand upon her arm. It was not his nature to break out suddenly as his father did, when anything occurred to disturb his peace of mind. The Spanish blood he had inherited from his mother had imparted a profound reserve to his character, which gave it depth rather than coldness. It was hard for him to speak out violently when under the influence of emotion, but this very difficulty of finding words and his aversion to using them made him more sincere, more enduring and less forgiving than other men. He could wait long before he gave vent to his feelings, but they neither grew cool nor dull for the waiting. He detested concealment and secrecy more than most people, but his disinclination to speak of any matter until he was sure of it had given him the reputation of being both reticent and calculating. Giovanni now no longer concealed from himself the fact that he was annoyed by what was passing, but he denied, even in his heart, that he was jealous. To doubt Corona would be to upset the whole fabric of his existence, which he had founded upon her love and which had been built up to such great proportions during the past three years. His first impulse was to ask an explanation, and it carried him just far enough to lay his hand on his wife's arm, when it was checked by a multitude of reflections and unconscious arguments which altogether changed his determination. "I thought he was gone," he said, quietly enough. "So did I," replied Corona, in a cooler tone than she generally used in speaking to her husband. She, too, was annoyed, for she suspected that Giovanni had been watching her; and since, on the previous evening he had promised to trust her altogether in this affair, she looked upon his coming almost in the light of an infringement upon the treaty, and resented it accordingly. She did not reflect that it was unlikely that Giovanni should expect her to try to meet Gouache on his way out, and would therefore not think of lying in wait for her. His accidental coming seemed premeditated. He, on his side, had noticed her marked coldness to Anastase in the sitting-room and thought it contrasted very strangely with the over-friendly parting of which he had chanced to be a witness. Corona, too, knew very well that the last words spoken were capable of misinterpretation, and as she had no intention of telling her husband Faustina's story at present she saw no way of clearing up the situation, and therefore prepared to ignore it altogether. They turned together and walked slowly back in the direction of the sitting-room, neither speaking a word until they had almost reached the door. Then Giovanni stopped and looked at his wife. "Is it part of last night's secret?" he asked, almost indifferently. "Yes," answered Corona. "What could you suppose it was? I met him by accident and we exchanged a few words." "I know. I heard you say good-bye. I confess I was surprised. I thought you meant to be rude to him when we were all together, but I was mistaken. I hope your blessing will profit him, my dear!" He spoke quite naturally and without effort. "I hope so too," returned Corona. "You might have added yours, since you were present." "To tell the truth," said Giovanni, with a short laugh, "I fancy it might not have been so acceptable." "You talk very strangely, Giovanni!" "Do I? It seems to me quite natural. Shall we go into the sitting-room?" "Giovanni--you promised to trust me last night, and I promised to explain everything to you some day. You must keep your promise wholly or not at all." "Certainly," answered Sant' Ilario, opening the door for his wife and thus forcing the conversation to end suddenly, since old Saracinesca must now hear whatever was said. He would not allow the situation to last, for fear lest he should say something of which he might repent, for in spite of his words he did not wish to seem suspicious. Unfortunately, Corona's evident annoyance at having been overheard did more to strengthen the feeling of resentment which was growing in him than what he had heard and seen a few moments earlier. The way in which she had reproached him with not adding his blessing to hers showed plainly enough, he thought, that she was angry at what had occurred. They both entered the room, but before they had been long together Giovanni left his wife and father and retired to his own room under pretext of writing letters until dinner-time. When he was alone, the situation presented itself to his mind in a very disagreeable light. Corona's assurance that the mystery was a harmless one seemed wholly inadequate to account for her meeting with Gouache and for her kind treatment of him, especially after she had shown herself so evidently cold to him in the presence of the others. Either Giovanni was a very silly fellow, or he was being deceived as no man was ever deceived before. Either conclusion was exasperating. He asked himself whether he were such a fool as to invent a misconstruction upon occurrences which to any one else would have seemed void of any importance whatsoever; and his heart answered that if he were indeed so senseless he must have lost his intelligence very recently. On the other hand to suspect Corona of actually entertaining a secret passion for Gouache was an hypothesis which seemed too monstrous to be discussed. He sat down to think about it, and was suddenly startled by the host of little circumstances which all at once detached themselves from the hazy past and stood out in condemnation of his wife. Gouache, as he himself had acknowledged, had long worshipped the princess in a respectful, almost reverential way. He had taken every occasion of talking with her, and had expressed even by his outward manner a degree of devotion he never manifested to other women. Giovanni was now aware that for some time past, even as far back as the previous winter, he had almost unconsciously watched Corona and Anastase when they were together. Nothing in her conduct had excited his suspicions in the least, but he had certainly suspected that Gouache was a little inclined to idolise her, and had laughed to himself more than once at the idea of the French artist's hopeless passion, with something of that careless satisfaction a man feels who sees a less favoured mortal in dangerous proximity to a flame which burns only for himself. It was rather a contemptible amusement, and Giovanni had never indulged in it very long. He liked Gouache, and, if anything, pitied him for his hopeless passion. Corona treated the Zouave in her grand, quiet way, which had an air of protection with it, and Giovanni would have scoffed at the thought that she cared for the man. Nevertheless, now that matters had taken such a strange turn, he recollected with surprise that Gouache was undeniably the one of all their acquaintance who most consistently followed Corona wherever they met. The young man was a favourite in society. His great talent, his modesty, and above all what people were pleased to describe as his harmlessness, made everybody like him. He went everywhere, and his opportunities of meeting the princess were almost numberless. Giovanni had certainly watched him very often, though he was hardly conscious of having bestowed so much attention on the French artist-soldier, that he never failed to glance at his wife when Anastase was mentioned. Now, and all at once, a hundred details rushed to his recollection, and he was staggered by the vista of incidents that rose before his mind. Within the last twenty-four hours, especially, the evidence had assumed terrible proportions. In the first place there had been that scene in the drawing-room, enacted quietly enough and in a corner, while there were twenty persons present, but with the coolness of two people of the world who know what surprising things may be done unobserved in a room full of people. If Anastase had kissed Corona's hand a little differently, and with the evident intention of being seen, the action would have been natural. But there was a look in Gouache's face which Giovanni remembered, and an expression of kindness in Corona's eyes that he had not forgotten; above all they had both seemed as though they were sure that no one was watching them. Indeed, Sant' Ilario now asked himself how he had chanced to see what passed, and the only answer was that he generally watched them when they were together. This was a revelation to himself, and told much. Then there was her midnight expedition with Gouache, a far more serious matter. After all, he had only Corona's own assurance that Faustina Montevarchi had been in any way concerned in that extraordinary piece of rashness. He must indeed have had faith in his wife to pass over such conduct without a word of explanation. Next came the events of that very afternoon. Corona had been rude to Gouache, had then suddenly left the room, and in passing out had exchanged a few words with him in a low tone. She had met him again by accident, if it had been an accident, and fancying herself unseen had behaved very differently to the young man. There had been a parting which savoured unpleasantly of the affectionate, and which was certainly something more than merely friendly. Lastly, Corona had evidently been annoyed at Giovanni's appearance, a fact which seemed to conclude the whole argument with a terrible certainty. Finding himself face to face with a conclusion which threatened to destroy his happiness altogether, Giovanni started up from his chair and began to walk backwards and forwards in the room, pausing a moment each time he turned, as though to gather strength, or to shake off an evil thought. In the light of his present reflections an explanation seemed inevitable, but when he thought of that he saw too clearly that any explanation must begin by his accusing his wife, and he knew that if he accused her justly, it would only end in a denial from her. What woman, however guilty, would not deny her guilt when charged with it. What man either, where love was concerned? Giovanni laughed bitterly, then turned pale and sat down again. To accuse Corona of loving Gouache! It was too monstrous to be believed. And yet--what did all those doings mean? There must be a reason for them. If he called her and told her what he felt, and if she were innocent, she would tell him all, everything would be explained, and he would doubtless see that all this damning evidence was no more than the natural outward appearance of perfectly harmless circumstances of which he knew nothing. Ay, but if they were harmless, why should she implore him to ask no questions? Because the honour of some one else was concerned, of course. But was he, Giovanni Saracinesca, not to be trusted with the keeping of that other person's honour as well as Corona herself? Had they ever had secrets from each other? Would it not have been simpler for her to trust him with the story, if she was innocent, than to be silent and ask him to trust her motives? Far simpler, of course. And then, if only a third person's feelings were at stake, what necessity had there been for such a sentimental parting? She had given Gouache a blessing very like the one she had given Giovanni. Worst of all, were not the circumstances the same, the very same? Giovanni remembered the Frangipani ball. At that time Corona was married to Astrardente, who had died a few days afterwards. Giovanni had that night told Corona that he loved her, in very passionate terms. She had silenced him, and he had behaved like a gentleman, for he had asked her pardon for what he had done. She had forgiven him, and to show that she bore no malice had spoken a kind of benediction--a prayer that all might be well with him. He knew now that she had loved him even then when she repelled him. And now that she was married to Giovanni, another had come, and had talked with her, and exchanged words in a low tone even as he himself had once done. And she had treated this man roughly before her husband, and presently afterwards had allowed him to kiss her hand and had sent him away saying that she forgave him--just as she had formerly forgiven Giovanni--and praying that all blessings might go with him. Why was it not possible that she loved this man, too? Because she was so grandly beautiful, and dark and calm, and had such a noble fearlessness in her eyes? Other women had been beautiful and had deceived wiser men than Giovanni, and had fallen. Beauty was no argument for the defence, nor brave eyes, nor the magnificent dignity of movement and speech--nor words either, for that matter. Suspense was agony, and yet a twofold horror seemed the only issue, the one inevitable, the other possible. First, to accuse this woman whom he loved so dearly, and then, perhaps, to hear her deny the charge boldly and yet refuse all explanation. Once more Giovanni rose from his deep chair and paced his room with regular strides, though he scarcely saw the carpet under his feet, nor realised any longer where he was. At last he stopped and laughed. The sound was strange and false, as when a man tries to be merry who feels no mirth. He was making a desperate effort to shake off this nightmare that beset him, to say to himself that he was but a fool, and that there was no cause for all this suffering which he was inflicting on his heart, nor for all these questions he had been asking of his intelligence. It was surely not true! He would laugh now, would laugh heartily within the next half hour with Corona herself, at the mere thought of supposing that she could love Gouache, Gouache, a painter! Gouache, a Zouave! Gouache, a contemptibly good-natured, harmless little foreigner!--and Corona del Carmine, Duchessa d'Astrardente, Principessa di Sant' Ilario, mother of all the Saracinesca yet to come! It was better to laugh, truly, at such an absurd juxtaposition of ideas, of personalities, of high and low. And Giovanni laughed, but the sound, was very harsh and died away without rousing one honest echo in the vaulted room. Had Corona seen his face at that moment, or had she guessed what was passing in his mind, she would have sacrificed Faustina's secret ten times over rather than let Giovanni suffer a moment longer as he was suffering now. But Corona had no idea that he could put such a construction upon her doings. He had shown her nothing of what he felt, except perhaps a slight annoyance at not being put in possession of the secret. It was natural, she thought, that he should be a little out of temper, but as she saw no way of remedying the trouble except by exposing to him the innocent girl whom she had undertaken to protect, she held her peace and trusted that her husband's displeasure would soon be past. Had there been more time for reflection on the previous evening, in the interval between her learning from the porter that Giovanni knew of her absence, and her being confronted with Giovanni himself, she might have resolved to act differently; but having once made up her mind that he ought not to know the truth for the present, opposition only strengthened her determination. There was nothing wrong in the course she was pursuing, or her conscience would have spoken and bidden her speak out. Her nature was too like Giovanni's own, proud, reserved, and outwardly cold, to yield any point easily. It was her instinct, like his, to be silent rather than to speak, and to weigh considerations before acting upon them. This very similarity of temper in the two rendered it certain that if they were ever opposed to each other the struggle would be a serious one. They were both too strong to lead a life of petty quarrelling; if they ceased to live in perfect harmony they were only too sure to come to open hostility. There is nothing which will wound pride and raise anger so inevitably as finding unexpected but determined opposition in those who very closely resemble ourselves. In such a case a man cannot fall back upon the comfortable alternative of despising his enemy, since he has an intimate conviction that it would be paramount to despising himself; and if he is led into a pitched battle he will find his foe possessed of weapons which are exactly like his own. Giovanni and Corona were very evenly matched, as nearly resembling each other as is possible for a man and a woman. Corona was outwardly a little the colder, Giovanni a little the more resentful of the two. Corona had learned during the years of her marriage with Astrardente to wear a mask of serene indifference, and the assumed habit had at last become in some degree a part of her nature. Giovanni, whose first impulses had originally been quicker than they now were, had learned the power of waiting by constant intercourse with his father, whose fiery temper seemed to snatch at trifles for the mere pleasure of tearing them to pieces, and did injustice to the generous heart he concealed under his rough exterior. Under these circumstances it was not probable that Sant' Ilario would make any exhibition of his jealousy for some time to come. As he paced the floor of his room, the bitterness of his situation slowly sank from the surface, leaving his face calm and almost serene. He forced himself to look at the facts again and again, trying bravely to be impartial and to survey them as though he were the judge and not the plaintiff. He admitted at last that there was undoubtedly abundant matter for jealousy, but Corona still stood protected as it were by the love he bore her, a love which even her guilt would be unable to destroy. His love indeed, must outlast everything, all evil, all disgrace, and he knew it. He thought of that Latin poet who, writing to his mistress, said in the bitterness of his heart that though she were to become the best woman in the world he could never again respect her, but that he could not cease to love her, were she guilty of all crimes. He knew that if the worst turned out true that must be his case, and perhaps for the first time in his life he understood all the humanity of Catullus, and saw how a man might love even what he despised. Happily matters had not yet come to that. He knew that he might be deceived, and that circumstantial evidence was not always to be trusted. Even while his heart grew cold with the strongest and most deadly passion of which man is capable, with jealousy which is cruel as the grave, the nobility of his nature rose up and made him see that his duty was to believe Corona innocent until she were proved unfaithful. The effort to quench the flame was great, though fruitless, but the determination to cover it and hide it from every one, even from Corona herself, appealed to all that was brave and manly in his strong character. When at last he once more sat down, his face betrayed no emotion, his eyes were quiet, his hands did not tremble. He took up a book and forced his attention upon the pages for nearly an hour without interruption. Then he dressed himself, and went and sat at table with his father and his wife as though nothing had occurred to disturb his equanimity. Corona supposed that he had recovered from his annoyance at not being admitted to share the secret for which she was unconsciously sacrificing so much. She had expected this result and was more than usually cheerful. Once old Saracinesca mentioned Gouache, but both Corona and Giovanni hastened to change the subject. This time, however, Giovanni did not look at his wife when the name was pronounced. Those days were over now. CHAPTER IX. The excitement which had reigned in Rome for weeks past was destined to end almost as suddenly as it had begun. The events which followed the 22d of October have been frequently and accurately described; indeed, if we consider the small number of the troops engaged and the promptness with which a very limited body of men succeeded in quelling what at first appeared to be a formidable revolution, we are surprised at the amount of attention which has been accorded to the little campaign. The fact is that although the armies employed on both sides were insignificant, the questions at stake were enormous, and the real powers which found themselves confronted at Monte Rotondo and Mentana were the Kingdom of Italy and the French Empire. Until the ultimatum was presented to Italy by the French Minister on the 19th of October, Italy hoped to take possession of Rome on the pretext of restoring order after allowing it to be subverted by Garibaldi's guerillas. The military cordon formed by the Italian army to prevent Garibaldi's crossing the frontier was a mere show. The arrest of the leader himself, however it was intended by those who ordered it, turned out in effect to be a mere comedy, as he soon found himself at liberty and no one again attempted to seize him. When France interfered the scale turned. She asserted her determination to maintain the Convention of 1864 by force of arms, and Italy was obliged to allow Garibaldi to be defeated, since she was unable to face the perils of a war with her powerful neighbour. If a small body of French troops had not entered Rome on the 30th of the month, the events of 1870 would have occurred three years earlier, though probably with different results. It being the object of the general commanding the Pope's forces to concentrate a body of men with whom to meet Garibaldi, who was now advancing boldly, the small detachments, of which many had already been sent to the front, were kept back in Rome in the hope of getting together something like an army. Gouache's departure was accordingly delayed from day to day, and it was not until the early morning of the 3d of November that he actually quitted Rome with the whole available corps of Zouaves. Ten days elapsed, therefore, after the events last described, during which time he was hourly in expectation of orders to march. The service had become so arduous within the city that he could scarcely call a moment his own. It was no time to think of social duties, and he spent the leisure he had in trying to see Faustina Montevarchi as often as possible. This, however, was no easy matter. It was a provoking fact that his duties kept him busily occupied in the afternoon and evening, and that the hours he could command fell almost always in the morning. To visit the Palazzo Montevarchi on any pretext whatever before one o'clock in the day was out of the question. He had not even the satisfaction of seeing Faustina drive past him in the Corso when she was out with her mother and Flavia, since they drove just at the time when he was occupied. Gouache told himself again and again that the display of ingenuity was in a measure the natural duty of a man in love, but the declaration did not help him very much. He was utterly at a loss for an expedient, and suffered keenly in being deprived of the possibility of seeing Faustina after having seen her so often and so intimately. A week earlier he could have borne it better, but now the separation was intolerable. In time of peace he would have disobeyed orders and thrown up his service for the day, no matter what the consequences turned out to be for himself; but at the present moment, when every man was expected to be at his post, such conduct seemed dishonourable and cowardly. He submitted in silence, growing daily more careworn, and losing much of the inexhaustible gaiety which made him a general favourite with his comrades. There was but one chance of seeing Faustina, and even that one offered little probability of an interview. He knew that on Sunday mornings she sometimes went to church at an early hour with no one but her maid for a companion. Her mother and Flavia preferred to rise later and attended another mass. Now it chanced that in the year 1867, the 22d of October, the date of the insurrection, fell on Tuesday. Five days, therefore, must elapse before he could see Faustina on a Sunday, and if he failed to see her then he would have to wait another week. Unfortunately, Faustina's early expeditions to church were by no means certain or regular, and it would be necessary to convey a message to her before the day arrived. This was no easy matter. To send anything through the post was out of the question, and Gouache knew how hard it would be to find the means of putting a note into her hands through a servant. Hour after hour he cudgelled his brains for an expedient without success, until the idea pursued him and made him nervous. The time approached rapidly and he had as yet accomplished nothing. The wildest schemes suggested themselves to him and were rejected as soon as he thought of them. He met some of his acquaintances during the idle hours of the morning, and it almost drove him mad to think that almost any one of them could see Faustina any day he pleased. He did what he could to obtain leave in the afternoon or evening, but his exertions were fruitless. He was a man who was trusted, and knew it, and the disturbed state of affairs made it necessary that every man should do precisely what was allotted to him, at the risk of causing useless complications in the effort to concentrate and organise the troops which was now going forward. At last he actually went to the Palazzo Montevarchi in the morning and inquired if he could see the princess. The porter replied that she was not visible, and that the prince had gone out. There was nothing to be done, and he turned to go away. Suddenly he stopped as he stood under the deep arch, facing the blank wall on the opposite side of the street. That same wall was broad and smooth and dark in colour. He only looked at it a moment, and then to excuse his hesitation in the eyes of the porter, he took out a cigarette, and lit it before going out. As he passed through the Piazza Colonna a few minutes later he went into a shop and bought two large tubes of paint with a broad brush. That night, when he was relieved from duty, he went back to the Palazzo Montevarchi. It was very late, and the streets were deserted. He stood before the great closed doors of the palace and then walked straight across the street to the blank wall with his paint and brush in his hands. On the following morning when the Montevarchi porter opened the gates his eyes were rejoiced by some most extraordinary specimens of calligraphy executed upon the dark stones with red paint of a glaringly vivid hue. The letters A. G. were drawn at least four feet high in the centre, and were repeated in every size at irregular intervals for some distance above, below, and on each side. The words "Domenica," Sunday, and "Messa," mass, were scrawled everywhere in capitals, in roundhand, large and small. Then to give the whole the air of having been designed by a street-boy, there were other words, such as "Viva Pio IX.," "Viva il Papa Re," and across these, in a different manner, and in green paint, "Viva Garibaldi," "Morte a Antonelli," and similar revolutionary sentiments. The whole, however, was so disposed that Gouache's initials and the two important words stood out in bold relief from the rest, and could not fail to attract the eye. Of the many people who came and went that day through the great gate of the Palazzo Montevarchi two only attached any importance to the glaring scrawls on the opposite wall. One of these was Faustina herself, who saw and understood. The other was San Giacinto, who stared at the letters for several seconds, and then smiled faintly as he entered the palace. He, too, knew what the signs meant, and remarked to himself that Gouache was an enterprising youth, but that, in the interest of the whole tribe of Montevarchi, it would be well to put a stop to his love-making as soon as possible. It was now Saturday afternoon and there was no time to be lost. San Giacinto made a short visit, and, on leaving, went immediately to the Palazzo Saracinesca. He knew that at four o'clock Corona would probably not yet be at home. This turned out to be the case, and having announced his intention of waiting for her return he was ushered into the sitting-room. As soon as the servant was gone he went to Corona's writing-table and took from it a couple of sheets of her paper and two of her envelopes. These latter were stamped with a coronet and her initials. He folded the paper carefully and put the four bits into his pocket-book. He waited ten minutes, but no one came. Then he left the house, telling the servant to say that he had called and would return presently. In a few minutes he was at his lodgings, where he proceeded to write the following note. He had taken two sheets in case the first proved a failure:-- "I have understood, but alas! I cannot come. Oh, my beloved! when shall we meet again? It seems years since Tuesday night--and yet I am so watched that I can do nothing. Some one suspects something. I am sure of it. A TRUSTY PERSON will bring you this. I love you always--do not doubt it, though I cannot meet you to-morrow." San Giacinto, who had received a tolerable education and had conscientiously made the best of it, prided himself upon his handwriting. It was small, clear, and delicate, like that of many strong, quiet men, whose nerves do not run away with their fingers. On the present occasion he took pains to make it even more careful than usual, and the result was that it looked not unlike the "copperplate" handwriting a girl would learn at the convent, though an expert would probably have declared it disguised. It had been necessary, in order to deceive Gouache, to write the note on the paper generally used by women of society. As he could not get any of Faustina's own, it seemed the next best thing to take Corona's, since Corona was her most intimate friend. Gouache had told San Giacinto that he was engaged every afternoon, in hopes that he would in turn chance to mention the fact to Faustina. It was therefore pretty certain that Anastase would not be at home between four and five o'clock. San Giacinto drove to the Zouave's lodgings and asked for him. If he chanced to be in, the note could be given to his old landlady. He was out, however, and San Giacinto asked to be allowed to enter the room on the pretext of writing a word for his friend. The landlady was a dull old creature, who had been warming herself with a pot of coals when San Giacinto rang. In answer to his request she resumed her occupation and pointed to the door of the Zouave's apartment. San Giacinto entered, and looked about him for a conspicuous place in which to put the letter he had prepared. He preferred not to trust to the memory of the woman, who might forget to deliver it until the next day, especially if Gouache came home late that night, as was very likely. The table of the small sitting-room was littered with letters and papers, books and drawings, so that an object placed in the midst of such disorder would not be likely to attract Gouache's attention. The door beyond was open, and showed a toilet-table in the adjoining chamber, which was indeed the bedroom. San Giacinto went in, and taking the note from his pocket, laid it on an old-fashioned pincushion before the glass. The thing slipped, however, and in order to fasten it firmly he thrust a gold pin that lay on the table through the letter and pinned it to the cushion in a conspicuous position. Then he went out and returned to the Palazzo Saracinesca as he had promised to do. In doing all this he had no intention of injuring either Gouache or Faustina. He perceived clearly enough that their love affair could not come to any good termination, and as his interests were now very closely bound up with those of the Montevarchi, it seemed wisest to break off the affair by any means in his power, without complicating matters by speaking to Gouache or to Faustina's father or mother. He knew enough of human nature to understand that Gouache would be annoyed at losing the chance of a meeting, and he promised himself to watch the two so carefully as to be able to prevent other clandestine interviews during the next few days. If he could once sow the seeds of a quarrel between the two, he fancied it would be easy to break up the relations. Nothing makes a woman so angry as to wait for a man who has promised to meet her, and if he fails to come altogether her anger will probably be very serious. In the present case he supposed that Faustina would go to the church, but that Gouache, being warned that he was not to come, would not think of keeping the tryst. The scheme, if not profound, was at least likely to produce a good deal of trouble between the lovers. San Giacinto returned to the Palazzo Saracinesca, but he found only the old prince at home, though he prolonged his visit in the hope of seeing Corona or Sant' Ilario. "By the bye," he said, as he and his companion sat together in the prince's study, "I remember that you were so good as to say that you would let me see those family papers some day. They must be very interesting and I would be glad to avail myself of your offer." "Certainly," replied Saracinesca "They are in the Archives in a room of the library. It is rather late now. Do you mind waiting till to-morrow?" "Not in the least, or as long as you like. To tell the truth, I would like to show them to my future father-in-law, who loves archaeology. I was talking about them with him yesterday. After all, however, I suppose the duplicates are at the Cancelleria, and we can see them there." "I do not know," said the prince, carelessly, "I never took the trouble to inquire. There is probably some register of them, or something to prove that they are in existence." "There must be, of course. Things of that importance would not be allowed to go unregistered, unless people were very indifferent in those days." "It is possible that there are no duplicates. It may be that there is only an official notice of the deed giving the heads of the agreement. You see it was a friendly arrangement, and there was supposed to be no probability whatever that your great-grandfather would ever marry. The papers I have are all in order and legally valid, but there may have been some carelessness about registering them. I cannot be sure. Indeed it is thirty years at least since I looked at the originals." "If you would have them taken out some time before I am married, I should be glad to see them, but there is no hurry. So all this riot and revolution has meant something after all," added San Giacinto to change the subject "Garibaldi has taken Monte Rotondo, I hear to-day." "Yes, and if the French are not quick, we shall have the diversion of a siege," replied Saracinesca rather scornfully. "That same taking of Monte Rotondo was one of those gallant deeds for which Garibaldi is so justly famous. He has six thousand men, and there were only three hundred and fifty soldiers inside. Twenty to one, or thereabouts." It is unnecessary to detail the remainder of the conversation. Saracinesca went off into loud abuse of Garibaldi, confounding the whole Italian Government with him and devoting all to one common destination, while San Giacinto reserved his judgment, believing that there was probably a wide difference between the real intentions of the guerilla general and of his lawful sovereign, Victor Emmanuel the Second, King of Italy. At last the two men were informed that Corona had returned. They left the study and found her in the sitting-room. "Where is Giovanni?" she asked as soon as they entered. She was standing before the fireplace dressed as she had come in. "I have no idea where he is," replied Saracinesca. "I suppose he is at the club, or making visits somewhere. He has turned into a very orderly boy since you married him." The old man laughed a little. "I have missed him," said Corona, taking no notice of her father-in-law's remark. "I was to have picked him up on the Pincio, and when I got there he was gone. I am so afraid he will think I forgot all about it, for I must have been late. You see, I was delayed by a crowd in the Tritone--there is always a crowd there." Corona seemed less calm than usual. The fact was, that since the affair which had caused her husband so much annoyance, some small part of which she had perceived, she had been trying to make up to him for his disappointment in not knowing her secret, by being with him more than usual, and by exerting herself to please him in every way. They did not usually meet during the afternoon, as he generally went out on foot, while she drove, but to-day they had agreed that she should come to the Pincio and take him for a short drive and bring him home. The plan was part of her fixed intention to be more than usually thoughtful where he was concerned, and the idea that she had kept him waiting and that he had gone away caused her more regret than would have been natural in the ordinary course of events. In order to explain what now took place, it is necessary to return to Giovanni himself who, as Corona had said, had waited for his wife near the band-stand on the Pincio for some time, until growing weary, he had walked away and left the gardens. Though he manfully concealed what he felt, the passion that had been sown in his heart had grown apace and in a few days had assumed dominating proportions. He suspected everything and everybody while determined to appear indifferent. Even Corona's efforts to please him, which of late had grown so apparent, caused him suspicion. He asked himself why her manner should have changed, as it undoubtedly had during the last few days. She had always been a good and loving wife to him, and he was well pleased with her gravity and her dignified way of showing her affection. Why should she suddenly think it needful to become so very solicitous for his welfare and happiness during every moment of his life? It was not like her to come into his study early in the morning and to ask what he meant to do during the day. It was a new thing that she should constantly propose to walk with him, to drive with him, to read aloud to him, to make herself not only a part of his heart but a part of his occupations. Had the change come gradually, he would not have distrusted her motives. He liked his wife's company and conversation, but as they each had things to do which could not conveniently be done together, he had made up his mind to the existence which was good enough for his companions in society. Other men did not think of spending the afternoon in their wives' carriages, leaving cards or making visits, or driving round and round the Villa Borghese and the Pincio. To do so was to be ridiculous in the extreme, and besides, though he liked to be with Corona, he detested visiting, and hated of all things to stop a dozen times in the course of a drive in order to send a footman upstairs with cards. He preferred to walk or to lounge in the club or to stay at home and study the problems of his improvements for Saracinesca. Corona's manner irritated him therefore, and made him think more than ever of the subject which he would have done better to abandon from the first. Nevertheless, he would not show that he was wearied by his wife's attention, still less that he believed her behaviour to be prompted by a desire to deceive him. He was uniformly courteous and gentle, acquiescing in her little plans whenever he could do so, and expressing a suitable degree of regret when he was prevented from joining her by some previous engagement. But the image of the French Zouave was ever present with him. He could not get rid of Gouache's dark, delicate features, even in his dreams; the sound of the man's pleasant voice and of his fluent conversation was constantly in his ears, and he could not look at Corona without fancying how she would look if Anastase were beside her whispering tender speeches. All the time, he submitted with a good grace to do whatever she proposed, and on this afternoon he found himself waiting for her beside the band-stand. At first he watched the passing carriages indifferently enough, supposing that his own liveries would presently loom up in the long line of high-seated coachmen and lacqueys, and having no especial desire to see them. His position when in Corona's company grew every day more difficult, and he thought as he stood by the stone pillar at the corner that he would on the whole be glad if she did not come. He was egregiously mistaken in himself, however. As the minutes passed he grew uneasy, and watched the advancing carriages with a feverish anxiety, saying to himself that every one must bring Corona, and actually growing pale with emotion as each vehicle turned the distant corner and came into view. The time seemed interminable after he had once yielded to the excitement, and before another quarter of an hour had elapsed, Sant' Ilario turned angrily away and left the Pincio by the stairs that descend near the band-stand towards the winding drive by which the Piazza del Popolo is reached. It is not easy for a person who is calm to comprehend the workings of a brain over excited with a strong passion. To a man who has lost the sober use of his faculties in the belief that he has been foully betrayed, every circumstance, every insignificant accident, seems a link in the chain of evidence. A week earlier Giovanni would have thought himself mad if the mere idea had suggested itself to him that Corona loved Gouache. To-day he believed that she had purposely sent him to wait upon the Pincio, in order that she might be sure of seeing Gouache without fear of interruption. The conviction thrust itself upon him with overwhelming force. He fancied himself the dupe of a common imposition, he saw his magnificent love and trust made the sport of a vulgar trick. The blood mounted to his dark face and as he descended the steps a red mist seemed to be spread between his eyes and all surrounding objects. Though he walked firmly and mechanically, saluting his acquaintances as he passed, he was unconscious of his actions, and moved like a man under the influence of a superior force. Jealousy is that one of all the passions which is most sure to break out suddenly into deeds of violence when long restrained. Giovanni scarcely knew how he reached the Corso nor how it was that he found himself ascending the dusky staircase which led to Gouache's lodgings. It was less than a quarter of an hour since San Giacinto had been there, and the old woman still held her pot of coals in her hand as she opened the door. As she had pointed to the door when San Giacinto had come, so she now directed Giovanni in the same way. But Giovanni, on hearing that Anastase was out, began to ask questions. "Has any one been here?" he inquired. "Eh! There was a gentleman a quarter of an hour ago," replied the woman. "Has any lady been here?" "A lady? Macche!" The old creature laughed. "What should ladies do here?" Giovanni thought he detected some hesitation in the tone. He was in the mood to fancy himself deceived by every one. "Are you fond of money?" he asked, brutally. "Eh! I am an old woman. What would you have? Am I crazy that I should not like money? But Signor Gouache is a very good gentleman. He pays well, thank Heaven!" "What does he pay you for?" "What for? For his lodging--for his coffee. Bacchus! What should he pay me for? Strange question in truth. Do I keep a shop? I keep lodgings. But perhaps you like the place? It is a fine situation--just in the Corso and only one flight of stairs, a beautiful position for the Carnival. Of course, if you are inclined to pay more than Signor Gouache, I do not say but what---" "I do not want your lodgings, my good woman," returned Giovanni in gentler tones. "I want to know who comes to see your lodger." "Who should come? His friends of course. Who else?" "A lady, perhaps," said Giovanni in a thick voice. It hurt him to say it, and the words almost stuck in his throat. "Perhaps a lady comes sometimes," he repeated, pulling out some loose bank notes. The old woman's filmy eyes suddenly twinkled in the gloom. The sound of the crisp pieces of paper was delightful to her ear. "Well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "if a beautiful lady does come here, that is the Signore's affair. It is none of my business." Giovanni thrust the notes into her palm, which was already wide open to receive them. His heart beat wildly. "She is beautiful, you say?" "Oh! As beautiful as you please!" chuckled the hag. "Is she dark?" "Of course," replied the woman. There was no mistaking the tone in which the question was asked, for Giovanni was no longer able to conceal anything that he felt. "And tall, I suppose? Yes. And she was here a quarter of an hour ago, you say? Speak out!" he cried, advancing a step towards the old creature. "If you lie to me, I will kill you! She was here--do not deny it." "Yes--yes," answered the woman, cowering back in some terror. "Per carita! Don't murder me--I tell you the truth." With a sudden movement Giovanni turned on his heel and entered Gouache's sitting-room. It was now almost dark in the house and he struck a match and lighted a candle that stood on the stable. The glare illuminated his swarthy features and fiery eyes, and the veins stood out on his forehead and temples like strained and twisted cords. He looked about him in every direction, examining the table, strewn with papers and books, the floor, the furniture, expecting every moment to find something which should prove that Corona had been there. Seeing nothing, he entered the bedroom beyond. It was a small chamber and he had scarcely passed through the door when he found himself before the toilet-table. The note San Giacinto had left was there pinned upon the little cushion with the gold pin, as he had placed it. Giovanni stared wildly at the thing for several seconds and his face grew deadly white. There was no evidence lacking now, for the pin was Corona's own. It was a simple enough object, made of plain gold, the head being twisted into the shape of the letter C, but there was no mistaking its identity, for Giovanni had designed it himself. Corona used it for fastening her veil. As the blood sank from his head to his heart Giovanni grew very calm. He set the candle upon the toilet-table and took the note, after putting the pin in his pocket. The handwriting seemed to be feigned, and his lip curled scornfully as he looked at it and then, turning it over, saw that the envelope was one of Corona's own. It seemed to him a pitiable piece of folly in her to distort her writing when there was such abundant proof on all sides to convict her. Without the slightest hesitation he opened the letter and read it, bending down and holding it near the candle. One perusal was enough. He smiled curiously as he read the words, "I am so watched that I can do nothing. Some one suspects something." His attention was arrested by the statement that a trusty person--the words were underlined--would bring the note. The meaning of the emphasis was explained by the pin; the trusty person was herself, who, perhaps by an afterthought, had left the bit of gold as a parting gift in case Gouache marched before they met again. Giovanni glanced once more round the room, half expecting to find some other convicting piece of evidence. Then he hesitated, holding the candle in one hand and the note in the other. He thought of staying where he was and waiting for Gouache, but the idea did not seem feasible. Nothing which implied waiting could have satisfied him at that moment, and after a few seconds he thrust the note into his pocket and went out. His hand was on the outer door, when he remembered the old woman who sat crouching over her pan of coals, scarcely able to believe her good luck, and longing for Giovanni's departure in order that she might count the crisp notes again. She dared not indulge herself in that pleasure while he was present, lest he should repent of his generosity and take back a part of them, for she had seen how he had taken them from his pocket and saw that he had no idea how much he had given. "You will say nothing of my coming," said Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her. "I, Signore? Do not be afraid! Money is better than words." "Very good," he answered. "Perhaps you will get twice as much the next time I want to know the truth." "God bless you!" chuckled the wrinkled creature. He went out, and the little bell that was fastened to the door tinkled as the latch sprang back into its place. Then the woman counted the price of blood, which had so unexpectedly fallen into her hands. The bank-notes were many and broad, and crisp and new, for Giovanni had not reckoned the cost. It was long since old Caterina Ranucci had seen so much money, and she had certainly never had so much of her own. "Qualche innamorato!" she muttered to herself as she smoothed the notes one by one and gloated over them and built castles in the air under the light of her little oil lamp. "It is some fellow in love. Heaven pardon me if I have done wrong! He seemed so anxious to know that the woman had been here--why should I not content him? Poveretto! He must be rich. I will always tell him what he wants to know. Heaven bring him often and bless him." Then she rocked herself backwards and forwards, hugging her pot of coals and crooning the words of an ancient Roman ditty-- "Io vorrei che nella luna Ci s'andasse in carrettella Per vedere la piu bella Delle donne di la su!" What does the old song mean? Who knows whether it ever meant anything? "I wish one might drive in a little cart to the moon, to see the most beautiful of the women up there!" Caterina Ranucci somehow felt as though she could express her feelings in no better way than by singing the queer words to herself in her cracked old voice. Possibly she thought that the neighbours would not suspect her good fortune if they heard her favourite song. CHAPTER X. Sant' Ilario walked home from Gouache's lodgings. The cool evening air refreshed him and helped him to think over what he had before him in the near future. Indeed the position was terrible enough, and doubly so to a man of his temperament. He would have faced anything rather than this, for there was no point in which he was more vulnerable than in his love for Corona. As he walked her figure rose before him, and her beauty almost dazzled him when he thought of it. But he could no longer think of her without bringing up that other being upon whom his thoughts of vengeance concentrated themselves, until it seemed as though the mere intention must do its object some bodily harm. The fall was tremendous in itself and in its effects. It must have been a great passion indeed which could make such a man demean himself to bribe an inferior for information against his wife. He himself was so little able to measure the force by which he was swayed as to believe that he had extracted the confession from a reluctant accomplice. He would never have allowed that the sight of the money and the prompting of his own words could have caused the old woman to invent the perfectly imaginary story which he had seemed so fully determined to hear. He did not see that Caterina Ranucci had merely confirmed each statement he had made himself and had taken his bribe while laughing to herself at his folly. He was blinded by something which destroys the mental vision more surely than anger or hatred, or pride, or love itself. To some extent he was to be pardoned. The chain of circumstantial evidence was consecutive and so convincing that many a just person would have accepted Corona's guilt as the only possible explanation of what had happened. The discoveries he had just made would alone have sufficed to set up a case against her, and many an innocent reputation has been shattered by less substantial proofs. Had he not found a letter, evidently written in a feigned hand and penned upon his wife's own writing-paper, fastened upon Gouache's table with her own pin? Had not the old woman confessed--before he had found the note, too,--that a lady had been there but a short time before? Did not these facts agree singularly with Corona's having left him to wait for her during that interval in the public gardens? Above all, did not this conclusion explain at once all those things in her conduct which had so much disturbed him during the past week? What was this story of Faustina Montevarchi's disappearance? The girl was probably Corona's innocent accomplice. Corona had left the house at one o'clock in the morning with Gouache. The porter had not seen any other woman. The fact that she had entered the Palazzo Montevarchi with Faustina and without Anastase proved nothing, except that she had met the young girl somewhere else, it mattered little where. The story that Faustina had accidentally shut herself into a room in the palace was an invention, for even Corona admitted the fact. That Faustina's flight, however, and the other events of the night of the 22d had been arranged merely in order that Corona and Gouache might walk in the moonlight for a quarter of an hour, Giovanni did not believe. There was some other mystery here which was yet unsolved. Meanwhile the facts he had collected were enough--enough to destroy his happiness at a single blow. And yet he loved Corona even now, and though his mind was made up clearly enough concerning Gouache, he knew that he could not part from the woman he adored. He thought of the grim old fortress at Saracinesca with its lofty towers and impregnable walls, and when he reflected that there was but one possible exit from the huge mass of buildings, he said to himself that Corona would be safe there for ever. He had the instincts of a fierce and unforgiving race of men, who for centuries had held the law in their own hands, and were accustomed to wield it as it seemed good in their own eyes. It was not very long since the lords of Saracinesca had possessed the right of life and death over their vassals, [Footnote: Until 1870 the right of life and death was still held, so far as actual legality was concerned, by the Dukes of Bracciano, and was attached to the possession of the title, which had been sold and subsequently bought back by the original holders of it.] and the hereditary traits of character which had been fostered by ages of power had not disappeared with the decay of feudalism. Under the circumstances which seemed imminent, it would not have been thought unnatural if Giovanni had confined his wife during the remainder of her days in his castle among the mountains. The idea may excite surprise among civilised Europeans when it is considered that the events of which I write occurred as recently as 1867, but it would certainly have evoked few expressions of astonishment among the friends of the persons concerned. To Giovanni himself it seemed the only possible conclusion to what was happening, and the determination to kill Gouache and imprison Corona for life appeared in his eyes neither barbarous nor impracticable. He did not hasten his pace as he went towards his home. There was something fateful in his regular step and marble face as he moved steadily to the accomplishment of his purpose. The fury which had at first possessed him, and which, if he had then encountered Gouache, would certainly have produced a violent outbreak, had subsided and was lost in the certainty of his dishonour, and in the immensity of the pain he suffered. Nothing remained to be done but to tell Corona that he knew all, and to inflict upon her the consequences of her crime without delay. There was absolutely no hope left that she might prove herself innocent, and in Giovanni's own breast there was no hope either, no hope of ever finding again his lost happiness, or of ever again setting one stone upon another of all that splendid fabric of his life which he had built up so confidently upon the faith of the woman he loved. As he reached the gates of his home he grew if possible paler than before, till his face was positively ghastly to see, and his eyes seemed to sink deeper beneath his brows, while their concentrated light gleamed more fiercely. No one saw him enter, for the porter was in his lodge, and on reaching the landing of the stairs Giovanni let himself into the apartments with a latch-key. Corona was in her dressing-room, a high vaulted chamber, somewhat sombrely furnished, but made cheerful by a fire that blazed brightly in the deep old-fashioned chimney-piece. Candles were lighted upon the dressing-table, and a shaded lamp stood upon a low stand near a lounge beside the hearth. The princess was clad in a loose wrapper of some soft cream-coloured material, whose folds fell gracefully to the ground as she lay upon the couch. She was resting before dressing for dinner, and the masses of her blue-black hair were loosely coiled upon her head and held together by a great Spanish comb thrust among the tresses with a careless grace. She held a book in her slender, olive-tinted hand, but she was not reading; her head lay back upon the cushions and the firelight threw her features into strong relief, while her velvet eyes reflected the flashes of the dancing flames as she watched them. Her expression was serene and calm. She had forgotten for the moment the little annoyances of the last few days and was thinking of her happiness, contrasting the peace of her present life with what she had suffered during the five years of her marriage with poor old Astrardente. Could Giovanni have seen her thus his heart might have been softened. He would have asked himself how it was possible that any woman guilty of such enormous misdeeds could lie there watching the fire with a look of such calm innocence upon her face. But Giovanni did not see her as she was. Even in the extremity of his anger and suffering his courtesy did not forsake him, and he knocked at his wife's door before entering the room. Corona moved from her position, and turned her head to see who was about to enter. "Come in," she said. She started when she saw Giovanni's face. Dazzled as she was by the fire, he looked to her like a dead man. She laid one hand upon the arm of the couch as though she would rise to meet him. He shut the door behind him and advanced towards her till only a couple of paces separated them. She was so much amazed by his looks that she sat quite still while he fixed his eyes upon her and began to speak. "You have wrecked my life," he said in a strange, low voice. "I have come to tell you my decision." She thought he was raving mad, and, brave as she was, she shrank back a little upon her seat and turned pale. "You need not be afraid of me," he continued, as he noticed the movement. "I am not going to kill you. I am sorry to say I am fool enough to love you still." "Giovanni!" cried Corona in an agonised tone. She could find no words, but sprang to her feet and threw her arms about him, gazing imploringly into his face. His features did not relax, for he was prepared for any sort of acting on her part. Without hurting her, but with a strength few men could have resisted, he forced her back to her seat, and then retreated a step before he spoke again. She submitted blindly, feeling that any attempt to thwart him must be utterly useless. "I know what you have done," he said. "You can have nothing to say. Be silent and listen to me. You have destroyed the greatest happiness the world ever knew. You have dishonoured me and mine. You have dragged my faith in you--God knows how great--into the mire of your infamous life. And worse than that--I could almost have forgiven that, I am so base--you have destroyed yourself--" Corona uttered a wild cry and sank back upon the cushions, pressing her hands over her ears so that she might not hear the fearful words. "I will not listen!" she gasped. "You are mad--mad!" Then springing up once more she again clasped him to her breast, so suddenly that he could not escape her. "Oh, my poor Giovanni!" she moaned. "What has happened to you? Have you been hurt? Are you dying? For Heaven's sake speak like yourself!" He seized her wrists and held her before him so that she was forced to hear what he said. Even then his grasp did not hurt her. His hands were like manacles of steel in which hers could turn though she could not withdraw them. "I am hurt to death," he said, between his teeth. "I have been to Gouache's rooms and have brought away your letter--and your pin--the pin I gave you, Corona. Do you understand now, or must I say more?" "My letter?" cried Corona in the utmost bewilderment. "Yes," he answered, releasing her and instantly producing the note and the gold ornament. "Is that your paper? Is this your pin? Answer me--or no! they answer for themselves. You need say nothing, for you can have nothing to say. They are yours and you know it. If they are not enough there is the woman who let you in, who saw you bring them. What more do you want?" As long as Giovanni's accusations had been vague and general, Corona had remained horrorstruck, believing that some awful and incomprehensible calamity had befallen her husband and had destroyed his reason. The moment he produced the proof of what he said, her presence of mind returned, and she saw at a glance the true horror of the situation. She never doubted for a moment that she was the victim of some atrocious plot, but having something to face which she could understand her great natural courage asserted itself. She was not a woman to moan and weep helplessly when there was an open danger to be met. She took the letter and the pin and examined them by the light, with a calmness that contrasted oddly with her previous conduct. Giovanni watched her. He supposed that she had acted surprise until he had brought forward something more conclusive than words, and that she was now exercising her ingenuity in order to explain the situation. His lip curled scornfully, as he fancied he saw the meaning of her actions. After a few seconds she looked up and held out the two objects towards him. "The paper is mine," she said, "but I did not write the letter. The pin is mine too. I lost it more than a month ago." "Of course," replied Giovanni, coldly. "I expected that you would say that. It is very natural. But I do not ask you for any explanations. I have them already. I will take you to Saracinesca to-morrow morning and you will have time to explain everything. You will have your whole life to use, until you die, for no other object. I told you I would not kill you." "Is it possible that you are in earnest?" asked Corona, her voice trembling slightly. "I am in earnest. Do you think I am a man to jest over such deeds?" "And do you think I am a woman to do such deeds?" "Since you have done them--what answer can there be? Not only are you capable of them. You are the woman who has done them. Do lifeless things, like these, lie?" "No. But men do. I believe you, Giovanni. You found these things in Monsieur Gouache's rooms. You were told I put them there. Whoever told you so uttered the most infamous falsehood that ever was spoken on earth. The person who placed them where they were did so in the hope of ruining me. Can you look back into the past and tell me that you have any other reason for believing in this foul plot?" "Reasons?" cried Giovanni, fiercely. "Do you want more reasons? We have time. I will give you enough to satisfy you that I know all you have done. Was not this man for ever near you last year, wherever you met, talking with you in low tones, showing by every movement and gesture that he distinguished you with his base love? Were you not together in a corner last Tuesday night just as the insurrection broke out? Did he not kiss your hand when you both thought no one was looking?" "He kissed my hand before every one," replied Corona, whose wrath was slowly gathering as she saw her husband's determination to prove her guilty. "There were people in the room," continued Giovanni in a tone of concentrated anger, "but you thought no one was watching you--I could see it in your manner and in your eyes. That same night I came home at one o'clock and you were out. You had gone out alone with that man, expecting that I would not return so soon--though it was late enough, too. You were forced to admit that you were with him, because the porter had seen you and had told me the man was a Zouave." "I will tell you the story, since you no longer trust me," said Corona, proudly. "I have no doubt you will tell me some very ingenious tale which will explain why, although you left my house alone, with Gouache, you reached the Palazzo Montevarchi alone with Faustina. But I have not done. He came here the next day. You treated him with unexampled rudeness before me. Half an hour later I found you together in the drawing-room. He was kissing your hand again. You were saying you forgave him and giving him that favourite benediction of yours, which you once bestowed upon me under very similar circumstances. Astrardente was alive and present at that dance in Casa Frangipani. You have me for a husband now and you have found another man whose heart will beat when you bless him. It would be almost better to kill you after all." "Have you finished?" asked Corona, white with anger. "Yes. That letter and that pin--left while I, poor fool, was waiting for you this afternoon on the Pincio--those things are my last words. They close the tale very appropriately. I wish I did not love you so--I would not wait for your answer." "Do you dare to say you love me?" "Yes--though there is no other man alive who would dare so much, who would dare to love such a woman as you are--for very shame." "And I tell you," answered Corona in ringing tones, "that, although I can prove to you that every word you say against me is an abominable calumny, so that you shall see how basely you have insulted an innocent woman, yet I shall never love you again--never, never. A man who can believe such things, who can speak such things, is worthy of no woman's love and shall not have mine. And yet you shall hear me tell the truth, that you may know what you have done. You say I have wrecked your life and destroyed your happiness. You have done it for yourself. As there is a God in Heaven--" "Do not blaspheme," said Giovanni, contemptuously. "I will hear your story." "Before God, this thing is a lie!" cried Corona, standing at her full height, her eyes flashing with just indignation. Then lowering her voice, she continued speaking rapidly but distinctly. "Gouache loves Faustina, and she loves him. When he left this house that night she followed him out into the street. She reached the Serristori barracks and was stunned by the explosion. Gouache found her there many hours later. When you saw us together a little earlier he was telling me he loved her. He is a man of honour. He saw that the only way to save her good name was to bring her here and let me take her home. He sent me a word by the porter, while she waited in the shadow. I ran down and found her there. We purposely prevented the porter from seeing her. I took her to her father's house, and sent Gouache away, for I was angry with him. I believed he had led an innocent girl into following him--that it was a pre-arranged meeting and that she had gone not realising that there was a revolution. I invented the story of her having lost herself here, in order to shield her. The next day Gouache came. I would not speak to him and went to my room. The servants told me he was gone, but as I was coming back to you I met him. He stopped me and made me believe what is quite true, for Faustina has acknowledged it. She followed him of her own accord, and he had no idea that she was not safe at home. I forgave him. He said he was going to the frontier and asked me to give him a blessing. It was a foolish idea, perhaps, but I did as he wished. If you had come forward like a man instead of listening we would have told you all. But you suspected me even then. I do not know who told you that I had been to his lodging to-day. The carriage was stopped by a crowd in the Tritone, and I reached the Pincio after you had gone. As for the pin, I lost it a month ago. Gouache may have found it, or it may have been picked up and sold, and he may have chanced to buy it. I never wrote the letter. The paper was either taken from this house or was got from the stationer who stamps it for us. Faustina may have taken it--she may have been here when I was out--it is not her handwriting. I believe it is an abominable plot. But it is as transparent as water. Take the pin and wear it. See Gouache when you have it. He will ask you where you got it, for he has not the slightest idea that it is mine. Are you satisfied? I have told you all. Do you see what you have done, in suspecting me, in accusing me, in treating me like the last of women? I have done. What have you to say?" "That you have told a very improbable story," replied Giovanni. "You have sunk lower than before, for you have cast a slur upon an innocent girl in order to shield yourself. I would not have believed you capable of that. You can no more prove your innocence than you can prove that this poor child was mad enough to follow Gouache into the street last Tuesday night. I have listened to you patiently. I have but one thing more to do and then there will be nothing left for me but patience. You will send for your servants, and order your effects to be packed for the journey to Saracinesca. If it suits your convenience we will start at eleven o'clock, as I shall be occupied until then. I advise you not to see my father." Corona stood quite still while he spoke. She could not realise that he paid no attention whatever to her story, save to despise her the more for having implicated Faustina. It was inconceivable to her that all the circumstances should not now be as clear to him as they were to herself. From the state of absolute innocence she could not transfer herself in a moment to the comprehension of all he had suffered, all he had thought, and all he had recalled before accusing her. Even had that been possible, her story seemed to her to give a perfectly satisfactory explanation of all his suspicions. She was wounded, indeed, so deeply that she knew she could never recover herself entirely, but it did not strike her as possible that all she had said should produce no effect at all. And yet she knew his look and his ways, and recognised in the tone of his voice the expression of a determination which it would be hard indeed to change. He still believed her guilty, and he was going to take her away to the dismal loneliness of the mountains for an indefinite time, perhaps for ever. She had not a relation in the world to whom she could appeal. Her mother had died in her infancy; her father, for whom she sacrificed herself in marrying the rich old Duke of Astrardente, was dead long ago. She could turn to no one, unless it were to Prince Saracinesca himself--and Giovanni warned her not to go to his father. She stood for some moments looking fixedly at him as though trying to read his thoughts, and he returned her gaze with unflinching sternness. The position was desperate. In a few hours she would be where there would be no possibility of defence or argument, and she knew the man's character well enough to be sure that where proof failed entreaty would be worse than useless. At last she came near to him and almost gently laid her hand upon his arm. "Giovanni," she said, quietly, "I have loved you very tenderly and very truly. I swear to you upon our child that I am wholly innocent. Will you not believe me?" "No," he answered, and the little word fell from his lips like the blow of a steel hammer. His eyes did not flinch; his features did not change. "Will you not ask some one who knows whether I have not spoken the truth? Will you not let me write--or write yourself to those two, and ask them to come here and tell you their story? It is much to ask of them, but it is life or death to me and they will not refuse. Will you not do it?" "No, I will not." "Then do what you will with me, and may God forgive you, for I cannot." Corona turned from him and crossed the room. There was a cushioned stool there, over which hung a beautiful crucifix. Corona knelt down, as though not heeding her husband's presence, and buried her face in her hands. Giovanni stood motionless in the middle of the room. His eyes had followed his wife's movements and he watched her in silence for a short time. Convinced, as he was, of her guilt, he believed she was acting a part, and that her kneeling down was merely intended to produce a theatrical effect. The accent of truth in her words made no impression whatever upon him, and her actions seemed to him too graceful to be natural, too dignified for a woman who was not trying all the time to make the best of her appearance. The story she had told coincided too precisely, if possible, with the doings of which he had accused her, while it failed in his judgment to explain the motives of what she had done. He said to himself that he, in her place, would have told everything on that first occasion when she had come home and had found him waiting for her. He forgot, or did not realise, that she had been taken unawares, when she expected to find time to consider her course, and had been forced to make up her mind suddenly. Almost any other woman would have told the whole adventure at once; any woman less wholly innocent of harm would have seen the risk she incurred by asking her husband's indulgence for her silence. He was persuaded that she had played upon his confidence in her and had reckoned upon his belief in her sincerity in order to be bold with half the truth. Suspicion and jealousy had made him so ingenious that he imputed to her a tortuous policy of deception, of which she was altogether incapable. Corona did not kneel long. She had no intention of making use of the appearance of prayer in order to affect Giovanni's decision, nor in order to induce him to leave her alone. He would, indeed, have quitted the room had she remained upon her knees a few moments longer, but when she rose and faced him once more he was still standing as she had left him, his eyes fixed upon her and his arms folded upon his breast. He thought she was going to renew her defence, but he was mistaken. She came and stood before him, so that a little distance separated him from her, and she spoke calmly, in her deep, musical voice. "You have made up your mind, then. Is that your last word?" "It is." "Then I will say what I have to say. It shall not be much, but we shall not often talk together in future. You will remember some day what I tell you. I am an innocent and defenceless woman. I have no relation to whom I can appeal. You have forbidden me to write to those who could prove me guiltless. For the sake of our child--for the sake of the love I have borne you--I will make no attempt at resistance. The world shall not know that you have even doubted me, the mother of your son, the woman who has loved you. The time will come when you will ask my forgiveness for your deeds. I tell you frankly that I shall never be capable of forgiving you, nor of speaking a kind word to you again. This is neither a threat nor a warning, though it may perhaps be the means of sparing you some disappointment. I only ask two things of your courtesy--that you will inform me of what you mean to do with our child, and that you will then be good enough to leave me alone for a little while." An evil thought crossed Giovanni's mind. He knew how Corona would suffer if she were not allowed either to see little Orsino or to know what became of him while she was living her solitary life of confinement in the mountains. The diabolical cruelty of the idea fascinated him for a moment, and he looked coldly into her eyes as though he did not mean to answer her. In spite of his new jealousy, however, he was not capable of inflicting this last blow. As he looked at her beautiful white face and serious eyes, he wavered. He loved her still and would have loved her, had the proofs against her been tenfold more convincing than they were. With him his love was a passion apart and by itself. It had been strengthened and made beautiful by the devotion and tenderness and faith which had grown up with it, and had surrounded it as with a wall. But though all these things were swept away the passion itself remained, fierce, indomitable and soul-stirring in its power. It stood alone, like the impregnable keep of a war-worn fortress, beneath whose shadow the outworks and ramparts have been razed to the ground, and whose own lofty walls are battered and dinted by engines of war, shorn of all beauty and of all its stately surroundings, but stern and unshaken yet, grim, massive and solitary. For an instant Giovanni wavered, unable to struggle against that mysterious power which still governed him and forced him to acknowledge its influence. The effort of resisting the temptation to be abominably cruel carried him back from his main purpose, and produced a sudden revulsion of feeling wholly incomprehensible to himself. "Corona!" he cried, in a voice breaking with emotion. He threw out his arms wildly and sprang towards her. She thrust him back with a strength of which he would not have believed her capable. Bitter words rose to her lips, but she forced them back and was silent, though her eyes blazed with an anger she had never felt before. For some time neither spoke. Corona stood erect and watchful, one hand resting upon the back of a chair. Giovanni walked to the end of the room, and then came back and looked steadily into her face. Several seconds elapsed before he could speak, and his face was very white. "You may keep the child," he said at last, in an unsteady tone. Then without another word he left the room and softly closed the door behind him. When Corona was alone she remained standing as he had last seen her, her gaze fixed on the heavy curtains through which he had disappeared. Gradually her face grew rigid, and the expression vanished from her deep eyes, till they looked dull and glassy. She tottered, lost her hold upon the chair and fell to the floor with an inarticulate groan. There she lay, white, beautiful and motionless as a marble statue, mercifully unconscious, for a space, of all she had to suffer. Giovanni went from his wife's presence to his father's study. The prince sat at his writing-table, a heap of dusty parchments and papers piled before him. He was untying the rotten strings with which they were fastened, peering through his glasses at the headings written across the various documents. He did not unfold them, but laid them carefully in order upon the table. When San Giacinto had gone away, the old gentleman had nothing to do for an hour or more before dinner. He had accordingly opened a solid old closet in the library which served as a sort of muniment room for the family archives, and had withdrawn a certain box in which he knew that the deeds concerning the cession of title were to be found. He did not intend to look them over this evening, but was merely arranging them for examination on the morrow. He looked up as Giovanni entered, and started from his chair when he saw his son's face. "Good heavens! Giovannino! what has happened?" he cried, in great anxiety. "I came to tell you that Corona and I are going to Saracinesca to-morrow," answered Sant' Ilario, in a low voice. "What? At this time of year? Besides, you cannot get there. The road is full of Garibaldians and soldiers. It is not safe to leave the city! Are you ill? What is the matter?" "Oh--nothing especial," replied Giovanni with an attempt to assume an indifferent tone "We think the mountain air will be good for my wife, that is all. I do not think we shall really have much difficulty in getting there. Half of this war is mere talk." "And the other half consists largely of stray bullets," observed the prince, eyeing his son suspiciously from under his shaggy brows. "You will allow me to say, Giovanni, that for thoughtless folly you have rarely had your equal in the world." "I believe you are right," returned the younger man bitterly. "Nevertheless I mean to undertake this journey." "And does Corona consent to it? Why are you so pale? I believe you are ill?" "Yes--she consents. We shall take the child." "Orsino? You are certainly out of your mind. It is bad enough to take a delicate woman--" "Corona is far from delicate. She is very strong and able to bear anything." "Don't interrupt me. I tell you she is a woman, and so of course she must be delicate. Can you not understand common sense? As for the boy, he is my grandson, and if you are not old enough to know how to take care of him, I am. He shall not go. I will not permit it. You are talking nonsense. Go and dress for dinner, or send for the doctor--in short, behave like a human being! I will go and see Corona myself." The old gentleman's hasty temper was already up, and he strode to the door. Giovanni laid his hand somewhat heavily upon his father's arm. "Excuse me," he said, "Corona cannot see you now. She is dressing." "I will talk to her through the door. I will wait in her boudoir till she can see me." "I do not think she will see you this evening. She will be busy in getting ready for the journey." "She will dine with us, I suppose?" "I scarcely know--I am not sure." Old Saracinesca suddenly turned upon his son. His gray hair bristled on his head, and his black eyes flashed. With a quick movement he seized Giovanni's arms and held him before him as in a vice. "Look here!" he cried savagely. "I will not be made a fool of by a boy. Something has happened which you are afraid to tell me. Answer me. I mean to know!" "You will not know from me," replied Sant' Ilario, keeping his temper as he generally did in the face of a struggle. "You will know nothing, because there is nothing to know." Saracinesca laughed. "Then there can be no possible objection to my seeing Corona," he said, dropping his hold and again going towards the door. Once more Giovanni stopped him. "You cannot see her now," he said in determined tones. "Then tell me what all this trouble is about," retorted his father. But Giovanni did not speak. Had he been cooler he would not have sought the interview so soon, but he had forgotten that the old prince would certainly want to know the reason of the sudden journey. "Do you mean to tell me or not?" "The fact is," replied Giovanni desperately, "we have consulted the doctor--Corona is not really well--he advises us to go to the mountains--" "Giovanni," broke in the old man roughly, "you never lied to me, but you are lying now. There has been trouble between you two, though I cannot imagine what has caused it." "Pray do not ask me, then. I am doing what I think best--what you would think best if you knew all. I came to tell you that we were going, and I did not suppose you would have anything to say. Since you do not like the idea--well, I am sorry--but I entreat you not to ask questions. Let us go in peace." Saracinesca looked fixedly at his son for some minutes. Then the anger faded from his face, and his expression grew very grave. He loved Giovanni exceedingly, and he loved Corona for his sake more than for her own, though he admired her and delighted in her conversation. It was certain that if there were a quarrel between husband and wife, and if Giovanni had the smallest show of right on his side, the old man's sympathies would be with him. Giovanni's sense of honour, on the other hand, prevented him from telling his father what had happened. He did not choose that even his nearest relation should think of Corona as he thought himself, and he would have taken any step to conceal her guilt. Unfortunately for his purpose he was a very truthful man, and had no experience of lying, so that his father detected him at once. Moreover, his pale face and agitated manner told plainly enough that something very serious had occurred, and so soon as the old prince had convinced himself of this his goodwill was enlisted on the side of his son. "Giovannino," he said at last very gently, "I do not want to pry into your secrets nor to ask you questions which you do not care to answer. I do not believe you are capable of having committed any serious folly which your wife could really resent. If you should be unfaithful to her, I would disown you. If, on the other hand, she has deceived you, I will do all in my power to help you." Perhaps Giovanni's face betrayed something of the truth at these words. He turned away and leaned against the chimney-piece. "I cannot tell you--I cannot tell you," he repeated. "I think I am doing what is best. That is all I can say. You may know some day, though I trust not. Let us go away without explanations." "My dear boy," replied the old man, coming up to him and laying his hand on his shoulder, "you must do as you think best. Go to Saracinesca if you will, and if you can. If not, go somewhere else. Take heart. Things are not always as black as they look." Giovanni straightened himself as though by an effort, and grasped his father's broad, brown hand. "Thank you," he said. "Good-bye. I will come down and see you in a few days. Good-bye!" His voice trembled and he hurriedly left the room. The prince stood still a moment and then threw himself into a deep chair, staring at the lamp and biting his gray moustache savagely, as though to hide some almost uncontrollable emotion. There was a slight moisture in his eyes as they looked steadily at the bright lamp. The papers and parchments lay unheeded on the table, and he did not touch them again that night. He was thinking, not of his lonely old age nor of the dishonour brought upon his house, but of the boy he had loved as his own soul for more than thirty years, and of a swarthy little child that lay asleep in a distant room, the warm blood tinging its olive cheeks and its little clinched hands thrown back above its head. For Corona he had no thought but hatred. He had guessed Giovanni's secret too well, and his heart was hardened against the woman who had brought shame and suffering upon his son. CHAPTER XI. San Giacinto had signally failed in his attempt to prevent the meeting between Gouache and Faustina Montevarchi, and had unintentionally caused trouble of a much more serious nature in another quarter. The Zouave returned to his lodging late at night, and of course found no note upon his dressing-table. He did not miss the pin, for he of course never wore it, and attached no particular value to a thing of such small worth which he had picked up in the street and which consequently had no associations for him. He lacked the sense of order in his belongings, and the pin had lain neglected for weeks among a heap of useless little trifles, dingy cotillon favours that had been there since the previous year, stray copper coins, broken pencils, uniform buttons and such trash, accumulated during many months and totally unheeded. Had he seen the pin anywhere else he would have recognised it, but he did not notice its absence. The old woman, Caterina Ranucci, hugged her money and said nothing about either of the visitors who had entered the room during the afternoon. The consequence was that Gouache rose early on the following morning and went towards the church with a light heart. He did not know certainly that Faustina would come there, and indeed there were many probabilities against her doing so, but in the hopefulness of a man thoroughly in love, Gouache looked forward to seeing her with as much assurance as though the matter had been arranged and settled between them. The parish church of Sant' Agostino is a very large building. The masses succeed each other in rapid succession from seven o'clock in the morning until midday, and a great crowd of parishioners pass in and out in an almost constant stream. It was therefore Gouache's intention to arrive so early as to be sure that Faustina had not yet come, and he trusted to luck to be there at the right time, for he was obliged to visit the temporary barrack of his corps before going to the church, and was also obliged to attend mass at a later hour with his battalion. On presenting himself at quarters he learned to his surprise that Monte Rotondo had not surrendered yet, though news of the catastrophe was expected every moment. The Zouaves were ordered to remain under arms all day in case of emergency, and it was only through the friendly assistance of one of his officers that Anastase obtained leave to absent himself for a couple of hours. He hailed a cab and drove to the church as fast as he could. In less than twenty minutes after he had stationed himself at the entrance, Faustina ascended the steps accompanied by a servant. The latter was a middle-aged woman with hard features, clad in black, and wearing a handkerchief thrown loosely over her head after the manner of maids in those days. She evidently expected nothing, for she looked straight before her, peering into the church in order to see beforehand at which chapel there was likely to be a mass immediately. Faustina was a lovely figure in the midst of the crowd of common people who thronged the doorway, and whose coarse dark faces threw her ethereal features into strong relief while she advanced. Gouache felt his heart beat hard, for he had not seen her for five days since they had parted on that memorable Tuesday night at the gate of her father's house. Her eyes met his in a long and loving look, and the colour rose faintly in her delicate pale cheek. In the press she managed to pass close to him, and for a moment he succeeded in clasping her small hand in his, her maid being on the other side. He was about to ask a question when she whispered a few words and passed on. "Follow me through the crowd, I will manage it," was what she said. Gouache obeyed, and kept close behind her. The church was very full and there was difficulty in getting seats. "I will wait here," said the young girl to her servant. "Get us chairs and find out where there is to be a mass. It is of no use for me to go through the crowd if I may have to come back again." The hard-featured woman nodded and went away. Several minutes must elapse before she returned, and Faustina with Gouache behind her moved across the stream of persons who were going out through the door in the other aisle. In a moment they found themselves in a comparatively quiet corner, separated from the main body of the church by the moving people. Faustina fixed her eyes in the direction whence her woman would probably return, ready to enter the throng instantly, if necessary. Even where they now were, so many others were standing and kneeling that the presence of the Zouave beside Faustina would create no surprise. "It is very wrong to meet you in church," said the girl, a little shy, at first, with that timidity a woman always feels on meeting a man whom she has last seen on unexpectedly intimate terms. "I could not go away without seeing you," replied Gouache, his eyes intent on her face. "And I knew you would understand my signs, though no one else would. You have made me very happy, Faustina. It would have been agony to march away without seeing your face again--you do not know what these days have been without you! Do you realise that we used to meet almost every afternoon? Did they tell you why I could not come? I told every one I met, in hopes you might hear. Did you? Do you understand?" Faustina nodded her graceful head, and glanced quickly at his face. Then she looked down, tapping the pavement gently with her parasol. The colour came and went in her cheeks. "Do you really love me?" she asked in a low voice. "I think, my darling, that no one ever loved as I love. I would that I might be given time to tell you what my love is, and that you might have patience to hear. What are words, unless one can say all one would? What is it, if I tell you that I love you with all my heart, and soul and thoughts? Do not other men say as much and forget that they have spoken? I would find a way of saying it that should make you believe in spite of yourself--" "In spite of myself?" interrupted Faustina, with a bright smile while her brown eyes rested lovingly on his for an instant. "You need not that," she added simply, "for I love you, too." Nothing but the sanctity of the place prevented Anastase from taking her in his arms then and there. There was something so exquisite in her simplicity and earnestness that he found himself speechless before her for a moment. It was something that intoxicated his spirit more than his senses, for it was utterly new to him and appealed to his own loyal and innocent nature as it could not have appealed to a baser man. "Ah Faustina!" he said at last, "God made you when he made the violets, on a spring morning in Paradise!" Faustina blushed again, faintly as the sea at dawn. "Must you go away?" she asked. "You would not have me desert at such a moment?" "Would it be deserting--quite? Would it be dishonourable?" "It would be cowardly. I should never dare to look you in the face again." "I suppose it would be wrong," she answered with a bitter little sigh. "I will come back very soon, dearest. The time will be short." "So long--so long! How can you say it will be short? If you do not come soon you will find me dead--I cannot bear it many days more." "I will write to you." "How can you write? Your letters would be seen. Oh no! It is impossible!" "I will write to your friend--to the Princess Sant' Ilario. She will give you the letters. She is safe, is she not?" "Oh, how happy I shall be! It will be almost like seeing you--no, not that! But so much better than nothing. But you do not go at once?" "It may be to-day, to-morrow, at any time. But you shall know of it. Ah Faustina! my own one--" "Hush! There is my maid. Quick, behind the pillar. I will meet her. Good-bye--good-bye--Oh! not good-bye--some other word--" "God keep you, my beloved, and make it not 'good-bye'!" With one furtive touch of the hand, one long last look, they separated, Faustina to mingle in the crowd, Gouache to follow at a long distance until he saw her kneeling at her chair before one of the side altars of the church. Then he stationed himself where he could see her, and watched through the half hour during which the low mass lasted. He did not know when he should see her again, and indeed it was as likely as not that they should not meet on this side of eternity. Many a gallant young fellow marched out in those days and was picked off by a bullet from a red-shirted volunteer. Gouache, indeed, did not believe that his life was to be cut short so suddenly, and built castles in the air with that careless delight in the future which a man feels who is not at all afraid. But such accidents happened often, and though he might be more lucky than another, it was just as possible that an ounce of lead should put an end to his soldiering, his painting and his courtship within another week. The mere thought was so horrible that his bright nature refused to harbour it, and he gazed on Faustina Montevarchi as she knelt at her devotions, wondering, indeed, what strange chances fate had in store for them both, but never once doubting that she should one day be his. He waited until she passed him in the crowd, and gave him one more look before going away. Then, when he had seen her disappear at the turning of the street, he sprang into his cab and was driven back to the barracks where he must remain on duty all day. As he descended he was surprised to see Sant' Ilario standing upon the pavement, very pale, and apparently in a bad humour, his overcoat buttoned to his throat, and his hands thrust in the pockets. There was no one in the street, but the sentinel at the doorway, and Giovanni walked quickly up to Gouache as the latter fumbled for the change to pay his driver. Anastase smiled and made a short military salute. Sant' Ilario bowed stiffly and did not extend his hand. "I tried to find you last night," he said coldly. "You were out. Will you favour me with five minutes' conversation?" "Willingly," answered the other, looking instinctively at his watch, to be sure that he had time to spare. Sant' Ilario walked a few yards up the street, before speaking, Gouache keeping close to his side. Then both stopped, and Giovanni turned sharply round and faced his enemy. "It is unnecessary to enter into any explanations, Monsieur Gouache," he said. "This is a matter which can only end in one way. I presume you will see the propriety of inventing a pretext which may explain our meeting before the world." Gouache stared at Sant' Ilario in the utmost amazement. When they had last met they had parted on the most friendly terms. He did not understand a word of what his companion was saying. "Excuse me, prince," he said at length. "I have not the least idea what you mean. As far as I am concerned this meeting is quite accidental. I came here on duty." Sant' Ilario was somewhat taken aback by the Zouave's polite astonishment. He seemed even more angry than surprised, however; and his black eyebrows bent together fiercely. "Let us waste no words," he said imperiously. "If I had found you last night, the affair might have been over by this time." "What affair?" asked Gouache, more and more mystified. "You are amazingly slow of comprehension, Monsieur Gouache," observed Giovanni. "To be plain, I desire to have an opportunity of killing you. Do you understand me now?" "Perfectly," returned the soldier, raising his brows, and then breaking into a laugh of genuine amusement. "You are quite welcome to as many opportunities as you like, though I confess it would interest me to know the reason of your good intentions towards me." If Gouache had behaved as Giovanni had expected he would, the latter would have repeated his request that a pretext should be found which should explain the duel to the world. But there was such extraordinary assurance in the Zouave's manner that Sant' Ilario suddenly became exasperated with him and lost his temper, a misfortune which very rarely happened to him. "Monsieur Gouache," he said angrily, "I took the liberty of visiting your lodgings yesterday afternoon, and I found this letter, fastened with this pin upon your table. I presume you will not think any further explanation necessary." Gouache stared at the objects which Sant' Ilario held out to him and drew back stiffly. It was his turn to be outraged at the insult. "Sir," he said, "I understand that you acted in the most impertinent manner in entering my room and taking what did not belong to you. I understand nothing else. I found that pin on the Ponte Sant' Angelo a month ago, and it was, I believe, upon my table yesterday. As for the letter I know nothing about it. Yes, if you insist, I will read it." There was a pause during which Gouache ran his eyes over the few lines written on the notepaper, while Giovanni watched him very pale and wrathful. "The pin is my wife's, and the note is written on her paper and addressed to you, though in a feigned hand. Do you deny that both came from her, were brought by her in person, for yourself?" "I deny it utterly and categorically," answered Gouache. "Though I will assuredly demand satisfaction of you for entering my rooms without my permission, I give you my word of honour that I could receive no such letter from the princess, your wife. The thing is monstrously iniquitous, and you have been grossly deceived into injuring the good name of a woman as innocent as an angel. Since the pin is the property of the princess, pray return it to her with my compliments, and say that I found it on the bridge of Sant' Angelo. I can remember the very date. It was a quarter of an hour before I was run over by Prince Montevarchi's carriage. It was therefore on the 23d of September. As for the rest, do me the favour to tell me where my friends can find yours in an hour." "At my house. But allow me to add that I do not believe a word of what you say." "Is it a Roman custom to insult a man who has agreed to fight with you?" inquired Gouache. "We are more polite in France. We salute our adversaries before beginning the combat." Therewith the Zouave saluted Giovanni courteously and turned on his heel, leaving the latter in an even worse humour than he had found him. Gouache was too much surprised at the interview to reason connectedly about the causes which had led to it, and accepted the duel with Sant' Ilario blindly, because he could not avoid it, and because whatever offence he himself had unwittingly given he had in turn been insulted by Giovanni in a way which left him no alternative but that of a resort to arms. His adversary had admitted, had indeed boasted, of having entered Gouache's rooms, and of having taken thence the letter and the pin. This alone constituted an injury for which reparation was necessary, but not content with this, Sant' Ilario had given him the lie direct. Matters were so confused that it was hard to tell which was the injured party; but since the prince had undoubtedly furnished a pretext more than sufficient, the soldier had seized the opportunity of proposing to send his friends to demand satisfaction. It was clear, however, that the duel could not take place at once, since Gouache was under arms, and it was imperatively necessary that he should have permission to risk his life in a private quarrel at such a time. It was also certain that his superiors would not allow anything of the kind at present, and Gouache for his part was glad of the fact. He preferred to be killed before the enemy rather than in a duel for which there was no adequate explanation, except that a man who had been outrageously deceived by a person or persons unknown had chosen to attack him for a thing he had never done. He had not the slightest intention of avoiding the encounter, but he preferred to see some active service in a cause to which he was devoted before being run through the body by one who was his enemy only by mistake. Giovanni's reputation as a swordsman made it probable that the issue would be unfavourable to Gouache, and the latter, with the simple fearlessness that belonged to his character, meant if possible to have a chance of distinguishing himself before being killed. Half an hour later, a couple of officers of Zouaves called upon Sant' Ilario, and found his representatives waiting for them. Giovanni had had the good fortune to find Count Spicca at home. That melancholy gentleman had been his second in an affair with Ugo del Ferice nearly three years earlier and had subsequently killed one of the latter's seconds in consequence of his dishonourable behaviour in the field. He had been absent in consequence until a few weeks before the present time, when matters had been arranged, and he had found himself free to return unmolested. It had been remarked at the club that something would happen before he had been in Rome many days. He was a very tall and cadaverous man, exceedingly prone to take offence, and exceedingly skilful in exacting the precise amount of blood which he considered a fair return for an injury. He had never been known to kill a man by accident, but had rarely failed to take his adversary's life when he had determined to do so. Spicca had brought another friend, whom it is unnecessary to describe. The interview was short and conclusive. The two officers had instructions to demand a serious duel, and Spicca and his companion had been told to make the conditions even more dangerous if they could do so. On the other hand, the officers explained that as Rome was in a state of siege, and Garibaldi almost at the gates, the encounter could not take place until the crisis was past. They undertook to appear for Gouache in case he chanced to be shot in an engagement. Spicca, who did not know the real cause of the duel, and was indeed somewhat surprised to learn that Giovanni had quarrelled with a Zouave, made no attempt to force an immediate meeting, but begged leave to retire and consult with his principal, an informality which was of course agreed to by the other side. In five minutes he returned, stating that he accepted the provisions proposed, and that he should expect twenty-four hours' notice when Gouache should be ready. The four gentlemen drew up the necessary "protocol," and parted on friendly terms after a few minutes' conversation, in which various proposals were made in regard to the ground. Spicca alone remained behind, and he immediately went to Giovanni, carrying a copy of the protocol, on which the ink was still wet. "Here it is," he said sadly, as he entered the room, holding up the paper in his hand. "These revolutions are very annoying! There is no end to the inconvenience they cause." "I suppose it could not be helped," answered Giovanni, gloomily. "No. I believe I have not the reputation of wasting time in these matters. You must try and amuse yourself as best you can until the day comes. It is a pity you have not some other affair in the meanwhile, just to make the time pass pleasantly. It would keep your hand in, too. But then you have the pleasures of anticipation." Giovanni laughed hoarsely, Spicca took a foil from the wall and played with it, looking along the thin blade, then setting the point on the carpet and bending the weapon to see whether it would spring back properly. Giovanni's eyes followed his movements, watching the slender steel, and then glancing at Spicca's long arms, his nervous fingers and peculiar grip. "How do you manage to kill your man whenever you choose?" asked Sant' Ilario, half idly, half in curiosity. "It is perfectly simple, at least with foils," replied the other, making passes in the air. "Now, if you will take a foil, I will promise to run you through any part of your body within three minutes. You may make a chalked mark on the precise spot. If I miss by a hair's-breadth I will let you lunge at me without guarding." "Thank you," said Giovanni; "I do not care to be run through this morning, but I confess I would like to know how you do it. Could not you touch the spot without thrusting home?" "Certainly, if you do not mind a scratch on the shoulder or the arm. I will try and not draw blood. Come on--so--in guard--wait a minute! Where will you be hit? That is rather important." Giovanni, who was in a desperate humour and cared little what he did, rather relished the idea of a bout which savoured of reality. There was a billiard-table in the adjoining room, and he fetched a piece of chalk at once. "Here," said he, making a small white spot upon his coat on the outside of his right shoulder. "Very well," observed Spicca. "Now, do not rush in or I may hurt you." "Am I to thrust, too?" asked Giovanni. "If you like. You cannot touch me if you do." "We shall see," answered Sant' Ilario, nettled at Spicca's poor opinion of his skill. "In guard!" They fell into position and began play. Giovanni immediately tried his special method of disarming his adversary, which he had scarcely ever known to fail. He forgot, however, that Spicca had seen him practise this piece of strategy with success upon Del Ferice. The melancholy duellist had spent weeks in studying the trick, and had completely mastered it. To Giovanni's surprise the Count's hand turned as easily as a ball in a socket, avoiding the pressure, while his point scarcely deviated from the straight line. Giovanni, angry at his failure, made a quick feint and a thrust, lunging to his full reach. Spicca parried as easily and carelessly as though the prince had been a mere beginner, and allowed the latter to recover himself before he replied. A full two seconds after Sant' Ilario had resumed his guard, Spicca's foil ran over his with a speed that defied parrying, and he felt a short sharp prick in his right shoulder. Spicca sprang back and lowered his weapon. "I think that is the spot," he said coolly, and then came forward and examined Giovanni's coat. The point had penetrated the chalked mark in the centre, inflicting a wound not more than a quarter of an inch deep in the muscle of the shoulder. "Observe," he continued, "that it was a simple tierce, without a feint or any trick whatever." On realising his absolute inferiority to such a master of the art, Giovanni broke into a hearty laugh at his own discomfiture. So long as he had supposed that some sort of equality existed between them he had been angry at being outdone; but when he saw with what ease Spicca had accomplished his purpose, his admiration for the skill displayed made him forget his annoyance. "How in the world did you do it?" he said. "I thought I could parry a simple tierce, even though I might not be a match for you!" "Many people have thought the same, my friend. There are two or three elements in my process, one of which is my long reach. Another is the knack of thrusting very quickly, which is partly natural, and partly the result of practice. My trick consists in the way I hold my foil. Look here. I do not grasp the hilt with all my fingers as you do. The whole art of fencing lies in the use of the thumb and forefinger. I lay my forefinger straight in the direction of the blade. Of course I cannot do it with a basket or a bell hilt, but no one ever objects to common foils. It is dangerous--yes--I might hurt my finger, but then, I am too quick. You ask the advantage? It is very simple. You and I and every one are accustomed from childhood to point with the forefinger at things we see. The accuracy with which we point is much more surprising than you imagine. We instinctively aim the forefinger at the object to a hair's-breadth of exactness. I only make my point follow my forefinger. The important thing, then, is to grasp the hilt very firmly, and yet leave the wrist limber. I shoot in the same way with a revolver, and pull the trigger with my middle finger. I scarcely ever miss. You might amuse yourself by trying these things while you are waiting for Gouache. They will make the time pass pleasantly." Spicca, whose main pleasure in life was in the use of weapons, could not conceive of any more thoroughly delightful occupation. "I will try it," said Giovanni, rubbing his shoulder a little, for the scratch irritated him. "It is very interesting. I hope that fellow will not go and have himself killed by the Garibaldians before I get a chance at him." "You are absolutely determined to kill him, then?" Spicca's voice, which had grown animated during his exposition of his method, now sank again to its habitually melancholy tone. Giovanni only shrugged his shoulders at the question, as though any answer were needless. He hung the foil he had used in its place on the wall, and began to smoke. "You will not have another bout?" inquired the Count, putting away his weapon also, and taking his hat to go. "Thanks--not to-day. We shall meet soon, I hope. I am very grateful for your good offices, Spicca. I would ask you to stay to breakfast, but I do not want my father to know of this affair. He would suspect something if he saw you here." "Yes," returned the other quietly, "people generally do. I am rather like a public executioner in that respect. My visits often precede a catastrophe. What would you have? I am a lonely man." "You, who have so many friends!" exclaimed Giovanni. "Bah! It is time to be off," said Spicca, and shaking his friend's hand hastily he left the room. Giovanni stood for several minutes after he had gone, wondering with a vague curiosity what this man's history had been, as many had wondered before. There was a fatal savour of death about Spicca which everybody felt who came near him. He was dreaded, as one of the worst-tempered men and one of the most remarkable swordsmen in Europe. He was always consulted in affairs of honour, and his intimate acquaintance with the code, his austere integrity, and his vast experience, made him invaluable in such matters. But he was not known to have any intimate friends among men or women. He neither gambled nor made love to other men's wives, nor did any of those things which too easily lead to encounters of arms; and yet, in his cold and melancholy way he was constantly quarrelling and fighting and killing his man, till it was a wonder that the police would tolerate him in any European capital. It was rumoured that he had a strange history, and that his life had been embittered in his early youth by some tragic circumstance, but no one could say what that occurrence had been nor where it had taken place. He felt an odd sympathy for Giovanni, and his reference to his loneliness in his parting speech was unique, and set his friend to wondering about him. Giovanni's mind was now as much at rest as was possible, under conditions which obliged him to postpone his vengeance for an indefinite period. He had passed a sleepless night after his efforts to find Gouache and had risen early in the morning to be sure of catching him. He had not seen his father since their interview of the previous evening, and had hoped not to see him again till the moment of leaving for Saracinesca. The old man had understood him, and that was all that was necessary for the present. He suspected that his father would not seek an interview any more than he did himself. But an obstacle had presented itself in the way of his departure which he had not expected, and which irritated him beyond measure. Corona was ill. He did not know whether her ailment were serious or not, but it was evident that he could not force her to leave her bed and accompany him to the country, so long as the doctor declared that she could not be moved. When Spicca was gone, he did not know what to do with himself. He would not go and see his wife, for any meeting must be most unpleasant. He had nerved himself to conduct her to the mountains, and had expected that the long drive would be passed in a disagreeable silence. So long as Corona was well and strong, he could have succeeded well enough in treating her as he believed that she deserved. Now that she was ill, he felt how impossible it would be for him to take good care of her without seeming to relent, even if he did not relent in earnest; and on the other hand his really noble nature would have prevented him from being harsh in his manner to her while she was suffering. Until he had been convinced that a duel with Gouache was for the present impossible, his anger had supported him, and had made the time pass quickly throughout the sleepless night and through the events of the morning. Now that he was alone, with nothing to do but to meditate upon the situation, his savage humour forsook him and the magnitude of his misfortune oppressed him and nearly drove him mad. He went over the whole train of evidence again and again, and as often as he reviewed what had occurred, his conviction grew deeper and stronger, and he acknowledged that he had been deceived as man was never deceived before. He realised the boundless faith he had given to this woman who had betrayed him; he recollected the many proofs she had given him of her love; he drew upon the store of his past happiness and tortured himself with visions of what could never be again; he called up in fancy Corona's face when he had led her to the altar and the very look in her eyes was again upon him; he remembered that day more than two years ago when, upon the highest tower of Saracinesca, he had asked her to be his wife, and he knew not whether he desired to burn the memory of that first embrace from his heart, or to dwell upon the sweet recollection of that moment and suffer the wound of to-day to rankle more hotly by the horror of the comparison. When he thought of what she had been, it seemed impossible that she could have fallen; when he saw what she had become he could not believe that she had ever been innocent. A baser man than Giovanni would have suffered more in his personal vanity, seeing that his idol had been degraded for a mere soldier of fortune--or for a clever artist--whichever Gouache called himself, and such a husband would have forgiven her more easily had she forsaken him for one of his own standing and rank. But Giovanni was far above and beyond the thought of comparing his enemy with himself. He was wounded in what he had held most sacred, which was his heart, and in what had grown to be the mainspring of his existence, his trust in the woman he loved. Those who readily believe are little troubled if one of their many little faiths be shaken; but men who believe in a few things, with the whole strength of their being, are hurt mortally when that on which they build their loyalty is shattered and overturned. Giovanni was a just man, and was rarely carried away by appearances; least of all could he have shown any such weakness when the yielding to it involved the destruction of all that he cared for in life. But the evidence was overwhelming, and no man could be blamed for accepting it. There was no link wanting in the chain, and the denials made by Corona and Anastase could not have influenced any man in his senses. What could a woman do but deny all? What was there for Gouache but to swear that the accusation was untrue? Would not any other man or woman have done as much? There was no denying it. The only person who remained unquestioned was Faustina Montevarchi. Either she was the innocent girl she appeared to be or not. If she were, how could Giovanni explain to her that she had been duped, and made an instrument in the hands of Gouache and Corona? She would not know what he meant. Even if she admitted that she loved Gouache, was it not clear that he had deceived her too, for the sake of making an accomplice of one who was constantly with Corona? Her love for the soldier could not explain the things that had passed between Anastase and Giovanni's wife, which Giovanni had seen with his own eyes. It could not account for the whisperings, the furtive meeting and tender words of which he had been a witness in his own house. It could not do away with the letter and the pin. But if Faustina were not innocent of assisting the two, she would deny everything, even as they had done. As he thought of all these matters and followed the cruelly logical train of reasoning forced upon him by the facts, a great darkness descended upon Giovanni's heart, and he knew that his happiness was gone from him for ever. Henceforth nothing remained but to watch his wife jealously, and suffer his ills with the best heart he could. The very fact that he loved her still, with a passion that defied all things, added a terrible bitterness to what he had to bear, for it made him despise himself as none would have dared to despise him. CHAPTER XII. As Giovanni sat in solitude in his room he was not aware that his father had received a visit from no less a personage than Prince Montevarchi. The latter found Saracinesca very much preoccupied, and in no mood for conversation, and consequently did not stay very long. When he went away, however, he carried under his arm a bundle of deeds and documents which he had long desired to see and in the perusal of which he promised himself to spend a very interesting day. He had come with the avowed object of getting them, and he neither anticipated nor met with any difficulty in obtaining what he wanted. He spoke of his daughter's approaching marriage with San Giacinto, and after expressing his satisfaction at the alliance with the Saracinesca, remarked that his son-in-law had told him the story of the ancient deed, and begged permission to see it for himself. The request was natural, and Saracinesca was not suspicious at any time; at present, he was too much occupied with his own most unpleasant reflections to attach any importance to the incident. Montevarchi thought there was something wrong with his friend, but inasmuch as he had received the papers, he asked no questions and presently departed with them, hastening homewards in order to lose no time in satisfying his curiosity. Two hours later he was still sitting in his dismal study with the manuscripts before him. He had ascertained what he wanted to know, namely, that the papers really existed and were drawn up in a legal form. He had hoped to find a rambling agreement, made out principally by the parties concerned, and copied with some improvements by the family notary of the time, for he had made up his mind that if any flaw could be discovered in the deed San Giacinto should become Prince Saracinesca, and should have possession of all the immense wealth that belonged to the family. San Giacinto was the heir in the direct line, and although his great-grand-father had relinquished his birthright in the firm expectation of having no children, the existence of his descendants might greatly modify the provisions of the agreement. Montevarchi's face fell when he had finished deciphering the principal document. The provisions and conditions were short and concise, and were contained upon one large sheet of parchment, signed, witnessed and bearing the official seal and signature which proved that it had been ratified. It was set forth therein that Don Leone Saracinesca, being the eldest son of Don Giovanni Saracinesca, deceased, Prince of Saracinesca, of Sant' Ilario and of Torleone, Duke of Barda, and possessor of many other titles, Grandee of Spain of the first class and Count of the Holy Roman Empire, did of his own free will, by his own motion and will, make over and convey to, and bestow upon, Don Orsino Saracinesca, his younger and only brother, the principalities of Saracinesca--here followed a complete list of the various titles and estates--including the titles, revenues, seigneurial rights, appanages, holdings, powers and sovereignty attached to and belonging to each and every one, to him, the aforesaid Don Orsino Saracinesca and to the heirs of his body in the male line direct for ever. Here there was a stop, and the manuscript began again at the top of the other side of the sheet. The next clause contained the solitary provision to the effect that Don Leone reserved to himself the estate and title of San Giacinto in the kingdom of Naples, which at his death, he having no children, should revert to the aforesaid Don Orsino Saracinesca and his heirs for ever. It was further stated that the agreement was wholly of a friendly character, and that Don Leone bound himself to take no steps whatever to reinstate himself in the titles and possessions which, of his own free will, he relinquished, the said agreement being, in the opinion of both parties, for the advantage of the whole house of Saracinesca. "He bound himself, not his descendants," remarked Montevarchi at last, as he again bent his head over the document and examined the last clause. "And he says 'having no children'--in Latin the words may mean in case he had none, being in the ablative absolute. Having no children, to Orsino and his heirs for ever--but since he had a son, the case is altered. Ay, but that clause in the first part says to Orsino and his heirs for ever, and says nothing about Leone having no children. It is more absolute than the ablative. That is bad." For a long time he pondered over the writing. The remaining documents were merely transfers of the individual estates, in each of which it was briefly stated that the property in question was conveyed in accordance with the conditions of the main deed. There was no difficulty there. The Saracinesca inheritance depended solely on the existence of this one piece of parchment, and of the copy or registration of it in the government offices. Montevarchi glanced at the candle that stood before him in a battered brass candlestick, and his old heart beat a little faster than usual. To burn the sheet of parchment, and then deny on oath that he had ever seen it--it was very simple. Saracinesca would find it hard to prove the existence of the thing. Montevarchi hesitated, and then laughed at himself for his folly. It would be necessary first to ascertain what there was at the Chancery office, otherwise he would be ruining himself for nothing. That was certainly the most important step at present. He pondered over the matter for some time and then rose from his chair. As he stood before the table he glanced once more at the sheet. As though the greater distance made it more clear to his old sight, he noticed that there was a blank space, capable of containing three lines of writing like what was above, while still leaving a reasonable margin at the bottom of the page. As the second clause was the shorter, the scribe had doubtless thought it better to begin afresh on the other side. Montevarchi sat down again, and took a large sheet of paper and a pen. He rapidly copied the first clause to the end, but after the words "in the male line direct for ever" his pen still ran on. The deed then read as follows:-- "... In the male line direct for ever, provided that the aforesaid Don Leone Saracinesca shall have no son born to him in wedlock, in which case, and if such a son be born, this present deed is wholly null, void and ineffectual." Montevarchi did not stop here. He carefully copied the remainder as it stood, to the last word. Then he put away the original and read what he had written very slowly and carefully. With the addition it was perfectly clear that San Giacinto must be considered to be the lawful and only Prince Saracinesca. "How well those few words would look at the bottom of the page!" exclaimed the old man half aloud. He sat still and gloated in imagination over the immense wealth which would thus be brought into his family. "They shall be there--they must be there!" he muttered at last. "Millions! millions! After all it is only common justice. The old reprobate would never have disinherited his son if he had expected to have one." His long thin fingers crooked themselves and scratched the shabby green baize that covered the table, as though heaping together little piles of money, and then hiding them under the palm of his hand. "Even if there is a copy," he said again under his breath, "the little work will look as prettily upon it as on this--if only the sheets are the same size and there is the same space," he added, his face falling again at the disagreeable reflection that the duplicate might differ in some respect from the original. The plan was simple enough in appearance, and provided that the handwriting could be successfully forged, there was no reason why it should not succeed. The man who could do it, if he would, was in the house at that moment, and Montevarchi knew it. Arnoldo Meschini, the shrivelled little secretary and librarian, who had a profound knowledge of the law and spent his days as well as most of his nights in poring over crabbed manuscripts, was the very person for such a piece of work. He understood the smallest variations in handwriting which belonged to different periods, and the minutest details of old-fashioned penmanship were as familiar to him as the common alphabet. But would he do it? Would he undertake the responsibility of a forgery of which the success would produce such tremendous responsibilities, of which the failure would involve such awful disgrace? Montevarchi had reasons of his own for believing that Arnoldo Meschini would do anything he was ordered to do, and would moreover keep the secret faithfully. Indeed, as far as discretion was concerned, he would, in case of exposure, have to bear the penalty. Montevarchi would arrange that. If discovered it would be easy for him to pretend that being unable to read the manuscript he had employed his secretary to do so, and that the latter, in the hope of reward, had gratuitously imposed upon the prince and the courts of law before whom the case would be tried. One thing was necessary. San Giacinto must never see the documents until they were produced as evidence. In the first place it was important that he, who was the person nearest concerned, should be in reality perfectly innocent, and should be himself as much deceived as any one. Nothing impresses judges like real and unaffected innocence. Secondly, if he were consulted, it was impossible to say what view he might take of the matter. Montevarchi suspected him of possessing some of the hereditary boldness of the Saracinesca. He might refuse to be a party in a deception, even though he himself was to benefit by it, a consideration which chilled the old man's blood and determined him at once to confide the secret to no one but Arnoldo Meschini, who was completely in his power. The early history of this remarkable individual was uncertain. He had received an excellent education and it is no exaggeration to call him learned, for he possessed a surprising knowledge of ancient manuscripts and a great experience in everything connected with this branch of archaeology. It was generally believed that he had been bred to enter the church, but he himself never admitted that he had been anything more than a scholar in a religious seminary. He had subsequently studied law and had practised for some time, when he had suddenly abandoned his profession in order to accept the ill-paid post of librarian and secretary to the father of the present Prince Montevarchi. Probably his love of mediaeval lore had got the better of his desire for money, and during the five and twenty years he had spent in the palace he had never been heard to complain of his condition. He lived in a small chamber in the attic and passed his days in the library, winter and summer alike, perpetually poring over the manuscripts and making endless extracts in his odd, old-fashioned handwriting. The result of his labours was never published, and at first sight it would have been hard to account for his enormous industry and for the evident satisfaction he derived from his work. The nature of the man, however, was peculiar, and his occupation was undoubtedly congenial to him, and far more profitable than it appeared to be. Arnoldo Meschini was a forger. He was one of that band of manufacturers of antiquities who have played such a part in the dealings of foreign collectors during the last century, and whose occupation, though slow and laborious, occasionally produces immense profits. He had not given up his calling with the deliberate intention of resorting to this method of earning a subsistence, but had drifted into his evil practices by degrees. In the first instance he had quitted the bar in consequence of having been connected with a scandalous case of extortion and blackmailing, in which he had been suspected of constructing forged documents for his client, though the crime had not been proved against him. His reputation, however, had been ruined, and he had been forced to seek his bread elsewhere. It chanced that the former librarian of the Montevarchi died at that time and that the prince was in search of a learned man ready to give his services for a stipend about equal to the wages of a footman. Meschini presented himself and got the place. The old prince was delighted with him and agreed to forget the aforesaid disgrace he had incurred, in consideration of his exceptional qualities. He set himself systematically to study the contents of the ancient library, with the intention of publishing the contents of the more precious manuscripts, and for two or three years he pursued his object with this laudable purpose, and with the full consent of his employer. One day a foreign newspaper fell into his hands containing an account of a recent sale in which sundry old manuscripts had brought large prices. A new idea crossed his mind, and the prospect of unexpected wealth unfolded itself to his imagination. For several months he studied even more industriously than before, until, having made up his mind, he began to attempt the reproduction of a certain valuable writing dating from the fourteenth century. He worked in his own room during the evening and allowed no one to see what he was doing, for although it was rarely that the old prince honoured the library with a visit, yet Meschini was inclined to run no risks, and proceeded in his task with the utmost secrecy. Nothing could exceed the care he showed in the preparation and use of his materials. One of his few acquaintances was a starving, but clever chemist, who kept a dingy shop in the neighbourhood of the Ponte Quattro Capi. To this poor man he applied in order to obtain a knowledge of the ink used in the old writings. He professed himself anxious to get all possible details on the subject for a work he was preparing upon mediaeval calligraphy, and his friend soon set his mind at rest by informing him that if the ink contained any metallic parts he would easily detect them, but that if it was composed of animal and vegetable matter it would be almost impossible to give a satisfactory analysis. At the end of a few days Meschini was in possession of a recipe for concocting what he wanted, and after numerous experiments, in the course of which he himself acquired great practical knowledge of the subject, he succeeded in producing an ink apparently in all respects similar to that used by the scribe whose work he proposed to copy. He had meanwhile busied himself with the preparation of parchment, which is by no means an easy matter when it is necessary to give it the colour and consistency of very ancient skin. He learned that the ligneous acids contained in the smoke of wood could be easily detected, and it was only through the assistance of the chemist that he finally hit upon the method of staining the sheets with a thin broth of untanned leather, of which the analysis would give a result closely approaching that of the parchment itself. Moreover, he made all sorts of trials of quill pens, until he had found a method of cutting which produced the exact thickness of stroke required, and during the whole time he exercised himself in copying and recopying many pages of the manuscript upon common paper, in order to familiarise himself with the method of forming the letters. It was nearly two years before he felt himself able to begin his first imitation, but the time and study he had expended were not lost, and the result surpassed his expectations. So ingeniously perfect was the facsimile when finished that Meschini himself would have found it hard to swear to the identity of the original if he had not been allowed to see either of the two for some time. The minutest stains were reproduced with scrupulous fidelity. The slightest erasure was copied minutely. He examined every sheet to ascertain exactly how it had been worn by the fingers rubbing on the corners and spent days in turning a page thousands of times, till the oft-repeated touch of his thumb had deepened the colour to the exact tint. When the work was finished he hesitated. It seemed to him very perfect, but he feared lest he should be deceiving himself from having seen the thing daily for so many months. He took his copy one day to a famous collector, and submitted it to him for examination, asking at the same time what it was worth. The specialist spent several hours in examining the writing, and pronounced it very valuable, naming a large sum, while admitting that he was unable to buy it himself. Arnoldo Meschini took his work home with him, and spent a day in considering what he should do. Then he deliberately placed the facsimile in his employer's library, and sold the original to a learned man who was collecting for a great public institution in a foreign country. His train of reasoning was simple, for he said to himself that the forgery was less likely to be detected in the shelves of the Montevarchi's palace than if put into the hands of a body of famous scientists who naturally distrusted what was brought to them. Collectors do not ask questions as to whence a valuable thing has been taken; they only examine whether it be genuine and worth the money. Emboldened by his success, the forger had continued to manufacture facsimiles and sell originals for nearly twenty years, during which he succeeded in producing nearly as many copies, and realised a sum which to him appeared enormous and which was certainly not to be despised by any one. Some of the works he sold were published and annotated by great scholars, some were jealously guarded in the libraries of rich amateurs, who treasured them with all the selfish vigilance of the bibliomaniac. In the meanwhile Meschini's learning and skill constantly increased, till he possessed an almost diabolical skill in the art of imitating ancient writings, and a familiarity with the subject which amazed the men of learning who occasionally obtained permission to enter the library and study there. Upon these, too, Meschini now and then experimented with his forgeries, not one of which was ever detected. Prince Montevarchi saw in his librarian only a poor wretch whose passion for ancient literature seemed to dominate his life and whose untiring industry had made him master of the very secret necessary in the present instance. He knew that such things as he contemplated had been done before and he supposed that they had been done by just such men as Arnoldo Meschini. He knew the history of the man's early disgrace and calculated wisely enough that the fear of losing his situation on the one hand, and the hope of a large reward on the other, would induce him to undertake the job. To all appearances he was as poor as when he had entered the service of the prince's father five and twenty years earlier. The promise of a few hundred scudi, thought Montevarchi, would have immense weight with such a man. In his eagerness to accomplish his purpose, the nobleman never suspected that the offer would be refused by a fellow who had narrowly escaped being convicted of forgery in his youth, and whose poverty was a matter concerning which no doubt could exist. Montevarchi scarcely hesitated before going to the library. If he paused at all, it was more to consider the words he intended to use than to weigh in his mind the propriety of using them. The library was a vast old hall, surrounded on all sides, and nearly to the ceiling, with carved bookcases of walnut blackened with age to the colour of old mahogany. There were a number of massive tables in the room, upon which the light fell agreeably from high clerestory windows at each end of the apartment. Meschini himself was shuffling along in a pair of ancient leather slippers with a large volume under his arm, clad in very threadbare black clothes and wearing a dingy skullcap on his head. He was a man somewhat under the middle size, badly made, though possessing considerable physical strength. His complexion was of a muddy yellow, disagreeable to see, but his features rendered him interesting if not sympathetic. The brow was heavy and the gray eyebrows irregular and bushy, but his gray eyes were singularly clear and bright, betraying a hidden vitality which would not have been suspected from the whole impression he made. A high forehead, very prominent in the upper and middle part, contracted below, so that there was very little breadth at the temples, but considerable expanse above. The eyes were near together and separated by the knifelike bridge of the nose, the latter descending in a fine curve of wonderfully delicate outline. The chin was pointed, and the compressed mouth showed little or nothing of the lips. On each side of his head the coarsely-shaped and prominent ears contrasted disagreeably with the fine keenness of the face. He stooped a little from the neck, and his shoulders sloped in a way that made them look narrower than they really were. As the prince closed the door behind him and advanced, Meschini lifted his cap a little and laid down the book he was carrying, wondering inwardly what had brought his employer to see him at that hour of the morning. "Sit down," said Montevarchi, with more than usual affability, and setting the example by seating himself upon one of the high-backed chairs which were ranged along the tables. "Sit down, Meschini, and let us have a little conversation." "Willingly, Signor Principe," returned the librarian, obeying the command and placing himself opposite to the prince. "I have been thinking about you this morning," continued the latter. "You have been with us a very long time. Let me see. How many years? Eighteen? Twenty?" "Twenty-five years, Excellency. It is a long time, indeed!" "Twenty-five years! Dear me! How the thought takes me back to my poor father! Heaven bless him, he was a good man. But, as I was saying, Meschini, you have been with us many years, and we have not done much for you. No. Do not protest! I know your modesty, but one must be just before all things. I think you draw fifteen scudi a month? Yes. I have a good memory, you see. I occupy myself with the cares of my household. But you are not so young as you were once, my friend, and your faithful services deserve to be rewarded. Shall we say thirty scudi a month in future? To continue all your life, even if--heaven avert it--you should ever become disabled from superintending the library--yes, all your life." Meschini bowed as he sat in acknowledgment of so much generosity, and assumed a grateful expression suitable to the occasion. In reality, his salary was of very little importance to him, as compared with what he realised from his illicit traffic in manuscripts. But, like his employer, he was avaricious, and the prospect of three hundred and sixty scudi a year was pleasant to contemplate. He bowed and smiled. "I do not deserve so much liberality, Signor Principe," he said. "My poor services--" "Very far from poor, my dear friend, very far from poor," interrupted Montevarchi. "Moreover, if you will have confidence in me, you can do me a very great service indeed. But it is indeed a very private matter. You are a discreet man, however, and have few friends. You are not given to talking idly of what concerns no one but yourself." "No, Excellency," replied Meschini, laughing inwardly as he thought of the deceptions he had been practising with success during a quarter of a century. "Well, well, this is a matter between ourselves, and one which, as you will see, will bring its own reward. For although it might not pass muster in a court of law--the courts you know, Meschini, are very sensitive about little things--" he looked keenly at his companion, whose eyes were cast down. "Foolishly sensitive," echoed the librarian. "Yes. I may say that in the present instance, although the law might think differently of the matter, we shall be doing a good deed, redressing a great injustice, restoring to the fatherless his birthright, in a word fulfilling the will of Heaven, while perhaps paying little attention to the laws of man. Man, my friend, is often very unjust in his wisdom." "Very. I can only applaud your Excellency's sentiments, which do justice to a man of heart." "No, no, I want no praise," replied the prince in a tone of deprecation. "What I need in order to accomplish this good action is your assistance and friendly help. To whom should I turn, but to the old and confidential friend of the family? To a man whose knowledge of the matter on hand is only equalled by his fidelity to those who have so long employed him?" "You are very good, Signor Principe. I will do my best to serve you, as I have served you and his departed Excellency, the Signor Principe, your father." "Very well, Meschini. Now I need only repeat that the reward for your services will be great, as I trust that hereafter your recompense may be adequate for having had a share in so good a deed. But, to be short, the best way to acquaint you with the matter is to show you this document which I have brought for the purpose." Montevarchi produced the famous deed and carefully unfolded it upon the table. Then, after glancing over it once more, he handed it to the librarian. The latter bent his keen eyes upon the page and rapidly deciphered the contents. Then he read it through a second time and at last laid it down upon the table and looked up at the prince with an air of inquiry. "You see, my dear Meschini," said Montevarchi in suave tones, "this agreement was made by Don Leone Saracinesca because he expected to have no children. Had he foreseen what was to happen--for he has legitimate descendants alive, he would have added a clause here, at the foot of the first page--do you see? The clause he would have added would have been very short--something like this, 'Provided that the aforesaid Don Leone Saracinesca shall have no son born to him in wedlock, in which case, and if such a son be born, this present deed is wholly null, void and ineffectual.' Do you follow me?" "Perfectly," replied Meschini, with a strange look in his eyes. He again took the parchment and looked it over, mentally inserting the words suggested by his employer. "If those words were inserted, there could be no question about the view the tribunals would take. But there must be a duplicate of the deed at the Cancellaria." "Perhaps. I leave that to your industry to discover. Meanwhile, I am sure you agree with me that a piece of horrible injustice has been caused by this document; a piece of injustice, I repeat, which it is our sacred duty to remedy and set right." "You propose to me to introduce this clause, as I understand, in this document and in the original," said the librarian, as though he wished to be quite certain of the nature of the scheme. Montevarchi turned his eyes away and slowly scratched the table with his long nails. "I mean to say," he answered in a lower voice, "that if it could be made out in law that it was the intention of the person, of Don Leone--" "Let us speak plainly," interrupted Meschini. "We are alone. It is of no use to mince matters here. The only way to accomplish what you desire is to forge the words in both parchments. The thing can be done, and I can do it. It will be successful, without a shadow of a doubt. But I must have my price. There must be no misunderstanding. I do not think much of your considerations of justice, but I will do what you require, for money." "How much?" asked Montevarchi in a thick voice. His heart misgave him, for he had placed himself in the man's power, and Meschini's authoritative tone showed that the latter knew it, and meant to use his advantage. "I will be moderate, for I am a poor man. You shall give me twenty thousand scudi in cash, on the day the verdict is given in favour of Don Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto. That is your friend's name, I believe." Montevarchi started as the librarian named the sum, and he turned very pale, passing his bony hand upon the edge of the table. "I would not have expected this of you!" he exclaimed. "You have your choice," returned the other, bringing his yellow face nearer to his employer's and speaking very distinctly. "You know what it all means. Saracinesca, Sant' Ilario, and Barda to your son-in-law, besides all the rest, amounting perhaps to several millions. To me, who get you all this, a paltry twenty thousand. Or else--" he paused and his bright eyes seemed to penetrate into Montevarchi's soul. The latter's face exhibited a sudden terror, which Meschini understood. "Or else?" said the prince. "Or else, I suppose you will try and intimidate me by threatening to expose what I have told you?" "Not at all, Excellency," replied the old scholar with sudden humility. "If you do not care for the bargain let us leave it alone. I am only your faithful servant, Signor Principe. Do not suspect me of such ingratitude! I only say that if we undertake it, the plan will be successful. It is for you to decide. Millions or no millions, it is the same to me. I am but a poor student. But if I help to get them for you--or for your son-in-law--I must have what I asked. It is not one per cent--scarcely a broker's commission! And you will have so much. Not but what your Excellency deserves it all, and is the best judge." "One per cent?" muttered Montevarchi. "Perhaps not more than half per cent. But is it safe?" he asked suddenly, his fears all at once asserting themselves with a force that bewildered him. "Leave all that to me," answered Meschini confidently. "The insertion shall be made, unknown to any one, in this parchment and in the one in the Chancery. The documents shall be returned to their places with no observation, and a month or two later the Marchese di San Giacinto can institute proceedings for the recovery of his birthright. I would only advise you not to mention the matter to him. It is essential that he should be quite innocent in order that the tribunal may suspect nothing. You and I, Signor Principe, can stay at home while the case is proceeding. We shall not even see the Signor Marchese's lawyers, for what have we to do with it all? But the Signor Marchese himself must be really free from all blame, or he will show a weak point. Now, when all is ready, he should go to the Cancellaria and examine the papers there for himself. He himself will suspect nothing. He will be agreeably surprised." "And how long will it take you to do the--the work?" asked Montevarchi in hesitating tones. "Let me see," Meschini began to make a calculation under his breath. "Ink, two days--preparing parchment for experiments, a week--writing, twice over, two days--giving age, drying and rubbing, three days, at least. Two, nine, eleven, fourteen. A fortnight," he said aloud. "I cannot do it in less time than that. If the copy in the Chancery is by another hand it will take longer." "But how can you work at the Chancery?" asked the prince, as though a new objection had presented itself. "Have no fear, Excellency. I will manage it so that no one shall find it out. Two visits will suffice. Shall I begin at once? Is it agreed?" Montevarchi was silent for several minutes, and his hands moved uneasily. "Begin at once," he said at last, as though forcing himself to make a determination. He rose to go as he spoke. "Twenty thousand scudi on the day the verdict is given in favour of the Signor Marchese. Is that it?" "Yes, yes. That is it. I leave it all to you." "I will serve your Excellency faithfully, never fear." "Do, Meschini. Yes. Be faithful as you have always been. Remember, I am not avaricious. It is in the cause of sound justice that I stoop to assume the appearance of dishonesty. Can a man do more? Can one go farther than to lose one's self-esteem by appearing to transgress the laws of honour in order to accomplish a good object; for the sake of restoring the birthright to the fatherless and the portion to the widow, or indeed to the widower, in this case? No, my dear friend. The means are more than justified by the righteousness of our purpose. Believe me, my good Meschini--yes, you are good in the best sense of the word--believe me, the justice of this world is not always the same as the justice of Heaven. The dispensations of providence are mysterious." "And must remain so, in this case," observed the librarian with an evil smile. "Yes, unfortunately, in this case we shall not reap the worldly praise which so kind an action undoubtedly deserves. But we must have patience under these trials. Good-bye, Meschini, good-bye, my friend. I must busy myself with the affairs of my household. Every man must do his duty in this world, you know." The scholar bowed his employer to the door, and then went back to the parchment, which he studied attentively for more than an hour, keeping a huge folio volume open before him, into which he might slip the precious deed in case he were interrupted in his occupation. CHAPTER XIII. Sant' Ilario could not realise that the course of events had been brought to a standstill at the very moment when his passions were roused to fury. He could not fight Gouache for the present and Corona was so ill that he could not see her. Had he wished to visit her, the old-fashioned physician would probably have forbidden him to do so, but in reality he was glad to be spared the emotions of a meeting which must necessarily be inconclusive. His first impulse had been to take her away from Rome and force her to live alone with him in the mountains. He felt that no other course was open to him, for he knew that in spite of all that had happened he could not bear to live without her, and yet he felt that he could no longer suffer her to come and go in the midst of society, where she must necessarily often meet the man she had chosen to love. Nor could he keep her in Rome and at the same time isolate her as he desired to do. If the world must talk, he would rather not be where he could hear what it said. The idea of a sudden journey, terminating in the gloomy fortress of Saracinesca, was pleasant to his humour. The old place was ten times more grim and dismal in winter than in summer, and in his savage mood he fancied himself alone with his wife in the silent halls, making her feel the enormity of what she had done, while jealously keeping her a prisoner at his mercy. But her illness had put a stop to his plans for her safety, while the revolution had effectually interfered with the execution of his vengeance upon Gouache. He could find no occupation which might distract his mind from the thoughts that beset him, and no outlet for the restless temper that craved some sort of action, no matter what, as the expression of what he suffered. He and his father met in silence at their meals, and though Giovanni felt that he had the old man's full sympathy, he could not bring himself to speak of what was nearest to his heart. He remembered that his marriage had been of his own seeking, and his pride kept him from all mention of the catastrophe by which his happiness had been destroyed. Old Saracinesca suffered in his own way almost as much as his son, and it was fortunate that he was prevented from seeing Corona at that time, for it is not probable that he would have controlled himself had he been able to talk with her alone. When little Orsino was brought in to them, the two men looked at each other, and while the younger bit his lip and suppressed all outward signs of his agony, the tears more than once stole into the old prince's eyes so that he would turn away and leave the room. Then Giovanni would take the child upon his knee and look at it earnestly until the little thing was frightened and held out its arms to its nurse, crying to be taken away. Thereupon Sant' Ilario's mood grew more bitter than before, for he was foolish enough to believe that the child had a natural antipathy for him, and would grow up to hate the sight of its father. Those were miserable days, never to be forgotten, and each morning and evening brought worse news of Corona's state, until it was clear, even to Giovanni, that she was dangerously ill. The sound of voices grew rare in the Palazzo Saracinesca and the servants moved noiselessly about at their work, oppressed by the sense of coming disaster, and scarcely speaking to each other. San Giacinto came daily to make inquiries and spent some time with the two unhappy men without wholly understanding what was passing. He was an astute man, but not possessed of the delicacy of feeling whereby real sympathy sometimes reaches the truth by its own intuitive reasoning. Moreover, he was wholly ignorant of having played a very important part in bringing about the troubles which now beset Casa Saracinesca. No one but himself knew how he had written the note that had caused such disastrous results, and he had no intention of confiding his exploit to any one of his acquaintance. He had of course not been able to ascertain whether the desired effect had been produced, for he did not know at what church the meeting between Faustina and Gouache was to take place, and he was too cunning to follow her as a spy when he had struck so bold a blow at her affection for the artist-soldier. His intellect was keen, but his experience had not been of a high order, and he naturally thought that she would reason as he had reasoned himself, if she chanced to see him while she was waiting for the man she loved. She knew that he was to marry her sister, and that he might therefore be supposed to disapprove of an affair which could only lead to a derogatory match for herself, and he had therefore carefully abstained from following her on that Sunday morning when she had met Anastase. Nevertheless he could see that something had occurred in his cousin's household which was beyond his comprehension, for Corona's illness was not alone enough to account for the manner of the Saracinesca. It is a social rule in Italy that a person suffering from any calamity must be amused, and San Giacinto used what talents he possessed in that direction, doing all he could to make the time hang less heavily on Giovanni's hands. He made a point of gathering all the news of the little war in order to repeat it in minute detail to his cousins. He even prevailed upon Giovanni to walk with him sometimes in the middle of the day, and Sant' Ilario seemed to take a languid interest in the barricades erected at the gates of the city, and in the arrangements for maintaining quiet within the walls. Rome presented a strange aspect in those days. All who were not Romans kept their national flags permanently hung from their windows, as a sort of protection in case the mob should rise, or in the event of the Garibaldians suddenly seizing the capital. Patrols marched everywhere about the streets and mounted gendarmes were stationed at the corners of the principal squares and at intervals along the main thoroughfares. Strange to say, the numerous flags and uniforms that were to be seen produced an air of festivity strongly at variance with the actual state of things, and belied by the anxious expressions visible in the faces of the inhabitants. All these sights interested San Giacinto, whose active temperament made him very much alive to what went on around him, and even Giovanni thought less of his great sorrow when he suffered himself to be led out of the house by his cousin. When at last it was known that the French troops were on their way from Civita Vecchia, the city seemed to breathe more freely. General Kanzler, the commander-in-chief of the Pontifical forces, had done all that was humanly possible to concentrate his little army, and the arrival of even a small body of Frenchmen made it certain that Garibaldi could be met with a fair chance of success. Of all who rejoiced at the prospect of a decisive action, there was no one more sincerely delighted than Anastase Gouache. So long as the state of siege lasted and he was obliged to follow the regular round of his almost mechanical duty, he was unable to take any step in the direction whither all his hopes tended, and he lived in a state of perpetual suspense. It was a small consolation that he found time to reflect upon the difficulties of his situation and to revolve in his mind the language he should use when he went to ask the hand of Montevarchi's daughter. He was fully determined to take this bold step, and though he realised the many objections which the old prince would certainly raise against the match, he had not the slightest doubt of his power to overcome them all. He could not imagine what it would be like to fail, and he cherished and reared what should have been but a slender hope until it seemed to be a certainty. The unexpected quarrel thrust upon him by Sant' Ilario troubled him very little, for he was too hopeful by nature to expect any serious catastrophe, and he more than once laughed to himself when he thought Giovanni was really jealous of him. The feeling of reverence and respectful admiration which he had long entertained for Corona was so far removed from love as to make Giovanni's wrath appear ridiculous. He would far sooner have expected a challenge from one of Faustina's brothers than from Corona's husband, but, since Sant' Ilario had determined to quarrel, there was no help for it, and he must give him all satisfaction as soon as possible. That Giovanni had insulted him by entering his lodgings unbidden, and by taking certain objects away which were practically the artist's property, was a minor consideration, since it was clear that Giovanni had acted all along under an egregious misapprehension. One thing alone puzzled Anastase, and that was the letter itself. It seemed to refer to his meeting with Faustina, but she had made no mention of it when he had seen her in the church. Gouache did not suspect Giovanni of having concocted the note for any purposes of his own, and quite believed that he had found it as he had stated, but the more the artist tried to explain the existence of the letter, the further he found himself from any satisfactory solution of the question. He interrogated his landlady, but she would say nothing about it, for the temptation of Giovanni's money sealed her lips. The week passed somehow, unpleasantly enough for most of the persons concerned in this veracious history, but Saturday night came at last, and brought with it a series of events which modified the existing situation. Gouache was on duty at the barracks when orders were received to the effect that the whole available force in Rome was to march soon after midnight. His face brightened when he heard the news, although he realised that in a few hours he was to leave behind him all that he held most dear and to face death in a manner new to him, and by no means pleasant to most men. Between two and three o'clock on Sunday morning Gouache found himself standing in the midst of a corps of fifteen hundred Zouaves, in almost total darkness and under a cold, drizzling November rain. His teeth chattered and his wet hands seemed to freeze to the polished fittings of his rifle, and he had not the slightest doubt that every one of his comrades experienced the same unenviable sensations. From time to time the clear voice of an officer was heard giving an order, and then the ranks closed up nearer, or executed a sidelong movement by which greater space was afforded to the other troops that constantly came up towards the Porta Pia. There was little talking during an hour or more while the last preparations for the march were being made, though the men exchanged a few words from time to time in an undertone. The splashing tramp of feet on the wet road was heard rapidly approaching every now and then, followed by a dead silence when the officers' voices gave the order to halt. Then a shuffling sound followed as the ranks moved into the exact places assigned to them. Here and there a huge torch was blazing and spluttering in the fine rain, making the darkness around it seem only thicker by the contrast, but lighting up fragments of ancient masonry and gleaming upon little pools of water in the open spaces between the ranks. It was a dismal night, and it was fortunate that the men who were to march were in good spirits and encouraged by the arrival of the French, who made the circuit of the city and were to join them upon the road in order to strike the final blow against Garibaldi and his volunteers. The Zouaves were fifteen hundred, and there were about as many more of the native troops, making three thousand in all. The French were two thousand. The Garibaldians were, according to all accounts, not less than twelve thousand, and were known to be securely entrenched at Monte Rotondo and further protected by the strong outpost of Mentana, which lies nearly on the direct road from Rome to the former place. Considering the relative positions of the two armies, the odds were enormously in favour of Garibaldi, and had he possessed a skill in generalship at all equal to his undoubted personal courage, he should have been able to drive the Pope's forces back to the very gates of Rome. He was, however, under a twofold disadvantage which more than counterbalanced the numerical superiority of the body he commanded. He possessed little or no military science, and his men were neither confident nor determined. His plan had been to create a revolution in Rome and to draw out the papal army at the same time, in order that the latter might find itself between two fires. His men had expected that the country would rise and welcome them as liberators, whereas they were received as brigands and opposed with desperate energy at every point by the peasants themselves, a turn of affairs for which they were by no means prepared. Monte Rotondo, defended by only three hundred and fifty soldiers, resisted Garibaldi's attacking force of six thousand during twenty-seven hours, a feat which must have been quite impracticable had the inhabitants themselves not joined in the defence. The revolution in Rome was a total failure, the mass of the people looking on with satisfaction, while the troops shot down the insurgents, and at times even demanding arms that they might join in suppressing the disturbance. The Rome of 1867 was not the Rome of 1870, as will perhaps be understood hereafter. With the exception of a few turbulent spirits, the city contained no revolutionary element, and very few who sympathised with the ideas of Italian Unification. But without going any further into political considerations for the present, let us follow Anastase Gouache and his fifteen hundred comrades who marched out of the Porta Pia before dawn on the third of November. The battle that followed merits some attention as having been the turning-point of a stirring time, and also as having produced certain important results in the life of the French artist, which again reacted in some measure upon the family history of the Saracinesca. Monte Rotondo itself is sixteen miles from Rome, but Mentana, which on that day was the outpost of the Garibaldians and became the scene of their defeat, is two miles nearer to the city. Most people who have ridden much in the Campagna know the road which branches to the left about five miles beyond the Ponte Nomentano. There is perhaps no more desolate and bleak part of the undulating waste of land that surrounds the city on all sides. The way is good as far as the turning, but after that it is little better than a country lane, and in rainy weather is heavy and sometimes almost impassable. As the rider approaches Mentana the road sinks between low hills and wooded knolls that dominate it on both sides, affording excellent positions from which an enemy might harass and even destroy an advancing force. Gradually the country becomes more broken until Mentana itself appears in view, a formidable barrier rising upon the direct line to Monte Rotondo. On all sides are irregular hillocks, groups of trees growing upon little elevations, solid stone walls surrounding scattered farmhouses and cattle-yards, every one of which could be made a strong defensive post. Mentana, too, possesses an ancient castle of some strength, and has walls of its own like most of the old towns in the Campagna, insignificant perhaps, if compared with modern fortifications, but well able to resist for many hours the fire of light field-guns. It was past midday when Gouache's column first came in view of the enemy, and made out the bright red shirts of the Garibaldians, which peeped out from among the trees and from behind the walls, and were visible in some places massed in considerable numbers. The intention of the commanding officers, which was carried out with amazing ease, was to throw the Zouaves and native troops in the face of the enemy, while the French chasseurs, on foot and mounted, made a flanking movement and cut off Garibaldi's communication with Monte Rotondo, attacking Mentana at the same time from the opposite side. Gouache experienced an odd sensation when the first orders were given to fire. His experience had hitherto been limited to a few skirmishes with the outlaws of the Samnite hills, and the idea of standing up and deliberately taking aim at men who stood still to be shot at, so far as he could see, was not altogether pleasant. He confessed to himself that though he wholly approved of the cause for which he was about to fire his musket, he felt not the slightest hatred for the Garibaldians, individually or collectively. They were extremely picturesque in the landscape, with their flaming shirts and theatrical hats. They looked very much as though they had come out of a scene in a comic opera, and it seemed a pity to destroy anything that relieved the dismal grayness of the November day. As he stood there he felt much more like the artist he was, than like a soldier, and he felt a ludicrously strong desire to step aside and seat himself upon a stone wall in order to get a better view of the whole scene. Presently as he looked at a patch of red three or four hundred yards distant, the vivid colour was obscured by a little row of puffs of smoke. A rattling report followed, which reminded him of the discharges of the tiny mortars the Italian peasants love to fire at their village festivals. Then almost simultaneously he heard the curious swinging whistle of a dozen bullets flying over his head. This latter sound roused him to an understanding of the situation, as he realised that any one of those small missiles might have ended its song by coming into contact with his own body. The next time he heard the order to fire he aimed as well as he could, and pulled the trigger with the best possible intention of killing an enemy. For the most part, the Garibaldians retired after each round, reappearing again to discharge their rifles from behind the shelter of walls and trees, while the Zouaves slowly advanced along the road, and began to deploy to the right and left wherever the ground permitted such a movement. The firing continued uninterruptedly for nearly half an hour, but though the rifles of the papal troops did good execution upon the enemy, the bullets of the latter seldom produced any effect. Suddenly the order was given to fix bayonets, and immediately afterwards came the command to charge. Gouache was all at once aware that he was rushing up hill at the top of his speed towards a small grove of trees that crowned the eminence. The bright red shirts of the enemy were visible before him amongst the dry underbrush, and before he knew what he was about he saw that he had run a Garibaldian through the calf of the leg. The man tumbled down, and Gouache stood over him, looking at him in some surprise. While he was staring at his fellow-foe the latter pulled out a pistol and fired at him, but the weapon only snapped harmlessly. "As the thing won't go off," said the man coolly, "perhaps you will be good enough to take your bayonet out of my leg." He spoke in Italian, with a foreign accent, but in a tone of voice and with a manner which proclaimed him a gentleman. There was a look of half comic discomfiture in his face that amused Gouache, who carefully extracted the steel from the wound, and offered to help his prisoner to his feet. The latter, however, found it hard to stand. "Circumstances point to the sitting posture," he said, sinking down again. "I suppose I am your prisoner. If you have anything to do, pray do not let me detain you. I cannot get away and you will probably find me here when you come back to dinner. I will occupy myself in cursing you while you are gone." "You are very kind," said Gouache, with a laugh. "May I offer you a cigarette and a little brandy?" The stranger looked up in some astonishment as he heard Gouache's voice, and took the proffered flask in silence, as well as a couple of cigarettes from the case. "Thank you," he said after a pause. "I will not curse you quite as heartily as I meant to do. You are very civil." "Do not mention it," replied Gouache. "I wish you a very good-morning, and I hope to have the pleasure of your company at dinner to-night." Thereupon the Zouave shouldered his rifle and trotted off down the hill. The whole incident had not occupied more than three minutes and his comrades were not far off, pursuing the Garibaldians in the direction of a large farmhouse, which afforded the prospect of shelter and the means of defence. Half a dozen killed and wounded remained upon the hill besides Gouache's prisoner. The Vigna di Santucci, as the farmhouse was called, was a strong building surrounded by walls and fences. A large number of the enemy had fallen back upon this point and it now became evident that they meant to make a determined resistance. As the Zouaves came up, led by Charette in person, the Reds opened a heavy fire upon their advancing ranks. The shots rattled from the walls and windows in rapid succession, and took deadly effect at the short range. The Zouaves blazed away in reply with their chassepots, but the deep embrasures and high parapets offered an excellent shelter for the riflemen, and it was no easy matter to find an aim. The colonel's magnificent figure and great fair beard were conspicuous as he moved about the ranks, encouraging the men and searching for some means of scaling the high walls. Though anxious for the safety of his troops, he seemed as much at home as though he were in a drawing-room, and paid no more attention to the whistling bullets than if they had been mere favours showered upon him in an afternoon's carnival. The firing grew hotter every moment and it was evident that unless the place could be carried by assault at once, the Zouaves must suffer terrible losses. The difficulty was to find a point where the attempt might be made with a good chance of success. "It seems to me," said Gouache, to a big man who stood next to him, "that if we were in Paris, and if that were a barricade instead of an Italian farmhouse, we should get over it." "I think so, too," replied his comrade, with a laugh. "Let us try," suggested the artist quietly. "We may as well have made the attempt, instead of standing here to catch cold in this horrible mud. Come along," he added quickly, "or we shall be too late. The colonel is going to order the assault--do you see?" It was true. A loud voice gave a word of command which was echoed and repeated by a number of officers. The men closed in and made a rush for the farmhouse, trying to scramble upon each other's shoulders to reach the top of the wall and the windows of the low first story. The attempt lasted several minutes, during which the enemies' rifles poured down a murderous fire upon the struggling soldiers. The latter fell back at last, leaving one man alone clinging to the top of the wall. "It is Gouache!" cried a hundred voices at once. He was a favourite with officers and men and was recognised immediately. He was in imminent peril of his life. Standing upon the shoulders of the sturdy comrade to whom he had been speaking a few minutes before he had made a spring, and had succeeded in getting hold of the topmost stones. Taking advantage of the slight foothold afforded by the crevices in the masonry, he drew himself up with catlike agility till he was able to kneel upon the narrow summit. He had chosen a spot for his attempt where he had previously observed that no enemy appeared, rightly judging that there must be some reason for this peculiarity, of which he might be able to take advantage. This proved to be the case, for he found himself immediately over a horse pond, which was sunk between two banks of earth that followed the wall on the inside up to the water, and upon which the riflemen stood in safety behind the parapet. The men so stationed had discharged their pieces during the assault, and were busily employed in reloading when they noticed the Zouave perched upon the top of the wall. One or two who had pistols fired them at him, but without effect. One or two threw stones from the interior of the vineyard. Gouache threw himself on his face along the wall and began quickly to throw down the topmost stones. The mortar was scarcely more solid than dry mud, and in a few seconds he had made a perceptible impression upon the masonry. But the riflemen had meanwhile finished reloading and one of them, taking careful aim, fired upon the Zouave. The bullet hit him in the fleshy part of the shoulder, causing a stinging pain and, what was worse, a shock that nearly sent him rolling over the edge. Still he clung on desperately, loosening the stones with a strength one would not have expected in his spare frame. A minute longer, during which half a dozen more balls whizzed over him or flattened themselves against the stones, and then his comrades made another rush, concentrating their force this time at the spot where he had succeeded in lowering the barrier. His left arm was almost powerless from the flesh-wound in his shoulder, but with his right he helped the first man to a footing beside him. In a moment more the Zouaves were swarming over the wall and dropping down by scores into the shallow pool on the other side. The fight was short but desperate. The enemy, driven to bay in the corners of the yard and within the farmhouse, defended themselves manfully, many of them being killed and many more wounded. But the place was carried and the great majority fled precipitately through the exits at the back and made the best of their way towards Mentana. An hour later Gouache was still on his legs, but exhausted by his efforts in scaling the wall and by loss of blood from his wound, he felt that he could not hold out much longer. The position at that time was precarious. It was nearly four o'clock and the days were short. The artillery was playing against the little town, but the guns were light field-pieces of small calibre, and though their position was frequently changed they made but little impression upon the earthworks thrown up by the enemy. The Garibaldians massed themselves in large numbers as they retreated from various points upon Mentana, and though their weapons were inferior to those of their opponents their numbers made them still formidable. The Zouaves, gendarmes, and legionaries, however, pressed steadily though slowly onward. The only question was whether the daylight would last long enough. Should the enemy have the advantage of the long night in which to bring up reinforcements from Monte Rotondo and repair the breaches in their defences the attack might last through all the next day. The fortunes of the little battle were decided by the French chasseurs, who had gradually worked out a flanking movement under cover of the trees and the broken country. Just as Gouache felt that he could stand no longer, a loud shout upon the right announced the charge of the allies, and a few minutes later the day was practically won. The Zouaves rushed forward, cheered and encouraged by the prospect of immediate success, but Anastase staggered from the ranks and sank down under a tree unable to go any farther. He had scarcely settled himself in a comfortable position when he lost consciousness and fainted away. Mentana was not taken, but it surrendered on the following morning, and as Monte Rotondo had been evacuated during the night and most of the Garibaldians had escaped over the frontier, the fighting was at an end, and the campaign of twenty-four hours terminated in a complete victory for the Roman forces. When Gouache came to himself his first sensation was that of a fiery stream of liquid gurgling in his mouth and running down his throat. He swallowed the liquor half unconsciously, and opening his eyes for a moment was aware that two men were standing beside him, one of them holding a lantern in his hand, the rays from which dazzled the wounded Zouave and prevented him from recognising the persons. "Where is he hurt?" asked a voice that sounded strangely familiar in his ears. "I cannot tell yet," replied the other man, kneeling down again beside him and examining him attentively. "It is only my shoulder," gasped Gouache. "But I am very weak. Let me sleep, please." Thereupon he fainted again, and was conscious of nothing more for some time. The two men took him up and carried him to a place near, where others were waiting for him. The night was intensely dark, and no one spoke a word, as the little party picked its way over the battle-field, occasionally stopping to avoid treading upon one of the numerous prostrate bodies that lay upon the ground. The man who had examined Gouache generally stooped down and turned the light of his lantern upon the faces of the dead men, expecting that some one of them might show signs of life. But it was very late, and the wounded had already been carried away. Gouache alone seemed to have escaped observation, an accident probably due to the fact that he had been able to drag himself to a sheltered spot before losing his senses. During nearly an hour the men trudged along the road with their burden, when at last they saw in the distance the bright lamps of a carriage shining through the darkness. The injured soldier was carefully placed among the cushions, and the two gentlemen who had found him got in and closed the door. Gouache awoke in consequence of the pain caused by the jolting of the vehicle. The lantern was placed upon one of the vacant seats and illuminated the faces of his companions, one of whom sat behind him and supported his weight by holding one arm around his body. Anastase stared at this man's face for some time in silence and in evident surprise. He thought he was in a dream, and he spoke rather to assure himself that he was awake than for any other reason. "You were anxious lest I should escape you after all," he said. "You need not be afraid. I shall be able to keep my engagement." "I trust you will do nothing of the kind, my dear Gouache," answered Giovanni Saracinesca. CHAPTER XIV. On the Saturday afternoon preceding the battle of Mentana, Sant' Ilario was alone in his own room, trying to pass the weary hours in the calculation of certain improvements he meditated at Saracinesca. He had grown very thin and careworn during the week, and he found it hard to distract his mind even for a moment from the thought of his misfortunes. Nothing but a strong mental effort in another direction could any longer fix his attention, and though any kind of work was for the present distasteful to him, it was at least a temporary relief from the contemplation of his misfortunes. He could not bring himself to see Corona, though she grew daily worse, and both the physicians and the attendants who were about her looked grave. His action in this respect did not proceed from heartlessness, still less from any wish to add to her sufferings; on the contrary, he knew very well that, since he could not speak to her with words of forgiveness, the sight of him would very likely aggravate her state. He had no reason to forgive her, for nothing had happened to make her guilt seem more pardonable than before. Had she been well and strong as usual he would have seen her often and would very likely have reproached her again and again most bitterly with what she had done. But she was ill and wholly unable to defend herself; to inflict fresh pain at such a time would have been mean and cowardly. He kept away and did his best not to go mad, though he felt that he could not bear the strain much longer. As the afternoon light faded from his chamber he dropped the pencil and paper with which he had been working and leaned back in his chair. His face was haggard and drawn, and sleepless nights had made dark circles about his deep-set eyes, while his face, which was naturally lean, had grown suddenly thin and hollow. He was indeed one of the most unhappy men in Rome that day, and so far as he could see his misery had fallen upon him through no fault of his own. It would have been a blessed relief, could he have accused himself of injustice, or of any misdeed which might throw the weight and responsibility of Corona's actions back upon his own soul. He loved her still so well that he could have imagined nothing sweeter than to throw himself at her feet and cry aloud that it was he who had sinned and not she. He tortured his imagination for a means of proving that she might be innocent. But it was in vain. The chain of circumstantial evidence was complete and not a link was missing, not one point uncertain. He would have given her the advantage of any doubt which could be thought to exist, but the longer he thought of it all, the more sure he grew that there was no doubt whatever. He sat quite still until it was nearly dark, and then with a sudden and angry movement quite unlike him, he sprang to his feet and left the room. Solitude was growing unbearable to him, and though he cared little to see any of his associates, the mere presence of other living beings would, he thought, be better than nothing. He was about to go out of the house when he met the doctor coming from Corona's apartments. "I do not wish to cause you unnecessary pain," said the physician, "but I think it would be better that you should see the princess." "Has she asked for me?" inquired Giovanni, gloomily. "No. But I think you ought to see her." "Is she dying?" Sant' Ilario spoke under his breath, and laid his hand on the doctor's arm. "Pray be calm, Signor Principe. I did not say that. But I repeat--" "Be good enough to say what you mean without repetition," answered Giovanni almost savagely. The physician's face flushed with annoyance, but as Giovanni was such a very high and mighty personage he controlled his anger and replied as calmly as he could. "The princess is not dying. But she is very ill. She may be worse before morning. You had better see her now, for she will know you. Later she may not." Without waiting for more Giovanni turned on his heel and strode towards his wife's room. Passing through an outer chamber he saw one of her women sitting in a corner and shedding copious tears. She looked up and pointed to the door in a helpless fashion. In another moment Giovanni was at Corona's bedside. He would not have recognised her. Her face was wasted and white, and looked ghastly by contrast with the masses of her black hair which were spread over the broad pillow. Her colourless lips were parted and a little drawn, and her breath came faintly. Only her eyes retained the expression of life, seeming larger and more brilliant than he had ever seen them before. Giovanni gazed on her in horror for several seconds. In his imagination he had supposed that she would look as when he had seen her last, and the shock of seeing her as she was, unstrung his nerves. For an instant he forgot everything that was past in the one strong passion that dominated him in spite of himself. His arms went round her and amidst his blinding tears he showered hot kisses on her death-like face. With a supreme effort, for she was so weak as to be almost powerless, she clasped her hands about his neck and pressed her to him, or he pressed her. The embrace lasted but a moment and her arms fell again like lead. "You know the truth at last, Giovanni," she said, feebly. "You know that I am innocent or you would not--" He did not know whether her voice failed her from weakness, or whether she was hesitating. He felt as though she had driven a sharp weapon into his breast by recalling all that separated them. He drew back a little, and his face darkened. What could he do? She was dying and it would be diabolically cruel to undeceive her. In that moment he would have given his soul to be able to lie, to put on again the expression that was in his face when he had kissed her a moment before. But the suffering of which she reminded him was too great, the sin too enormous, and though he tried bravely he could not succeed. But he made the effort. He tried to smile, and the attempt was horrible. He spoke, but there was no life in his words. "Yes, dear," he said, though the words choked him like hot dust, "I know it was all a mistake. How can I ever ask your forgiveness?" Corona saw that it was not the truth, and with a despairing cry she turned away and hid her face in the pillow. Giovanni felt an icy chill of horror descending to his heart. A more terrible moment could scarcely be imagined. There he stood beside his dying wife, the conviction of her sin burnt in upon his heart, but loving her fiercely still, willing in that supreme crisis to make her think she was forgiven, striving to tell the kind lie that nevertheless would not be told, powerless to deceive her who had so horribly betrayed him. Once more he bent over her and laid his hand on hers. The touch of her wasted fingers brought the tears to his eyes again, but the moment of passion was past. He bent down and would have comforted her had he known how, but not a word would form itself upon his lips. Her face was turned away and he could see that she was determined not to look at him. Only now and then a passionate sob shook her and made her tremble, like a thing of little weight shaken by the wind. Giovanni could bear it no longer. Once more he kissed her heavy hair and then quickly went out, he knew not whither. When he realised what he was doing he found himself leaning against a damp wall in the street. He pulled himself together and walked away at a brisk pace, trying to find some relief in rapid motion. He never knew how far he walked that night, haunted by the presence of Corona's deathly face and by the sound of that despairing cry which he had no power to check. He went on and on, challenged from time to time by the sentinels to whom he mechanically showed his pass. Striding up hill and down through the highways and through the least frequented streets of the city, it was all the same to him in his misery, and he had no consciousness of what he saw or heard. At eight o'clock in the evening he was opposite Saint Peter's; at midnight he was standing alone at the desolate cross-roads before Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, beyond the Lateran, and only just within the walls. From place to place he wandered, feeling no fatigue, but only a burning fever in his head and an icy chill in his heart. Sometimes he would walk up and down some broad square twenty or thirty times; then again he followed a long thoroughfare throughout its whole length, and retraced his steps without seeing that he passed twice through the same street. At last he found himself in a great crowd of people. Had he realised that it was nearly three o'clock in the morning the presence of such a concourse would have astonished him. But if he was not actually ill and out of his mind, he was at all events in such a confused state that he did not even ask himself what was the meaning of the demonstration. The tramp of marching troops recalled the thought of Gouache, and suddenly he understood what was happening. The soldiers were leaving Rome to attack the Garibaldians, and he was near one of the gates. By the light of flaring torches he recognised at some distance the hideous architecture of the Porta Pia. He caught sight of the Zouave uniform under the glare and pressed forward instinctively, trying to see the faces of the men. But the crowd was closely packed and he could not obtain a view, try as he might, and the darkness was so thick that the torches only made the air darker around them. He listened to the tramp of feet and the ring of steel arms and accoutrements like a man in an evil dream. Instead of passing quickly, the time now seemed interminable, for he was unable to move, and the feeling that among those thousands of moving soldiers there was perhaps that one man for whose blood he thirsted, was intolerable. At last the tramping died away in the distance and the crowd loosened itself and began to break up. Giovanni was carried with the stream, and once more it became indifferent to him whither he went. All at once he was aware of a very tall man who walked beside him, a man so large that he looked up, sure that the giant could be none but his cousin San Giacinto. "Are you here, too?" asked the latter in a friendly voice, as he recognised Giovanni by the light of a lamp, under which they were passing. "I came to see them off," replied Sant' Ilario, coldly. It seemed to him as though his companion must have followed him. "So did I," said San Giacinto. "I heard the news late last night, and only lay down for an hour or two." "What time is it?" asked Giovanni, who supposed it was about midnight. "Five o'clock. It will be daylight, or dawn at least, in an hour." Giovanni was silent, wondering absently where he had been all night. For some time the two walked on without speaking. "You had better come and have coffee with me," said San Giacinto as they passed through the Piazza Barbarini. "I made my man get up so that I might have some as soon as I got home." Giovanni assented. The presence of some one with whom he could speak made him realise that he was almost exhausted for want of food. It was morning, and he had eaten nothing since the preceding midday, and little enough then. In a few minutes they reached San Giacinto's lodging. There was a lamp burning brightly on the table of the sitting-room, and a little fire was smouldering on the hearth. Giovanni sank into a chair, worn out with hunger and fatigue, while the servant brought the coffee and set it on the table. "You look tired," remarked San Giacinto. "One lump or two?" Giovanni drank the beverage without tasting it, but it revived him, and the warmth of the room comforted his chilled and tired limbs. He did not notice that San Giacinto was looking hard at him, wondering indeed what could have produced so strange an alteration in his appearance and manner. "How is the princess?" asked the big man in a tone of sympathy as he slowly stirred the sugar in his coffee. "Thank you--she is very well," answered Giovanni, mechanically. In his mind the secret which he must conceal was so closely connected with Corona's illness that he almost unconsciously included her state among the things of which he would not speak. But San Giacinto looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant. "Indeed? I thought she was very ill." "So she is," replied Sant' Ilario, bluntly. "I forgot--I do not know what I was thinking of. I fear she is in a very dangerous condition." He was silent again, and sat leaning upon the table absently looking at the objects that lay before him, an open portfolio and writing materials, a bit of sealingwax, a small dictionary, neatly laid in order upon the dark red cloth. He did not know why he had allowed himself to be led to the place, but he felt a sense of rest in sitting there quietly in silence. San Giacinto saw that there was something wrong and said nothing, but lighted a black cigar and smoked thoughtfully. "You look as though you had been up all night," he remarked after a long pause. Giovanni did not answer. His eyes did not look up from the red blotting-paper in the open portfolio before him. As he looked down San Giacinto almost believed he was asleep, and shook the table a little to see whether his cousin would notice it. Instantly Giovanni laid his hand upon the writing book, to steady it before him. But still he did not look up. "You seem to be interested," said San Giacinto, with a smile, and he blew a cloud of smoke into the air. Giovanni was indeed completely absorbed in his studies, and only nodded his head in answer. After a few minutes more he rose and took the portfolio to a dingy mirror that stood over the chimney-piece of the lodging, and held up the sheet of red blotting-paper before the reflecting surface. Apparently not satisfied with this, he brought the lamp and set it upon the shelf, and then repeated the process. "You are an infernal scoundrel," he said in a low voice, that trembled with wrath, as he turned and faced San Giacinto. "What do you mean?" inquired the latter with a calmness that would have staggered a less angry man. Giovanni drew from his pocket-book the note he had found in Gouache's room. For a week he had kept it about him. Without paying any further attention to San Giacinto he held it in one hand and again placed the blotting-paper in front of the mirror. The impression of the writing corresponded exactly with the original. As it consisted of but a very few words and had been written quickly, almost every stroke had been reproduced upon the red paper in a reversed facsimile. Giovanni brought the two and held them before San Giacinto's eyes. The latter looked surprised but did not betray the slightest fear. "Do you mean to tell me that you did not write this note?" asked Giovanni, savagely. "Of course I wrote it," replied the other coolly. Giovanni's teeth chattered with rage. He dropped the portfolio and the letter and seized his cousin by the throat, burying his fingers in the tough flesh with the ferocity of a wild animal. He was very strong and active and had fallen upon his adversary unawares, so that he had an additional advantage. But for all that he was no match for his cousin's giant strength. San Giacinto sprang to his feet and his great hands took hold of Giovanni's arms above the elbow, lifting him from the ground and shaking him in the air as easily as a cat worries a mouse. Then he thrust him into his chair again and stood holding him so that he could not move. "I do not want to hurt you," he said, "but I do not like to be attacked in this way. If you try it again I will break some of your bones." Giovanni was so much astonished at finding himself so easily overmatched that he was silent for a moment. The ex-innkeeper relinquished his hold and picked up his cigar, which had fallen in the struggle. "I do not propose to wrestle with you for a match," said Giovanni at last. "You are stronger than I, but there are other weapons than those of brute strength. I repeat that you are an infernal scoundrel." "You may repeat it as often as you please," replied San Giacinto, who had recovered his composure with, marvellous rapidity. "It does not hurt me at all." "Then you are a contemptible coward," cried Giovanni, hotly. "That is not true," said the other. "I never ran away in my life. Perhaps I have not much reason to avoid a fight," he added, looking down at his huge limbs with a smile. Giovanni did not know what to do. He had never had a quarrel with a man who was able to break his neck, but who would not fight like a gentleman. He grew calmer, and could have laughed at the situation had it been brought about by any other cause. "Look here, cousin," said San Giacinto, suddenly and in a familiar tone, "I am as good a gentleman as you, though I have kept an inn. If it is the custom here to play with swords and such toys I will take a few lessons and we will have it out. But I confess that I would like to know why you are so outrageously angry. How did you come by that letter? It was never meant for you, nor for any of yours. I pinned it upon Gouache's dressing-table with a pin I found there. I took the paper from your wife's table a week ago yesterday. If you want to know all about it I will tell you." "And whom did you intend for the author of the letter? Whom but my wife?" "Your wife!" cried San Giacinto in genuine astonishment. "You are out of your mind. Gouache was to meet Faustina Montevarchi on Sunday morning at a church, and I invented the note to prevent the meeting, and put it on his table during the previous afternoon. I am going to marry Donna Flavia, and I do not mean to allow a beggarly Zouave to make love to my future sister-in-law. Since you took the note they must have met after all. I wish you had left it alone." Giovanni sank into a chair before the table and buried his face in his hands. San Giacinto stood looking at him in silence, beginning to comprehend what had happened, and really distressed that his comparatively harmless stratagem should have caused so much trouble. He looked at things from a lower point of view than Giovanni, but he was a very human man, after all. It was hard for him to believe that his cousin could have really suspected Corona of loving Gouache; but Giovanni's behaviour left no other explanation. On the other hand, he felt that whatever might be thought of his own part in the affair, it was Giovanni's own fault that things had turned out as they had, seeing that he had been guilty of a very serious indiscretion in entering Gouache's rooms unbidden and in reading what was meant for the Zouave. Giovanni rose and his face was pale again, but the expression had utterly changed in the course of a few seconds. He suffered horribly, but with a pain more easy to bear than that which had tortured him during the past week. Corona was innocent, and he knew it. Every word she had spoken a week ago, when he had accused her, rang again in his ears, and as though by magic the truth of her statement was now as clear as the day. He could never forgive himself for having doubted her. He did not know whether he could ever atone for the agony he must have caused her. But it was a thousand times better that he should live long years of bitter self-reproach, than that the woman he so loved should have fallen. He forgot San Giacinto and the petty scheme which had brought about such dire consequences. He forgot his anger of a moment ago in the supreme joy of knowing that Corona had not sinned, and in the bitter contrition for having so terribly wronged her. If he felt anything towards San Giacinto it was gratitude, but he stood speechless under his great emotion, not even thinking what he should say. "If you doubt the truth of my explanation," said San Giacinto, "go to the Palazzo Montevarchi. Opposite the entrance you will see some queer things painted on the wall. There are Gouache's initials scrawled a hundred times, and the words 'Sunday' and 'Mass' very conspicuous. A simple way, too, would be to ask him whether he did not actually meet Faustina last Sunday morning. When a man advertises his meetings with his lady-love on the walls of the city, no one can be blamed for reading the advertisement." He laughed at the conceit and at his own astuteness; but Giovanni scarcely heeded him or his words. "Good-bye," said the latter, holding out his hand. "You do not want to fight any more, then?" asked San Giacinto. "Not unless you do. Good-bye." Without another word he left the room and descended into the street. The cold gray dawn was over everything and the air was raw and chilly. There is nothing more dismal than early dawn in a drizzling rain when a man has been up all night, but Giovanni was unconscious of any discomfort, and there were wings under his feet as he hastened homeward along the slippery pavements. The pallor in his face had given way to a slight flush that gave colour and animation to his cheeks, and though his eyes were bright their expression was more natural than it had been for many days. He was in one of the strangest humours which can have sway over that unconsciously humorous animal, man. In the midst of the deepest self-abasement his heart was overflowing with joy. The combination of sorrow and happiness is a rare one, not found every day, but the condition of experiencing both at the same time and in the highest degree is very possible. Giovanni, indeed, could not feel otherwise than he did. Had he suspected Corona and accused her on grounds wholly frivolous and untenable, in the unreasoning outbreak of a foolish jealousy, he could not have been so persuaded of her guilt as to feel the keenest joy on finding her innocent. In that case his remorse would have outweighed his satisfaction. Had he, on the other hand, suspected her without making the accusation, he would have been happy on discovering his mistake, but could have felt little or no remorse. As it was, he had accused her upon evidence which most tribunals would have thought sufficient for a conviction, and on seeing all doubt cleared away he realised with terrible force the extent of the pain he had inflicted. While he had still believed that she had fallen, he had still so loved her as to wish that he could take the burden of her guilt upon his own shoulders. Now that her innocence was proved beyond all doubt, he had no thought but to ask her forgiveness. He let himself in with a latch-key and ran up the dim stairs. A second key opened the polished door into the dark vestibule, and in a moment more he was in the ante-chamber of Corona's apartment. Two or three women, pale with watching, were standing round a table, upon which something was heating over a spirit lamp. Giovanni stopped and spoke to them. "How is she?" he asked, his voice unsteady with anxiety. The women shook their heads, and one of them began to cry. They loved their mistress dearly and had little hope of her recovery. They had been amazed, too, at Giovanni's apparent indifference during the whole week, and seemed surprised when he went towards the door. One motioned to him to make no noise. He turned the latch very gently and advanced into the darkened chamber. Corona was lying as he had seen her on the previous evening, and there seemed to be little or no change in her state. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was scarcely perceptible. A nurse was nodding in a chair near the night light and looked up as Giovanni entered. He pointed to the door and she went out. All was so exactly as it had been twelve hours earlier that he could hardly realise the immense change that had taken place in his own heart during the interval. He stood looking at his wife, scarcely breathing for fear of disturbing her and yet wishing that she might wake to hear what he had to say. But she did not move nor show any signs of consciousness. Her delicate, thin hand lay upon the coverlet. He stooped down very slowly and cautiously, and kissed the wasted fingers. Then he drew back quickly and noiselessly as though he had done something wrong. He thought she must be asleep, and sat down in the chair the nurse had vacated. The stillness was profound. The little night light burned steadily without flickering and cast queer long shadows from the floor upwards over the huge tapestries upon the wall. The quaint figures of heroes and saints, that had seen many a Saracinesca born and many a one die in the ancient vaulted room, seemed to take the expressions of old friends watching over the suffering woman. A faint odour like that of ether pervaded the still air, an odour Giovanni never forgot during his life. Everything was so intensely quiet that he almost thought he could hear the ticking of his watch in his pocket. Corona stirred at last, and slowly opening her eyes, turned them gradually till they met her husband's gaze. At the first movement she made he had risen to his feet and now stood close beside her. "Did you kiss my hand--or did I dream it?" she asked faintly. "Yes, darling." He could not at once find words to say what he wanted. "Why did you?" Giovanni fell on his knees by the bedside and took her hand in both his own. "Corona, Corona--forgive me!" The cry came from his heart, and was uttered with an accent of despair that there was no mistaking. She knew, faint and scarcely conscious though she was, that he was not attempting to deceive her this time. But he could say no more. Many a strong man would in that moment have sobbed aloud and shed tears, but Giovanni was not as other men. Under great emotion all expression was hard for him, and the spontaneity of tears would have contradicted his nature. Corona wondered what had happened, and lay quite still, looking at his bent head and feeling the trembling touch of his hands on hers. For several seconds the stillness was almost as profound as it had been before. Then Giovanni spoke out slowly and earnestly. "My beloved wife," he said, looking up into her face, "I know all the truth now. I know what I have done. I know what you have suffered. Forgive me if you can. I will give my whole life to deserve your pardon." For an instant all Corona's beauty returned to her face as she heard his words. Her eyes shone softly, the colour mounted to her pale cheeks, and she breathed one happy sigh of relief and gladness. Her fingers contracted and closed round his with a tender pressure. "It is true," she said, scarcely audibly. "You are not trying to deceive me in order to keep me alive?" "It is true, darling," he answered. "San Giacinto wrote the letter. It was not even meant to seem to come from you. Oh, Corona--can you ever forgive me?" She turned so as to see him better, and looked long into his eyes. The colour slowly faded again from her face, and her expression changed, growing suddenly sad. "I will forgive you. I will try to forget it all, Giovanni. You should have believed me, for I have never lied to you. It will be long before I am strong again, and I shall have much time to think of it." Giovanni rose to his feet, still clasping her hand. Something told him that she was not a woman who could either forgive or forget such an injury, and her tone was colder than he had hoped. The expiation had begun and he was already suffering the punishment of his unbelief. He bore the pain bravely. What right had he to expect that she would suddenly become as she had been before? She had been, and still was, dangerously ill, and her illness had been caused by his treatment of her. It would be long before their relations could be again what they had once been, and it was not for him to complain. She might have sent him away in anger; he would not have thought her too unkind. But when he remembered her love, he trembled at the thought of living without it. His voice was very gentle as he answered her, after a short pause. "You shall live to forget it all, Corona. I will make you forget it. I will undo what I have done." "Can you, Giovanni? Is there no blood upon your hands?" She knew her husband well, and could hardly believe that he had refrained from taking vengeance upon Gouache. "There is none, thank God," replied Giovanni. "But for a happy accident I should have killed the man a week ago. It was all arranged." "You must tell him that you have been mistaken," said Corona simply. "Yes, I will." "Thank you. That is right." "It is the least I can do." Giovanni felt that words were of very little use, and even had he wished to say more he would not have known how to speak. There was that between them which was too deep for all expression, and he knew that henceforth he could only hope to bring back Corona's love by his own actions. Besides, in her present state, he guessed that it would be wiser to leave her, than to prolong the interview. "I will go now," he said. "You must rest, darling, and be quite well to-morrow." "Yes. I can rest now." She said nothing about seeing him again. With a humility almost pathetic in such a man, he bent down and touched her hand with his lips. Then he would have gone away, but she held his fingers and looked long into his eyes. "I am sorry for you, dear," she said, and paused, not taking her eyes from his. "Kiss me," she added at last, with a faint smile. A moment later, he was gone. She gazed long at the door through which he had left the room, and her expression changed more than once, softening and hardening again as the thoughts chased each other through her tired brain. At last she closed her eyes, and presently fell into a peaceful sleep. Giovanni waited in his room until his father was awake and then went to tell him what had happened. The old gentleman looked weary and sad, but his keen sight noticed the change in his son's manner. "You look better," he said. "I have been undeceived," answered Giovanni. "I have been mistaken, misled by the most extraordinary set of circumstances I have ever heard of." Saracinesca's eyes suddenly gleamed angrily and his white beard bristled round his face. "You have made a fool of yourself," he growled. "You have made your wife ill and yourself miserable in a fit of vulgar jealousy. And now you have been telling her so." "Exactly. I have been telling her so." "You are an idiot, Giovanni. I always knew it." "I have only just found it out," answered the younger man. "Then you are amazingly slow at discovery. Why do you stand there staring at me? Do you expect any sympathy? You will not get it. Go and say a litany outside your wife's door. You have made me spend the most horrible week I ever remember, just because you are not good enough for her. How could you ever dare to suspect that woman? Go away. I shall strangle you if you stay here!" "That consideration would not have much weight," replied Giovanni. "I know how mad I have been, much better than you can tell me. And yet, I doubt whether any one was ever so strangely mistaken before." "With your intelligence the wonder is that you are not always mistaken. Upon my soul, the more I think of it, the more I am amazed at your folly. You acted like a creature in the theatre. With your long face and your mystery and your stage despair, you even made a fool of me. At all events, I shall know what to expect the next time it happens. I hope Corona will have the sense to make you do penance." To tell the truth Giovanni had not expected any better treatment from his father than he actually received, and he was not in a humour to resent reproaches which he knew to be well deserved. He had only intended to tell the prince the result of what had occurred, and he relaxed nothing of his determination, even though he might have persuaded the old gentleman that the accumulated evidence had undoubtedly justified his doubts. With a short salutation he left the room and went out, hoping that Gouache had not accompanied the expedition to Mentana, improbable as that seemed. He was, of course, disappointed, for while he was making inquiries Gouache was actually on the way to the battle with his corps, as has been already seen. Giovanni spent most of the day in the house, constantly inquiring after Corona, and trying to occupy his mind in reading, though with little success. The idea that Gouache might be killed without having learned the truth began to take possession of him and caused him an annoyance he could not explain. It was not that he felt any very profound remorse for having wronged the man. His nature was not so sensitive as that. It was rather, perhaps, because he regarded the explanation with Anastase as a part of what he owed Corona, that he was so anxious to meet him alive. Partly, too, his anxiety arose from his restlessness and from the desire for action of some sort in which to forget all he had suffered, and all he was still suffering. Towards evening he went out and heard news of the engagement. It was already known that the enemy had fallen back upon Mentana, and no one doubted the ultimate result of the day's fighting. People were already beginning to talk of going out to take assistance to the wounded. The idea struck Giovanni as plausible and he determined to act upon it at once. He took a surgeon and several men with him, and drove out across the Campagna to the scene of the battle. As has been told, he found Gouache at last, after a long and difficult search. The ground was so broken and divided by ditches, walls and trees, that some of the wounded were not found until the middle of the next day. Unless Giovanni had undertaken the search Anastase might have escaped notice for a long time, and it was no wonder if he expressed astonishment on waking up to find himself comfortably installed in Saracinesca's carriage, tended by the man who a few days earlier had wanted to take his life. CHAPTER XV. Gouache's wound was by no means dangerous, and when he had somewhat recovered from the combined effects of loss of blood and excessive fatigue he did not feel much the worse for having a ball in his shoulder. Giovanni and the doctor gave him food and a little wine in the carriage, and long before they reached the gates of the city the Zouave was well enough to have heard Sant' Ilario's explanation. The presence of the surgeon, however, made any intimate conversation difficult. "I came to find you," said Giovanni in a low voice, "because everything has been set right in your absence, and I was afraid you might be killed at Mentana without receiving my apology." Gouache looked at his companion in some surprise. He knew very well that Sant' Ilario was not a man to make excuses without some very extraordinary reasons for such a step. It is a prime law of the code of honour, however, that an apology duly made must be duly accepted as putting an end to any quarrel, and Anastase saw at once that Giovanni had relinquished all intention of fighting. "I am very glad that everything is explained," answered Gouache. "I confess that I was surprised beyond measure by the whole affair." "I regret having entered your rooms without your permission," continued Giovanni who intended to go to the end of what he had undertaken. "The pin was my wife's, but the letter was written by another person with a view to influencing your conduct. I cannot explain here, but you shall know whatever is necessary when we are alone. Of course, if you still desire any satisfaction, I am at your service." "Pray do not suggest such a thing. I have no further feeling of annoyance in the matter." Gouache insisted on being taken to his own lodgings, though Sant' Ilario offered him the hospitality of the Palazzo Saracinesca. By four o'clock in the morning the ball was extracted and the surgeon took his leave, recommending sleep and quiet for his patient. Gouache, however, would not let Giovanni go without hearing the end of the story. "The facts are very few," said the latter after a moment's hesitation. "It appears that you had arranged to meet a lady on Sunday morning. A certain person whom I will not name discovered your intention, and conceived the idea of preventing the meeting by sending you a note purporting to come from the lady. As he could get none of her note-paper he possessed himself of some of my wife's. He pinned the note on your table with the pin you had chanced to find. I was foolish enough to enter your room and I recognised the pin and the paper. You understand the rest." Gouache laughed merrily. "I understand that you did me a great service. I met the lady after all, but if I had received the note I would not have gone, and she would have waited for me. Do you mind telling me the name of the individual who tried to play me the trick?" "If you will excuse my discretion, I would rather not. He knows that his plan failed. I should not feel justified in telling you his name, from other motives." "As you please," said Gouache. "I daresay I shall find him out." So the interview ended and Giovanni went home to rest at last, almost as much worn out as Gouache himself. He was surprised at the ease with which everything had been arranged, but he was satisfied with the result and felt that a weight had been taken from his mind. He slept long and soundly and awoke the next morning to hear that Corona was much better. The events of Saturday and Sunday had to all appearances smoothed many difficulties from the lives of those with whom my history is concerned. Corona and Giovanni were once more united, though the circumstances that had produced so terrible a breach between them had left a shadow on their happiness. Gouache had fought his battle and had returned with a slight wound so that as soon as he could go out he would be able to renew his visits at the Palazzo Montevarchi and see Faustina without resorting to any more ingenious stratagems. San Giacinto had failed to produce the trouble he had planned, but his own prospects were brilliant enough. His marriage with Flavia was to take place on the last of the month and the preliminaries were being arranged as quickly as possible. Flavia herself was delighted with the new dignity she assumed in the family, and if she was not positively in love with San Giacinto, was enough attracted by him to look forward with pleasure upon the prospect of becoming his wife. Old Montevarchi alone seemed preoccupied and silent, but his melancholy mood was relieved by occasional moments of anticipated triumph, while he made frequent visits to the library and seemed to find solace in the conversation of the librarian, Arnoldo Meschini. In the future of each of these persons there was an element of uncertainty which most of them disregarded. As Corona recovered, Giovanni began to think that she would really forget as well as forgive all he had made her suffer. Gouache on his part entertained the most sanguine hopes of marrying Faustina. Montevarchi looked forward with assurance to the success of his plot against the Saracinesca. San Giacinto and Flavia were engaged, indeed, but were not yet married. And yet the issue of none of these events was absolutely sure. The first matter with which we are concerned is the forgery of the clauses in the documents, which Meschini had undertaken to accomplish and actually finished in less than three weeks. It was indeed an easy task for a man so highly skilled in the manufacture of chirograhic antiquities, but he had found himself unexpectedly balked at the outset, and the ingenuity he displayed in overcoming the difficulties he met with is worth recording. It was necessary in the first place to ascertain whether there was a copy of the principal deed at the Chancery. He had no trouble in finding that such a copy existed, and was indeed fully prepared for the contingency. But when the parchment was produced, his face fell. It was a smaller sheet than the first and the writing was a little wider, so that the space at the foot of the first page was considerably less than in the original. He saw at once that it would be impossible to make the insertion, even if he could get possession of the document for a time long enough to execute the work. Moreover, though he was not actually watched while he read it, he could see that it would be almost impracticable to use writing materials in the office of the Chancery without being observed. He was able, however, to take out the original which he carried with him and to compare it with the copy. Both were by one hand, and the copy was only distinguished by the seal of the government office. It was kept, like all such documents, in a dusty case upon which were written the number and letter of the alphabet by which it was classified. Meschini hesitated only a moment, and then decided to substitute the original for the copy. Should the keeper of the archives chance to look at the parchment and discover the absence of the seal, Meschini could easily excuse himself by saying that he had mistaken the two, and indeed with that one exception they were very much alike. The keeper, however, noticed nothing and Arnoldo had the satisfaction of seeing him unsuspiciously return the cardboard case to its place on the shelves. He went back to his room and set to work. The longer he looked at the sheet the more clearly he saw that it would be impossible to make the insertion. There was nothing to be done but to forge a new document with the added words. He did not like the idea, though he believed himself fully able to carry it out. There was a risk, he thought, which he had not meant to undertake; but on the other hand the reward was great. He put forth all his skill to produce the imitation and completed it in ten days to his entire satisfaction. He understood the preparation of seals as well as the rest of his art, and had no difficulty in making a die which corresponded precisely with the wax. In the first place he took off the impression carefully with kneaded bread. From this with a little plaster of Paris he reproduced the seal, which he very carefully retouched with a fine steel instrument until it was quite perfect. Over this again he poured melted lead, thus making a hard die with which he could stamp the wax without danger of breaking the instrument. Once more he retouched the lead with a graving tool, using a lens for the work and ultimately turning out an absolutely accurate copy of the seal used in the Chancery office. He made experiments as he proceeded, and when he was at last satisfied he turned to the actual forgery, which was a longer matter and required greater skill and patience. Nothing was omitted which could make the fraud complete. The parchment assumed the exact shade under his marvellous manipulation. The smallest roughness was copied with faultless precision, and then by many hours of handling and the use of a little dust collected among the books in the library, he imparted to the whole the appearance of age which was indispensable. When he had finished he showed his work to old Montevarchi, but by an inherent love of duplicity did not tell him that the whole document was forged, merely pointing to the inserted clause as a masterpiece of imitation. First, however, he pretended that the copy had actually contained the inserted words, and the prince found it hard to believe that this was not the case. Meschini was triumphant. Again he returned to the Chancery and substituted what he had written for the first original upon which he had now to make the insertion. There was no difficulty here, and yet he hesitated before beginning. It seemed to him safer after all to forge the whole of the second as he had done the first. A slip of the pen, an unlucky drop of ink might mar the work and excite suspicion, whereas if he made a mistake upon a fresh sheet of parchment he could always begin again. There was only one danger. The Saracinesca might have made some private mark upon the original which should elude even his microscopic examination. He spent nearly a day in examining the sheet with a lens but could discover nothing. Being satisfied of the safety of the proceeding he executed the forgery with the same care he had bestowed upon the first, and showed it to his employer. The latter could scarcely believe his eyes, and was very far from imagining that the two originals were intact and carefully locked up in Meschini's room. The prince took the document and studied its contents again during many hours before he finally decided to return it to old Saracinesca. It was a moment of intense excitement. He hesitated whether he should take the manuscripts back himself or send them by a messenger. Had he been sure of controlling himself, he would have gone in person, but he knew that if Saracinesca should chance to look over the writing when they were together, it would be almost impossible to conceal emotion under such a trial of nerve. What he really hoped was that the prince would think no more of the matter, and put away the parcel without examining the contents. Montevarchi pondered long over the course he should pursue, his eyes gleaming now and then with a wild triumph, and then growing dull and glassy at the horrible thought of discovery. Then again the consciousness that he was committing a great crime overcame him, and he twisted his fingers nervously. He had embarked upon the undertaking, however, and he fully believed that it would be impossible to draw back even had he wished to do so. The insertions were made and could not be erased. It is possible that at one moment, had Montevarchi known the truth, he would have drawn back; but it is equally sure that if he had done so he would sooner or later have regretted it, and would have done all in his power to recover lost ground and to perpetrate the fraud. The dominant passion for money, when it is on the point of being satisfied, is one of the strongest incentives to evil deeds, and in the present case the stake was enormous. He would not let it slip through his fingers. He rejoiced that the thing was done and that the millions of the Saracinesca were already foredoomed to be his. It is doubtful whether he was able to form a clear conception of what would take place after the trial was over and the property awarded to his son-in-law. It was perhaps enough for his ambition that his daughter should be Princess Saracinesca, and he did not doubt his power to control some part of the fortune. San Giacinto, who was wholly innocent in the matter, would, he thought, be deeply grateful for having been told of his position, and would show his gratitude in a befitting manner. Moreover, Montevarchi's avarice was on a grand scale, and it was not so much the possession of more money for himself that he coveted, as the aggrandisement of his children and grandchildren. The patriarchal system often produces this result. He would scarcely have known what to do with a greater fortune than he possessed, but he looked forward with a wild delight to seeing his descendants masters of so much wealth. The fact that he could not hope to enjoy his satisfaction very long did not detract from its reality or magnitude. The miser is generally long-lived, and does not begin to anticipate death until the catastrophe is near at hand. Even then it is a compensation to him to feel that the heirs of his body are to be made glorious by what he has accumulated, and his only fear is that they will squander what he has spent his strength in amassing. He educates his children to be thrifty and rejoices when they spend no money, readily believing them to be as careful as himself, and seldom reflecting that, if he furnished them with the means, their true disposition might turn out to be very different. It is so intensely painful to him to think of wealth being wasted that he cultivates the belief in the thriftiness of those who must profit by his death. If he has been born to worldly state as well as to a great inheritance, he extends the desire of accumulation to the fortunes of his relations and descendants, and shows a laudable anxiety that they should possess all that he can get for them, provided it is quite impossible that he should get it for himself. The powers of the world have been to a great extent built up on this principle, and it is a maxim in many a great family that there is no economy like enriching one's relatives to the third and fourth generation. The struggle in Montevarchi's mind was so insignificant and lasted so short a time, that it might be disregarded altogether, were it not almost universally true that the human mind hesitates at the moment of committing a crime. That moment of hesitation has prevented millions of frightful deeds, and has betrayed thousands of carefully plotted conspiracies whose success seemed assured, and it is amazing to think what an influence has been exerted upon the destinies of the human race by the instinctive fear of crossing the narrow boundary between right and wrong. The time occupied in such reflection is often only infinitesimal. It has been called the psychological moment, and if the definition means that it is the instant during which the soul suggests, it is a true one. It is then that our natural repulsion for evil asserts itself; it is then that the consequences of what we are about to do rise clearly before us as in a mirror; it is then that our courage is suddenly strengthened to do the right, or deserts us and leaves us mere instruments for the accomplishment of the wrong. If humanity had not an element of good in it, there would be no hesitation in the perpetration of crime, any more than a wild beast pauses before destroying a weaker creature. Perhaps there is no clearer proof of the existence of a divine soul in man, than his intuitive reluctance to do what in the lower animals would be most natural. Circumstances, education, the accidents of life, all tend to make this psychologic moment habitually shorter or longer. The suspense created in the conscience, during which the intelligence is uncertain how to act, may last a week or a second, a year or a quarter of an hour; but it is a stage through which all must pass, both the professional criminal and the just man who is perhaps tempted to commit a crime but once during his life. Old Lotario Montevarchi had never been guilty of any misdeed subject to the provisions of the penal code; but he had done most things in his love of money which were not criminal only because the law had not foreseen the tortuous peculiarities of his mind. Even now he persuaded himself that the end was a righteous one, and that his course was morally justifiable. He had that power of deceiving himself which characterises the accomplished hypocrite, and he easily built up for San Giacinto a whole edifice of sympathy which seemed in his own view very real and moral. He reflected with satisfaction upon the probable feelings of the old Leone Saracinesca, when, after relinquishing his birthright, he found himself married and the father of a son. How the poor man must have cursed his folly and longed for some means of undoing the deed! It was but common justice after all--it was but common justice, and it was a mere accident of fate that Leone's great-grandson, who was now to be reinstated in all the glories of his princely possessions, was also to marry Flavia Montevarchi. The prospect was too alluring and the suspense lasted but a moment, though he believed that he spent much time in considering the situation. The thoughts that really occupied him were not of a nature to hinder the accomplishment of his plan, and he was not at all surprised with himself when he finally tied up the packet and rang for a messenger. Detection was impossible, for by Meschini's skilful management, the original and the official copy corresponded exactly and were such marvellous forgeries as to defy discovery. When it is considered that the greatest scientists and specialists in Europe have recently disagreed concerning documents which are undoubtedly of modern manufacture, and which were produced by just such men as Arnoldo Meschini, it need not appear surprising that the latter should successfully impose upon a court of law. The circumstances of the Saracinesca family history, too, lent an air of probability to the alleged facts. The poverty and temporary disappearance of Leone's descendants explained why they had not attempted to recover their rights. Nay, more, since Leone had died when his son was an infant, and since there was no copy of the document among his papers, it was more than probable that the child on growing up had never known the nature of the deed, and would not have been likely to suspect what was now put forward as the truth, unless his attention were called to it by some person possessed of the necessary knowledge. The papers were returned to Prince Saracinesca in the afternoon with a polite note of thanks. It will be remembered that the prince had not read the documents, as he had meant to do, in consequence of the trouble between Giovanni and Corona which had made him forget his intention. He had not looked over them since he had been a young man and the recollection of their contents was far from clear. Having always supposed the collateral branch of his family to be extinct, it was only natural that he should have bestowed very little thought upon the ancient deeds which he believed to have been drawn up in due form and made perfectly legal. When he came home towards evening, he found the sealed packet upon his table, and having opened it, was about to return the papers to their place in the archives. It chanced that he had a letter to write, however, and he pushed the documents aside before taking them to the library. While he was writing, Giovanni entered the room. As has been seen, the prince had been very angry with his son for having allowed himself to doubt Corona, and though several days had elapsed since the matter had been explained, the old man's wrath had not wholly subsided. He still felt considerable resentment against Giovanni, and his intercourse with the latter had not yet regained its former cordiality. As Sant' Ilario entered the room, Saracinesca looked up with an expression which showed clearly that the interruption was unwelcome. "Do I disturb you?" asked Giovanni, noticing the look. "Do you want anything?" "No--nothing especial." Saracinesca's eye fell upon the pile of manuscripts that lay on the table. It struck him that Giovanni might occupy himself by looking them over, while he himself finished the letter he had begun. "There are those deeds relating to San Giacinto," he said, "you might look through them before they are put away. Montevarchi borrowed them for a day or two and has just sent them back." Giovanni took the bundle and established himself in a comfortable chair beside a low stand, where the light of a lamp fell upon the pages as he turned them. He made no remark, but began to examine the documents, one by one, running his eye rapidly along the lines, as he read on mechanically, not half comprehending the sense of the words. He was preoccupied by thoughts of Corona and of what had lately happened, so that he found it hard to fix his attention. The prince's pen scratched and spattered on the paper, and irritated Giovanni, for the old gentleman wrote a heavy, nervous handwriting, and lost his temper twenty times in five minutes, mentally cursing the ink, the paper and the pen, and wishing he could write like a shopman or a clerk. Giovanni's attention was arrested by the parchment on which the principal deed was executed, and he began to read the agreement with more care than he had bestowed upon the other papers. He understood Latin well enough, but the crabbed characters puzzled him from time to time. He read the last words on the first page without thinking very much of what they meant. ".... Eo tamen pacto, quod si praedicto Domino Leoni ex legitimo matrimonio heres nasceretur, instrumentum hoc nullum, vanum atque plane invalidum fiat." Giovanni smiled at the quaint law Latin, and then read the sentence over again. His face grew grave as he realised the tremendous import of those few words. Again and again he translated the phrase, trying to extract from it some other meaning than that which was so unpleasantly clear. No other construction, however, could be put upon what was written, and for some minutes Giovanni sat staring at the fire, bewildered and almost terrified by his discovery. "Have you ever read those papers?" he asked at last, in a voice that made his father drop his pen and look up. "Not for thirty years." "Then you had better read them at once. San Giacinto is Prince Saracinesca and you and I are nobody." Saracinesca uttered a fierce oath and sprang from his chair. "What do you mean?" he asked, seizing Giovanni's arm violently with one hand and taking the parchment with the other. "Read for yourself. There--at the foot of the page, from 'eo tamen pacto.' It is plain enough. It says, 'On the understanding that if an heir be born to the aforesaid Don Leone, in lawful wedlock, the present instrument shall be wholly null, void and inefficacious.' An heir was born, and San Giacinto is that heir's grandson. You may tear up the document. It is not worth the parchment it is written upon, nor are we either." "You are mad, Giovannino!" exclaimed the prince, hoarsely, "that is not the meaning of the words. You have forgotten your Latin." "I will get you a dictionary--or a lawyer--whichever you prefer." "You are not in earnest, my boy. Look here--eo tamen pacto--that means 'by this agreement'--does it not? I am not so rusty as you seem to think." "It means 'on this understanding, however.' Go on. Quod si, that if--praedicto Domino Leoni, to the aforesaid Don Leone--ex legitimo matrimonio, from a lawful marriage--heres nasceretur, an heir should be born--hoc instrumentum, this deed--shall be null, worthless and invalid. You cannot get any other sense out of it. I have tried for a quarter of an hour. You and I are beggars. Saracinesca, Torleone, Barda, and all the rest belong to San Giacinto, the direct descendant of your great-grandfather's elder brother. You are simple Don Leone, and I am plain Don Giovanni. That is what it means." "Good God!" cried the old man in extreme horror. "If you should be right--" "I am right," replied Giovanni, very pale. With wild eyes and trembling hands the prince spread the document upon the table and read it over again. He turned it and went on to the end, his excitement bringing back in the moment such scholarship as he had once possessed and making every sentence as clear as the day. "Not even San Giacinto--not even a title!" he exclaimed desperately. He fell back in his chair, crushed by the tremendous blow that had fallen so unexpectedly upon him in his old age. "Not even San Giacinto," repeated Giovanni, stupidly. His presence of mind began to forsake him, too, and he sank down, burying his face in his hands. As in a dream he saw his cousin installed in the very chair where his father now sat, master of the house in which he, Giovanni, had been born, like his father before him, master of the fortresses and castles, the fair villas and the broad lands, the palaces and the millions to which Giovanni had thought himself heir, lord over the wealth and inheritances of his race, dignified by countless titles and by all the consideration that falls to the lot of the great in this world. For a long time neither spoke, for both were equally overwhelmed by the magnitude of the disaster that hung over their heads. They looked furtively at each other, and each saw that his companion was white to the lips. The old man was the first to break the silence. "At all events, San Giacinto does not know how the deed stands," he said. "It will make it all the harder to tell him," replied Giovanni. "To tell him? You would not be so mad--" "Do you think it would be honourable," asked the younger man, "for us to remain in possession of what clearly does not belong to us? I will not do it." "We have been in possession for more than a century." "That is no reason why we should continue to steal another man's money," said Giovanni. "We are men. Let us act like men. It is bitter. It is horrible. But we have no other course. After all, Corona has Astrardente. She will give you a home. She is rich." "Me? Why do you say me? Us both." "I will work for my living," said Giovanni, quietly. "I am young. I will not live on my wife." "It is absurd!" exclaimed the prince. "It is Quixotic. San Giacinto has plenty of money without ruining us. Even if he finds it out I will fight the case to the end. I am master here, as my father and my father's father were before me, and I will not give up what is mine without a struggle. Besides, who assures us that he is really what he represents himself to be? What proves that he is really the descendant of that same Leone?" "For that matter," answered Giovanni, "he will have to produce very positive proofs, valid in law, to show that he is really the man. I will give up everything to the lawful heir, but I will certainly not turn beggar to please an adventurer. But I say that, if San Giacinto represents the elder branch of our house, we have no right here. If I were sure of it I would not sleep another night under this roof." The old man could not withhold his admiration. There was something supremely noble and generous about Giovanni's readiness to sacrifice everything for justice which made his old heart beat with a strange pride. If he was reluctant to renounce his rights it was after all more on Giovanni's account, and for the sake of Corona and little Orsino. He himself was an old man and had lived most of his life out already. "You have your mother's heart, Giovannino," he said simply, but there was a slight moisture in his eyes, which few emotions had ever had the power to bring there. "It is not a question of heart," replied Giovanni. "We cannot keep what does not belong to us." "We will let the law decide what we can keep. Do you realise what it would be like, what a position we should occupy if we were suddenly declared beggars? We should be absolute paupers. We do not own a foot of land, a handful of money that does not come under the provisions of that accursed clause." "Wait a minute," exclaimed Giovanni, suddenly recollecting that he possessed something of his own, a fact he had wholly forgotten in the excitement of his discovery. "We shall not be wholly without resources. It does not follow from this deed that we must give to San Giacinto any of the property our branch of the family has acquired by marriage, from your great grandfather's time to this. It must be very considerable. To begin with me, my fortune came from my mother. Then there was your mother, and your father's mother, and so on. San Giacinto has no claim to anything not originally the property of the old Leone who made this deed." "That is true," replied the prince, more hopefully. "It is not so bad as it looked. You must be right about that point." "Unless the courts decide that San Giacinto is entitled to compensation and interest, because four generations have been kept out of the property." Both men looked grave. The suggestion was unpleasant. Such judgments had been given before and might be given again. "We had better send for our lawyer," said the prince, at last. "The sooner we know the real value of that bit of parchment the better it will be for us. I cannot bear the suspense of waiting a day to know the truth. Imagine that the very chair I am sitting upon may belong to San Giacinto. I never liked the fellow, from the day when I first found him in his inn at Aquila." "It is not his fault," answered Giovanni, quietly. "This is a perfectly simple matter. We did not know what these papers were. Even if we had known, we should have laughed at them until we discovered that we had a cousin. After all we shall not starve, and what is a title? The Pope will give you another when he knows what has happened. I would as soon be plain Don Giovanni as Prince of Sant' Ilario." "For that matter, you can call yourself Astrardente." "I would rather not," said Giovanni, with something like a laugh. "But I must tell Corona this news." "Wait till she is herself again. It might disturb her too much." "You do not know her!" Giovanni laughed heartily this time. "If you think she cares for such things, you are very much mistaken in her character. She will bear the misfortune better than any of us. Courage, padre mio! Things are never so black as they look at first." "I hope not, my boy, I hope not! Go and tell your wife, if you think it best. I would rather be alone." Giovanni left the room, and Saracinesca was alone. He sank back once more in his chair and folded his strong brown hands together upon the edge of the table before him. In spite of all Giovanni could say, the old man felt keenly the horror of his position. Only those who, having been brought up in immense wealth and accustomed from childhood to the pomp and circumstance of a very great position, are suddenly deprived of everything, can understand what he felt. He was neither avaricious nor given to vanity. He had not wasted his fortune, though he had spent magnificently a princely income. He had not that small affection for greatness which, strange to say, is often found in the very great. But his position was part of himself, so that he could no more imagine himself plain Don Leone Saracinesca, than he could conceive himself boasting of his ancient titles. And yet it was quite plain to him that he must either cease to be a prince altogether, or accept a new title as a charity from his sovereign. As for his fortune, it was only too plain that the greater part of it had never been his. To a man of his temperament the sensation of finding himself a mere impostor was intolerable. His first impulse had of course been to fight the case, and had the attack upon his position come from San Giacinto, he would probably have done so. But his own son had discovered the truth and had put the matter clearly before him, in such a light as to make an appeal to his honour. He had no choice but to submit. He could not allow himself to be outdone in common honesty by the boy he loved, nor could he have been guilty of deliberate injustice, for his own advantage, after he had been convinced that he had no right to his possessions. He belonged to a race of men who had frequently committed great crimes and done atrocious deeds, notorious in history, from motives of personal ambition, for the love of women or out of hatred for men, but who had never had the reputation of loving money or of stooping to dishonour for its sake. As soon as he was persuaded that everything belonged to San Giacinto, he felt that he must resign all in favour of the latter. One doubt alone remained to be solved. It was not absolutely certain that San Giacinto was the man he represented himself to be. It was quite possible that he should have gained possession of the papers he held, by some means known only to himself; such things are often sold as curiosities, and as the last of the older branch of whom there was any record preserved in Rome had died in obscurity, it was conceivable that the ex-innkeeper might have found or bought the documents he had left, in order to call himself Marchese di San Giacinto. Saracinesca did not go so far as to believe that the latter had any knowledge whatsoever of the main deed which was about to cause so much trouble, unless he had seen it in the hands of Montevarchi, in which case he could not be blamed if he brought a suit for the recovery of so much wealth. CHAPTER XVI. Giovanni was quite right in his prediction concerning Corona's conduct. He found her in her dressing-room, lying upon the couch near the fire, as he had found her on that fatal evening three weeks earlier. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. She had not wholly recovered her strength yet, but her beauty had returned and seemed perfected by the suffering through which she had passed. In a few words he told her the whole story, to which she listened without showing any great surprise. Once or twice, while he was speaking, her dark eyes sought his with an expression he did not fully understand, but which was at least kind and full of sympathy. "Are you quite sure of all the facts?" she asked when he had finished. "Are you certain that San Giacinto is the man? I cannot tell why, but I have always distrusted him since he first came to us." "That is the only point that remains to be cleared up," answered Giovanni. "If he is not the man he will not venture to take any steps in the matter, lest he should be exposed and lose what he has." "What will you do?" "I hardly know. If he is really our cousin, we must give up everything without a struggle. We are impostors, or little better. I think I ought to tell him plainly how the deed is made out, in order that he may judge whether or not he is in a position to prove his identity." "Do you imagine that he does not know all about it as well as we ourselves?" "Probably not--otherwise he would have spoken." "The papers came back from Montevarchi to-day," said Corona. "It is gratuitous to suppose that the old man has not told his future son-in-law what they contain. Yes--you see it yourself. Therefore San Giacinto knows. Therefore, also, if he is the man he pretends to be, he will let you know his intentions soon enough. I fancy you forgot that in your excitement. If he says nothing, it is because he cannot prove his rights." "It is true," replied Giovanni, "I did not think of that. Nevertheless I would like to be beforehand. I wish him to know that we shall make no opposition. It is a point of honour." "Which a woman cannot understand, of course," added Corona, calmly. "I did not say that. I do not mean it." "Well--do you want my advice?" "Always." The single word was uttered with an accent implying more than mere trust, and was accompanied by a look full of strong feeling. But Corona's expression did not change. Her eyes returned the glance quietly, without affectation, neither lovingly nor unlovingly, but indifferently. Giovanni felt a sharp little pain in his heart as he realised the change that had taken place in his wife. "My advice is to do nothing in the matter. San Giacinto may be an impostor; indeed, it is not at all unlikely. If he is, he will take advantage of your desire to act generously. He will be forewarned and forearmed and will have time to procure all the proofs he wants. What could you say to him? 'If you can prove your birth, I give you all I possess.' He will at once see that nothing else is necessary, and if he is a rogue he will succeed. Besides, as I tell you, he knows what that deed contains as well as you do, and if he is the man he will bring an action against your father in a week. If he does not, you gain the advantage of having discovered that he is an impostor without exposing yourself to be robbed." "It goes against the grain," said Giovanni. "But I suppose you are right." "You will do as you think best. I have no power to make you follow my advice." "No power? Ah, Corona, do not say that!" A short silence followed, during which Corona looked placidly at the fire, while Giovanni gazed at her dark face and tried to read the thoughts that were passing in her mind. She did not speak, however, and his guesswork was inconclusive. What hurt him most was her indifference, and he longed to discover by some sign that it was only assumed. "I would rather do as you think best," he said at last. She glanced at him and then looked back at the blazing logs. "I have told you what I think," she answered. "It is for you to judge and to decide. The whole matter affects you more than it does me." "Is it not the same?" "No. If you lose the Saracinesca titles and property we shall still be rich enough. You have a fortune of your own, and so have I. The name is, after all, an affair which concerns you personally. I should have married you as readily had you been called anything else." The reference to the past made Giovanni's heart leap, and the colour came quickly to his face. It was almost as though she had said that she would have loved him as well had he borne another name, and that might mean that she loved him still. But her calmness belied the hasty conclusion he drew from her words. He thought she looked like a statue, as she lay there in her magnificent rest, her hands folded upon her knees before her, her eyes so turned that he could see only the drooping lids. "A personal affair!" he exclaimed suddenly, in a bitter tone. "It was different once, Corona." For the first time since they had been talking her face betrayed some emotion. There was the slightest possible quiver of the lip as she answered. "Your titles were never anything but a personal affair." "What concerns me concerns you, dear," said Giovanni, tenderly. "In so much that I am very sorry--sincerely sorry, when anything troubles you." Her voice was kind and gentle, but there was no love in the words. "Believe me, Giovanni, I would give all I possess to spare you this." "All you possess--is there not a little love left in your all?" The cry came from his heart. He took her hand in both of his, and leaned forward towards her. Her fingers lay passively in his grasp, and the colour did not change in her dark cheeks. A moment ago there had been in her heart a passionate longing for the past, which had almost betrayed itself, but when he spoke of present love his words had no power to rouse a responsive echo. And yet she could not answer him roughly, for he was evidently in earnest. She said nothing, therefore, but left her hand in his. His love, which had been as fierce and strong as ever, even while he had doubted her faith, began to take new proportions of which he had never dreamt. He felt like a man struggling with death in some visible and tangible shape. "Is it all over? Will you never love me again?" he asked hoarsely. Her averted face told no tale, and still her fingers lay inert between his broad hands. She knew how he suffered, and yet she would not soothe him with the delusive hope for which he longed so intensely. "For God's sake, Corona, speak to me! Is there never to be any love again? Can you never forgive me?" "Ah, dear, I have forgiven you wholly--there is not an unkind thought left in my heart for you!" She turned and laid the hand that was free upon his shoulder, looking into his face with an expression that was almost imploring. "Do not think it is that, oh, not that! I would forgive you again, a thousand times--" "And love me?" he cried, throwing his arms round her neck, and kissing her passionately again and again. But suddenly he drew back, for there was no response to his caresses. He turned very pale as he saw the look in her eyes. There were tears there, for the love that had been, for his present pain, perhaps, but there was not one faint spark of the fire that had burned in other days. "I cannot say it!" she answered at last. "Oh, do not make me say it, for the sake of all that was once!" In his emotion Giovanni slipped from the low chair and knelt beside his wife, one arm still around her. The shock of disappointment, in the very moment when he thought she was yielding, was almost more than he could bear. Had not her heart grown wholly cold, the sight of his agonised face would have softened her. She was profoundly moved and pitied him exceedingly, but she could not do more. "Giovanni--do not look at me so! If I could! If I only could--" "Are you made of stone?" he asked, in a voice choking with pain. "What can I do!" she cried in despair, sinking back and hiding her face in her hands. She was in almost as great distress as he himself. "Love me, Corona! Only love me, ever so little! Remember that you loved me once--" "God knows how dearly! Could I forget it, I might love you now--" "Oh, forget it then, beloved! Let it be undone. Let the past be unlived. Say that you never loved me before, and let the new life begin to-day--can you not? Will you not? It is so little I ask, only the beginning. I will make it grow till it shall fill your heart. Sweet love, dear love! love me but enough to say it--" "Do you think I would not, if I could? Ah, I would give my whole life to bring back what is gone, but I cannot. It is dead. You--no, not you--some evil thing has killed it. Say it? Yes, dear, I would say it--I will say it if you bid me. Giovanni, I love you--yes, those are the words. Do they mean anything? Can I make them sound true? Can I make the dead alive again? Is it anything but the breath of my lips? Oh, Giovanni, my lost love, why are you not Giovanni still?" Again his arms went round her and he pressed her passionately to his heart. She turned pale, and though she tried to hide it, she shrank from his embrace, while her lips quivered and the tears of pain started in her eyes. She suffered horribly, in a way she had never dreamed of as possible. He saw what she felt and let her fall back upon the cushions, while he still knelt beside her. He saw that his mere touch was repugnant to her, and yet he could not leave her. He saw how bravely she struggled to bear his kisses, and how revolting they were to her, and yet the magic of her beauty held his passionate nature under a spell, while the lofty dignity of her spirit enthralled his soul. She was able to forgive, though he had so injured her, she was willing to love him, if she could, though he had wounded her so cruelly; it was torture to think that she could go no further, that he should never again hear the thrill of passion in her voice, nor see the whole strength of her soul rise in her eyes when his lips met hers. There was something grand and tragic in her suffering, in her realisation of all that he had taken from her by his distrust. She sank back on her couch, clasping her hands together so tightly that the veins showed clearly beneath the olive skin. As she tried to overcome her emotion, the magnificent outline of her face was ennobled by her pain, the lids closed over her dark eyes, and the beautiful lips set themselves sternly together, as though resolved that no syllable should pass them which could hurt him, even though they could not formulate the words he would have given his soul to hear. Giovanni knelt beside her, and gazed into her face. He knew she had not fainted, and he was almost glad that for a moment he could not see her eyes. Tenderly, timidly, he put out his hand and laid it on her clasped fingers, then drew it back again very quickly, as though suddenly remembering that the action might pain her. Her heavy hair was plaited into a thick black coil that fell upon the arm of the couch. He bent lower and pressed his lips upon the silken tress, noiselessly, fearing to disturb her, fearing lest she should even notice it. He had lost all his pride and strength and dominating power of character and he felt himself unworthy to touch her. But he was too strong a man to continue long in such a state. Before Corona opened her eyes, he had risen to his feet and stood at some distance from her, resting his arm upon the chimney-piece, watching her still, but with an expression which showed that a change had taken place in him, and that his resolute will had once more asserted itself. "Corona!" he said at last, in a voice that was almost calm. Without changing her position she looked up at him. She had been conscious that he had left her side, and she experienced a physical sensation of relief. "Corona," he repeated, when he saw that she heard him, "I do not complain. It is all my fault and my doing. Only, let it not be hate, dear. I will not touch you, I will not molest you. I will pray that you may love me again. I will try and do such things as may make you love me as you did once. Forgive me, if my kisses hurt you. I did not know they would, but I have seen it. I am not a brute. If I were, you would put something of the human into my heart. It shall never happen again, that I forget. Our life must begin again. The old Giovanni was your husband, and is dead. It is for me to win another love from you. Shall it be so, dear? Is it not to be all different--even to my very name?" "All, all different," repeated Corona in a low voice. "Oh, how could I be so unkind! How could I show you what I felt?" Suddenly, and without the least warning, she sprang to her feet and made two steps towards him. The impulse was there, but the reality was gone. Her arms were stretched out, and there was a look of supreme anguish in her eyes. She stopped short, then turned away once more, and as she sank upon the couch, burying her face in the cushions, the long restrained tears broke forth, and she sobbed as though her heart must break. Giovanni wished that his own suffering could find such an outlet, but there was no such relief possible for his hardy masculine nature. He could not bear the sight of her grief, and yet he knew that he could not comfort her, that to lay his hand upon her forehead would only add a new sting to the galling wound. He turned his face away and leaned against the heavy chimney-piece, longing to shut out the sound of her sobs from his ears, submitting to a torture that might well have expiated a greater misdeed than his. The time was past when he could feel that an unbroken chain of evidence had justified him in doubting and accusing Corona. He knew the woman he had injured better now than he had known her then, for he understood the whole depth and breadth of the love he had so ruthlessly destroyed. It was incredible to him, now, that he should ever have mistrusted a creature so noble, so infinitely grander than himself. Every tear she shed fell like molten fire upon his heart, every sob that echoed through the quiet room was a reproach that racked his heart-strings and penetrated to the secret depths of his soul. He could neither undo what he had done nor soothe the pain inflicted by his actions. He could only stand there, and submit patiently to the suffering of his expiation. The passionate outburst subsided at last, and Corona lay pale and silent upon her cushions. She knew what he felt, and pitied him more than herself. "It is foolish of me to cry," she said presently. "It cannot help you." "Help me?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning suddenly. "It is not I, it is you. I would have died to save you those tears." "I know it--would I not give my life to spare you this? And I will. Come and sit beside me. Take my hand. Kiss me--be your own self. It is not true that your kisses hurt me--it shall not be true---" "You do not mean it, dear," replied Giovanni, sadly. "I know how true it is." "It shall not be true. Am I a devil to hurt you so? Was it all your fault? Was I not wrong too? Indeed--" "No, my beloved. There is nothing wrong in you. If you do not love me--" "I do. I will, in spite of myself." "You mean it, darling--I know. You are good enough, even for that. But you cannot. It must be all my doing, now." "I must," cried Corona, passionately. "Unless I love you, I shall die. I was wrong, too, you shall let me say it. Was I not mad to do the things I did? What man would not have suspected? Would a man be a man at all, if he did not watch the woman he loves? Would love be love without jealousy when there seems to be cause for it? Should I have married you, had I thought that you would be so careless as to let me do such things without interfering? Was it not my fault when I came back that night and would not tell you what had happened? Was it not madness to ask you to trust me, instead of telling you all? And yet," she turned her face away, "and yet, it hurt me so!" "You shall not blame yourself, Corona. It was all my fault." "Come and sit here, beside me. There--take my hand. Does it tremble? Do I draw it away? Am I not glad that it should rest in yours? Look at me--am I not glad? Giovanni--dear husband--true love! Look into my eyes. Do you not see that I love you? Why do you shake your head and tremble? It is true, I tell you." Suddenly the forced smile faded from her face, the artificial expression she tried so pathetically to make real, disappeared, and gave place to a look of horror and fear. She drew back her hand and turned desperately away. "I am lying, lying--and to you!" she moaned. "Oh God! have mercy, for I am the most miserable woman in the world!" Giovanni sat still, resting his chin upon his hand and staring at the fire. His hopes had risen for a moment, and had fallen again, if possible more completely than before. Every line of his strongly-marked face betrayed the despair that overwhelmed him. And yet he was no longer weak, as he had been the first time. He was wondering at the hidden depths of Corona's nature which had so suddenly become visible. He comprehended the magnitude of a passion which in being extinguished could leave such emotions behind, and he saw with awful distinctness the beauty of what he had lost and the depth of the abyss by which he was separated from it. Only a woman who had loved to distraction could make such desperate efforts to revive an affection that was dead; only a woman capable of the most lofty devotion could sink her pride and her own agony, in the attempt to make the man she had loved forgive himself. He could have borne her reproaches more easily than the sight of her anguish, but she would not reproach him. He could have borne her hatred almost better than such unselfish forgiveness, and yet she had forgiven him. For the first time in his life he wished that he might die--he, who loved life so dearly. Perhaps it would be easier for her to see him dead at her feet than to feel that he must always be near her and that she could not love him. "It is of no use, dear," he said, at last. "I was right. The old Giovanni is dead. We must begin our life again. Will you let me try? Will you let me do my best to live for you and to raise up a new love in your heart?" "Can you? Can we go back to the old times when we first met? Can you? Can I?" "If you will--" "If I will? Is there anything I would not do to gain that?" "Our lives may become so different from what they now are, as to make it more easy," said Giovanni. "Do you realise how everything will be changed when we have given up this house? Perhaps it is better that it should be so, after all." "Yes--far better. Oh, I am so sorry for you!" "Who pities, may yet love," he said in low tones. Corona did not make any answer, but for many minutes lay watching the dancing flames. Giovanni knew that it would be wiser to say nothing more which could recall the past, and when he spoke again it was to ask her opinion once more concerning the best course to pursue in regard to the property. "I still think," answered Corona, "that you had better do nothing for the present. You will soon know what San Giacinto means to do. You may be sure that if he has any rights he will not forget to press them. If it comes to the worst and you are quite sure that he is the man you--that is to say, your father--can give up everything without a suit. It is useless to undertake the consequences of a misfortune which may never occur. It would be reckless to resign your inheritance without a struggle, when San Giacinto, if he is an honest man, would insist upon the case being tried in law." "That is true. I will take your advice. I am so much disturbed about other things that I am inclined to go to all extremes at once. Will you dine with us this evening?" "I think not. Give me one more day. I shall be stronger to-morrow." "I have tired you," exclaimed Giovanni in a tone of self-reproach. Corona did not answer the remark, but held out her hand with a gentle smile. "Good-night, dear," she said. An almost imperceptible expression of pain passed quickly over Giovanni's face as he touched her fingers with his lips. Then he left the room without speaking again. In some respects he was glad that he had induced Corona to express herself. He had no illusions left, for he knew the worst and understood that if his wife was ever to love him again there must be a new wooing. It is not necessary to dwell upon what he felt, for in the course of the conversation he had not been able to conceal his feelings. Disappointment had come upon him very suddenly, and might have been followed by terrible consequences, had he not foreseen, as in a dream of the future, a possibility of winning back Corona's love. The position in which they stood with regard to each other was only possible because they were exceptional people and had both loved so well that they were willing to do anything rather than forego the hope of loving again. Another man would have found it hard to own himself wholly in the wrong; a woman less generous would have either pretended successfully that she still loved, or would not have acknowledged that she suffered so keenly in finding her affection dead. Perhaps, too, if there had been less frankness there might have been less difficulty in reviving the old passion, for love has strange ways of hiding himself, and sometimes shows himself in ways even more unexpected. A profound student of human nature would have seen that a mere return to the habit of pleasant intercourse could not suffice to forge afresh such a bond as had been broken, where two such persons were concerned. Something more was necessary. It was indispensable that some new force should come into play, to soften Corona's strong nature and to show Giovanni in his true light. Unfortunately for them such a happy conclusion was scarcely to be expected. Even if the question of the Saracinesca property were decided against them, an issue which, at such a time, was far from certain, they would still be rich. Poverty might have drawn them together again, but they could not be financially ruined. Corona would have all her own fortune, while Giovanni was more than well provided for by what his mother had left him. The blow would tell far more heavily upon Giovanni's pride than upon his worldly wealth, severe as the loss must be in respect of the latter. It is impossible to say whether Corona might not have suffered as much as Giovanni himself, had the prospect of such a catastrophe presented itself a few weeks earlier. At present it affected her very little. The very name of Saracinesca was disagreeable to her hearing, and the house she lived in had lost all its old charm for her. She would willingly have left Rome to travel for a year or two rather than continue to inhabit a place so full of painful recollections; she would gladly have seen another name upon the cards she left at her friends' houses--even the once detested name of Astrardente. When she had married Giovanni she had not been conscious that she became richer than before. When one had everything, what difference could a few millions more bring into life? It was almost a pity that they could not become poor and be obliged to bear together the struggles and privations of poverty. CHAPTER XVII. San Giacinto and Flavia were married on Saturday the thirtieth of November, thereby avoiding the necessity of paying a fee for being united during Advent, much to the satisfaction of Prince Montevarchi. The wedding was a brilliant affair, and if the old prince's hospitality left something to be desired, the display of liveries, coaches and family silver was altogether worthy of so auspicious an occasion. Everybody was asked, and almost everybody went, from the Saracinesca to Anastase Gouache, from Valdarno to Arnoldo Meschini. Even Spicca was there, as melancholy as usual, but evidently interested in the proceedings. He chanced to find himself next to Gouache in the crowd. "I did not expect to see you here," he remarked. "I have been preserved from a variety of dangers in order to assist at the ceremony," answered the Zouave, with a laugh. "At one time I thought it more likely that I should be the person of importance at a funeral." "So did I. However, it could not be helped." Spicca did not smile. "You seem to regret it," observed Gouache, who knew his companion's eccentric nature. "Only on general principles. For the rest, I am delighted to see you. Come and breakfast with me when this affair is over. We will drink to the happiness of two people who will certainly be very unhappy before long." "Ourselves?" "No. The bride and bridegroom. 'Ye, who enter, leave all hope behind!' How can people be so foolish as to enter into an engagement from which there is no issue? The fools are not all dead yet." "I am one of them," replied Gouache. "You will probably have your wish. Providence has evidently preserved you from sudden death in order to destroy you by lingering torture. Is the wedding day fixed?" "I wish it were." "And the bride?" "How can I tell?" "Do you mean to say that, as an opinion, you would rather be married than not? The only excuse for the folly of marrying is the still greater folly of loving a woman enough to marry her. Of course, a man who is capable of that, is capable of anything. Here comes the bride with her father. Think of being tied to her until a merciful death part you. Think of being son-in-law to that old man, until heaven shall be pleased to remove him. Think of calling that stout English lady, mother-in-law, until she is at last overtaken by apoplexy. Think of calling all those relations brothers and sisters, Ascanio, Onorato, Andrea, Isabella, Bianca, Faustina! It is a day's work to learn their names and titles. She wears a veil--to hide her satisfaction--a wreath of orange flowers, artificial, too, made of paper and paste and wire, symbols of innocence, of course, pliable and easily patched together. She looks down, lest the priest should see that her eyes are laughing. Her father is whispering words of comfort and encouragement into her ear. 'Mind your expression,' he is saying, no doubt--'you must not look as though you were being sacrificed, nor as though you were too glad to be married, for everybody is watching you. Do not say, I will, too loudly nor inaudibly either, and remember that you are my daughter.' Very good advice. Now she kneels down and he crosses to the other side. She bends her head very low. She is looking under her elbow to see the folds of her train. You see--she moves her heel to make the gown fall better--I told you so. A pretty figure, all in white, before the great altar with the lights, and the priest in his robes, and the organ playing, and that Hercules in a black coat for a husband. Now she looks up. The rings are there on the gold salver upon the altar. She has not seen hers, and is wondering whether it is of plain gold, or a band of diamonds, like the Princess Valdarno's. Now then--ego conjungo vos--the devil, my friend, it is an awful sight!" "Cynic!" muttered Gouache, with a suppressed laugh. "There--it is done now, and she is already thinking what it will be like to dine alone with him this evening, and several thousand evenings hereafter. Cynic, you say? There are no more cynics. They are all married, and must turn stoics if they can. Let us be off. No--there is mass. Well then, go down on your knees and pray for their souls, for they are in a bad case. Marriage is Satan's hot-house for poisonous weeds. If anything can make a devil of an innocent girl it is marriage. If anything can turn an honest man into a fiend it is matrimony. Pray for them, poor creatures, if there is any available praying power left in you, after attending to the wants of your own soul, which, considering your matrimonial intentions, I should think very improbable." Gouache looked at his companion curiously, for Spicca's virulence astonished him. He was not at all intimate with the man and had never heard him express his views so clearly upon any subject. Unlike most people, he was not in the least afraid of the melancholy Italian. "From the way you talk," he remarked, "one might almost imagine that you had been married yourself." Spicca looked at him with an odd expression, in which there was surprise as well as annoyance, and instead of making any answer, crossed himself and knelt down upon the marble pavement. Gouache followed his example instinctively. Half an hour later the crowd moved slowly out of the church, and those who had carriages waited in the huge vestibule while the long line of equipages moved up to the gates. Gouache escaped from Spicca in the hope of getting a sight of Faustina before she drove away with her mother in one of the numerous Montevarchi coaches. Sant' Ilario and Corona were standing by one of the pillars, conversing in low tones. "Montevarchi looked as though he knew it," said Giovanni. "What?" asked Corona, quietly. "That his daughter is the future Princess Saracinesca." "It remains to be seen whether he is right." Gouache had been pushed by the crowd into one of the angles of the pilaster while the two speakers stood before one of the four pillars of which it was built up. The words astonished him so much that he forced his way out until he could see the Princess of Sant' Ilario's beautiful profile dark against the bright light of the street. She was still speaking, but he could no longer hear her voice, some acoustic peculiarity of the columns had in all probability been the means of conveying to him the fragment of conversation he had overheard. Avoiding recognition, he slipped away through an opening in the throng and just succeeded in reaching the gate as the first of the Montevarchi carriages drew up. The numerous members of the family were gathered on the edge of the crowd, and Gouache managed to speak a few words with Faustina. The girl's delicate face lighted up when she was conscious of his presence, and she turned her eyes lovingly to his. They met often now in public, though San Giacinto did his best to keep them apart. "Here is a secret," said Gouache in a quick whisper. "I have just heard Sant' Ilario telling his wife that your sister is the future Princess Saracinesca. What does it mean?" Faustina looked at him in the utmost astonishment. It was clear that she knew nothing of the matter at present. "You must have heard wrong," she answered. "Will you come to early mass to-morrow?" he asked hurriedly, for he had no time to lose. "I will try--if it is possible. It will be easier now that San Giacinto is to be away. He knows everything, I am sure." "San Giacinto?" It was Gouache's turn to be astonished. But explanations were impossible in such a crowd, and Faustina was already moving away. "Say nothing about what I have told you," Anastase whispered as she left him. She bowed her lovely head in silence and passed on. And so the Marchese di San Giacinto took Flavia Montevarchi for his wife, and all Rome looked on and smiled, and told imaginary stories of his former life, acknowledging, nevertheless, that Flavia had done very well--the stock phrase--since there was no doubt whatever but that the gigantic bridegroom was the cousin of the Saracinesca, and rich into the bargain. Amidst all the gossip and small talk no one, however, was found who possessed enough imagination to foretell what in reality was very imminent, namely, that the Marchese might turn out to be the prince. The last person to suspect such a revelation was San Giacinto himself. He had indeed at one time entertained some hopes of pushing forward a claim which was certainly founded upon justice if not upon good law, but since Montevarchi had kept the documents relating to the case for many days, and had then returned them without mentioning the subject to his future son-in-law, the latter had thought it wiser to let the matter rest for the present, shrewdly suspecting that such a man as Montevarchi would not readily let such an opportunity of enriching his own daughter slip through his fingers. It has been already seen that Montevarchi purposely prevented San Giacinto from seeing the papers in order that he might be in reality quite innocent of any complicity in the matter when the proceedings were instituted, a point very important for the success of the suit. Half an hour afterwards San Giacinto was closeted with the old prince in the latter's study, which looked more than usually dismal by contrast with the brilliant assemblage in the drawing-rooms. "Now that we are alone, my dear son," began Montevarchi, who for a wonder had not changed his coat since the ceremony, "now that you are really my son, I have an important communication to make." San Giacinto sat down and any one might have seen from the expression of his square jaw and determined mouth that he was prepared for battle. He did not trust his father-in-law in the least, and would not have been surprised if he had made an attempt to get back the money he had paid into the lawyer's hands as Flavia's dowry. But San Giacinto had taken all precautions and knew very well that he could not be cheated. Montevarchi continued in a bland voice. "I have kept the matter as a surprise for you," he said. "You have of course been very busy during these last weeks in making your preparations for the solemn ceremony at which we have just assisted. It was therefore impossible for you to attend to the multifarious details which it has been my care, my privilege, to sift and examine. For it is a privilege we should value highly to labour for those we love, for those with whom we share our dearest affections. I am now about to communicate to you an affair of the highest importance, which, when brought to a successful termination will exercise a tremendous influence over all your life. Let me say beforehand, however, and lest you should suspect me of any unworthy motives, that I expect no thanks, nor any share in the immense triumph in store for you. Do not be surprised if I use somewhat strong language on such an occasion. I have examined everything, preserved everything, taken the best legal advice, and consulted those without whose spiritual counsel I enter upon no weighty undertaking. My dear son, you, and none other, are the real and rightful Prince Saracinesca." The climax to the long preamble was so unexpected that San Giacinto uttered a loud exclamation of surprise. "Do not be amazed at what I have told you," said Montevarchi. "The documents upon which the claims of the Saracinesca rest were drawn up by a wise man. Although he had not at that time any intention of marrying, he was aware that with heaven all things are possible, and introduced a clause to the effect that if he should marry and leave heirs direct of his body, the whole deed was to be null, void and ineffectual. I do not know enough of your family history to understand why neither he nor his son nor his grandson ever made any attempt to recover their birthright, but I know enough of law to affirm that the clause is still good. It is identical"--the prince smiled pleasantly--"it is identical in the original and in the copy preserved in the Chancery archives. In my opinion you have only to present the two documents before a competent court, in order to obtain a unanimous verdict in your favour." San Giacinto looked hard from under his overhanging brows at the old man's keen face. Then, suddenly, he stuck his heavy fist into the palm of his left hand, and rose from his chair, a gleam of savage triumph in his eyes. For some time he paced the room in silence. "I wish Giovanni no ill, nor his father either," he said at last. "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Montevarchi, crossing himself. "And besides, as the property is all yours, that would be of no use." San Giacinto stared a minute, and then his deep voice rang out in a hearty laugh. He had an intimate conviction that his devout father-in-law was quite capable, not only of wishing evil to his neighbour, but of putting his wishes into execution if his interests could be advanced thereby. "No," he said, when his merriment had subsided, "I wish them no evil. But, after all, they must know what is contained in the papers they have in their possession, and they must know that I am the prince, and that they have kept me out of my inheritance. I will go and tell them so. Since there is no doubt about the case, I do not see why I should wait." "Nor I," answered Montevarchi, with the air of a man who has done his part and expects others to finish what he has begun. "It is fortunate that we have decided to go to Frascati instead of making a journey to the end of Europe. Not but that, as I have never seen Paris, I would have liked the trip well enough." "You will find Paris pleasanter when you are Prince Saracinesca." "That is true," replied San Giacinto, thoughtfully. There was the deep light of anticipated triumph in his eyes. "Will you see that the proper preliminary steps are taken?" he asked presently. "I will engage lawyers for you. But you will have to do the rest yourself. The lawyers might go out and talk it over with you in Frascati. After all, you are a young man of good sense, and will not have any sentiment about being alone with your wife." "For the matter of that, I anticipate much pleasure in the society of my wife, but when there is so much meat boiling, somebody must watch the pot, as we used to say in Naples. I am a practical man, you know." "Ah, that is a great quality, one of the very greatest! If I had spent my life in a perpetual honeymoon with the princess, Casa Montevarchi would not be what it is, my son. I have always given my best attention to the affairs of my household, and I expect that you will continue the tradition." "Never fear! If, by continuing the tradition, you mean that I should get what is mine, I will not disappoint you. Can you tell me when the case can be tried, and in what court it will be heard?" "With my influence," replied Montevarchi, "the case may be put through at once. A month will suffice for the preliminaries, a day for the hearing. Everything is settled at once by the exhibition of the documents which provide for you in the most explicit terms. You can come in from the country and see them for yourself if you please. But I consider that quite unnecessary. The lawyers will settle everything." "Pardon my curiosity, but I would like to know why you thought it best not to tell me anything of the matter until now." "My dear son, you were so busy with the preparations for your marriage, and the questions involved seemed at first so doubtful that I thought it best not to trouble you with them. Then, when I knew the whole truth the time was so near that I preferred to give you the information as a sort of wedding present." "A magnificent one indeed, for which I cannot find words to express my gratitude." "No, no! Do not talk of gratitude. I feel that I am fulfilling a sacred duty in restoring to the fatherless his birthright. It is an act of divine justice for the execution of which I have been chosen as the humble instrument. Do your duty by my dear daughter, and render your gratitude to heaven--quoe sunt Coesaris, Coesari, et quoe sunt Dei, Deo! Would that we could all live by that rule!" "To Saracinesca what is his, and to San Giacinto that which belongs to him--that is what you mean?" "Yes, my good son. I am glad to see that you understand Latin. It does you credit that amidst the misfortunes of your early life you should have so improved yourself as to possess the education necessary to the high rank you are about to assume. I tell you frankly that, in spite of your personal qualities, in spite of the great name and possessions which will soon be yours, if I had not distinguished in you that refinement and instruction without which no gentleman is worthy of the name, I would not have bestowed upon you the hand of that sweet creature whom I have cherished as a flower in the house of my old age." San Giacinto had made a study of old Montevarchi during a month past, and was not in the least deceived by his rounded periods and well expressed moral sentiments. But he smiled and bowed, enjoying the idea of attributing such flattery to himself in proportion as he felt that he was unworthy of it. He had indeed done his best to acquire a certain amount of instruction, as his father-in-law called it, and his tastes were certainly not so coarse as might have been expected, but he was too strong a man to be easily deceived concerning his own powers, and he knew well enough that he owed his success to his fortune. He saw, too, that Montevarchi, in giving him Flavia, had foreseen the possibility of his claiming the rights of his cousins, and if he had not been thoroughly satisfied with his choice he would have now felt that he had been deceived. He had no regrets, however, for he felt that even had he already enjoyed the titles and wealth he was so soon to claim, he would nevertheless have chosen Flavia for his wife. Of all the young girls he had seen in Rome she was the only one who really attracted him; a fact due, perhaps, to her being more natural than the rest, or at least more like what he thought a woman should naturally be. His rough nature would not have harmonised with Faustina's character; still less could he have understood and appreciated a woman like Corona, who was indeed almost beyond the comprehension of Giovanni, her own husband. San Giacinto was almost a savage, compared with the young men of the class to which he now belonged, and there was something wild and half-tamed in Flavia Montevarchi which, had fascinated him from the first, and held him by that side of his temperament by which alone savages are governed. Had the bringing of the suit been somewhat hastened it is not impossible that San Giacinto and his wife might have driven up to the ancient towers of Saracinesca on that Saturday afternoon, as Giovanni and Corona had done on their wedding day two years and a half earlier. As it was, they were to go out to Frascati to spend a week in Montevarchi's villa, as the prince and princess and all their married children had done before them. "Eh! what a satisfaction!" exclaimed Flavia, with a sigh of relief as the carriage rolled out of the deep archway under the palace. Then she laughed a little and looked up at her husband out of the corners of her bright black eyes, after which she produced a very pretty silver scent-bottle which her mother had put into her hand as a parting gift. She looked at it, turned it round, opened it and at last smelled the contents. "Ugh!" she cried, shutting it up quickly and making a wry face. "It is full of salts--horrible! I thought it was something good to smell! Did she think I was going to faint on the way?" "You do not look like fainting," remarked San Giacinto, who looked gigantic in a wide fur pelisse. He put out his great hand, which closed with a sort of rough tenderness over hers, completely hiding it as well as the smelling-bottle she held. "So it is a satisfaction, is it?" he asked, with a gleam of pleasure in his deep-set eyes. "If you had been educated under the supervision of the eccellentissima casa Montevarchi, you would understand what a blessed institution marriage is! You--what shall I call you--your name is Giovanni, is it not?" "Yes--Giovanni. Do you like the name?" "No--it reminds me of the head of John the Baptist. I will call you--let me see--Nino. Yes--that sounds so small, and you are so immensely big. You are Nino, in future. I am glad you are big. I do not like little men." She nestled close to the giant, with a laugh that pleased him. San Giacinto suddenly found that he was very much more in love than he had supposed. His life had been very full of contrasts, but this was the greatest which had yet presented itself. He remembered a bright summer's morning a few years earlier, when he had walked back from the church in Aquila with Felice Baldi by his side. Poor Felice! She had worn a very pretty black silk frock with a fine gold chain around her neck, and a veil upon her head, for she was not of the class "that wear hats," as they say in Rome. But she had forced her stout hands into gloves, and Giovanni the innkeeper had been somewhat proud of her ladylike appearance. Her face was very red and there were tears of pleasure and timidity in her eyes, which he remembered very well. It was strange that she, too, should have been proud of her husband's size and strength. Perhaps all women were very much alike. How well he remembered the wedding collation, the little yellow cakes with a drop of hard pink sugar in the middle of each, the bottles of sweet cordial of various flavours, cinnamon, clove, aniseseed and the like, the bright red japanned tray, and the cheaply gaudy plates whereon were painted all manner of impossible flowers. Felice was dead, buried in the campo santo of Aquila, with its whitewashed walls of enclosure and its appalling monuments and mortuary emblems. Poor Felice! She had been a good wife, and he had been a good husband to her. She was such a simple creature that he could almost fancy her spirit shedding tears of satisfied pride at seeing her Giovanni married to a princess, rich and about to be metamorphosed into a prince himself. She had known that he was a Marchese of a great family, and had often begged him to let her be called the Signora Marchesa. But he had always told her that for people in their position it was absurd. They were not poor for their station; indeed, they were among the wealthiest of their class in Aquila. He had promised to assert his title when they should be rich enough, but poor Felice had died too soon. Then had come that great day when Giovanni had won in the lottery--Giovanni who had never played before and had all his life called it a waste of money and a public robbery. But, playing once, he had played high, and all his numbers had appeared on the following Saturday. Two hundred thousand francs in a day! Such luck only falls to the lot of men who are born under destiny. Giovanni had long known what he should do if he only possessed the capital. The winnings were paid in cash, and in a fortnight he had taken up a government contract in the province of Aquila. Then came another and another. Everything turned to gold in his hands, and in two years he was a rich man. Alone in the world, with his two little boys, and possessed of considerable wealth, the longing had come over him to take the position to which he had a legitimate right, a position which, he supposed, would not interfere with his increasing his fortune if he wished to do so. He had left the children under the supervision of old Don Paolo, the curate, and had come to Rome, where he had lodged in an obscure hotel until he had fitted himself to appear before his cousins as a gentleman. His grave temper, indomitable energy, and natural astuteness had done the rest, and fortune had crowned all his efforts. The old blood of the Saracinesca had grown somewhat coarse by the admixture of a stream very far from blue; but if it had lost in some respects it had gained in others, and the type was not wholly low. The broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned giant was not altogether unworthy of the ancient name, and he knew it as his wife nestled to his side. He loved the wild element in her, but most of all he loved the thoroughbred stamp of her face, the delicacy of her small hands, the aristocratic ring of her laughter, for these all told him that, after three generations of obscurity he had risen again to the level whence his fathers had fallen. The change in his life became very dear to him, as all these things passed quickly through his mind; and with the consciousness of vivid contrast came the certainty that he loved Flavia far better than he had believed possible. "And what shall I call you?" he asked, rather bluntly. He did not quite know whether it would be wise to use any term of endearment or not. Indeed, this was the weak point in his experience, but he supplemented the deficiency by a rough tenderness which was far from disagreeable to Flavia. "Anything you like, dear," she answered. San Giacinto felt the blood rush to his head with pleasure as he heard the epithet. "Anything?" he asked, with a very unwonted tremour in his voice. "Anything--provided you will love me," she replied. He thought he had never seen such wicked, fascinating eyes. He drew her face to his and looked into them a moment, his own blazing suddenly with a passion wholly new to him. "I will not call you anything--instead of calling you, I will kiss you--so--is it not better than any name?" A deep blush spread over Flavia's face and then subsided suddenly, leaving her very pale. For a long time neither spoke again. "Did your father tell you the news before we left?" asked San Giacinto at last, when they were rolling over the Campagna along the Via Latina. "No--what?" "It is somewhat remarkable news. If you are afraid of fainting," he added, with rough humour, "hold your bottle of salts ready." Flavia looked up uneasily, wondering whether there were anything wrong about San Giacinto. She knew very well that her father had been glad to get rid of her. "I am not San Giacinto after all," he said quietly. Flavia started and drew back. "Who are you then?" she asked quickly. "I am Prince Saracinesca, and you are the princess." He spoke very calmly, and watched her face to see the effect of the news. "I wish you were!" she exclaimed nervously. She wondered whether he was going mad. "There seems to be no doubt about it," he answered, "your father informed me of the fact as a wedding present. He has examined all the papers and will send the lawyers out to Frascati to prepare the case with me." He told her the whole story in detail. As he proceeded, a singular expression came into Flavia's face, and when he had finished she broke out into voluble expressions of joy. "I always knew that I was born to be a princess--I mean a real one! How could I be anything else? Oh! I am so happy, and you are such a darling to be a prince! And to think that if papa had not discovered the papers, those horrid Sant' Ilario people would have had everything. Princess Saracinesca! Eh, but how it sounds! Almost as good as Orsini, and much nicer with you, you great big, splendid lion! Why did they not call you Leone? It is too good to be true! And I always hated Corona, ever since I was a little girl and she was the Astrardente, because she used to say I did not behave well and that Faustina was much prettier--I heard her say so when I was behind the curtains. Why did you not find it out ever so long ago? Think what a wedding we should have had, just like Sant' Ilario's! But it was very fine after all, and of course there is nothing to complain of. Evviva! Evviva! Do give me one of those cigarettes--I never smoked in my life, and I am so happy that I know it will not hurt me!" San Giacinto had his case in his hand, and laughed as he presented it to her. Quiet as he was in his manner he was far the happier of the two, as he was far more capable of profound feeling than the wild girl who was now his wife. He was glad, too, to see that she was so thoroughly delighted, for he knew well enough that even after he had gained the suit he would need the support of an ambitious woman to strengthen his position. He did not believe that the Saracinesca would submit tamely to such a tremendous shock of fortune, and he foresaw that their resentment would probably be shared by a great number of their friends. Flavia looked prettier than ever as she put the bit of rolled paper between her red lips and puffed away with an energy altogether unnecessary. He would not have believed that, being already so brilliant and good to see, a piece of unexpected good news could have lent her expression so much more brightness. She was positively radiant, as she looked from his eyes at her little cigarette, and then, looking back to him again, laughed and snapped her small gloved fingers. "Do you know," she said presently, with a glance that completed the conquest of San Giacinto's heart, "I thought I should be dreadfully shy with you--at first--and I am not in the least! I confess, at the very moment when you were putting the ring on my finger I was wondering what we should talk about during the drive." "You did not think we should have such an agreeable subject of conversation, did you?" "No--and it is such a pretty ring! I always wanted a band of diamonds--plain gold is so common. Did you think of it yourself or did some one else suggest the idea?" "Castellani said it was old-fashioned," answered San Giacinto, "but I preferred it." "Would you have liked one, too?" "No. It would be ridiculous for a man." "You have very good taste," remarked Flavia, eyeing him critically. "Where did you get it? You used to keep a hotel in Aquila, did you not?" San Giacinto had long been prepared for the question and did not wince nor show the slightest embarrassment. He smiled calmly as he answered her. "You would hardly have called it a hotel, it was a country inn. I daresay I shall manage Saracinesca all the better for having kept a hostelry." "Of course. Oh, I have such a delightful idea! Let us go to Aquila and keep the hotel together. It would be such fun! You could say you had married a little shop-keeper's daughter in Rome, you know. Just for a month, Nino--do let us do it! It would be such a change after society, and then we would go back for the Carnival. Oh, do!" "But you forget the lawsuit--" "That is true. Besides, it will be just as much of a change to be Princess Saracinesca. But we can do it another time. I would like so much to go about in an apron with a red cotton handkerchief on my head and see all the queer people! When are the lawyers coming?" "During the week, I suppose." "There will be a fight," said Flavia, her face growing more grave. "What will Sant' Ilario and his father say and do? I cannot believe that it will all go so smoothly as you think. They do not look like people who would give up easily what they have had so long. I suppose they will be quite ruined." "I do not know. Corona is rich in her own right, and Sant' Ilario has his mother's fortune. Of course, they will be poor compared with their present wealth. I am sorry for them--" "Sorry?" Flavia looked at her husband in some astonishment. "It is their own fault. Why should you be sorry?" "It is not exactly their fault. I could hardly have expected them to come to me and inform me that a mistake had been made in the last century, and that all they possessed was mine." "All they possessed!" echoed Flavia, thoughtfully. "What a wonderful idea it is!" "Very wonderful," assented San Giacinto, who was thinking once more of his former poverty. The carriage rolled on and both were silent for some time, absorbed in dreaming of the greatness which was before them in the near future, San Giacinto enumerating in his mind the titles and estates which were soon to be his, while Flavia imagined herself in Corona's place in Rome, grown suddenly to be a central figure in society, leading and organising the brilliant amusements of her world, and above all, rejoicing in that lavish use of abundant money which had always seemed to her the most desirable of all enjoyments. CHAPTER XVIII. Faustina Montevarchi was delighted when her sister was at last married and out of the house. The two had always been very good friends, but Faustina felt that she had an enemy in San Giacinto and was relieved when he was gone. She had no especial reason for her suspicions, since he treated her with the same quiet and amicable politeness which he showed to the rest of the household; but her perceptions were extraordinarily true and keen, and she had noticed that he watched her whenever Gouache was in the room, in a way that made her very uncomfortable. Moreover, he had succeeded of late in making Flavia accompany her to early mass on Sunday mornings on pretence of his wishing to see Flavia without the inevitable supervision of the old princess. The plan was ingenious; for Faustina, instead of meeting Gouache, was thus obliged to play chaperon while her sister and San Giacinto talked to their hearts' content. He was a discreet man, however, and Flavia was ignorant of the fact that Faustina and Anastase had sometimes met in the same way, and would have met frequently had they not been prevented. The young girl was clever enough to see why San Giacinto acted as he did; she understood that he was an ambitious man, and that, as he was about to ally himself with her family, he would naturally disapprove of her attachment to Gouache. Now that he was gone, she wondered whether he had devised any steps which would take effect after his departure. Faustina was quite as much in love as Gouache himself, and spent much time in calculating the chances of a favourable issue from the situation in which she found herself. Life without Anastase was impossible, but the probabilities of her becoming his wife in the ordinary course of events were very few, as far as she was able to judge, and she had moments of extreme depression, during which she despaired of everything. The love of a very young girl may in itself be both strong and enduring, but it generally has the effect of making her prone to extremes of hope and fear, uncertain of herself, vacillating in her ideas, and unsteady in the pursuit of the smaller ends of life. Throw two equal weights into the scales of a perfectly adjusted balance, the arm will swing and move erratically many times before it returns to its normal position, although there is a potential equilibrium in the machine which will shortly assert itself in absolute tranquillity. Love in a very young person is rarely interesting, unless it is attended by heroic or tragic circumstances. Human life is very like the game of chess, of which the openings are so limited in number that a practised player knows them all by heart, whereas the subsequent moves are susceptible of infinite variation. Almost all young people pass through the early stages of existence by some known gambit, which, has always a definite influence upon their later lives, but never determines the latter entirely. The game is played between humanity on the one side and the unforeseen on the other; but that which can really not be foretold in some measure rarely presents itself until the first effects of love have been felt, a period which, to continue the simile, may be compared in chess to the operation of castling. Then comes the first crisis, and the merest tyro knows how much may depend upon whether he castles on the king's side or on the queen's. Now the nature of Faustina's first love was such as to make it probable that it would end in some uncommon way. There was something fatal in the suddenness with which her affection had grown and had upset the balance of her judgment. It is safe to say that not one young girl in a million would have behaved as she had done on the night of the insurrection in Rome; not one in a hundred thousand would, in her position, have fallen in love with Gouache. The position of the professional artist and of the professional man of letters in modern European society is ill defined. As a man who has been brought up in a palace would undoubtedly betray his breeding sooner or later if transported to live amongst a gang of thieves, so a man who has grown to years of discretion in the atmosphere of studios or in the queer company from which most literary men have sprung, will inevitably, at one time or another, offend the susceptibilities of that portion of humanity which calls itself society. It is impossible that it should be otherwise. Among a set of people whose profession it is to do always, and in all things, precisely what their neighbours do, the man who makes his living by doing what other people cannot do, must always be a marked figure. Look at modern society. It cannot toil nor spin; it can hardly put together ten words in a grammatical sequence. But it can clothe itself. The man of letters can both toil and write good English, but his taste in tailoring frequently leaves much to be desired. If he would put himself in the hands of Poole, and hold his tongue, he might almost pass for a member of society. But he must needs talk, and his speech bewrayeth him for a Galilean. There are wits in society, both many and keen, who can say something original, cutting and neatly turned, upon almost any subject, with an easy superiority which makes the hair of the learned man stand erect upon his head. The chief characteristic of him who lives by his brains is, that he is not only able to talk consecutively upon some subject, but that he actually does so, which, in society, is accounted a monstrous crime against manners. Let him write what he wants to say, and print it; society will either not understand him at all, or will read his works with a dictionary in the secrecy of its own chamber. But if he will hold his tongue in public, society will give him a cup of tea and treat him almost like a human being for the sake of being said to patronise letters. Any one who likes society's tea may drink his fill of it in consideration of wearing a good coat and keeping his wits to himself, but he will not succeed in marrying any of society's sisters, cousins or aunts without a severe struggle. Anastase Gouache did not quite understand this. He sometimes found himself amidst a group of people who were freely discussing some person unknown to him. On such occasions he held his peace, innocently supposing that his ignorance was without any importance whatsoever, among a set of men and women with whom not to know every detail concerning every one else is to be little better than an outcast. "Now do tell me all about the Snooks and Montmorency divorce," says Lady Smyth-Tompkins with a sweetly engaging smile, as she holds out her hand. "I did not know there was such a case--I don't know the people," you answer. "Oh! I thought, of course, you knew all about it," Lady Smyth-Tompkins replies, and her features turn to stone as she realises that you do not know everybody, and leaves you to your own reflections. O Thackeray, snobissme maxime! How well you knew them! There are no snobs among the Latin races, but there is a worse animal, the sycophant, descended directly from the dinner-tables of ancient Rome. In old-fashioned houses there are often several of them, headed invariably by the "giornale ambulante," the walking newspaper, whose business it is to pick up items of news during the day in order to detail them to the family in the evening. There is a certain old princess who sits every evening with her needlework at the head of a long table in the dismal drawing-room of a gigantic palace. On each side of the board are seated the old parasites, the family doctor, the family chaplain, the family lawyer, the family librarian, the peripatetic news-sheet and the rest. "I have been out to-day," says her excellency. "Oh! Ah! Dear me! In this weather! Hear what the princess says! The princess has been out!" The chorus comes up the table, all the answers reaching her ears at once. "And I saw, as I drove by, the new monument! What a ridiculous thing it is." "Ho! ho! ho! Hah! hah! hah! Dear me! What a monument! What fine taste the princess has! Hear what the princess thinks of the monument!" "If you will believe it, the bronze horse has a crooked leg." "He! he! he! Hi! hi! hi! Dear me! A crooked leg! How the princess understands horses! The princess saw that he had a crooked leg!" And so on, for a couple of hours, in the cold, dimly-lighted room until her excellency has had enough of it and rises to go to bed, when the parasites all scuttle away and quarrel with each other in the street as they walk home. Night after night, to decades of years, the old lady recounts the little journal of her day to the admiring listeners, whose chorus of approval is performed daily with the same unvarying regularity. The times are changing now; the prince is not so easily amused, and the sycophant has accordingly acquired the art of amusing, but there still survive some wonderful monuments of the old school. Anastase Gouache was a man of great talent and of rising fame, but like other men of his stamp he preferred to believe that he was received on a friendly footing for his own sake rather than on account of his reputation. In his own eyes, he was, as a man, as good as those with whom he associated, and had as much right to make love to Faustina Montevarchi as the young Frangipani, for whom her father destined her. Faustina, on her part, was too young to appreciate the real strength of the prejudices by which she was surrounded. She could not understand that, although the man she loved was a gentleman, young, good-looking, successful, and not without prospects of acquiring a fortune, he was yet wholly ineligible as a husband. Had she seen this ever so clearly it might have made but little difference in her feelings; but she did not see it, and the disparaging remarks about Anastase, which she occasionally heard in her own family, seemed to her utterly unjust as well as quite unfounded. The result was that the two young people were preparing for themselves one of those terrible disappointments of which the consequences are sometimes felt during a score of years. Both, however, were too much in love to bear suspense very long without doing something to precipitate the course of events, and whenever they had the chance they talked the matter over and built wonderful castles in the air. About a fortnight after the marriage of San Giacinto they were seated together in a room full of people, late in the afternoon. They had been talking for some time upon indifferent subjects. When two persons meet who are very much in love with each other, and waste their time in discussing topics of little importance, it may be safely predicted that something unusual is about to occur. "I cannot endure this suspense any longer," said Gouache at last. "Nor I," answered Faustina. "It is of no use to wait any more. Either your father will consent or he will not. I will ask him and know the worst." "And if it is the worst--what then?" The young girl turned her eyes towards Anastase with a frightened look. "Then we must manage without his consent." "How is that possible?" "It must be possible," replied Gouache. "If you love me it shall be possible. It is only a question of a little courage and good-will. But, after all, your father may consent. Why should he not?" "Because--" she hesitated a little. "Because I am not a Roman prince, you mean." Anastase glanced quickly at her. "No. He wants me to marry Frangipani." "Why did you never tell me that?" "I did not know it when we last met. My mother told me of it last night." "Is the match settled?" asked Gouache. He was very pale. "I think it has been spoken of," answered Faustina in a low voice. She shivered a little and pressed her hands together. There was a short silence, during which Anastase did not take his eyes from her, while she looked down, avoiding his look. "Then there is no time to be lost," said Gouache at last. "I will go to your father to-morrow morning." "Oh--don't, don't!" cried Faustina, suddenly, with an expression of intense anxiety. "Why not?" The artist seemed very much surprised. "You do not know him! You do not know what he will say to you! You will be angry and lose your temper--he will be cruel and will insult you, and you will resent it--then I shall never see you again. You do not know--" "This is something new," said Gouache. "How can you be sure that he will receive me so badly? Have your people talked about me? After all, I am an honest man, and though I live by my profession I am not poor. It is true, I am not such a match for you as Frangipani. Tell me, do they abuse me at your house?" "No--what can they say, except that you are an artist? That is not abuse, nor calumny." "It depends upon how it is said. I suppose it is San Giacinto who says it." Gouache's face darkened. "San Giacinto has guessed the truth," answered Faustina, shaking her head. "He knows that we love each other, and just now he is very powerful with my father. It will be worse if he wins the suit and is Prince Saracinesca." "Then that is another reason for acting at once. Faustina--you followed me once--will you not go with me, away, out of this cursed city? I will ask for you first. I will behave honourably. But if he will not consent, what is there left for us to do? Can we live apart? Can you marry Frangipani? Have not many people done before what we think of doing? Is it wrong? Heaven knows, I make no pretence to sanctity. But I would not have you do anything--what shall I say? Anything against your conscience." There was a shade of bitterness in the laugh that accompanied the last words. "You do not know what things he will say," repeated Faustina, in despairing tones. "This is absurd," said Gouache. "I can bear anything he can say well enough. He is an old man and I am a young one, and have no intention of taking offence. He may say what he pleases, call me a villain, a brigand--that is your favourite Italian expression--a thief, a liar, anything he pleases. I will not be angry. There shall be no violence. But I cannot endure this state of things any longer. I must try my luck." "Wait a little longer," answered Faustina, in an imploring tone. "Wait until the suit is decided." "In order to let San Giacinto get even more influence than he has now? It would be a mistake--you almost said so yourself a moment ago. Besides, the suit may for years." "It will not last a fortnight." "Poor Sant' Ilario!" exclaimed Gouache. "Does everybody know about it?" "I suppose so. But nobody speaks of it. We all feel dreadfully about it, except my father and San Giacinto and Flavia." "If he is in a good humour this is the very time to go to him." "Please, please do not insist!" Faustina was evidently very much in earnest. With the instinct of a very young woman, she clung to the half happiness of the present which was so much greater than anything she had known before in her life. But Gouache would not be satisfied. "I must know the worst," he said again, as they parted. "But this is so much, better than the worst," answered Faustina, sadly. "Who risks nothing, wins nothing," retorted the young man with a bright smile. In spite of his hopefulness, however, he had received a severe shock on hearing the news of the intended match with young Frangipani. He had certainly never expected to find himself the rival of such a suitor, and his sense of possibility, if man may be said to possess such a faculty, was staggered by the idea. He suddenly awakened to a true understanding of his position in Roman society, and when he contemplated his discovery in all its bearings, his nerve almost forsook him. When he remembered his childhood, his youth, and the circumstances in which he had lived up to a recent time, he found it hard to realise that he was trying to marry such a girl, in spite of her family and in opposition to such a man as was now brought forward as a match for her. It was not in his nature, however, to be discouraged in the face of difficulties. He was like a brave man who has received a stunning blow, but who continues to fight until he has gradually regained his position. Gouache could no more have relinquished Faustina than he could have abandoned a half-finished picture in which he believed, any more than he had given up the attempt to break away the stones at the Vigna Santucci after he had received the bullet in his shoulder. He had acquired his position in life by indomitable perseverance and hopefulness, and those qualities would not now fail him, in one of the most critical situations through which he had ever passed. In spite of Faustina's warning and, to some extent, in spite of his own better judgment, he determined to face the old prince at once and to ask him boldly for his daughter. He had spoken confidently to Faustina of being married against the will of her father, but when he thought over this alternative he recollected a fact he had almost completely forgotten in considering his matrimonial projects. He was a soldier and had enlisted in the Zouaves for a term of years. It was true that by using the influence he possessed he might hope to be released from his engagement, but such a course was most repugnant to him. Before Mentana it would have been wholly impossible, for it would have seemed cowardly. Now that he had distinguished himself and had been wounded in the cause, the thing might be done without dishonour, but it would involve a species of self-abasement to which he was not prepared to submit. On the other hand, to wait until his term of service should have expired was to risk losing Faustina altogether. He knew that she loved him, but he was experienced enough to know that a young girl is not always able to bear the pressure exercised upon her when marriage is concerned. In Rome, and especially at that time, it was in the power of parents to use the most despotic means for subduing the will of their children. There was even a law by which a disobedient son or daughter could be imprisoned for a considerable length of time, provided that the father could prove that his child had rebelled against his just will. Though Gouache was not aware of this, the fact that a similar institution existed in his own country made him suspect that it was to be found in Rome also. Supposing that Montevarchi refused to accept him for a son-in-law, and that Faustina, on the other hand, refused to marry young Frangipani, it was only too probable that she might be locked up--in a luxuriously furnished cell of course--to reflect upon the error of her ways. It was by no means certain that in the face of such humiliation and suffering Faustina would continue her resistance; indeed, she could hardly be blamed if she yielded in the end. Gouache believed in the sincerity of her love because the case was his own; had he heard of it in the life of another man he would have laughed at the idea that a girl of eighteen could be capable of a serious passion. It is not necessary, however, to enter into an analysis of the motives and feelings of either Faustina or Anastase. Their connection with the history of the Saracinesca arose from what they did, and not from the thoughts which prompted their actions. It is sufficient to say that Gouache conceived the mad idea of asking Montevarchi's consent to his marriage and to explain the immediate consequences of the step he took. Matters were rapidly approaching a climax. San Giacinto had seen the lawyers at Frascati, and he had brought his wife back to Rome very soon in order to be on the spot while the case was being prepared. The men of the law declared that the matter was a very simple one and that no court could withhold its decision a single day after seeing the documents which constituted the claim. The only point about which any argument could arise related to the identity of San Giacinto himself, and no difficulty was found in establishing substantial proof that he was Giovanni Saracinesca and not an impostor. His father and grandfather had jealously kept all the records of themselves which were necessary, from the marriage certificate of the original Don Leone, who had signed the deed, to the register of San Giacinto's own birth. Copies were obtained, properly drawn up and certified, of the parish books and of the few government documents which were officially preserved in the kingdom of Naples before 1860, and the lawyers declared themselves ready to open the case. Up to this time the strictest secrecy was preserved, at the request of San Giacinto himself. He said that in such an important matter he wished nothing to transpire until he was ready to act; more especially as the Saracinesca themselves could not be ignorant of the true state of the case and had no right to receive notice of the action beforehand. As Corona had foreseen, San Giacinto intended to obtain the decision by means of a perfectly legal trial, and was honestly ready to court enquiry into the rights he was about to assert. When the moment came and all was ready, he went to the Palazzo Saracinesca and asked for the prince, who received him in the same room in which the two had met when the ex-innkeeper had made his appearance in Rome nearly three months earlier. As San Giacinto entered he felt that he had not wasted his time during that short interval. "I have come to talk with you upon a business which must be unpleasant to you," he began. "Unfortunately it cannot be avoided. I beg you to believe that it is my wish to act loyally and fairly." "I hope so," said Saracinesca, bending his bushy gray eyebrows and fixing his keen old eyes upon his visitor. "You need not doubt it," replied San Giacinto rather proudly. "You are doubtless acquainted with the nature of the deed by which our great-grandfathers agreed to transfer the titles and property to the younger of the two. When we first spoke of the matter I was not aware of the existence of a saving clause. I cannot suppose you ignorant of it. That clause provided that if Leone Saracinesca married and had a lawful heir, the deed should be null and void. He did marry, as you know. I am his direct descendant, and have children of my own by my first marriage. I cannot therefore allow the clause in question to remain in abeyance any longer. With all due respect to you, I am obliged to tell you quite frankly that, in law, I am Prince Saracinesca." Having thus stated his position as plainly as possible, San Giacinto folded his great hands upon his knee and leaned against the back of his chair. Saracinesca looked as though he were about to make some hasty answer, but he controlled his intention and rose to his feet. After walking twice up and down the room, he came and stood in front of his cousin. "Let us be plain in what we say," he began. "I give you my word that, until Montevarchi sent back those papers the other day, I did not know what they contained. I had not read them for thirty years, and at that time the clause escaped me. I do not remember to have noticed it. This may have been due to the fact that I had never heard that Leone had any living descendants, and should therefore have attached no importance to the words if I had seen them." "I believe you," said San Giacinto, calmly. The old man's eyes flashed. "I always take it for granted that I am believed," he answered. "Will you give me your word that you are what you assert yourself to be, Giovanni Saracinesca, the great-grandson and lawful heir of Leone?" "Certainly. I pledge my honour that I am; and I, too, expect to be believed by you." There was something in the tone of the answer that struck a sympathetic chord in Saracinesca's nature. San Giacinto had risen to his feet, and there was something in the huge, lean strength of him, in the bold look of his eyes, in the ring of his deep voice, that inspired respect. Rough he was, and not over refined or carefully trained in the ways of the world, cruel perhaps, and overbearing too; but he was every inch a Saracinesca, and the old man felt it. "I believe you," answered the prince. "You may take possession when you please. I am Don Leone, and you are the head of the house." He made a gesture full of dignity, as though resigning then and there his name and the house in which he lived, to him who was lawfully entitled to both. The action was magnificent and worthy of the man. There was a superb disregard of consequences in his readiness to give up everything rather than keep for a moment what was not his, which affected San Giacinto strangely. In justice to the latter it must be remembered that he had not the faintest idea that he was the instrument of a gigantic fraud from which he was to derive the chief advantage. He instinctively bowed in acknowledgment of his cousin's generous conduct. "I shall not take advantage of your magnanimity," he said, "until the law has sanctioned my doing so." "As you please," answered the other. "I have nothing to conceal from the law, but I am prejudiced against lawyers. Do as you think best. A family council can settle the matter as well as the courts." "Your confidence in me is generous and noble. I prefer, however, that the tribunal should examine the matter." "As you please," repeated Saracinesca. There was no reason for prolonging an interview which could not be agreeable to either party. The old man remained standing. "No opposition will be made to the suit," he said. "You will simply produce your papers in proper form, and I will declare myself satisfied." He held out his hand. "I trust you will bear me no ill-will," said San Giacinto rather awkwardly. "For taking what is yours and not mine? Not in the least. Good-evening." San Giacinto left the room. When he was gone, Saracinesca stood still for a moment, and then sank into a chair. His strong nature had sustained him through the meeting and would sustain him to the end, but he was terribly shaken, and felt a strange sensation of numbness in the back of his head, which was quite new to him. For some minutes he sat still as though dazed and only half conscious. Then he rose again, shook himself as though to get rid of a bad dream and rang the bell. He sent for Giovanni, who appeared immediately. "San Giacinto has been here," he said quickly. "He is the man. You had better tell your wife, as she will want to collect her things before we leave the house." Giovanni was staggered by his father's impetuosity. He had realised that the danger existed, but it had always seemed indefinitely far removed. "I suppose there will be some legal proceedings before everything is settled," he said with more calmness than he felt. "What is that to us? We must go, sooner or later." "And if the courts do not decide in his favour, what then?" "There is no doubt about it," answered the prince, pacing the room as his excitement returned. "You and I are nobody. We had better go and live in an inn. That man is honest. I hate him, but he is honest. Why do you stand there staring at me? Were you not the first to say that if we are impostors we should give up everything of our own free-will? And now you seem to think that I will fight the suit! That is your logic! That is all the consistency you have acquired in your travels! Go and tell your wife that you are nobody, that I am nobody! Go and tell her to give you a title, a name for men to call you by! Go into the market and see whether you can find a name for your father! Go and hire a house for us to live in, when that Neapolitan devil has brought Flavia Montevarchi to live in the palace where your mother died, where you were born--poor Giovanni! Not that I pity you any more than I pity myself. Why should I? You are young and have done this house the honour to spend most of your life out of it. But after all--poor Giovanni!" Saracinesca seized his son's hand and looked into his eyes. The young man's face was perfectly calm, almost serene in its expression of indifference to misfortune. His whole soul was preoccupied by greater and nobler emotions than any which could be caused by worldly loss. He had been with Corona again, had talked with her and had seen that look in her face which he had learned to dread more than he had ever dreaded anything in his life. What was life itself without that which her eyes refused? CHAPTER XIX. Prince Montevarchi was very much surprised when he was told that Anastase Gouache wished to see him, and as he was very much occupied with the details of the suit his first impulse was to decline the visit. Although he had no idea that matters had already gone so far between the Zouave and Faustina, he was not, however, so blind as the young girl had supposed him to be. He was naturally observant, like most men who devote their lives to the pursuit of their own interests, and it had not escaped him that Faustina and Gouache were very often to be seen talking together in the world. Had he possessed a sense of humour he might possibly have thought that it would be inexpressibly comical if Gouache should take it into his head to fall in love with the girl; but the Italians are not a humorous people, and the idea did not suggest itself to the old gentleman. He consented to receive Gouache because he thought the opportunity would be a good one for reading the young man a lecture upon the humility of his station, and upon the arrogance he displayed in devoting himself thus openly to the daughter of Casa Montevarchi. "Good-day, Monsieur Gouache," he said solemnly, as Anastase entered. "Pray be seated. To what do I owe the honour of your visit?" Anastase had put on a perfectly new uniform for the interview, and his movements were more than usually alert and his manners a shade more elaborate and formal than on ordinary occasions. He felt and behaved as young men of good birth do who are serving their year in the army, and who, having put on their smartest tunic, hope that in a half light they may be taken for officers. "Will you allow me to explain my position in the first place?" he asked, seating himself and twisting his cap slowly in his hands. "Your position? By all means, if you desire to do so. It is an excellent rule in all discourses to put the definition before the argument. Nevertheless, if you would inform me of the nature of the affair, it might help me to understand you better." "It is very delicate--but I will try to be plain. What I am, I think you know already. I am a painter and I have been successful. For the present, I am a Zouave, but my military service does not greatly interfere with my profession. We have a good deal of time upon our hands. My pictures bring me a larger income than I can spend." "I congratulate you," observed Montevarchi, opening his small eyes in some astonishment. "The pursuit of the fine arts is not generally very lucrative. For myself, I confess that I am satisfied with those treasures which my father has left me. I am very fond of pictures, it is true; but you will understand that, when a gallery is filled, it is full. You comprehend, I am sure? Much as I might wish to own some of the works of the modern French school, the double disadvantage of possessing already so many canvases, and the still stronger consideration of my limited fortune--yes, limited, I assure you---" "Pardon me," interrupted Gouache, whose face reddened suddenly, "I had no intention of proposing to sell you a picture. I am not in the habit of advertising myself nor of soliciting orders for my work." "My dear sir!" exclaimed the prince, seeing that he was on a wrong tack, "have I suggested such a thing? If my words conveyed the idea, pray accept all my excuses. Since you had mentioned the subject of art, my thoughts naturally were directed to my gallery of pictures. I am delighted to hear of your success, for you know how much interest we all feel in him who was the victim of such an unfortunate accident, due doubtless to the carelessness of my men." "Pray do not recall that! Your hospitality more than repaid me for the little I suffered. The matter concerning which I wish to speak to you is a very serious one, and I hope you will believe that I have considered it well before taking a step which may at first surprise you. To be plain, I come to ask you to confer upon me the honour of Donna Faustina Montevarchi's hand." Montevarchi leaned back in his chair, speechless with amazement. He seemed to gasp for breath as his long fingers pressed the green table-cover before him. His small eyes were wide open, and his toothless jaw dropped. Gouache feared that he was going to be taken ill. "You!" cried the old man in a cracked voice, when he had recovered himself enough to be able to speak. "Yes," answered Anastase, who was beginning to feel very nervous as he observed the first results of his proposal. He had never before quite realised how utterly absurd the match would seem to Montevarchi. "Yes," he repeated. "Is the idea so surprising? Is it inconceivable to you that I should love your daughter? Can you not understand--" "I understand that you are wholly mad!" exclaimed the prince, still staring at his visitor in blank astonishment. "No, I am not mad. I love Donna Faustina--" "You! You dare to love Faustina! You, a painter, a man with a profession and with nothing but what you earn! You, a Zouave, a man without a name, without--" "You are an old man, prince, but the fact of my having made you an honourable proposition does not give you the right to insult me." The words were spoken in a sharp, determined voice, and brought Montevarchi to his senses. He was a terrible coward and would rather go to a considerable expense than face an angry man. "Insult you, my dear sir? I would not think of it!" he answered in a very different tone. "But my dear Monsieur Gouache, I fear that this is quite impossible! In the first place, my daughter's marriage is already arranged. The negotiations have been proceeding for some time--she is to marry Frangipani--you must have heard it. And, moreover, with all due respect for the position you have gained by your immense talent--immense, my dear friend, I am the first to say it--the instability of human affairs obliges me to seek for her a fortune, which depends upon the vulgar possession of wealth rather than upon those divine gifts of genius with which you are so richly endowed." The change from anger to flattery was so sudden that Gouache was confounded and could not find words in which to answer what was said to him. Montevarchi's eyes had lost their expression of astonishment, and a bland smile played about the corners of his sour mouth, while he rubbed his bony hands slowly together, nodding his head at every comma of his elaborate speech. Anastase saw, however, that there was not the slightest hope that his proposal would ever be entertained, and by his own sensations he knew that he had always expected this result. He felt no disappointment, and it seemed to him that he was in the same position in which he had been before he had spoken. On the other hand he was outraged by the words that had fallen from Montevarchi's lips in the first moments of anger and astonishment. A painter, a man with a profession, without a name! Gouache was too human not to feel the sting of each truth as it was uttered. He would have defined himself in very much the same way without the least false pride, but to hear his own estimate of himself, given by another person as the true one, was hard to bear. A painter, yes--he was proud of it. A man with a profession, yes--was it not far nobler to earn money by good work than to inherit what others had stolen in former times? A man without a name--was not his own beginning to be famous, and was it not better to make the name Gouache glorious by his own efforts than to be called Orsini because one's ancestors had been fierce and lawless as bears, or Sciarra because one's progenitor had slapped the face of a pope? Doubtless it was a finer thing to be great by one's own efforts in the pursuit of a noble art than to inherit a greatness originally founded upon a superior rapacity, and a greater physical strength than had characterised the ordinary men of the period. Nevertheless, Gouache knew with shame that at that moment he wished that his name could be changed to Frangipani, and the fabric of his independence, of which he had so long been proud, was shaken to its foundations as he realised that in spite of all fame, all glory, all genius, he could never be what the miserly, cowardly, lying old man before him was by birth--a Roman prince. The conclusion was at once inexpressibly humiliating and supremely ludicrous. He felt himself laughable in his own eyes, and was conscious that a smile was on his face, which Montevarchi would not understand. The old gentleman was still talking. "I cannot tell you," he was saying, "how much I regret my total inability to comply with a request which evidently proceeds from the best motives, I might almost say from the heart itself. Alas! my dear friend, we are not all masters of our actions. The cares of a household like mine require a foresight, an hourly attention, an unselfish devotion which we can only hope to obtain by constant--" He was going to say "by constant recourse to prayer," but he reflected that Gouache was probably not of a religious turn of mind, and he changed the sentence. "--by constant study of the subject. Situated as I am, a Roman in the midst of Romans, I am obliged to consider the traditions of my own people in respect of all the great affairs of life. Believe me, I entreat you, that, far from having any prejudice against yourself, I should rejoice sincerely could I take you by the hand and call you my son. But how can I act? What can I do? Go to your own country, dear Monsieur Gouache, think no more of us, or of our daughters, marry a woman of your own nation, and you will not be disappointed in your dreams of matrimonial felicity!" "In other words, you refuse altogether to listen to my proposal?" By this time Gouache was able to put the question calmly. "Alas, yes!" replied the prince with an air of mock regret that exasperated the young man beyond measure. "I cannot think of it, though you are indeed a most sympathetic young man." "In that case I will not trespass upon your time any longer," said Gouache, who was beginning to fear lest his coolness should forsake him. As he descended the broad marble stairs his detestation of the old hypocrite overcame him, and his wrath broke out. "You shall pay me for this some day, you old scoundrel!" he said aloud, very savagely. Montevarchi remained in his study after Gouache had gone. A sour smile distorted his thin lips, and the expression became more and more accented until the old man broke into a laugh that rang drily against the vaulted ceiling. Some one knocked at the door, and his merriment disappeared instantly. Arnoldo Meschini entered the room. There was something unusual about his appearance which attracted the prince's attention at once. "Has anything happened?" "Everything. The case is won. Your Excellency's son-in-law is Prince Saracinesca." The librarian's bright eyes gleamed with exultation and there was a slight flush in his cheeks that contrasted oddly with his yellow skin. A disagreeable smile made his intelligent face more ugly than usual. He stood half-way between the door and his employer, his long arms hanging awkwardly by his sides, his head thrust forward, his knees a little bent, assuming by habit a servile attitude of attention, but betraying in his look that he felt himself his master's master. Montevarchi started as he heard the news. Then he leaned eagerly across the table, his fingers as usual slowly scratching the green cloth. "Are you quite sure of it?" he asked in a trembling voice. "Have you got the verdict?" Meschini produced a tattered pocket-book, and drew from it a piece of stamped paper, which he carefully unfolded and handed to the prince. "There is an attested note of it. See for yourself." Montevarchi hastily looked over the small document, and his face flushed slowly till it was almost purple, while the paper quivered in his hold. It was clear that everything had succeeded as he had hoped, and that his most sanguine expectations were fully realised. His thoughts suddenly recurred to Gouache, and he laughed again at the young man's assurance. "Was Saracinesca in the court?" he asked presently. "No. There was no one connected with the case except the lawyers on each side. It did not amount to a trial. The Signor Marchese's side produced the papers proving his identity, and the original deed was submitted. The prince's side stated that his Excellency was convinced of the justice of the claim and would make no opposition. Thereupon the court granted an order to the effect that the Signor Marchese was the heir provided for in the clause and was entitled to enjoy all the advantages arising from the inheritance; but that, as there was no opposition made by the defendants, the subsequent transactions would be left in the hands of the family, the court reserving the power to enforce the transfer in case any difficulty should arise hereafter. Of course, it will take several months to make the division, as the Signor Marchese will only receive the direct inheritance of his great-grandfather, while the Saracinesca retain all that has come to them by their marriages during the last four generations." "Of course. Who will be employed to make the division?" "Half Rome, I fancy. It will be an endless business." "But San Giacinto is prince. He will do homage for his titles next Epiphany." "Yes. He must present his ten pounds of wax and a silver bowl--cheap!" observed Meschini with a grin. It may be explained here that the families of the Roman nobility were all subject to a yearly tribute of merely nominal value, which they presented to the Pope at the Feast of the Epiphany. The custom was feudal, the Pope having been the feudal lord of all the nobles until 1870. The tribute generally consisted of a certain weight of pure wax, or of a piece of silver of a specified value, or sometimes of both. As an instance of the survival of such customs in other countries, I may mention the case of one great Irish family which to this day receives from another a yearly tribute, paid alternately in the shape of a golden rose and a golden spur. "So we have won everything!" exclaimed Montevarchi after a pause, looking hard at the librarian, as though trying to read his thoughts. "We have won everything, and the thanks are due to you, my good friend, to you, the faithful and devoted companion who has helped me to accomplish this act of true justice. Ah, how can I ever express to you my gratitude!" "The means of expression were mentioned in our agreement," answered Meschini with a servile inclination. "I agreed to do the work for your Excellency at a certain fixed price, as your Excellency may remember. Beyond that I ask nothing. I am too humble an individual to enjoy the honour of Prince Montevarchi's personal gratitude." "Yes, of course, but that is mere money!" said the old gentleman somewhat hastily, but contemptuously withal. "Gratitude proceeds from the heart, not from the purse. When I think of all the work you have done, of the unselfish way in which you have devoted yourself to this object, I feel that money can never repay you. Money is sordid trash, Meschini, sordid trash! Let us not talk about it. Are we not friends? The most delicate sensibilities of my soul rejoice when I consider what we have accomplished together. There is not another man in Rome whom I would trust as I trust you, most faithful of men!" "The Signor Principe is too kind," replied Meschini. "Nevertheless, I repeat that I am quite unworthy of such gratitude for having merely performed my part in a business transaction, especially in one wherein my own interests were so deeply concerned." "My only regret is that my son-in-law can never know the share you have had in his success. But that, alas, is quite impossible. How, indeed, would it be practicable to inform him! And my daughter, too! She would remember you in all her innocent prayers, even as I shall do henceforth! No, Meschini, it is ordained that I, and I alone, should be the means of expressing to you the heartfelt thanks of those whom you have so highly benefited, but who unfortunately can never know the name of their benefactor. Tell me now, did the men of the law look long at the documents? Did they show any hesitation? Have you any reason to believe that their attention was roused, arrested by--by the writing?" "No, indeed! I should be a poor workman if a parcel of lawyers could detect my handwriting!" "It is a miracle!" exclaimed Montevarchi, devoutly. "I consider that heaven has interposed directly to accomplish the ends of justice. An angel guided your hand, my dear friend, to make you the instrument of good!" "I am quite ready to believe it. The transaction has been as providential for me as for the Signor Marchese." "Yes," answered the prince rather drily. "And now, my dear Meschini, will you leave me for a time? I have appointed this hour to see my last remaining daughter concerning her marriage. She is the last of those fair flowers! Ah me! How sad a thing it is to part with those we love so well! But we have the consolation of knowing that it is for their good, that consolation, that satisfaction which only come to us when we have faithfully done our duty. Return to your library, therefore, Meschini, for the present. The consciousness of good well done is yours also to-day, and will soothe the hours of solitude and make your new labours sweet. The reward of righteousness is in itself and of itself. Good-bye, my friend, good-bye! Thank you, thank you--" "Would it be agreeable to your Excellency to let me have the money now?" asked the librarian. There was a firmness in the tone that startled Montevarchi. "What money?" he inquired with a well-feigned surprise. "I do not understand." "Twenty thousand scudi, the price of the work," replied Meschini with alarming bluntness. "Twenty thousand scudi!" cried the prince. "I remember that there was some mention of a sum--two thousand, I think I said. Even that is enormous, but I was carried away in the excitement of the moment. We are all liable to such weakness--" "You agreed to pay me twenty thousand scudi in cash on the day that the verdict was given in favour of your son-in-law." "I never agreed to anything of the kind. My dear friend, success has quite turned your head! I have not so much money at my disposal in the whole world." "You cannot afford to make a fool of me," cried Meschini, making a step forward. His face was red with anger, and his long arms made odd gestures. "Will you pay me the money or not?" "If you take this tone with me I will pay you nothing whatever. I shall even cease to feel any sense of gratitude--" "To hell with your gratitude!" exclaimed the other fiercely. "Either you pay me the money now, or I go at once to the authorities and denounce the whole treachery." "You will only go to the galleys if you do." "You will go with me." "Not at all. Have you any proof that I have had anything to do with the matter? I tell you that you are quite mad. If you wanted to play this trick on me you should have made me sign an agreement. Even then I would have argued that since you had forged the documents you had, of course, forged the agreement also. But you have nothing, not so much as a scrap of paper to show against me. Be reasonable and I will be magnanimous. I will give you the two thousand I spoke of in the heat of anticipation--" "You will give me the twenty thousand you solemnly promised me," said Meschini, with concentrated anger. Montevarchi rose slowly from his chair and rang the bell. He knew that Meschini would not be so foolish as to expose himself, and would continue to hope that he might ultimately get what he asked. "I cannot argue with a madman," he said calmly. He was not in the least afraid of the librarian. The idea never entered his mind that the middle-aged, round-shouldered scholar could be dangerous. A single word from Gouache, a glance of the artist's eye had cowed him less than an hour ago; but Meschini's fury left him indifferent. The latter saw that for the present there was nothing to be done. To continue such a scene before a servant would be the worst kind of folly. "We will talk the matter over at another time," he said sullenly, as he left the study by a small door which opened upon a corridor in communication with the library. Montevarchi sent the servant who answered the bell with a message begging Donna Faustina to come to the study at once. Since it was to be a day of interviews he determined to state the case plainly to his daughter, and bid her make ready to comply with his will in case the match with Frangipani turned out to be possible. He seemed no more disturbed by Meschini's anger than if the affair had not concerned him in the least. He had, indeed, long foreseen what would occur, and even at the moment when he had promised the bribe he was fully determined never to pay it. The librarian had taken the bait greedily, and it was his own fault if the result did not suit him. He had no redress, as Montevarchi had told him; there was not so much as a note to serve as a record of the bargain. Meschini had executed the forgery, and he would have to ruin himself in order to bring any pressure to bear upon his employer. This the latter felt sure that he would not do, even if driven to extremities. Meschini's nature was avaricious and there was no reason to suppose that he was tired of life, or ready to go to the galleys for a bit of personal vengeance, when, by exercising a little patience, he might ultimately hope to get some advantage out of the crime he had committed. Montevarchi meant to pay him what he considered a fair price for the work, and he did not see that Meschini had any means of compelling him to pay more. Now that the thing was done, he began to regret that he himself had not made some agreement with San Giacinto, but a moment's reflection sufficed to banish the thought as unworthy of his superior astuteness. His avarice was on a large scale and was merging into ambition. It might have been foreseen that, after having married one of his two remaining daughters to a man who had turned out to be Prince Saracinesca, his determination to match Faustina with Frangipani would be even stronger than it had been before. Hence his sudden wish to see Faustina and to prepare her mind for what was about to take place. All at once it seemed as though he could not act quickly enough to satisfy his desire of accomplishment. He felt as an old man may feel who, at the end of a busy life, sees countless things before him which he would still do, and hates the thought of dying before all are done. A feverish haste to complete this last step in the aggrandisement of his family, overcame the old prince. He could not understand why he had submitted to wasting his time with Gouache and Meschini instead of busying himself actively in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was no reason for waiting any longer. Frangipani's father had already half-agreed to the match, and what remained to be done involved only a question of financial details. As he sat waiting for Faustina a great horror of death rose suddenly and clearly before him. He was not a very old man and he would have found it hard to account for the sensation. It is a notable fact, too, that he feared death rather because it might prevent him from carrying out his intentions, than because his conscience was burdened with the recollection of many misdeeds. His whole existence had been passed in such an intricate labyrinth of duplicity towards others and towards himself that he no longer distinguished between the true and the untrue. Even in this last great fraud he had so consistently deceived his own sense of veracity that he almost felt himself to be the instrument of justice he assumed to be. The case was a delicate one, too, for the most unprejudiced person could hardly have escaped feeling sympathy for San Giacinto, the victim of his ancestor's imprudence. Montevarchi found it very easy to believe that it was permissible to employ any means in order to gain such an end, and although he might have regarded the actual work of the forgery in the light of a crime, venial indeed, though contrary to the law, his own share in the transaction, as instigator of the deed itself, appeared to be defensible by a whole multitude of reasons. San Giacinto, by all the traditions of primogeniture dear to the heart of the Roman noble, was the head of the family of Saracinesca. But for a piece of folly, hardly to be equalled in Montevarchi's experience, San Giacinto would have been in possession of the estates and titles without opposition or contradiction since the day of his father's death. The mere fact that the Saracinesca had not defended the case proved that they admitted the justice of their cousin's claims. Had old Leone foreseen the contingency of a marriage in his old age, he would either never have signed the deed at all, or else he would have introduced just such a conditional clause as had been forged by Meschini. When a great injustice has been committed, through folly or carelessness, when those who have been most benefited by it admit that injustice, when to redress it is merely to act in accordance with the spirit of the laws, is it a crime then to bring about so much good by merely sacrificing a scruple of conscience, by employing some one to restore an inheritance to its rightful possessor with a few clever strokes of the pen? The answer seemed so clear to Montevarchi that he did not even ask himself the question. Indeed it would have been superfluous to do so, for he had so often satisfied all objections to doubtful courses by a similar sophistry that he knew beforehand what reply would present itself to his self-inquiry. He did not even experience a sense of relief as he turned from the contemplation of what he had just done to the question of Faustina's marriage, in which there was nothing that could torment his conscience. He was not even aware that he ought to recognise a difference between the two affairs. He was in great haste to settle the preliminaries, and that was all. If he should die, he thought, the princess would have her own way in everything, and would doubtless let Faustina throw herself away upon some such man as Gouache. The thought roused him from his reverie, and at the same time brought a sour smile to his face. Gouache, of all people! He looked up and saw that Faustina had entered and was standing before him, as though expecting him to speak. Her delicate, angelic features were pale, and she held her small hands folded before her. She had discovered by some means that Gouache had been with her father and she feared that something unpleasant had happened and that she was about to be called to account. The vision of Frangipani, too, was present in her mind, and she anticipated a stormy interview. But her mind was made up; she would have Anastase or she would have nobody. The two exchanged a preliminary glance before either spoke. CHAPTER XX. Montevarchi made his daughter sit beside him and took her hand affectionately in his, assuming at the same time the expression of sanctimonious superiority he always wore when he mentioned the cares of his household or was engaged in regulating any matter of importance in his family. Flavia used to imitate the look admirably, to the delight of her brothers and sisters. He smiled meaningly, pressed the girl's fingers, and smiled again, attempting in vain to elicit some response. But Faustina remained cold and indifferent, for she was used to her father's ways and did not like them. "You know what I am going to say, I am sure," he began. "It concerns what must be very near your heart, my dear child." "I do not know what it can be," answered Faustina, gravely. She was too well brought up to show any of the dislike she felt for her father's way of doing things, but she was willing to make it as hard as possible for him to express himself. "Cannot you guess what it is?" asked the old man, with a ludicrous attempt at banter. "What is it that is nearest to every girl's heart? Is not that little heart of yours already a resort of the juvenile deity?" "I do not understand you, papa." "Well, well, my dear--I see that your education has not included a course of mythology. It is quite as well, perhaps, as those heathens are poor company for the young. I refer to marriage, Faustina, to that all-important step which you are soon to take." "Have you quite decided to marry me to Frangipani?" asked the young girl with a calmness that somewhat disconcerted her father. "How boldly you speak of it!" he exclaimed with a sigh of disapproval. "I will not, however, conceal from you that I hope--" "Pray talk plainly with me, papa!" cried Faustina suddenly looking up. "I cannot bear this suspense." "Ah! Is it so, little one?" Montevarchi shook his finger playfully at her. "I thought I should find you ready! So you are anxious to become a princess at once? Well, well, all women are alike!" Faustina drew herself up a little and fixed her deep brown eyes upon her father's face, very quietly and solemnly. "You misunderstand me," she said. "I only wish to know your decision in order that I may give you my answer." "And what can that answer be? Have I not chosen, wisely, a husband fit for you in every way?" "From your point of view, I have no doubt of it." "I trust you are not about to commit the unpardonable folly of differing from me, my daughter," answered Montevarchi, with a sudden change of tone indicative of rising displeasure. "It is for me to decide, for you to accept my decision." "Upon other points, yes. In the question of marriage I think I have something to say." "Is it possible that you can have any objections to the match I have found for you? Is it possible that you are so foolish as to fancy that at your age you can understand these things better than I? Faustina, I would not have believed it!" "How can you understand what I feel?" "It is not a question of feeling, it is a question of wisdom, of foresight, of prudence, of twenty qualities which you are far too young to possess. If marriage were a matter of feeling, of vulgar sentiment, I ask you, what would become of the world? Of what use is it to have all the sentiment in life, if you have not that which makes life itself possible? Can you eat sentiment? Can you harness sentiment in a carriage and make it execute a trottata in the Villa Borghese? Can you change an ounce of sentiment into good silver scudi and make it pay for a journey in the hot weather? No, no, my child. Heaven knows that I am not avaricious. Few men, I think, know better than I that wealth is perishable stuff--but so is this mortal body, and the perishable must be nourished with the perishable, lest dust return to dust sooner than it would in the ordinary course of nature. Money alone will not give happiness, but it is, nevertheless, most important to possess a certain amount of it." "I would rather do without it than be miserable all my life for having got it." "Miserable all your life? Why should you be miserable? No woman should be unhappy who is married to a good man. My dear, this matter admits of no discussion. Frangipani is young, handsome, of irreproachable moral character, heir to a great fortune and to a great name. You desire to be in love. Good. Love will come, the reward of having chosen wisely. It will be time enough then to think of your sentiments. Dear me! if we all began life by thinking of sentiment, where would our existence end?" "Will you please tell me whether you have quite decided that I am to marry Frangipani?" Faustina found her father's discourses intolerable, and, moreover, she had something to say which would be hard to express and still harder to sustain by her actions. "If you insist upon my giving you an answer, which you must have already foreseen, I am willing to tell you that I have quite decided upon the match." "I cannot marry him!" exclaimed Faustina, clasping her hands together and looking into her father's face. "My dear," answered Montevarchi with a smile, "it is absolutely decided. We cannot draw back. You must marry him." "Must, papa? Oh, think what you are saying! I am not disobedient, indeed I am not. I have always submitted to you in everything. But this--no, not this. Bid me do anything else--anything--" "But, my child, nothing else would produce the same result. Be reasonable. You tell me to impose some other duty upon you. That is not what I want. I must see you married before I die, and I am an old man. Each year, each day, may be my last. Of what use would it be that you should make another sacrifice to please me, when the one thing I desire is to see you well settled with a good husband? I have done what I could. I have procured you the best match in all Rome, and now you implore me to spare you, to reverse my decision, to tell my old friend Frangipani that you will not have his son, and to go out into the market to find you another help-meet. It is not reasonable. I had expected more dutiful conduct from you." "Is it undutiful not to be able to love a man one hardly knows, when one is ordered to do so?" "You will make me lose my patience, Faustina!" exclaimed Montevarchi, in angry tones. "Have I not explained to you the nature of love? Have I not told you that you can love your husband as much as you please? Is it not a father's duty to direct the affections of his child as I wish to do, and is it not the child's first obligation to submit to its father's will and guidance? What more would you have? In truth, you are very exacting!" "I am very unhappy!" The young girl turned away and rested her elbow on the table, supporting her chin in her hand. She stared absently at the old bookcases as though she were trying to read the titles upon the dingy bindings. Montevarchi understood her words to convey a submission and changed his tone once more. "Well, well, my dear, you will never regret your obedience," he said. "Of course, my beloved child, it is never easy to see things as it is best that we should see them. I see that you have yielded at last--" "I have not yielded in the least!" cried Faustina, suddenly facing him, with an expression he had never seen before. "What do you mean?" asked Montevarchi in considerable astonishment. "What I say. I will not marry Frangipani--I will not! Do you understand?" "No. I do not understand such language from my daughter; and as for your determination, I tell you that you will most certainly end by acting as I wish you to act." "You cannot force me to marry. What can you do? You can put me into a convent. Do you think that would make me change my mind? I would thank God for any asylum in which I might find refuge from such tyranny." "My daughter," replied the prince in bland tones, "I am fully resolved not to be angry with you. Your undutiful conduct proceeds from ignorance, which is never an offence, though it is always a misfortune. If you will have a little patience--" "I have none!" exclaimed Faustina, exasperated by her father's manner. "My undutiful conduct does not proceed from ignorance--it proceeds from love, from love for another man, whom I will marry if I marry any one." "Faustina!" cried Montevarchi, holding up his hands in horror and amazement. "Do you dare to use SUCH, language to your father!" "I dare do anything, everything--I dare even tell you the name of the man I love--Anastase Gouache!" "My child! My child! This is too horrible! I must really send for your mother." "Do what you will." Faustina had risen to her feet and was standing before one of the old bookcases, her hands folded before her, her eyes on fire, her delicate mouth scornfully bent. Montevarchi, who was really startled almost out of his senses, moved cautiously towards the bell, looking steadily at his daughter all the while as though he dreaded some fresh outbreak. There was something ludicrous in his behaviour which, at another time, would not have escaped the young girl. Now, however, she was too much in earnest to perceive anything except the danger of her position and the necessity for remaining firm at any cost. She did not understand why her mother was to be called, but she felt that she could face all her family if necessary. She kept her eyes upon her father and was hardly conscious that a servant entered the room. Montevarchi sent a message requesting the princess to come at once. Then he turned again towards Faustina. "You can hardly suppose," he observed, "that I take seriously what you have just said; but you are evidently very much excited, and your mother's presence will, I trust, have a soothing effect. You must be aware that it is very wrong to utter such monstrous untruths--even in jest--" "I am in earnest. I will marry Monsieur Gouache or I will marry no one." Montevarchi really believed that his daughter's mind was deranged. His interview with Gouache had convinced him that Faustina meant what she said, though he affected to laugh at it, but he was wholly unable to account for her conduct on any theory but that of insanity. Being at his wits' end he had sent for his wife, and while waiting for her he did not quite know what to do. "My dear child, what is Monsieur Gouache? A very estimable young man, without doubt, but not such a one as we could choose for your husband." "I have chosen him," answered Faustina. "That is enough." "How you talk, my dear! How rashly you talk! As though choosing a husband were like buying a new hat! And you, too, whom I always believed to be the most dutiful, the most obedient of my children! But your mother and I will reason with you, we will endeavour to put better thoughts into your heart." Faustina glanced scornfully at her father and turned away, walking slowly in the direction of the window. "It is of no use to waste your breath on me," she said presently. "I will marry Gouache or nobody." "You--marry Gouache?" cried the princess, who entered at that moment, and heard the last words. Her voice expressed an amazement and horror fully equal to her husband's. "Have you come to join the fray, mamma?" inquired Faustina, in English. "Pray speak in a language I can understand," said Montevarchi who, in a whole lifetime, had never mastered a word of his wife's native tongue. "Oh, Lotario!" exclaimed the princess. "What has the child been telling you?" "Things that would make you tremble, my dear! She refuses to marry Frangipani--" "Refuses! But, Faustina, you do not know what you are doing! You are out of your mind!" "And she talks wildly of marrying a certain Frenchman, a Monsieur Gouache, I believe--is there such a man, my dear?" "Of course, Lotario! The little man you ran over. How forgetful you are!" "Yes, yes, of course. I know. But you must reason with her, Guendalina--" "It seems to me. Lotario, that you should do that--" "My dear, I think the child is insane upon the subject. Where could she have picked up such an idea? Is it a mere caprice, a mere piece of impertinence, invented to disconcert the sober senses of a careful father?" "Nonsense, Lotario! She is not capable of that. After all, she is not Flavia, who always had something dreadful quite ready, just when you least expected it." "I almost wish she were Flavia!" exclaimed Montevarchi, ruefully. "Flavia has done very well." During all this time Faustina was standing with her back towards the window and her hands folded before her, looking from the one to the other of the speakers with an air of bitter contempt which was fast changing to uncontrollable anger. Some last remaining instinct of prudence kept her from interrupting the conversation by a fresh assertion of her will, and she waited until one of them chose to speak to her. She had lost her head, for she would otherwise never have gone so far as to mention Gouache's name, but, as with all very spontaneous natures, with her to break the first barrier was to go to the extreme, whatever it might be. Her clear brown eyes were very bright, and there was something luminous about her angelic face which showed that her whole being was under the influence of an extraordinary emotion, almost amounting to exaltation. It was impossible to foresee what she would say or do. "Your father almost wishes you were Flavia!" groaned the princess, shaking her head and looking very grave. Then Faustina laughed scornfully and her wrath bubbled over. "I am not Flavia!" she cried, coming forward and facing her father and mother. "I daresay you do wish I were. Flavia has done so very well. Yes, she is Princess Saracinesca this evening, I suppose. Indeed she has done well, for she has married the man she loves, as much as she is capable of loving anything. And that is all the more reason why I should do the same. Besides, am I as old as Flavia that you should be in such a hurry to marry me? Do you think I will yield? Do you think that while I love one man, I will be so base as to marry another?" "I have explained to you that love--" "Your explanations will drive me mad! You may explain anything in that way--and prove that Love itself does not exist. Do you think your saying so makes it true? There is more truth in a little of my love than in all your whole life!" "Faustina!" "What? May I not answer you? Must I believe you infallible when you use arguments that would not satisfy a child? Is my whole nature a shadow because yours cannot understand my reality?" "If you are going to make this a question of metaphysics--" "I am not, I do not know what metaphysic means. But I will repeat before my mother what I said to you alone. I will not marry Frangipani, and you cannot force me to marry him. If I marry any one I will have the man I love." "But, my dearest Faustina," cried the princess in genuine distress, "this is a mere idea--a sort of madness that has seized upon you. Consider your position, consider what you owe to us, consider--" "Consider, consider, consider! Do you suppose that any amount of consideration would change me?" "Do you think your childish anger will change us?" inquired Montevarchi, blandly. He did not care to lose his temper, for he was quite indifferent to Faustina's real inclinations, if she would only consent to marry Frangipani. "Childish!" cried Faustina, her eyes blazing with anger. "Was I childish when I followed him out into the midst of the revolution last October, when I was nearly killed at the Serristori, when I thought he was dead and knelt there among the ruins until he found me and brought me home? Was that a child's love?" The princess turned pale and grasped her husband's arm, staring at Faustina in horror. The old man trembled and for a few moments could not find strength to speak. Nothing that Faustina could have invented could have produced such a sudden and tremendous effect as this revelation of what had happened on the night of the insurrection, coming from the girl's own lips with the unmistakable accent of truth. The mother's instinct was the first to assert itself. With a quick movement she threw her arms round the young girl, as though to protect her from harm. "It is not true, it is not true," she cried in an agonised tone. "Faustina, my child--it is not true!" "It is quite true, mamma," answered Faustina, who enjoyed an odd satisfaction in seeing the effect of her words, which can only be explained by her perfect innocence. "Why are you so much astonished? I loved him--I thought he was going out to be killed--I would not let him go alone--" "Oh, Faustina! How could you do it!" moaned the princess. "It is too horrible--it is not to be believed--" "I loved him, I love him still." Princess Montevarchi fell into a chair and burst into tears, burying her face in her hands and sobbing aloud. "If you are going to cry, Guendalina, you had better go away," said her husband, who was now as angry as his mean nature would permit him to be. She was so much accustomed to obey that she left the room, crying as she went, and casting back a most sorrowful look at Faustina. Montevarchi shut the door and, coming back, seized his daughter's arm and shook it violently. "Fool!" he cried angrily, unable to find any other word to express his rage. Faustina said nothing but tried to push him away, her bright eyes gleaming with contempt. Her silence exasperated the old man still further. Like most very cowardly men he could be brutal to women when he was angry. It seemed to him that the girl, by her folly, had dashed from him the last great satisfaction of his life at the very moment when it was within reach. He could have forgiven her for ruining herself, had she done so; he could not forgive her for disappointing his ambition; he knew that one word of the story she had told would make the great marriage impossible, and he knew that she had the power to speak that word when she pleased as well as the courage to do so. "Fool!" he repeated, and before she could draw back, he struck her across the mouth with the back of his hand. A few drops of bright red blood trickled from her delicate lips. With an instinctive movement she pressed her handkerchief to the wound. Montevarchi snatched it roughly from her hand and threw it across the room. From his eyes she guessed that he would strike her again if she remained. With a look of intense hatred she made a supreme effort, and concentrating the whole strength of her slender frame wrenched herself free. "Coward!" she cried, as he reeled backwards; then, before he could recover himself, she was gone and he was left alone. He was terribly angry, and at the same time his ideas were confused, so that he hardly understood anything but the main point of her story, that she had been with Gouache on that night when Corona had brought her home. He began to reason again. Corona knew the truth, of course, and her husband knew it too. Montevarchi realised that he had already taken his revenge for their complicity, before knowing that they had injured him. His overwrought brain was scarcely capable of receiving another impression. He laughed aloud in a way that was almost hysterical. "All!" he cried in sudden exultation. "All--even to their name--but the other--" His face changed quickly and he sank into his chair and buried his face in his hands, as he thought of all he had lost through Faustina's folly. And yet, the harm might be repaired--no one knew except-- He looked up and saw that Meschini had returned and was standing before him, as though waiting to be addressed. The suddenness of the librarian's appearance made the prince utter an exclamation of surprise. "Yes, I have come back," said Meschini. "The matter we were discussing cannot be put off, and I have come back to ask you to be good enough to pay the money." Montevarchi was nervous and had lost the calm tone of superiority he had maintained before his interview with Faustina. The idea of losing Frangipani, too, made his avarice assert itself very strongly. "I told you," he replied, "that I refused altogether to talk with you, so long as you addressed me in that tone. I repeat it. Leave me, and when you have recovered your manners I will give you something for yourself. You will get nothing so long as you demand it as though it were a right." "I will not leave this room without the money," answered Meschini, resolutely. The bell was close to the door. The librarian placed himself between the prince and both. "Leave the room!" cried Montevarchi, trembling with anger. He had so long despised Meschini, that the exhibition of obstinacy on the part of the latter did not frighten him. The librarian stood before the bell and the latch of the door, his long arms hanging down by his sides, his face yellow, his eyes red. Any one might have seen that he was growing dangerous. Instead of repeating his refusal to go, he looked steadily at his employer and a disagreeable smile played upon his ugly features. Montevarchi saw it and his fury boiled over. He laid his hands on the arms of his chair as though he would rise, and in that moment he would have been capable of striking Meschini as he had struck Faustina. Meschini shuffled forwards and held up his hand. "Do not be violent," he said, in a low voice. "I am not your daughter, you know." Montevarchi's jaw dropped, and he fell back into his chair again. "You listened--you saw--" he gasped. "Yes, of course. Will you pay me? I am desperate, and I will have it. You and your miserable secrets are mine, and I will have my price. I only want the sum you promised. I shall be rich in a few days, for I have entered into an affair in which I shall get millions, as many as you have perhaps. But the money must be paid to-morrow morning or I am ruined, and you must give it to me. Do you hear? Do you understand that I will have what is mine?" At this incoherent speech, Montevarchi recovered something of his former nerve. There was something in Meschini's language that sounded like argument, and to argue was to temporise. The prince changed his tone. "But, my dear Meschini, how could you be so rash as to go into a speculation when you knew that the case might not be decided for another week? You are really the most rash man I ever knew. I cannot undertake to guarantee your speculations. I will be just. I have told you that I would give you two thousand--" "Twenty thousand'" Meschini came a little nearer. "Not a single baiocco if you are exorbitant." "Twenty thousand hard, good scudi in cash, I tell you. No more, but no less either." The librarian's hands were clenched, and he breathed hard, while his red eyes stared in a way that began to frighten Montevarchi. "No, no, be reasonable! My dear Meschini, pray do not behave in this manner. You almost make me believe that you are threatening me. I assure you that I desire to do what is just--" "Give me the money at once--" "But I have not so much--murder!! Ah--gh--gh---" Arnodo Meschini's long arms had shot out and his hands had seized the prince's throat in a grip from which there was no escape. There lurked a surprising strength in the librarian's round shoulders, and his energy was doubled by a fit of anger that amounted to insanity. The old man rocked and swayed in his chair, and grasped at the green table-cover, but Meschini had got behind him and pressed his fingers tighter and tighter. His eye rested upon Faustina's handkerchief that lay on the floor at his feet. His victim was almost at the last gasp, but the handkerchief would do the job better. Meschini kept his grip with one hand and with the other snatched up the bit of linen. He drew it tight round the neck and wrenched at the knot with his yellow teeth. There was a convulsive struggle, followed by a long interval of quiet. Then another movement, less violent this time, another and another, and then Meschini felt the body collapse in his grasp. It was over. Montevarchi was dead. Meschini drew back against the bookcases, trembling in every joint. He scarcely saw the objects in the room, for his head swam and his senses failed him, from horror and from the tremendous physical effort he had made. Then in an instant he realised what he had done, and the consequences of the deed suggested themselves. He had not meant to kill the prince. So long as he had kept some control of his actions he had not even meant to lay violent hands upon him. But he had the nature of a criminal, by turns profoundly cunning and foolishly rash. A fatal influence had pushed him onward so soon as he had raised his arm, and before he was thoroughly conscious of his actions the deed was done. Then came the fear of consequences, then again the diabolical reasoning which intuitively foresees the immediate results of murder, and provides against them at once. "Nobody knows that I have been here. Nothing is missing. No one knows about the forgery. No one will suspect me. There is no one in the library nor in the corridor. The handkerchief is not mine. If it was not his own it was Donna Faustina's. No one will suspect her. It will remain a mystery." Meschini went towards the door through which he had entered and opened it. He looked back and held his breath. The prince's head had fallen forward upon his hands as they lay on the table, and the attitude was that of a man overcome by despair, but not that of a dead body. The librarian glanced round the room. There was no trace of a struggle. The position of the furniture had not been changed, nor had anything fallen on the floor. Meschini went out and softly closed the door behind him, leaving the dead man alone. The quiet afternoon sun fell upon the houses on the opposite side of the street, and cast a melancholy reflection into the dismal chamber where Prince Montevarchi had passed so many hours of his life, and in which that life had been cut short so suddenly. On the table before his dead hands lay the copy of the verdict, the testimony of his last misdeed, of the crime for which he had paid the forfeit upon the very day it was due. It lay there like the superscription upon a malefactor's gallows in ancient times, the advertisement of the reason of his death to all who chose to inquire. Not a sound was heard save the noise that rose faintly and at intervals from the narrow street below, the cry of a hawker, the song of a street-boy, the bark of a dog. To-morrow the poor body would be mounted upon a magnificent catafalque, surrounded by the pomp of a princely mourning, illuminated by hundreds of funeral torches, an object of aversion, of curiosity, even of jest, perhaps, among those who bore the prince a grudge. Many of those who had known him would come and look on his dead face, and some would say that he was changed and others that he was not. His wife and his children would, in a few hours, be all dressed in black, moving silently and mournfully and occasionally showing a little feeling, though not more than would be decent. There would be masses sung, and prayers said, and his native city would hear the tolling of the heavy bells for one of her greatest personages. All this would be done, and more also, until the dead prince should be laid to rest beneath the marble floor of the chapel where his ancestors lay side by side. But to-day he sat in state in his shabby chair, his head lying upon that table over which he had plotted and schemed for so many years, his white fingers almost touching the bit of paper whereon was written the ruin of the Saracinesca. And upstairs the man who had killed him shuffled about the library, an anxious expression on his yellow face, glancing from time to time at his hands as he took down one heavy volume after another, practising in solitude the habit of seeming occupied, in order that he might not be taken unawares when an under-servant should be sent to tell the insignificant librarian of what had happened that day in Casa Montevarchi. CHAPTER XXI. Giovanni came home late in the afternoon and found Corona sitting by the fire in her boudoir. She had known that he would return before long, but had not anticipated his coming with any pleasure. When he entered the room she looked up quietly, without a smile, to assure herself that it was he and no one else. She said nothing, and he sat down upon the other side of the fireplace. There was an air of embarrassment about their meetings, until one or the other had made some remark which led to a commonplace conversation. On the present occasion neither seemed inclined to be the first speaker and for some minutes they sat opposite to each other in silence. Giovanni glanced at his wife from time to time, and once she turned her head and met his eyes. Her expression was cold and grave as though she wished him to understand that she had nothing to say. He thought she had never been so beautiful before. The firelight, striking her face at an upward angle, brought out clearly the noble symmetry of her features, the level brow, the wide, delicate nostrils, the even curve of her lips, the splendid breadth of her smooth forehead, shaded by her heavy black hair. She seemed to feel cold, for she sat near the flames, resting one foot upon the fender, in an attitude that threw into relief the perfect curves of her figure, as she bent slightly forward, spreading her hands occasionally to the blaze. "Corona--" Giovanni stopped suddenly after pronouncing her name, as though he had changed his mind while in the act of speaking. "What is it?" she asked indifferently enough. "Would you like to go away? I have been wondering whether it would not be better than staying here." She looked up in some surprise. She had thought of travelling more than once of late, but it seemed to her that to make a journey together would be only to increase the difficulties of the situation. There would be of necessity more intimacy, more daily converse than the life in Rome forced upon her. She shrank from the idea for the very reason which made it attractive to her husband. "No," she answered. "Why should we travel? Besides, with a child so young--" "We might leave Orsino at home," suggested Giovanni. He was not prepared for the look she gave him as she replied. "I will certainly not consent to that." "Would you be willing to take him with you, and leave me here? You could easily find a friend to go with you--even my father. He would enjoy it immensely." There was the shortest possible pause before she answered him this time. It did not escape him, for he expected it. "No. I will not do that, either. I do not care to go away. Why should I, and at such a time?" "I think I will go alone, in that case," said Giovanni quietly, but watching her face. She made no reply, but looked at him curiously as though she suspected him of laying a trap for her. "You say nothing. Is silence consent?" "I think it would be very unwise." "You do not answer me. Be frank, Corona. Would you not be glad to be left alone for a time?" "Why do you insist?" she asked with a little impatience. "Are you trying to make me say something that I shall regret?" "Would you regret it, if it were said? Why not be honest? It would be an immense relief to you if I went away. I could find an excellent excuse and nobody would guess that there was anything wrong." "For that matter--there is nothing wrong. Of course no one would say anything." "I know you will think that I have no tact," Giovanni observed with considerable justice. Corona could not repress a smile at the remark, which expressed most exactly what she herself was thinking. "Frankly--I think it would be better to leave things alone. Do you not think so, too?" "How coolly you say that!" exclaimed Giovanni. "It is so easy for you--so hard for me. I would do anything you asked, and you will not ask anything, because you would make any sacrifice rather than accept one from me. Did you ever really love me, Corona? Is it possible that love can be killed in a day, by a word? I wonder whether there is any woman alive as cold as you are! Is it anything to you that I should suffer as I am suffering, every day?" "You cannot understand--" "No--that is true. I cannot understand. I was base, cowardly, cruel--I make no defence. But if I was all that, and more too, it was because I loved you, because the least suspicion drove me mad, because I could not reason, loving you as I did, any more than I can reason now. Oh, I love you too much, too wholly, too foolishly! I will try and change and be another man--so that I may at least look at you without going mad!" He rose to his feet and went towards the door. But Corona called him back. The bitterness of his words and the tone in which they were spoken hurt her, and made her realise for a moment what he was suffering. "Giovanni--dear--do not leave me so--I am unhappy, too." "Are you?" He had come to her side and stood looking down into her eyes. "Wretchedly unhappy." She turned her face away again. She could not help it. "You are unhappy, and yet I can do nothing. Why do you call me back?" "If I only could, if I only could!" she repeated in a low voice. There was silence for a few seconds, during which Giovanni could hear his heart beat loudly and irregularly. "If I could but move you a little!" he said at last, almost inaudibly. "If I could do anything, suffer anything for you--" She shook her head sorrowfully and then, as though afraid that she had given him pain, she took his hand and pressed it affectionately--affectionately, not lovingly. It was as cold as ice. He sighed and once more turned away. Just then the door opened, and old Pasquale appeared, his face pale with fright. "Eccellenza, a note, and the man says that Prince Montevarchi has just been murdered, and that the note is from Donna Faustina, and the police are in the Palazzo Montevarchi, and that the poor princess is dying, and--" Corona had risen quickly with a cry of astonishment. Giovanni had taken the letter and stood staring at the servant as though he believed that the man was mad. Then he glanced at the address and saw that it was for his wife. "Faustina is accused of the murder!" she exclaimed. "I must go to her at once. The carriage, Pasquale, instantly!" "Faustina Montevarchi--killed her own father!" cried Giovanni in the utmost astonishment. Corona thrust the note into his hands. It only contained a few words scrawled in an irregular hand as though written in great emotion. "Of course it is some horrible mistake," said Corona, "but I must go at once." "I will go with you. I may be able to give some help." Five minutes later, they were descending the stairs. The carriage was not ready, and leaving orders for it to follow them they went out into the street and took a passing cab. Under the influence of the excitement they acted together instinctively. During the short drive they exchanged but few words, and those only expressive of amazement at the catastrophe. At the Palazzo Montevarchi everything was already in confusion, the doors wide open, the servants hurrying aimlessly hither and thither with frightened faces. They had just been released from the preliminary examination held by the prefect of police. A party of gendarmes stood together in the antechamber talking, while one of their number mounted guard at the door with a drawn sabre, allowing no one to leave the house. A terrified footman led Giovanni and Corona to the great drawing-room. The vast chamber was lighted by a single lamp which stood upon a yellow marble pier-table, and cast dim shadows on the tapestry of the walls. The old-fashioned furniture was ranged stiffly around the room as usual; the air was damp and cold, not being warmed even by the traditional copper brazier. The voices of the group of persons collected within the circle of the light sounded hollow, and echoed strangely in the huge emptiness. Dominant above the rest were heard the hard tones of the prefect of police. "I can assure you," he was saying, "that I feel the greatest regret in being obliged to assert my decision." Giovanni and Corona came forward, and the rest made way for them. The prefect stood with his back to the light and to the table, like a man who is at bay. He was of middle height, very dark, and inclining to stoutness. His aquiline features and his eyes, round in shape, but half veiled by heavy lids, gave him something of the appearance of an owl. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and mechanical, and he always seemed to be looking just over the head of the person he addressed. He made no gestures and held himself very straight. Opposite him stood Faustina Montevarchi, her face luminously pale, her eyes almost wild in their fixed expression. She held her hands clasped before her, and her fingers worked nervously. Around her stood her brothers and their wives, apparently speechless with horror, crowding together like frightened sheep before the officer of the law. Neither her mother, nor Flavia, nor San Giacinto accompanied the rest. It would be impossible to imagine a number of persons more dumb and helpless with fear. "Oh Corona, save me!" cried Faustina, throwing herself into her friend's arms as soon as she saw her face. "Will you be good enough to explain what has occurred?" said Giovanni, confronting the prefect sternly. "Do you mean to tell me that you have accused this innocent child of murdering her father? You are mad, sir!" "Pardon me, Signor Principe, I am not mad, and no one can regret more than I what has occurred here," replied the other in loud, metallic tones. "I will give you the facts in two minutes. Prince Montevarchi was found dead an hour ago. He had been dead some time. He had been strangled by means of this pocket handkerchief--observe the stains of blood--which I hold as part of the evidence. The Signora Donna Faustina is admitted to be the last person who saw the prince alive. She admits, furthermore, that a violent scene occurred between her and her father this afternoon, in the course of which his Excellency struck his daughter, doubtless in the way of paternal correction--observe the bruise upon the young lady's mouth. There is also another upon her arm. It is clear that, being young and vigorous and remarkably well grown, she opposed violence to violence. She went behind him, for the prince was found dead in his chair, leaning forward upon the table, and she succeeded in knotting the handkerchief so firmly as to produce asphyxia superinduced by strangulation without suspension. All this is very clear. I have examined every member of the household, and have reluctantly arrived at the conclusion, most shocking no doubt to these pacifically disposed persons, that this young lady allowed herself to be so far carried away by her feelings as to take the life of her parent. Upon this charge I have no course but to arrest her person, the case being very clear, and to convey her to a safe place." Giovanni could scarcely contain his wrath while the prefect made this long speech, but he was resolved to listen to the account given without interrupting it. When the man had finished, however, his anger burst out. "And do you take nothing into consideration," he cried, "but the fact that the prince was strangled with that handkerchief, and that there had been some disagreement between him and his daughter in the course of the day? Do you mean to say, that you, who ought to be a man of sense, believe it possible that this delicate child could take a hale old gentleman by the throat and throttle him to death? It is madness, I say! It is absurd!" "It is not absurd," answered the prefect, whose mechanical tone never changed throughout the conversation. "There is no other explanation for the facts, and the facts are undeniable. Would you like to see the body?" "There are a thousand explanations each ten thousand times as reasonable as the one you offer. He was probably murdered by a servant out of spite, or for the sake of robbing him. You are so sure of your idea that I daresay you did not think of searching the room to see whether anything had been taken or not." "You are under a delusion. Everything has been searched. Moreover, it is quite well known that his deceased Excellency never kept money in the house. There was consequently nothing to take." "Then it was done out of spite, by a servant, unless some one got in through the window." "No one could get in through the window. It was done out of anger by this young lady." "I tell you it was not!" cried Giovanni, growing furious at the man's obstinacy. "There is reason to believe that it was," returned the prefect, perfectly unmoved. Giovanni stamped his foot upon the floor angrily and turned away. Faustina had drawn back a little and was leaning upon Corona's arm for support, while the latter spoke words of comfort in her ear, such words as she could find at such a time. A timid murmur of approval arose from the others every time Giovanni spoke, but none of them ventured to say anything distinctly. Giovanni was disgusted with them all and turned to the young girl herself. "Donna Faustina, will you tell me what you know?" She had seemed exhausted by the struggle she had already endured, but at Sant' Ilario's question, she straightened herself and came forward again one or two steps. Giovanni thought her eyes very strange, but she spoke collectedly and clearly. "I can only say what I have said before," she answered. "My father sent for me this afternoon, I should think about three o'clock. He spoke of my marriage, which he has been contemplating some time. I answered that I would not marry Prince Frangipani's son, because--" she hesitated. "Because?" "Because I love another man," she continued almost defiantly. "A man who is not a prince but an artist." A murmur of horror ran round the little group of the girl's relations. She glanced at them scornfully. "I am not ashamed of it," she said. "But I would not tell you unless it were necessary--to make you understand how angry he was. I forgot--he had called my mother, and she was there. He sent her away. Then he came back and struck me! I put my handkerchief to my mouth because it bled. He snatched it away and threw it on the floor. He took me by the arm--he was standing--I wrenched myself out of his hands and ran away, because I was afraid of him. I did not see him again. Beyond this I know nothing." Giovanni was struck by the concise way in which Faustina told her story. It was true that she had told it for the second time, but, while believing entirely in her innocence, he saw that her manner might easily have made a bad impression upon the prefect. When she had done, she stood still a moment. Then her hands dropped by her sides and she shrank back again to Corona who put her arm round the girl's waist and supported her. "I must say that my sister's tale seems clearly true," said the feeble voice of Ascanio Bellegra. His thin, fair beard seemed to tremble as he moved his lips. "Seems!" cried Corona indignantly. "It is true! How can any one be so mad as to doubt it?" "I do not deny its truth," said the prefect, speaking in the air. "I only say that the appearances are such as to oblige me to take steps--" "If you lay a hand on her--" began Giovanni. "Do not threaten me," interrupted the other calmly. "My men are outside." Giovanni had advanced towards him with a menacing gesture. Immediately Faustina's sisters-in-law began to whimper and cry with fright, while her brothers made undecided movements as though wishing to part the two angry men, but afraid to come within arm's length of either. "Giovanni!" exclaimed Corona. "Do not be violent--it is of no use. Hear me," she added, turning towards the prefect, and at the same time making a gesture that seemed to shield Faustina. "I am at your service, Signora Principessa, but my time is valuable." "Hear me--I will not detain you long. You are doing a very rash and dangerous thing in trying to arrest Donna Faustina, a thing you may repent of. You are no doubt acting as you believe right, but your heart must tell you that you are wrong. Look at her face. She is a delicate child. Has she the features of a murderess? She is brave against you, because you represent a horrible idea against which her whole nature revolts, but can you believe that she has the courage to do such a deed, the bad heart to will it, or the power to carry it out? Think of what took place. Her father sent for her suddenly. He insisted roughly on a marriage she detests. What woman would not put out her whole strength to resist such tyranny? What woman would submit quietly to be matched with a man she loathes? She said, 'I will not.' She even told her father and mother, together, that she loved another man. Her mother left the room, her mother, the only one from whom she might have expected support. She was alone with her father, and he was angry. Was he an enfeebled invalid, confined to his chair, broken with years, incapable of an effort? Ask his children. We all knew him well. He was not very old, he was tall, erect, even strong for his years. He was angry, beside himself with disappointment. He rises from his chair, he seizes her by the arm, he strikes her in the face with his other hand. You say that he struck her when he was seated. It is impossible--could she not have drawn back, avoiding the blow? Would the blow itself have had such force? No. He was on his feet, a tall, angry man, holding her by one arm. Is it conceivable that she, a frail child, could have had the physical strength to force him back to his seat, to hold him there while she tied that handkerchief round his neck, to resist and suppress his struggles until he was dead? Do you think such a man would die easily? Do you think that to send him out of the world it would be enough to put your fingers to his throat--such little fingers as these?" she held up Faustina's passive hand in her own, before their eyes. "A man does not die in an instant by strangling. He struggles, he strikes desperate blows, he turns to the right and the left, twisting himself with all his might. Could this child have held him? I ask it of your common sense. I ask of your heart whether a creature that God has made so fair, so beautiful, so innocent, could do such terrible work. The woman who could do such things would bear the sign of her badness in her face, and the fear of what she had done in her soul. She would tremble, she would have tried to escape, she would hesitate in her story, she would contradict herself, break down, attempt to shed false tears, act as only a woman who has committed a first great crime could act. And this child stands here, submitted to this fearful ordeal, defended by none, but defending herself with the whole innocence of her nature, the glory of truth in her eyes, the self-conscious courage of a stainless life in her heart. Is this assumed? Is this put on? You have seen murderers--it is your office to see them--did you ever see one like her? Do you not know the outward tokens of guilt when they are before your eyes? You would do a thing that is monstrous in absurdity, monstrous in cruelty, revolting to reason, outrageous to every instinct of human nature. Search, inquire, ask questions, arrest whom you will, but leave this child in peace; this child, with her angel face, her fearless eyes, her guiltless heart!" Encouraged by Corona's determined manner as well as by the good sense of her arguments, the timid flock of relations expressed their approval audibly. Giovanni looked at his wife in some surprise; for he had never heard her make so long a speech before, and had not suspected her of the ability she displayed. He was proud of her in that moment and moved nearer to her, as though ready to support every word she had uttered. The prefect alone stood unmoved by her eloquence. He was accustomed in his profession to hear far more passionate appeals to his sensibilities, and he was moreover a man who, being obliged generally to act quickly, had acquired the habit of acting upon the first impulse of his intelligence. For a moment his heavy lids were raised a little, either in astonishment or in admiration, but no other feature of his face betrayed that he was touched. "Signora Principessa," he said in his usual tone, "those are arguments which may be used with propriety by the persons who will defend the accused before the tribunals--" Giovanni laughed in his face. "Do you suppose, seriously, that Donna Faustina will ever be brought to trial?" he asked scornfully. The prefect kept his temper wonderfully well. "It is my business to suppose so," he answered. "I am not the law, nor his Eminence either, and it is not for me to weigh the defence or to listen to appeals for mercy. I act upon my own responsibility, and it is for me to judge whether the facts are likely to support me. My reputation depends upon my judgment and upon nothing else. The fate of the accused depends upon a number of considerations with which I have nothing to do. I must tell you plainly that this interview must come to an end, I am very patient. I wish to overlook nothing. Arguments are of no avail. If there is any better evidence to offer against any one else in this house, I am here to take note of it." He looked coolly round the circle of listeners. Faustina's relations shrank back a little under his glance. "Not being able to find any person here who appears more likely to be guilty, and having found enough to justify me in my course, I intend to remove this young lady at once to the Termini." "You shall not!" said Giovanni, placing himself in front of him in a threatening attitude. "If you attempt anything of the sort, I will have you in prison yourself before morning." "You do not know what you are saying, Signor Principe. You cannot oppose me. I have an armed force here to obey my orders, and if you attempt forcible opposition I shall be obliged to take you also, very much against my will. Donna Faustina Montevarchi, I have the honour to arrest you. I trust you will make no resistance." The semi-comic phrase fell from his lips in the professional tone; in speaking of the arrest as an honour to himself, he was making an attempt to be civil according to his lights. He made a step forward in the direction of the young girl, but Giovanni seized him firmly by the wrist. He made no effort to release himself, however, but stood still. "Signor Principe, be good enough to let go of my hand." "You shall not touch her," answered Giovanni, not relinquishing his grasp. He was beginning to be dangerous. "Signor Principe, release me at once!" said the prefect in a commanding tone. "Very well, I will call my men," he added, producing a small silver whistle with his free hand and putting it to his lips. "If I call them, I shall have to send you to prison for hindering me in the execution of my duty," he said, fixing his eyes on Giovanni and preparing to sound the call. Giovanni's blood was up, and he would not have let the man go. At that moment, however, Faustina broke from Corona's arms and sprang forward. With one hand she pushed back Sant' Ilario; with the other she seized the whistle. "I will go with you!" she cried, speaking to the prefect. "I will go with him!" she repeated, turning to Giovanni. "It is a horrible mistake, but it is useless to oppose him any longer. I will go, I say!" An hysterical chorus of cries from her relations greeted this announcement. Giovanni made a last effort to prevent her from fulfilling her intention. He was too much excited to see how hopeless the situation really was, and his sense of justice was revolted at the thought of the indignity. "Donna Faustina, I implore you!" he exclaimed. "I can still prevent this outrage--you must not go. I will find the cardinal and explain the mistake--he will send an order at once." "You are mistaken," answered the prefect. "He will do nothing of the kind. Besides, you cannot leave this house without my permission. The doors are all guarded." "But you cannot refuse that request," objected Corona, who had not spoken during the altercation. "It will not take half an hour for my husband to see his Eminence and get the order--" "Nevertheless I refuse," replied the official firmly. "Donna Faustina must go with me at once. You are interfering uselessly and making a useless scandal. My mind is made up." "Then I will go with her," said Corona, pressing the girl to her side and bestowing a contemptuous glance on the cowering figures around her. By this time her sisters-in-law had fallen into their respective husband's arms, and it was hard to say whether the men or the women were more hopelessly hysterical. Giovanni relinquished the contest reluctantly, seeing that he was altogether overmatched by the prefect's soldiers. "I will go too," he said. "You cannot object to our taking Donna Faustina in our carriage." "I do not object to that. But male visitors are not allowed inside the Termini prison after dark. The Signora Principessa may spend the night there if it is her pleasure. I will put a gendarme in your carriage to avoid informality." "I presume you will accept my promise to conduct Donna Faustina to the place," observed Giovanni. The prefect hesitated. "It is informal," he said at last, "but to oblige you I will do it. You give your word?" "Yes--since you are able to use force. We act under protest. You will remember that." Faustina's courage did not forsake her at the last moment. She kissed each of her brothers and each of her sisters-in-law as affectionately as though they had offered to bear her company. There were many loud cries and sobs and protestations of devotion, but not one proposed to go with her. The only one who would have been bold enough was Flavia, and even if she had been present she would not have had the heart to perform such an act of unselfishness. Faustina and Corona, Giovanni and the prefect, left the room together. "I will have you in prison before morning," said Sant' Ilario fiercely, in the ear of the official, as they reached the outer hall. The prefect made no reply, but raised his shoulders almost imperceptibly and smiled for the first time, as he pointed silently to the gendarmes. The latter formed into an even rank and tramped down the stairs after the four persons whom they accompanied. In a few minutes the whole party were on their way to the Termini, Faustina with her friends in Sant' Ilario's carriage, the prefect in his little brougham, the soldiers on their horses, trotting steadily along in a close squad. Faustina sat leaning her head upon Corona's shoulder, while Giovanni looked out of the window into the dark streets, his rage boiling within him, and all the hotter because he was powerless to change the course of events. From time to time he uttered savage ejaculations which promised ill for the prefect's future peace, either in this world or in the next, but the sound of the wheels rolling upon the uneven paving-stones prevented his voice from reaching the two women. "Dear child," said Corona, "do not be frightened. You shall be free to-night or in the morning--I will not leave you." Faustina was silent, but pressed her friend's hand again and again, as though she understood. She herself was overcome by a strange wonderment which made her almost incapable of appreciating what happened to her. She felt very much as she had felt once before, on the night of the insurrection, when she had found herself lying upon the pavement before the half-ruined barracks, stunned by the explosion, unable for a time to collect her senses, supported only by her physical elasticity, which was yet too young to be destroyed by any moral shock. CHAPTER XXII. On the following morning all Rome rang with the news that the Saracinesca had lost their title, and that Faustina Montevarchi had murdered her father. No one connected the two events, but the shock to the public mind was so tremendous that almost any incredible tale would have been believed. The story, as it was generally told, set forth that Faustina had gone mad and had strangled her father in his sleep. Every one agreed in affirming that he had been found dead with her handkerchief tied round his neck. It was further stated that the young girl was no longer in the Palazzo Montevarchi, but had been transferred to the women's prison at the Termini, pending further examination into the details of the case. The Palazzo Montevarchi was draped in black, and before night funeral hatchments were placed upon the front of the parish church bearing the Montevarchi arms. No one was admitted to the palace upon any pretext whatever, though it was said that San Giacinto and Flavia had spent the night there. No member of the family had been seen by any one, and nobody seemed to know exactly whence the various items of information had been derived. Strange to say, every word of what was repeated so freely was true, excepting that part of the tale which accused Faustina of having done the deed. What had taken place up to the time when Corona and Giovanni had come may be thus briefly told. Prince Montevarchi had been found dead by the servant who came to bring a lamp to the study, towards evening, when it grew dark. As soon as the alarm was given a scene of indescribable confusion followed, which lasted until the prefect of police arrived, accompanied by a party of police officials. The handkerchief was examined and identified. Thereupon, in accordance with the Roman practice of that day, the prefect had announced his determination of taking Faustina into custody. The law took it for granted that the first piece of circumstantial evidence which presented itself must be acted upon with the utmost promptitude. A few questions had shown immediately that Faustina was the last person who had seen Montevarchi alive. The young girl exhibited a calmness which surprised every one. She admitted that her father had been angry with her and had struck her, but she denied all knowledge of his death. It is sufficient to say that she fearlessly told the truth, so fearlessly as to prejudice even her own family with regard to her. Even the blood on the handkerchief was against her, though she explained that it was her own, and although the bruise on her lip bore out the statement. The prefect was inexorable. He explained that Faustina could be taken privately to the Termini, and that the family might use its influence on the next day to procure her immediate release, but that his duty compelled him for the present to secure her person, that he was responsible, that he was only doing his duty, and so forth and so on. The consternation of the family may be imagined. The princess broke down completely under what seemed very like a stroke of paralysis. San Giacinto and Flavia were not to be found at their house, and as the carriage had not returned, nobody knew where they were. The wives of Faustina's brothers shut themselves up in their rooms and gave way to hysterical tears, while the brothers themselves seemed helpless to do anything for their sister. Seeing herself abandoned by every one Faustina had sent for Corona Saracinesca. It was the wisest thing she could have done. In a quarter of an hour Corona and her husband entered the room together. The violent scene which followed has been already described, in which Giovanni promised the prefect of police that if he persisted in his intention of arresting Faustina he should himself be lodged in the Carceri Nuove in twelve hours. But the prefect had got the better of the situation, being accompanied by an armed force which Giovanni was powerless to oppose. All that could be obtained had been that Giovanni and Corona should take Faustina to the Termini in their carriage, and that Corona should stay with the unfortunate young girl all night if she wished to do so. Giovanni could not be admitted. The prison of the Termini was under the administration of an order of nuns devoted especially to the care of prisoners. The prefect arrived in his own carriage simultaneously with the one which conveyed his prisoner and her friends. As the gate was opened and one of the sisters appeared, he whispered a few words into her ear. She looked grave at first, and then, when she saw Faustina's angel face, she shook her head incredulously. The prefect had accomplished his duty, however. The prison-gates closed after the two ladies, and the sentinel outside resumed his walk, while the carriages drove away, the one containing the officer of the law and the other Giovanni, who had himself driven at once to the Vatican, in spite of the late hour. The great cardinal received him but, to his amazement, refused an order of release. The sister who admitted Corona and Faustina took the latter's hand kindly and looked into her face by the light of the small lantern she carried. "It is some dreadful mistake, my child," she said. "But I have no course but to obey. You are Donna Faustina Montevarchi?" "Yes--this is the Princess Sant' Ilario." "Will you come with me? I will give you the best room we have--it is not very like a prison." "This is," said Faustina, shuddering at the sight of the massive stone walls, quite as much as from the dampness of the night air. "Courage, dear!" whispered Corona, drawing the girl's slight figure close to her and arranging the mantle upon her shoulders. But Corona herself was uneasy as to the result of the ghastly adventure, and she looked anxiously forward into the darkness beyond the nun's lantern. At last they found themselves in a small whitewashed chamber, so small that it was brightly lighted by the two wicks of a brass oil-lamp on the table. The nun left them alone, at Corona's request, promising to return in the course of an hour. Faustina sat down upon the edge of the little bed, and Corona upon a chair beside her. Until now, the unexpected excitement of what had passed during the last three or four hours had sustained the young girl. Everything that had happened had seemed to be a part of a dream until she found herself at last in the cell of the Termini prison, abandoned by every one save Corona. Her courage broke down. She threw herself back upon the pillow and burst into tears. Corona did not know what to do, but tried to comfort her as well as she could, wondering inwardly what would have happened had the poor child been brought to such a place alone. "What have I done, that such things should happen to me?" cried Faustina at last, sitting up and staring wildly at her friend. Her small white hands lay helplessly in her lap and her rich brown hair was beginning to be loosened and to fall upon her shoulders. The tears stood in Corona's eyes. It seemed to her infinitely pathetic that this innocent creature should have been chosen as the victim to expiate so monstrous a crime. "It will be all cleared up in the morning," she answered, trying to speak cheerfully or at least hopefully. "It is an abominable mistake of the prefect's. I will not leave you, dear--take heart, we will talk--the nun will bring you something to eat--the night will soon pass." "In prison!" exclaimed Faustina, in a tone of horror and despair, not heeding what Corona said. "Try and fancy it is not--" "And my father dead!" She seemed suddenly to realise that he was gone for ever. "Poor papa! poor papa!" she moaned. "Oh, I did not mean to be undutiful--indeed I did not--and I can never tell you so now--" "You must not reproach yourself, darling," said Corona, trying to soothe her and to draw the pitiful pale face to her shoulder, while she wound her arm tenderly about the young girl's waist. "Pray for him, Faustina, but do not reproach yourself too much. After all, dear, he was unkind to you--" "Oh, do not say that--he is dead!" She lowered her voice almost to a whisper as she spoke, and an expression of awe came over her features. "He is dead, Corona. I shall never see him again--oh, why did I not love him more? I am frightened when I think that he is dead--who did it?" The question came suddenly, and Faustina started and shuddered. Corona pressed her to her side and smoothed her hair gently. She felt that she must say something, but she hardly expected that Faustina would understand reason. She gathered her energy, however, to make the best effort in her power. "Listen to me, Faustina," she said, in a tone of quiet authority, "and try and see all this as I see it. It is not right that you should reproach yourself, for you have had no share in your father's death, and if you parted in anger it was his fault, not yours. He is dead, and there is nothing for you to do but to pray that he may rest in peace. You have been accused unjustly of a deed which any one might see you were physically incapable of doing. You will be released from this place to-morrow morning, if not during the night. One thing is absolutely necessary--you must be calm and quiet, or you will have brain fever in a few hours. Do not think I am heartless, dear. A worse thing might have happened to you. You have been suspected by an ignorant man who will pay dearly for his mistake; you might have been suspected by those you love." Corona sighed, and her voice trembled with the last words. To her, Faustina was suffering far more from the shock to her sensibilities than from any real grief. She knew that she had not loved her father, but the horror of his murder and the fright at being held accountable for it were almost enough to drive her mad. And yet she could not be suffering what Corona had suffered in being suspected by Giovanni, she had not that to lose which Corona had lost, the dominating passion of her life had not been suddenly burnt out in the agony of an hour, she was only the victim of a mistake which could have no consequences, which would leave no trace behind. But Faustina shivered and turned paler still at Corona's words. "By those I love? Ah no! Not by him--by them!" The blood rushed to her white face, and her hand fell on her friend's shoulder. Corona heard and knew that the girl was thinking of Anastase. She wondered vaguely whether the hot-headed soldier artist had learned the news and what he would do when he found that Faustina was lodged in a prison. "And yet--perhaps--oh no! It is impossible!" Her sweet, low voice broke again, and was lost in passionate sobbing. For a long time Corona could do nothing to calm her. The tears might be a relief to the girl's overwrought faculties, but they were most distressing to hear and see. "Do you love him very much, dear?" asked Corona, when the paroxysm began to subside. "I would die for him, and he would die for me," answered Faustina simply, but a happy smile shone through her grief that told plainly how much dearer to her was he who was left than he who was dead. "Tell me about him," said Corona softly. "He is a friend of mine--" "Indeed he is! You do not know how he worships you. I think that next to me in the world--but then, of course, he could not love you--besides, you are married." Corona could not help smiling, and yet there was a sting in the words, of which Faustina could not dream. Why could not Giovanni have taken this child's straight-forward, simple view, which declared such a thing impossible--because Corona was married. What a wealth of innocent belief in goodness was contained in that idea! The princess began to discover a strange fascination in finding out what Faustina felt for this man, whom she, Corona, had been suspected of loving. What could it be like to love such a man? He was good-looking, clever, brave, even interesting, perhaps; but to love him--Corona suddenly felt that interest in the analysis of his character which is roused in us when we are all at once brought into the confidence of some one who can tell by experience what we should have felt with regard to a third person, who has come very near to our lives, if he or she had really become a part of our existence. Faustina's present pain and sense of danger momentarily disappeared as she was drawn into talking of what absorbed her whole nature, and Corona saw that by leading the conversation in that direction she might hope to occupy the girl's thoughts. Faustina seemed to forget her misfortunes in speaking of Gouache, and Corona listened, and encouraged her to go on. The strong woman who had suffered so much saw gradually unfolded before her a series of pictures, constituting a whole that was new to her. She comprehended for the first time in her life the nature of an innocent girl's love, and there was something in what she learned that softened her and brought the moisture into her dark eyes. She looked at the delicate young creature beside her, seated upon the rough bed, her angelic loveliness standing out against the cold background of the whitewashed wall. The outline seemed almost vaporous, as though melting into the transparency of the quiet air; the gentle brown eyes were at once full of suffering and full of love; the soft, thick hair fell in disorder upon her shoulders, in that exquisite disorder that belongs to beautiful things in nature when they are set free and fall into the position which is essentially their own; her white fingers, refined and expressive, held Corona's slender olive hand, pressing it and moving as they touched it, with every word she spoke. Corona almost felt that some spiritual, half divine being had glided down from another world to tell her of an angel's love. The elder woman thought of her own life and compared it with what she saw. Sold to a decrepit old husband who had worshipped her in strange, pathetic fashion of his own, she had spent five years in submitting to an affection she loathed, enduring it to the very end, and sacrificing every instinct of her nature in the performance of her duty. Liberated at last, she had given herself up to her love for Giovanni, in a passion of the strong kind that never comes in early youth. She asked herself what had become of that passion, and whether it could ever be revived. In any case it was something wholly different from the love of which Faustina was speaking. She had fought against it when it came, with all her might; being gone, it had left her cold and indifferent to all she could still command, incapable of even pretending to love. It had passed through her life as a whirlwind through a deep forest, and its track was like a scar. What Faustina knew, she could never have known, the sudden growth within her of something beautiful against which there was no need to struggle, the whole-hearted devotion from the first, the joy of a love that had risen suddenly like the dawn of a fair day, the unspeakable happiness of loving intensely in perfect innocence of the world, of giving her whole soul at once and for ever, unconscious that there could be anything else to give. "I would die for him, and he would die for me," Faustina had said, knowing that her words were true. Corona would die for Giovanni now, no doubt, but not because she loved him any longer. She would sacrifice herself for what had been, for the memory of it, for the bitterness of having lost it and of feeling that it could not return. That was a state very different from Faustina's; it was pain, not happiness, despair, not joy, emptiness, not fulness. Her eyes grew sad, and she sighed bitterly as though oppressed by a burden from which she could not escape. Faustina's future seemed to her to be like a beautiful vision among the clouds of sunrise, her own like the reflection of a mournful scene in a dark pool of stagnant water. The sorrow of her life rose in her eyes, until the young girl saw it and suddenly ceased speaking. It was like a reproach to her, for her young nature had already begun to forget its trouble in the sweetness of its own dream. Corona understood the sudden silence, and her expression changed, for she felt that if she dwelt upon what was nearest to her heart she could give but poor consolation. "You are sad," said Faustina. "It is not for me--what is it?" "No. It is not for you, dear child." Corona looked at the young girl for a moment and tried to smile. Then she rose from the chair and turned away, pretending to trim the brass oil-lamp with the little metal snuffers that hung from it by a chain. The tears blinded her. She rested her hands upon the table and bent her head. Faustina watched her in surprise, then slipped from her place on the bed and stood beside her, looking up tenderly into the sad dark eyes from which the crystal drops welled up and trickled down, falling upon the rough deal boards. "What is it, dear?" asked the young girl. "Will you not tell me!" Corona turned and threw her arms round her, pressing her to her breast, almost passionately. Faustina did not understand what was happening. "I never saw you cry before!" she exclaimed in innocent astonishment, as she tried to brush away the tears from her friend's face. "Ah Faustina! There are worse things in the world than you are suffering, child!" Then she made a great effort and overcame the emotion that had taken possession of her. She was ashamed to have played such a part when she had come to the place to give comfort to another. "It is nothing," she said, after a moment's pause. "I think I am nervous--at least, I am very foolish to let myself cry when I ought to be taking care of you." A long silence followed, which was broken at last by the nun, who entered the room, bringing such poor food as the place afforded. She repeated her assurance that Faustina's arrest was the result of a mistake, and that she would be certainly liberated in the morning. Then, seeing that the two friends appeared to be preoccupied, she bade them good-night and went away. It was the longest night Corona remembered to have ever passed. For a long time they talked a little, and at length Faustina fell asleep, exhausted by all she had suffered, while Corona sat beside her, watching her regular breathing and envying her ability to rest. She herself could not close her eyes, though she could not explain her wakefulness. At last she lay down upon the other bed and tried to forget herself. After many hours she lost consciousness for a time, and then awoke suddenly, half stifled by the sickening smell of the lamp which had gone out, filling the narrow room with the odour of burning oil. It was quite dark, and the profound silence was broken only by the sound of Faustina's evenly-drawn breath. The poor child was too weary to be roused by the fumes that had disturbed Corona's rest. But Corona rose and groped her way to the window, which she opened as noiselessly as she could. Heavy iron bars were built into the wall upon the outside, and she grasped the cold iron with a sense of relief as she looked out at the quiet stars, and tried to distinguish the trees which, as she knew, were planted on the other side of the desolate grass-grown square, along the old wall that stood there, at that time, like a fortification between the Termini and the distant city. Below the window the sentry tramped slowly up and down in his beat, his steps alone breaking the intense stillness of the winter night. Corona realised that she was in a prison. There was something in the discomfort which was not repugnant to her, as she held the grating in her fingers and let the cold air blow upon her face. After all, she thought, her life would seem much the same in such a place, in a convent, perhaps, where she could be alone all day, all night, for ever. She could not be more unhappy behind those bars than she had often been in the magnificent palaces in which her existence had been chiefly passed. Nothing gave her pleasure, nothing interested her, nothing had the power to distract her mind from the aching misery that beset it. She said to herself a hundred times a day that such apathy was unworthy of her, and she blamed herself when she found that even the loss of the great Saracinesca suit left her indifferent. She did no good to herself and none to any one else, so far as she could see, unless it were good to allow Giovanni to love her, now that she no longer felt a thrill of pleasure at his coming nor at the sound of his voice. At least she had been honest. She could say that, for she had not deceived him. She had forgiven him, but was it her fault if he had destroyed that which he now most desired? Was it her fault that forgiveness did not mean love? Her suffering was not the selfish pain of wounded vanity, for Giovanni's despair would have healed such a wound by showing her the strength of his passion. There was no resentment in her heart, either, for she longed to love him. But even the habit of loving was gone, broken away and forgotten in the sharp agony of an hour. She had done her best to bring it back, she had tried to repeat phrases that had once come from her heart with the conviction of great joy, each time they had been spoken. But the words were dead and meant nothing, or if they had a meaning they told her of the change in herself. She was willing to argue against it, to say again and again that she had no right to be so changed, that there had been enough to make any man suspicious, that she would have despised him had he overlooked such convincing evidence. Could a man love truly and not have some jealousy in his nature? Could a man have such overwhelming proof given him of guilt in the woman he adored and yet show nothing, any more than if she had been a stranger? But the argument was not satisfactory, nor conclusive. If human ills could be healed by the use of logic, there would long since have been no unhappiness left in the world. Is there anything easier than to deceive one's self when one wishes to be deceived? Nothing, surely, provided that the inner reality of ourselves which we call our hearts consents to the deception. But if it will not consent, then there is no help in all the logic that has been lavished upon the philosophy of a dozen ages. Her slender fingers tightened upon the freezing bars, and once more, in the silent night, her tears flowed down as she looked up at the stars through the prison window. The new condition of her life sought an expression she had hitherto considered as weak and despicable, and against which she struggled even now. There was no relief in weeping, it brought her no sense of rest, no respite from the dull consciousness of her situation; and yet she could not restrain the drops that fell so fast upon her hands. She suffered always, without any intermittence, as people do who have little imagination, with few but strong passions and a constant nature. There are men and women whose active fancy is able to lend a romantic beauty to misfortune, which gives some pleasure even to themselves, or who can obtain some satisfaction, if they are poets, by expressing their pain in grand or tender language. There are others to whom sorrow is but a reality, for which all expression seems inadequate. Corona was such a woman, too strong to suffer little, too unimaginative to suffer poetically. There are those who might say that she exaggerated the gravity of the position, that, since Giovanni had always been faithful to her, had acknowledged his error and repented of it so sincerely, there was no reason why she should not love him as before. The answer is very simple. The highest kind of love not only implies the highest trust in the person loved, but demands it in return; the two conditions are as necessary to each other as body and soul, so that if one is removed from the other, the whole love dies. Our relations with our fellow-creatures are reciprocal in effect, whatever morality may require in theory, from the commonest intercourse between mere acquaintances to the bond between man and wife. An honest man will always hesitate to believe another unless he himself is believed. Humanity gives little, on the whole, unless it expects a return; still less will men continue to give when their gifts have been denounced to them as false, no matter what apology is offered after the mistake has been discovered. Corona was very human, and being outwardly cold, she was inwardly more sensitive to suspicion than very expansive women can ever be. With women who express very readily what they feel, the expression often assumes such importance as to deceive them into believing their passions to be stronger than they are. Corona had given all, love, devotion, faithfulness, and yet, because appearances had been against her, Giovanni had doubted her. He had cut the plant down at the very root, and she had nothing more to give. Faustina moved in her sleep. Corona softly closed the window and once more lay down to rest. The hours seemed endless as she listened for the bells. At last the little room grew gray and she could distinguish the furniture in the gloom. Then all at once the door opened, and the nun entered, bearing her little lantern and peering over it to try and see whether the occupants of the chamber were awake. In the shadow behind her Corona could distinguish the figure of a man. "The prince is here," said the sister in a low voice, as she saw that Corona's eyes were open. The latter glanced at Faustina, whose childlike sleep was not interrupted. She slipped from the bed and went out into the corridor. The nun would have led the two down to the parlour, but Corona would not go so far from Faustina. At their request she opened an empty cell a few steps farther on, and left Giovanni and his wife alone in the gray dawn. Corona looked eagerly into his eyes for some news concerning the young girl. He took her hand and kissed it. "My darling--that you should have spent the night in such a place as this!" he exclaimed. "Never mind me. Is Faustina at liberty? Did you see the cardinal?" "I saw him." Giovanni shook his head. "And do you mean to say that he would not give the order at once?" "Nothing would induce him to give it. The prefect got there before me, and I was kept waiting half an hour while they talked the matter over. The cardinal declared to me that he knew there had been an enmity between Faustina and her father concerning her love for Gouache--" "Her love for Gouache!" repeated Corona slowly, looking into his eyes. She could not help it. Giovanni turned pale and looked away as he continued. "Yes, and he said that the evidence was very strong, since no one had been known to enter the house, and the servants were clearly innocent--not one of them betrayed the slightest embarrassment." "In other words, he believes that Faustina actually did it?" "It looks like it," said Giovanni in a low voice. "Giovanni!" she seized his arm. "Do you believe it, too?" "I will believe whatever you tell me." "She is as innocent as I!" cried Corona, her eyes blazing with indignation. Giovanni understood more from the words than she meant to convey. "Will you never forgive?" he asked sadly. "I did not mean that--I meant Faustina. Giovanni--you must get her away from here. You can, if you will." "I will do much for you," he answered quietly. "It is not for me. It is for an unfortunate child who is the victim of a horrible mistake. I have comforted her by promising that she should be free this morning. She will go mad if she is kept here." "Whatever I do, I do for you, and I will do nothing for any one else. For you or for no one, but I must know that it is really for you." Corona understood and turned away. It was broad daylight now, as she looked through the grating of the window, watching the people who passed, without seeing them. "What is Faustina Montevarchi to me, compared with your love?" Giovanni asked. Something in the tone of his voice made her look at him. She saw the intensity of his feeling in his eyes, and she wondered that he should try to tempt her to love him with, such an insignificant bribe--with the hope of liberating the young girl. She did not understand that he was growing desperate. Had she known what was in his mind she might have made a supreme effort to deceive herself into the belief that he was still to her what he had been so long. But she did not know. "For the sake of her innocence, Giovanni!" she exclaimed. "Can you let a child like that suffer so? I am sure, if you really would you could manage it, with your influence. Do you not see that I am suffering too, for the girl's sake?" "Will you say that it is for your sake?" "For my sake--if you will," she cried almost impatiently. "For your sake, then," he answered. "Remember that it is for you, Corona." Before she could answer, he had left the room, without another word, without so much as touching her hand. Corona gazed sadly at the open door, and then returned to Faustina. An hour later the nun entered the cell, with a bright smile on her face. "Your carriage is waiting for you--for you both," she said, addressing the princess. "Donna Faustina is free to return to her mother." CHAPTER XXIII. When Giovanni Saracinesca had visited Cardinal Antonelli on the previous evening, he had been as firmly persuaded that Faustina was innocent, as Corona herself, and was at first very much astonished by the view the great man took of the matter. But as the latter developed the case, the girl's guilt no longer seemed impossible, or even improbable. The total absence of any ostensible incentive to the murder gave Faustina's quarrel with her father a very great importance, which was further heightened by the nature of the evidence. There had been high words, in the course of which the Princess Montevarchi had left the room, leaving her daughter alone with the old man. No one had seen him alive after that moment, and he had been found dead, evidently strangled with her handkerchief. The fact that Faustina had a bruise on her arm and a cut on her lip pointed to the conclusion that a desperate struggle had taken place. The cardinal argued that, although she might not have had the strength to do the deed if the contest had begun when both were on their feet, it was by no means impossible that so old a man might have been overcome by a young and vigorous girl, if she had attacked him when he was in his chair, and was prevented from rising by the table before him. As for the monstrosity of the act, the cardinal merely smiled when Giovanni alluded to it. Had not fathers been murdered by their children before, and in Rome? The argument had additional weight, when Giovanni remembered Faustina's wild behaviour on the night of the insurrection. A girl who was capable of following a soldier into action, and who had spent hours in searching for him after such an appalling disaster as the explosion of the Serristori barracks, might well be subject to fits of desperate anger, and it was by no means far from likely, if her father had struck her in the face from his place at the table, that she should have laid violent hands upon him, seizing him by the throat and strangling him with her handkerchief. Her coolness afterwards might be only a part of her odd nature, for she was undoubtedly eccentric. She might be mad, said the cardinal, shaking his head, but there was every probability that she was guilty. In those days there was no appeal from the statesman's decisions in such matters. Faustina would remain a prisoner until she could be tried for the crime. His Eminence was an early riser, and was not altogether surprised that Giovanni should come to him at such an hour, especially as he knew that the Princess Sant' Ilario had spent the night with Faustina in the Termini prison. He was altogether taken aback, however, by Giovanni's manner, and by the communication he made. "I had the honour of telling your Eminence last night, that Donna Faustina Montevarchi was innocent," began Giovanni, who refused the offer of a seat. "I trusted that she might be liberated immediately, but you have determined otherwise. I am not willing that an innocent person should suffer unjustly. I have come, therefore, to surrender myself to justice in this case." The cardinal stared, and an expression of unmitigated astonishment appeared upon his delicate olive features, while his nervous hands grasped the arms of his chair. "You!" he cried. "I, your Eminence. I will explain myself. Yesterday the courts delivered their verdict, declaring that my cousin San Giacinto is Prince Saracinesca, instead of my father, and transferring to him all our hereditary property. The man who found out that there was a case against us, and caused it to be brought to trial, was Prince Montevarchi. You may perhaps understand my resentment against him. If you recollect the evidence which was detailed to you last night you will see that it was quite possible for me to go to him without being observed. The door chanced to be open, and there was no one in the hall. I am perfectly acquainted with the house. Several hours elapsed between the time when Donna Faustina left her father and the moment when he was found dead in his chair. You can understand how I could enter the room unseen, how angry words naturally must have arisen between us, and how, losing my self-control, I could have picked up Donna Faustina's handkerchief which, as she says, lay upon the floor, and knotted it effectually round the old man's neck. What could he do in my hands? The study is far from the other rooms the family inhabit, and is near the hall. To go quietly out would not have been a difficult matter for any one who knew the house. Your Eminence knows as well as I the shallowness of circumstantial evidence." "And do you tell me, calmly, like this, that you murdered a helpless old man out of revenge?" asked the cardinal, half-indignantly, half-incredulously. "Would I surrender myself as the murderer, for a caprice?" inquired Giovanni, who was very pale. The cardinal looked at him and was silent for a few moments. He was puzzled by what he heard, and yet his common sense told him that he had no course but to liberate Faustina and send Giovanni to prison. He felt, too, that he ought to experience an instinctive repulsion, for the man before him, who, by his own showing, had been guilty of such a horrible crime; but he was conscious of no such sensation. He was a man of exceedingly quick and true intuitions, who judged the persons with whom he had business very accurately. There was a lack of correspondence between his intelligence and his feelings which roused his curiosity. "You have told me a very strange story," he said. "Less strange than the one your Eminence has believed since last night," returned Giovanni calmly. "I do not know. It is more easy for me to believe that the girl was momentarily out of her mind than that you, whom I have known all my life, should have done such a thing. Besides, in telling me your story, you have never once positively asserted that you did it. You have only explained that it would have been possible for a man so disposed to accomplish the murder unsuspected." "Is a man obliged to incriminate himself directly? It seems to me that in giving myself up I have done all that a man's conscience can possibly require--outside of the confessional. I shall be tried, and my lawyer will do what he can to obtain my acquittal." "That is poor logic. Whether you confess or not, you have accused yourself in a way that must tell against you very strongly. You really leave me no choice." "Your Eminence has only to do what I request, to liberate Donna Faustina and to send me to prison." "You are a very strange man," said the cardinal in a musing tone, as he leaned back in his chair and scrutinised Giovanni's pale, impenetrable face. "I am a desperate man, that is all." "Will you give me your word of honour that Faustina Montevarchi is innocent?" "Yes," answered Giovanni without the slightest hesitation, and meeting the gaze of the cardinal's bright eyes unflinchingly. The latter paused a moment, and then turned in his chair, and taking a piece of paper wrote a few words upon it. Then he rang a little hand-bell that stood beside him. His servant entered, as he was folding and sealing the note. "To the Termini prison," he said. "The messenger had better take my carriage," observed Giovanni. "I shall not need it again." "Take Prince Sant' Ilario's carriage," added the cardinal, and the man left the room. "And now," he continued, "will you be good enough to tell me what I am to do with you?" "Send me to the Carceri Nuove, or to any convenient place." "I will do nothing that can be an injury to you hereafter," answered the statesman. "Something tells me that you have had nothing to do with this dreadful murder. But you must know that though you may deceive me--I am not omniscient--I will not tolerate any contempt of the ways of justice. You have surrendered yourself as the criminal, and I intend to take you at your word." "I ask for nothing else. Put me where you please, do what you please with me. It matters very little." "You act like a man who has had an unfortunate love affair," remarked the cardinal. "It is true that you have just lost your fortune, and that may account for it. But I repeat that, whatever your motives may be, you shall not trifle with the law. You wish to be a prisoner. The law will oblige you so far as to comply with your request. I warn you that, after this, you can only obtain your freedom through a proper trial." "Pray let it be so. My motives can be of no importance. The law shall judge the facts and give its verdict." "The law will certainly do so. In the meantime, you will spend the day in a room of my apartments, and this evening, when it is dark, you will be quietly transferred to a place of safety--and secrecy. If the real murderer is ever found, I do not wish your life to have been ruined by such a piece of folly as I believe you are committing. You say you are a desperate man, and you are acting, I think, as though you were. Your family affairs may have led to this state, but they do not concern me. You will, however, be good enough to swear, here, solemnly, laying your hand upon this book, that you will not attempt to destroy yourself." "I swear," said Giovanni, touching the volume which the cardinal presented to him. "Very good. Now follow me, if you please, to the room where you must spend the day." Giovanni found himself in a small chamber which contained only a large writing-table and a couple of chairs, and which seemed to have been destined for some sort of office. The cardinal closed the door, and Giovanni heard him turn the key and remove it from the lock. Then, for the first time, he reflected upon what he had done. He had spoken the truth when he had said that he was desperate. No other word could describe his state. A sort of madness had taken possession of him while he was talking with Corona, and he was still under its influence. There had been something in her manner which had seemed to imply that he was not doing his best to liberate Faustina, and indeed, when he remembered that the girl's innocence was by no means clear to him, he ought not to have been surprised at Corona's imputation. And yet, he had now pledged his word to the cardinal that Faustina had not done the deed. Corona's unwillingness to admit that it was for her own sake she asked his help had driven him nearly out of his mind, and when she had at last said it, even reluctantly, he had immediately resolved to show her what he was willing to do for one word of hers when she chose to speak it. He had from that moment but one thought, to free Faustina at any cost, and no plan suggested itself to him but to surrender himself in the girl's place. As a matter of fact, he could not have accomplished his purpose so quickly or surely in any other way, and perhaps he could not have otherwise accomplished it at all. It had been quite clear to him from the first that the cardinal was prejudiced against Faustina, owing, no doubt, to the representations of the prefect of police. Giovanni had carried the evidence against her clearly in his mind, and as soon as he thought of the expedient he saw how it would have been quite possible for himself, or for any other man who knew the house, to commit the murder. As for the detail concerning the doors being open, there was nothing improbable in it, seeing that there were many servants in the establishment, and that each one would suspect and accuse one of his companions of the carelessness. Nothing was easier than to construct the story, and he had supposed that nothing would be simpler than to make the cardinal believe it. He had been surprised to find himself mistaken upon this point, but he felt a thrill of triumph that more than repaid him for what he had done, when he saw the messenger leave the room with the order to liberate Faustina. Corona had spoken, had asked him to do a hard thing for her sake, and her caprice was satisfied, it mattered little at what cost. She had given him an opportunity of showing what he would do for her, and that opportunity had not been thrown away. But as he sat alone in the little room the cardinal had assigned to him, he began to realise the magnitude of what he had been doing, and to see how his actions would be judged by others. He had surrendered himself as a murderer, and was to be treated as one. When the time came for the trial, might it not happen with him as with many another innocent man who has put himself into a false position? Might he not be condemned? Nothing that he could say hereafter could remove the impression created by his giving himself up to justice. Any denial hereafter would be supposed to proceed from fear and not from innocence. And if he were condemned, what would become of Corona, of his father, of little Orsino? He shuddered at the thought. What, he asked himself, would be the defence? Yesterday afternoon he had been out of the house during several hours, and had walked alone, he hardly remembered where. Since the crisis in his life which had separated him from Corona in fact, if not in appearance, he often walked alone, wandering aimlessly through the streets. Would any of his acquaintance come forward and swear to having seen him at the time Montevarchi was murdered? Probably not. And if not, how could it be proved, in the face of his own statement to the cardinal, that he might not have gone to the palace, seeking an opportunity of expending his wrath on the old prince, that he might not have lost his self-control in a fit of anger and strangled the old man as he sat in his chair? As he himself had said, there was far more reason to believe that the Saracinesca had killed Montevarchi out of revenge, than that a girl like Faustina should have strangled her own father because he had interfered in her love affairs. If the judges took this view of the case, it was clear that Giovanni would have little chance of an acquittal. The thing looked so possible that even Corona might believe it--even Corona, for whose sake he had rushed madly into such desperate danger. And to-day she would not see him; very possibly she would not know where he was. And to-morrow? And the next day? And all the days after that? He supposed that he would be allowed to write to her, perhaps to see her, but it would be hard to explain his position. She did not love him any longer, and she would not understand. He wondered how much she would care, if she really cared at all, beyond a discreet anxiety for his safety. She would certainly not comprehend a love like his, which had chosen such a sacrifice, rather than allow her wish to remain ungratified. How could she, since she did not love him? And yet, it was imperatively necessary that she should be informed of what had happened. She might otherwise suppose, naturally enough, that some accident had befallen him, and she would in that case apply to the police, perhaps to the cardinal himself, to find out where he was. Such a contingency must be prevented, by some means, before night. Until then, she would not be frightened by his absence. There would be time, perhaps, when he was removed to the prison--to the place of safety and secrecy, of which the cardinal had spoken, and which in all probability was the Holy Office. No questions were asked there. There were writing materials on the broad table, and Giovanni began a letter to his wife. After a few minutes, however, he stopped, for he saw from what he had written that he was in no condition to attempt such a task. The words came quickly and fluently, but they expressed what he had no intention of telling Corona again. His love for her was still uppermost in his mind, and instead of trying to explain what had occurred, he found himself setting down phrases that told of nothing but a mad passion. The thought of her cold face when she should read the lines arrested his hand, and he threw down the pen impatiently, and returned to his meditations for a while. What he wanted to do was to tell her in the fewest possible words that he was alive and well. What else should he tell her? The statement would allay any anxiety she might feel, and his absence would doubtless be a relief to her. The thought was bitter, but he knew that nothing exasperates a woman like the constant presence of a man she has loved, who loves her more than ever, and for whom she no longer feels anything. At last he took another sheet of paper and tried again. "Dear Corona--When you get this, Faustina will be at liberty, according to your wish. Do not be anxious if you do not see me for a few days, as I am called away on urgent business. Tell my father, and any of our friends who ask about me, that I am at Saracinesca, superintending the removal of such effects as are not to go to San Giacinto. I will let you know when I am coming back--Your affectionate GIOVANNI." He read the note over twice, and then folded it, addressing it to his wife. His face expressed the most profound dejection when he had finished his task, and for a long time he leaned back in his chair, gazing at the morning sunlight that slowly crept across the floor, while his hands lay folded passively upon the table. The end of his love seemed very bitter as he thought of the words he had written. A few weeks ago to leave Corona thus unexpectedly would have caused her the greatest pain. Now, he felt that he need say nothing, that it would be useless to say anything, more than he had said. It was nothing to her, whether he stayed in Rome or went to the ends of the earth; indeed, he suspected that she would be glad to be left alone--unless she should discover why he had gone, and whither. This last consideration recalled to him his situation, and for a moment he was horrified at his own rashness. But the thought did not hold him long, and presently he asked himself apathetically what it could matter in the end. The hours passed slowly, and still he sat motionless by the table, the folded letter lying before him. The cardinal had scarcely returned to his study when a second card was brought to him. The gentleman, said the servant, had assured him that his Eminence would receive him, as he had important information to give concerning the murder of Prince Montevarchi. The cardinal could not repress a smile as he read the name of Anastase Gouache. The young man entered the room, and advanced in obedience to the cardinal's friendly gesture. He was as pale as death, and his soft dark eyes had an expression of despair in them such as the great man had rarely seen. For the rest, he wore his uniform, and was as carefully dressed as usual. "Your Eminence has doubtless heard of this dreadful murder?" began Gouache, forgetting all formality in the extremity of his excitement. "Yes," said the cardinal, sitting down. "You have something to communicate concerning it, I understand." "Donna Faustina Montevarchi has been charged with the crime, and is in the prison of the Termini," answered the Zouave, speaking hurriedly. "I am here to ask your Eminence to order her release without delay---" "On what grounds?" inquired the statesman, raising his eyebrows a little as though surprised by the way in which the request was made. "Because she is innocent, because her arrest was due to the mistake of the prefect of police--the evidence was against her, but it was absurd to suppose that she could have done it---" "The prefect of police received my approval. Have you any means of showing that she is innocent?" "Showing it?" repeated Gouache, who looked dazed for a moment, but recovered himself immediately, turning white to the lips. "What could be easier?" he exclaimed. "The murderer is before you--I saw the prince, I asked him for his daughter's hand in marriage, he insulted me. I left the room, but I returned soon afterwards. I found him alone, and I killed him--I do not know how I did it---" "With Donna Faustina's handkerchief," suggested the cardinal. "Perhaps you do not remember that it was lying on the floor and that you picked it up and knotted it---" "Yes, yes! Round his neck," cried Gouache nervously. "I remember. But I saw red, everything swam, the details are gone. Here I am--your Eminence's prisoner--I implore you to send the order at once!" The cardinal had hitherto maintained a grave expression. His features suddenly relaxed and he put out his hand. "My dear Monsieur Gouache, I like you exceedingly," he said. "You are a man of heart." "I do not understand---" Anastase was very much bewildered, but he saw that his plan for freeing Faustina was on the point of failure. "I appreciate your motives," continued the statesman. "You love the young lady to distraction, she is arrested on a capital charge, you conceive the idea of presenting yourself as the murderer in her place--" "But I assure your Eminence, I swear--" "No," interrupted the other, raising his hand. "Do not swear. You are incapable of such a crime. Besides, Donna Faustina is already at liberty, and the author of the deed has already confessed his guilt." Anastase staggered against the projecting shelf of the bookcase. The blood rushed to his face and for a moment he was almost unconscious of where he was. The cardinal's voice recalled him to himself. "If you doubt what I tell you, you need only go to the Palazzo Montevarchi and inquire. Donna Faustina will return with the Princess Sant' Ilario. I am sorry that circumstances prevent me from showing you the man who has confessed the crime. He is in my apartments at the present moment, separated from us only by two or three rooms." "His name, Eminence?" asked Gouache, whose whole nature seemed to have changed in a moment. "Ah, his name must for the present remain a secret in my keeping, unless, indeed, you have reason to believe that some one else did the murder. Have you no suspicions? You know the family intimately, it seems. You would probably have heard the matter mentioned, if the deceased prince had been concerned in any quarrel--in any transaction which might have made him an object of hatred to any one we know. Do you recall anything of the kind? Sit down, Monsieur Gouache. You are acquitted, you see. Instead of being a murderer you are the good friend who once painted my portrait in this very room. Do you remember our charming conversations about Christianity and the universal republic?" "I shall always remember your Eminence's kindness," answered Gouache, seating himself and trying to speak as quietly as possible. His nervous nature was very much unsettled by what had occurred. He had come determined that Faustina should be liberated at any cost, overcome by the horror of her situation, ready to lay down his life for her in the sincerity of his devotion. His conduct had been much more rational than Giovanni's. He had nothing to lose but himself, no relations to be disgraced by his condemnation, none to suffer by his loss. He had only to sacrifice himself to set free for ever the woman he loved, and he had not hesitated a moment in the accomplishment of his purpose. But the revulsion of feeling, when he discovered that Faustina was already known to be innocent, and that there was no need for his intervention, was almost more than he could bear. The tears of joy stood in his eyes while he tried to be calm. "Have you any suspicions?" asked the cardinal again, in his gentle voice. "None, Eminence. The only thing approaching to a quarrel, of which I have heard, is the suit about the title of the Saracinesca. But of course that can have nothing to do with the matter. It was decided yesterday without opposition." "It could have nothing to do with the murder, you think?" inquired the statesman with an air of interest. "No. How could it?" Gouache laughed at the idea. "The Saracinesca could not murder their enemies as they used to do five hundred years ago. Besides, your Eminence has got the murderer and must be able to guess better than I what were the incentives to the crime." "That does not follow, my friend. A man who confesses a misdeed is not bound to incriminate any one else, and a man whose conscience is sensitive enough to make him surrender himself naturally assumes the blame. He suffers remorse, and does not attempt any defence, excepting such as you yourself just now gave me, when you said that the prince had insulted you. Enough to give a semblance of truth to the story. By the bye, is that true?" "It is and it is not," answered Gouache, blushing a little. "The poor man, when I began to explain my position, thought--how shall I say? He thought I wanted to sell him a picture. It was not his fault." "Poor man!" sighed the cardinal. "He had not much tact. And so, Monsieur Gouache, you think that the great Saracinesca suit has had nothing to do with the murder?" "It seems to me impossible. It looks rather as though he had been murdered by a servant, out of spite. It is hard to believe that any one not belonging to the house could have done it." "I think the public will agree with you. I will occupy myself with the matter. Perhaps I have got the man safe in that room, but who knows? If you had come first, you might have gone to the Carceri Nuove instead of him. After all, he may be in love too." The cardinal smiled, but Gouache started at the suggestion, as though it hurt him. "I doubt that," he said quickly. "So do I. It would be a strange coincidence, if two innocent men had accused themselves of the same crime, out of love, within twenty-four hours of its being committed. But now that you are calm--yes, you were beside yourself with excitement--I must tell you that you have done a very rash thing indeed. If I had not chanced to be a friend of yours, what would have become of you? I cannot help liking your courage and devotion--you have shown it in sterner matters, and in the face of the enemy--but you might have destroyed yourself. That would have been a great sin." "Is there no case in which a man may destroy himself deliberately?" "You speak of suicide? It was almost that you contemplated. No. The church teaches that a man who takes his own life goes straight to hell. So does Mohammed, for that matter." "In any case?" "In any case. It is a mortal sin." "But," objected Gouache, "let us suppose me a very bad man, exercising a destroying influence on many other people. Suppose, in short, for the sake of argument, that my life caused others to lose their own souls, and that by killing myself I knew that they would all become good again. Suppose then, that I suddenly repented and that there was no way of saving these people but by my own suicide. Would it not be more honourable in me to say, 'Very well, I will submit to damnation rather than send all those others to eternal flames?' Should I not be justified in blowing out my brains?" The cardinal did not know whether to smile or to look grave. He was neither a priest nor a theologian, but a statesman. "My dear friend," he answered at last. "The ingenuity of your suppositions passes belief. I can only say that, when you find yourself in such a bad case as you describe, I will submit the matter for you to the Holy Father himself. But I would strongly advise you to avoid the situation if you possibly can." Gouache took his leave with a light heart, little guessing as he descended the great marble staircase that Giovanni Saracinesca was the prisoner of whom the cardinal had spoken so mysteriously, still less that he, too, had falsely accused himself of having killed poor old Montevarchi. He wondered, as he walked rapidly along the streets in the bright morning sunshine, who the man was, and why he had done such a thing, but his thoughts were really with Faustina, and he longed to see her and to hear from her own lips the true version of what had happened. CHAPTER XXIV. Arnoldo Meschini was fully conscious of what he had done when he softly closed the door of the study behind him and returned to the library; but although he knew and realised that he had murdered his employer, he could not explain the act to himself. His temples throbbed painfully and there was a bright red spot in each of his sallow cheeks. He shuffled about from one bookcase to another, and his hands trembled violently as he touched the big volumes. Now and then he glanced towards one or the other of the doors expecting at every moment that some one would enter to tell him the news, if indeed any one at such a time should chance to remember the existence of the humble librarian. His brain was on fire and seemed to burn the sockets of his eyes. And yet the time passed, and no one came. The suspense grew to be unbearable, and he felt that he would do anything to escape from it. He went to the door and laid his hand upon the latch. For an instant the flush disappeared from his cheeks, as a great fear took possession of him. He was not able to face the sight of Montevarchi's body lying across that table in the silent study. His hand fell to his side and he almost ran to the other side of the library; then, as though ashamed of his weakness he came back slowly and listened at the door. It was scarcely possible that any distant echo could reach his ears, if the household had been already roused, for the passage was long and tortuous, interrupted by other doors and by a winding staircase. But in his present state he fancied that his senses must be preternaturally sharpened and he listened eagerly. All was still. He went back to the books. There was nothing to be done but to make a desperate effort to occupy himself and to steady his nerves. If any one came now, he thought, his face would betray him. There must be a light in his eyes, an uncertainty in his manner which would speak plainly enough to his guilt. He tried to imagine what would take place when the body was found. Some one would enter the room and would see the body. He, or she, would perhaps think that the prince was in a fit, or asleep--who could tell? But he would not answer the voice that called him. Then the person would come forward and touch him--Meschini forced himself to think of it--would touch the dead hand and would feel that it was cold. With a cry of horror the person would hasten from the room. He might hear that cry, if he left the door open. Again he laid his hand upon the latch. His fingers seemed paralysed and the cold sweat stood on his face, but he succeeded in mastering himself enough to turn the handle and look out. The cry came, but it was from his own lips. He reeled back from the entrance in horror, his eyes starting from his head. There stood the dead man, in the dusky passage, shaking at him the handkerchief. It was only his fancy. He passed his hand across his forehead and a sickly look of relief crept over his face. He had been frightened by his own coat, that hung on a peg outside, long and thin and limp, a white handkerchief depending from the wide pocket. There was not much light in the corridor. He crept cautiously out and took the garment from its place with a nervous, frightened gesture. Dragging it after him, he hastily re-entered the library and rolled up the coat into a shape that could not possibly resemble anything which might frighten him. He laid it upon the table in the brightest place, where the afternoon sun fell upon it. There was a sort of relief in making sure that the thing could not again look like the dead man. He looked up and saw with renewed terror that he had left the door open. There was nothing but air between him and the place where that awful shadow had been conjured up by his imagination. The door must be shut. If it remained open he should go mad. He tried to think calmly, but it was beyond his power. He attempted to say that there was nothing there and that the door might as well remain open as be shut. But even while making the effort to reason with himself, he was creeping cautiously along the wall, in the direction of the entrance. By keeping his eyes close to the wooden panelling he could advance without seeing into the corridor. He was within a foot of the opening. Convulsed with fear, he put out his hand quickly and tried to pull the heavy oak on its hinges by the projecting bevel, but it was too heavy--he must look out in order to grasp the handle. The cold drops trickled down from his brow and he breathed hard, but he could not go back and leave the door unclosed. With a suppressed sob of agony he thrust out his head and arm. In a moment it was over, but the moral effort had been terrible, and his strength failed him, so that he staggered against the wainscot and would have fallen but for its support. Some moments elapsed before he could get to a chair, and when he at last sat down in a ray of sunshine to rest, his eyes remained fixed upon the sculptured brass handle of the latch. He almost expected that it would turn mysteriously of itself and that the dead prince would enter the room. He realised that in his present condition he could not possibly face the person who before long would certainly bring him the news. He must have something to stimulate him and deaden his nerves. He had no idea how long a time had elapsed since he had done the deed, but it seemed that three or four hours must certainly have passed. In reality it was scarcely five and twenty minutes since he had left the study. He remembered suddenly that he had some spirits in his room at the top of the palace. Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet and went towards the other exit from the library, which, as in many ancient houses, opened upon the grand staircase, so as to give free access to visitors from without. He had to cross the broad marble landing, whence a masked door led to the narrow winding steps by which he ascended to the upper story. He listened to hear whether any one was passing, and then went out. Once on his way he moved more quickly than seemed possible for a man so bent and mis-shapen. The bright afternoon sun streamed in through the window of his little chamber, a relief from the sombre gloominess of the lofty library, where the straggling rays seemed to make the great hall more shadowy by contrast. But Meschini did not stop to look about him. In a closet in the wall he kept his stores, his chemicals, his carefully-composed inks, his bits of prepared parchment, and, together with many other articles belonging to his illicit business, he had a bottle of old brandy, which the butler had once given him out of the prince's cellar, in return for a bit of legal advice which had saved the servant a lawyer's fee. Arnoldo Meschini had always been a sober man, like most Italians, and the bottle had stood for years unopened in the cupboard. He had never thought of it, but, having been once placed there, it had been safe. The moment had come when the stimulant was precious. His fingers shook as he put the bottle to his lips; when he set it down they were steady. The liquor acted like an enchantment, and the sallow-faced man smiled as he sat alone by his little table and looked at the thing that had restored him. The bottle had been full when he began to drink; the level of the liquid was now a good hand's breadth below the neck. The quantity he had swallowed would have made a temperate man, in his normal state, almost half drunk. He sat still for a long time, waiting to see whether the draught would produce any other effect. He felt a pleasant warmth in his face and hands, the perspiration had disappeared from his brow, and he was conscious that he could now look out of the open door of the library without fear, even if his coat were hanging on the peg. It was incredible to him that he should have been so really terrified by a mere shadow. He had killed Prince Montevarchi, and the body was lying in the study. Yes, he could think of it without shuddering, almost without an unpleasant sensation. In the dead man's own words, it had been an act of divine justice and retribution, and since nobody could possibly discover the murderer, there was matter for satisfaction in the idea that the wicked old man no longer cumbered the earth with his presence. Strange, that he should have suffered such an agony of fear half an hour earlier. Was it half an hour? How pleasantly the sun shone in to the little room where he had laboured during so many years, and so profitably! Now that the prince was dead it would be amusing to look at those original documents for which he had made such skilfully-constructed substitutes. He would like to assure himself, however, that the deed had been well done. There was magic in that old liquor. Another little draught and he would go down to the study as though nothing had happened. If he should meet anybody his easy manner would disarm suspicion. Besides, he could take the bottle with him in the pocket of his long coat--the bottle of courage, he said to himself with a smile, as he set it to his lips. This time he drank but little, and very slowly. He was too cautious a man to throw away his ammunition uselessly. With a light heart he descended the winding stair and crossed the landing. One of Ascanio Bellegra's servants passed at that moment. Meschini looked at the fellow quietly, and even gave him a friendly smile, to test his own coolness, a civility which was acknowledged by a familiar nod. The librarian's spirits rose. He did not resent the familiarity of the footman, for, with all his learning, he was little more than a servant himself, and the accident had come conveniently as a trial of his strength. The man evidently saw nothing unusual in his appearance. Moreover, as he walked, the brandy bottle in his coat tail pocket beat reassuringly against the calves of his legs. He opened the door of the library and found himself in the scene of his terror. There lay the old coat, wrapped together on the table, as he had left it. The sun had moved a little farther during his absence, and the heap of cloth looked innocent enough. Meschini could not understand how it had frightened him so terribly. He still felt that pleasant warmth about his face and hands. That was the door before which he had been such a coward. What was beyond it? The empty passage. He would go and hang the coat where it had hung always, where he always left it when he came in the morning, unless he needed it to keep himself warm. What could be simpler, or easier? He took the thing in one hand, turned the handle and looked out. He was not afraid. The long, silent corridor stretched away into the distance, lighted at intervals by narrow windows that opened upon an inner court of the palace. Meschini suspended the coat upon the peg and stood looking before him, a contemptuous smile upon his face, as though he despised himself for his former fears. Then he resolutely walked towards the study, along the familiar way, down a flight of steps, then to the right--he stood before the door and the dead man was on the other side of it. He paused and listened. All was silent. It was clear to him, as he stood before the table and looked at the body, that no one had been there. Indeed, Meschini now remembered that it was a rule in the house never to disturb the prince unless a visitor came. He had always liked to spend the afternoon in solitude over his accounts and his plans. The librarian, paused opposite his victim and gazed at the fallen head and the twisted, whitened fingers. He put out his hand timidly and touched them, and was surprised to find that they were not quite cold. The touch, however, sent a very unpleasant thrill through his own frame, and he drew back quickly with a slight shiver. But he was not terrified as he had been before. The touch, only, was disagreeable to him. He took a book that lay at hand and pushed it against the dead man's arm. There was no sign, no movement. He would have liked to go behind the chair and untie the handkerchief, but his courage was not quite equal to that. Besides, the handkerchief was Faustina's. He had seen her father snatch it from her and throw it upon the floor, as he watched the pair through the keyhole. A strange fascination kept him in the study, and he would have yielded to it had he not been fortified against any such morbid folly by the brandy he had swallowed. He thought, as he turned to go, that it was a pity the prince never kept money in the house, for, in that case, he might have helped himself before leaving. To steal a small value was not worth while, considering the danger of discovery. He moved on tiptoe, as though afraid of disturbing the rest of his old employer, and once or twice he looked back. Then at last he closed the door and retraced his steps through the corridor till he gained the library. He was surprised at his own boldness as he went, and at the indifference with which he passed by the coat that hung, limp as ever, upon its peg. He was satisfied, too, with the result of his investigations. The prince was certainly dead. As a direct consequence of his death, the secret of the Saracinesca suit was now his own, no one had a share in it, and it was worth money. He pulled out a number of volumes from the shelves and began to make a pretence of working upon the catalogue. But though he surrounded himself with the implements and necessaries for his task, his mind was busy with the new scheme that unfolded itself to his imagination. He and he alone, knew that San Giacinto's possession of the Saracinesca inheritance rested upon a forgery. The fact that this forgery must be revealed, in order to reinstate the lawful possessors in their right, did not detract in the least from the value of the secret. Two courses were open to him. He might go to old Leone Saracinesca and offer the original documents for sale, on receiving a guarantee for his own safety. Or he might offer them to San Giacinto, who was the person endangered by their existence. Montevarchi had promised him twenty thousand scudi for the job, and had never paid the money. He had cancelled his debt with his life, however, and had left the secret behind him. Either Saracinesca or San Giacinto would give five times twenty thousand, ten times as much, perhaps, for the original documents, the one in order to recover what was his own, the other to keep what did not belong to him. The great question to be considered was the way of making the offer. Meschini sat staring at the opposite row of books, engaged in solving the problem. Just then, one of the open volumes before him slipped a little upon another and the page turned slowly over. The librarian started slightly and glanced at the old-fashioned type. The work was a rare one, which he had often examined, and he knew it to be of great value. A new thought struck him. Why should he not sell this and many other volumes out of the collection, as well as realise money by disposing of his secret? He might as well be rich as possess a mere competence. He looked about him. With a little care and ingenuity, by working at night and by visiting the sellers of old books during the day he might soon put together four or five hundred works which would fetch a high price, and replace them by so many feet of old trash which would look as well. With his enormous industry it would be a simple matter to tamper with the catalogue and to insert new pages which should correspond with the changes he contemplated. The old prince was dead, and little as he had really known about the library, his sons knew even less. Meschini could remove the stolen volumes to a safe place, and when he had realised the value of his secret, he would go to Paris, to Berlin, even to London, and dispose of his treasures one by one. He was amazed at the delights the future unfolded to him, everything seemed gilded, everything seemed ready to turn into gold. His brain dwelt with an enthusiasm wholly new to him upon the dreams it conjured up. He felt twenty years younger. His fears had gone, and with them his humility. He saw himself no longer the poor librarian in his slippers and shabby clothes, cringing to his employer, spending his days in studying the forgeries he afterwards executed during the night, hoarding his ill-gotten gains with jealous secrecy, afraid to show to his few associates that he had accumulated a little wealth, timid by force of long habit and by the remembrance of the shame in his early life. All that had disappeared under the potent spell of his new-found courage. He fancied himself living in some distant capital, rich and respected, married, perhaps, having servants of his own, astonishing the learned men of some great centre by the extent of his knowledge and erudition. All the vanity of his nature was roused from its long sleep by a new set of emotions, till he could scarcely contain his inexplicable happiness. And how had all this come to him so suddenly in the midst of his obscure life? Simply by squeezing the breath out of an old man's throat. How easy it had been. The unaccustomed energy which had been awakened in him by the spirits brought with it a pleasant restlessness. He felt that he must go again to his little room upstairs, and take out the deeds and read them over. The sight of them would give an increased reality and vividness to his anticipations. Besides, too, it was just barely possible that there might be some word, some expression which he could change, and which should increase their value. To sit still, poring over the catalogue in the library was impossible. Once more he climbed to his attic, but he could not comprehend why he felt a nervous desire to look behind him, as though he were followed by some person whose tread was noiseless. It was not possible, he thought, that the effects of his draught were already passing off. Such courage as he felt in him could not leave him suddenly. He reached his room and took the deeds from the secret place in which he had hidden them, spreading them out lovingly before him. As he sat down the bottle in his long coat touched the floor behind him with a short, dull thud. It was as though a footstep had sounded in the silent room, and he sprang to his feet before he realised whence the noise came, looking behind him with startled eyes. In a moment he understood, and withdrawing the bottle from his pocket he set it beside him on the table. He looked at it for a few seconds as though in hesitation, but he determined not to have recourse to its contents so soon. He had undoubtedly been frightened again, but the sound that had scared him had been real and not imaginary. Besides, he had but this one bottle and he knew that good brandy was dear. He pushed it away, his avarice helping him to resist the temptation. The old documents were agreeably familiar to his eye, and he read and re-read them with increasing satisfaction, comparing them carefully, and chuckling to himself each time that he reached the bottom of the sheet upon the copy, where there had been no room to introduce that famous clause. But for that accident, he reflected, he would have undoubtedly made the insertion upon the originals, and the latter would be now no longer in his possession. He did not quite understand why he derived such pleasure from reading the writing so often, nor why, when the surrounding objects in the room were clear and distinct to his eyes, the crabbed characters should every now and then seem to move of themselves and to run into each other from right to left. Possibly the emotions of the day had strained his vision. He looked up and saw the bottle. An irresistible desire seized him to taste the liquor again, even if he drank but a drop. The spirits wet his lips while he was still inwardly debating whether it were wise to drink or not. As he returned the cork to its place he felt a sudden revival within him of all he had experienced before. His face was warm, his fingers tingled. He took up one of the deeds with a firm hand and settled himself comfortably in his chair. But he could not read it through again. He laughed quietly at his folly. Did he not know every word by heart? He must occupy himself with planning, with arranging the details of his future. When that was done he could revel in the thought of wealth and rest and satisfied vanity. To his surprise, his thoughts did not flow as connectedly as he had expected. He could not help thinking of the dead man downstairs, not indeed with any terror, not fearing discovery for himself, but with a vague wonderment that made his mind feel empty. Turn over the matter as he would, he could not foresee connectedly what was likely to happen when the murder was known. There was no sequence in his imaginings, and he longed nervously for the moment when everything should be settled. The restlessness that had brought him up to his room demanded some sort of action to quiet it. He would willingly have gone out to see his friend, the little apothecary who lived near the Ponte Quattro Capi. It would be a relief to talk to some one, to hear the sound of a human voice. But a remnant of prudence restrained him. It was not very likely that he should be suspected; indeed, if he behaved prudently nothing was more improbable. To leave the house at such a time, however, would be the height of folly, unless it could be proved that he had gone out some time before the deed could have been done. The porter was vigilant, and Meschini almost always exchanged a few words with him as he passed through the gates. He would certainly note the time of the librarian's exit more or less accurately. Moreover, the body might have been found already, and even now the gendarmes might be downstairs. The latter consideration determined him to descend once more to the library. A slight chill passed over him as he closed the door of his room behind him. The great hall now seemed very gloomy and cold, and the solitude was oppressive. He felt the necessity for movement, and began to walk quickly up and down the length of the library between the broad tables, from one door to the other. At first, as he reached the one that separated him from the passage he experienced no disagreeable sensation, but turned his back upon it at the end of his walk and retraced his steps. Very gradually, however, he began to feel uncomfortable as he reached that extremity of the room, and the vision of the dead prince rose before his eyes. The coat was there again, on the other side of the door. No doubt it would take the same shape again if he looked at it. His varying courage was just at the point when he was able to look out in order to assure himself that the limp garment had not assumed the appearance of a ghost. He felt a painful thrill in his back as he turned the handle, and the cold air that rushed in as he opened the door seemed to come from a tomb. Although his eyes were satisfied when he had seen the coat in the corner, he drew back quickly, and the thrill was repeated with greater distinctness as he heard the bolt of the latch slip into its socket. He walked away again, but the next time he came back he turned at some distance from the threshold, and, as he turned, he felt the thrill a third time, almost like an electric shock. He could not bear it and sat down before the catalogue. His eyes refused to read, and after a lengthened struggle between his fears, his prudence and his economy, he once more drew the bottle from his pocket and fortified himself with a draught. This time he drank more, and the effect was different. For some seconds he felt no change in his condition. Presently, however, his nervousness disappeared, giving place now to a sort of stupid indifference. The light was fading from the clerestory windows of the library, and, within, the corners and recesses were already dark. But Meschini was past imagining ghosts or apparitions. He sat quite still, his chin leaning on his hand and his elbow on the table, wondering vaguely how long it would be before they came to tell him that the prince was dead. He did not sleep, but he fell into a state of torpor which was restful to his nerves. Sleep would certainly come in half an hour if he were left to himself as long as that. His breathing was heavy, and the silence around him was intense. At last the much-dreaded moment came, and found him dull and apathetic. The door opened and a ray of light from a candle entered the room, which was now almost dark. A foot-man and a housemaid thrust in their heads cautiously and peered into the broad gloom, holding the candle high before them. Either would have been afraid to come alone. "Sor Arnoldo, Sor Arnoldo!" the man called out timidly, as though frightened by the sound of his own voice. "Here I am," answered Meschini, affecting a cheerful tone as well as he could. Once more and very quickly he took a mouthful from the bottle, behind the table where they could not see him. "What is the matter?" he asked. "The prince is murdered!" cried the two servants in a breath. They were very pale as they came towards him. If the cry he uttered was forced they were too much terrified to notice it. As they told their tale with every species of exaggeration, interspersed with expressions of horror and amazement, he struck his hands to his head, moaned, cried aloud, and, being half hysterical with drink, shed real tears in their presence. Then they led him away, saying that the prefect of police was in the study and that all the household had been summoned to be examined by him. He was now launched in his part, and could play it to the end without breaking down. He had afterwards very little recollection of what had occurred. He remembered that the stillness of the study and the white faces of those present had impressed him by contrast with the noisy grief of the servants who had summoned him. He remembered that he had sworn, and others had corroborated his oath, to the effect that he had spent the afternoon between the library and his room. Ascanio Bellegra's footman remembered meeting him on the landing, and said that he had smiled pleasantly in an unconcerned way, as usual, and had passed on. For the rest, no one seemed even to imagine that he could have done the deed, for no one had ever heard anything but friendly words between him and the prince. He remembered, too, having seen the dead body extended upon the great table of the study, and he recalled Donna Faustina's tone of voice indistinctly as in a dream. Then, before the prefect announced his decision, he was dismissed with the other servants. After that moment all was a blank in his mind. In reality he returned to his room and sat down by his table with a candle before him. He never knew that after the examination he had begged another bottle of liquor of the butler on the ground that his nerves were upset by the terrible event. About midnight the candle burned down into the socket. Profiting by the last ray of light he drank a final draught and reeled to his bed, dressed as he was. One bottle was empty, and a third of the second was gone. Arnoldo Meschini was dead drunk. CHAPTER XXV. Corona was not much surprised when the messenger brought her carriage and presented the order for Faustina's liberation. When Giovanni had left her she had felt that he would find means to procure the young girl's liberty, and the only thing which seemed strange to her was the fact that Giovanni did not return himself. The messenger said he had seen him with the cardinal and that Sant' Ilario had given the order to use the carriage. Beyond that, he knew nothing. Corona at once took Faustina to the Palazzo Montevarchi, and then, with a promise to come back in the course of the day, she went home to rest. She needed repose even more than Faustina, who, after all, had slept soundly on her prison bed, trusting with childlike faith in her friend's promise that she should be free in the morning. Corona, on the contrary, had passed a wakeful night, and was almost worn out with fatigue. She remained in her room until twelve o'clock, the hour when the members of the family met at the midday breakfast. She found her father-in-law waiting for her, and at a glance she saw that he was in a savage humour. His bronzed face was paler than usual and his movements more sudden and nervous, while his dark eyes gleamed angrily beneath his bent and shaggy brows. Corona, on her part, was silent and preoccupied. In spite of the tragic events of the night, which, after all, only affected her indirectly at present, and in spite of the constant moral suffering which now played so important a part in her life, she could not but be disturbed by the tremendous loss sustained by her husband and by his father. It fell most heavily upon the latter, who was an old man, and whose mind was not engaged by any other absorbing consideration, but the blow was a terrible one to the other also. "Where is Giovanni?" asked Saracinesca brusquely, as they sat down to the table. "I do not know," answered Corona. "The last I heard of him was that he was with Cardinal Antonelli. I suppose that after getting the order to release Faustina he stayed there." "So his Eminence suffered himself to be persuaded that a little girl did not strangle that old tanner," remarked the prince. "Apparently." "If they had taken Flavia it would have been more natural. She would have inaugurated her reign as Princess Saracinesca by a night in the Termini. Delightful contrast! I suppose you know who did it?" "No. Probably a servant, though they say that nothing was stolen." "San Giacinto did it. I have thought the whole matter out, and I am convinced of it. Look at his hands. He could strangle an elephant. Not that he could have had any particular reason for liquidating his father-in-law. He is rich enough without Flavia's share, but I always thought he would kill somebody one of these days, ever since I met him at Aquila." "Without any reason, why should he have done it?" "My dear child, when one has no reason to give, it is very hard to say why a thing occurs. He looks like the man." "Is it conceivable that after getting all he could desire he should endanger his happiness in such a way?" "Perhaps not. I believe he did it. What an abominable omelet--a glass of water, Pasquale. Abominable, is it not, Corona? Perfectly uneatable. I suppose the cook has heard of our misfortunes and wants to leave." "I fancy we are not very hungry," remarked Corona, in order to say something. "I would like to know whether the murderer is eating his breakfast at this moment, and whether he has any appetite. It would be interesting from a psychological point of view. By the bye, all this is very like a jettatura." "What?" "Montevarchi coming to his end on the very day he had won the suit. In good old times it would have been Giovanni who would have cut his throat, after which we should have all retired to Saracinesca and prepared for a siege. Less civilised but twice as human. No doubt they will say now--even now--that we paid a man to do the work." "But it was San Giacinto who brought the suit--" "It was Montevarchi. I have seen my lawyer this morning. He says that Montevarchi sent the people out to Frascati to see San Giacinto and explained the whole matter to them beforehand. He discovered the clause in the deeds first. San Giacinto never even saw them until everything was ready. And on the evening of the very day when it was settled, Montevarchi is murdered. I wonder that it has not struck any one to say we did it." "You did not oppose the suit. If you had, it would have been different." "How could I oppose the action? It was clear from the beginning that we had no chance of winning it. The fact remains that we are turned out of our home. The sooner we leave this the better. It will only be harder to go if we stay here." "Yes," answered Corona sadly. "It will be harder." "I believe it is a judgment of heaven on Giovanni for his outrageous conduct," growled the prince, suddenly running away with a new idea. "On Giovanni?" Corona was roused immediately by the mention of her husband in such a connection. "Yes, for his behaviour to you, the young scoundrel! I ought to have disinherited him at once." "Please do not talk in that way. I cannot let you say--" "He is my own son, and I will say what I please," interrupted Saracinesca fiercely. "He treated you outrageously, I say. It is just like a woman to deny it and defend her husband." "Since there is no one else to defend him, I must. He was misled, and naturally enough, considering the appearances. I did not know that you knew about it all." "I do not know all, nor half. But I know enough. A man who suspects such a woman as you deserves to be hanged. Besides," he added irrelevantly, but with an intuitive keenness that startled Corona, "besides, you have not forgiven him." "Indeed I have--" "In a Christian spirit, no doubt. I know you are good. But you do not love him as you did. It is useless to deny it. Why should you? I do not blame you, I am sure." The prince fixed his bright eyes on her face and waited for her answer. She turned a little paler and said nothing for several moments. Then as he watched her he saw the colour mount slowly to her olive cheeks. She herself could hardly have accounted for the unwonted blush, and a man capable of more complicated reasoning than her father-in-law would have misinterpreted it. Corona had at first been angry at the thought that he could speak as he did of Giovanni, saying things she would not say to herself concerning him. Then she felt a curious sensation of shame at being discovered. It was true that she did not love her husband, or at least that she believed herself unable to love him; but she was ashamed that any one else should know it. "Why will you persist in talking about the matter?" she asked at length. "It is between us two." "It seems to me that it concerns me," returned Saracinesca, who was naturally pertinacious. "I am not inquisitive. I ask no questions. Giovanni has said very little about it to me. But I am not blind. He came to me one evening and said he was going to take you away to the mountains. He seemed very much disturbed, and I saw that there had been trouble between you, and that he suspected you of something. He did not say so, but I knew what he meant. If it had turned out true I think I would have--well, I would not have answered for my conduct. Of course I took his part, but you fell ill, and did not know that. When he came and told me that he had been mistaken I abused him like a thief. I have abused him ever since whenever I have had a chance. It was a vile, dastardly, foolish, ridiculous--" "For heaven's sake!" cried Corona, interrupting him. "Pray, pray leave the question in peace! I am so unhappy!" "So am I," answered Saracinesca bluntly. "It does not add to my happiness to know that my son has made an ass of himself. Worse than that. You do not seem to realise that I am very fond of you. If I had not been such an old man I should have fallen in love with you as well as Giovanni. Do you remember when I rode over to Astrardente, and asked you to marry him? I would have given all I am--all I was worth, I mean, to be in Giovanni's shoes when I brought back your answer. Bah! I am an old fellow and no Apollo either! But you have been a good daughter to me, Corona, and I will not let any one behave badly to you." "And you have been good to me--so good! But you must not be angry with Giovanni. He was misled. He loved me even then." "I wish I were as charitable as you." "Do not call me charitable. I am anything but that. If I were I would--" She stopped short. "Yes, I know, you would love him as you did before. Then you would not be Corona, but some one else. I know that sort of argument. But you cannot be two persons at one time. The other woman, whom you have got in your mind, and who would love Giovanni, is a weak-minded kind of creature who bears anything and everything, who will accept any sort of excuse for an insult, and will take credit to herself for being long-suffering because she has not the spirit to be justly angry. Thank heaven you are not like that. If you were, Giovanni would not have had you for a wife nor I for a daughter." "I think it is my fault. I would do anything in the world to make it otherwise." "You admit the fact then? Of course. It is a misfortune, and not your fault. It is one more misfortune among so many. You may forgive him, if you please. I will not. By the bye, I wonder why he does not come back. I would like to hear the news." "The cardinal may have kept him to breakfast." "Since seven o'clock this morning? That is impossible. Unless his Eminence has arrested him on charge of the murder." The old gentleman laughed gruffly, little guessing how near his jest lay to the truth. But Corona looked up quickly. The mere idea of such a horrible contingency was painful to her, absurd and wildly improbable as it appeared. "I was going to ask him to go up to Saracinesca to-morrow and see to the changes," continued the prince. "Must it be so soon?" asked Corona regretfully. "Is it absolutely decided? Have you not yielded too easily?" "I cannot go over all the arguments again," returned her father-in-law with some impatience. "There is no doubt about it. I expended all my coolness and civility on San Giacinto when he came to see me about it. It is of no use to complain, and we cannot draw back. I suppose I might go down on my knees to the Pope and ask his Holiness for another title--for the privilege of being called something, Principe di Cavolfiore, if you like. But I will not do it. I will die as Leone Saracinesca. You can give Giovanni your old title, if you please--it is yours to give." "He shall have it if he wants it. What does it matter? I can be Donna Corona." "Ay, what does it matter, provided we have peace? What does anything matter in this unutterably ridiculous world--except your happiness, poor child! Yes. Everything must be got ready. I will not stay in this house another week." "But in a week it will be impossible to do all there is to be done!" exclaimed Corona, whose feminine mind foresaw infinite difficulties in moving. "Possible, or impossible, it must be accomplished. I have appointed this day week for handing over the property. The lawyers said, as you say, that it would need more time. I told them that there was no time, and that if they could not do it, I would employ some one else. They talked of sitting up all night--as if I cared whether they lost their beauty sleep or not! A week from to-day everything must be settled, so that I have not in my possession a penny that does not belong to me." "And then--what will you do?" asked Corona, who saw in spite of his vehemence how much he was affected by the prospect. "And then? What then? Live somewhere else, I suppose, and pray for an easy death." No one had ever heard Leone Saracinesca say before now that he desired to die, and the wish seemed so contrary to the nature of his character that Corona looked earnestly at him. His face was discomposed, and his voice had trembled. He was a brave man, and a very honourable one, but he was very far from being a philosopher. As he had said, he had expended all his calmness in that one meeting with San Giacinto when he had been persuaded of the justice of the latter's claims. Since then he had felt nothing but bitterness, and the outward expression of it was either an unreasonable irritation concerning small matters, or some passionate outburst like the present against life, against the world in which he lived, against everything. It is scarcely to be wondered at that he should have felt the loss so deeply, more deeply even than Giovanni. He had been for many years the sole head and master of his house, and had borne all the hereditary dignities that belonged to his station, some of which were of a kind that pleased his love of feudal traditions. For the money he cared little. The loss that hurt him most touched his pride, and that generous vanity which was a part of his nature, which delighted in the honour accorded to his name, to his son, to his son's wife, in the perpetuation of his race and in a certain dominating independence, that injured no one and gave himself immense satisfaction. At his age he was not to be blamed for such feelings. They proceeded in reality far more from habit than from a vain disposition, and it seemed to him that if he bore the calamity bravely he had a right to abuse his fate in his own language. But he could not always keep himself from betraying more emotion than he cared to show. "Do not talk of death," said Corona. "Giovanni and I will make your life happy and worth living." She sighed as she spoke, in spite of herself. "Giovanni and you!" repeated the prince gloomily. "But for his folly--what is the use of talking? I have much to do. If he comes to you this afternoon please tell him that I want him." Corona was glad when the meal was ended, and she went back to her own room. She had promised to go and see Faustina again, but otherwise she did not know how to occupy herself. A vague uneasiness beset her as the time passed and her husband did not come home. It was unlike him to stay away all day without warning her, though she was obliged to confess to herself that she had of late shown very little interest in his doings, and that it would not be very surprising if he began to do as he pleased without informing her of his intentions. Nevertheless she wished he would show himself before evening. The force of habit was still strong, and she missed him without quite knowing it. At last she made an effort against her apathy, and went out to pay the promised visit. The Montevarchi household was subdued under all the outward pomp of a ponderous mourning. The gates and staircases were hung with black. In the vast antechamher the canopy was completely hidden by an enormous hatchment before which the dead prince had lain in state during the previous night and a part of the day. According to the Roman custom the body had been already removed, the regulations of the city requiring that this should be done within twenty-four hours. The great black pedestals on which the lights had been placed were still standing, and lent a ghastly and sepulchral appearance to the whole. Numbers of servants in mourning liveries stood around an immense copper brazier in a corner, talking together in low tones, their voices dying away altogether as the Princess Sant' Ilario entered the open door of the hall. The man who came forward appeared to be the person in charge of the funeral, for Corona had not seen him in the house before. "Donna Faustina expects me," she said, continuing to walk towards the entrance to the apartments. "Your Excellency's name?" inquired the man. Corona was surprised that he should ask, and wondered whether even the people of his class already knew the result of the suit. "Donna Corona Saracinesca," she answered in distinct tones. The appellation sounded strange and unfamiliar. "Donna Corona Saracinesca," the man repeated in a loud voice a second later. He had almost run into San Giacinto, who was coming out at that moment. Corona found herself face to face with her cousin. "You--princess!" he exclaimed, putting out his hand. In spite of the relationship he was not privileged to call her by her name. "You--why does the man announce you in that way?" Corona took his hand and looked quietly into his face. They had not met since the decision. "I told him to do so. I shall be known by that name in future. I have come to see Faustina." She would have passed on. "Allow me to say," said San Giacinto, in his deep, calm voice, "that as far as I am concerned you are, and always shall be, Princess Sant' Ilario. No one can regret more than I the position in which I am placed towards you and yours, and I shall certainly do all in my power to prevent any such unnecessary changes." "We cannot discuss that matter here," answered Corona, speaking more coldly than she meant to do. "I trust there need be no discussion. I even hope that you will bear me no ill will." "I bear you none. You have acted honestly and openly. You had right on your side. But neither my husband nor I will live under a borrowed name." San Giacinto seemed hurt by her answer. He stood aside to allow her to pass, and there was something dignified in his demeanour that pleased Corona. "The settlement is not made yet," he said gravely. "Until then the name is yours." When she was gone he looked after her with an expression of annoyance upon his face. He understood well enough what she felt, but he was very far from wishing to let any unpleasantness arise between him and her family. Even in the position to which he had now attained he felt that there was an element of uncertainty, and he did not feel able to dispense with the good-will of his relations, merely because he was Prince Saracinesca and master of a great fortune. His early life had made him a cautious man, and he did not underestimate the value of personal influence. Moreover, he had not a bad heart, and preferred if possible to be on good terms with everybody. According to his own view he had done nothing more than claim what was legitimately his, but he did not want the enmity of those who had resigned all into his hands. Corona went on her way and found Faustina and Flavia together. Their mother was not able to see any one. The rest of the family had gone to the country as soon as the body had been taken away, yielding without any great resistance to the entreaties of their best friends who, according to Roman custom, thought it necessary to "divert" the mourners. That is the consecrated phrase, and people of other countries may open their eyes in astonishment at the state of domestic relations as revealed by this practice. It is not an uncommon thing for the majority of the family to go away even before death has actually taken place. Speaking of a person who is dying, it is not unusual to say, "You may imagine how ill he is, for the family has left him!" The servants attend the Requiem Mass, the empty carriages follow the hearse to the gates of the city, but the family is already in the country, trying to "divert" itself. Flavia and Faustina, however, had stayed at home, partly because the old princess was really too deeply moved and profoundly shocked to go away, and partly because San Giacinto refused to leave Rome. Faustina, too, was eccentric enough to think such haste after "diversion" altogether indecent, and she herself had been through such a series of emotions during the twenty-four hours that she found rest needful. As for Flavia, she took matters very calmly, but would have preferred very much to be with her brothers and their wives. The calamity had for the time subdued her vivacity, though it was easy to see that it had made no deep impression upon her nature. If the truth were told, she was more unpleasantly affected by thus suddenly meeting Corona than by her father's tragic death. She thought it necessary to be more than usually affectionate, not out of calculation, but rather to get rid of a disagreeable impression. She sprang forward and kissed Corona on both cheeks. "I was longing to see you!" she said enthusiastically. "You have been so kind to Faustina. I am sure we can never thank you enough. Imagine, if she had been obliged to spend the night alone in prison! Such an abominable mistake, too. I hope that dreadful man will be sent to the galleys. Poor little Faustina! How could any one think she could do such a thing!" Corona was not prepared for Flavia's manner, and it grated disagreeably on her sensibilities. But she said nothing, only returning her salutation with becoming cordiality before sitting down between the two sisters. Faustina looked on coldly, disgusted with such indifference. It struck her that if Corona had not accompanied her to the Termini, it would have been very hard to induce any of her own family to do so. "And poor papa!" continued Flavia volubly. "Is it not too dreadful, too horrible? To think of any one daring! I shall never get over the impression it made on me--never. Without a priest, without any one--poor dear!" "Heaven is very merciful," said Corona, thinking it necessary to make some such remark. "Oh, I know," answered Flavia, with sudden seriousness. "I know. But poor papa--you see--I am afraid--" She stopped significantly and shook her head, evidently implying that Prince Montevarchi's chances of blessedness were but slender. "Flavia!" cried Faustina indignantly, "how can you say such things!" "Oh, I say nothing, and besides, I daresay--you see he was sometimes very kind. It was only yesterday, for instance, that he actually promised me those earrings--you know, Faustina, the pearl drops at Civilotti's--it is true, they were not so very big after all. He really said he would give them to me as a souvenir if--oh! I forgot." She stopped with some embarrassment, for she had been on the point of saying that the earrings were to be a remembrance if the suit were won, when she recollected that she was speaking to Corona. "Well--it would have been very kind of him if he had," she added. "Perhaps that is something. Poor papa! One would feel more sure about it, if he had got some kind of absolution." "I do not believe you cared for him at all!" exclaimed Faustina. Corona evidently shared this belief, for she looked very grave and was silent. "Oh, Faustina, how unkind you are!" cried Flavia in great astonishment and some anger. "I am sure I loved poor papa as much as any of you, and perhaps a great deal better. We were always such good friends!" Faustina raised her eyebrows a little and looked at Corona as though to say that her sister was hopeless, and for some minutes no one spoke. "You are quite rested now?" asked Corona at last, turning to the young girl. "Poor child! what you must have suffered!" "It is strange, but I am not tired. I slept, you know, for I was worn out." "Faustina's grief did not keep her awake," observed Flavia, willing to say something disagreeable. "I only came to see how you were," said Corona, who did not care to prolong the interview. "I hope to hear that your mother is better to-morrow. I met Saracinesca as I came in, but I did not ask him." "Your father-in-law?" asked Faustina innocently. "I did not know he had been here." "No; your husband, my dear," answered Corona, looking at Flavia as she spoke. She was curious to see what effect the change had produced upon her. Flavia's cheeks flushed quickly, evidently with pleasure, if also with some embarrassment. But Corona was calm and unmoved as usual. "I did not know you already called him so," said Flavia. "How strange it will be!" "We shall soon get used to it," replied Corona, with a smile, as she rose to go. "I wish you many years of happiness with your new name. Good-bye." Faustina went with her into one of the outer rooms. "Tell me," she said, when they were alone, "how did your husband manage it so quickly? They told me to-day that the cardinal had at first refused. I cannot understand it. I could not ask you before Flavia--she is so inquisitive!" "I do not know--I have not seen Giovanni yet. He stayed with the cardinal when the carriage came for us. It was managed in some way, and quickly. I shall hear all about it this evening. What is it, dear?" There were tears in Faustina's soft eyes, followed quickly by a little sob. "I miss him dreadfully!" she exclaimed, laying her head on her friend's shoulder. "And I am so unhappy! We parted angrily, and I can never tell him how sorry I am. You do not think it could have had anything to do with it, do you?" "Your little quarrel? No, child. What could it have changed? We do not know what happened." "I shall never forget his face. I was dreadfully undutiful--oh! I could almost marry that man if it would do any good!" Corona smiled sadly. The young girl's sorrow was genuine, in strange contrast to Flavia's voluble flippancy. She laid her hand affectionately on the thick chestnut hair. "Perhaps he sees now that you should not marry against your heart." "Oh, do you think so? I wish it were possible. I should not feel as though I were so bad if I thought he understood now. I could bear it better. I should not feel as though it were almost a duty to marry Frangipani." Corona turned quickly with an expression that was almost fierce in its intensity. She took Faustina's hands in hers. "Never do that, Faustina. Whatever comes to you, do not do that! You do not know what it is to live with a man you do not love, even if you do not hate him. It is worse than death." Corona kissed her and left her standing by the door. Was it possible, Faustina asked, that Corona did not love her husband? Or was she speaking of her former life with old Astrardente? Of course, it must be that. Giovanni and Corona were a proverbially happy couple. When Corona again entered her own room, there was a note lying upon the table, the one her husband had written that morning from his place of confinement. She tore the envelope open with an anxiety of which she had not believed herself capable. She had asked for him when she returned and he had not been heard of yet. The vague uneasiness she had felt at his absence suddenly increased, until she felt that unless she saw him at once she must go in search of him. She read the note through again and again, without clearly understanding the contents. It was evident that he had left Rome suddenly and had not cared to tell her whither he was going, since the instructions as to what she was to say were put in such a manner as to make it evident that they were only to serve as an excuse for his absence to others, and not as an explanation to herself. The note was enigmatical and might mean almost anything. At last Corona tossed the bit of paper into the fire, and tapped the thick carpet impatiently with her foot. "How coldly he writes!" she exclaimed aloud. The door opened and her maid appeared. "Will your Excellency receive Monsieur Gouache?" asked the woman from the threshold. "No! certainly not!" answered Corona, in a voice that frightened the servant. "I am not at home." "Yes, your Excellency." CHAPTER XXVI. The amount of work which Arnoldo Meschini did in the twenty-four hours of the day depended almost entirely upon his inclinations. The library had always been open to the public once a week, on Mondays, and on those occasions the librarian was obliged to be present. The rest of his time was supposed to be devoted to the incessant labour connected with so important a collection of books, and, on the whole, he had done far more than was expected of him. Prince Montevarchi had never proposed to give him an assistant, and he would have rejected any such offer, since the presence of another person would have made it almost impossible for him to carry on his business of forging ancient manuscripts. The manual labour of his illicit craft was of course performed in his own room, but a second librarian could not have failed to discover that there was something wrong. Night after night he carried the precious manuscripts to his chamber, bringing them back and restoring them to their places every morning. During the day he studied attentively what he afterwards executed in the quiet hours when he could be alone. Of the household none but the prince himself ever came to the library, no other member of the family cared for the books or knew anything about them. His employer being dead, Meschini was practically master of all the shelves contained. No one disturbed him, no one asked what he was doing. His salary would be paid regularly by the steward, and he would in all probability be left to vegetate unheeded for the rest of his natural lifetime. When he died some one else would be engaged in his place. In the ordinary course of events no other future would have been open to him. He awoke very late in the morning on the day after the murder, and lay for some time wondering why he was so very uncomfortable, why his head hurt him, why his vision was indistinct, why he could remember nothing he had done before going to bed. The enormous quantity of liquor he had drunk had temporarily destroyed his faculties, which were not hardened by the habitual use of alcohol. He turned his head uneasily upon the pillow and saw the bottles on the table, the candle burnt down in the brass candlestick and the general disorder in the room. He glanced at his own body and saw that he was lying dressed upon his bed. Then the whole truth flashed upon his mind with appalling vividness. A shock went through his system as though some one had struck him violently on the back of the head, while the light in the room was momentarily broken into flashes that pained his eyes. He got upon his feet with difficulty, and steadied himself by the bed-post, hardly able to stand alone. He had murdered his master. The first moment in which he realised the fact was the most horrible he remembered to have passed. He had killed the prince and could recall nothing, or next to nothing, that had occurred since the deed. Almost before he knew what he was doing he had locked his door with a double turn of the key and was pushing the furniture against it, the table, the chairs, everything that he could move. It seemed to him that he could already hear upon the winding stair the clank of the gens d'armes' sabres as they came to get him. He looked wildly round the room to see whether there was anything that could lead to discovery. The unwonted exertion, however, had restored the circulation of his blood, and with it arose an indistinct memory of the sense of triumph he had felt when he had last entered the chamber. He asked himself how he could have rejoiced over the deed, unless he had unconsciously taken steps for his own safety. The body must have been found long ago. Very gradually there rose before him the vision of the scene in the study, when he had been summoned thither by the two servants, the dead prince stretched on the table, the pale faces, the prefect, Donna Faustina's voice, a series of questions asked in a metallic, pitiless tone. He had not been drunk, therefore, when they had sent for him. And yet, he knew that he had not been sober. In what state, then, had he found himself? With a shudder, he remembered his terror in the library, his fright at the ghost which had turned out to be only his own coat, his visit to his room, and the first draught he had swallowed. From that point onwards his memory grew less and less clear. He found that he could not remember at all how he had come upstairs the last time. One thing was evident, however. He had not been arrested, since he found himself in his chamber unmolested. Who, then, had been taken in his place? He was amazed to find that he did not know. Surely, at the first inquest, something must have been said which would have led to the arrest of some one. The law never went away empty-handed. He racked his aching brain to bring back the incident, but it would not be recalled--for the excellent reason that he really knew nothing about the matter. It was a relief at all events to find that he had actually been examined with the rest and had not been suspected. Nevertheless, he had undoubtedly done the deed, of which the mere thought made him tremble in every joint. Or was it all a part of his drunken dreams? No, that, at least, could not be explained away. For a long time he moved uneasily from his barricade at the door to the window, from which he tried to see the street below. But his room was in the attic, and the broad stone cornice of the palace cut off the view effectually. At last he began to pull the furniture away from the entrance, slowly at first, as he merely thought of its uselessness, then with feverish haste, as he realised that the fact of his trying to entrench himself in his quarters would seem suspicious. In a few seconds he had restored everything to its place. The brandy bottles disappeared into the cupboard in the wall; a bit of candle filled the empty candlestick. He tore off his clothes and jumped into bed, tossing himself about to give it the appearance of having been slept in. Then he got up again and proceeded to make his toilet. All his clothes were black, and he had but a slender choice. He understood vaguely, however, that there would be a funeral or some sort of ceremony in which all the members of the household would be expected to join, and he arrayed himself in the best he had--a decent suit of broadcloth, a clean shirt, a black tie. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror. His face was ghastly yellow, the whites of his eyes injected with blood, the veins at the temples swollen and congested. He was afraid that his appearance might excite remark, though it was in reality not very much changed. Then, as he thought of this, he realised that he was to meet a score of persons, some of whom would very probably look at him curiously. His nerves were in a shattered condition, he almost broke down at the mere idea of what he must face. What would become of him in the presence of the reality? And yet he had met the whole household bravely enough on the very spot where he had done the murder on the previous evening. He sat down, overpowered by the revival of his fear and horror. The room swam around him and he grasped the edge of the table for support. But he could not stay there all day. Any reluctance to make his appearance at such a time might be fatal. There was only one way to get the necessary courage, and that was to drink again. He shrank from the thought. He had not acquired the habitual drunkard's certainty of finding nerve and boldness and steadiness of hand in the morning draught, and the idea of tasting the liquor was loathsome to him in his disordered state. He rose to his feet and tried to act as though he were in the midst of a crowd of persons. Ape-like, he grinned at the furniture, walked about the room, spoke aloud, pretending that he was meeting real people, tried to frame sentences expressive of profound grief. He opened the door and made a pretence of greeting an imaginary individual. It was as though a stream of cold water had fallen upon his neck. His knees knocked together, and he felt sick with fear. There was evidently no use in attempting to go down without some stimulant. Almost sorrowfully he shut the door again, and took the bottle from its place. He took several small doses, patiently testing the effect until his hand was steady and warm. Ten minutes later he was kneeling with many others before the catafalque, beneath the great canopy of black. He was dazed by the light of the great branches of candles, and confused by the subdued sound of whispering and of softly treading feet; but he knew that his outward demeanour was calm and collected, and that he exhibited no signs of nervousness. San Giacinto was standing near one of the doors, having taken his turn with the sons of the dead man to remain in the room. He watched the librarian and a rough sort of pity made itself felt in his heart. "Poor Meschini!" he thought. "He has lost a friend. I daresay he is more genuinely sorry than all the family put together, poor fellow!" Arnoldo Meschini, kneeling before the body of the man he had murdered, with a brandy bottle in the pocket of his long coat, would have come to an evil end if the giant had guessed the truth. But he looked what he was supposed to be, the humble, ill-paid, half-starved librarian, mourning the master he had faithfully served for thirty years. He knelt a long time, his lips moving mechanically with the words of an oft-repeated prayer. In reality he was afraid to rise from his knees alone, and was waiting until some of the others made the first move. But the rows of lacqueys, doubtless believing that the amount of their future wages would largely depend upon the vigour of their present mourning, did not seem inclined to desist from their orisons. To Meschini the time was interminable, and his courage was beginning to ooze away from him, as the sense of his position acquired a tormenting force. He could have borne it well enough in a church, in the midst of a vast congregation, he could have fought off his horror even here for a few minutes, but to sustain such a part for a quarter of an hour seemed almost impossible. He would have given his soul, which indeed was just then of but small value, to take a sip of courage from the bottle, and his clasped fingers twitched nervously, longing to find the way to his pocket. He glanced along the line, measuring his position, to see whether there was a possibility of drinking without being observed, but he saw that it would be madness to think of it, and began repeating his prayer with redoubled energy, in the hope of distracting his mind. Then a horrible delusion began to take possession of him; he fancied that the dead man was beginning to turn his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, towards him. Those closed eyes would open and look him in the face, a supernatural voice would speak his name. As on the previous afternoon the cold perspiration began to trickle from his brow. He was on the point of crying aloud with terror, when the man next to him rose. In an instant he was on his feet. Both bent again, crossed themselves, and retired. Meschini stumbled and caught at his companion's arm, but succeeded in gaining the door. As he passed out, his face was so discomposed that San Giacinto looked down upon him with increased compassion, then followed him a few steps and laid his hand on his shoulder. The librarian started violently and stood still. "He was a good friend to you, Signor Meschini," said the big man kindly. "But take heart, you shall not be forgotten." The dreaded moment had come, and it had been very terrible, but San Giacinto's tone was reassuring. He could not have suspected anything, though the servants said that he was an inscrutable man, profound in his thoughts and fearful in his anger. He was the one of all the family whom Meschini most feared. "God have mercy on him!" whined the librarian, trembling to his feet. "He was the best of men, and is no doubt in glory!" "No doubt," replied San Giacinto drily. He entertained opinions of his own upon the subject, and he did not like the man's tone. "No doubt," he repeated. "We will try and fulfil his wishes with regard to you." "Grazie, Eccelenza!" said Meschini with great humility, making horns with his fingers behind his back to ward off the evil eye, and edging away in the direction of the grand staircase. San Giacinto returned to the door and paid no more attention to him. Then Meschini almost ran down the stairs and did not slacken his speed until he found himself in the street. The cold air of the winter's day revived him, and he found himself walking rapidly in the direction of the Ponte Quattro Capi. He generally took that direction when he went out without any especial object, for his friend Tiberio Colaisso, the poor apothecary, had his shop upon the little island of Saint Bartholomew, which is connected with the shores of the river by a double bridge, whence the name, "the bridge of four heads." Meschini paused and looked over the parapet at the yellow swirling water. The eddies seemed to take queer shapes and he watched them for a long time. He had a splitting headache, of the kind which is made more painful by looking at quickly moving objects, which, at the same time, exercise an irresistible fascination over the eye. Almost unconsciously he compared his own life to the river--turbid, winding, destroying. The simile was incoherent, like most of his fancies on that day, but it served to express a thought, and he began to feel an odd sympathy for the muddy stream, such as perhaps no one had ever felt before him. But as he looked he grew dizzy, and drew back from the parapet. There must have been something strange in his face, for a man who was passing looked at him curiously and asked whether he were ill. He shook his head with a sickly smile and passed on. The apothecary was standing idly at his door, waiting for a custom that rarely came his way. He was a cadaverous man, about fifty years of age, with eyes of an uncertain colour set deep in his head. An ill-kept, grizzled beard descended upon his chest, and gave a certain wildness to his appearance. A very shabby green smoking cap, trimmed with tarnished silver lace, was set far back upon his head, displaying a wrinkled forehead, much heightened by baldness, but of proportions that denoted a large and active brain. That he took snuff in great quantities was apparent. Otherwise he was neither very dirty nor very clean, but his thumbs had that peculiar shape which seems to be the result of constantly rolling pills. Meschini stopped before him. "Sor Arnoldo, good-day," said the chemist, scrutinising his friend's face curiously. "Good-day, Sor Tiberio," replied the librarian. "Will you let me come in for a little moment?" There seemed to be an attempt at a jest in the question, for the apothecary almost smiled. "Padrone," he said, retiring backwards through the narrow door. "A game of scopa to-day?" "Have you the time to spare?" inquired the other, in a serious tone. They always maintained the myth that Tiberio Colaisso was a very busy man. "To-day," answered the latter, without a smile, and emphasising the word as though it defined an exception, "to-day, I have nothing to do. Besides, it is early." "We can play a hand and then we can dine at Cicco's." "Being Friday in Advent, I had intended to fast," replied the apothecary, who had not a penny in his pocket "But since you are so good as to invite me, I do not say no." Meschini said nothing, for he understood the situation, which was by no means a novel one. His friend produced a pack of Italian cards, almost black with age. He gave Meschini the only chair, and seated himself upon a three-legged stool. It was a dismal scene. The shop was like many of its kind in the poorer quarters of old Rome. There was room for the counter and for three people to stand before it when the door was shut. The floor was covered with a broken pavement of dingy bricks. As the two men began to play a fine, drizzling rain wet the silent street outside, and the bricks within at once exhibited an unctuous moisture. The sky had become cloudy after the fine morning, and there was little light in the shop. Three of the walls were hidden by cases with glass doors, containing an assortment of majolica jars which would delight a modern amateur, but which looked dingy and mean in the poor shop. Here and there, between them, stood bottles large and small, some broken and dusty, others filled with liquids and bearing paper labels, brown with age, the ink inscriptions fading into the dirty surface that surrounded them. The only things in the place which looked tolerably clean were the little brass scales and the white marble tablet for compounding solid medicines. The two men looked as though they belonged to the little room. Meschini's yellow complexion was as much in keeping with the surroundings as the chemist's gray, colourless face. His bloodshot eyes wandered from the half-defaced cards to the objects in the shop, and he was uncertain in his play. His companion looked at him as though he were trying to solve some intricate problem that gave him trouble. He himself was a man who, like the librarian, had begun life under favourable circumstances, had studied medicine and had practised it. But he had been unfortunate, and, though talented, did not possess the qualifications most necessary for his profession. He had busied himself with chemistry and had invented a universal panacea which had failed, and in which he had sunk most of his small capital. Disgusted with his reverses he had gravitated slowly to his present position. Finding him careless and indifferent to their wants, his customers had dropped away, one by one, until he earned barely enough to keep body and soul together. Only the poorest class of people, emboldened by the mean aspect of his shop, came in to get a plaster, an ointment or a black draught, at the lowest possible prices. And yet, in certain branches, Tiberio Colaisso was a learned man. At all events he had proved himself able to do all that Meschini asked of him. He was keen, too, in an indolent way, and a single glance had satisfied him that something very unusual had happened to the librarian. He watched him patiently, hoping to find out the truth without questions. At the same time, the hope of winning a few coppers made him keep an eye on the game. To his surprise he won easily, and he was further astonished when he saw that the miserly Meschini was not inclined to complain of his losses nor to accuse him of cheating. "You are not lucky to-day," he remarked at last, when his winnings amounted to a couple of pauls--a modern franc in all. Meschini looked at him uneasily and wiped his brow, leaning back in the rickety chair. His hands were trembling. "No," he answered. "I am not quite myself to-day. The fact is that a most dreadful tragedy occurred in our house last night, the mere thought of which gives me the fever. I am even obliged to take a little stimulant from time to time." So saying, he drew the bottle from his pocket and applied it to his lips. He had hoped that it would not be necessary, but he was unable to do without it very long, his nerves being broken down by the quantity he had taken on the previous night. Colaisso looked on in silence, more puzzled than ever. The librarian seemed to be revived by the dose, and spoke more cheerfully after it. "A most terrible tragedy," he said. "The prince was murdered yesterday afternoon. I could not speak of it to you at once." "Murdered?" exclaimed the apothecary in amazement. "And by whom?" "That is the mystery. He was found dead in his study. I will tell you all I know." Meschini communicated the story to his friend in a disjointed fashion, interspersing his narrative with many comments intended to give himself courage to proceed. He told the tale with evident reluctance, but he could not avoid the necessity. If Tiberio Colaisso read the account in the paper that evening, as he undoubtedly would, he would wonder why his companion had not been the first to relate the catastrophe; and this wonder might turn into a suspicion. It would have been better not to come to the apothecary's, but since he found himself there he could not escape from informing him of what had happened. "It is very strange," said the chemist, when he had heard all. Meschini thought he detected a disagreeable look in his eyes. "It is, indeed," he answered. "I am made ill by it. See how my hand trembles. I am cold and hot." "You have been drinking too much," said Colaisso suddenly, and with a certain brutality that startled his friend. "You are not sober. You must have taken a great deal last night. A libation to the dead, I suppose, in the manner of the ancients." Meschini winced visibly and began to shuffle the cards, while he attempted to smile to hide his embarrassment. "I was not well yesterday--at least--I do not know what was the matter--a headache, I think, nothing more. And then, this awful catastrophe--horrible! My nerves are unstrung. I can scarcely speak." "You need sleep first, and then a tonic," said the apothecary in a business-like tone. "I slept until late this morning. It did me no good. I am half dead myself. Yes, if I could sleep again it might do me good." "Go home and go to bed. If I were in your place I would not drink any more of that liquor. It will only make you worse." "Give me something to make me sleep. I will take it." The apothecary looked long at him and seemed to be weighing something in his judgment. An evil thought crossed his mind. He was very poor. He knew well enough, in spite of Meschini's protestations, that he was not so poor as he pretended to be. If he were he could not have paid so regularly for the chemicals and for the experiments necessary to the preparation of his inks. More than once the operations had proved to be expensive, but the librarian had never complained, though he haggled for a baiocco over his dinner at Cicco's wine shop, and was generally angry when he lost a paul at cards. He had money somewhere. It was evident that he was in a highly nervous state. If he could be induced to take opium once or twice it might become a habit. To sell opium was very profitable, and Colaisso knew well enough the power of the vice and the proportions it would soon assume, especially if Meschini thought the medicine contained only some harmless drug. "Very well," said the apothecary. "I will make you a draught. But you must be sure that you are ready to sleep when you take it. It acts very quickly." The draught which Meschini carried home with him was nothing but weak laudanum and water. It looked innocent enough, in the little glass bottle labelled "Sleeping potion." But the effect of it, as Colaisso had told him, was very rapid. Exhausted by all he had suffered, the librarian closed the windows of his room and lay down to rest. In a quarter of an hour he was in a heavy sleep. In his dreams he was happier than he had ever been before. The whole world seemed to be his, to use as he pleased. He was transformed into a magnificent being such as he had never imagined in his waking hours. He passed from one scene of splendour to another, from glory to glory, surrounded by forms of beauty, by showers of golden light in a beatitude beyond all description. It was as though he had suddenly become emperor of the whole universe. He floated through wondrous regions of soft colour, and strains of divine music sounded in his ears. Gentle hands carried him with an easy swaying motion to transcendent heights, where every breath he drew was like a draught of sparkling life. His whole being was filled with something which he knew was happiness, until he felt as though he could not contain the overflowing joy. At one moment he glided beyond the clouds through a gorgeous sunset; at another he was lying on a soft invisible couch, looking out to the bright distance--distance that never ended, never could end, but the contemplation of which was rapture, the greater for being inexplicable. An exquisite new sense was in him, corresponding to no bodily instinct, but rejoicing wildly in something that could not be defined, nor understood, nor measured, but only felt. At last he began to descend, slowly at first and then with increasing speed, till he grew giddy and unconscious in the fall. He awoke and uttered a cry of terror. It was night, and he was alone in the dark. He was chilled to the bone, too, and his head was heavy, but the darkness was unbearable, and though he would gladly have slept again he dared not remain an instant without a light. He groped about for his matches, found them, and lit a candle. A neighbouring clock tolled out the hour of midnight, and the sound of the bells terrified him beyond measure. Cold, miserable, in an agony of fear, his nervousness doubled by the opium and by a need of food of which he was not aware, there was but one remedy within his reach. The sleeping potion had been calculated for one occasion only, and it was all gone. He tried to drain a few drops from the phial, and a drowsy, half-sickening odour rose from it to his nostrils. But there was nothing left, nothing but the brandy, and little more than half a bottle of that. It was enough for his present need, however, and more than enough. He drank greedily, for he was parched with thirst, though hardly conscious of the fact. Then he slept till morning. But when he opened his eyes he was conscious that he was in a worse state than on the previous day. He was not only nervous but exhausted, and it was with feeble steps that he made his way to his friend's shop, in order to procure a double dose of the sleeping mixture. If he could sleep through the twenty-four hours, he thought, so as not to wake up in the dead of night, he should be better. When he made his appearance Tiberio Colaisso knew what he wanted, and although he had half repented of what he had done, the renewed possibility of selling the precious drug was a temptation he could not withstand. One day succeeded another, and each morning saw Arnoldo Meschini crossing the Ponte Quattro Capi on his way to the apothecary's. In the ordinary course of human nature a man does not become an opium-eater in a day, nor even, perhaps, in a week, but to the librarian the narcotic became a necessity almost from the first. Its action, combined with incessant doses of alcohol, was destructive, but the man's constitution was stronger than would have been believed. He possessed, moreover, a great power of controlling his features when he was not assailed by supernatural fears, and so it came about that, living almost in solitude, no one in the Palazzo Montevarchi was aware of his state. It was bad enough, indeed, for when he was not under the influence of brandy he was sleeping from the effects of opium. In three days he was willing to pay anything the apothecary asked, and seemed scarcely conscious of the payments he made. He kept up a show of playing the accustomed game of cards, but he was absent-minded, and was not even angry at his daily losses. The apothecary had more money in his pocket than he had possessed for many a day. As Arnoldo Meschini sank deeper and deeper, the chemist's spirits rose, and he began to assume an air of unwonted prosperity. One of the earliest results of the librarian's degraded condition was that Tiberio Colaisso procured himself a new green smoking cap ornamented profusely with fresh silver lace. CHAPTER XXVII. Sant' Ilario had guessed rightly that the place of safety and secrecy to which he was to be conveyed was no other than the Holy Office, or prison of the Inquisition. He was familiar with the interior of the building, and knew that it contained none of the horrors generally attributed to it, so that, on the whole, he was well satisfied with the cardinal's choice. The cell to which he was conveyed after dark was a large room on the second story, comfortably furnished and bearing no sign of its use but the ornamented iron grating that filled the window. The walls were not thicker than those of most Roman palaces, and the chamber was dry and airy, and sufficiently warmed by a huge brazier of coals. It was clear from the way in which he was treated that the cardinal relied upon his honour more than upon any use of force in order to keep him in custody. A silent individual in a black coat had brought him in a carriage to the great entrance, whence a man of similar discretion and of like appearance had conducted him to his cell. This person returned soon afterwards, bringing a sufficient meal of fish and vegetables--it was Friday--decently cooked and almost luxuriously served. An hour later the man came back to carry away what was left. He asked whether the prisoner needed anything else for the night. "I would like to know," said Giovanni, "whether any of my friends will be allowed to see me, if I ask it." "I am directed to say that any request or complaint you have to make will be transmitted to his Eminence by a special messenger," answered the man. "Anything," he added in explanation, "beyond what concerns your personal comfort. In this respect I am at liberty to give you whatever you desire, within reason." "Thank you. I will endeavour to be reasonable," replied Giovanni. "I am much obliged to you." The man left the room and closed the door softly, so softly that the prisoner wondered whether he had turned the key. On examining the panels he saw, however, that they were smooth and not broken by any latch or keyhole. The spring was on the outside, and there was no means whatever of opening the door from within. Giovanni wondered why a special messenger was to be employed to carry any request he made directly to the cardinal. The direction could not have been given idly, nor was it without some especial reason that he was at once told of it. Assuredly his Eminence was not expecting the prince to repent of his bargain and to send word that he wished to be released. The idea was absurd. The great man might suppose, however, that Giovanni would desire to send some communication to his wife, who would naturally be anxious about his absence. Against this contingency, however, Sant' Ilario had provided by means of the note he had despatched to her. Several days would elapse before she began to expect him, so that he had plenty of time to reflect upon his future course. Meanwhile he resolved to ask for nothing. Indeed, he had no requirements. He had money in his pockets and could send the attendant to buy any linen he needed without getting it from his home. He was in a state of mind in which nothing could have pleased him better than solitary imprisonment. He felt at once a sense of rest and a freedom from all responsibility that soothed his nerves and calmed his thoughts. For many days he had lived in a condition bordering on madness. Every interview with Corona was a disappointment, and brought with it a new suffering. Much as he would have dreaded the idea of being separated from her for any length of time, the temporary impossibility of seeing her was now a relief, of which he realised the importance more and more as the hours succeeded each other. There are times when nothing but a forcible break in the current of our lives can restore the mind to its normal balance. Such a break, painful as it may be at first, brings with it the long lost power of rest. Instead of feeling the despair we expect, we are amazed at our own indifference, which again is succeeded by a renewed capacity for judging facts as they are, and by a new energy to mould our lives upon a better plan. Giovanni neither reflected upon his position nor brooded over the probable result of his actions. On the contrary, he went to bed and slept soundly, like a strong man tired out with bodily exertion. He slept so long that his attendant at last woke him, entering and opening the window. The morning was fine, and the sun streamed in through the iron grating. Giovanni looked about him, and realised where he was. He felt calm and strong, and was inclined to laugh at the idea that his rashness would have any dangerous consequences. Corona doubtless was already awake too, and supposed that he was in the country shooting wild boar, or otherwise amusing himself. Instead of that he was in prison. There was no denying the fact, after all, but it was strange that he should not care to be at liberty. He had heard of the moral sufferings of men who are kept in confinement. No matter how well they are treated they grow nervous and careworn and haggard, wearing themselves out in a perpetual longing for freedom. Giovanni, on the contrary, as he looked round the bright, airy room, felt that he might inhabit it for a year without once caring to go out into the world. A few books to read, the means of writing if he pleased--he needed nothing else. To be alone was happiness enough. He ate his breakfast slowly, and sat down in an old-fashioned chair to smoke a cigarette and bask in the sunshine while it lasted. It was not much like prison, and he did not feel like a man arrested for murder. He was conscious for a long time of nothing but a vague, peaceful contentment. He had given a list of things to be bought, including a couple of novels, to the man who waited upon him, and after a few hours everything was brought. The day passed tranquilly, and when he went to bed he smiled as he blew out the candle, partly at himself and partly at his situation. "My friends will not say that I am absolutely lacking in originality," he reflected as he went to sleep. On the morrow he read less and thought more. In the first place he wondered how long he should be left without any communication from the outside world. He wondered whether any steps had been taken towards bringing him to a trial, or whether the cardinal really knew that he was innocent, and was merely making him act out the comedy he had himself invented and begun. He was not impatient, but he was curious to know the truth. It was now the third day since he had seen Corona, and he had not prepared her for a long absence. If he heard nothing during the next twenty-four hours it would be better to take some measures for relieving her anxiety, if she felt any. The latter reflection, which presented itself suddenly, startled him a little. Was it possible that she would allow a week to slip by without expecting to hear from him or asking herself where he was? That was out of the question. He admitted the impossibility of such indifference, almost in spite of himself. He was willing, perhaps, to think her utterly heartless rather than accept the belief in an affection which went no farther than to hope that he might be safe; but his vanity or his intuition, it matters little which of the two, told him that Corona felt more than that. And yet she did not love him. He sat for many hours, motionless in his chair, trying to construct the future out of the past, an effort of imagination in which he failed signally. The peace of his solitude was less satisfactory to him than at first, and he began to suspect that before very long he might even wish to return to the world. Possibly Corona might come to see him. The cardinal would perhaps think it best to tell her what had happened. How would he tell it? Would he let her know all? The light faded from the room, and the attendant brought his evening meal and set two candles upon the table. Hitherto it could not be said that he had suffered. On the contrary, his character had regained its tone after weeks of depression. Another day was ended, and he went to rest, but he slept less soundly than before, and on the following morning he awoke early. The monotony of the existence struck him all at once in its reality. The fourth day would be like the third, and, for all he knew, hundreds to come would be like the fourth if it pleased his Eminence to keep him a prisoner. Corona would certainly never suspect that he was shut up in the Holy Office, and if she did, she might not be able to come to him. Even if she came, what could he say to her? That he had committed a piece of outrageous folly because he was annoyed at her disbelief in him or at her coldness. He had probably made himself ridiculous for the first time in his life. The thought was the reverse of consoling. Nor did it contribute to his peace of mind to know that if he had made himself a laughing-stock, the cardinal, who dreaded ridicule, would certainly refuse to play a part in his comedy, and would act with all the rigour suitable to so grave a situation. He might even bring his prisoner to trial. Giovanni would submit to that, rather than be laughed at, but the alternative now seemed an appalling one. In his disgust of life on that memorable morning he had cared nothing what became of him, and had been in a state which precluded all just appreciation of the future. His enforced solitude had restored his faculties. He desired nothing less than to be tried for murder, because he had taken a short cut to satisfy his wife's caprice. But that caprice had for its object the liberty of poor Faustina Montevarchi. At all events, if he had made himself ridiculous, the ultimate purpose of his folly had been good, and had been accomplished. All through the afternoon he paced his room, alternately in a state of profound dissatisfaction with himself, and in a condition of anxious curiosity about coming events. He scarcely touched his food or noticed the attendant who entered half a dozen times to perform his various offices. Again the night closed in, and once more he lay down to sleep, dreading the morning, and hoping to lose himself in dreams. The fourth day was like the third, indeed, as far as his surroundings were concerned, but he had not foreseen that he would be a prey to such gnawing anxiety as he suffered, still less, perhaps, that he should grow almost desperate for a sight of Corona. He was not a man who made any exhibition of his feelings even when he was alone. But the man who served him noticed that when he entered Giovanni was never reading, as he had always been doing at first. He was either walking rapidly up and down or sitting idly in the big chair by the window. His face was quiet and pale, even solemn at times. The attendant was doubtless accustomed to sudden changes of mood in his prisoners, for he appeared to take no notice of the alteration in Giovanni's manner. It seemed as though the day would never end. To a man of his active strength to walk about a room is not exercise; it hardly seems like motion at all, and yet Giovanni found it harder and harder to sit still as the hours wore on. After an interval of comparative peace, his love for Corona had overwhelmed him again, and with tenfold force. To be shut up in a cell without the possibility of seeing her, was torture such as he had never dreamt of in his whole life. By a strange revulsion of feeling it appeared to him that by taking her so suddenly at her word he had again done her an injustice. The process of reasoning by which he arrived at this conclusion was not clear to himself, and probably could not be made intelligible to any one else. He had assuredly sacrificed himself unhesitatingly, and at first the action had given him pleasure. But this was destroyed by the thought of the possible consequences. He asked whether he had the right to satisfy her imperative demand for Faustina's freedom by doing that which might possibly cause her annoyance, even though it should bring no serious injury to any one. The time passed very slowly, and towards evening he began to feel as he had felt before he had taken the fatal step which had placed him beyond Corona's reach, restless, miserable, desperate. At last it was night, and he was sitting before his solitary meal, eating hardly anything, staring half unconsciously at the closed window opposite. The door opened softly, but he did not look round, supposing the person entering to be the attendant. Suddenly, there was the rustle of a woman's dress in the room, and at the same moment the door was shut. He sprang to his feet, stood still a moment, and then uttered a cry of surprise. Corona stood beside him, very pale, looking into his eyes. She had worn a thick veil, and on coming in had thrown it back upon her head--the veils of those days were long and heavy, and fell about the head and neck like a drapery. "Corona!" Giovanni cried, stretching out his hands towards her. Something in her face prevented him from throwing his arms round her, something not like her usual coldness and reproachful look that kept him back. "Giovanni--was it kind to leave me so?" she asked, without moving from her place. The question corresponded so closely with his own feelings that he had anticipated it, though he had no answer ready. She knew all, and was hurt by what he had done. What could he say? The reasons that had sent him so boldly into danger no longer seemed even sufficient for an excuse. The happiness he had anticipated in seeing her had vanished almost before it had made itself felt. His first emotion was bitter anger against the cardinal. No one else could have told her, for no one else knew what he had done nor where he was. Giovanni thought, and with reason, that the great man might have spared his wife such a blow. "I believed I was doing what was best when I did it," he answered, scarcely knowing what to say. "Was it best to leave me without a word, except a message of excuse for others?" "For you--was it not better? For me--what does it matter? Should I be happier anywhere else?" "Have I driven you from your home, Giovanni?" asked Corona, with a strange look in her dark eyes. Her voice trembled. "No, not you," he answered, turning away and beginning to walk up and down by the force of the habit he had acquired during the last two or three days. "Not you," he repeated more than once in a bitter tone. Corona sank down upon the chair he had left, and buried her face in her hands, as though overcome by a great and sudden grief. Giovanni stopped before her and looked at her, not clearly understanding what was passing in her mind. "Why are you so sorry?" he asked. "Has a separation of a few days changed you? Are you sorry for me?" "Why did you come here?" she exclaimed, instead of answering his question. "Why here, of all places?" "I had no choice. The cardinal decided the matter for me." "The cardinal? Why do you confide in him? You never did before. I may be wrong, but I do not trust him, kind as he has always been. If you wanted advice, you might have gone to Padre Filippo--" "Advice? I do not understand you, Corona." "Did you not go to the cardinal and tell him that you were very unhappy and wanted to make a retreat in some quiet place where nobody could find you? And did he not advise you to come here, promising to keep your secret, and authorising you to stay as long as you pleased? That is what he told me." "He told you that?" cried Giovanni in great astonishment. "Yes--that and nothing more. He came to see me late this afternoon. He said that he feared lest I should be anxious about your long absence, and that he thought himself justified in telling me where you were and in giving me a pass, in case I wanted to see you. Besides, if it is not all as he says, how did you come here?" "You do not know the truth? You do not know what I did? You do not guess why I am in the Holy Office?" "I know only what he told me," answered Corona, surprised by Giovanni's questions. But Giovanni gave no immediate explanation. He paced the floor in a state of excitement in which she had never seen him, clasping and unclasping his fingers nervously, and uttering short, incoherent exclamations. As she watched him a sensation of fear crept over her, but she did not ask him any question. He stopped suddenly again. "You do not know that I am in prison?" "In prison!" She rose with a sharp cry and seized his hands in hers. "Do not be frightened, dear," he said in an altered tone. "I am perfectly innocent. After all, you know it is a prison." "Ah, Giovanni!" she exclaimed reproachfully, "how could you say such a dreadful thing, even in jest?" She had dropped his hands again, and drew back a step as she spoke. "It is not a jest. It is earnest. Do not start. I will tell you just what happened. It is best, after all. When I left you at the Termini, I saw that you had set your heart on liberating poor Faustina. I could not find any way of accomplishing what you desired, and I saw that you thought I was not doing my best for her freedom. I went directly to the cardinal and gave myself up in her place." "As a hostage--a surety?" asked Corona, breathlessly. "No. He would not have accepted that, for he was prejudiced against her. I gave myself up as the murderer." He spoke quite calmly, as though he had been narrating a commonplace occurrence. For an instant she stood before him, dumb and horror-struck. Then with a great heart-broken cry she threw her arms round him and clasped him passionately to her breast. "My beloved! My beloved!" For some moments she held him so closely that he could neither move nor see her face, but the beating of his heart told him that a great change had in that instant come over his life. The cry had come from her soul, irresistibly, spontaneously. There was an accent in the two words she repeated which he had never hoped to hear again. He had expected that she would reproach him for his madness. Instead of that, his folly had awakened the love that was not dead, though it had been so desperately wounded. Presently she drew back a little and looked into his eyes, a fierce deep light burning in her own. "I love you," she said, almost under her breath. A wonderful smile passed over his face, illuminating the dark, stern lines of it like a ray of heavenly light. Then the dusky eyelids slowly closed, as though by their own weight, his head fell back, and his lips turned white. She felt the burden of his body in her arms, and but for her strength he would have fallen to the floor. She reeled on her feet, holding him still, and sank down until she knelt and his head rested on her knee. Her heart stood still as she listened for the sound of his faint breathing. Had his unconsciousness lasted longer she would have fainted herself. But in a moment his eyes opened again with an expression such as she had seen in them once or twice before, but in a less degree. "Corona--it is too much!" he said softly, almost dreamily. Then his strength returned in an instant, like a strong steel bow that has been bent almost to breaking. He scarcely knew how it was that the position was changed so that he was standing on his feet and clasping her as she had clasped him. Her tears were flowing FAST, but there was more joy in them than pain. "How could you do it?" she asked at length, looking up. "And oh, Giovanni! what will be the end of it? Will not something dreadful happen?" "What does anything matter now, darling?" At last they sat down together, hand in hand, as of old. It was as though the last two months had been suddenly blotted out. As Giovanni said, nothing could matter now. And yet the situation was far from clear. Giovanni understood well enough that the cardinal had wished to leave him the option of telling his wife what had occurred, and, if he chose to do so, of telling her in his own language. He was grateful for the tact the statesman had displayed, a tact which seemed also to show Giovanni the cardinal's views of the case. He had declared that he was desperate. The cardinal had concluded that he was unhappy. He had said that he did not care what became of him. The cardinal had supposed that he would be glad to be alone, or at all events that it would be good for him to have a certain amount of solitude. If his position were in any way dangerous, the great man would surely not have thought of sending Corona to his prisoner as he had done. He would have prepared her himself against any shock. And yet he was undeniably in prison, with no immediate prospect of liberty. "You cannot stay here any longer," said Corona when they were at last able to talk of the immediate future. "I do not see how I am to get out," Giovanni answered, with a smile. "I will go to the cardinal--" "It is of no use. He probably guesses the truth, but he is not willing to be made ridiculous by me or by any one. He will keep me here until there can be a trial, or until he finds the real culprit. He is obstinate. I know him." "It is impossible that he should think of such a thing!" exclaimed Corona indignantly. "I am afraid it is very possible. But, of course, it is only a matter of time--a few days at the utmost. If worst comes to worst I can demand an inquiry, I suppose, though I do not see how I can proclaim my own innocence without hurting Faustina. She was liberated because I put myself in her place--it is rather complicated." "Tell me, Giovanni," said Corona, "what did you say to the cardinal? You did not really say that you murdered Montevarchi?" "No. I said I gave myself up as the murderer, and I explained how I might have done the deed. I did more, I pledged my honour that Faustina was innocent." "But you were not sure of it yourself--" "Since you had told me it was true, I believed it," he answered simply. "Thank you, dear--" "No. Do not thank me for it. I could not help myself. I knew that you were sure--are you sure of something else, Corona? Are you as certain as you were of that?" "How can you ask? But you are right--you have the right to doubt me. You will not, though, will you? Hear me, dear, while I tell you the whole story." She slipped from her chair and knelt before him, as though she were to make a confession. Then she took his hands and looked up lovingly into his face. The truth rose in her eyes. "Forgive me, Giovanni. Yes, you have much to forgive. I did not know myself. When you doubted me, I felt as though I had nothing left in life, as though you would never again believe in me. I thought I did not love you. I was wrong. It was only my miserable vanity that was wounded, and that hurt me so. I felt that my love was dead, that you yourself were dead and that another man had taken your place. Ah, I could have helped it! Had I known you better, dear, had I been less mistaken in myself, all would have been different. But I was foolish--no, I was unhappy. Everything was dark and dreadful. Oh, my darling, I thought I could tell what I felt--I cannot! Forgive me, only forgive me, and love me as you did long ago. I will never leave you, not if you stay here for ever, only let me love you as I will!" "It is not for me to forgive, sweetheart," said Giovanni, bending down and kissing her sweet dark hair. "It is for you--" "But I would so much rather think it my fault, dear," she answered, drawing his face down to hers. It was a very womanly impulse that made her take the blame upon herself. "You must not think anything so unreasonable, Corona. I brought all the harm that came, from the first moment." He would have gone on to accuse himself, obstinate and manlike, recapitulating the whole series of events. But she would not let him. Once more she sat beside him and held his hand in hers. They talked incoherently and it is not to be wondered at if they arrived at no very definite conclusion after a very long conversation. They were still sitting together when the attendant entered and presented Giovanni with a large sealed letter, bearing the Apostolic arms, and addressed merely to the number of Giovanni's cell. "There is an answer," said the man, and then left the room. "It is probably the notice of the trial, or something of the kind," observed Giovanni, suddenly growing very grave as he broke the seal. He wished it might have come at any other time than the present. Corona held her breath and watched his face while he read the lines written upon one of the two papers he took from the envelope. Suddenly the colour came to his cheeks and his eyes brightened with a look of happiness and surprise. "I am free!" he cried, as he finished. "Free if I will sign this paper! Of course I will! I will sign anything he likes." The envelope contained a note from the cardinal, in his own hand, to the effect that suspicion had fallen upon another person and that Giovanni was at liberty to return to his home if he would sign the accompanying document. The latter was very short, and set forth that Giovanni Saracinesca bound himself upon his word to appear in the trial of the murderer of Prince Montevarchi, if called upon to do so, and not to leave Rome until the matter was finally concluded and set at rest. He took the pen that lay on the table and signed his name in a broad firm hand, a fact the more notable because Corona was leaning over his shoulder, watching the characters as he traced them. He folded the paper and placed it in the open envelope which accompanied it. The cardinal was a man of details. He thought it possible that the document might be returned open for lack of the means to seal it. He did not choose that his secrets should become the property of the people about the Holy Office. It was a specimen of his forethought in small things which might have an influence upon great ones. When Giovanni had finished, he rose and stood beside Corona. Each looked into the other's eyes and for a moment neither saw very clearly. They said little more, however, until the attendant entered again. "You are at liberty," he said briefly, and without a word began to put together the few small things that belonged to his late prisoner. Half an hour later Giovanni was seated at dinner at his father's table. The old gentleman greeted him with a half-savage growl of satisfaction. "The prodigal has returned to get a meal while there is one to be had," he remarked. "I thought you had gone to Paris to leave the agreeable settlement of our affairs to Corona and me. Where the devil have you been?" "I have been indulging in the luxury of a retreat in a religious house," answered Giovanni with perfect truth. Corona glanced at him and both laughed happily, as they had not laughed for many days and weeks. Saracinesca looked incredulously across the table at his son. "You chose a singular moment for your devotional exercises," he said. "Where will piety hide herself next, I wonder? As long as Corona is satisfied, I am. It is her business." "I am perfectly satisfied, I assure you," said Corona, whose black eyes were full of light. Giovanni raised his glass, looked at her and smiled lovingly. Then he emptied it to the last drop and set it down without a word. "Some secret, I suppose," said the old gentleman gruffly. CHAPTER XXVIII. Arnoldo Meschini was not, perhaps, insane in the ordinary sense of the word; that is to say, he would probably have recovered the normal balance of his faculties if he could have been kept from narcotics and stimulants, and if he could have been relieved from the distracting fear of discovery which tormented him when he was not under the influence of one or the other. But the latter condition was impossible, and it was the extremity of his terror which almost forced him to keep his brain in a clouded state. People have been driven mad by sudden fright, and have gradually lost their intellect through the constant presence of a fear from which there is no escape. A man who is perpetually producing an unnatural state of his mind by swallowing doses of brandy and opium may not be insane in theory; in actual fact, he may be a dangerous madman. As one day followed another Meschini found it more and more impossible to exist without his two comforters. The least approach to lucidity made him almost frantic. He fancied every man a spy, every indifferent glance a look full of meaning. Before long the belief took possession of him that he was to be made the victim of some horrible private vengeance. San Giacinto was not the man, he thought, to be contented with sending him to the galleys for life. Few murderers were executed in those days, and it would be a small satisfaction to the Montevarchi to know that Arnoldo had merely been transferred from his study of the library catalogue to the breaking of stones with a chain gang at Civitavecchia. It was more likely that they would revenge themselves more effectually. His disordered imagination saw horrible visions. San Giacinto might lay a trap for him, might simply come at dead of night and take him from his room to some deep vault beneath the palace. What could he do against such a giant? He fancied himself before a secret tribunal in the midst of which towered San Giacinto's colossal figure. He could hear the deep voice he dreaded pronouncing his doom. He was to be torn to shreds piecemeal, burnt by a slow fire, flayed alive by those enormous hands. There was no conceivable horror of torture that did not suggest itself to him at such times. It is true that when he went to bed at night he was generally either so stupefied by opium or so intoxicated with strong drink that he forgot even to lock his door. But during the day he was seldom so far under the power of either as not to suffer from his own hideous imaginings. One day, as he dragged his slow pace along a narrow street near the fountain of Trevi, his eyes were arrested by an armourer's window. It suddenly struck him that he had no weapon of defence in case San Giacinto or his agents came upon him unawares. And yet a bullet well placed would make an end even of such a Hercules as the man he feared. He paused and looked anxiously up and down the street. It was a dark day and a fine rain was falling. There was nobody about who could recognise him, and he might not have another such opportunity of providing himself unobserved with what he wanted. He entered the shop and bought himself a revolver. The man showed him how to load it and sold him a box of cartridges. He dropped the firearm into one of the pockets of his coat, and smiled as he felt how comfortably it balanced the bottle he carried in the other. Then he slunk out of the shop and pursued his walk. The idea of making capital out of the original deeds concerning the Saracinesca, which had presented itself to him soon after the murder, recurred frequently to his mind; but he felt that he was in no condition to elaborate it, and promised himself to attend to the matter when he was better. For he fancied that he was ill and that his state would soon begin to improve. To go to San Giacinto now was out of the question. It would have been easier for him to climb the cross on the summit of St. Peter's, with his shaken nerves and trembling limbs, than to face the man who inspired in him such untold dread. He could, of course, take the alternative which was open to him, and go to old Saracinesca. Indeed, there were moments when he could almost have screwed his courage to the point of making such an attempt, but his natural prudence made him draw back from an interview in which he must incur a desperate risk unless he had a perfect command of his faculties. To write what he had to say would be merely to give a weapon against himself, since he could not treat the matter by letter without acknowledging his share in the forgeries. The only way to accomplish his purpose would be to extract a solemn promise of secrecy from Saracinesca, together with a guarantee for his own safety, and to obtain these conditions would need all the diplomacy he possessed. Bad as he was, he had no experience of practical blackmailing, and he would be obliged to compose his speeches beforehand with scrupulous care, and with the wisest forethought. For the present, such work was beyond his power, but when he was half drunk he loved to look at the ancient parchments and build golden palaces in the future. When he was strong again, and calm, he would realise all his dreams, and that time, he felt sure, could not be far removed. Nevertheless the days succeeded each other with appalling swiftness, and nothing was done. By imperceptible degrees his horror of San Giacinto began to invade his mind even when it was most deadened by drink. So long as an idea is new and has not really become a habit of the brain, brandy will drive it away, but the moment must inevitably come when the stimulant loses its power to obscure the memory of the thing dreaded. Opium will do it more effectually, but even that does not continue to act for ever. The time comes when the predominant thought of the waking hours reproduces itself during the artificial sleep with fearful force, so that the mind at last obtains no rest at all. That is the dangerous period, preceding the decay and total collapse of the intellect under what is commonly called the fixed idea. In certain conditions of mind, and notably with criminals who fear discovery, the effects of opium change very quickly; the downward steps through which it would take months for an ordinary individual to pass are descended with alarming rapidity, and the end is a thousand times more horrible. Meschini could not have taken the doses which a confirmed opium-eater swallows with indifference, but the result produced was far greater in proportion to the amount of the narcotic he consumed. Before the week which followed the deed was ended, he began to see visions when he was apparently awake. Shapeless, slimy things crawled about the floor of his room, upon his table, even upon the sheets of his bed. Dark shadows confronted him, and changed their outlines unexpectedly. Forms rose out of the earth at his feet and towered all at once to the top of the room, taking the appearance of San Giacinto and vanishing suddenly into the air. The things he saw came like instantaneous flashes from another and even more terrible world, disappearing at first so quickly as to make him believe them only the effects of the light and darkness, like the ghost he had seen in his coat. In the beginning there was scarcely anything alarming in them, but as he started whenever they came, he generally took them as a warning that he needed more brandy to keep him up. In the course of a day or two, however, these visions assumed more awful proportions, and he found it impossible to escape from them except in absolute stupor. It would have been clear to any one that this state of things could not last long. There was scarcely an hour in which he knew exactly what he was doing, and if his strange behaviour escaped observation this was due to his solitary way of living. He did not keep away from the palace during the whole day, from a vague idea that his absence might be thought suspicious. He spent a certain number of hours in the library, doing nothing, although he carefully spread out a number of books before him and dipped his pen into the ink from time to time, stupidly, mechanically, as though his fingers could not forget the habit so long familiar to them. His eyes,--which had formerly been unusually bright, had grown dull and almost bleared, though they glanced at times very quickly from one part of the room to another. That was when he saw strange things moving in the vast hall, between him and the bookcases. When they had disappeared, his glassy look returned, so that his eyeballs seemed merely to reflect the light, as inanimate objects do, without absorbing it, and conveying it to the seat of vision. His face grew daily more thin and ghastly. It was by force of custom that he stayed so long in the place where he had spent so much of his life. The intervals of semi-lucidity seemed terribly long, though they were in reality short enough, and the effort to engage his attention in work helped him to live through them. He had never gone down to the apartments where the family lived, since he had knelt before the catafalque on the day after the murder. Indeed, there was no reason why he should go there, and no one noticed his absence. He was a very insignificant person in the palace. As for any one coming to find him among the books, nothing seemed more improbable. The library was swept out in the early morning and no one entered it again during the twenty-four hours. He never went out into the corridor now, but left his coat upon a chair near him, when he remembered to bring it. As a sort of precautionary measure against fear, he locked the door which opened upon the passage when he came in the morning, unlocking it again when he went away in order that the servant who did the sweeping might be able to get in. The Princess Montevarchi was still dangerously ill, and Faustina had not been willing to leave her. San Giacinto and Flavia were not living in the house, but they spent a good deal of time there, because San Giacinto had ideas of his own about duty, to which his wife was obliged to submit even if she did not like them. Faustina was neither nervous nor afraid of solitude, and was by no means in need of her sister's company, so that when the two were together their conversation was not always of the most affectionate kind. The consequence was that the young girl tried to be alone as much as possible when she was not at her mother's bedside. One day, having absolutely nothing to do, she grew desperate. It was very hard not to think of Anastase, when she was in the solitude of her own room, with no occupation to direct her mind. A week earlier she had been only too glad to have the opportunity of dreaming away the short afternoon undisturbed, letting her girlish thoughts wander among the rose gardens of the future with the image of the man she loved so dearly, and who was yet so far removed from her. Now she could not think of him without reflecting that her father's death had removed one very great obstacle to her marriage. She was by no means of a very devout or saintly character, but, on the other hand, she had a great deal of what is called heart, and to be heartless seemed to her almost worse than to be bad. In excuse of such very untheological doctrines it must be allowed that her ideas concerning wickedness in general were very limited indeed, if not altogether childish in their extreme simplicity. It is certain, however, that she would have thought it far less wrong to run away with Gouache in spite of her family than to entertain any thought which could place her father's tragic death in the light of a personal advantage. If she had nothing to do she could not help thinking of Anastase, and if she thought of him, she could not escape the conclusion that it would be far easier for her to marry him, now that the old prince was out of the way. It was therefore absolutely necessary to find some occupation. At first she wandered aimlessly about the house until she was struck, almost for the first time, by the antiquated stiffness of the arrangement, and began to ask herself whether it would be respectful to the memory of her father, and to her mother, to try and make a few changes. Corona's home was very different. She would like to take that for a model. But one or two attempts showed her the magnitude of the task she had undertaken. She was ashamed to call the servants to help her--it would look as though there were to be a reception in the house. Her ideas of what could take place in the Palazzo Montevarchi did not go beyond that staid form of diversion. She was ashamed, however, and reflected, besides, that she was only the youngest of the family and had no right to take the initiative in the matter of improvements. The time hung very heavily upon her hands. She tried to teach herself something about painting by looking at the pictures on the walls, spending a quarter of an hour before each with conscientious assiduity. But this did not succeed either. The men in the pictures all took the shape of Monsieur Gouache in his smartest uniform and the women all looked disagreeably like Flavia. Then she thought of the library, which was the only place of importance in the house which she had not lately visited. She hesitated a moment only, considering how she could best reach it without passing through the study, and without going up the grand staircase to the outer door. A very little reflection showed her that she could get into the corridor from a passage near her own room. In a few minutes she was at the entrance to the great hall, trying to turn the heavy carved brass handle of the latch. To her surprise she could not open the door, which was evidently fastened from within. Then as she shook it in the hope that some one would hear her, a strange cry reached her ears, like that of a startled animal, accompanied by the shuffling of feet. She remembered Meschini's walk, and understood that it was he. "Please let me in!" she called out in her clear young voice, that echoed back to her from the vaulted chamber. Again she heard the shuffling footsteps, which this time came towards her, and a moment afterwards the door opened and the librarian's ghastly face was close before her. She drew back a little. She had forgotten that he was so ugly, she thought, or perhaps she would not have cared to see him. It would have been foolish, moreover, to go away after coming thus far. "I want to see the library," she said quietly, after she had made up her mind. "Will you show it to me?" "Favorisca, Excellency," replied Meschini in a broken voice. He had been frightened by the noise at the door, and the contortion of his face as he tried to smile was hideous to see. He bowed low, however, and closed the door after she had entered. Scarcely knowing what he did, he shuffled along by her side while she looked about the library, gazing at the long rows of books, bound all alike, that stretched from end to end of many of the shelves. The place was new to her, for she had not been in it more than two or three times in her life, and she felt a sort of unexplained awe in the presence of so many thousands of volumes, of so much written and printed wisdom which she could never hope to understand. She had come with a vague idea that she should find something to read that should be different from the novels she was not allowed to touch. She realised all at once that she knew nothing of what had been written in all the centuries whose literature was represented in the vast collection. She hardly knew the names of twenty books out of the hundreds of millions that the world contained. But she could ask Meschini. She looked at him again, and his face repelled her. Nevertheless, she was too kindhearted not to enter into conversation with the lonely man whom she had so rarely seen, but who was one of the oldest members of her father's household. "You have spent your life here, have you not?" she asked, for the sake of saying something. "Nearly thirty years of it," answered Meschini in a muffled voice. Her presence tortured him beyond expression. "That is a long time, and I am not an old man." "And are you always alone here? Do you never go out? What do you do all day?" "I work among the books, Excellency. There are twenty thousand volumes here, enough to occupy a man's time." "Yes--but how? Do you have to read them all?" asked Faustina innocently. "Is that your work?" "I have read many more than would be believed, for my own pleasure. But my work is to keep them in order, to see that there is no variation from the catalogue, so that when learned men come to make inquiries they may find what they want. I have also to take care of all the books, to see that they do not suffer in any way. They are very valuable. There is a fortune here." Somehow he felt less nervous when he began to speak of the library and its contents and the words came more easily to him. With a little encouragement he might even become loquacious. In spite of his face, Faustina began to feel an interest in him. "It must be very hard work," she remarked. "Do you like it? Did you never want to do anything else? I should think you would grow tired of being always alone." "I am very patient," answered Meschini humbly. "And I am used to it. I grew accustomed to the life when I was young." "You say the collection is valuable. Are there any very beautiful books? I would like to see some of them." The fair young creature sat down upon one of the high carved chairs at the end of a table. Meschini went to the other side of the hall and unlocked one of the drawers which lined the lower part of the bookcases to the height of three or four feet. Each was heavily carved with the Montevarchi arms in high relief. It was in these receptacles that the precious manuscripts were kept in their cases. He returned bringing a small square volume of bound manuscript, and laid it before Faustina. "This is worth an enormous sum," he said. "It is the only complete one in the world. There is an imperfect copy in the library of the Vatican." "What is it?" "It is the Montevarchi Dante, the oldest in existence." Faustina turned over the leaves curiously, and admired the even writing though she could not read many of the words, for the ancient characters were strange to her. It was a wonderful picture that the couple made in the great hall. On every side the huge carved bookcases of walnut, black with age, rose from the floor to the spring of the vault, their dark faces reflected in the highly-polished floor of coloured marble. Across the ancient tables a ray of sunlight fell from the high clerestory window. In the centre, the two figures with the old manuscript between them; Faustina's angel head in a high light against the dusky background, as she bent forward a little, turning the yellow pages with her slender, transparent fingers, the black folds of her full gown making heavy lines of drapery, graceful by her grace, and rendered less severe by a sort of youthfulness that seemed to pervade them, and that emanated from herself. Beside her, the bent frame of the broken down librarian, in a humble and respectful attitude, his long arms hanging down by his sides, his shabby black coat almost dragging to his heels, his head bent forward as he looked at the pages. All his features seemed to have grown more sharp and yellow and pointed, and there was now a deep red flush in the upper part of his cheeks. A momentary light shone in his gray eyes, from beneath the bushy brows, a light of intelligence such as had formerly characterised them especially, brought back now perhaps by the effort to fix his attention upon the precious book. His large, coarse ears appeared to point themselves forward like those of an animal, following the direction of his sight. In outward appearance he presented a strange mixture of dilapidation, keenness, and brutality. A week had changed him very much. A few days ago most people would have looked at him with a sort of careless compassion. Now, there was about him something distinctly repulsive. Beside Faustina's youth and delicacy, and freshness, he hardly seemed like a human being. "I suppose it is a very wonderful thing," said the young girl at last, "but I do not know enough to understand its value. Do my brothers ever come to the library?" She leaned back from the volume and glanced at Meschini's face, wondering how heaven could have made anything so ugly. "No. They never come," replied the librarian, drawing the book towards him instinctively, as he would have done if his visitor had been a stranger, who might try to steal a page or two unless he were watched. "But my poor father was very fond of the books, was he not? Did he not often come to see you here?" She was thinking so little of Meschini that she did not see that he turned suddenly white and shook like a man in an ague. It was what he had feared all along, ever since she had entered the room. She suspected him and had come, or had perhaps been sent by San Giacinto to draw him into conversation and to catch him in something which could be interpreted to be a confession of his crime. Had that been her intention, his behaviour would have left little doubt in her mind as to the truth of the accusation. His face betrayed him, his uncontrollable fear, his frightened eyes and trembling limbs. But she had only glanced at him, and her sight wandered to the bookcases for a moment. When she looked again he was moving away from her, along the table. She was surprised to see that his step was uncertain, and that he reeled against the heavy piece of furniture and grasped it for support. She started a little but did not rise. "Are you ill?" she asked. "Shall I call some one?" He made no answer, but seemed to recover himself at the sound of her voice, for he shuffled away and disappeared behind the high carved desk on which lay the open catalogue. She thought she saw a flash of light reflected from some smooth surface, and immediately afterwards she heard a gurgling sound, which she did not understand. Meschini was fortifying himself with a draught. Then he reappeared, walking more steadily. He had received a severe shock, but, as usual, he had not the courage to run away, conceiving that flight would inevitably be regarded as a proof of guilt. "I am not well," he said in explanation as he returned. "I am obliged to take medicine continually. I beg your Excellency to forgive me." "I am sorry to hear that," answered Faustina kindly. "Can we do nothing for you? Have you all you need?" "Everything, thank you. I shall soon be well." "I hope so, I am sure. What was I saying? Oh--I was asking whether my poor father came often to the library. Was he fond of the books?" "His Excellency--Heaven give him glory!--he was a learned man. Yes, he came now and then." Meschini took possession of the manuscript and carried it off rather suddenly to its place in the drawer. He was a long time in locking it up. Faustina watched him with some curiosity. "You were here that day, were you not?" she asked, as he turned towards her once more. The question was a natural one, considering the circumstances. "I think your Excellency was present when I was examined by the prefect," answered Meschini in a curiously disagreeable tone. "True," said Faustina. "You said you had been here all day as usual. I had forgotten. How horrible it was. And you saw nobody, you heard nothing? But I suppose it is too far from the study." The librarian did not answer, but it was evident from his manner that he was very much disturbed. Indeed, he fancied that his worst fears were realised, and that Faustina was really trying to extract information from him for his own conviction. Her thoughts were actually very far from any such idea. She would have considered it quite as absurd to accuse the poor wretch before her as she had thought it outrageous that she herself should be suspected. Her father had always seemed to her a very imposing personage, and she could not conceive that he should have met his death at the hands of such a miserable creature as Arnoldo Meschini, who certainly had not the outward signs of physical strength or boldness. He, however, understood her words very differently and stood still, half way between her and the bookcases, asking himself whether it would not be better to take immediate steps for his safety. His hand was behind him, feeling for the revolver in the pocket of his long coat. Faustina was singularly fearless, by nature, but if she had guessed the danger of her position she would probably have effected her escape very quickly, instead of continuing the conversation. "It is a very dreadful mystery," she said, rising from her chair and walking slowly across the polished marble floor until she stood before a row of great volumes of which the colour had attracted her eye. "It is the duty of us all to try and explain it. Of course we shall know all about it some day, but it is very hard to be patient. Do you know?" she turned suddenly and faced Meschini, speaking with a vehemence not usual for her. "They suspected me, as if I could have done it, I, a weak girl! And yet--if I had the man before me--the man who murdered him--I believe I would kill him with my hands!" She moved forward a little, as she spoke, and tapped her small foot upon the pavement, as though to emphasise her words. Her soft brown eyes flashed with righteous anger, and her cheek grew pale at the thought of avenging her father. There must have been something very fierce in her young face, for Meschini's heart failed him, and his nerves seemed to collapse all at once. He tried to draw back from her, slipped and fell upon his knees with a sharp cry of fear. Even then, Faustina did not suspect the cause of his weakness, but attributed it to the illness of which he had spoken. She sprang forward and attempted to help the poor creature to his feet, but instead of making an effort to rise, he seemed to be grovelling before her, uttering incoherent exclamations of terror. "Lean on me!" said Faustina, putting out her hand. "What is the matter? Oh! Are you going to die!" "Oh! oh! Do not hurt me--pray--in God's name!" cried Meschini, raising his eyes timidly. "Hurt you? No! Why should I hurt you? You are ill--we will have the doctor. Try and get up--try and get to a chair." Her tone reassured him a little, and her touch also, as she did her best to raise him to his feet. He struggled a little and at last stood up, leaning upon the bookcase, and panting with fright. "It is nothing," he tried to say, catching his breath at every syllable. "I am better--my nerves--your Excellency--ugh! what a coward I am!" The last exclamation, uttered in profound disgust of his own weakness, struck Faustina as very strange. "Did I frighten you?" she asked in surprise. "I am very sorry. Now sit down and I will call some one to come to you." "No, no! Please--I would rather be alone! I can walk quite well now. If--if your Excellency will excuse me, I will go to my room. I have more medicine--I will take it and I shall be better." "Can you go alone? Are you sure?" asked Faustina anxiously. But even while she spoke he was moving towards the door, slowly and painfully at first, as it seemed, though possibly a lingering thought of propriety kept him from appearing to run away. The young girl walked a few steps after him, half fearing that he might fall again. But he kept his feet and reached the threshold. Then he made a queer attempt at a bow, and mumbled some words that Faustina could not hear. In another moment he had disappeared, and she was alone. For some minutes she looked at the closed door through which he had gone out. Then she shook her head a little sadly, and slowly went back to her room by the way she had come. It was all very strange, she thought, but his illness might account for it. She would have liked to consult San Giacinto, but though she was outwardly on good terms with him, and could not help feeling a sort of respect for his manly character, the part he had played in attempting to separate her from Gouache had prevented the two from becoming intimate. She said nothing to any one about her interview with Meschini in the library, and no one even guessed that she had been there. CHAPTER XXIX. In spite of his haste to settle all that remained to be settled with regard to the restitution of the property to San Giacinto, Saracinesca found it impossible to wind up the affair in a week as he had intended. It was a very complicated matter to separate from his present fortune that part of it which his cousin would have inherited from his great-grandfather. A great deal of wealth had come into the family since that time by successive marriages, and the management of the original estate had not been kept separate from the administration of the dowries which had from time to time been absorbed into it. The Saracinesca, however, were orderly people, and the books had been kept for generations with that astonishing precision of detail which is found in the great Roman houses, and which surpasses, perhaps, anything analogous which is to be found in modern business. By dint of perseverance and by employing a great number of persons in making the calculations, the notaries had succeeded in preparing a tolerably satisfactory schedule in the course of a fortnight, which both the principal parties agreed to accept as final. The day fixed for the meeting and liquidation of the accounts was a Saturday, a fortnight and two days after the murder of Prince Montevarchi. A question arose concerning the place of meeting. Saracinesca proposed that San Giacinto and the notaries should come to the Palazzo Saracinesca. He was ready to brave out the situation to the end, to face his fate until it held nothing more in store for him, even to handing over the inventory of all that was no longer his in the house where he had been born. His boundless courage and almost brutal frankness would doubtless have supported him to the last, even through such a trial to his feelings, but San Giacinto refused to agree to the proposal. He repeatedly stated that he wished the old prince to inhabit the palace through his lifetime, and that he should even make every effort to induce him to retain the title. Both of these offers were rejected courteously, but firmly. In the matter of holding the decisive meeting in the palace, however, San Giacinto made a determined stand. He would not on any account appear in the light of the conqueror coming to take possession of the spoil. His wife had no share in this generous sentiment. She would have liked to enjoy her triumph to the full, for she was exceedingly ambitious, and was, moreover, not very fond of the Saracinesca. As she expressed it, she felt when she was with any of them, from the old prince to Corona, that they must be thinking all the time that she was a very foolish young person. San Giacinto's action was therefore spontaneous, and if it needs explanation it may be ascribed to an inherited magnanimity, to a certain dignity which had distinguished him even as a young man from the low class in which he had grown up. He was, indeed, by no means a type of the perfect nobleman; his conduct in the affair between Faustina and Gouache had shown that. He acted according to his lights, and was not ashamed to do things which his cousin Giovanni would have called mean. But he was manly, for all that, and if he owed some of his dignity to great stature and to his indomitable will, it was also in a measure the outward sign of a good heart and of an innate sense of justice. There had as yet been nothing dishonest in his dealings since he had come to Rome. He had acquired a fortune which enabled him to take the position that was lawfully his. He liked Flavia, and had bargained for her with her father, afterwards scrupulously fulfilling the terms of the contract. He had not represented himself to be what he was not, and he had taken no unfair advantage of any one for his own advancement. In the matter of the suit he was the dupe of old Montevarchi, so far as the deeds were concerned, but he was perfectly aware that he actually represented the elder branch of his family. It is hard to imagine how any man in his position could have done less than he did, and now that it had come to a final settlement he was really anxious to cause his vanquished relations as little humiliation as possible. To go to their house was like playing the part of a bailiff. To allow them to come to his dwelling suggested the journey to Canossa. The Palazzo Montevarchi was neutral ground, and he proposed that the formalities should be fulfilled there. Saracinesca consented readily enough and the day was fixed. The notaries arrived at ten o'clock in the morning, accompanied by clerks who were laden with books, inventories and rolls of manuscript. The study had been selected for the meeting, both on account of its seclusion from the rest of the house and because it contained an immense table which would serve for the voluminous documents, all of which must be examined and verified. San Giacinto himself awaited the arrival of the Saracinesca in the great reception-room. He had sent his wife away, for he was in reality by no means so calm as he appeared to be, and her constant talk disturbed him. He paced the long room with regular steps, his head erect, his hands behind him, stopping from time to time to listen for the footsteps of those he expected. It was the great day of his life. Before night, he was to be Prince Saracinesca. The moments that precede a great triumph are very painful, especially if a man has looked forward to the event for a long time. No matter how sure he is of the result, something tells him that it is uncertain. A question may arise, he cannot guess whence, by which all may be changed. He repeats to himself a hundred times that failure is impossible, but he is not at rest. The uncertainty of all things, even of his own life, appears very clearly before his eyes. His heart beats fast and slow from one minute to another. At the very instant when he is dreaming of the future, the possibility of disappointment breaks in upon his thoughts. He cannot explain it, but he longs to be beyond the decisive hour. In San Giacinto's existence, the steps from obscurity to importance and fortune had, of late, been so rapidly ascended that he was almost giddy with success. For the first time since he had left his old home in Aquila, he felt as though he had been changed from his own self to some other person. At last the door opened, and Saracinesca, Giovanni, and Corona entered the room. San Giacinto was surprised to see Giovanni's wife on an occasion when the men alone of the family were concerned, but she explained that she had come to spend the morning with Faustina, and would wait till everything was finished. The meeting was not a cordial one, though both parties regarded it as inevitable. If Saracinesca felt any personal resentment against San Giacinto he knew that it was unreasonable and he had not the bad taste to show it. He was silent, but courteous in his manner. Giovanni, strange to say, seemed wholly indifferent to what was about to take place. "I hope," said San Giacinto, when all four were seated, "that you will consent to consider this as a mere formality. I have said as much through my lawyers, but I wish to repeat it myself in better words than they used." "Pardon me," answered Saracinesca, "if I suggest that we should not discuss that matter. We are sensible of your generosity in making such offers, but we do not consider it possible to accept them." "I must ask your indulgence if I do not act upon your suggestion," returned San Giacinto. "Even if there is no discussion I cannot consent to proceed to business until I have explained what I mean. If the suit has been settled justly by the courts, it has not been decided with perfect justice as regards its consequences. I do not deny, and I understand that you do not expect me to act otherwise, that it has been my intention to secure for myself and for my children the property and the personal position abandoned by my ancestor. I have obtained what I wanted and what was my right, and I have to thank you for the magnanimity you have displayed in not attempting to contest a claim against which you might have brought many arguments, if not much evidence. The affair having been legally settled, it is for us to make whatever use of it seems better in our own eyes. To deprive you of your name and of the house in which you were born and bred, would be to offer you an indignity such as I never contemplated." "You cannot be said to deprive us of what is not ours, by any interpretation of the word with which I am acquainted," said Saracinesca in a tone which showed that he was determined to receive nothing. "I am a poor grammarian," answered San Giacinto gravely, and without the slightest affectation of humility. "I was brought up a farmer, and was only an innkeeper until lately. I cannot discuss with you the subtle meanings of words. To my mind it is I who am taking from you that which, if not really yours, you have hitherto had every right to own and to make use of. I do not attempt to explain my thought. I only say that I will neither take your name nor live in your house while you are alive. I propose a compromise which I hope you will be willing to accept." "I fear that will be impossible. My mind is made up." "I propose," continued San Giacinto, "that you remain Prince Saracinesca, that you keep Saracinesca itself, and the palace here in Rome during your lifetime, which I trust may be a long one. After your death everything returns to us. My cousin Giovanni and the Princess Sant' Ilario--" "You may call me Corona, if you please," said the princess suddenly. Her eyes were fixed on his face, and she was smiling. Both Saracinesca and Giovanni looked at her in surprise. It seemed strange to them that she should choose such a moment for admitting San Giacinto to a familiarity he had never before enjoyed. But for some time she had felt a growing respect for the ex-innkeeper, which was quickened by his present generosity. San Giacinto's swarthy face grew a shade darker as the blood mounted to his lean cheeks. Corona had given him one of the first sensations of genuine pleasure he had ever experienced in his rough life. "Thank you," he said simply. "You two, I was going to say, have palaces of your own and cannot have such close associations with the old places as one who has owned them during so many years. You," he continued, turning to the old prince, "will, I hope, accept an arrangement which cannot affect your dignity and which will give me the greatest satisfaction." "I am very much obliged to you," answered Saracinesca promptly. "You are very generous, but I cannot take what you offer." "If you feel that you would be taking anything from me, look at it from a different point of view. You would be conferring a favour instead of accepting one. Consider my position, when I have taken your place. It will not be a pleasant one. The world will abuse me roundly, and will say I have behaved abominably towards you. Do you fancy that I shall be received as a substitute for the Prince Saracinesca your friends have known so long? Do you suppose that the vicissitudes of my life are unknown, and that no one will laugh behind my back and point at me as the new, upstart prince? Few people know me in Rome, and if I have any friends besides you, I have not been made aware of the fact. Pray consider that in doing what I ask, you would be saving me from very unpleasant social consequences." "I should be doing so at the cost of my self-respect," replied the old man firmly. "Whatever the consequences are to you, the means of bearing them will be in your hands. You will have no lack of friends to-morrow, or at least of amiable persons anxious to call themselves by that name. They will multiply this very night, like mushrooms, and will come about you freshly shaved and smiling to-morrow morning." "I am afraid you do not understand me," said San Giacinto. "I can leave you the title and yet take one which will serve as well. You would call yourself Prince Saracinesca and I should be Saracinesca di San Giacinto. As for the palace and the place in the mountains, they are so insignificant as compared with the rest that it could not hurt your self-respect to live in them. Can you not persuade your father?" He turned to Giovanni who had not spoken yet. "You are very good to make the proposal," he answered. "I cannot say more than that. I agree with my father." A silence followed which lasted several minutes. Corona looked from one to the other of the three men, wondering how the matter would end. She understood both parties better than they understood each other. She sympathised with the refusal of her husband and his father. To accept such an offer would put them in a position of obligation towards San Giacinto which she knew they could never endure, and which would be galling to herself. On the other hand she felt sorry for their cousin, who was evidently trying to do what he felt was right and generous, and was disappointed that his advances should be repelled. He was very much in earnest, or he would not have gone so far as to suggest that it would be a favour to him if they took what he offered. He was so simple, and yet so dignified withal, that she could not help liking him. It was not clear to her, however, that she could mend matters by interfering, nor by offering advice to the one or sympathy to the other. Saracinesca himself was the first to break the silence. It seemed to him that everything had been said, and that nothing now remained but to fulfil the requisite formalities. "Shall we proceed to business?" he inquired, as though ignoring all the previous conversation. "I believe we have a great deal to do, and the time is passing." San Giacinto made no reply, but rose gravely and made a gesture signifying that he would show the way to the study. Saracinesca made a show of refusing to go out first, then yielded and went on. San Giacinto waited at the door for Corona and Giovanni. "I will join you in a moment--I know the way," said the latter, remaining behind with his wife. When they were alone he led her towards one of the windows, as though to be doubly sure that no one could hear what he was about to say. Then he stood still and looked into her eyes. "Would you like us to accept such a favour from him?" he asked. "Tell me the truth." "No," answered Corona without the least hesitation. "But I am sorry for San Giacinto. I think he is really trying to do right, and to be generous. He was hurt by your father's answer." "If I thought it would give you pleasure to feel that we could go to Saracinesca, I would try and make my father change his mind." "Would you?" She knew very well what a sacrifice it would be to his pride. "Yes, dear. I would do it for you." "Giovanni--how good you are!" "No--I am not good. I love you. That is all. Shall I try?" "Never! I am sorry for San Giacinto--but I could no more live in the old house, or in Saracinesca, than you could. Do I not feel all that you feel, and more?" "All?" "All." They stood hand in hand looking out of the window, and there were tears in the eyes of both. The grasp of their fingers tightened slowly as though they were drawn together by an irresistible force. Slowly they turned their faces towards each other, and presently their lips met in one of those kisses that are never forgotten. Then Giovanni left her where she was. All had been said; both knew that they desired nothing more in this world, and that henceforth they were all to each other. It was as though a good angel had set a heavenly seal upon the reunion of their hearts. Corona did not leave the room immediately, but remained a few moments leaning against the heavy frame of the window. Her queenly figure drooped a little, and she pressed one hand to her side. Her dark face was bent down, and the tears that had of old come so rarely made silver lines upon her olive cheeks. There was not one drop of bitterness in that overflowing of her soul's transcendent joy, in that happiness which was so great and perfect that it seemed almost unbearable. And she had reason to be glad. In the midst of a calamity which would have absorbed the whole nature of many men, Giovanni had not one thought that was not for her. Giovanni, who had once doubted her, who had said such things to her as she dared not remember--Giovanni, suffering under a blow to his pride, that was worse almost than total ruin, had but one wish, to make another sacrifice for her. That false past, of which she hated to think, was gone like an evil dream before the morning sun, that true past, which was her whole life, was made present again. The love that had been so bruised and crushed that she had thought it dead had sprung up again from its deep, strong roots, grander and nobler than before. The certainty that it was real was overwhelming, and drowned all her senses in a trance of light. Faustina Montevarchi entered the drawing-room softly, then, seeing no one, she advanced till she came all at once upon Corona in the embrasure of the window. The princess started slightly when she saw that she was not alone. "Corona!" exclaimed the young girl. "Are you crying? What is it?" "Oh, Faustina! I am so happy!" It was a relief to be able to say it to some one. "Happy?" repeated Faustina in surprise. "But there are tears in your eyes, on your cheeks--" "You cannot understand--I do not wonder--how should you? And besides, I cannot tell you what it is." "I wish I were you," answered her friend sadly. "I wish I were happy!" "What is it, child?" asked Corona kindly. Then she led Faustina to a stiff old sofa at one end of the vast room and they sat down together. "What is it?" she repeated, drawing the girl affectionately to her side. "You know what it is, dear. No one can help me. Oh, Corona! we love each other so very much!" "I know--I know it is very real. But you must have a little patience, darling. Love will win in the end. Just now, too--" She did not finish the sentence, but she had touched a sensitive spot in Faustina's conscience. "That is the worst of it," was the answer. "I am so miserable, because I know he never would have allowed it, and now--I am ashamed to tell you, it is so heartless!" She hid her face on her friend's shoulder. "You will never be heartless, my dear Faustina," said Corona. "What you think, is not your fault, dear. Love is master of the world and of us all." "But my love is not like yours, Corona. Perhaps yours was once like mine. But you are married--you are happy. You were saying so just now." "Yes, dear. I am very, very happy, because I love very, very dearly. You will be as happy as I am some day." "Ah, that may be--but--I am dreadfully wicked, Corona!" "You, child? You do not know what it is to think anything bad!" "But I do. I am so much ashamed of it that I can hardly tell you--only I tell you everything, because you are my friend. Corona--it is horrible--it seems easier, more possible--now that he is gone--oh! I am so glad I have told you!" Faustina began to sob passionately, as though she were repenting of some fearful crime. "Is that all, darling?" asked Corona, smiling at the girl's innocence, and pressing her head tenderly to her own breast. "Is that what makes you so unhappy?" "Yes--is it not--very, very dreadful?" A fresh shower of tears accompanied the question. "Perhaps I am very bad, too," said Corona. "But I do not call that wickedness." "Oh no! You are good. I wish I were like you!" "No, do not wish that. But, I confess, it seems to me natural that you should think as you do, because it is really true. Your father, Faustina, may have been mistaken about your future. If--if he had lived, you might perhaps have made him change his mind. At all events, you can hope that he now sees more clearly, that he understands how terrible it is for a woman to be married to a man she does not love--when she is sure that she loves another." "Yes--you told me. Do you remember? It was the other day, after Flavia had been saying such dreadful things. But I know it already. Every woman must know it." There was a short pause, during which Corona wondered whether she were the same person she had been ten days earlier, when she had delivered that passionate warning. Faustina sat quite still, looking up into the princess's face. She was comforted and reassured and the tears had ceased to flow. "There is something else," she said at last. "I want to tell you everything, for I can tell no one else. I cannot keep it to myself either. He has written to me, Corona. Was it very wrong to read his letter?" This time she smiled a little and blushed. "I do not think it was very wrong," answered her friend with a soft laugh. She was so happy that she would have laughed at anything. "Shall I show you his letter?" asked the young girl shyly. At the same time her hand disappeared into the pocket of her black gown, and immediately afterwards brought out a folded piece of paper which looked as though it had been read several times. Corona did not think it necessary to express her assent in words. Faustina opened the note, which contained the following words, written in Gouache's delicate French handwriting-- "MADEMOISELLE--When you have read these lines, you will understand my object in writing them, for you understand me, and you know that all I do has but one object. A few days ago it was still possible for us to meet frequently. The terrible affliction which has fallen upon you, and in which none can feel deeper or more sincere sympathy than I, has put it out of your power and out of mine to join hands and weep over the present, to look into each other's eyes and read there the golden legend of a future happiness. To meet as we have met, alone in the crowded church--no! we cannot do it. For you, at such a time, it would seem like a disrespect to your father's memory. For myself, I should deem it dishonourable, I should appear base in my own eyes. Did I not go to him and put to him the great question? Was I not repulsed--I do not say with insult, but with astonishment--at my presumption? Shall I then seem to take advantage of his death--of his sudden and horrible death--to press forward a suit which he is no longer able to oppose? I feel that it would be wrong. Though I cannot express myself as I would, I know that you understand me, for you think as I do. How could it be otherwise? Are we not one indivisible soul, we two? Yes, you will understand me. Yes, you will know that it is right. I go therefore, I leave Rome immediately. I cannot inhabit the same city and not see you. But I cannot quit the Zouaves in this time of danger. I am therefore going to Viterbo, whither I am sent through the friendly assistance of one of our officers. There I shall stay until time has soothed your grief and restored your mother to health. To her we will turn when the moment has arrived. She will not be insensible to our tears and entreaties. Until then good-bye--ah! the word is less terrible than it looks, for our souls will be always together. I leave you but for a short space--no! I leave your sweet eyes, your angel's face, your dear hands that I adore, but yourself I do not leave. I bear you with me in a heart that loves you--God knows how tenderly." Corona read the letter carefully to the end. To her older appreciation of the world, such a letter appeared at first to be the forerunner of a definite break, but a little reflection made her change her mind. What he said was clearly true, and corresponded closely with Faustina's own view of the case. The most serious obstacle to the union of the lovers had been removed by Prince Montevarchi's death, and it was inconceivable that Gouache should have ceased to care for Faustina at the very moment when a chance of his marrying her had presented itself. Besides, Corona knew Gouache well, and was not mistaken in her estimate of his character. He was honourable to Quixotism, and perfectly capable of refusing to take what looked like an unfair advantage. Considering Faustina's strange nature, her amazing readiness to yield to first impulses, and her touching innocence of evil, it would have been an easy matter for the man she loved to draw her into a runaway match. She would have followed him as readily to the ends of the earth as she had followed him to the Serristori barracks. Gouache was not a boy, and probably understood her peculiarities as well as any one. In going away for the present he was undoubtedly acting with the greatest delicacy, for his departure showed at once all the respect he felt for Faustina, and all that devotion to an ideal honour which was the foundation of his being. Though his epistle was not a model of literary style it contained certain phrases that came from the heart. Corona understood why Faustina was pleased with it, and why instead of shedding useless tears over his absence, she had shown such willingness to let her friend read Gouache's own explanation of his departure. She folded the sheet of paper again and gave it back to the young girl. "I am glad he wrote that letter," she said after a moment's pause. "I always believed in him, and now--well, I think, he is almost worthy of you, Faustina." Faustina threw her arms around Corona's neck, and kissed her again and again. "I am so glad you know how good he is!" she cried. "I could not be happy unless you liked him, and you do." All through the morning the two friends sat together in the great drawing-room talking, as such women can talk to each other, with infinite grace about matters not worth recording, or if they spoke of things of greater importance, repeating the substance of what they had said before, finding at each repetition some new comment to make, some new point upon which to agree, after the manner of people who are very fond of each other. The hours slipped by, and they were unconscious of the lapse of time. The great clocks of the neighbouring church towers tolled eleven, twelve, and one o'clock, and yet they had more to say, and did not even notice the loud ringing of the hundred bells. The day was clear, and the bright sunlight streamed in through the high windows, telling the hour with a more fateful precision than the clocks outside. All was peace and happiness and sweet intercourse, as the two women sat there undisturbed through the long morning. They talked, and laughed, and held their hands clasped together, unconscious of the rest of the world. No sound penetrated from the rest of the house to the quiet, sunlit hall, which to Faustina's mind had never looked so cheerful before since she could remember it. And yet within the walls of the huge old palace strange things were passing, things which it was well that neither of them should see. Before describing the events which close this part of my story, it is as well to say that Faustina has made her last appearance for the present. From the point of view which would have been taken by most of her acquaintances, her marriage with Gouache was a highly improbable event. If any one desires an apology for being left in uncertainty as to her fate, I can only answer that I am writing the history of the Saracinesca and not of any one else. There are certain stages in that history which are natural halting-places for the historian himself, and for his readers if he have any; and it is impossible to make the lives of a number of people coincide so far as to wind them up together, and yet be sure that they will run down at the same moment like the clocks of his Majesty Charles the Fifth. If it were, the world would be a very different place. CHAPTER XXX. The scene in the study, while the notary read through the voluminous documents, is worth describing. At one end of the large green table sat San Giacinto alone, his form, even as he sat, towering above the rest. The mourning he wore harmonised with his own dark and massive head. His expression was calm and thoughtful, betraying neither satisfaction nor triumph. From time to time his deep-set eyes turned towards Saracinesca with a look of inquiry, as though to assure himself that the prince agreed to the various points and was aware that he must now speak for the last time, if he spoke at all. At the other end of the board the two Saracinesca were seated side by side. The strong resemblance that existed between them was made very apparent by their position, but although, allowing for the difference of their ages, their features corresponded almost line for line, their expressions were totally different. The old man's gray hair and pointed beard seemed to bristle with suppressed excitement. His heavy brows were bent together, as though he were making a great effort to control his temper, and now and then there was an angry gleam in his eyes. He sat square and erect in his seat, as though he were facing an enemy, but he kept his hands below the table, for he did not choose that San Giacinto should see the nervous working of his fingers. Giovanni, on the other hand, looked upon the proceedings with an indifference that was perfectly apparent. He occasionally looked at his watch, suppressed a yawn, and examined his nails with great interest. It was clear that he was not in the least moved by what was going on. It was no light matter for the old nobleman to listen to the documents that deprived him one by one of his titles, his estates, and his other wealth, in favour of a man who was still young, and whom, in spite of the relationship, he could not help regarding as an inferior. He had always considered himself as the representative of an older generation, who, by right of position, was entitled to transmit to his son the whole mass of those proud traditions in which he had grown up as in his natural element. Giovanni, on the contrary, possessed a goodly share of that indifference that characterises the younger men of the nineteenth century. He was perfectly satisfied with his present situation, and had been so long accustomed to depend upon his personality and his private fortune, for all that he enjoyed or required in life, that he did not desire the responsibilities that weigh heavily upon the head of a great family. Moreover, recent events had turned the current of his thoughts into a different direction. He was in his way as happy as Corona, and he knew that real happiness proceeds from something more than a score of titles and a few millions of money, more or less. He regarded the long morning's work as an intolerable nuisance, which prevented him from spending his time with his wife. In the middle of the table sat the two notaries, flanked by four clerks, all of them pale men in black, clean shaved, of various ages, but bearing on their faces the almost unmistakable stamp of their profession. The one who was reading the deeds wore spectacles. From time to time he pushed them back upon his bald forehead and glanced first at San Giacinto and then at Prince Saracinesca, after which he carefully resettled the glasses upon his long nose and proceeded with his task until he had reached the end of another set of clauses, when he repeated the former operation with mechanical regularity, never failing to give San Giacinto the precedence of the first look. For a long time this went on, with a monotony which almost drove Giovanni from the room. Indeed nothing but absolute necessity could have kept him in his place. At last the final deed was reached. It was an act of restitution drawn up in a simple form so as to include, by a few words, all the preceding documents. It set forth that Leone Saracinesca being "free in body and mind," the son of Giovanni Saracinesca deceased, "whom may the Lord preserve in a state of glory," restored, gave back, yielded, and abandoned all those goods, titles, and benefices which he had inherited directly from Leone Saracinesca, the eleventh of that name, deceased, "whom may the Lord preserve in a state of glory," to Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, who was "free in body and mind," son of Orsino Saracinesca, ninth of that name, deceased, "whom may the Lord, etc." Not one of the quaint stock phrases was omitted. The notary paused, looked round, adjusted his spectacles and continued. The deed further set forth that Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto aforesaid, acknowledged the receipt of the aforesaid goods, titles, and benefices, and stated that he received all as the complete inheritance, relinquishing all further claims against the aforesaid Leone and his heirs for ever. Once more the reader paused, and then read the last words in a clear voice-- "Both the noble parties promising, finally, in regard to the present cession, to take account of it, to hold it as acceptable, valid, and perpetual, and, for the same, never to allow it to be spoken of otherwise." A few words followed, setting forth the name of the notary and the statement that the act was executed in his presence, with the date. When he had finished reading all, he rose and turned the document upon the table so that the two parties could stand opposite to him and sign it. Without a word he made a slight inclination and offered the pen to Saracinesca. The old gentleman pushed back his chair and marched forward with erect head and a firm step to sign away what had been his birthright. From first to last he had acknowledged the justice of his cousin's claims, and he was not the man to waver at the supreme moment. His hair bristled more stiffly than ever, and his dark eyes shot fire, but he took the pen and wrote his great strong signature as clearly as he had written it at the foot of his marriage contract five and thirty years earlier. Giovanni looked at him with admiration. Then San Giacinto, who had risen out of respect to the old man, came forward and took the pen in his turn. He wrote out his name in straight, firm characters as usual, but at the end the ink made a broad black mark that ended abruptly, as though the writer had put the last stroke to a great undertaking. "There should be two witnesses," said the notary in the awkward silence that followed. "Don Giovanni can be one," he added, giving the latter the only name that was now his, with a lawyer's scrupulous exactness. "One of your clerks can be the other," suggested Saracinesca, who was anxious to get away as soon as possible. "It is not usual," replied the notary. "Is there no one in the palace? One of the young princes would do admirably." "They are all away," said San Giacinto. "Let me see--there is the librarian. Will he answer the purpose? He must be in the library at this hour. A respectable man--he has been thirty years in the house. For that matter, the steward is probably in his office, too." "The librarian is the best person," answered the notary. "I will bring him at once--I know the way." San Giacinto left the study by the door that opened upon the passage. The others could hear his heavy steps as he went rapidly up the paved corridor. Old Saracinesca walked up and down the room unable to conceal his impatience. Giovanni resumed his seat and waited quietly, indifferent to the last. Arnoldo Meschini was in the library, as San Giacinto had anticipated. He was seated at his usual place at the upper end of the hall, surrounded by books and writing materials which he handled nervously without making any serious attempt to use them. He had lost all power of concentrating his thoughts or of making any effort to work. Fortunately for him no one had paid any attention to him during the past ten days. His appearance was dishevelled and slovenly, and he was more bent than he had formerly been. His eyes were bleared and glassy as he stared at the table before him, assuming a wild and startled expression when, looking up, he fancied he saw some horrible object gliding quickly across the sunny floor, or creeping up to him over the polished table. All his former air of humility and shabby respectability was gone. His disordered dress, his straggling grayish hair that hung from beneath the dirty black skullcap around his misshapen ears, his face, yellow in parts and irregularly flushed in others, as though it were beginning to be scorched from within, his unwashed hands, every detail of his appearance, in short, proclaimed his total degradation. But hitherto no one had noticed him, for he had lived between his attic, the deserted library and the apothecary's shop on the island of Saint Bartholomew. His mind had almost ceased to act when he was awake, except in response to the fear which the smallest circumstances now caused him. If he had dreams by night, he saw visions also in the day, and his visions generally took the shape of San Giacinto. He had not really seen him since he had met him when the prince lay in state, but the fear of him was, if anything, greater than if he had met him daily. The idea that the giant was lying in wait for him had become fixed, and yet he was powerless to fly. His energy was all gone between his potations and the constant terror that paralysed him. On that morning he had been as usual to the Ponte Quattro Capi and had returned with the means of sleep in his pocket. He had no instinct left but to deaden his sensations with drink during the hours of light, while waiting for the time when he could lie down and yield to the more potent influence of the opium. He had therefore come back as usual, and by force of habit had taken his place in the library, the fear of seeming to neglect his supposed duties forbidding him to spend all his time in his room. As usual, too, he had locked the door of the passage to separate himself from his dread of a supernatural visitation. He sat doubled together in his chair, his long arms lying out before him upon the books and papers. All at once he started in his seat. One, two, one two--yes, there were footsteps in the corridor--they were coming nearer and nearer--heavy, like those of the dead prince--but quicker, like those of San Giacinto--closer, closer yet. A hand turned the latch once, twice, then shook the lock roughly. Meschini was helpless. He could neither get upon his feet and escape by the other exit, nor find the way to the pocket that held his weapon. Again the latch was turned and shaken, and then the deep voice he dreaded was heard calling to him. "Signor Meschini!" He shrieked aloud with fear, but he was paralysed in every limb. A moment later a terrible crash drowned his cries. San Giacinto, on hearing his agonised scream, had feared some accident. He drew back a step and then, with a spring, threw his colossal strength against the line where the leaves of the door joined. The lock broke in its sockets, the panels cracked under the tremendous pressure, and the door flew wide open. In a moment San Giacinto was standing over the librarian, trying to drag him back from the table and out of his seat. He thought the man was in a fit. In reality he was insane with terror. "An easy death, for the love of heaven!" moaned the wretch, twisting himself under the iron hands that held him by the shoulders. "For God's sake! I will tell you all--do not torture me--oh! oh!--only let it be easy--and quick--yes, I tell you--I killed the prince--oh, mercy, mercy, for Christ's sake!" San Giacinto's grip tightened, and his face grew livid. He lifted Meschini bodily from the chair and set him against the table, holding him up at arm's length, his deep eyes blazing with a rage that would soon be uncontrollable. Meschini's naturally strong constitution did not afford him the relief of fainting. "You killed him--why?" asked San Giacinto through his teeth, scarcely able to speak. "For you, for you--oh, have mercy--do not--" "Silence!" cried the giant in a voice that shook the vault of the hall. "Answer me or I will tear your head from your body with my hands! Why do you say you killed him for me?" Meschini trembled all over, and then his contorted face grew almost calm. He had reached that stage which may be called the somnambulism of fear. The perspiration covered his skin in an instant, and his voice sank to a distinct whisper. "He made me forge the deeds, and would not pay me for them. Then I killed him." "What deeds?" "The deeds that have made you Prince Saracinesca. If you do not believe me, go to my room, the originals are in the cupboard. The key is here, in my right-hand pocket." He could not move to get it, for San Giacinto held him fast, and watched every attempt he made at a movement. His own face was deathly pale, and his white lips were compressed together. "You forged them altogether, and the originals are untouched?" he asked, his grasp tightening unconsciously till Meschini yelled with pain. "Yes!" he cried. "Oh, do not hurt me--an easy death--" "Come with me," said San Giacinto, leaving his arms and taking him by the collar. Then he dragged and pushed him towards the splintered door of the passage. At the threshold, Meschini writhed and tried to draw back, but he could no more have escaped from those hands that held him than a lamb can loosen the talons of an eagle when they are buried deep in the flesh. "Go on!" urged the strong man, in fierce tones. "You came by this passage to kill him--you know the way." With a sudden movement of his right hand he launched the howling wretch forward into the corridor. All through the narrow way Meschini's cries for mercy resounded, loud and piercing, but no one heard him. The walls were thick and the distance from the inhabited rooms was great. But at last the shrieks reached the study. Saracinesca stood still in his walk. Giovanni sprang to his feet. The notaries sat in their places and trembled. The noise came nearer and then the door flew open. San Giacinto dragged the shapeless mass of humanity in and flung it half way across the room, so that it sank in a heap at the old prince's feet. "There is the witness to the deeds," he cried savagely. "He forged them, and he shall witness them in hell. He killed his master in this very room, and here he shall tell the truth before he dies. Confess, you dog! And be quick about it, or I will help you." He stirred the grovelling creature with his foot. Meschini only rolled from side to side and hid his face against the floor. Then the gigantic hands seized him again and set him on his feet, and held him with his face to the eight men who had all risen and were standing together in wondering silence. "Speak!" shouted San Giacinto in Meschini's ear. "You are not dead yet--you have much to live through, I hope." Again that trembling passed over the unfortunate man's limbs, and he grew quiet and submissive. It was all as he had seen it in his wild dreams and visions, the secret chamber whence no sound could reach the outer world, the stern judges all in black, the cruel strength of San Giacinto ready to torture him. The shadow of death rose in his eyes. "Let me sit down," he said in a broken voice. San Giacinto led him to a chair in the midst of them all. Then he stood before one of the doors, and motioned to his cousin to guard the other. But Arnoldo Meschini had no hope of escape. His hour was at hand, and he knew it. "You forged the deeds which were presented as originals in the court. Confess it to those gentlemen." It was San Giacinto who spoke. "The prince made me do it," answered Meschini in low tones. "He promised me twenty thousand scudi for the work." "To be paid--when? Tell all." "To be paid in cash the day the verdict was given." "You came to get your money here?" "I came here. He denied having promised anything definite. I grew angry. I killed him." A violent shudder shook his frame from head to foot. "You strangled him with a pocket handkerchief?" "It was Donna Faustina's?" "The prince threw it on the ground after he had struck her. I saw the quarrel. I was waiting for my money. I watched them through the door." "You know that you are to die. Where are the deeds you stole when you forged the others?" "I told you--in the cupboard in my room. Here is the key. Only--for God's sake---" He was beginning to break down again. Perhaps, by the habit of the past days he felt the need for drink even in that supreme moment, for his hand sought his pocket as he sat. Instead of the bottle he felt the cold steel barrel of the revolver, which he had forgotten. San Giacinto looked towards the notary. "Is this a full confession, sufficient to commit this man to trial?" he asked. But before the notary could answer, Meschini's voice sounded through the room, not weak and broken, but loud and clear. "It is! It is!" he cried in sudden and wild excitement. "I have told all. The deeds will speak for themselves. Ah! you would have done better to leave me amongst my books!" He turned to San Giacinto. "You will never be Prince Saracinesca. But I shall escape you. You shall not give me a slow death--you shall not, I say--" San Giacinto made a step towards him. The proximity of the man who had inspired him with such abject terror put an end to his hesitation. "You shall not!" he almost screamed. "But my blood is on your head--Ah!" Three deafening reports shook the air in rapid succession, and all that was left of Arnoldo Meschini lay in a shapeless heap upon the floor. While a man might have counted a score there was silence in the room. Then San Giacinto came forward and bent over the body, while the notaries and their clerks cowered in a corner. Saracinesca and Giovanni stood together, grave and silent, as brave men are when they have seen a horrible sight and can do nothing. Meschini was quite dead. When San Giacinto had assured himself of the fact, he looked up. All the fierce rage had vanished from his face. "He is dead," he said quietly. "You all saw it. You will have to give your evidence in half an hour when the police come. Be good enough to open the door." He took up the body in his arms carefully, but with an ease that amazed those who watched him. Giovanni held the door open, and San Giacinto deposited his burden gently upon the pavement of the corridor. Then he turned back and re-entered the room. The door of the study closed for ever on Arnoldo Meschini. In the dead silence that followed, San Giacinto approached the table upon which the deed lay, still waiting to be witnessed. He took it in his hand and turned to Saracinesca. There was no need for him to exculpate himself from any charge of complicity in the abominable fraud which Montevarchi had prepared before he died. Not one of the men present even thought of suspecting him. Even if they had, it was clear that he would not have brought Meschini to confess before them a robbery in which he had taken part. But there was that in his brave eyes that told his innocence better than any evidence or argument could have proclaimed it. He held out the document to Saracinesca. "Would you like to keep it as a memento?" he asked. "Or shall I destroy it before you?" His voice never quavered, his face was not discomposed. Giovanni, the noble-hearted gentleman, wondered whether he himself could have borne such a blow so bravely as this innkeeper cousin of his. Hopes, such as few men can even aspire to entertain, had been suddenly extinguished. A future of power and wealth and honour, the highest almost that his country could give any man, had been in a moment dashed to pieces before his eyes. Dreams, in which the most indifferent would see the prospect of enormous satisfaction, had vanished into nothing during the last ten minutes, almost at the instant when they were to be realised. And yet the man who had hoped such hopes, who had looked forward to such a future, whose mind must have revelled many a time in the visions that were already becoming realities--that man stood before them all, outwardly unmoved, and proposing to his cousin that he should keep as a remembrance the words that told of his own terrible disappointment. He was indeed the calmest of those present. "Shall I tear it to pieces?" he asked again, holding the document between his fingers. Then the old prince spoke. "Do what you will with it," he answered. "But give me your hand. You are a braver man than I." The two men looked into each other's eyes as their hands met. "It shall not be the last deed between us," said Saracinesca. "There shall be another. Whatever may be the truth about that villain's work you shall have your share--" "A few hours ago, you would not take yours," answered San Giacinto quietly. "Must I repeat your own words?" "Well, well--we will talk of that. This has been a terrible morning's work, and we must do other things before we go to business again. That poor man's body is outside the door. We had better attend to that matter first, and send for the police. Giovanni, my boy, will you tell Corona? I believe she is still in the house." Giovanni needed no urging to go upon his errand. He entered the drawing-room where Corona was still sitting beside Faustina upon the sofa. His face must have been pale, for Corona looked at him with a startled expression. "Is anything the matter?" she asked. "Something very unpleasant has occurred," he answered, looking at Faustina. "Meschini, the librarian, has just died very suddenly in the study where we were." "Meschini?" cried Faustina in surprise and with some anxiety. "Yes. Are you nervous, Donna Faustina? May I tell you something very startling?" It was a man's question. "Yes--what is it?" she asked quickly. "Meschini confessed before us all that it was he who was the cause--in fact that he had murdered your father. Before any one could stop him, he had shot himself. It is very dreadful." With a low cry that was more expressive of amazement than of horror, Faustina sank into a chair. In his anxiety to tell his wife the whole truth Giovanni forgot her at once. As soon as he began to speak, however, Corona led him away to the window where they had stood together a few hours earlier. "Corona--what I told her is not all. There is something else. Meschini had forged the papers which gave the property to San Giacinto. Montevarchi had promised him twenty thousand scudi for the job. It was because he would not pay the money that Meschini killed him. Do you understand?" "You will have everything after all?" "Everything--but we must give San Giacinto a share. He has behaved like a hero. He found it all out and made Meschini confess. When he knew the truth he did not move a muscle of his face, but offered my father the deed he had just signed as a memento of the occasion." "Then he will not take anything, any more than you would, or your father. Is it quite sure, Giovanni? Is there no possible mistake?" "No. It is absolutely certain. The original documents are in this house." "I am glad then, for you, dear," answered Corona. "It would have been very hard for you to bear--" "After this morning? After the other day in Holy Office?" asked Giovanni, looking deep into her splendid eyes. "Can anything be hard to bear if you love me, darling?" "Oh my beloved! I wanted to hear you say it!" Her head sank upon his shoulder, as though she had found that perfect rest for which she had once so longed. Here ends the second act in the history of the Saracinesca. To trace their story further would be to enter upon an entirely different series of events, less unusual perhaps in themselves, but possibly worthy of description as embracing that period during which Rome and the Romans began to be transformed and modernised. In the occurrences that followed, both political and social, the Saracinesca bore a part, in that blaze of gaiety which for many reasons developed during the winter of the Oecumenical Council, in the fall of the temporal power, in the social confusion that succeeded that long-expected catastrophe, and which led by rapid degrees to the present state of things. If there are any left who still feel an interest in Giovanni and Corona, the historian may once more resume his task and set forth in succession the circumstances through which they have passed since that memorable morning they spent at the Palazzo Montevarchi. They themselves are facts, and, as such, are a part of the century in which we live; whether they are interesting facts or not, is for others to judge, and if the verdict denounces them as flat, unprofitable and altogether dull, it is not their fault; the blame must be imputed to him who, knowing them well, has failed in an honest attempt to show them as they are. THE END. 
40922	----	PIETRO GHISLERI [Illustration: Publisher's logo] PIETRO GHISLERI BY F. MARION CRAWFORD AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA," "THE THREE FATES," ETC. New York MACMILLAN & CO. AND LONDON 1893 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY MACMILLAN & CO. Norwood Press: J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith. Boston, Mass., U.S.A. PIETRO GHISLERI. CHAPTER I. The relation of two step-sisters is unusual. When the Honourable Mrs. Carlyon came to Rome twenty years ago, a young widow and the mother of a little girl named Laura, she did not foresee the complications which her second marriage was to produce. She was a good woman in her way, and if she had guessed what it would mean to be the step-mother of Adele Braccio she might have hesitated before marrying Camillo of that name, commonly known as the Prince of Gerano. For the Prince had also been married before, and his first wife had left him this one child, Adele, who was only a year and a half older than little Laura Carlyon. No children were born to the Gerano couple, and the two girls were brought up together as though they were sisters. The Prince and Princess were deeply attached to each other and to them both, so that for many years Casa Gerano was justly looked upon as a model household. Mrs. Carlyon was very poor when she came to Rome. Her husband had been a careless, good-humoured, and rather reckless younger son, and when he broke his neck in coming down the Gross Glockner he left his widow about as much as men of his stamp generally leave to their families; to wit, a fearful and wonderful confusion of unpaid debts and a considerable number of promises to pay money, signed by persons whose promises were not of much consequence, even when clearly set down on paper. It seems to be a peculiarity of poor and good-natured men that they will lend whatever money they have to impecunious friends in distress rather than use it for the paying of the just debts they owe their tailors. Gerano was rich. It does not by any means follow that Mrs. Carlyon married him for his money, though she could not have married him without it. She fell in love with him. He, on his part, having made a marriage of interest when he took his first wife, and having led by no means a very peaceful existence with the deceased Princess, considered that he had earned the right to please himself, and accordingly did so. Moreover, Mrs. Carlyon was a Catholic, which singularly facilitated matters in the eyes of Gerano's numerous relations. Jack Carlyon had been of the Church of England; and though anything but a practising believer, if he believed in anything at all, he had nevertheless absolutely insisted that his daughter should be brought up in his own creed. On this one point he had displayed all the tenacity he possessed, and the supply then seemed to be exhausted so far as other matters were concerned. His wife was a very conscientious woman, altogether superior to him in character, and she continued to respect his wishes, even after his death. Laura, she said, should choose for herself when she was old enough. In the meantime she should go to the English Church. The consequence was that the little girl had an English nurse and afterwards an English governess, while Adele was taken care of and taught by Catholics. Under these circumstances, and as the step-sisters were not related by blood or even by race, it is not strange that they should have grown up to be as different as possible, while living under the same roof and calling the same persons father and mother. The question of religion alone could certainly not have brought about the events here to be chronicled, and it may be as well to say at once that this history is not in the least concerned with matters of faith, creed, or dogma, which are better left to those good men whose business it is to understand them. The main and striking points of contrast were these. Adele was barely more than pretty. Laura was all but beautiful. Adele was a great heiress, and Laura had nothing or next to nothing to expect at her mother's death. Adele was quick-witted, lively, given to exaggeration in her talk, and not very scrupulous as to questions of fact. Laura was slow to decide, but tenacious of her decisions, and, on the whole, very truthful. In appearance, so far as generalities were concerned, the contrast between the two girls was less marked. Both were of the dark type, but Laura's complexion was paler than Adele's and her hair was blacker, as well as thicker and more glossy. Laura's eyes were large, very deep set, and dark. There was something strange in their look, something quite unusual, and which might almost be called holy, if that were not too strong a word to use in connexion with a woman of the world. Spicca, the melancholy duellist, who was still alive at that time, used to say that no one could possibly be as good as Laura Carlyon looked; a remark which showed that he was acquainted with the sayings of a great English wit, and was not above making use of them. Probably some part of the effect produced by Laura's eyes was due to the evenly perfect whiteness of her skin and the straight black brows which divided them from the broad low forehead. For her hair grew low, and she wore it in a simple fashion without that abundance of little curls which even then were considered almost essential to woman's beauty. Her pallor, too, was quite natural, for she had a good constitution and had rarely even had a headache. In figure she was well proportioned, of average height and rather strongly made, with large, firm, well-shaped hands. On the whole, a graceful girl, but not in that way remarkable among others of her own age. In her face, and altogether in her presence, the chief attraction lay in the look of her eyes, which made one forget to notice the well-chiselled nose,--a little short perhaps,--the really beautiful mouth, and the perfect teeth. The chin, too, was broad and firm--too firm, some might have said, for one so young. Considering all these facts together, most people agreed that Laura was not far from being a great beauty. Adele was somewhat shorter than her step-sister, and more inclined to be stout. Her black eyes were set nearer together, and her eyebrows almost met, while her lustreless hair curled naturally in a profusion of tiny ringlets upon her forehead. The small fine nose reminded one of a ferret, and the white teeth looked sharp and pointed when the somewhat thin lips parted and showed them; but she was undoubtedly pretty, and something more than pretty. Her face had colour and animation, she carried her small head well, and her gestures were graceful and easy. She was fluent, too, in conversation and ready at all times with a quick answer. Any one could see, in spite of her plump figure, that she was of a very nervous constitution, restless, unsettled, and easily moved, capable of considerable determination when really affected. She never understood Laura, nor did Laura really understand her. In the natural course of events, social and domestic, it became necessary to choose a husband for Adele so soon as she made her first appearance in society. At that time Laura was not yet seventeen. Gerano had already looked about him and had made up his mind. He was a little dark-eyed man, grey, thin and nervous, but gifted with an unusually agreeable manner, a pleasant tone of voice, a frank glance, and an extremely upright character--a man much liked in the world and a good deal respected. He had determined that if possible his daughter should marry Don Francesco Savelli, a worthy young person, his father's eldest son, heir to a good estate and a still better name, and altogether a most desirable husband from all points of view. Gerano met with no serious difficulty in bringing about what he wished, and in due time Don Francesco was affianced to Donna Adele, and was privileged to visit at the Palazzo Braccio almost as often as he pleased. He thus saw Laura Carlyon often, and he very naturally fell in love with her. He had no particular inclination to marry Donna Adele, but obeyed his father blindly, as a matter of course, just as Adele obeyed Gerano. That was a part of the old Roman system. Laura, however, did not fall in love with Francesco. She was perhaps too young yet, or it is quite possible that Francesco was too dull and uninteresting a personage in her eyes. But Adele saw these things, and was very angry when she was quite sure that her future husband would have greatly preferred to marry her step-sister. She may be pardoned for having been jealous, for the situation was hardly bearable. Francesco did not, indeed, make love to Laura. Even had he been rash enough for that, he was in reality too much a gentleman at heart to have done such a thing. He knew very well that he was to marry Adele, whether he cared for her or not, and he behaved with great propriety and with not a little philosophy. The virtue of resignation had been carefully developed in him from his childhood, and Francesco's parents now reaped their reward: he would not have thought of opposing them by word or deed. But he could not hide what he felt. Like many good young men, he was sensitive, and if he alternately blushed and turned pale when Laura spoke to him, it was not his fault. His father and mother could assuredly not expect him to control the circulation of his blood when it chose to rise above the line of his collar, or seemed to sink to the level of his boots. Adele was, however, at first very angry, and then very jealous, and at last hated her step-sister with all her heart, as young women can hate under circumstances of great provocation. Meanwhile, Laura remained calmly unconscious of all that was happening. Francesco Savelli's outward and worldly advantages did not appeal to her in the least. The fact that he was fair had no interest for her any more than the fact that the old Prince of Gerano was dark. She talked to the young man a little, when the conversation was general, just as she talked to every one else, when she had anything to say, because she was not naturally shy. But she never attempted to manufacture remarks when nothing came to her lips, because she was not yet called upon to do so. Nor was her silence by any means golden, so far as Savelli was concerned. When she was not speaking to him, she took no notice of him. His hair might be as yellow as mustard and his eyes as blue as periwinkles, as his admirers said; she did not care. If possible, Adele hated her even more for caring so little. In due time Francesco Savelli married Adele Braccio and took her to live under his father's roof. After the great event peace descended once more upon the household for a time, and Laura Carlyon saw much less of her adorer. Not, indeed, that there had been any open conflict between the step-sisters, nor even a declaration of war. Laura had attributed Adele's coldness to her excitement about the marriage, natural enough under the circumstances, and had not been hurt by it, while Adele had carefully kept her jealousy to herself; but when the two met afterwards, Laura felt that she was immeasurably far removed from anything like intimacy or real friendship with the bride, and she was surprised that Francesco should pay so much attention to herself. The young couple came to the Palazzo Braccio at regular intervals, and at all these family gatherings Savelli spent his time in making conversation for Laura. He was a very worthy young man, as has been said, and his talents were not of the highest order, but he did his best, and succeeded at least in making Laura think him passably agreeable. She was willing to hear him talk, and Adele noted the fact. When she drove home from her father's house with her husband, he was generally abstracted and gave random answers to her questions or observations. At the end of a year it was clear that he still loved Laura in a hopeless, helpless, sentimental fashion of his own, and Adele hated her more than ever. A second year and a third went by, and Laura had been some time in society; still the situation remained unchanged. The world said that the young Savelli were a very happy couple, but it always looked at Laura Carlyon with an odd expression, as though it knew something strange about her; something not quite right, which it was willing to tolerate for the sake of the amusement to be got by watching her. The world is the generic appellation of all those who go down to the sea of society in long gowns or white ties, and live and move and have their being therein. Other people do not count, even when they are quite bad, although they may have very big names and a great deal of money. The world, therefore, wagged its head and said that Laura Carlyon was in love with her brother-in-law, or, to be quite accurate, with her step-brother-in-law, because she was dark and his hair was so exceedingly yellow. The world also went on to say that Donna Adele behaved very kindly about it, and that it was so good of Francesco Savelli to talk to Laura just as if there were nothing wrong; for, it added, if he were to avoid her, there would certainly be gossip before long. No one who does not live in society need attempt to follow this sequence of ideas. As usual, too, nobody took the least trouble to find out the origin of the story, but everybody was quite sure of having heard it at first hand from the one person who knew. The Princess of Gerano took her daughter everywhere. She had conscientiously done her duty towards Adele, and was sincerely fond of her besides; but she loved Laura almost as much as the good mother in the story-book loves her only child when the latter has done something particularly disgraceful. She was at first annoyed and then made seriously anxious by the young girl's total failure in society, from the social point of view. Laura was beautiful, good, and accomplished. Ugly, spiteful, and stupid girls succeeded better than she, though some of them had no better prospect of a dowry. The good lady sought in vain the cause of the trouble, but failed to find it out. Had she been born in Rome, she would doubtless have had many kind friends to help her in the solution of the difficulty. But though she bore a Roman name, and had adopted Roman customs and had led a Roman life for nearly twenty years, she was tacitly looked upon as a foreigner, and her daughter was treated in the same way, though she, at least, spoke the language as her own. Moreover, the girl was not a Catholic, and that was an additional disadvantage where matrimony was concerned. It became evident to the Princess that she was not likely to find a husband for her daughter--certainly not such a husband as she had dreamed that Laura might love, and who was to love her and make her happy. It must not be supposed that Gerano himself would have been indifferent if he had known the real facts of the case. But he did not. Like many elderly Romans, he hardly ever went into society and took very little interest in its doings. He was very much concerned with the administration of his fortune, and for his own daughter's welfare in her new surroundings. He spent a good deal of time at his club, and was often in the country, even in the height of the season. He supposed that no one asked for Laura's hand because she was dowerless, and he was sincerely sorry for it; but it did not enter his mind to provide her with a suitable portion out of his abundance. He was too conscientious for that. What he had inherited from his father must go down intact to his child and to her children,--a son had already been born to the young Savelli,--and to divide the property, or to take from it anything like a fortune for Laura, would be little short of actual robbery in the eyes of a Braccio. Laura herself was perhaps less disturbed by the coldness she encountered than her mother was for her sake. She had a certain contempt for young girls of her age and younger, whose sole idea was to be married as soon as possible and with the greatest advantage to themselves. She was not very vain and did not expect great admiration on the one hand, nor any particular dislike on the other. Her character, too, was one that must develop slowly, if it were ever to attain its mature growth. She doubtless had moments of annoyance and even of depression; for few young girls, and certainly no women, are wholly unconscious of neglect in society. But although she was naturally inclined to melancholy, as her eyes clearly showed, she was not by nature morbid, and assuredly not more than usually imaginative. The result of all this was, that she bore herself with considerable dignity in the world, was generally believed to be older than she was, and was to be seen more often dancing or talking with the foreigners at parties than with the Romans. "Who is that, Ghisleri?" asked Lord Herbert Arden of his old friend, one evening early in the season, as he caught sight of Laura for the first time. "An English Roman girl," answered the Italian. "The daughter of the Princess of Gerano by her first marriage--Miss Carlyon." Lord Herbert had not been in Rome for three or four years, and was, moreover, by no means acquainted with all Roman society. "Will you introduce me?" he asked, looking up at Ghisleri. Ghisleri led him across the room, introduced him and left the two together, he being at that time very particularly engaged in another quarter. The contrast between the two men was very strong. Lord Herbert Arden was almost, if not quite, a cripple, the victim in his infancy of a serving-woman's carelessness. The nurse had let him fall, had concealed the accident as long as she could, and the boy had grown up misshapen and feeble. In despite of this, however, he was eminently a man at whom every one looked twice. No one who had seen him could ever forget the extreme nobility and delicacy of his pale face. Each feature completed and gave dignity to the next--the broad, highly modelled forehead, the prominent brow, the hollows at the temples, the clear, steady brown eyes, the aquiline nose and sensitive nostrils, the calm, straight mouth, and the firm, clearly cut chin--all were in harmony. And yet in all the crowd that thronged the great drawing-rooms there was hardly a man with whom the young Englishman would not have exchanged face and figure, if only he might stand at the height of other men, straight and square, and be free forever from the halting gait which made life in the world so hard for him. He was very human, and made no great pretence of resignation, nor indeed of any other virtue. Pietro Ghisleri was a very different personage except, perhaps, in point of humanity. He had seen and enjoyed much, if he had suffered much also, and his face bore the traces of past pleasure and of past pain, though he was not more than two-and-thirty years of age. It was a strong face, too, and not without signs of superior intelligence and resolution. The keen blue eyes had that trick of fixing themselves in conversation, which belongs to combative temperaments. At other times they were sad in expression, and often wore a weary look. Ghisleri's complexion might almost have been called weather-beaten; for frequent and long exposure to sun and weather had permanently changed its original colouring, which had been decidedly fair. To adopt the simple style of his passport, he might be described as six feet high, eyes blue, hair and moustache brown, nose large, mouth normal, chin prominent, face somewhat bony,--particular sign, a scar on the left temple. Like his old friend Lord Herbert, he was one of the dozen men who always attract attention in a crowded room. But of all those who looked at him, having known him long, very few understood his character in the least, and all would have been very much surprised if they could have guessed his thoughts, especially on that particular evening when he introduced Arden to Miss Carlyon. As for the rest, he was alone in the world, his own master, the last of a Tuscan family that had refused to bear a title when titles meant something and had not seen any reason for changing its mind in the course of three or four centuries. He had a small fortune, sufficient for his wants, and a castle somewhere, considerably the worse for war and wear. "I cannot dance, you see," said Arden, seating himself beside Laura, "and I am afraid that I am not very brilliant in conversation. Are you a very good-natured person?" Laura turned her sad eyes upon her new acquaintance, and immediately felt a thrill of sympathy for him, and of interest in his remarkable face. "No one ever told me," she answered. "Do you think you could find out? I should like to know." "What form of sin do you most affect?" asked Arden, with a smile. "Do you more often do the things you ought not to do, or do you leave undone the things which you ought to do?" "Oh, I leave the good things undone, of course!" answered Laura. "I suppose everybody does, as a rule." "You are decidedly good-natured, particularly so in making that last remark. I am less afraid of you than I was when I sat down." The young girl looked at him again. His conversation was so far not like that of the Englishmen she had known hitherto. "Were you afraid of me?" she asked, beginning to smile. "A little, I confess." "Why? And if you were, why did you make Signor Ghisleri introduce you to me?" "Because nobody likes to own to being afraid. Besides, Ghisleri is a very old friend of mine, and I can trust him not to lead me into danger." "Have you known him long?" asked Laura. "I have often wondered what he is really like. I mean his character, you know, and what he thinks about." "He thinks a great deal. He is one of the most complicated characters I ever knew, and I am not at all sure that I understand him yet, though we have known each other ten years. He is a good friend and a rather indifferent enemy, I should say. His chief apparent peculiarity is that he hates gossip. You will not find it easy to get from him a disagreeable remark about any one. Yet he is not good-natured." "Perhaps he is afraid to say what he thinks," suggested the young girl. "I doubt that," answered Arden, with a smile. "He has not a particularly angelic reputation, I believe, but I never heard any one say that he was timid." "As you pretend to be," added Laura. "Do you know? You have not answered my question. Why were you afraid of me, if you really were?" Lord Herbert answered one question by another, and the conversation continued pleasantly enough. It was a relief to him to find a young and beautiful girl of his own nationality in surroundings with which neither he nor she were really in sympathy. In the course of half an hour they both felt as though they had known one another a long time. The admiration Arden had felt for Laura at first sight had considerably increased, and she on her side had half forgotten that he was a cripple. Indeed, when he was seated, his deformities were far less noticeable than when he stood or painfully moved about from place to place. The two talked of a variety of subjects, but, with the exception of the few words spoken about Ghisleri, there was no more reference to personalities for a long time. "I am keeping you away from the dancing," Arden said at last, as he realised that the room was almost empty and that he had been absorbing the beautiful Miss Carlyon's attention longer than might be pleasant to her. "Not at all," answered Laura. "I do not dance much." "Why not? Do you not like dancing?" He asked the question in a tone of surprise. "On the contrary. But I am not taken out very often--perhaps because they think me a foreigner. It is natural enough." "Very unnatural, it seems to me. Besides, I believe you are exaggerating, so as not to make me feel uncomfortable. It is of no use, you know; I am not at all sensitive. Shall we go into the ball-room?" "No; I would rather not, just yet." "Shall I go and get Ghisleri to take you back?" inquired Arden, with a little smile. "Why?" "Because I might make you look ridiculous," answered the cripple, quietly. He watched her, and saw a quick, pained look pass over her face. It was at that particular moment that he began to love her, as he afterwards remembered. She turned her eyes upon him as she answered after a moment's hesitation. "Lord Herbert, will you please never say anything like that to me again?" "Certainly not, if it offends you." "It does not offend me. I do not mean that." "What, then? Please tell me. I am not at all sensitive." "It pains me. I do not like to fancy that any one can think such things of me, much less...." she stopped short and looked down, slowly opening and shutting her fan. "Much less?" Laura hesitated for some seconds, as though choosing her words with more than ordinary care. "Much less one whom it might pain to think them," she said at last. The smile that had been on Arden's face faded away in the silence that followed, and his lips moved a little as though he felt some kind of emotion, while his large thin hands closed tightly upon his withered knee. "Have I said too much?" she asked, suddenly breaking the long pause. "Or not quite enough, perhaps," he answered in a low voice. Again they were both silent, and they both wondered inwardly that in less than an hour's acquaintance they should have reached something like a crisis. At last Laura rose slowly and deliberately, intending to give her companion time to get to his feet. "Will you give me your arm?" she said when he stood beside her. "I want to introduce you to my mother." Arden bent his head and held up his right arm for her hand. He was considerably shorter than she. Then they walked away together, she erect and easy in her girlish gait, he weak-kneed and awkward, seeming to unjoint half his body at every painful step, helping himself along at her side with the stick he held in his free hand--a strangely assorted couple, the world said, as they went by. "My mother's name is Gerano, Princess of Gerano," said Laura, by way of explanation, as they came within sight of her. "And is your father--I mean, is Prince Gerano--living?" asked Arden. He had almost forgotten her name and her nationality in the interest he felt in herself. "Yes; but he rarely goes into society. I am very fond of him," she added, scarcely knowing why. "Mother," she said, as they came up to the Princess, "Lord Herbert Arden." The Princess smiled and held out her hand. At that moment Pietro Ghisleri came up. He had not been seen since he had left Laura and Arden together. By a coincidence, doubtless, the Contessa dell' Armi had disappeared at about the same time: she had probably gone home, as she was not seen again in the ball-room that evening. But the world in its omniscience knew that there was a certain boudoir beyond the supper-room, where couples who did not care to dance were left in comparative peace for a long time. The world could have told with precision the position of the small sofa on which Ghisleri and the lovely Contessa invariably spent an hour when they met in that particular house. "Will you give me a turn, Miss Carlyon?" asked Ghisleri, as Arden began to talk with the Princess. "Yes." Laura was really fond of a certain amount of dancing when a good partner presented himself. "What do you think of my friend?" inquired Pietro, as they moved away together. "I like him very much. He interests me." "Then you ought to be grateful to me for bringing him to you." "Do you expect gratitude in a ball-room?" Laura laughed a little, more in pleasant anticipation of the waltz than at what she said. "A little more than in the average asylum for the aged and infirm, which most people call home," returned Ghisleri, carelessly. "You have no home. How can you talk about it in that way?" "For the sake of talking; shall we dance instead?" A moment later they were in the thick of the crowd. "There are too many people; please take me back," said Laura, after one turn. "Will you come and talk in the conservatory?" asked Ghisleri as they reached the door. "No; I would rather not." "You were talking a long time with Arden. I saw you come out of the drawing-room together. Why will you not sit five minutes with me?" "Lord Herbert is different," said Laura, quietly. "He is an Englishman, and I am English." "Oh! is that the reason?" He led her back and left her with her mother. Arden was still there. CHAPTER II. In spite of his own declarations to the contrary, Lord Herbert Arden was a very sensitive man. When he said he was not, he was perhaps trying to deceive himself, but the attempt was at best only partially successful. Few men in his circumstances can escape the daily sting that lies in comparing their unfortunate outward personality with the average symmetry of the human race. Women seem to feel deformity less than men, or perhaps one only thinks so because they bear it more bravely; it is hard to say. If Darwin is right, men are far more vain of their appearance than women; and there are many who believe that a woman's passive courage is greater than a man's. Be that as it may, the particular sufferer who made Laura Carlyon's acquaintance at the ball was in reality as sensitive a man in almost all respects as could be met with anywhere in ordinary life. When he discovered that he was seriously in love with Laura Carlyon, his existence changed suddenly, and for the worse, so far as his comfort was concerned. He reviewed the situation as calmly as he could, when a fortnight or more had passed and he had seen her a dozen times at her step-father's house and in the world. One main fact was now quite clear to him. She was not what is called popular in society; she had not even any intimate friends. As for his own chances, he did not like to think of them. Though only the younger brother of a peer of high rank, he was entitled to expect a large fortune from an uncle on his mother's side, who had never made any secret of his intentions in regard to his property, and who, being over eighty years of age, could not be expected to live much longer in the ordinary course of nature. At present his modest portion was quite sufficient for himself, but he doubted whether it would suffice for his needs if he married. That, however, was of minor importance. The great fortune was safe and he was an exceedingly good match from a financial point of view. Miss Carlyon was poor, as he knew from Ghisleri, and Ghisleri had very probably told her that Arden was rich, or would be before long. He refused to believe that Laura, of her own free will, might marry him for his money; but it was intolerable to think that her mother and step-father might try to force her into the match from considerations of interest. He was not just to the Princess of Gerano, but he knew her very slightly as yet and had no means of forming a positive opinion. In the meantime he had been introduced to Donna Adele Savelli, who had received him with the greatest warmth, protesting her love for the English people and everything English, and especially for her step-mother and step-sister. He had also renewed his acquaintance with young Savelli, whom he had known slightly during a former visit to Rome, and who now, he thought, met him rather coldly. He attributed Adele's gushing manner to a desire to bring about a marriage, and he did not attempt to account for Don Francesco's stiffness; but he liked neither the one manifestation nor the other, for both wounded him in different degrees. Above all other difficulties, the one which was most natural to his delicately organised nature was of a purely disinterested kind. He feared lest Laura, who evidently felt both pity and sympathy for him, should take the two together for genuine love and sacrifice herself in a life which would by and by become unbearable to her. He could not but see that at every meeting she grew more interested in his conversation, until when he was present, she scarcely paid any attention to any one else. Such a friendship, if it could have been a real friendship, might have made Arden happy so long as it lasted; but on his side, at least, nothing of the kind was possible. He knew that he was hopelessly in love, and to pretend the contrary to himself was real pain. He guessed with wonderful keenness the direction Laura's heart was taking, and he was appalled by the vision of the misery which must spread over her young life if, after she had married him, she should be roused to the great truth that pity and love are not the same, though they be so near akin as to be sometimes mistaken one for the other. His weak health suffered and he grew more and more restless. It would have been a satisfaction to speak out a hundredth part of what he felt to Ghisleri. But he was little given to making confidences, and Ghisleri was, or seemed to be, the last man to invite them. They met constantly, however, and talked upon all sorts of topics. One day Ghisleri came to breakfast with Arden in his rooms at the hotel, looking more weather-beaten than usual, for he was losing the tan from his last expedition in the south, and there were deep black shadows under his eyes. Moreover, he was in an abominably bad humour with everything and with everybody except his friend. Arden knew that he never gambled, and he also knew the man well enough to guess at the true cause of the disturbance. There was something serious the matter. They sat down to breakfast and began to talk of politics and the weather, as old friends do when they are aware that there is something wrong. Ghisleri spoke English perfectly, with an almost imperceptible accent, as many Italians do nowadays. "Come along with me, Arden," he said at last, as though losing patience with everything all at once. "Let us go to Paris or Timbuctoo. This place is not fit to live in." "What is the matter with it?" asked Arden, in a tone of amusement. "The matter with it? It is dull, to begin with. Secondly, it is a perfect witches' caldron of scandal. Thirdly, we are all as bad as we can be. There are three points at least." "My dear fellow, I do not see them in the same light. Take some more hock." "Oh, you--you are amusing yourself! Thank you--I will--half a glass. Of course you like Rome--you always did--you foreigners always will. You amuse yourselves--that is it." "I see you dancing every night as though you liked it," observed Arden. "No doubt!" Ghisleri suddenly grew thoughtful and a distant look came into his eyes, while the shadows seemed to deepen under them, till they were almost black. He had eaten hardly anything, and now, regardless of the fact that the meal was not half over, he lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair as though he had finished. "You are not looking well, Arden," he said at last. "You must take care of yourself. Take my advice. We will go somewhere together for a couple of months." "There is nothing I should like better, but not just at present. I will stay in Rome until the weather is a little warmer." Arden was not in the least conscious that his expression changed as he thought of the reason which kept him in the city and which might keep him long. But Ghisleri, who had been watching for that particular hesitation of manner and for that almost imperceptible darkening of the eyes, knew exactly what both meant. "Oh, very well," he answered indifferently. "We can go later. People always invent absurd stories if one goes away in the middle of the season without any apparent object." The remark was a little less than general, and Arden was at once confirmed in his suspicion that something unpleasant had happened in Ghisleri's life, most probably in connection with the Contessa dell' Armi. His friend was in such a savage humour that he might almost become communicative. Arden was a very keen-sighted man, and not without tact, and he thought the opportunity a good one for approaching a subject which had long been in his mind. But he had been in earnest when he had told Laura that he knew Ghisleri's character to be what he called complicated, and he was aware that Pietro's intelligence was even more penetrating than his own. He was therefore very cautious. "You say that Rome is such a great place for gossip," he began, in answer to Ghisleri's last observation. "I suppose you know it by experience, but I cannot say that we strangers hear much of it." "Perhaps not," admitted Ghisleri, rather absently. "No, we do not hear much scandal. For instance, I go rather often to the Gerano's. I do not remember to have heard there a single spiteful story, except, perhaps,"--Arden stopped cautiously. "Precisely," said Pietro, "the exceptions are rare in that house. But then, the Prince is generally away, and both the Princess and her daughter are English, and especially nice people." Arden helped himself to something that chanced to be near him, and glanced at his companion's rather impenetrable face. He knew that at the present moment the latter was perfectly sincere in what he said, but he knew also that Ghisleri spoke of most people in very much the same tone. It was something which Arden could never quite understand. "Do you think," he began presently, "that the fact of their being English has anything to do with Miss Carlyon's unpopularity here?" "My dear fellow, how should I know?" asked Ghisleri, with something almost like a laugh. "You do know, of course. I wish you would tell me. As an Englishman, the mother interests me." "From the point of view of our international relations, I see, collecting information for an article in the Nineteenth Century, or else your brother is going to speak on the subject in the Lords. What do you think about the matter yourself? If I can put you right, I will." "What an extraordinary man you are!" exclaimed Arden. "You always insist upon answering one question by another." "It gives one time to think," retorted Ghisleri. "These cigarettes are distinctly bad; give me one of yours, please. I never can understand why the government monopoly here should exist, and if it does why they should not give us Russian--" "My dear Ghisleri," said Arden, interrupting him, "we were talking about the Princess Gerano." "Were we? Oh, yes, and Miss Carlyon, too, I remember. Do you like them?" "Very much; and I think every one should. That is the reason why I am surprised that Miss Carlyon should not receive much more attention than she does. I fancy it is because she is English. Do you think I am right?" "No," said Ghisleri, slowly, at last answering the direct question, "I do not think you are." "Then what in the world is the reason? The fact is clear enough. She knows it herself." "Probably some absurd bit of gossip. Who cares? I am sorry for her, though." "How can there be any scandal about a young girl of her age?" asked Arden, incredulously. "In this place you can start a story about a baby a year old," answered Ghisleri. "It will be remembered, repeated, and properly adorned, and will ultimately ruin the innocent woman when she is grown up. Nobody seems to care for chronology here--anachronism is so much more convenient." "Why are you so absurdly reticent with me, Ghisleri?" asked Arden, with some impatience. "You talk as though we had not known each other ten years." "On the contrary," answered Pietro, "if we were acquaintances of yesterday, I would not talk at all. That is just the difference. As it is, and because we are rather good friends, I tell you what I believe to be the truth. I believe--well, I will allow that I know, that there is a story about Miss Carlyon, which is commonly credited, and which is a down-right lie. I will not tell you what it is. It does not, strictly speaking, affect her reputation, but it has made her unpopular--since you have used that word. Ask any of the gossips, if you care enough--I am not going to repeat such nonsense. It never does any good to repeat other peoples' lies." Arden was silent, and his long white fingers played uneasily upon the edge of the table. It had been a hard matter to extract the information, but such as it was he knew that it was absolutely reliable. When Ghisleri spoke at all about such things, he spoke the truth, and when he said that he would positively say no more, his decision was always final. Arden had discovered that in the early days of their acquaintance. Perhaps Pietro went to absurd lengths in this direction, and there were people who called it affectation and made him out to be an even worse man than he was, but his friend knew that it was genuine in its way. He was all the more disturbed by what he had heard, and it was a long time before he spoke again. Ghisleri smoked in silence and drank three cups of coffee while Arden was drinking one. He looked at that time like a man who was living upon his nerves, so to say, instead of upon proper nourishment. An hour later the two men went out together, Arden taking Pietro with him in his carriage. The air was bright and keen and the afternoon sunlight was already turning yellow with the gold of the coming evening. The carriage was momentarily blocked at the corner of the Pincio near the entrance, by one that was turning out of the enclosure opposite the band stand. It chanced to be the Princess of Gerano's landau, and she and her daughter were seated in it, closely wrapped in their furs. It was Arden's victoria that had to pull up to let the Princess drive across, and by a coincidence the Savelli couple were in the one which hers would have to follow in the descending line after crossing the road. Francesco Savelli bowed, smiled, and waved his hat, evidently to Laura rather than to her mother. With a rather forced smile Adele slowly bent her head. Arden bowed at the same moment, and looked from one carriage to the other. Ghisleri followed his example, and there was the very faintest expression of amusement on his face, which Arden of course could not see. A number of men on foot lined the side of the road close to the carriage. "People always come back to their first loves!" said a low voice at Arden's elbow. He turned quickly and saw several men watching the Savelli across his victoria. He knew none of them, and it was impossible to guess which had spoken. Ghisleri, being on the right side, as Arden's guest, could not have heard the words. Having just noticed the rather striking contrast between Francesco Savelli's demonstrative greeting and his wife's almost indifferent nod, it naturally struck the Englishman that the remark he had overheard might refer to the person he was himself watching at that moment. Donna Adele Savelli's expression might very well be taken for one of jealousy, but her husband's behaviour was assuredly too marked for anything more than friendship. Arden coupled the words with the facts and concluded that he had discovered the story of which Ghisleri had spoken. Francesco Savelli was said to be in love with Laura Carlyon. That was evidently the gossip; but he had seen Laura's face, too, and it was quite plain that she was wholly indifferent. On the whole, though the tale reflected little credit on Savelli, it was not at all clear why it should make Laura unpopular, unless people said that she encouraged the man, which they probably did, thought Lord Herbert Arden, who was a man of the world. The more he considered the matter the more convinced he became that he was right, and the conviction was on the whole a relief. He had been uneasy for some time, and Ghisleri's guarded words had not satisfied him; chance, however, had done what Ghisleri would not do, and the mystery was solved. The Princess of Gerano was at home that evening, and Arden of course went to the palace early, and was the last to leave. Three times between half-past ten and half-past two o'clock Laura and he installed themselves side by side at some distance from the drawing-room, and each time their conversation lasted over half an hour. It was not a set ball, but one of the regular weekly informal dances of which there are so many in Rome during the season. The first interruption of Arden's talk appeared in the shape of Don Francesco Savelli, who asked Laura for a turn. Oddly enough she glanced at Lord Herbert's face before accepting, and the action sent a strange thrill to his heart. He struggled to his feet as she rose to go away with Savelli, and then sank back again and remained some time where he was, absently watching the people who passed. His face was very pale and weary now that the excitement of conversation had subsided, and he felt that if he was not positively ill, he was losing the little strength he had with every day that passed. Late hours, heated rooms, and strong emotions were not the best tonics for his feeble physical organisation, and he knew it. At last he made an effort, got up, and moved about in the crowd, exchanging a few words now and then with a passing acquaintance, but too preoccupied and perhaps too tired to talk long with indifferent people. He nodded as Ghisleri passed him with the Contessa dell' Armi on his arm, and he thought there was a bad light in his friend's eyes, though Pietro was looking better than in the afternoon. The two had evidently been dancing together, for the Contessa's white neck heaved a little, as though she were still out of breath. She was a short, slight woman of exquisite figure, very fair, with deep violet eyes and small classic features, almost hard in their regularity; evidently wilful and dominant in character. Arden watched the pair as they went on in search of a vacant sofa just big enough for two. They had scarcely sat down and he could see that Ghisleri was beginning to talk, when Anastase Gouache appeared and stood still before them. To Arden's surprise the Contessa welcomed him with a bright smile and pointed to a chair at her side of the sofa. Anastase Gouache was a celebrated painter who had married a Roman lady of high birth, and was a very agreeable man, but Arden had not expected that he would be invited so readily to interrupt so promising a conversation. Ghisleri's face expressed nothing. He appeared to join in the talk for a few minutes and then rose and left the Contessa with Gouache. She looked after him, and Arden thought she grew a shade paler and frowned. A faint smile appeared on the Englishman's face and was gone again in an instant as Ghisleri came near him, returning again to the ball-room. Ghisleri had glanced at him as he passed and had seen that he was not talking to a lady. "May I have the next dance, Miss Carlyon?" asked Pietro, when he found Laura in a corner with Francesco Savelli. "Thanks," he said, as she nodded graciously, and he passed on. "Will you give me the dance after the next?" he inquired a few minutes later, coming up with Donna Adele, who was moving away on young Frangipani's arm. "Certainly, caro Ghisleri," she answered, with alacrity, "as many as you please." "You are very good," he said, with a slight bow, and withdrew to a window near Laura to wait until the waltz began. He could see Arden through the open door from the place where he stood. When the dance was over he led Laura out and took one turn through the rooms, making a few commonplace remarks on the way. Coming back, he stopped as though by accident close to Lord Herbert. "I am afraid you will think me very rude if I ask you to let me leave you," he said. "I am engaged for the next dance--it is a quadrille--and I must find a vis-à-vis." Arden of course heard and presented himself immediately in Ghisleri's place. Laura was quite ready to go back with him to the sofa in the corner, and they resumed their conversation almost at the point at which it had been interrupted by Francesco Savelli. Neither of them ever knew that Ghisleri had brought them together again by a little social skill, just beyond what most people possess. Arden looked after him, half believing that he had only given Laura an excuse for leaving her in order to return to the Contessa dell' Armi, who was now surrounded by half a dozen men, beginning with old Spicca, who, as has been said, was still alive in those days, and ending with the little Vicomte de Bompierre, a young French attaché with a pleasant voice, a bright smile, and an incipient black moustache. But to Arden's surprise Ghisleri took quite a different direction, and began to speak to one man after another, evidently trying to secure a vis-à-vis for the square dance. "You must not let me bore you, or rather you must not bore yourself with me," said Arden to Laura, after a short pause in the conversation. "You are altogether much too good to me." "You never bore me," answered the young girl. "You are one of the few people who do not." Arden smiled a little sadly. "I am glad to be one of the 'few people,'" he said, "even if I am the last." "You are too modest." She tried to laugh, but the effort was not very successful. "No, I am not. I have much more vanity than you would suppose, or think possible, considering how little I have to be vain of." "Opinions may differ about that," answered Laura, looking into his eyes. "You have much that many men might envy, and probably do." "What, for instance?" Laura hesitated, and then smiled, without effort this time. "You are very good looking," she said after a moment. "No one has ever told me that before," he answered. A very slight flush rose in his pale face. "It is not of much importance, either. Would you like me to enumerate your good qualities?" "Of all things!" "You are honest and kind, and you are very clever, I think, though I am not clever enough to be sure. You have no right to be unhappy, and you would not be if you were not so sensitive about--about not being so strong and big as some men are. What difference does it make?" "You will almost tempt me to think that it makes none, if you talk in that way," said Arden. "Do you mean to say that you would really and truly change places with any one? With Signor Ghisleri, for instance?" "Indeed I would, with him, and very gladly. I would rather be Ghisleri than any man I know." "I cannot understand that," answered Laura, thoughtfully. "If I were a man, I would much rather be like you. Besides, they say Signor Ghisleri has been dreadfully wild, and is anything but angelic now. You used that very word about him the first evening we met; do you remember?" "Of course I do; but what has that to do with it? Must I necessarily choose a saint for my friend, and pick out one to exchange places with me if it were possible? A woman saint may be lovable, too lovable perhaps, but a man saint about town is like a fish out of water. But you are right about Ghisleri, up to a certain point, only you do not understand him. He is an exceedingly righteous sinner, but a sinner he is." "What do you mean by a righteous sinner?" asked Laura, gravely. "Do not bring me down to definitions. I have not at all a logical mind. I mean Ghisleri--that is all I can say. I would much rather talk about you." "No, I object to that. Tell me, since you wish so much to be Signor Ghisleri, what do you think you would feel if you were?" "What he feels--everything that a man can feel!" answered Arden, with a sudden change of tone. "To be straight and strong and a match for other men. Half the happiness of life lies there." His voice shook a little, and Laura felt that the tears were almost in her eyes as she looked earnestly into his. "You see what I am," he continued, more and more bitterly, "I am a cripple. There is no denying it--why should I even try to hide it a little? Nature, or Heaven, or what you please to call it, has been good enough to make concealment impossible. If I am not quite a hunchback, I am very near it, and I can hardly walk even with a stick. And look at yourself, straight and graceful and beautiful--well, you pity me, at least. Why should I make a fool of myself? It is the first time I ever spoke like this to any one." "You are quite wrong," answered Laura, in a tone of conviction. "I do not pity you--indeed I do not think you are the least to be pitied. I see it quite differently. It hardly ever strikes me that you are not just the same as other people, and when it does--I do not know--I mean to say that when it does, it makes no painful impression upon me. You see I am quite frank." While she was speaking the colour rose in two bright spots on Arden's pale cheeks, and his bright eyes softened with a look of wonderful happiness. "Are you quite in earnest, Miss Carlyon?" he asked, in a low voice. "Quite, quite in earnest. Please believe me when I say that it would hurt me dreadfully if I thought you doubted it." "Hurt you? Why?" She turned her deep, sad eyes to him, and looked at him without speaking. He was on the point of telling her that he loved her--then he saw how beautiful she was, and he felt his withered knee under his hand, and he was ashamed to speak. It was a cruel moment, and his nerves were already overstrained by perpetual emotion, as well as tired from late hours and lack of sleep. He hesitated a moment. Then bent his head and covered his eyes with his hand. Laura said nothing for several moments, but seeing that he did not move, she touched his sleeve. "Dear Lord Herbert, do not be so unhappy," she said softly. "You really have no right to be, you know." "No right?" He looked up suddenly. "If you knew, you would not say that." "I should always say it. As long as you have friends--friends who love you, and would do anything for you, why should you make yourself so miserable?" "I want more than a friend--even than friendship." "What?" "I want love." Again she gazed into his eyes and paused. Her face was very white--whiter than his. Then she spoke. "Are you so sure you have not got that love?" she asked. Her own voice trembled now. Arden started and a look of something almost like fear came into his face. He could hardly speak. "Love?" he repeated, and he felt he could say nothing more. "Yes, I mean it." So she chose her fate. She thought there was a touch of the divine in poor Arden's expression as he heard the words. Then his face grew pale, the light faded from his eyes, and his head sank on his breast. Laura did not at first realise what had happened. She felt so strongly herself, that nothing in his manner would have surprised her. She heard nothing of the hum of the voices in the room, or if she did, she heard the harmony of a happy hymn, and the great branches of candles were the tapers upon an altar in some sacred place. Still Arden did not move. Laura bent down and looked at his face. "Lord Herbert!" She called him softly. "Herbert, what is the matter?" No answer came. She looked round wildly for help. At that moment the dance was just over and Ghisleri passed near her with Donna Adele on his arm. Laura rose and overtook him swiftly, touching his arm in her excitement. "Lord Herbert has fainted--for heaven's sake, help him!" she cried, in a low voice. Pietro Ghisleri glanced at the sofa. "Excuse me," he said hastily to Donna Adele, and left her standing in the middle of the room. He bent down and felt Arden's forehead and hands. "Yes, he has fainted," he said to Laura. "Show me the way to a quiet place." Thereupon he took his unconscious friend in his arms and followed Laura quickly through the surging crowd that already filled the room, escaping in haste from the heat as soon as the dance was over in the ball-room beyond. For a few seconds one of those total silences fell upon the party which always follow an accident. Then, as Ghisleri disappeared with his burden, every one began to talk at once, speculating upon the nature of Lord Herbert Arden's indisposition. Heart disease--epilepsy--nervous prostration--most things were suggested. "Probably too much champagne," laughed Donna Adele in the ear of the lady nearest to her. CHAPTER III. It is perhaps useless to attempt to trace and recapitulate the causes which had led Laura Carlyon to the state of mind in which she had found courage to tell Arden that she loved him. There might be harder moments in store for her, but this had been the hardest she had known hitherto. Nothing short of a real and great love, she believed, could have carried her through it, and she had been conscious for some days that if the opportunity came she meant to do what she had done. In other words, she had been quite sure that Arden loved her and that she loved him. This being granted, it was in accordance with her character to take the initiative. With far less sympathy than she felt in all her thoughts, she would have understood that a man of his instincts would never speak of his love to her unless almost directly bidden to do so. Laura was slow to make up her mind, sure of her decision when reached, and determined to act upon it without consulting any one. Many people said later that she had sacrificed herself for Lord Herbert's expected fortune, or for his position. A few said that she was a very good woman and that, finding herself neglected, she had decided to devote her life to the happiness of a very unhappy man for whom she felt a sincere friendship. That was at least the more charitable view. But neither was at all the right one. She honestly and really believed that she loved the man: she saw beyond a doubt that he loved her, and she took the shortest and most direct way of ending all doubts on the subject. On that same night when Arden had quite recovered and had gone home with Ghisleri, she spoke to her mother and told her exactly what had happened. The Princess of Gerano opened her quiet brown eyes very wide when she heard the news. She was handsome still at five and forty, a little stout, perhaps, but well proportioned. Her light brown hair was turning grey at the temples, but there were few lines in her smooth, calm face, and her complexion was still almost youthful, though with little colouring. She looked what she was, a woman of the world, very far from worldly, not conscious of half the evil that went on around her, and much given to inward contemplation of a religious kind when not actively engaged in social duty. She had seen Laura's growing appreciation of Arden and had noticed the frequency of the latter's visits to the house. But she had herself learned to like him very much during the last month, and it never suggested itself to her that he could wish to marry Laura nor that Laura could care for him, considering that he was undeniably a cripple. It was no wonder that she was surprised. "Dear child," she said, "I do not know what to say. Of course I have found out what a really good man he is, though he is so fond of that wild Ghisleri--they are always together. I have a great admiration for Lord Herbert. As far as position goes, there is nothing better, and I suppose he is rich enough to support you, though I do not know. You see, darling, you have nothing but the little I can give you. But never mind that--there is only that one other thing--I wish he were not--" She checked herself, far too delicate to hurt her daughter by too direct a reference to Arden's physical shortcomings. But Laura, strange to say, was not sensitive on that point. "I know, mother," she said, "he is deformed. It is of no use denying it, as he says himself. But if I do not mind that--if I do not think of it at all when I am with him, why should any one else care? After all, if I marry him, it is to please myself, and not the people who will ask us to dinner." The young girl laughed happily as she thought of the new life before her, and of how she would make everything easy for poor Arden, and make him quite forget that he could hardly walk. Her mother looked at her with quiet wonder. "Think well before you act, dear," she said. "Marriage is a very serious thing. There is no drawing back afterwards, and if you were to be at all unkind after you are married--" "O mother, how can you think that of me?" "No--at least, you would never mean it. You are too good for that. But it would break the poor man's heart. He is very sensitive, it is not every man who faints when he finds out that a young girl loves him--fortunately, not every man," she added with a smile. "If every one loved as we do, the world would be much happier," said Laura, kissing her mother. "Do not be afraid, I will not break his heart." "God grant you may not break your own, dear!" The Princess spoke in a lower voice, and turned away her face to hide the tears that stood in her eyes. "Mine, mother!" Laura bent over her as she sat in her dressing-chair. "What is it?" she asked anxiously, as she saw that her mother's cheek was wet. "You are very dear to me, child," murmured the Princess, drawing the young head down to her breast, and kissing the thick black hair. So the matter was settled, and Laura had her way. It is not easy to say how most mothers would have behaved under the circumstances. There are worldly ones enough who would have received the news far more gladly than the Princess of Gerano did; and there are doubtless many who would refuse a cripple for a son-in-law on any condition whatever. Laura's mother did what she thought right, which is more than most of us can say of our actions. The Prince was almost as much surprised as his wife when he learned the news, but he was convinced that he had nothing to say in the matter. Laura was quite free to do as she pleased, and, moreover, it was a good thing that she should marry a man of her own faith, and ultimately live among her own people, since nothing could make either a Catholic or a Roman of her. But he was not altogether pleased with her choice. He had an Italian's exaggerated horror of deformity, and though he liked Lord Herbert, he could never quite overcome his repulsion for his outward defects. There was nothing to be done, however, and on the whole the marriage had much in its favour in his eyes. The engagement was accordingly announced with due formality, and the wedding day was fixed for the Saturday after Easter, which fell early in that year. Not until the day before the Princess told the news to every one did Arden communicate it to Ghisleri. He had perfect confidence in his friend's discretion, but having said that he would not speak of the engagement to any one until the Princess wished it, he kept his word to the letter. He asked Pietro to drive with him, far out upon the campagna. When they had passed the last houses and were in the open country he spoke. "I am going to marry Miss Carlyon," he said simply, but he glanced at Ghisleri's face to see the look of surprise he expected. "Since you announce it, my dear friend, I congratulate you with all my heart," answered Pietro. "Of course I knew it some time ago." "You knew it?" Arden was very much astonished. "It was not very hard to guess. You loved each other, you went constantly to the house and you spent your evenings with her in other people's houses, there was no reason why you should not marry--accordingly, I took it for granted that you would be married. You see that I was right. I am delighted. Ask me to the wedding." Arden laughed. "I thought you would never enter one of our churches!" he exclaimed. "I did not know that I had such a reputation for devout obedience to general rules," answered Ghisleri. "As for your reputation, my dear fellow, it is not that of a saint. But I once saw you saying your prayers." "I dare say," replied Pietro, indifferently. "I sometimes do, but not generally in the Corso, nor on the Pincio. How long ago was that? Do you happen to remember?" "Six or seven years, I fancy--oh, yes! It was in that little church in Dieppe, just before you went off on that long cruise--you remember it, too, I fancy." "I suppose I thought I was going to be drowned, and was seized with a passing ague of premature repentance," said Ghisleri, lighting a cigarette. "What a queer fellow you are!" observed Arden, striking a light in his turn. "I was talking with Miss Carlyon about you some time ago, and I told her you were a sinner, but a righteous one." "A shade worse than others, perhaps, because I know a little better what I am doing," answered Ghisleri, with a sneer, evidently intended for himself. He was looking at the tomb of Cecilia Metella, as it rose in sight above the horses' heads at the turn of the road, and he thought of what had happened to him there years ago, and of the consequences. Arden knew nothing of the associations the ruin had for his friend, and laughed again. He was in a very happy humour on that day, as he was for many days afterwards. "I can never quite make you out," he said. "Are you good, bad, or a humbug? You cannot be both good and bad at once, you know." "No. But one may be often bad, and sometimes do decently good deeds," observed Ghisleri, with a dry laugh. "Let us talk of your marriage instead of speculating on my salvation, or more probable perdition, if there really is such a thing. When is the wedding day?" Arden was full of plans for the future, and they drove far out, talking of all that was before the young couple. On the following day the news was announced to the city and the world. The world held up its hands in wonder, and its tongue wagged for a whole week and a few days more. Laura Carlyon was to marry a penniless cripple of the most dissipated habits. How shocking! Of course every one knew that Lord Herbert had not fainted at all on that night at the Palazzo Braccio, but had succumbed, in the natural course of events, to the effects of the champagne he had taken at dinner. That was now quite certain. And the whole world was well aware that his father had cut him off with a pittance on account of his evil ways, and that his brother had twice paid his gambling debts to save the family name from disgrace. Englishmen as a race, and English cripples in particular, were given to drink and high play. The man had actually been the worse for wine when talking to Laura Carlyon in her mother's house, and Ghisleri had been obliged to carry him out for decency's sake before anything worse happened. Scandalous! It was a wonder that Ghisleri, who, after all, was a gentleman, could associate with such a fellow. After all, nobody ever liked Laura Carlyon since she had first appeared in society, soon after dear Donna Adele's marriage. It was as well that she should go to England and live with her tipsy cripple. She was good-looking, as some people admitted. She might win the heart of her brother-in-law and induce him to pay her husband's debts a third time. They were said to be enormous. The men were, on the whole, more charitable. Conscious of their own shortcomings, they did not blame Lord Herbert very severely for taking a little too much "extra dry." They did, however, abuse him somewhat roundly at the club, for having gone to the Gerano party at all when he should have known that he was not steady. Of the facts themselves they had not the slightest doubt. Unfortunately for one of them who happened to be declaiming on the subject, but who was really by no means a bad fellow, he did not notice that Ghisleri had entered the room before he had finished his speech. When he had quite done, Ghisleri came forward. "Arden is my old friend," he said quietly. "He never drinks. He has a disease of the heart and he fainted from the heat. The doctor and I took him home together. I hope that none of you will take up this disgusting story, which was started by the women. And I hope Pietrasanta, there, will do me the honour to believe what I say, and to tell you that he was mistaken." Ghisleri was not a pleasant person to quarrel with, and moreover had the reputation of being truthful. His story, too, was quite as probable as the other, to say the least of it. Don Gianbattista Pietrasanta glanced quickly from one to the other of the men who were seated around him as though to ask their advice in the matter. Several of them nodded almost imperceptibly, as though counselling him to do as Ghisleri requested. There was nothing at all aggressive in the latter's manner, either, as he quietly lit a cigarette while waiting for the other's answer. Suddenly a deep voice was heard from another corner of the room. The Marchese di San Giacinto, giant in body and fortune, had been reading the paper with the utmost indifference during all the previous conversation. All at once he spoke, deliberately and to the point. "It is no business of mine," he said, "as I do not know Lord Herbert Arden except by sight. But I was at the dance the other night, and half an hour before the occurrence you are discussing, Lord Herbert was standing beside me, talking of the Egyptian difficulty with the French ambassador. I have often seen men drunk. Lord Herbert Arden was, in my opinion, perfectly sober." Having delivered himself of this statement, San Giacinto put his very black cigar between his teeth again and took up the evening paper he had been reading. In the face of such men as Ghisleri and the Marchese, it would have been the merest folly to continue any opposition. Moreover, Pietrasanta was neither stupid nor bad, and he was not a coward. "I do not know Lord Herbert Arden myself," he said without affectation. "What I said I got on hearsay, and the whole story is evidently a fabrication which we ought to deny. For the rest, Ghisleri, if you are not quite satisfied--" He stopped and looked at Pietro. "My dear fellow," said the latter, "what more could I have to say about the affair? You all seemed to be in the dark, and I wanted to clear the matter up for the sake of my old friend. That is all. I am very much obliged to you." After this incident there was less talk at the clubs, and in a few days the subject dropped. But the world said, as usual, that all the men were afraid of Ghisleri, who was a duellist, and of San Giacinto, who was a giant, and who had taken the trouble to learn to fence when he first came to Rome, and that they had basely eaten their words. Men were such cowards, said the world. Lord Herbert and Laura lived in blissful ignorance of what was said about them. The preparations for the wedding were already begun, and Laura's modest trousseau was almost all ordered. She and Arden had discussed their future, and having realised that they must live in a very economical fashion for the present and so long as it pleased Heaven to preserve Arden's maternal uncle among the living, they decided that the wedding should be as quiet and unostentatious as possible. The old Prince, however, though far too conscientious to have settled a penny of his inherited fortune upon Laura, even if she had chosen to marry a pauper, was not ungenerous in other ways, and considered himself at liberty to offer the pair some very magnificent silver, which he was able to pay for out of his private economies. As for Donna Adele, she presented them with a couple of handsome wine-coolers--doubtless in delicate allusion to the fictitious story about the champagne Lord Herbert was supposed to have taken. The implied insult, if there was any, was not at all noticed by those who had never heard the tale, however, and Adele had to bide her time for the present. Meanwhile the season tore along at a break-neck pace, and Lent was fast approaching. Everybody saw and danced with almost everybody else every night, and some of them supped afterwards and gambled till midday, and were surprised to find that their nerves were shaky, and their livers slightly eccentric, and their eyes anything but limpid. But they all knew that the quiet time was coming, the Lent wherein no man can dance, nor woman either, and they amused themselves with a contempt for human life which would have amounted to heroism if displayed in a good cause. "They" of course means the gay set of that particular year. As the Princess of Gerano gave regular informal dances, and two balls at the end of Carnival, she and her daughter were considered to belong more or less to the company of the chief merry-makers. The Savelli couple were in it, also, as a matter of course. Gouache was in it when he pleased, a dozen or fifteen young members of the diplomatic corps, old Spicca, who always went everywhere, the Contessa dell' Armi, whose husband was in parliament and rarely went into society, Ghisleri and twenty or thirty others, men and women who were young or thought themselves so. About three weeks before Ash Wednesday, Anastase Gouache, the perennially young, had a brilliant inspiration. His studio was in an historical palace, and consisted of three halls which might have passed for churches in any other country, so far as their size was concerned. He determined to give a Shrove Tuesday supper to the gay set, with a tableau, and a long final waltz afterwards, by way of interring the mangled remains of the season, as he expressed it. The supper should be at the usual dinner hour instead of at one o'clock, because the gay set was not altogether as scarlet as it was painted, and did not, as a whole, care to dance into the morning of Ash Wednesday. The tableau should represent Carnival meeting Lent. The Contessa dell' Armi should be in it, and Ghisleri, and Donna Adele, and possibly San Giacinto might be induced to appear as a mask. His enormous stature would be very imposing. The Contessa, with her classic features and violet eyes, would make an admirable nun, and there would be no difficulty in getting together a train of revellers. Ghisleri, lean, straight, and tall, would do for a Satanic being of some kind, and could head the Carnival procession. The whole thing would not last five minutes and the dancing should begin at once. "Could you not say something, my friend?" asked Gouache, as he talked the matter over with Ghisleri. "I could, if you could find something for me to say," answered the latter. "But of what use would it be?" "The density of the public," replied the great painter, "is, to use the jargon of science, as cotton wool multiplied into cast iron. You either sink into it and make no noise at all, or you knock your head against and cannot get through it. You have never sent a picture to the Salon without naming it, or you would understand exactly what I mean. They took a picture I once painted, as an altar piece, for a scene from the Decameron, I believe--but that was when I was young and had illusions. On the whole, you had better find something to say, and say it--verse, if possible. They say you have a knack at verses." "Carnival meeting Lent," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. Then he laughed. "I will try--though I am no poet. I will trust a little to my acting to help my lame feet." Ghisleri laughed again, as though an amusing idea had struck him. That night he went home early, and as very often happened, in a bad humour with himself and with most things. He was a very unhappy man, who felt himself to be always the centre of a conflict between opposing passions, and he had long been in the habit of throwing into a rough, impersonal shape, the thoughts that crossed his mind about himself and others, when he was alone at night. Being, as he very truly said, no poet, he quickly tore up such odds and ends of halting rhyme or stumbling prose, either as soon as they were written, or the next morning. Whatever the form of these productions might be, the ideas they expressed were rarely feeble and were indeed sometimes so strong that they might have even shocked some unusually sensitive person in the gay set. Being, as has been said, in a bad humour on that particular evening, he naturally had something to say to himself on paper, and as he took his pencil he thought of Gouache's suggestion. In a couple of hours he had got what he wanted and went to sleep. The great artist liked the verses when Ghisleri read them to him on the following day, the Contessa consented to act the part of the nun, and the affair was settled. It was a great success. Gouache's wife, Donna Faustina, had entered into her husband's plans with all her heart. She was of the Montevarchi family, sister to the Marchesa di San Giacinto, the latter's husband being a Saracinesca, as every Italian knows. Gouache did things in a princely fashion, and sixty people, including all the gay set and a few others, sat down to the dinner which Anastase was pleased to call a supper. Every one was very gay. Almost every one was in some fancy dress or mask, there was no order of precedence, and all were placed where they would have the best chance of amusing themselves. The halls of the studio, with their magnificent tapestries and almost priceless objects of art, were wonderful to see in the bright light. Many of the costumes were really superb and all were brilliant. No one knew what was to take place after supper, but every one was sure there was to be dancing, and all were aware that it was the last dance before Easter, and that the best dancers in Rome were all present. One of the halls had been hastily fitted up as a theatre, with a little stage, a row of footlights, and a background representing a dark wall, with a deep archway in the middle, like the door of a church. When every one was seated, a deep, clear voice spoke out a little prologue from behind the scenes, and the figures, as they were described, moved out from opposite sides of the stage to meet and group themselves before the painted doorway. Let prologue and verse speak for themselves. "It was nearly midnight--the midnight that ends Shrove Tuesday and begins Ash Wednesday, dividing Carnival from Lent. I left the tables, where all the world of Rome was feasting, and pretending that the feast was the last of the year. The brilliant light flashed upon silver and gold, dyed itself in amber and purple wine, ran riot amongst jewels, and blazed upon many a fair face and snowy neck. The clocks were all stopped, lest some tinkling bell should warn men and women that the day of laughter was over, and that the hour of tears had struck. But I, broken-hearted, sick in soul and weary of the two months' struggle with evil fate, turned away from them and left them to all they loved, and to all that I could never love again. "I passed through the deserted ball-room, and my heart sank as I thought of what was over and done. The polished floor was strewn with withered blossoms, with torn and crumpled favours from the dance, with shreds of gauze and lace; many chairs were overturned; the light streamed down like day upon a great desolation; the heated air was faint with the sad odour of dead flowers. There was the corner where we sat, she and I, to-night, last week, a week before that--where we shall never sit again, for neither of us would. I shivered as I went out into the night. "Through the dark streets I went, not knowing and not caring whither, nor hearing the tinkling mandolines and changing songs of the revellers who passed me on their homeward way." At this point a mandoline was really heard in the very faintest tones from behind the scenes, playing scarcely above a whisper, as it were, the famous "Tout pour l'amour" waltz of Waldteuffel. "Suddenly," the voice resumed, above the delicate notes of the instrument, "the bells rang out and I knew that my last Carnival was dead." Here deep-toned bells struck twelve, while the mandoline still continued. "Then, all at once, I was aware of two figures in the gloom, advancing towards the door of a church in front of me. The one was a woman, a nun in white robe and black hood, whose saintly violet eyes seemed to shine in the darkness. The other was a monk." The Contessa dell' Armi came slowly forward, her pale, clear face lifted and thrown into strong relief by the black head-dress, grasping a heavy rosary in her folded hands. Behind her came San Giacinto, recognisable only by his colossal stature, his face hidden in the shadow of a black cowl. Both were admirable, and a murmur of satisfaction ran through the room. "As they reached the door," continued the reader, "a wild train of maskers broke into the street." Ghisleri entered from the opposite side, arrayed somewhat in the manner of Mephistopheles, a mandoline slung over his shoulder, on which he was playing. Donna Adele and a dozen others followed him closely, in every variety of brilliant Carnival dress, dancing forward with tambourines and castanets, their eyes bright, their steps cadenced to the rhythm of the waltz tune which now broke out loud and clear--fair young women with flushed cheeks, all life, and motion, and laughter; and young men following them closely, laughing, and talking, and singing, all dancing in and out with changing steps. Then all at once the music died away to a whisper; the nun and the monk stood back as though in horror against the church door, while the revellers grouped themselves together in varied poses around them, Ghisleri the central figure in the midst, bowing with a diabolical smile before the white-robed nun. "In front of all," said the voice again, "stood one whose face I shall never forget, for it was like my own. The features were mine, but upon them were reflected all the sins of my life, and all the evil I have done. I thought the other revellers did not see him." Again the music swelled and rose, and the train of dancers passed on with song and laughter, and disappeared on the opposite side of the stage. Ghisleri alone stood still before the saint-like figure of the Contessa dell' Armi, bowing low and holding out to her a tall red glass. "He who was like me stayed behind," continued the reader, "and the light from his glass seemed to shine upon the saintly woman's face, and she drew back as though from contamination, to the monk's side for protection. I knew her face when I saw it--the face I have known too long, too well. Then he who was like me spoke to her, and the voice was my own, but as I would have had it when I have been worst." As the reader ceased Ghisleri began to speak. His voice was strong, but capable of considerable softness and passionate expression, and he did his best to render his own irregular verses both intelligible and moving to his hearers, in which effort he was much helped by the dress he wore and by the gestures he made use of. "So we meet at the last! You the saint, I the time-proved sinner; You the young, I the old; I the world-worn, you the beginner; At the end of the season here, with a glass of wine To discuss the salvation and--well--the mine and thine Of all the souls we have met this year, and dealt with, Of those you have tried to make feel, and those I've felt with: Though, after all, dear Saint, had we met in heaven Before you got saintship, or I the infernal leaven That works so hot to kill the old angel in me-- If you had seen the world then, as I was able to see Before Sergeant-Major Michael gave me that fall,-- Not a right fall, mind you, taking the facts in all,-- We might have been on the same side both. But now It is yours to cry over lost souls, as it's mine to show them how They may stumble and tumble into the infernal slough. So here we are. Now tell me--your honour true-- What do you think of our season? Which wins? I? You? Ha, ha, ha! Sweet friend, you can hardly doubt The result of this two months' hard-fought wrestling bout. I have won. You have lost the game. I drive a trade Which I invented--perhaps--but you have made. Without your heaven, friend Saint, what would be my hell? Without your goodness, could I hope to do well With the poor little peddler's pack of original sin They handed me down, when they turned me out to begin My devil's trade with souls. But now I ask Why for eternal penance they gave me so light a task? You have not condescended from heaven to taste our carnival feast, But if you had tasted it, you would admit at least That the meats were passably sweet, and might allure The nicest of angels, whose tastes are wholly pure. Old friend--I hate you! I hate your saintly face, Your holy eyes, your vague celestial grace! You are too cold for me, whose soul must smelt In fires whose fury you have never felt. But come, unbend a little. Let us chatter Of what we like best, of what our pride may flatter,-- Salvation and damnation--there's the theme-- Your trade and mine--what I am, and what you seem. Come, count the souls we have played for, you and I, The broken hearts you have lost on a careless jog of the die, Hearts that were broken in ire, by one short, sharp fault of the head, Souls lifted on pinions of fire, to sink on wings of lead. We have gambled, and I have won, while you have steadily lost, I laughing, you weeping your senseless saintly tears each time you tossed. So now--give it up! Dry your eyes; your heaven's a dream! Sell your saintship for what it is worth, and come over--the Devil's supreme! Make Judas Iscariot envy the sweets of our sin-- Poor Judas, who ended himself where I could have wished to begin! A chosen complexion--hell's fruit would not have been wasted Had he lived to eat his fill at the feast he barely tasted. Ah, my friend, you are horribly good! Oh! I know you of old; I know all your virtues, your graces, your beauties; I know they are cold! But I know that far down in the depths of your crystalline soul There's a spot the archangel physician might not pronounce whole. There's a hell in your heaven; there's a heaven in my hell. There we meet. What's perdition to you is salvation to me. Ah, the delicate sweet Of mad meetings, of broken confessions, of nights unblest! Oh, the shadowy horror of hate that haunts love's steps without rest, The desire to be dead--to see dead both the beings one hates, One's self and the other, twin victims of opposite fates! How I hate you! You thing beyond Satan's supremest temptation, You creature of light for whom God has ordained no damnation, You escape me, the being whose searing hand lovingly lingers On the neck of each sinner to brand him with five red-hot fingers! You escape me--you dare scoff at me--and I, poor old pretender, Must sue for your beautiful soul with temptation more tender Than a man can find for a woman, when night in her moonlit glory Silvers a word to a poem, makes a poem of a commonplace story! So I sue here at your feet for your soul and the gold of your heart, To break my own if I lose you--Lose you? No--do not start. You angel--you bitter-sweet creature of heaven, I love you and hate you! For I know what you are, and I know that my sin cannot mate you. I know you are better than I--by the blessing of God!-- And I hate what is better than I by the blessing of God! What right has the Being Magnificent, reigning supreme, To wield the huge might that is his, in a measure extreme? What right has God got of his strength to make you all good, And me bad from the first and weighed down in my sin's leaden hood? What right have you to be pure, my angel, when I am foul? What right have you to the light, while I, like an owl, Must blink in hell's darkness and count my sins by the bead-- While you can get all you pray for, the wine and the mead Of a heavenly blessing, showered upon you straight-- Because you chance to stand on the consecrate side of the gate? Ah! Give me a little nature, give me a human truth! Give me a heart that feels--and falls, as a heart should--without ruth! Give me a woman who loves and a man who loves again, Give me the instant's joy that ends in an age of pain, Give me the one dear touch that I love--and that you fear-- And I will give my empire for the Kingdom you hold dear! I will cease from tempting and torturing, I will let the poor sinner go, I will turn my blind eyes heavenward and forget this world below, I will change from lying to truth, and be forever true-- If you will only love me--and give the Devil his due!" It had been previously arranged that at the last words the nun should thrust back his Satanic majesty and take refuge in the church. But it turned out otherwise. As he drew near the conclusion, Ghisleri crept stealthily up to the Contessa's side, and threw all the persuasion he possessed into his voice. But it was most probably the Contessa's love of surprising the world which led her to do the contrary of what was expected. At the last line of his speech, she made one wild gesture of despair, and threw herself backward upon Ghisleri's ready arm. For one moment he looked down into her white upturned face, and his own grew pale as his gleaming eyes met hers. With characteristic presence of mind, San Giacinto, the monk, bent his head, and stalked away in holy horror as the curtain fell. CHAPTER IV. As the curtain went down, a burst of applause rang through the room. The poetry, if it could be called poetry, had assuredly not been of a high order, and as for the sentiments it expressed, a good number of the audience were more than usually shocked. But the whole thing had been effective, unexpected, and striking, especially the ending, over which the world smacked its lips. "I do not like it at all," said Laura Carlyon to Arden, as they left the seats where they had sat together through the little performance. "They looked very well," he answered thoughtfully. "As for what he said, it was Ghisleri. That is the man's character. He will talk in that way while he does not believe a word he says, or only one out of ten." "Then I do not like his character, nor him," returned the young lady, frankly. "But I should not say it to you, dear, because he is your best friend. He shows you all the good there is in him, I suppose, and he shows us all the bad." "No one ever said a truer thing of him," said Arden, limping along by her side. "But I admire the man's careless strength in what he does." "It is easy to use strong language," replied Laura, quietly. "It is quite another thing to be strong. I believe he is weak, morally speaking. But then, how should I know? One only guesses at such things, after all." "Yes, it is all guess-work. But I think I understand him better to-night than before." A moment later the sound of dance music came from the most distant and the largest of the rooms. Ghisleri and the Contessa dell' Armi were already there. She was so slight of figure, that she draped her nun's dress over her gown, and had only to drop it to be herself again. They took a first turn together, and Ghisleri talked softly all the time as he danced. "Shockingly delightful--the whole thing!" exclaimed Donna Adele, watching them. "How well they acted it! They must have rehearsed very often." "Quite often enough, I have no doubt," said the Marchesa di San Giacinto, with a laugh. An hour or two passed away and Laura Carlyon found herself walking about with Ghisleri after dancing with him. He was a very magnificent personage in his scarlet, black and gold costume, and Laura herself looked far more saintly in her evening gown than the Contessa dell' Armi had looked in the dress of a nun. The two made a fine contrast, and some one said so, unfortunately within hearing of both Adele Savelli and Maddalena dell' Armi. The latter turned her cold face quickly and looked at Laura and Ghisleri, but her expression did not change. "What a very uncertain person that dear Ghisleri is!" observed Donna Adele to Pietrasanta, as she noticed the Contessa's movement. She spoke just so loud that the latter could hear her, then turned away with her companion and walked in the opposite direction. Meanwhile Ghisleri and Laura were together. The young girl felt an odd sensation as her hand lay on his arm, as though she were doing something wrong. She did not understand his life, nor him, being far too young and innocent of life's darker thoughts and deeds. She had said that she disliked him, because that seemed best to express what she felt--a certain vague wish not to be too near him, a certain timidity when he was within hearing which she did not feel at other times. "You did not mean any of those things you said, did you, Signor Ghisleri?" she asked, scarcely knowing why she put the question. "I meant them all, and much more of the same kind," answered Pietro, with a hard laugh. "I am sorry--I would rather not believe it." "Why?" "Because it is not right to think such things, nor even to say them in a play." Ghisleri looked at her in some surprise. Laura felt a sort of impulse of conscience to say what she thought. "Ah! you are horribly good!" laughed Ghisleri, quoting his own verse. Laura felt uncomfortable as she met his glance. He really looked very Satanic just then, as his eyebrows went up and the deep lines deepened between his eyes and on his forehead. "Either one believes or one does not," she said. "If one does--" She hesitated. "If one does, does it follow that because God is good to you, He has been good to me also, Miss Carlyon?" His expression changed, and his voice was grave and almost sad. Laura sighed almost inaudibly, but said nothing. "Will you have anything?" he asked indifferently, after the short pause. "A cup of tea?" "Thanks, no. I think I will go to my mother." Ghisleri took her to the Princess's side and left her. "You seemed to be having a very interesting conversation with Miss Carlyon just now," said the Contessa dell' Armi as he sat down beside her a quarter of an hour later. "What were you talking about?" "Sin," answered Ghisleri, laconically. "With a young girl!" exclaimed the Contessa. "But then--English--" "You need not raise your eyebrows, nor talk in that tone, my dear lady," replied Ghisleri. "Miss Carlyon is quite beyond sarcasms of that sort. Since you are curious, she was telling me that it was sinful to say the things you were good enough to listen to in the tableau, even in a play." "Ah? And you will be persuaded, I dare say. What beautiful eyes she has. It is a pity she is so clumsy and heavily made. Really, has she got you to promise that you will never say any of those things again--after the way I ended the piece for you?" "No. I have not promised to be good yet. As for your ending of the performance, I confess I was surprised." "You did not show it." "It would hardly have been in keeping with my part, would it? But I can show you that I am grateful at least." "For what?" asked the Contessa, raising her eyebrows again. "Do you think I meant anything by it?" "Certainly not," replied Ghisleri, with the utmost calmness. "I suppose your instinct told you that it would be more novel and effective if the Saint yielded than if she played the old-fashioned scene of crushing the devil under her foot." "Would you have let yourself be crushed?" "By you--yes." Ghisleri spoke slowly and looked steadily into her eyes. The Contessa's face softened a little, and she paused before she answered him. "I wish I knew--I wish I were sure whether I really have any influence over you," she said softly, and then sighed and looked away. It was very late when the party broke up, though all had professed the most positive intention of going home when the clock struck twelve. The Princess of Gerano offered Arden a seat in her carriage, and Pietro Ghisleri went away alone. As he passed through the deserted dining-room, and through the hall where he had sat so long with the Contessa, he could not help glancing at the corner where they had talked, and he thought involuntarily of the prologue to the tableau. His face was set rather sternly, but he smiled, too, as he went by. "It is not my last Carnival yet," he said to himself, as he drew on a great driving-coat which covered his costume completely. Then he went out. It is very hard to say whether he was a sentimental man or not. Men who write second-rate verses when they are alone, generally are; but, on the other hand, those who knew him would not have allowed that he possessed a grain of what is commonly called sentimentality. The word probably means a sort of vague desire to experience rather fictitious emotions, with the intention of believing oneself to be passionate by nature, and in that sense the weakness could not justly be attributed to Ghisleri. But on this particular night he did a thing which many people would undoubtedly have called sentimental. He turned aside from the highway when he left the great palace in which Gouache lived, and he allowed himself to wander aimlessly on through the older part of the city, until he stopped opposite to the door of a church which stood in a broad street near the end of the last by-way he had traversed. The night was dark and gloomy and the stillness was only broken now and then by a distant snatch of song, a burst of laughter, or the careless twang of a guitar, just as Ghisleri had described it. Indeed it was by no means the first time that he had walked home in the small hours of Ash Wednesday morning, after a night of gaiety and emotion. It chanced that the church upon which he had accidentally come was the one known as the Church of Prayer and Death. It stands in the Via Giulia, behind the Palazzo Farnese. He realised the fact at once, and it seemed like a bad omen. He stood still a long time, looking at the gloomy door with steady eyes. "Just such a place as this," he said, in a low tone. "Just such a church as that, just such a man as I am. Is this the comedy and was this evening the reality? Or is it the other way?" He called up before his eyes the scene in which he had acted, and his imagination obeyed him readily enough. He could fancy how the monk and the nun would look, and the train of revellers, and their movements and gestures. But the nun's face was not that of the Contessa. Another shone out vividly in its place. "Just God!" ejaculated the lonely man. "Am I so bad as that? Not to care after so much?" He turned upon his heel as though to escape the vision, and walked quickly away, hating himself. But he was mistaken. He cared--as he expressed it--far more than he dreamed of, more deeply, perhaps, in his own self-contradictory, irregular fashion than the woman of whom he was thinking. People talked for some time of the Shrove Tuesday feast at Gouache's studio. Then they fell to talking about other things. Lent passed in the usual way, and there was not much change in the lives of the persons most concerned in this history. Ghisleri saw much less of Arden than formerly, of course, as the latter was wholly absorbed by his passion for his future wife. As for the world, it was as much occupied with dinner parties, musical evenings, and private theatricals as it had formerly been with dancing. The time sped quickly. The past season had left behind it an enormous Corpus Scandalorum Romanorum which made conversation both easy and delightful. How many of the unpleasant stories concerning Lord Herbert Arden, Laura Carlyon, Pietro Ghisleri, and Maddalena dell' Armi could have been distinctly traced to Adele Savelli, it is not easy to say. As a matter of fact, very few persons excepting Ghisleri himself took any trouble to trace them at all. To the average worldly taste it is as unpleasant to follow up the origin of a delightfully savoury lie, as it is to think, while eating, of the true history of a beefsteak, from the meadow to the table by way of the slaughter-house and the cook's fingers. Holy week came, and the muffled bells and the silence in houses at other times full and noisy, and the general air of depression which results, most probably, from a certain amount of genuine repentance and devotion which is felt in a place where by no means all are bad at heart, and many are sincerely good. The gay set felt uncomfortable, and a certain number experienced for the first time the most distinct aversion to confessing their misdeeds, as they ought to do at least once a year. As far as they were concerned, Ghisleri's verses expressed more truth than they had expected to find in them. Ghisleri himself was rarely troubled by any return of the qualm which had seized him before the door of the Church of Prayer and Death, and never again in the same degree. If he did not go on his way rejoicing, he at all events proceeded without remorse, and was wicked enough and selfish enough to congratulate himself upon the fact. Arden and Laura were perfectly happy. They, at least, had little cause to reproach themselves with any evil done in the world since they had met, and Arden had assuredly better reason for congratulating himself. It would indeed have been hard to find a happier man than he, and his happiness was perfectly legitimate and well founded. Whether it would prove durable was another matter, not so easy of decision. But the facts of the present were strong enough to crush all apprehension for the future. It was not strange that it should be so. He could not be said to have led a lonely life. His family were deeply attached to him, and from earliest boyhood everything had been done to alleviate the moral suffering inevitable in his case, and to make his material existence as bearable as possible, in spite of his terrible infirmities. But for the unvarying sympathy of many loving hearts, and the unrelaxing care of those who were sincerely devoted to him, Arden could hardly have hoped to attain to manhood at all, much less to the healthy moral growth which made him very unlike most men in his condition, or the comparative health of body whereby he was able to enjoy without danger much of what came in his way. He was in reality a much more social and sociable man than his friend Ghisleri, though he did not possess the same elements of success in society. He was, indeed, sensitive, as has been said, in spite of his denial of the fact, but he was not bitter about his great misfortune. Hitherto only one very painful thought had been connected with his deformity, beyond the constant sense of physical inferiority to other men. He had felt, and not without reason, that he must renounce the love of woman and the hope of wedded happiness, as being utterly beyond the bounds of all human possibility. And now, as though Heaven meant to compensate him to the full for the suffering inflicted and patiently borne, he had won, almost without an effort, the devoted love of the first woman for whom he had seriously cared. It was almost too good. Love had taken him, and had clothed him in a new humanity, as it seemed to him, straightening the feeble limbs, strengthening the poor ill-matched shoulders, broadening and deepening the sunken chest that never held breath enough before wherewith to speak out full words of passionate happiness. Love had dawned upon the dusk of his dark morning as the dawn of day upon a leaden sea, scattering unearthly blossoms in the path of the royal sun, breathing the sweet breeze of living joy upon the flat waters of unprofitable discontent. To those who watch the changing world with its manifold scenes and its innumerable actors, whose merest farce is ever and only the prologue to the tragedy which awaits all, there is nothing more wonderful, nothing more beautiful, nothing more touching--perhaps few things more sacred--than the awakening of a noble heart at love's first magic touch. The greater miracle of spring is done before our eyes each year, the sun shines and the grass grows, it rains and all things are refreshed, and the dead seed's heart breaks with the joy of coming life, bursts and shoots up to meet the warmth of the sunshine and be kissed by the west wind. But we do not see, or seeing, care for none of these things in the same measure in which we care for ourselves--and perhaps for others. We turn from the budding flower wearily enough at last, and we own that though it speak to us and touch us, its language is all but strange and its meaning wholly a mystery. Nature tells us little except by association with hearts that have beaten for ours, and then sometimes she tells us all. But the heart itself is the thing, the reality, the seat of all our thoughts and the stay of all our being. Selfishly we see what it does in ourselves, and in others we may see it and watch it without thought of self. It is asleep to-day, lethargic, heavy, dull, scarce moving in the breast that holds it. To-morrow it is awake, leaping, breaking, splendidly alive, the very source of action, the leader in life's fight, the conqueror of the whole opposing world, bursting to-day the chains of which only yesterday it could not lift a link, overthrowing now, with a touch, the barriers which once seemed so impenetrable and so strong, scorning the deathlike inaction of the past, tossing the mountains of impossibility before it as a child tosses pebbles by the sea. The miracle is done, and love has done it, as only love really can. But it must be the right sort of love and the heart it touches must be neither common nor unclean in the broad, true sense--such a heart, say, as Herbert Arden's, and such love as he felt for Laura, then and afterwards. "My life began on the evening when I first met you, dear," he said, as they sat by the open window on Easter Day, looking down at the flowers on the terrace behind the Palazzo Braccio. "You cannot make me believe that you loved me at first sight!" Laura laughed happily. "Why not?" he asked gravely. "No woman ever spoke to me as you did then, and I felt it. Is it strange? But it hurt me, too, at first, and I used to suffer during that first month." "Let that be the first and the last pain you ever have by me," answered the young girl. "I know you suffered, though I cannot even now tell why. Can you?" "Easily enough," said Arden, resting his chin upon his folded hands as they lay upon the white marble sill of the window, scarcely less white than they. The attitude was habitual to him when he was in that place. He could not rest his elbow on the slab as Laura could, for he was too short as he sat in his chair. "Easily?" she asked. "Then tell me." "Very easily. You can understand it too. When I knew that I loved you, I knew--I believed, at least, that another suffering had been found for me, as though I had not enough already. Of course, I was hopeless. How could I tell, how could any one guess that you--you of all women--with your beauty, your youth, your splendid woman's heart--could ever care for me? Oh, my darling--dear, dearest--is there no other word? If I could only tell you half!" "If you could tell me all, you would only have told half, love," said Laura. "There is mine to tell, too--and it is not a little." She bent down to him and softly kissed the beautiful pale forehead. The bright flush came to Arden's cheek and died away again in the happy silence that followed. But he raised his head, and his two hands took one of hers and gently covered it. "You must always be the same to me," he said, almost under his breath. "You have given me this new life--do not take it from me again--the old would be impossible now, not to be lived." "It need never be lived, it never shall be, if I live myself," answered Laura. "If only I could make you sure of that, I should be really happy. But you do not really doubt it, Herbert, do you?" "No, dear, to doubt you would be to doubt everything--though it is hard to believe that it can all be so good, and last." "It does not seem hard to me. Perhaps a woman believes everything more easily than a man does. She needs to believe more, I suppose, and so she finds it easy." "No woman ever needed to believe as much as I," answered Arden, thoughtfully. He still held her hand, and passed one of his own lightly over it, just pressing it now and then, as though to make sure that it was real. "Except yourself, dear one," he added a moment later, with a sharp, short breath, as though something hurt him. Laura was quick to understand him, and to feel all that he felt. She heard the little sigh and looked into his face and saw the expression of something like pain there. She laid her free hand upon his shoulder and gazed into his soft brown eyes. "Herbert dear," she said, "I know what you are thinking about. I was put into the world to make you forget those things, and, God willing, I will. You shall forget them as completely as I do, or if you remember them they shall be dear to you, in a way, as they are to me." A wonderful look of loving gratitude was in his face, and he pressed her fingers closely in his. "Tell me one thing, Laura--only this once and I will not speak of it again. When you touch me--when you lay your hand on my shoulder--when you kiss my forehead--tell me quite truly, dear, do you not feel anything like--like a sort of horror, a kind of repulsion, as if you were touching something--well--unpleasant to touch?" Poor Arden really did not know how much he was loved. Laura's deep eyes opened wide for an instant, as he spoke, then almost closed again, and her lips quivered. Then suddenly without warning the bright tears welled up and overflowed. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly. "Oh, Herbert," she cried, "that you should think it of me, when I love you as though my heart would break!" With a movement that would have cost him a painful effort at any other time, Arden rose and clasped her to him and tried to soothe her, caressing her thick black hair, and kissing her forehead tenderly, with a sort of passionate reverence that was his own, and speaking such words as came to his lips in the deep emotion of the moment. "Forgive me, darling, how could I hurt you? Laura--sweetheart Laura--beloved--do not cry--I know it now--I shall never think of it again. No, dear, no--there, say you have forgiven me!" "Forgiven you, dear--what is there to forgive?" She looked up with streaming eyes. "Everything, love--those tears of yours, first of all--" She dried her eyes and made him sit down again before she spoke, looking out of the window at the flowers. "It is not your fault," she said at last. "I have not shown you how I love yet--that is all. But I will, soon." "You have shown it already, dear--far more than you know." The world might have been surprised could it have seen the two together--the tipsy cripple, as it called Arden, and the girl who loved Francesco Savelli, as it unhesitatingly denominated Laura. It would have been a little surprised at first, and then, on mature reflection, it would have said that it was all a comedy, and that both acted it very well. Was it not natural that Arden should want a pretty wife and that Laura should take any husband that presented himself, since she could get no better? And in that case why should not each act a comedy to gain the other's hand? The world did that sort of thing every day, and what the world did Arden and Laura could very well afford to do; and after all, it was not of the slightest importance, since they were both going away, so why should one talk about them? The answer to that last question is so very hard to find that it may be left to those who put it. Donna Adele seemed satisfied, and that was the principal consideration for the present. "My poor sister!" she exclaimed to Ghisleri one day. "Step-sister," observed Pietro, correcting her. "Oh, we were always quite like real sisters," answered Adele. "Of course, my dear Ghisleri, I know what a splendid man Lord Herbert is, in everything but his unfortunate deformity. Any one can see that in his face, and besides, you would not have chosen him for your friend if he were not immensely superior to other men." Ghisleri puffed at his cigarette, looked at her, laughed, and puffed again. "But that one thing," continued Adele, "I cannot understand how she can overlook it, can you? I assure you if my father had told me to marry Lord Herbert, I should have done something quite desperate. I think I should almost have refused. I would almost rather have had to marry you." "Really?" Pietro showed some amusement. "Do you think you could have loved me in the end?" he inquired as though he were asking for information of the most commonplace kind. "Loved you?" Adele laughed rather unnaturally. "It would have been something definite, at all events," she added. "Either love or hate." "And you do not believe that your step-sister can ever love or hate Arden? There is more in him than you imagine." "I dare say, but not of the kind I should like. Besides, they say that though he never drinks quite too much, he is sometimes very excited and behaves and talks very strangely." "They say that, do they? Who are 'they'?" Ghisleri's eyes suddenly grew hard, and his jaw seemed to become extremely square. "They? Oh, many people, of course. The world says so. Do not be so dreadfully angry. What difference can it make to you? I never said that he drank too much." "If you should hear people talking about him in that way," said Ghisleri, quietly, "you might say that the story is not true, since there is really no truth in it at all. Arden is almost like an invalid. He drinks a glass of hock at breakfast and a glass or two of claret at dinner. I rarely see him touch champagne, and he never takes liqueurs. As for his being excited and behaving strangely, that is a pure fabrication. He is the quietest man I know." "It is really of no use to be so impressive," answered Adele. "It makes me uncomfortable." "That is almost as disagreeable a thing as to meet a looking-glass when one comes home at seven in the morning," observed Pietro. "Let us not talk about it." Donna Adele had gone as near as she dared to saying something unpleasant about Lord Herbert Arden, and Ghisleri had checked her with a wholesome shock. In his experience he had generally found that his words carried weight with them, for some reason which he did not even attempt to explain. If the truth were known, it would appear that Adele was at that time much inclined to like Ghisleri, and was willing to sacrifice even the pleasure of saying a sharp thing rather than offend him. The short conversation here reported took place in her boudoir late in the afternoon, and when Ghisleri went away his place was soon taken by the Marchesa di San Giacinto--a lady of sufficiently good heart, but of too ready tongue, with coal-black, sparkling eyes, and a dark complexion relieved by a bright and healthy colour--rather a contrast to the rest of the Montevarchi tribe. "Pietro Ghisleri has been here," observed Adele, in the course of conversation. "To meet Maddalena, I suppose," laughed the Marchesa, not meaning any harm. "No. They did it once, and I told Pietro that I would not have that sort of thing in my house," said Adele, with dignity. As a matter of fact, she had not dared to say a word to Ghisleri on the subject, but he and the Contessa had decided that Adele's drawing-room was not a safe place for meeting, and it was quite true that they had carefully avoided finding themselves there together ever since. But Adele was well aware that Flavia San Giacinto and Ghisleri were by no means intimate, and were not likely to exchange confidences; and though the Marchesa was ready enough at repeating harmless tales in the world, she was reticent with her husband, whom she really loved, and whose good opinion she valued. "Was he amusing?" asked Flavia. "He sometimes is." "He was not to-day, but the conversation was. You know how intimate he is with Laura's little lord?" "Of course! What did he say?" "And you remember the story about the champagne at the Gerano ball, when he carried Arden out of the room and put him to bed?" "Perfectly," answered the Marchesa, with a smile. "Yes. Well, I pressed him very hard to-day, to find out what the little man's habits really are. You see he is to be of the family, and we must really find out. My dear, it is quite dreadful! He says positively that Arden never touches liqueurs, but when I drove him to it, he had to admit that he drinks all sorts of wines--Rhine wine, claret, burgundy, champagne--everything! It is no wonder that it goes to his head, poor little fellow. But I am sorry for Laura." "After all," said Flavia, "one cannot blame him much, if he tries to be a little gay. He must suffer terribly." "Oh, no, one cannot blame him," assented Adele. Flavia San Giacinto was somewhat amused, knowing, as she did, that Adele had herself originated the tale about Lord Herbert. And late that evening the temptation to repeat what she had heard became too strong for her. She told it all in the strictest confidence to her dearest friend, Donna Maria Boccapaduli. But Donna Maria was a little absent-minded at the moment, her eldest boy having got a cold which threatened to turn into whooping cough, and her husband having written to her from the country, asking her to come down the next day and give her advice about some necessary repairs in the castle. On the following afternoon--it was still during Lent--she met the Contessa dell' Armi on the steps of a church after hearing a sermon. The Contessa was very pale and looked as though she had been crying. "Only think, my dear," began Donna Maria. "It is quite true that Lord Herbert drinks. Adele knows all about it." "Does she?" asked the Contessa, indifferently enough. "How did she find it out?" "Ghisleri told her ever so many stories about it yesterday afternoon--in the strictest confidence, you know." "Indeed! I did not think that Signor Ghisleri was the sort of man who gossiped about his friends. Good-bye, dear. I shall see more of you when Lent is over." Thereupon the Contessa got into the carriage with rather an odd expression on her face. As she drove away alone, she bit her lip, and looked as though she were trying to keep back certain tears that rose in her eyes. CHAPTER V. On the Saturday succeeding Easter, Lord Herbert Arden and Laura Carlyon were married. The ceremony was conducted, as they both desired, very quietly and unostentatiously, as was becoming for a young couple who must live economically. Few persons were asked to be present at the wedding service, and among them was Pietro Ghisleri. He had seen English weddings before, but he looked on with some curiosity and with rather mixed feelings of satisfaction and regret. He thought of his own life as he stood there, and for one moment he sincerely wished that he were only awaiting his turn to be dealt with as Arden was, to be taken by the hand, joined to the woman he loved, and turned out upon the world a well-behaved, proper, married man. The next moment he smiled faintly and rather bitterly. Marriage had not been instituted for men like him, thought Ghisleri. If it had been, it would hardly have been so successful an institution as it has proved itself. As for the young couple, he wished them well. Arden was almost the only man for whom he felt any attachment, and he had the most sincere admiration for Laura. Without feeling anything in the least resembling affection for the lovely English girl, he was conscious that he thought of her very often. Her eyes, which he called holy, and saintly, and sweet, and dark in his rough rhymed impressions of the day, haunted him by night, like the eyes of a sad angel following him in his unblest wanderings through life. Of love for her, he felt not the slightest thrill. His pulse never quickened when she came, nor was he at all depressed by her departure. If he had cared for her in the very least, it must have caused him some little pain to see her married to another before his eyes. Instead, the only passing regret he felt, was that he could not himself stand in some such position as Arden, but by another woman's side. To that other he gave all, as he honestly believed, which he had to give. It was long, too, since the very possibility of loving a young girl had crossed his mind, and since his early youth there had not been anything approaching to the reality of such a love in his life. And yet he knew that he was in some degree under Laura's influence, and in a way in which he was assuredly not under that of the Contessa dell' Armi. The consciousness of this fact annoyed him. There was a good deal of a certain sort of loyalty in his nature, bad as he believed himself to be, and bad as many honest and good people who read this history will undoubtedly say that he was. If such badness could be justified or even excused, it would not be hard to find some reasonable excuses for him, and after all he was probably not worse than a hundred others to be found in the society of every great city. He thought he was worse, sometimes, as he had told Arden, because he himself also thought that he was more fully aware than most men of what he was doing and of the consequences of his deeds. It is most likely, considering his character, that at that time Laura Carlyon represented to him a species of ideal such as he could admire with all his heart at a distance, and so nearly coinciding with his own as to be very often in his thoughts in the place of the one he had so long ago contracted for himself. All this sounds very complicated, while the facts in the case were broadly plain. He appreciated Laura in the highest degree, and did not love her at all. He was sincerely glad that his best if not his only intimate friend should marry her, and when he bid them good-bye he did not feel the smallest twinge of regret except as at a temporary parting from two persons whom he liked. "You must come and stop with us this summer," said Arden, looking up at him with flushed and happy face. "You know how glad my brother always is to see you. Besides, you are an old friend of my wife's, if any further reasons are necessary. She wants you to come too." "Of course I do," said Laura, promptly, as she held out her hand. Strange to say, she had felt far less of that unpleasant, half-timid, half-pained dislike for Ghisleri, since she had grown used to the idea of being Herbert Arden's wife. And now that her name was really changed, and she was forever bound to her husband, she felt it not at all. It was strange, considering the circumstances, that she should have the certainty that Arden could and would protect her, come what might. The poor little shrunken frame certainly did not suggest the manly strength to shield a woman in danger, which every woman loves to feel. The thin, white hand would have been but a bundle of threads in Ghisleri's strong grip. And yet Laura Arden, as she now was to be called, knew that she would trust her husband to take her part and win against a stronger and a worse man than Ghisleri, should she ever be in need; and, what is more, Ghisleri saw that she did, and his admiration rose still higher. There must be something magnificent in a woman who could so wholly forget such outward frailness and deformity in the man she loved, as to forget also that sometimes in life a man's hand may need that same common brute strength, just to match it against another's, for a woman's dear sake. Such love as that, thought Pietro, must be supremely noble, unselfish, and lasting. Being founded upon no outward illusion, there was no reason why anything should undermine it, nor why the foundation itself should ever crumble away. That was his view, and, on the whole, it was not an unjust one. For the facts were true. If, when they drove away to the station, Herbert Arden had suddenly, by magic, been clothed in the colossal frame and iron strength of San Giacinto himself, Laura would have felt no safer nor more perfectly shielded and guarded from earthly harm than she really did while she was pulling up the window lest her husband should catch cold even in the mild April air, and lovingly arranging the heavy silk scarf about his neck. They went southward by common consent, as indeed they did everything. They would go to England later in the year, in June perhaps, when it was warmer. In the meanwhile Arden's brother had offered them his yacht, and they could cruise for a month in the Mediterranean, almost choosing their own climate day by day, and wholly independent of all the manifold annoyances, inconveniences, and positive sufferings which beset the path of young married couples who have not yachts at their disposal. What both most desired was to be alone together, to have enough of each other at last, free from the tiresome daily little crowd of social spectators, and this they could nowhere accomplish so pleasantly and completely as in the luxuriously fitted vessel lent them by Arden's brother. The latter had not seen fit to come to the wedding, but Arden had in no way taken it amiss, though the world had found plenty to say on the subject, and not by any means to Arden's credit. The said brother was a decidedly eccentric person of enormous wealth, who hated anything at all resembling publicity or public ceremony, and was, moreover, a very bad correspondent. "I am very glad to hear of your engagement, my dear old brother," he wrote. "They say Miss Carlyon is good and beautiful. I have no doubt she is, though I do not at this moment recollect knowing any woman who was both. I have sent the yacht to Naples for you, if you care for a cruise. Keep her as long as you like, and telegraph if you want her sent anywhere else--Nice, for instance, or Venice. Ask your wife to wear the pearls by way of making acquaintance at second hand. They are what I could find. I send a man with them, as they might get lost. Now good-bye, dear boy, enjoy yourself and come to us as soon as you can. Yours ever, HARRY. "P.S. As it is often such a bore to draw money in those funny Italian towns, I enclose a few circular notes which may be useful. Bess and the children are all well and send love and lots of congratulations. I suppose you have written to Uncle Herbert." The few circular notes thus casually alluded to amounted to two thousand pounds, and it would be unsafe to speculate on the value of the pearls which the messenger brought on his person and delivered safely into Arden's hands. "Harry" was not over-lavish, except where his brother was concerned, and always inwardly regretted that Herbert needed so little and insisted upon living within his modest income. To "give things to Herbert" was one of the few real pleasures he extracted from his great fortune. On the present occasion Arden was glad to accept the money, for he had the very most vague notions of the expense of married life, and had anticipated real economy during his honeymoon, which, of course, could not be quite as pleasant to Laura as having plenty of money to spend. That last little difficulty being removed, he felt that he could give himself up light-hearted to the idyl of perfect love which Laura had brought into his existence. And forthwith the idyl began, delicate, gentle, lovely as love's life can be where soul and heart are in harmony, heart to soul, while purity teaches innocence what it is to be man and wife. The harmony was real. Laura and her husband had much in common, intellectually and morally. Not, indeed, that she made any pretence to superior intelligence or extended culture. Even had she possessed very remarkable capabilities, the surroundings in which she had been brought up had not been of a nature to develop them beyond the average. But she was not especially gifted, except perhaps in having a good memory and a somewhat unusually sound judgment in most matters. Yet she was not without taste, and such as she had was not only both healthy and refined, but coincided to an extraordinary degree with Arden's own. Both liked the same authors, the same general kind of art, the same things in nature, and very generally the same people. Both were perhaps at that time somewhat morbidly inclined to a sort of semi-transcendentalism, Arden by nature and circumstances, and Laura by attraction. It must not be supposed that they went to any lengths in that direction. They did not speculate on spiritual marriage, nor did they agree with that famous philosopher who at the last was sure that the earth was turning into a bun and the sea into lemonade in order that man might eat, drink, and be happy without effort. They did not pursue improbable theories nor offer subtle perfumes before the altar of impossibility. But they felt a certain almost unnatural indifference to the concrete world, and lived in a world of ideas, thoughts, and affections which were quite their own. It was impossible to predict whether such an existence would last, or whether it would ultimately change into one more evidently stable, if also less removed from earth. For the present, at least, both were indescribably happy. The question how far it is possible for one of two loving beings to forget and grow unconscious of very great physical defect in the other is in itself interesting as showing how far, in a well-organised nature, the immaterial can get the better of grosser things. To explain what Laura felt would be to explain the deepest impulses of humanity, and those may attempt it who feel themselves equal to the task and are attracted by it. The fact, as such, is undeniable. On the whole, too, it may be said that there is no great reason why a very refined intelligence should not overlook material considerations as completely as in the majority of cases the more coarsely planned consciousness forgets the existence of intellectual and moral deformity. Such extreme refinement may not be durable. There is a refinement of nature, inborn, delicate, and sensitive, and there is a refinement which depends for its existence upon youth and innocence. Laura possessed all the latter, and something of the former as well. She would have been shocked and deeply wounded had she been told that she had married Herbert Arden out of pity, and yet pity had undeniably given the first impulse to her love. The circumstances, too, were favourable for its growth. Neither had felt much regret in leaving Rome. Apart from her affection for her mother, Laura had never found much that was congenial in the city in which she had been brought up as though it had been her birthplace. As for Arden himself, he was too much accustomed to travelling from place to place to prefer one city to another in any great degree. So the two were alone together and desired nothing beyond what they had, which, perhaps, is the ideal condition for lovers. To most people, however, the honeymoon is a terrible trial--probably because most young couples are not very desperately in love with each other. They wander aimlessly about in all directions, a sort of joint sacrifice, perpetually tortured and daily offered up on the altar of the diabolical courier, crushed beneath the ubiquitous Juggernaut hotel-keeper, bound continually in new and arid places to be torn by the vulture guide, and ultimately sent home more or less penniless, quite temperless, and perhaps permanently disgusted with one another and with married life. And yet the absurd farce is kept up, in ninety and nine cases out of a hundred, because custom sanctions it--as though the sanction of custom were necessary when two people wish to be harmlessly happy in their own way. But with the Ardens it was quite different. They were quite beyond the regions of the guide, the courier, and the hotel-keeper, and they loved each other so much that neither ever irritated the other, a condition of existence probably closely resembling that of the saints in paradise. Nothing could exceed Laura's watchfulness and care where Arden's health was concerned, and, fortunately for her, he was not one of those men who resent being constantly taken care of. Indeed, poor man, he needed all she gave him in that way, for the winter season with its unusual gaiety and the necessary exposure to a certain amount of night air in all weathers, had severely tried his constitution. But now the sea and the southern sun strengthened him, and sometimes there was even something like healthy colour in his face. Happiness, too, is said to be a good medicine, better perhaps than any in the world, and Arden had his share of it, and a most abundant share. Never, he said to himself, had a man been so blessed as he, nor at a time when he so little expected blessings, having made up his mind that all he could hope for had already been given him in this world. He almost forgot that he was a cripple, as he sat in his deep cane chair by Laura's side, looking from her to the dancing light on the water, and from the blue water to her dark eyes again. He seemed to go every day through a round of beauty, from one delicious vision to another, returning between each to that one of all others which he loved best, and knew to be all his own. And those same eyes of Laura's grew less sad than they had been in the beginning. The sunlight got into them, as into dark jewels, and made stars of light about their central depths. The soft wind blew on her clear white cheek and lent her natural, healthy pallor a warmth it had not before. Her very step grew more elastic, and the firm, well-shaped hands seemed more than ever strong. Almost beautiful before, there were moments when she was quite beautiful indeed, as innocent girlhood changed to pure womanhood in the sweet southern air. Laura read aloud a great deal in the intervals of conversation, and the days passed almost too quickly. The vessel was a large steam-yacht, of the modern type, comfortable in the extreme, and capable of accommodating a large party--for two persons it was almost palatial. Whatever the weather, cool or hot, rainy or dry, rough or fair, there was always a place where they could install themselves in the morning or the afternoon, and talk and read to their hearts' content. They had no fixed plan either in their wanderings, but went where their fancy took them, to Palermo, to Messina, to Syracuse. They sat together in the vast ruined theatre above magic Taormina, and gazed on the sunlit sea and Etna's snowy crest. They went to Malta, they drove, side by side, through the lovely gardens of Corfu. They ran in fair weather up to the lagoons of Venice, and wandered in a gondola through the wide canals and narrow water lanes of the most beautiful city in the world. Then down the long Adriatic again, past Zara and Xanthe, round Matapan to the Piræus--then, when they had had their fill of Athens, away by one long run to Sicily again, to Algiers next, and then to Barcelona and the Spanish coast, homeward bound at last, towards England. For the weather was growing warm now, and Laura noticed that she saw less often in Arden's face the colour she had watched with such pleasure during the first weeks. There was no cause for anxiety, she thought, but it was possible that he needed always an even temperature, neither cold nor hot, and it was time to reach England, before the July sun had scorched the southern land. And throughout all this quiet time the song of happiness was ever in their ears. The world they cared so little for, and which had taken the trouble to say such disagreeable things about them, was left infinitely far behind in their new life. From time to time letters reached Laura from Rome, and Arden had one from Ghisleri, containing little detailed news, but full of angry threats at a kind of general undefined enemy, which might be humanity taken all together, or might be some one particular person whom the writer had in his mind. Pietro generally wrote in that way. Rarely, indeed, did he mention people by name, and then only when he had something to say to their credit. It was a part of what Arden called his absurd reticence, and which, absurd or not, was certainly exaggerated. Possibly Ghisleri had, at some time in his youth, experienced the extremely unpleasant consequences of being indiscreet, and had promised himself not to succumb to that form of weakness again. At all events, he found that though Arden sometimes laughed at him, he never got into trouble through being discreet, and other people were not disposed to be merry at his expense. It was a long time since he had quarrelled with any one, and, having turned peaceable, the world promptly accused him of cynicism and indifference, an accusation which did not annoy him at all. Indeed, it was rather convenient than otherwise, that people should think of him as they did, since the result was that less was expected of him than of most people. Laura's mother wrote loving letters, full of simple household news, and of solicitude for her daughter and Arden, asking many questions as to their plans for the future, and continually expressing the hope that they would spend the coming winter in Rome. "What do you think of it?" Laura asked one day, as they sat together on deck in the sunshine. "That is one of those things which you must decide, dear," answered Arden. "Of course I suppose I ought to spend the winter in the south as usual. I do not believe I could stand England in December and January. There are lots of delightful southern places where we could stay a few months, besides Rome--but then, in Rome you will have your mother. That makes a great difference." "You are first now, love," said Laura. "You come before my mother--much as I love her." "Darling--how good you are!" He took her hand and kissed it softly. "Not half as good as I ought to be. But there are two things to be considered, dear. There is the climate, as you say, and then there is a social question we have never talked about--it seems so far away now. In the first place, does Rome really suit you? Are you always well there, as you were last winter?" "Oh, yes. I have always been perfectly well in Rome, and I like the place immensely, besides." "And you have your friend, Signor Ghisleri, too. That is another point. On the other hand, I do not think either of us would ever wish to stay a whole winter with my mother and step-father. We must live somewhere by ourselves, and we shall have to live very quietly." "The more quietly the better. Is that the social question, darling?" "No," answered Laura, "but it is connected with it. There is something I never spoke of. Did it ever strike you, when you first knew me, that somehow I was not so much liked as other girls in society? Do not think I ask the question out of any sort of vanity. I want to know what your impression was. Tell me quite frankly, will you?" "Of course I will. It did strike me--I never knew whether you were aware of it. I even tried to find out the reason of it, and to some extent I believe I did." "Did you?" asked Laura, with sudden interest. "I wish I knew--I have so often thought about it all." Arden laughed, leaning back in his chair and looking at her face. "It is the most absurd story I ever heard," he said. "I ought not even to say I heard it, for I guessed it from little things that happened. People think that your step-sister's husband, Savelli, is in love with you, and I suppose they imagine that you have something to do with it--encouraged him, and that sort of thing. I am quite sure that Donna Adele--am I to call her Adele now?--is jealous, for I have witnessed the manifestation with my own eyes. It is all too utterly ridiculous, but as you are quite English you were at a disadvantage, and were not as popular as you ought to have been." He laughed again, and this time Laura joined in his laughter. "Is that it?" she cried. "Poor Francesco! To think of any one suspecting that he could be in love with me, when he is so perfectly happy with his wife! And he is always so nice, and talks to me more than any one. Whenever I am stranded at a party, he comes and takes care of me." "That is probably the origin of the gossip," observed Arden, still smiling. "But I do not think we shall have any nonsense of that sort now. Do you think your mother understood it all?" "No--and I believe she was far less conscious that there was anything wrong, than I was. Poor Francesco! I cannot help laughing." Laura was sincerely amused by the tale, as she well might be, and as Pietro Ghisleri would have been, had he heard it. The story Arden had put together out of the evidence he had was, as a matter of fact, the very converse of the one actually circulated. "I do not see," said he, "why this bit of fantastic gossip need be taken into consideration, when we are talking of our winter in Rome. What difference can it possibly make?" "For you, dear--and a little for me, too. Neither of us would care to go back to a society where there was anything to make us disliked. As you say, there are plenty of other places, and as for my mother, she could come and see us, and stop a little while, and I am sure she would if we asked her." "Do you mean to say, Laura, that you seriously believe our position would not be everything it ought to be?" asked Arden, in some surprise. "Oh, no; it would be all right, of course. Only we might not be exactly the centre of the gay set." "Which neither of us care to be in the least." "Not in the least. We are our own set, you and I--are we not?" Laura thought of what Arden had told her for a long time afterwards, and tried to explain to herself by his theory all the infinitesimal details which had formerly shown her that she was not a universal favourite. But the story did not cover all the ground. Of one thing, however, she became almost certain--Adele was her enemy, for some reason or other, and was a person to beware of, should Laura and her husband return to Rome. It had taken her long to form this conviction, but being once formed it promised to be durable, as her convictions generally were. It was with sincere regret that the couple left the yacht at last. They had grown to look upon it almost as a permanent home, and to wish that it might be so altogether. Nevertheless Laura could not but see that Arden's health improved again as they reached a cooler climate and travelled northward towards his brother's home. The season was not yet over in London, but "Harry" did not like London much, and did not like the season there at all. What the Marchioness thought about it no one knows to this day, but she appeared to resign herself with a good grace to the life her husband chose to lead. The latter welcomed his brother and Laura in his own fashion, with an odd mixture of cordiality and stiffness, the latter only superficial, the former thoroughly genuine and heartfelt, as Arden explained to his wife without delay. Existence in an English country house was quite new to her, and but for the abominable weather for which that year remained famous, she would at first have enjoyed it very much. The rain, however, seemed inexhaustible. Day after day it poured, night after night the heavy mists rose from park, and woodland, and meadow, and moor. It seemed as though the sun would never shine again. Arden never grew weary of those long days spent with Laura, nor indeed was she ever tired of being with the man she loved. But being young and strong, she would gladly have breathed the bright air again, while he, on his part, lost appetite, caught cold continually, and grew daily paler and more languid. Little by little Laura became anxious about him and her care redoubled. He had never looked as he looked now, even when most worn and wearied out with the life of society he had led in Rome before his marriage. His face was growing thin, almost to emaciation, and his hands were transparent. Laura made up her mind that something must be done at once. It was clear that he longed for the south again, and it was probable that nothing else could restore him to comparative strength. "Let us go away, Herbert," she said one day. "You are not looking well, and I believe we shall never see the sun again unless we go to the south." "No," answered Arden, "I am not well. I shall be all right again as soon as we get to Rome." He seemed to take it for granted that Rome should be their destination, and on the whole Laura was glad of it. She would be glad to see her mother, too, after so many months of separation. So it was decided, and before long they were once more on their way. It was not an easy journey for either of them. Arden was now decidedly out of health, and needed much care at all times, while Laura herself was so nervous and anxious about him that she often felt her hand tremble violently when she smoothed his cushion in the railway carriage, or poured him out something to drink. She would not hear of being helped, when her husband's man, who had been with him since his boyhood, privately entreated her to take a nurse, and to give herself rest from time to time, especially during the journey. "We must not let his lordship know how ill he is, Donald," she answered gently. "You must be very careful about that, too, when you are alone with him. He will be quite well again in Rome," she added hopefully. Donald shook his head wisely, and refrained from further expostulation. He had discovered that his new mistress did not easily change her mind upon any subject, and never changed it at all when she thought she was right in regard to Lord Herbert's health. And in due time they reached the end of their journey, and took up their quarters in the old house known as the Tempietto, which stands just where the Via Gregoriana and the Via Sistina end together in the open square of the Trinità de' Monti--a quarter and a house dear to English people since the first invasion of foreigners, but by no means liked or considered especially healthy by the Romans. CHAPTER VI. Meanwhile, the lives of some of the other persons concerned in this history were less idyllic, and very probably more satisfactory to themselves. Having survived the season, and having borne the severe Lenten mortification implied in not capering nightly to the tune of two or three fiddles and a piano, the world arose after Easter like a giant refreshed with wine, and enjoyed a final fling before breaking up for the summer. Having danced with the windows shut, it now danced with the windows open, and found the change delightful, as indeed it is. Instead of sitting in corners together, the couples who had anything to say to one another now stood or sat in the deep embrasures, glancing up at the starlit sky to see whether the dawn were yet breaking. As for the rest, there was little change at all. The little Vicomte de Bompierre had transferred his attentions from the Marchesa di San Giacinto to Donna Maria Boccapaduli, and the Marchesa, who was in love with her husband, did not seem to care at all, but remained on the best of terms with Donna Maria, to the latter's infinite satisfaction. The Contessa dell' Armi attracted more attention because some one had started the report that dell' Armi himself was in a state of jealousy bordering upon delirium, that he had repeatedly struck her, and that he spent the few hours he could spare from this unwholesome exercise and from his parliamentary duties in tearing out his hair by the handful. The picture of dell' Armi evoked by these stories was striking, dramatic, and somewhat novel, so that every one was delighted. As a matter of fact, the Count did not care a straw for his wife, rarely saw her at all, and then only to discuss the weather. He had married her in order that her fortune might help him in his political career, he had got what he wanted, and he was supremely indifferent to the rest. The sad part of the matter was--if any one had known the truth--that poor Maddalena dell' Armi had been married out of a convent, and had then and there fallen madly in love with him, her own husband. He had resented her excessive affection, as it interfered with his occupations and amusements, and after an interval of five years, during which the unhappy young wife shed endless tears and suffered intensely, he had the satisfaction of seeing that she no longer loved him in the least, and rather avoided him than otherwise. In taking a fancy to Pietro Ghisleri he thought she had shown considerable discrimination, since every one knew that Ghisleri was a very discreet man. The amazing cynicism of his view altogether escaped him. He was occupied in politics. If he had observed it, he would have undoubtedly laughed as heartily as he did when a lady on the outskirts of society told him that he was supposed to be a jealous husband. But the rest of the world watched Maddalena and Pietro with great interest. They had quarrelled--or they had made it up--they had not danced together during one whole evening--they had danced a waltz and then a quadrille, the one after the other--Maddalena had been crying--by a coincidence, Ghisleri looked unusually strong and well--Pietro, again, was looking somewhat haggard and weary, and the Contessa met the world that evening with a stony stare. There was endless matter for speculation, and accordingly the world speculated without end, and, as usual, to no purpose. Ghisleri was absolutely reticent, and Maddalena was a very proud woman, who, in spite of her past sufferings, did her best not to let any one suspect that she and her husband were on bad terms. She was also unhappy in the present about a very different matter, concerning which she was not inclined to speak with any one. Donna Adele's last decided attempt to defame Lord Herbert Arden had, to a certain extent, been successful, but it had also produced another result of which Adele did not know, but which would have given her even greater satisfaction. It had almost caused a quarrel between Ghisleri and the Contessa. It will be remembered that the latter heard the story from Donna Maria Boccapaduli on the steps of a church in Holy Week. She was at the time more unhappy than usual. Something had touched the finer chords of her nature, and she felt a sort of horror of herself and of the life she was leading--very genuine in its way, and intensely painful. Donna Maria's story was revolting to her, for just then everything and everybody seemed to be false--even Ghisleri. She did not even stop, as she would have done at any other time, to weigh the value of the story, and to ask herself whether it were likely that he could thus deliberately betray his friend, and especially to Adele Savelli whom she believed he disliked. Even with her he was reticent, and she had never quite assured herself of his opinion concerning Adele, but she had watched him narrowly and had drawn her own conclusions. And now, if he had betrayed the man whom he called his friend, he must be capable of betraying the woman he loved. "Is it true that you have been talking to Donna Adele Savelli about your friend Arden?" she asked, when they met later on the same afternoon. "Quite true," answered Ghisleri, indifferently. "We were talking about him yesterday afternoon." "Do you mind telling me what you said?" asked the Contessa, her eyes hardening and her whole face growing scornful. "I have not the least objection," said Ghisleri, coldly. He at once gave her all the details of the conversation as far as he could remember them; his memory was accurate in such matters and he scarcely omitted a word. "Am I to believe you or her?" asked the Contessa when she had listened to the end. "As I am speaking the truth, it might be as well to believe me." "And how am I to know that you are speaking the truth, now or at any other time? You would not change colour, nor look at me less frankly, if you were telling me the greatest falsehood imaginable. Why should I believe you?" "I am sure I do not know," answered Ghisleri. "I would only like to be sure whether, as a general rule, you mean to believe me in future, or not. If you do not, I need not say anything, I suppose. Conversation would be singularly simplified." "You would not be so angry with me now, if your story were true," said the Contessa, with a forced laugh. "A man may reasonably be annoyed at being called a liar even by a lady," retorted Ghisleri. "And you do not take the least trouble to defend yourself--" "Not the least. Why should you believe my defence any more than my plain statement? You have rather a logical mind--you ought to see that." "Are you trying to quarrel with me? You will succeed if you go on in this way." "No. I am doing my best to answer your questions. I should be very sorry to quarrel with you. You know it. Or are you going to doubt that too?" "From the tone in which you say it, and from the way you act, I am inclined to." "You are in a very unbelieving humour to-day." "I have reason to be." "Am I the cause?" "Yes." The Contessa was not quite sure why she said it, but for the moment she felt that it was true, as perhaps it was in an indirect way. "Do you know that although you have asked me a great many questions which I have answered as well as I could, you have not told me what it is I am accused of saying?" "You are accused of saying," answered the Contessa, looking straight into his eyes, "that your friend Lord Herbert Arden is in the habit of taking too much wine. Is that so nice a thing to have said?" Ghisleri's face darkened, and the blood throbbed in his temples. "As I have told you precisely what I really said," he replied, "I shall say nothing more. Only this--if you have any sense of justice left, which I begin to doubt, you will ask San Giacinto whether he thinks it probable that I would say such a thing. That is all. I suppose you will believe him." "I do not think I believe any one. Besides, as you say, he can only testify to your character, and say that the thing is improbable. Of course he would do that. Men always defend each other against women." "He can tell you something more if he chooses," answered Ghisleri. "If he chooses!" The Contessa's scornful expression returned. "If he tells me nothing you will remind me of that word, and say that he did not choose. How you always arrange everything beforehand to leave yourself a way of escape." "I am sorry you should think so," said Ghisleri, gravely. "I am sorry that I have to think so. It does not increase my self-respect, nor my vanity in my judgment." They parted on very bad terms that day, and two or three days more passed before they saw each other again. The Contessa had almost made up her mind that she would not speak to San Giacinto at all, and Ghisleri began to think that she wished to break with him permanently. Far more sensitive than any one supposed, he had been deeply wounded by her words and tone, so deeply indeed that he scarcely wished to meet her for the present. The world did not fail to see the coldness that had come between them, and laughed heartily over it. The Contessa, said the world, thought that the way to keep Ghisleri was to be cold to him and encourage Pietrasanta, but she did not know dear Ghisleri, who did not care in the very least, who had not a particle of sensitiveness in him, and had never really loved any one but the beautiful Princess Corleone who died of fever in Naples five years ago, and of whom he never spoke. But as chance would have it, the Contessa found herself talking to San Giacinto one evening, when she was feeling very lonely and unhappy, and her half-formed resolution broke down as suddenly as it had presented itself. The giant looked at her keenly for a moment, bent his heavy black brows, and then told her the story of what had taken place at the club. He, who saw most things, and talked little of them, noted the gradual change in her face, and how the light came back to it while he was speaking. She understood that the man whom she had accused of betraying his friend had faced a roomful of men in his defence, and on the very ground now under discussion, and she repented of what she had done. Then she swore vengeance on Adele Savelli. The world saw that a reconciliation had taken place, and concluded that Maddalena dell' Armi had abandoned her foolish plan of trying to attract Ghisleri by being cold to him. Ghisleri, indeed! As though he cared! "But I have no particular wish to be revenged on Donna Adele," objected Ghisleri, when the Contessa spoke to him on the subject. "That sort of thing is a disease of the brain. There are people who cannot see things as they are. She is one of them." "How indifferent you are!" sighed Maddalena. "I wonder whether you were always so." "Not always," answered Pietro, thoughtfully. In due time the short Easter season was over, the foreigners departed, and many of the Romans followed their example, especially those whose country places were within easy reach of the city, by carriage or by rail. The Contessa went to pay her regular annual visit at her father's, near Florence,--her mother had long been dead,--and Ghisleri remained in Rome, unable to make up his mind what to do. Something seemed to bind him to the town this year, and though he went away for a day or two from time to time, he always came back very soon. Even his damaged old castle did not attract him as it usually did, though he had begun to restore it a little during the last few years, a little at a time, as his modest fortune allowed. There was an odd sort of foresight in his character. He laughed at the idea of being married, and yet he had a presentiment that he would some day change his mind and take a wife. In case that should ever happen, Torre de' Ghisleri would be at once a beautiful and an economical retreat for the summer months. Though he had a reputation for extravagance and for living always a little beyond his income, he was in reality increasing his property. He was constantly buying small bits of land in the neighbourhood of his castle, with a vague idea that he might ultimately get the old estate together again. He generally bought on mortgage, binding himself to pay at a certain date, and as he was a very honourable man in all financial transactions, he invariably paid, though sometimes at considerable sacrifice. He said to himself that unless he were bound he would inevitably throw away the little money he had to spare. It was a curiously practical trait in such an unruly and almost lawless character, but he did such things when he could, and then thought no more about them until a fresh opportunity presented itself. He was a man whose life and whole power of interest in life were almost constantly absorbed by the two or three persons to whom he was sincerely attached, a fact never realised by those who knew him--a passionate man at heart, and one who despised himself for many reasons--a man who would have wished to be a Launcelot in fidelity, a Galahad in cleanness of heart, an Arthur for justice and frankness, but who was indeed terribly far from resembling any of the three. A man liable to most human weaknesses, but having just enough of something better to make him hate weakness in himself and understand it in others without condemning it too harshly in them. He had the wish to overcome it in his own character and life, but when the victory looked too easy it did not tempt him, for his vanity was of the kind which is only satisfied with winning hard fights, and rarely roused except by the prospect of them, while quite indifferent to small success of any kind--either for good or evil. And this year, for some reason which he did not attempt to explain to himself, he lingered on in Rome, living a lonely life, avoiding the club where many of his acquaintances still congregated, taking his meals irregularly at garden restaurants, and spending most of his evenings in wandering about Rome by himself. The old places attracted him strongly. Many associations clung to the shady streets, the huge old palaces, and the dusky churches. Ten years of such a life as he had led had left many traces behind them, many sensitive spots in his complicated nature which inanimate things had power to touch keenly and thrill again with pain or pleasure. There was much that was sad, indeed, in these recollections, but there were also many memories dear and tender and almost free from the sting of self-reproach. He was not one to crave excitement for its own sake, nor to miss it when it was past. It often chanced, indeed, that he could find the few things that pleased him, the few people he liked, in the midst of the world's noisiest fair, but he would always have preferred to be alone with them, to meet with them when he was quite sure of being altogether himself and not the overwrought, nervous being which he came to be during the rush of the season, in spite of his undeniable physical strength. Those who need excitement most are either those who have never lived in it, or those unhappily morbid beings who cannot live without it, because by force of habit it has become the only atmosphere which their lungs can breathe and in which they can act more or less normally. Ghisleri followed the Ardens in imagination as they pursued their wedding trip. He rarely knew exactly where they were, but he was familiar with all the places they were visiting, and he liked to fancy them enjoying together all there was to be seen and done. Had he not himself still been young, he would almost have fancied that he felt a fatherly interest in their doings. Then he heard that they were in England, and at last, when he had made up his mind to go away for a month or two, he learned that Arden was in bad health. He was distressed by the news, and wished he could see his old friend, if only for a day, to judge for himself of his condition. But that was impossible at present. He was not always free to dispose of his time as he pleased, and as he had been during the past months. Moreover, the world was not quite just when it said that Ghisleri did not "care," as it expressed the state of mind it attributed to him. Between going to England, and going to Vallombrosa, near Florence, he did not hesitate a moment. So the autumn came round again, and when he returned to his lodging in Rome, he found that the Ardens were already installed in the Tempietto. The Savelli couple were still out of town at the family castle in the Sabines, but the Prince and Princess of Gerano had come back. Ghisleri found both Laura and Arden greatly changed. The latter's appearance shocked him especially, and he felt almost from the first that his friend was doomed. The man who was not supposed to care spent at least one sleepless night, turning over in his mind the various possibilities of life and death. On the following morning at twelve o'clock, he climbed the steps to the Trinità de' Monti, and asked to see Lady Herbert Arden alone, a request which was easily granted, as her husband now rarely rose until one, and then only for a few hours. Laura's eyes looked preternaturally large and deep--almost sunken, Ghisleri thought--and she had grown thin, and even paler than she usually was when in good health. He took the seat she pointed to, by the open fire, and stared into the flames absently for some seconds. It was a rather dreary morning early in November, and the air in the streets was raw and damp. At last he looked up. "You are anxious about your husband, Lady Herbert?" he said. Laura sighed, and opened her white hands to the warmth, as she sat on the other side of the fireplace. But she said nothing. She could not deny what he had told her, for she was in mortal anxiety by day and night. "It is very natural," said Ghisleri, trying to speak more cheerfully. "But I do not think there is any very serious reason for anticipating danger. I have known Arden many years, and I have often known him to be ill before now." Laura glanced nervously at Pietro, and looked away again almost instantly. There was a frightened look in her face as though she feared something unexpected. Perhaps she was afraid of believing too readily in Ghisleri's comforting view. "All the same," he continued, "there is no denying that he is in very bad health. Forgive me if I seem officious. I do not love him as you do, of course, but we have been more or less good friends these many years--since very long before you knew him." "More or less good friends!" repeated Laura, in a disappointed tone. "Herbert calls you his best friend." "I dare say he has many better than I am," answered Ghisleri, quietly. "But I have certainly never liked any man as much as I like him. That is why I come to you to-day. Do you not think that he should be taken care of, or, at least thoroughly examined by the best specialist to be found?" "I have thought of it," said Laura, after a short pause. "Of course the doctor comes regularly, but I do not think he is a really great authority. I am afraid that anything like a consultation might alarm Herbert. I see how determined he is to be cheerful, but I cannot help seeing also that he is despondent about himself." "There need be nothing like a consultation. Will you trust me in this matter?" Laura looked at him. She felt, on a sudden, the old, almost inexplicable, timid dislike of him with which she had long been familiar, and she hesitated before she answered. "Could I not manage it myself?" she asked abruptly. "It would seem more natural." Ghisleri's face grew slowly cold, and his eyes fixed themselves on the fire. "I thought I might be able to help you," he said. "Have you any particular reason for distrusting me as you do, Lady Herbert?" Laura's face contracted. She was not angry, but she was sorry that she had shown him what she thought, and it was hard to answer the question truthfully, for she was not really sure whether she had any excuse for doubting his frankness or not. In the present instance she assuredly had none. "I should certainly never distrust you where Herbert is concerned," she said, after a short pause. "It is only that it seems more natural, as I said, that I should be the one to speak to him and to arrange about the specialist's visit." "Very well. Forgive me, as I begged you to at first, if I have seemed officious. I will come and see your husband this afternoon." The consequence of this conversation was that Laura, being even more seriously alarmed than before, since she realised that Ghisleri himself was anxious, spoke to Arden about the necessity for seeing a better doctor, breaking it to him with all the loving gentleness she knew how to use with him, and Arden consented without much apparent reluctance to being examined by a man who had a great reputation. The latter took a long time before he gave an opinion, and ultimately declared to Laura that her husband was consumptive and would probably not live a year. Laura suffered in that moment as she would not have believed it possible to suffer, and it was long before she could compose herself enough to go to Arden. It was of course impossible to tell him all the doctor had said. She told him that his lungs were delicate, and that he must be very careful. "It seems to me I am always very careful," said Lord Herbert, patiently. She looked at him and saw for the hundredth time how ill he seemed. She tried to turn quickly and leave the room, but she could not. Suddenly the passionate tears broke out, and she fell on her knees beside his chair and clasped the poor little body in her arms. "Oh, Herbert, my love,--my love!" she sobbed. Then he felt that he was doomed. Had she loved him less, she could have kept the secret better. But he was brave still. "Hush, darling, hush!" he said, gently stroking her coal-black hair with his transparent hand. "You must not believe these foolish doctors. I have been just as ill before." But the mischief was done, and she felt that she had done it, and her remorse knew no bounds. In spite of his courage, Arden lost heart. The next time Ghisleri saw him he was much worse. Laura went out and left the two together. "Has anything worried you?" asked Ghisleri. "You look tired." Arden was silent for a long time, and his friend knew that he was carefully weighing his answer. "Yes," he said at last, "something has worried me very much. I can trust you not to speak--never to speak, even to my wife, of what I am going to say--especially if anything should happen," he added, as though with a painful afterthought. "I will never speak of it," replied Pietro, gravely. "I know you will not. We had a consultation the other day. Of course they were very careful not to tell me what they thought, but I could not help guessing it. You know how truthful my wife is--she could not deny it when I put the question directly. It is all up with me, my dear fellow, and I know it. I am consumptive. It will last a year at the most." "I do not believe a word of it!" exclaimed Ghisleri, with unusual heat. "You are not in the least like a consumptive man!" "The doctor is a good specialist," said Arden, quietly. "But that is not all. I have been so happy--I am so happy in many ways still--that I am weak enough to cling to my life, such as it is. But there is something else, Ghisleri. I knew I was ill, and I knew there was danger--but this is different. I had hoped to see my child, even if I were to die. I do not hope to see it now--you understand? Those things are always inherited." A deadly paleness came over Arden's face, and his clear brown eyes seemed unsteady for a moment. His face twitched nervously, and his hands were strained as they grasped the arms of his chair. Ghisleri looked very grave. "I repeat that I believe the doctor to be wholly mistaken. It would hardly be the first time that doctors have made such mistakes. Consumptive people do not behave as you do. They always feel that they are getting well, until the very last, and they have a regular cough, not to be mistaken, and they eat a great deal. You are quite different." "But he examined, me so carefully," objected Arden, though he could not help seeing a ray of hope. "I cannot help that. He was mistaken." That afternoon Ghisleri telegraphed to a great European celebrity whom he knew in Paris, to come if possible at once, no matter at what sacrifice of money. Forty-eight hours later the man of genius was breakfasting with Pietro in his rooms. "I will ask leave to bring you as a friend," said the latter. "I have begged you to come on my own responsibility." He wrote a note to Laura, explaining that an old acquaintance, a man of world-wide fame, was spending a couple of days with him, and begged permission to introduce him. He might amuse Arden, he said. He did not mention the doctor's profession. It was just possible that neither Arden nor Laura had ever heard of the man who was so great in a world not theirs. Laura asked them both to tea by way of answer. As it turned out, the Ardens had a very vague idea that the Frenchman was a man of science. In the course of conversation he admitted that he had studied medicine, and then went on to talk about the latest news from Paris, social, artistic, and literary. Arden was charmed with him, and Laura was really grateful to Ghisleri for helping to amuse her husband. Would they both come to luncheon the next day? They would, with pleasure, and they went away together. "Well?" asked Ghisleri, as they walked towards the Pincio in the early dusk, just to breathe the air. "I think he may live," answered the great man. "I believe it is a trouble of the heart with an almost exhausted vitality." Laura was left alone with her husband. Whether it was the doctor's personal influence, or whether Arden was really momentarily better, she could not tell, but he looked as he had not looked for two months. "That man delights me," he said dreamily. "I do not know what there is about him, and it is very foolish--but I fancy that if he were a doctor, he might cure me--or keep me alive longer," he added, with a sort of reluctant sadness. Laura looked at him in surprise. "He said he had studied medicine," she answered. "Shall I ask Signor Ghisleri, if, as a friend, he would come and give his opinion?" "It is too much to ask of a stranger." "Nothing is too much to ask," she said quietly. In her own room she wrote a note to Pietro. With many apologies, she explained to him that her husband was so delighted with Ghisleri's friend, that she believed it might make a difference if, as a doctor--since he was one--the latter would be willing to see him once and give his opinion. Pietro smiled when he read the note. On the following day the great man went again to the Tempietto, and with many protestations of incompetence did as he was requested, assuring Lady Herbert that it was only in deference to her wishes that he did so. "You are not consumptive--in the least, and you may even become strong," he said, after a very long and thorough examination. "That, at least," he added, "is my humble opinion." Arden's face brightened suddenly. But Laura and Ghisleri remained alone together for a moment afterwards, while the doctor was already putting on his coat. "After all," said Laura, despondently, "it was to please Herbert. The man says that his opinion is not worth very much." "He is the greatest living authority on the subject," answered Ghisleri. "You may safely take his opinion." Laura's face expressed her surprise, and at the same time, an unspeakable relief. "Are you sure?" she asked, in trembling tones. "Ask your doctor. He will tell you. Will you forgive me my little trick, Lady Herbert? As he was here, I thought you might like to see him." Ghisleri put out his hand to take his leave, and Laura pressed it warmly. "If I had ever had anything to forgive, I would forgive you--for your great kindness to me," she said, and the tears were almost in her eyes. "It is you who should forgive me for not trusting you when you first spoke. How wrong I was!" "Nonsense!" exclaimed Ghisleri. "It was very natural." And so it seemed to him, perhaps. But such little tricks, as he called what he had done, cost money, and that year Ghisleri did not buy the bit of land which stood next on the list in his scheme for reacquiring the old estate. CHAPTER VII. Arden's health improved, at first very rapidly, and then more slowly, as he seemed to approach what, for him, was a normal condition of strength. The month of December was fine, and he was able to drive out constantly, to be up most of the day, and to talk with acquaintances without any great fatigue. As a natural consequence, too, Laura regained in a very short time all that she had lost, and her eyes no longer looked sunken and haggard nor her face unnaturally pale. Her gratitude to Ghisleri was boundless, and as the days went on and Arden had no relapse, she began to wonder how she could ever have felt anything approaching to dislike for the man to whom she almost owed her husband's life. Pietro, on his part, came often to the house and saw the change that had taken place in her manner towards him. He was pleased, though he had not thought of producing any impression upon her by what he had done solely for Arden's sake, for he had long admired her, and felt that she was very like a certain ideal of woman of which he never talked. But his pleasure was not very genuine, after all. He hardly believed that Laura's mood would last, because he had hitherto had little experience of lasting moods in women. For the present, at least, she believed in him and was grateful. About this time Donna Adele, her husband, and his father and mother all came back from the country, and at or near the same period the great majority of the old society stagers appeared again as forerunners of the coming season. The gay set was not yet all assembled, and it was even reported that some of them would not come at all, for there was financial trouble in the air, and many people had lost money, or found their incomes diminished by the general depression. Nevertheless, when Christmas came, few of the familiar faces of the previous year were missing, and those few have not been seen in this history. "This is the beginning," said Gouache to Ghisleri. "You may remember that charming description of chaos in the sacred writings: 'in the beginning darkness was over all the earth'--very like Rome before the season begins. The resemblance ends there, my dear friend. The sentence which follows would hardly be applicable. Are we to have another Shrove Tuesday feast this year for the sake of giving sin a last chance? Have you another diabolical production ready?" "I am afraid not," answered Ghisleri. "Besides, one should never repeat a good thing." "That is what my wife says," observed Anastase, thoughtfully. "That dear woman! But for her, I should do nothing but repeat my successful pictures--if possible by a chemical process. It would be so easy! That is the way the modern galleries of old masters are formed. There is a little man in the Via da' Falegnami who turns out the article at a fixed price, including the cost of the green wood for smoking the Rembrandts, and the genuine old panels for doing the Botticellis. I often go to see him. He knows more about grinding colours, and about vehicles and varnishes, and the price of lamp-black than any artist I ever knew. He painted that portrait of Raphael by himself--by Raphael, I mean, for Prince Durakoff last year, and found the documents to prove its existence among his papers. It took him six months, but it was well done, especially the parchments. There was even the receipt for the money paid to Raphael for the picture by the Most Excellent House of Frangipani, signed by the painter himself--I mean by Raphael. Cheap, at ten thousand francs. Durakoff paid the dealer eighty thousand without bargaining. He did not reflect that if it had been genuine it would have been worth five hundred thousand, and, if not, that it was not worth fifty centimes." "Rather like a friend," observed Ghisleri. "Friendship is a matter of fortune," said Gouache, "as love is a question of climate." "You are not usually so cynical. What has happened?" "My wife has been amusing me, this morning, with an account of society's opinions on various subjects. One-half of her friends assure her that black is white, and the other half tell her it is a vivid yellow. That is called conversation. They give it you with tea, milk, and sugar, between five and seven in the afternoon." Gouache seemed to be in a somewhat communicative frame of mind. As a matter of fact he often was with Ghisleri, whom he trusted more than most men. "What was it all about?" inquired the latter. "People, people, and then people again. What does everybody talk about? Silly stories about Lady Herbert Arden and Savelli, and about Lord Herbert himself, and his dissipated life. The Ardens do not seem to be liked. He is a great friend of yours, is he not?" "Yes, we have known each other almost ten years." Ghisleri began to smoke, rather gloomily, for he perceived that there was trouble in store for Laura. "It is Donna Adele who does all the mischief," continued Gouache, putting a dash of bright blue into the face of the portrait he was painting, a proceeding which, as Ghisleri noticed with some surprise, improved the likeness. "It is Donna Adele. You know the old story. Savelli loved Miss Carlyon but could not marry her. Donna Adele never forgave her, and she will end by doing her a great deal of harm. She pretends that Savelli has told her that Lady Herbert is already talking to him and to everybody of her own wretched married life--rather hinting that if Savelli would care to depart this life of respectability she would go with him, a proposition which, of course, Savelli scorns in the most virtuous and approved fashion, rolling his fine paternal language as in the fourth act of a tragedy at the Comedie Française. I suppose you cannot stop this sort of thing, can you?" "I will try," said Ghisleri, in a tone that made Gouache look round from his painting. He had not often witnessed even such a slight manifestation of real anger on Pietro's part, as was apparent in the enunciation of the three words. "You might, perhaps, better than any one else," observed Gouache. "From other things she has said, it is quite apparent that she would like to see you at her feet." Ghisleri looked at Anastase rather sharply, but said nothing. It was not the fact that Donna Adele wished him to pay her more attention that struck him; he was wondering what the other remarks might have been, to which Gouache alluded. They might have been directed against the Contessa--or they might have been such as to show that Adele suspected Ghisleri of an attachment for Laura Arden since he now went so often to the house. As Gouache did not volunteer any further information, however, Ghisleri thought it wiser to ask no questions, and he was inclined to infer that the aforesaid observations had been directed against Maddalena dell' Armi. Ghisleri went away in a very bad humour. So long as the gossip came from the men, he had a very simple and definite course open to him, and he knew that his personal influence was considerable. But when the worst things said were said by women, there seemed to be no remedy possible. It would not be an easy matter to go to Adele and tax her with lying, slandering, and evil speaking. She would very properly be angry, and would of course deny that she had ever spoken on the matter, her friends would support her in her denial, and he would be no further advanced than before. He could not possibly go to Francesco Savelli and demand of the latter an explanation of Donna Adele's conduct. That was out of the question. To let Donna Adele know that both Laura and Arden were quite unconscious of her attacks and, in their present life of almost enforced retirement, were likely to remain in ignorance of them, might annoy Donna Adele, but could do no good. It would be positively unkind to speak to the Princess of Gerano and ask her to use her influence with her step-daughter, but Ghisleri thought he had struck a possibility at last--he could go to old Gerano himself and explain matters. After all, Gerano was Adele's father and had some authority over her still. Ghisleri came rather hastily to the conclusion that this would be the wisest course to follow, and acted almost immediately upon his decision, for it chanced that he found the Prince at the club, and had the opportunity he needed within half an hour after forming his plan of action. He approached the subject coolly and diplomatically, while Gerano blandly listened and puffed at a cigarette. Donna Adele, he said, had of course no intention of injuring her step-sister, but she was too young to know the weight a careless tale often carried with it in the world, and had no idea of the harm she was doing. No one, not even the Prince himself, was ignorant of the fact that Don Francesco Savelli's first inclination had been rather for Miss Carlyon than for Donna Adele, but that it had been a mere young man's fancy, without any importance, and that having yielded to parental authority, Don Francesco was now a perfectly happy man. Perhaps Donna Adele had not been able to forget this apparent slight upon her beauty and charm, as far as her step-sister was concerned, though well aware that her husband thought no more about Lady Herbert. It was natural and womanly in her to resent it. But that was not a good reason why she should say--as she seemed to be saying constantly--that Lady Herbert was very much in love with Don Francesco. Here Ghisleri paused, and the Prince opened his eyes very wide at first, and then almost shut them as he scrutinised his companion's face. He knew the man well, however, and guessed that the matter must be serious indeed, since he took the trouble to treat it in such earnest. "I suppose," said Gerano, "that you are quite prepared to support your words if any question arises. This is a strange tale." "Yes," answered Ghisleri. "I am always ready." He spoke with such gravity that the Prince was impressed. Pietro went on to say that Donna Adele, doubtless out of pure carelessness, had certainly, by a foolish jest, suggested the story that Lord Herbert was very intemperate, a story which Ghisleri had last year been obliged to deny in the most formal manner in the very room in which they were now talking, to a number of men. The tale had of late been revived in a form even more virulent than before, and such untruths, even when they have originated in a harmless bit of fun, could damage a man's reputation for life. "Of course they can, and they do," asserted the Prince, who was becoming rather anxious. "As, for instance," continued Ghisleri, "it is now said that Lady Herbert Arden, your step-daughter, now talks to Don Francesco and to everybody--which probably means the few persons who circulate the myth--about her wretched married life, and other suggestions which I will not repeat are added, which are very insulting to her. For my part, my business is to defend Arden, who is my friend, and who is unfortunately too ill to defend himself should all this come to his ears. I do not say that this last addition concerning Lady Herbert's confidences comes from Donna Adele Savelli. But it is undoubtedly current, and proceeds directly from the former gossip, as its natural consequence." "Evidently," said the Prince, who kept his temper admirably, in consideration of the gravity of the case. "And now what do you expect me to do?" "You are Donna Adele's father," answered Ghisleri. "She is assuredly ignorant of the harm she has caused. It would seem quite natural if you suggested to her that it is in her power to undo what she has unintentionally done." "How, may I ask? By an apology?" Gerano did not like the idea, but Ghisleri smiled. "That would make matters worse," he said. "She could put everything right merely by saying a few pleasant things about the Ardens to half a dozen people of her acquaintance--at random. Donna Maria Boccapaduli, the Marchesa di San Giacinto, the Contessa dell' Armi--even Donna Faustina Gouache. She might ask the Ardens to dinner--" "I observe that you do not name any men," observed the Prince. "It is not the men who have been talking, so far as I know--nor if they did, would their gossip do so much damage." "That may be. As for the rest, I will say this. You have said some exceedingly unpleasant things to me this afternoon, but I know you well enough to be sure that you are not only in earnest, but wish to avert trouble rather than cause it. Otherwise I should not have listened to you as I have. I am very deeply attached to my only child, though I am also very fond of my step-daughter. However, I will take this question in hand and find out the truth, and do what I can to mend matters. If I find you have been misinformed, I will ask the favour of another interview." "I shall always be at your service." They parted rather stiffly, but without any nearer approach to hostility than was implied in the last formal words they exchanged. Gerano walked slowly homeward, revolving the situation in his mind, and wondering how he should act in order to get at the truth in the case. Being very fond of his wife, his first impulse was to tell her the whole story, and to take counsel with her before doing anything definite. It would have been better had he gone directly to Donna Adele, though he might not have accomplished anything at all, and might have believed her, and might also have quarrelled with Ghisleri afterwards. But he did not foresee the consequences. The Princess was very much overcome by the account he gave her of his interview with Ghisleri, of whom she had a high opinion as a man of truthful character, bad as he seemed to be in other respects. She knew instinctively and at once that every one of his statements must have been perfectly well founded, and that if he had erred it had assuredly not been in the direction of exaggerating the facts. She was in much the same position as her husband, except that her own daughter was the victim, while his was the aggressor. It was strange that in so many years neither should have understood Adele's character well enough to suspect that she could be capable of any treachery, and yet both were now convinced that the case against her was not by any means a fiction. The Princess was now in the gravest distress, and she could not keep back her tears as she tried to find arguments in Adele's favour, wishing to the last to defend her husband's child, while never for a moment losing sight of her own. She was an eminently good woman, but very far from worldly-wise. Indeed, as events proceeded that day, there seemed to be a diminution of wisdom in the action of each in turn as compared with that of the last person concerned. Ghisleri had not really allowed himself time to consider the situation in all its bearings before speaking to Gerano, or he might not have spoken at all. Gerano, next, had scarcely hesitated in confiding the whole affair to his wife, and she, in despair, turned to the one person of all others with whom she was really most in sympathy, to Laura Arden herself, regardless of the consequences to every one concerned. Lord Herbert was resting before dinner, and she found her daughter alone. Her heart was almost bursting, and she poured out the story in all its details, accurately, as she had heard it, though hardly knowing what she said. At first Laura was tempted to laugh. She had been so much happier of late that laughing had grown easy, but she very soon saw the real meaning of the situation, and she grew pale as she silently listened to the end. Then her mother broke down again. "And I have loved her so!" cried the poor lady. "Almost as I have loved you, my child! To think of it all--oh, it is not to be believed!" Laura was not at that moment inclined to shed tears. It was almost the first time in her life when she was really angry, for her temper was not easily roused. It was not destined to be the last. Dry-eyed and pale, she sat beside the Princess, holding her hands, then drying her fast flowing tears, then caressing her, and saying all she could to soothe and calm her, while almost choking herself to keep down the rage she felt. Her eyes had been opened at last, and she saw what the story really was at which Arden had made such a poor guess. As the Princess grew more calm, she began to look at her daughter in surprise. "What is the matter, darling?" she asked anxiously. "Are you ill, dear, you look so changed!" "I am angry, mother," answered Laura, quietly enough. "I shall get over it soon, I dare say." Even her voice did not sound like her own. It was hollow and strange. Her mother was frightened. "I have done very wrong to tell you, Laura," she said, realising too late that the revelation must have been startling in the extreme. "I do not know," answered Lady Herbert, still speaking in the same peculiar tone, and with an effort. "Adele and I meet constantly. Of course we have been brought up like real sisters, and though we were never intensely fond of one another we talk about everything as if we were. I will be careful in future. This may not be all true, but there is truth in it, if you have remembered exactly what Signor Ghisleri said--or rather, if the Prince has." The Princess started slightly. Laura had always called Gerano father, as though she had really been his daughter, but the shock had been very sudden, and she found it hard to call by that name the man whose daughter was Adele Savelli. "I hope it will turn out to be all a mistake!" exclaimed the Princess, weakly, and on the point of bursting into tears again. "Until we are sure of it, I shall try and behave as usual to Adele, if we have to meet," said Laura. "After that, if it is all true--I do not know--" When the Princess went home, she was a little frightened at what she had done, and repented bitterly of having yielded to her own unreasoning longing to talk the matter over with Laura--natural enough indeed, when it is remembered that the two loved one another so dearly. It had been a mistake, she was sure, and she would have given anything to undo it. She only hoped that she should not be obliged to explain to her husband. Laura sat alone by the fireside. Herbert was lying down and would not appear until dinner time, so that she had almost an hour in which to think over the situation. She determined to master her anger and to look the matter in the face calmly. After all, it was only gossip, town-talk, insignificant chatter, which must all be forgotten in the light of the true facts. So she tried to persuade herself, at least, but she found it a very hard matter to believe her own statement of it all. The more she thought it over, the more despicable it all seemed in her eyes, the more savagely she hated Adele. She could have borne the story about herself better, if it had come alone, but she could neither forgive nor find an excuse for what had been said against her husband. To know that people openly called him intemperate--a drunkard, that would be the word! Him, of all living men! The assertion was so monstrous that all Laura's resolution to control herself gave way suddenly, and she, in her turn, burst into a flood of tears, hot, angry, almost agonising, impossible to check. She might have been proud to shed them, for they showed how much more she loved her husband than she cared for herself, but she was conscious only of the intense desire to face Adele, and do her some grievous bodily hurt and be revenged for the foul slander cast on Herbert Arden. She opened and shut her hands convulsively, as though she were clutching some one and strangling the breath in a living throat. Every drop of blood in her young body was fire, every tear that rolled down her pale cheek was molten lead, every beat of her angry pulse brought an angry thought to her brain. How long she remained in this state she did not know. She did not hear her husband's laboured, halting step on the soft carpet, and before she was aware of his presence he was standing before her, with a look of pain and almost of horror in his delicate face. That was the most terrible moment in his life. Highly sensitive as he was, loving her almost to distraction as he did, he had always found it hard to understand her love for him. To suspect that all of it was pity, or that a part of it had grown weak of late, was almost impossible to him, and yet the possibility of doubt was there. He had entered the room as usual, without any precaution, but she had not heard him; he had seen her apparently struggling with herself and with some unseen enemy, in a paroxysm of grief and rage. Instantly the doubt rose supreme and struck him, like a sudden blow in the face. "She has found out her mistake too late--she does not love me, and she longs to be free." That was what Herbert Arden said to himself as he stood before her, and the horror of it was almost greater than he could bear. Yet there was a great and manly courage in his narrow breast. He felt that he must die, but she should not suffer any more than was necessary until then. He drew the best breath he could, as though it were his last. She started, wild-eyed, as he spoke. "Laura darling--it has been a terrible mistake--and it is all my fault. Will you forgive me, dear one? I thought that you would love me--I see how it is when you are alone. No woman could have borne this bondage of yours as you have borne it since you have found out--" "Herbert! Herbert!" cried Laura, in sudden agony. She thought he was going mad before her eyes. "No, dear," he said, with an immense effort, and making a gesture with his hand as though to keep her in her place. "It is better to say it now, and it need never be said again. Perhaps I should not have the strength. I see it all. You are so kind and good that you will never show it to me--but when you are alone--then you let yourself go--is it any wonder? Are you to blame? You see that you have made the great mistake--that it was all pity and not love--and you long to be free from me as you should be, as you shall be, dear." A wild cry broke from Laura's very heart when she realised what he meant. "Love! Darling--Herbert! I never loved you as I love you now!" She did not know that she spoke articulate words as she sprang to her feet and clasped him in her arms, half mad with grief at the thought of what he must have suffered, and loving him as she said she did, far beyond the love of earlier days. But he hardly understood yet that it was really love, and he tried to look up into her face, almost fainting with the terrible strain he had borne so bravely, and still struggling to be calm. "Laura darling," he said, in a low voice, "it was all too natural. Unless you tell me what it was that made you act as I saw you just now, how can I understand?" She turned her deep eyes straight to his. "Do you doubt me still, Herbert?" she asked. And she saw that he could not help doubting. "But if I tell you that what I was thinking of would pain you very much, and that it would be of no use--" "It cannot be like the pain I feel now," he answered simply. She realised that what he said was true. Then she told him the whole story, as she knew it. And so, in a few hours, the conversation Ghisleri had held with Gouache began to bear fruit in a direction where neither of them had suspected it possible that their words could penetrate. Arden had allowed himself to sink into a chair at Laura's side, and he listened with half-closed eyes and folded hands while she spoke. Under ordinary circumstances he would probably have betrayed some emotion, and might have interrupted her with a question or two, but the terrible excitement of the last few minutes was followed by a reaction, and he felt himself growing colder and calmer every moment, while his heart, which had been beating furiously when he had first spoken to her, seemed now about to stand still. As she proceeded, however, he was aware of the most conflicting feelings of happiness and anger--the latter of the quiet and dangerous sort. He saw at once that he had been utterly mistaken in doubting Laura's love, and from that direction peace descended upon his heart; but when he heard what the world was saying of her, he felt that weak as he was, he had the sudden strength to dare and do anything to avenge the insult. He was human enough, too, to resent bitterly the story about himself, though that, after all, was but a secondary affair in comparison with the gossip about Laura. When she had finished, he rose slowly, and sat upon the arm of her easy-chair, drawing her head to his shoulder. He kissed her hair tenderly. "My beloved--can you forgive me?" he asked, in a very gentle voice. "My darling--that I should have doubted you!" "I am glad you did, dear--this once," she answered. "You see how it is. You are all the world to me--the mere thought that any one can hurt you by word or deed--oh, it drives me mad!" And she, who was usually so very calm and collected, again made that desperate gesture with her hands, as though she had them on a woman's throat and would strangle out the life of her in the grip of her firm fingers. "As for me, it matters little enough," said Arden, taking her hands and stroking them as though to soothe her anger. "Of course it is an absurd and disgusting story, and I suppose some people believe it. But what they say of you is a very different matter." "I do not think so," broke in Laura, indignantly. "Of course every one knows that we love each other, and that it is all a lie--but when such a tale is started about a man--that he drinks--oh, it is too utterly vile!" "Dear--shall we try and forget it? At least for this evening. Let us do our best. You have made me so happy in another way--I suffered in that moment very much." She looked up into his face as he sat on the arm of the chair, and she saw that he looked very ill. The scene had been almost too much for him, and she realised that when he spoke of forgetting it was because he could bear no more. "Yes, love," she said, "we will put it all away for this evening and be happy together as we always are." Each was conscious, no doubt, that the other was making a great effort, but neither of them referred to the matter again that night. They talked of all manner of subjects, rather nervously and resolutely at first, then naturally and easily as ever, when the deep sympathy which existed between them had asserted itself. During two hours, at least, they nearly forgot what had so violently moved them both. When Arden laid his head upon his pillow, his anger had not subsided, but he knew that his love had taken greater strength and depth than ever before. He spent a sleepless night indeed, but when he rose in the morning he did not feel tired. Something within him which was quite new seemed to sustain him and nourish him. He could not tell whether it was love for Laura, or anger against the woman who slandered her, or both acting at once, and he did not waste much time in speculating upon his mental condition. He had formed a resolution upon which he meant to act without delay. It was a rainy morning, chilly and raw again, as the weather had been earlier in the year. "Give me warm clothes, Donald," he said to his man. "I am going out." "Going out, my lord! In this weather!" Donald's face expressed the greatest anxiety. "Never mind the weather," said Arden. "Give me warm clothes, and send for a closed carriage." Donald obeyed, shaking his head, and muttering in detached expressions of disapproval. He was a privileged person. CHAPTER VIII. Arden, for the first time in his life, paid no attention to Laura's remonstrances when she tried to prevent him from going out in the rain, and he would not hear of her accompanying him on any condition. He assured her that with his fur coat, and in a closed carriage with a foot-warmer, he was as safe as at home in the drawing-room, and he gave her to understand that he had a small surprise in store for her, of which all the effect would be spoiled if she went with him. Very reluctantly she let him go. Even after he was gone, when she heard the brougham rattling down the Via Gregoriana, she was tempted to open the window and call the driver back. Then she reflected that she was probably foolish in being so anxious, since he now seemed almost as well as ever. When he left the house, Arden drove to a certain studio, and then and there bought a small picture which Laura had admired very much, and had been two or three times to see. To the artist's surprise, he insisted upon carrying it away with him at once, just as it was. Then he told the coachman to drive to the Palazzo Savelli. He sent up his card and asked to see Don Francesco, and at once received an answer, begging him to go up stairs. Francesco was very much surprised by the visit, and could not conceive what had brought Lord Herbert Arden to him at eleven o'clock in the morning. He awaited him in a vast and gloomy drawing-room in which there was no fire. The walls were hung with old portraits of the Savelli in armour, the carpet was of a sombre hue, and the furniture consisted of three superb marble tables with carved and gilt feet, and sixteen chairs of the style of Louis the Fourteenth's reign, all precisely alike, and standing side by side against the walls. Francesco Savelli stood facing the door, his yellow hair, blue eyes, and fresh complexion contrasting strongly with the dark background. He was a fine-looking fellow, with a mild face, a quiet manner, and a good deal of old-fashioned formality, which latter, however, seemed to wear off every evening in society, coming back as soon as he returned to the dim and shadowy halls of his home. The connexion between him and Arden was in reality so distant, that they had never assumed even the outward forms of intimacy, though their wives called each other sister. Savelli disliked Lord Herbert because he was a cripple, and chiefly because he had married Laura Carlyon. Arden, on his side, was more or less indifferent to Francesco, but treated him always with a shade more warmth than an ordinary acquaintance, as being, in a sense, a member of his wife's family. Savelli came forward as Arden entered. The servant allowed the heavy curtain to drop, closed the door, and went out, and the two men were left alone. "Good morning, my dear Arden," said Savelli, taking his hand. "I hope you are quite well. Pray be seated." "Good morning. Thanks." Both spoke in French. They sat down, side by side, on the stiff, high-backed gilt chairs, and each looked at the other. "I have something especial to say to you," began Arden, in his calm and even voice--a man quicker-witted than Savelli would have noticed the look of determination about the smooth-shaven lips and the prominent chin--the look of a man who will not be trifled with, and will say what he means in spite of all difficulties and all opposition. "I am entirely at your service," answered Don Francesco, politely. "Thanks. I have thought it best to come to you directly, because my business concerns your wife and mine, and it is better that we should settle such matters between us without the intervention of others." Savelli opened his eyes in surprise, but said nothing, only making a slight inclination of the head in answer. Arden continued in the cool and collected manner with which he had begun. "A number of outrageous lies," he said slowly, "are in circulation concerning my wife, and some of them concern myself. May I inquire whether you have heard them?" "It would facilitate matters, if you would tell me something of their nature," observed Savelli, more and more astonished. "There is no difficulty about that. I can even repeat them to you, word for word, or nearly so. It is said, in the first place, that my wife is very much in love with you--" "With me?" cried Savelli, startled out of his formality for once. "Yes--with you--and that she has loved you long. Secondly, it is said that I am a confirmed drunkard, and that my wife leads a most unhappy existence with me in consequence. It is further stated that she makes no secret of this supposed fact, but complains loudly to her friends, and especially selects you for her confidence in the matter." "That is totally untrue," said Don Francesco, gravely. "She has never spoken of you to me except in terms of the highest praise." "I am aware that it is not true, but I am much obliged to you for your very plain statement. I will go on. It is asserted that my wife has given you to understand that she loves you, and that, if you would consent, she would be ready to leave me and Rome in your company. These things, it appears, are current gossip, and are confidently stated as positive truths." "I have not heard any of them, except some vague reports about yourself, to the effect that you once took too much wine at the Gerano's house. But Ghisleri made a scene about it at the club, and I have heard no more of the absurd story." "I did not know that Ghisleri had actively taken my part," answered Arden. "But the story has now reached the form in which I repeated it. For myself, I care very little. It is on account of its connexion with the tales about my wife that I have told it to you." "May I ask who your informant is?" "My wife." "And hers?" "A reliable and truthful person, whom I shall not name at present. The affair concerns you and me. I have not come to the most important point, which will explain why I came to you." "I supposed that you came, as to a connexion of the family, to ask advice or assistance." "No. That is not it. I do not need either, thank you. I come to you because all these stories are distinctly traceable to Donna Adele Savelli." Francesco started violently, and almost rose from his seat, his face flushing suddenly. "Lord Herbert--take care!" he cried in a loud and angry voice, and with a passionate gesture. "Be calm," said Arden, in an unnaturally quiet tone. "If you strike me, you will be disgraced for life, because I am a cripple. But I assure you that I am not in the least afraid of you." "You are wrong!" exclaimed Savelli, still furious, and turning upon him savagely. "Not at all," returned the Englishman, unmoved. "I came here to settle this business, and I have not the smallest intention of going away until I have said all I meant to say. After that, if you are inclined to demand satisfaction of me, as is the custom here, you can do so. I will consider the matter. I shall probably not exchange shots with you, because I believe that duelling is wrong. But let me say that I do not in the least mean to insult you, nor, as I think, have I been lacking in civility to-day. I have given you a number of facts which I have every reason for believing to be true. You will in all likelihood have no difficulty in finding out whether they are true or not. If we, jointly, are convinced that the statements are false, I shall be happy to offer you my best apologies; if not, and if you are convinced that Donna Adele has been slandering my wife, I shall expect you to act upon your conviction, as a man of honour should, and take measures to have these reports instantly and fully denied everywhere by Donna Adele herself. I think I have stated the case plainly, and what I have said ought not to offend you, in my opinion." "It is certainly impossible to be more plain," answered Savelli, regaining something of his outward calm. "As to what may or may not give offence, opinions may differ in England and in Italy." "They probably do," returned Arden, coolly. "It is not my intention to offend you." Francesco Savelli looked at the shrunken figure and the thin hands with an odd sensation of repulsion and respect. He had been very far from supposing that Herbert Arden possessed such undeniable courage and imperturbable coolness, and not being by any means a coward himself, he could not help admiring bravery in others. He was none the less angry, however, though he made a great effort to keep his temper. He did not love his wife, but he had all the Roman traditions concerning the sacredness of the family honour, which he now felt was really at stake, and he had all a Roman's dread of a public scandal. "I must beg you once more to tell me by whom these stories were told to Lady Herbert," he said, after a pause. "I cannot do so, without consulting that person," answered Arden. "I do not wish to drag other people into the affair. You will be able to find out for yourself, and probably through members of your own family, how much truth there is in it all." "You positively refuse to tell me?" "I have said so. If you wish to be confronted with the person in question, I will consult that person, as I said before." "And if I then, on my side, positively refuse to do anything without having previously spoken to that person--to him or to her--what then?" "In my opinion, you will be allowing a state of things to continue which will not ultimately reflect credit upon you or yours. Moreover, you will oblige me to take some still more active measures." "What measures?" "I do not know. I will think about it. And now I will wish you good morning." He got upon his feet, and stood before Savelli. "Good morning," said the latter, very stiffly. "Allow me to accompany you to the hall." "Thanks," said Arden, as he began to move towards the door in his ungainly, dislocated fashion, while Savelli walked slowly beside him, towering above him by a third of his own height. Arden shivered as he slipped on his fur coat in the hall, for it had been very cold in the drawing-room though he had scarcely noticed the fact in his preoccupied state of mind. While driving homeward, he looked at the little picture as it stood opposite to him on the seat of the carriage. It was one of those exquisite views of the Campagna, looking across the Tiber, which Sartorio does so wonderfully in pastel. "She will be glad to have it," said Arden to himself, "and she will understand why I went out alone." He was tolerably well satisfied with the morning's work. It had seemed to him that there was nothing else to be done under the circumstances, and he certainly did not choose the least wise course, in going directly to Savelli. He did not regret a word of what he had said, nor did he feel that he had said too little. As he anticipated, Laura suspected nothing, and was delighted with the picture. She scolded him a little for having insisted upon going out on such a morning, especially for her sake, but as the clouds just then were breaking and the sunshine was streaming into the room, she felt as though it could not have been a great risk after all. Before they had finished luncheon, a note was brought in. Laura laughed oddly as she read it. "It is an invitation to dinner from Adele," she said. "It is for the day after to-morrow, shall we accept?" Arden's face grew thoughtful. He could not be sure whether the invitation had been sent before his interview with Savelli, or since. It was therefore not easy to decide upon the wisest course. "Better to accept it, is it not?" asked Laura. "It is of no use to make an open breach." "No. It is of no use. Accept, dear. It is more sensible." Neither of them liked the thought of dining at the Palazzo Savelli just then, and Laura, at least, knew that she would find it hard to behave as though nothing had happened. Both would have been very much surprised, could they have known why they were asked, and that the idea had originated with Pietro Ghisleri. On the previous evening, Gerano had taken pains to see his daughter alone at her own house, on pretence of talking to her about business. With considerable skill he had led the conversation up to the required point, and had laid a trap for her. "Do you see much of the Ardens just now?" he asked. "No. We do not meet often," answered Adele, with a little movement of the shoulders. "I wish you did. I wish you saw them every day," observed the Prince, more gravely. "Do you, papa? Why?" "You might find out something that I wish very much to know. It would not be hard at all. We are rather anxious about it." "What is the matter?" asked Adele, with sudden interest. "That is it. There is a disagreeable story afloat. More than one, in fact. It has reached my ears on good authority that Arden drinks far too much. You know what a brave girl Laura is. She hides it as well as she can, but she is terribly unhappy. Have you any idea whether there is any truth in all this?" Adele hesitated a moment, and looked earnestly into her teacup, as though seeking advice. The moment was important. Her father had brought her own story back to her for confirmation, as it were. It might be dangerous to take the other side now. Suddenly she looked up with a well-feigned little smile of embarrassment. "I would rather not say what I think, papa," she said, with the evident intention of not denying the tale. "But, my dear," protested her father, "you must see how anxious we are on Laura's account. Really, my child, have a little confidence in me--tell me what you know." "If you insist--well, I suppose I must. I am afraid there is no doubt about it. Laura's husband is very intemperate." "Ah me! I feared so, from what I had heard," said the Prince, looking down, and shaking his head very sadly. "You see, the people first began to talk about it last year, when he was in such a disgraceful condition in your house, and Pietro Ghisleri had to take him home." "Yes, yes!" Gerano still shook his head sorrowfully. "I ought to have known, but they told me it was a fainting fit. And the worst of it is, my dear Adele, that there are other stories, and worse ones, too, about Laura. I hear that she is seriously in love with Francesco. Poor thing! it is no wonder--she is so unhappy at home, and Francesco is such a fine fellow, and always so kind to her everywhere." "No, it is no wonder," assented Adele, who felt that she was launched, and must go to the end, though she had no time to consider the consequences. "I suppose there is really some evidence about Arden's habits," resumed the Prince. "Of course he will deny it all, and I would like to have something to fall back upon--to convince myself more thoroughly, you understand." Adele paused a moment. "Arden has a Scotch servant," she said presently. "It appears that he is very intimate with our butler, who has often seen him going into the Tempietto with bottles of brandy hidden in an overcoat he carries on his arm." "Dear me! How shocking!" exclaimed the Prince. "So old Giuseppe has actually seen that!" "Often," replied Adele, with conviction. "But then, after all--so many men drink. If it were not for Laura--poor Laura!" "Poor Laura,--yes, as I said, it is no wonder if she has fallen in love with Francesco--such a handsome fellow, too! She has shown good taste, at least." The Prince laughed gently. "At all events, you are not jealous, Adele; I can see that." "I?" exclaimed Adele, with indignant scorn. "No, indeed!" Gerano began to feel his pockets, as though searching for something he could not find. Then he rang the bell at his elbow. "I have forgotten my cigarettes, my dear, I must have left them in my coat," he said. The old butler answered his summons in person, for Gerano knew the usage of the house and had pressed the button three times, unnoticed by Adele, which meant that Giuseppe was wanted. "I have left my cigarettes in my coat, Giuseppe," said the Prince. Then as the man turned to go, he called him back. "Giuseppe!" "Excellency!" "I want you to do a little commission for me. I have a little surprise for Donna Laura, and I do not want her to know where it comes from. It must be placed on her table, do you see? Now Donna Adele tells me that you are very intimate with Lord Herbert's Scotch servant--" "I, Excellency?" Giuseppe was very much astonished. "Yes--the man with sandy grey hair, and a big nose, and a red face--a most excellent servant, who has been with Lord Herbert since he was a child. Donna Adele says you know him very well--" "Her Excellency must be mistaken. It must have been some other servant who told her. I never saw the man." "You said Giuseppe, did you not?" asked the Prince very blandly, and turning to Adele. She bit her lip in silence. "Never mind," he continued. "It is a misunderstanding, and I will manage the surprise in quite another way. My cigarettes, Giuseppe." The man went out, and Adele and the Prince sat without exchanging a word, until he returned with the case, Gerano all the time looking very gentle. When the servant was gone a second time, the Prince's expression changed suddenly, and he spoke in a stern voice. "Now that you have sufficiently disgraced yourself, my daughter, you will begin to make reparation at once," he said. Adele started as though she had been struck, and stared at him. "I am in earnest," he added. "What do you mean, papa?" she asked, frightened by his manner. "Disgraced myself? You must be mad!" "You know perfectly well what I mean," answered her father. "I have been playing a little comedy with you, and I have found out the truth. You know as well as I that everything you have repeated to me this evening is absolutely untrue, and there is some reason to believe that you have invented these tales and set them going in the world out of jealousy, and for no other reason, with deliberate intention to do harm. Even if it were not you who began, it would still be disgraceful enough on your part to say such things even to me, and you have said them to others. That last vile little invention about the bottles was produced on the spur of the moment--I saw you hesitate. You are responsible for all this, and no one else. I will go into the world more in future than I have done hitherto, and will watch you. You are to make full reparation for what you have done. I insist upon it." "And if I deny that I originated this gossip, and refuse to obey you, what will you do?" asked Adele, defiantly. "You are aware that under the present laws I can dispose of half my property as I please," observed the Prince. "Laura has nothing--" He stopped significantly. Adele turned pale. She was terrified, not so much at the thought of losing the millions in question, but at the idea of the consequence to herself in her father-in-law's house. Casa Savelli counted upon the whole fortune as confidently as though it were already theirs. She knew very well how she should be treated during the rest of her life, if one-half of the great property were lost to her husband's family through her fault. "You are forcing me to acknowledge myself guilty of what I never did," she said, still trying to make a stand. "What do you wish me to do?" "You will everywhere say nice things about Laura and her husband. You will say that you are now positively sure that Arden does not drink. You will say that there is no truth whatever in the report that Laura is in love with Francesco, and that you are absolutely certain that the Ardens are very happy together. Those are the principal points, I believe. You will also at once ask them to dinner, and you will repeat your invitation often, and behave to both in a proper way." Adele laughed scornfully, though her mirth had something of affectation in it. "Say pretty things, and invite them to dinner!" she exclaimed. "That is not very hard. I have not the slightest objection to doing that, because I should do it in any case, even if you had not made me this absurd scene." "In future, my child, before you call anything I do or say absurd, I recommend you to think of the law regarding wills, to which I called your attention." Adele was silent, for she saw that she was completely in her father's power. Being really guilty of the social misdeeds with which she was charged, she was not now surprised by his manner. What really amazed her was the display of diplomatic talent he had made, while entrapping her into what amounted to a confession. She had never supposed him capable of anything of the kind. But he was a quiet man, much more occupied in dealing with humanity in the management of his property than most people realised. No genius--certainly,--for if he had been, he would not have told the whole story to his wife, as he had done on the previous evening, but possessing the talent to choose the wise course at least as often as not, which is more than can be said for most people. There was something of the old-fashioned father about him, too, and he showed it in the little speech he made before leaving Adele that evening. "And now, my dear daughter," he said, rising and standing before her as he spoke, "I have one word more to say before I go. You are my only child, and, in spite of all that has happened, I love you very much. I do not believe that you have ever done anything of the kind until now, and I do not think you will fall into the same fault in the future. If you do all that I have told you to do, I shall never refer to the matter after this, and we will try and forget it. But you have learned a lesson which you will remember all your life. Jealousy is a great sin, and slander is not only vile and degrading, but is also the greatest mistake possible from a worldly point of view. Remember that. If you wish to be successful in society, never speak an unkind word about any one. And now good night, my dear. Do what I have bidden you, and let us think no more about it." Having concluded his sermon, Gerano kissed Adele on the forehead, as he was accustomed to do. She bent her head in silence, for she was so angry that she could not trust herself to speak, and he left her at the door and went home. All things considered, she knew that she had reason to be grateful for his forbearance. She was quite sure that her father-in-law would have behaved differently, and the stories she had heard of old Prince Saracinesca's temper showed clearly that the race of violent fathers was by no means yet extinct. She was not even called upon to make a formal apology to Laura in her father's presence, which was what she had at first expected and feared. Nothing, in fact, was required of her except to avoid gossip and treat the Ardens with a decent show of sisterly affection. She could scarcely have got better terms of peace, had she dictated them herself. But she was far too angry to look at the affair in this light and far too deeply humiliated to forgive her father or the Ardens. If anything were necessary to complete her shame, it was the knowledge that she was utterly unable to cope with Gerano, who could disinherit her and her children of an enormous sum by a stroke of the pen, if he pleased; and he would please, if she did not obey him to the letter. With a trembling hand she wrote the invitation required of her and gave it to be taken in the morning. Then she sat down and tried to read, taking up a great French review and opening it hap-hazard. The article chanced to be one on a medical subject, written by a very eminent practitioner, but not at all likely to interest Adele Savelli. But she felt the necessity of composing herself before meeting her husband when he should come home from the club, and she followed the lines with a sort of resolute determination which belonged to her character at certain moments. It was very hard to understand a word of what she was reading, but she at last became absorbed in the effort, and ultimately reached the end of the paper. In the meantime, Francesco Savelli had spent his day in deliberately thinking over the situation, and he had determined, very wisely, that it would be a great mistake to speak to his wife on the subject. He went over in his mind all the men of his acquaintance whom he might consult with safety and with some prospect of obtaining a truthful answer to his question, and he saw that they were by no means many. Wisdom and frankness are rare enough separately, but rarer still in combination in the same person, though a few are aware that the truest wisdom is the most consistent frankness. Most of those of whom Savelli thought were men considerably older than himself, and not men with whom he had any great intimacy. The Prince of Sant' Ilario and his cousin, the Marchese di San Giacinto, Spicca, the melancholy and sarcastic, and perhaps Pietro Ghisleri--there were not many more, and the last named, who was the nearest to him in point of age, was not, as Savelli thought, very friendly to him. On the whole, he determined to wait and bide his time, watching Adele carefully, and collecting such evidence as he could while studiously keeping his own counsel. He saw very little of his wife on that day, and when he next spoke to her about the Ardens, her manner was so cordial and apparently sincere, that he at once formed an opinion in her favour, as indeed he desired to do, though it was more for the sake of his family as a whole, than for her own. "I have asked them to dinner," she said, "because we never see anything of them, any more than if they were not in Rome. Shall we have my father and the Princess, too? It will make a family party." "By all means," answered Savelli, who did not enjoy the prospect of having the Ardens as the only guests, after what had recently passed between himself and Lord Herbert. "By all means--a family party--a sort of rejoicing over Arden's recovery." "Dear Arden!" exclaimed Adele. "I like him now. I used to have the greatest antipathy for him because he is a cripple, poor fellow! I suppose that is natural, but I have quite got over it." "I am very glad," observed Francesco. "You and Laura were brought up like sisters--there ought never to be any coldness between you." "Oh, as for Laura, there never has been the least difference since we were children. We are sisters still, just as we used to be when you first came to the house. Do you remember, Francesco--four years ago? I used to think you liked Laura better than me. Indeed I did! It was so foolish, and now you are always so good to me that I see how silly I was. It never was true, carissimo, was it?" "No, indeed!" answered Savelli, with an awkward laugh, and turning away his face to hide the colour that rose in his cheeks. "Of course not. And as for Laura, she is so much in love with her husband that I believe she was dreaming of him even then, before she had ever seen him, and long before she was old enough to think of marrying any one. How she loves him! Is it not wonderful?" Francesco glanced at his wife, and he believed that he was not mistaken in her. There was a look of genuine admiration almost amounting to enthusiasm in her face. He suppressed a slight sigh, for he still loved Laura in his helpless and hopeless way. "Yes," he said, "it is wonderful, all things considered." "But then," concluded Adele, "with Arden's beautiful character--well, I am not surprised." CHAPTER IX. Adele Savelli was a very good actress, and she deceived her husband without much trouble, making him believe that she had never felt ill-disposed towards Laura, and that the repulsion she had felt for Arden had depended upon his deformity, to which she had now grown accustomed, as was quite natural. She had aways been careful not to speak out her mind upon the subject to Francesco, and had been more than cautious in other respects. She was far too clever a woman to let him hear the gossip she had originated except through outsiders, in the way of general conversation, and now she found it easy to change her tactics completely without doing anything to rouse his suspicion. She seemed very much preoccupied, however, in spite of her efforts to seem cheerful and agreeable during the two days which preceded the dinner party her father had obliged her to give. There were domestic details, too, which gave her trouble, and she had more than enough to occupy her. Her maid had been very ill, too, and was barely beginning to recover. Every woman of the world knows what it means to be suddenly deprived of a thoroughly good maid's services just at the opening of the season. That was one more annoyance among the many she encountered, and, in her opinion, not the smallest. There was, of course, no open humiliation in what she was now forced to do, but she felt the shame of defeat very keenly whenever she thought of her interview with her father. It was not surprising that her hatred of the Ardens should suddenly take greater proportions under circumstances so favourable to its growth. And she hated them both with all her heart, while preparing herself to receive them with open arms and protestations of affection. But she did everything in her power to make the meeting effective. She even went so far as to buy pretty little gifts for the Prince and Princess of Gerano, and for Laura and Arden, which she took the trouble to conceal with her own hands in the folds of each one's napkin just before dinner; pretty little chiselled silver sweetmeat boxes for the two ladies, and tiny matchboxes for the men. Both the elder Savelli being away at the time, she arranged everything according to her own taste, which was excellent, thus taking advantage of her position as temporary mistress of the house. There were flowers scattered on the table, a form of decoration of which the old butler disapproved, shaking his head mournfully as he carried out Adele's directions. She did not over-act her part when the evening came, for she knew how to be very charming when she pleased, and she meant on the present occasion to produce a very strong impression upon every one present at dinner. She succeeded well. The Ardens themselves were surprised at the pleasant feeling which seemed to pervade everything. Gerano looked at his daughter approvingly, repeatedly smiled, nodded to her, and at last drank her health. Don Francesco was delighted, for he saw in his wife's manner the strongest refutation of all that Arden had told him two days earlier. Moreover, he had Laura Arden on his left and was at liberty to talk to her as much as he pleased, which was in itself a great satisfaction, especially as she herself was more than usually cordial, being determined not to betray herself. Francesco looked across the table at Arden more than once, with a significant glance, and inwardly congratulated himself upon having said nothing to his wife about the difficulty. Arden looked ill. He had caught cold during that interview with Savelli in the icy drawing-room, and even an ordinary cold told quickly upon his appearance in his weak state of health. But he did all in his power to seem cheerful and talked more than usually well, so that his wife alone knew that he was making an effort. So the dinner passed off admirably--so well, indeed, that when all were going home, Laura and her mother looked at one another as though they could hardly believe what they had seen and heard. The Princess of Gerano began to doubt the truth of the accusations against Adele, and even Laura fancied that they must have been very much exaggerated. The Prince, himself, the only one of the party who had heard the slander from Adele's own lips, sentence by sentence, and almost word for word as Ghisleri had repeated it to him, wisely held his peace, while by no means so wisely believing that his daughter had repented and was carrying out his instructions in all sincerity. He kissed her affectionately on the forehead when he went away, and she felt that she had won a victory. "You look a little pale, my child," he said. "I have noticed it all the evening. Be very careful of your health, my dear." "Yes, papa--but I am quite well, thank you," answered Adele. Yet she did not look well. There was an odd, half-frightened look in her eyes when they were all gone and she was left alone with her husband. But he did not notice it, and made it easy for her, bestowing infinite praise upon her tact and talent as a hostess. Though she did not hear all he said, she was vaguely pleased, that, after spending the whole evening at Laura's side, he should stay at home instead of going to the club, and find so many pleasant things to say. In spite of her success, however, she spent a restless night. Laura looked anxiously at Arden's face when they got home. He looked worse, and coughed two or three times in a way she did not like. "You are very tired, dear," she said. "You had better not get up to-morrow. The rest will do you good." "I think you are right," he answered. "I need rest." The next morning his cold was worse, and he did not rise. He seemed restless and nervous, too, perhaps from the fatigue of the previous evening. The doctor came and said there was no danger, as the cold was not on the lungs, and that the best thing to be done was to stay in bed two or three days. Later in the afternoon Pietro Ghisleri called, and Laura, at Arden's express desire, received him alone, promising to bring him into the bedroom afterwards. Several days had passed since they had met. Ghisleri was looking fresher and less nervous than the last time Laura had seen him. He, on his part, saw that she was anxious again, for there were dark shadows under her eyes as there had been when she had first returned from England. "Is there anything wrong?" he asked, as soon as they met. "Herbert has a bad cold," she answered. "The doctor says it is nothing serious, but he coughs, and I am worried about him." Ghisleri reminded her that there was nothing the matter with Arden's lungs, and that a cough might be a very insignificant affair, after all. Then she told him of the dinner party on the previous evening, dwelling at length on the tact and amiability Adele had displayed. Pietro was inclined to smile, when he understood that what he had said to Gerano had borne fruit so soon. He was quite sure that before night he should hear of some even more amiable doings on Adele's part, for he guessed at once that the Prince had forced her to change her behaviour. But he kept his reflections to himself. There was no reason why any one but Gerano should ever know that he had been concerned in the matter. He had no idea that everything had been repeated through the family, till it had reached Laura herself. "Donna Adele has great social talent," he remarked, finding, as usual, the one thing to be said in her favour. "Indeed she has!" assented Laura, with a constrained little laugh, and looking into his blue eyes. Ghisleri made no sign, however, and presently began to talk of other matters. He always felt a singular satisfaction in being with Laura, and this year he noticed that it was growing upon him. The impression he had first formed of her, when she had appeared in society, was confirmed year by year, and appealed to a side of his nature of which few people suspected the existence. It depended largely on Laura's looks, no doubt, which strongly suggested the high predominance of all that was good over the ordinary instincts of average human nature. He felt a sort of reverence for her which he had never felt for any one; he knew that she was good, he imagined that she was almost saintly in her life, and he believed that she might, under certain circumstances become, in the best religious sense, a holy woman. Had he seen her on that evening when Arden had found her strangling an imaginary enemy in a fit of exceedingly human anger, he could hardly have accepted the evidence of his senses. All that was good in her appealed directly through all that was bad in him to the small remnant of the better nature which had survived through his misspent life. It did not, indeed, rouse in him the slightest active desire to imitate her virtues. The very idea that he could ever be virtuous in any sense, brought a smile to his face. But he could not help admiring what he knew to be so very far beyond his sphere--what he believed, perhaps, to be even further from his reach than it actually was. He had reached that almost morbid stage of self-contempt in which a man, while still admiring goodness in others, checks even the aspiration towards it in his own heart, because he is convinced that it cannot be really genuine, and looks upon it as one of the affectations most to be despised in himself. He had got so far sometimes as to refuse a very wretched beggar a penny, merely because he doubted the sincerity of the charitable impulse which impelled his hand towards his pocket--laughing bitterly at himself afterwards when he thought of the poor wretch's disappointed face, and going back to find him again, perhaps, and to bestow a silver coin, simply because he could not resist the temptation to be kind. Such unhealthy conditions of mind may seem inconceivable and incomprehensible to men of other nature, all whose thoughts are natural, logical, and sound. They exist, none the less, and not by any means necessarily in persons otherwise weak or morbid. The very absurdity of them, which cannot escape the man himself, makes him seem still more despicable in his own eyes, increases his distrust of himself and gives rise, completing the vicious circle, to conditions each time more senselessly self-torturing than the last. It is hard to bring such men to see how untenable their own position is. They will not even believe that a good instinct underlies the superstructure of morbid fancy, and that the latter could not exist without it. Ghisleri looked long at Laura and admired her more than ever, realising at the same time how deeply her personality was impressed in his thoughts, and how vividly he was able at all times to evoke her outward image, and the conception he had formed of her character. He almost hated old Spicca for having said that no one could possibly be as good as she looked. In her own self she was the most overwhelming refutation of that remark; but then, he reflected, Spicca did not know her well enough, and habitually believed in nothing and in nobody. At least every one supposed that was Spicca's view of the world. Before long Laura took Pietro to see Arden, and left the two together. "There is something seriously wrong with me, Ghisleri," said his friend. "I am going to be very ill. I feel it." It was not like him to speak in that way, for he was brave and generally did his best to hide his sufferings from every one. Ghisleri looked at him anxiously. His face was drawn and pinched, and there were spots of colour on his cheeks which had not been there a few hours earlier. "Perhaps you have a little fever with the cold," suggested Pietro, in a reassuring tone. "It often happens in this country." "I dare say," replied Arden. "It may be so. At all events, your specialist was right about the main thing, and I am no more consumptive than you are. But I feel--I cannot tell why--that I am going to be very ill indeed. It may be an impression, and even if I am, I shall probably weather it." "Of course you will." But Ghisleri was in reality alarmed. "I am so glad you came to-day," continued Arden, speaking more rapidly. "If I should get worse to-morrow, really ill, you know--you must write to my brother. I would not ask my wife to do it for worlds. Do you understand?" "Perfectly--but I do not believe there will be any reason--" "Never mind that!" exclaimed Arden, interrupting him almost impatiently. "If there is any reason, you will write. I cannot tell you all about it. Of course I may not be delirious, you know, but again, I may be--one is never sure, and then it would be too late. Uncle Herbert is alive still, thank God, and quite well, and if anything should happen to me, his will would be worth nothing. Laura would not get a penny and would be dreadfully poor. Henry must do something for her. Do you understand me? He must. You must see to it, too, or he will never think of it--kind as he is. Those things do not strike him. You see I have only my small portion--which is little enough, as you know, because there are so many sisters--and they are not all rich, either. We could not go on living in this way long--but Henry was very generous. He sent me two thousand pounds when we were married, and the yacht too, so that we spent very little--" "You are exhausting yourself, my dear fellow," said Ghisleri, growing more anxious as he listened to the sick man's excited talk. "You have told me all this before, and your brother knows it too; he will not allow Lady Herbert--" "One never can tell what he will do," broke in Arden, raising himself a little on his elbow, and facing his friend. His eyes were unnaturally brilliant. "He is so eccentric. And Laura must have money--she must have plenty--not that she is extravagant, but you know how she was brought up in the Gerano's house, and I should never have thought of marrying her, but for Uncle Herbert's money." "You would both have been perfectly happy on a hundred a year," observed Pietro. "People are when they love each other as you do." Arden's face softened at once, and Ghisleri saw that he was thinking of his wife. He was silent for a few moments. "That is all very well," he said, suddenly rousing himself again. "That might do so long as I should be there to make life smooth for her. But when she is left alone--especially here--Ghisleri, I do not like to think that she must live here after I am gone--" "For Heaven's sake do not begin to talk in that way, Arden! It is perfectly absurd. You only have a cold, after all!" "Perhaps so. I believe I have something worse. Never mind! I was saying that I could not bear to think of her living here without me. It is quite true. No--it is not sentiment--something much more reasonable and real. There are people here who hate us both, who positively hate us, and who will make her life unbearable when there is no one to protect her--the more so, if she is poor. And besides, you know what will happen before long--oh, I cannot think of it!" Ghisleri did not answer at once, for it was not clear to him how Arden had discovered that he had enemies. But the latter waited for no answer, and went on after a few seconds, still speaking excitedly. "You see," he said, "how necessary it is that Harry should come--that you should write to him--that he should be made to understand--he must do something for Laura, Ghisleri--he really must." There was something painful in the persistent repetition of the thought, and then, oddly enough, Pietro started as he heard his own name pronounced almost without an interval, immediately after that of Laura. It sounded very strangely--Laura Ghisleri--he had never thought of it before. A moment later he scorned himself for thinking of it at all. "My dear Arden," he said, "you are really making yourself ill about nothing. Put it all out of your mind for the present, and remember that I am always ready if you need anything. You have only to send for me, and besides, I shall come every day until you are quite well." "Thank you, my dear fellow, you are a good friend. Perhaps you are right. But as I lie here, thinking of all the possibilities--" "You are beginning again," interrupted Ghisleri. "I must go away or you will talk yourself into a fever." At that moment Laura re-entered the room. She started a little when she saw her husband's face. "How do you find him?" she asked quickly of Ghisleri. "He has a cold," answered the latter, cheerfully, "and perhaps there is a little fever with it. I am going to leave him, for he ought to keep quiet and not tire himself with too much talking." He shook hands with Arden. Laura followed him out into the passage beyond. "He is very ill!" she exclaimed, in a low voice, touching his sleeve in her excitement. "I can see it. He never looked like that." "It may not be anything serious," answered Ghisleri. "But he ought to see the doctor at once. I have a cab down stairs, and I will go and find him and bring him here. Keep him quiet; do not let him talk." "Yes. You are so kind." She left him and went back to Arden's bedside. He was tossing uneasily as though he could not find rest in any position, and the great round spots on his cheeks had deepened almost to a purple colour. He scarcely seemed to notice her entrance, but as she turned to move something on the table, after smoothing his pillow, he caught her suddenly by the skirt of her frock. "Laura! Laura! do not go away!" he cried. "Do not leave me alone." "No, love, I am not going," she answered gently, and sat down by his side. Ghisleri was not gone long. By a mere chance he found the doctor at home, and brought him back. Then he waited in the drawing-room to hear the result of the visit. The physician's face was graver when he returned, and Laura was not with him. "Is it anything serious?" asked Ghisleri. "I am afraid so. I shall be better able to tell in a couple of hours. The fever is very high, the other symptoms will develop before long, and we shall know what it is." "What do you think it might be?" "It might be scarlet fever," answered the doctor. "I am afraid it is. But say nothing at present. You should get a nurse at once, for some one must sit up with him all night. I will send him something to take immediately, and I will come back myself in about two hours." They went away together, but when the doctor returned, he found Ghisleri waiting for him in the street. It was now five o'clock and quite dark. Pietro remained down stairs while the visit lasted. "Well?" he asked, when the physician came down again. "It is scarlet fever, as I was afraid--one of the most sudden cases I ever knew. They have not got a nurse yet, the idea seems to frighten Lady Herbert." "I will see to it," said Ghisleri. "By the bye, it is contagious, is it not? I have a visit to pay before dinner; ought I to change my clothes?" The doctor smiled. He did not know Ghisleri, and fancied that he might be timid. "It is not contagious yet," he answered, "or hardly at all. I do not think there is any danger." "There might be a little--even a very little, you think?" asked Pietro, insisting. "Of course it can do no harm to change one's clothes," replied the other, somewhat surprised. "You have told Lady Herbert exactly what must be done, I suppose. In that case I shall not go up." The doctor was confirmed in his suspicion that Ghisleri was afraid of catching the fever, and got into his carriage, musing on the deceptive nature of appearances. Pietro wrote a few words on his card, telling Laura that he would be back before dinner time with the best nurse to be found, and sent it up by the porter. Then he drove home as quickly as possible, dressed himself entirely afresh, and went to see the Contessa dell' Armi. "I have come," he said, after the first greeting, "to tell you that you will not see me for several days. Arden has got the scarlet fever, and I shall be there taking care of him, more or less, until he is out of danger." "Can they not have a nurse for him?" asked Maddalena, raising her eyebrows. "There will be a nurse, too. I am going to get one now and take her there." "You do not seem anxious to consult me in the least," said the Contessa. "You never do nowadays." "What do you mean? Do you think this is a case of consulting any one? I do not understand." "Do you think you have any right to risk your life in this way? Do you think you contribute to my happiness by doing it? And yet I have heard you say that my happiness is first in your thoughts. Not that I ever believed it." "You are wrong," answered Ghisleri, gently. "I would do almost anything for you." "What a clever reservation--'almost' anything. You know that if you did not put it in that way, I should tell you not to go near the Ardens until there is no danger of catching the fever." "Of course," assented Pietro. "You ought not to be so diplomatic. You used to talk very differently. Do you remember that evening by the waterfall at Vallombrosa? You have changed since then." Her classic face began to harden in the way he knew so well. "There is no question of diplomacy," he said quietly. "Arden has been my friend these ten years, and he is in very great danger. I mean to take care of him as long as I am needed because I do not trust nurses, and because Lady Herbert is anything but strong herself at the present time, and may break down or lose her head. As for risking my life, there is no risk at all in the matter. I have very little belief in contagion, though the doctors talk about it." "I suppose you have just seen him," observed the Contessa, who was determined to find fault. "You do not seem to ask yourself whether I share your disbelief." "Since you ask," said Ghisleri, with a smile, "I admit that I changed my clothes before coming to see you, for that very reason. Some people do believe in danger of that kind." "I am glad you admit it. So I am not to see you until Lord Herbert is quite well again. I will not answer for the consequences. I have something to say to you to-day. Are you in a hurry?" "Not in the least." "It will not take long. I have discovered another proof of your desertion. You know what pleasant things Adele Savelli says about me--and you, too. I have told you more than once exactly what was repeated to me. Did you ever take any steps to prevent her talking about me?" "No, I never did. I do not even see how I could. Can I quarrel with Francesco Savelli, because his wife spreads scandalous reports about you? It would look singularly like fighting your battles." "And yet," retorted the Contessa, speaking slowly, and fixing her eyes on his, "there is no sooner something said against Lady Herbert Arden, than you show your teeth and fight in earnest. Can you deny it?" "No, I do not lie," answered Ghisleri. "But I did not know that you were aware of the fact. Some one has been indiscreet, as usual." "Of course. That sort of thing cannot be a secret long. All Rome knows that there was a dinner of reconciliation at the Palazzo Savelli last night, that every one embraced every one else, that Adele looks like death to-day, and is going about everywhere saying the most delightful things about the Ardens, in the most horribly nervous way. You see what power you have when you choose to use it." She spoke bitterly, though she was conscious that the right was not all on her side, and that Ghisleri, as he said, could defend the Ardens without fear of adverse criticism, whereas it would be a very different matter if he entered the lists in her defence. "You are not quite just to me, my dear lady," he said, after a moment's reflection. "You are not the wife of my old friend, and an otherwise indifferent person--" "Quite indifferent?" She looked keenly at him. "Quite," he answered, with perfect sincerity. "A person is indifferent whom one neither loves nor calls an intimate friend. Yet Lady Herbert is beautiful and good, and is admirable in many ways. But the world knows that I am no more in love with her than with Donna Adele, and I am quite free, therefore, to defend her." "Of course you are. The only thing that surprises me is your alacrity in doing so. You do not generally like to give yourself trouble for indifferent people. But then, as Arden really is your friend--" She stopped, with a little impatient movement of the shoulders. "I wish you could bring yourself for once to believe that I am not altogether insincere and calculating in everything I do," said Ghisleri, weary of her perpetual suspicion. "I wish I could," she answered coldly. "But how can I? There are such extraordinary inconsistencies in your character, such contradictions--it is very hard to believe in you. And yet," she added sadly, "God knows I must--for my own sake." "Then do!" exclaimed Pietro, with energy. "Make an end of all this doubting. Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever made a promise to you and not kept it? How have I deceived you? And yet you never trust me altogether, and I know it." "It is not that--it is not that!" repeated Maddalena. "What you say is all true, in its way. It is--how shall I say it--you did not deceive me, but I was deceived in you. You are not what I thought you were. You used to say that you would stand at nothing--that my word was your law--all those fine phrases you used to make to me, and they all seem to come to nothing when reality begins." "If you would tell me what you expect me to do, you would not find me slow in doing it." "That is the thing. If you loved me as you say you do, would you need any direction? Your heart would tell you." "You are angry with me now, because you do not wish me to take care of Arden--" "Can I wish that you should be willing to cut yourself off from me for a week--or two weeks? I suppose that is your idea of love. It is not mine." "Then be frank in your turn. You have the right to ask what you please of me. Say plainly that you wish me to give up the idea, to leave Arden to the doctors and the nurses, and I will obey you unhesitatingly." "I would not have the sacrifice now--not as a gift," murmured Maddalena, passionately. "If you could think of doing it, you shall do it. I will force you to it now. I will not see you until Arden does not need you any more--not even if you never go near him. If you do not think of me naturally, I would rather that you should never think of me again." Ghisleri rose and went to the fireplace, and looked at the objects on the mantelpiece for a long time, without seeing them. There was a strange conflict in his heart at that moment. He could not tell whether he loved her or not--that he had loved her a very short time since, he was sure. At the present juncture it would be very easy to tell her the truth, if his love were no longer real, and to break with her once and for ever. Did she love him? Cruelly and coldly he compared her love with that of another whom he had sacrificed long ago--a memory that haunted him still at times. That had been love indeed. Was this also love, but of another kind? Then, suddenly, he despised himself for his fickleness, and he thought of what Maddalena had done and risked for him, and for him alone. "Maddalena," he said, and his voice shook as he came to her side, and took her small white hand. "Forgive me, forgive me all there is to forgive. I am a brute sometimes. I cannot help it." Her lip trembled a little, but her face did not relax. "There is nothing to forgive," she said. "It is I who have been mistaken." CHAPTER X. Ghisleri left the Contessa's house anything but calm. To hate himself and the whole world in general, with one or two unvarying exceptions, was by no means a new sensation. He was quite familiar with it and looked upon it as a necessary condition of mind, through which he must pass from time to time, and from which he was never very far removed. But he had rarely, in his ever-changing life, been in such strange perturbation of spirit as on this particular evening. He was almost beyond reasoning, and he seemed to be staring at the facts that faced him in a day-dream horribly like reality. He knew that if he really loved Maddalena, he would sacrifice his friend, even after what the Contessa had said, and that, after a day or two, she would probably relent. Nor did the sacrifice seem a very great one. People were ill all the year round, were taken care of by the members of their own family and by nurses, and recovered or died as the case might be. He had no especial knowledge to help him in watching over Herbert Arden, though he believed himself quiet and skilful in a sick-room, and had more than once done what he could in such cases. He felt, indeed, that he was more deeply attached to the man than he had supposed himself to be, but he had not imagined that, at the critical moment, that attachment would outweigh all consideration for Maddalena Delmar. And yet, he not only clung to the belief that he loved her, but was conscious that there was a broad foundation of truth for that belief to rest upon. He asked himself in vain why he was at that moment going from her house to Arden's, and he found no answer. That Laura herself contributed in any way to strengthen his resolve was too monstrous to be believed, even by himself, against himself. He was not so bad as that yet. He laughed bitterly at his inability to comprehend his own motives and impulses, as he drove to the little convent of the French Sisters of the "Bon Secours," to ask for the best nurse they could give him. It was strange, too, that he should be coming directly from Maddalena's side to the habitation of a community of almost saintly women--stranger still, that he should be on his way to a house where, during the next few days, he expected to spend his time in the society of a woman who ranked even higher than they in his exalted estimate of her character. He got the nurse, and she was despatched in the company of another sister in a separate cab, while Ghisleri followed in his own. When they reached the house, they found that Arden was much worse. His mind was wandering, and, though he constantly called for Laura, he did not know her when she came to his side, trying to keep back the scalding tears, lest they should fall on him as she bent down to catch his words. The doctor had been sent for a third time in great haste. Meanwhile, the sister went about her duties silently and systematically, making herself thoroughly familiar with the arrangements of the room, and preparing all that could be needed during the night, so far as she could foresee the doctor's possible instructions. She smoothed Arden's pillows with a hand the practised perfection of whose touch told a wonderful tale of life-long labour among the sick. "Madame should not be here," she said to Ghisleri, in a quiet, even voice. "It may soon be contagious." Laura heard the words as she stood on the other side of the bed, watching every passing expression on Arden's flushed face. "I will not leave him," she said simply. The sister did not answer. She had done her duty in giving the warning, and she could do no more. When she had finished all her arrangements, she sat down, accustomed to husband her strength always, against the strain that must inevitably fall upon it day by day. She took out her small black book and began to read, glancing at Arden at regular intervals of about a minute. Ghisleri entreated Laura to take some rest, or at least to follow the sister's example and sit down, since nothing could be done. She did not seem to understand. He was glad he had come, for he fancied she was losing her head already. He stood beside her watching his friend and waiting for the doctor, who appeared before long. "It is one of the most extraordinarily virulent cases I ever knew," he said to Ghisleri, when the two were alone together in the drawing-room, for Laura would not leave her husband's side for a moment. "I hardly know what to make of it, though of course there can be no doubt as to what it is. It is better that you should know how serious the case is. I presume you are an intimate friend of Lord Herbert Arden's?" "Yes, an old friend." "And you are not afraid of catching the fever?" asked the doctor. "Not in the least." "Oh, I thought from a question you asked--" He hesitated. "I was going to see a friend, and I wanted to be on the safe side," said Ghisleri. "I am glad of that; it is just as well that there should be a man at hand. Shall you spend the night here?" "Yes," replied Ghisleri. "Very good. I have told the sister to send for me if the temperature rises more than two-tenths of a degree centigrade higher than it is now. It ought to go down. If I am called anywhere I will leave the address at my lodgings, where one of my servants will sit up all night. I confess that I am surprised by the case. In Rome the scarlet fever is rarely so dangerous." Thereupon the doctor took his leave and Ghisleri remained alone in the drawing-room. He sat down and took up a book. For the present it seemed best not to go back to Arden's room. His constant presence might be disagreeable to Laura, since she could not be induced to leave her husband as yet. Ghisleri's turn would come when she was exhausted, or when he had an opportunity of persuading her to take some rest. Until then there was nothing to be done but to wait. A servant came in and put wood on the fire and turned down a lamp that was smoking a little. He inquired of Ghisleri whether her ladyship would wish any dinner served, and Pietro told him to keep something in readiness in case she should be hungry. He himself rarely had much appetite, and to-night he had none at all. He tried to read, without much success, for his own thoughts crowded upon each other so quickly and tumultuously that he found it impossible to concentrate his attention. The clocks struck half-past eight, nine, ten, and half-past ten, and still he sat motionless in his place. Again the Italian servant came in, put wood on the fire and looked to the lamps. Did the Signore know what orders were to be given for the night? The Signore did not know, as her ladyship was still with his lordship, and was not to be disturbed, but some food must be kept ready in case she needed it. Eleven, half-past, twelve. Again the door opened. There was something awful in the monotony of it all, Ghisleri thought, but this time Donald appeared instead of the Italian, who had been sent to bed. After making very much the same inquiries as the latter, Donald paused. "His lordship is very ill, sir, as I understand," he said. He had known Ghisleri as his master's friend for years. "Yes, Donald, he is very ill," answered Ghisleri, gravely. "It is scarlet fever, the doctor says. We must all help to take care of him." "Yes, sir." The few insignificant words exchanged with the servant seemed to rouse Ghisleri from the reverie in which he had sat so many hours. When Donald was gone he rose from the chair and began to walk up and down the drawing-room. The inaction was irksome, and he longed to be of use. He would have gone to Arden's room, but he fancied it would be better to let Laura stay there without him, until she was very tired, and then to take her place. She would be more likely to rest if she had a long watch at first, he thought. As a matter of fact, an odd sort of delicacy influenced him, too, almost without his knowing it,--an undefined instinct which made him leave her with the man she so dearly loved in the presence only of a stranger and a woman, rather than intrude himself as the third person and the witness of her anxiety. As he turned for the fiftieth time in his short, monotonous walk, he saw Laura entering at the opposite end of the room. She was dressed all in white, in a loose robe of some soft and warm material, gathered about the waist and hanging in straight folds. Her heavy black hair was fastened in a great knot, low at the back of her head. The light fell full upon her pale face and deep, dark eyes as she caught sight of Ghisleri, and stood still at the door, her hand upon the curtain as she thrust it aside from before her. She was so really beautiful at that moment that Pietro started and stared at her. "I did not know you were here," she said softly. He came forward to meet her. "I will take my turn when you are willing to go and rest," he answered. "I have waited for that reason. How is he now?" "Much more quiet," answered Laura. "The sister persuaded me that my being there perhaps prevented his going to sleep, and so I came away. She will call me if there is any change. Oh! if he could only sleep!" Ghisleri knew how very improbable such a fortunate circumstance was at the outset of such a severe illness, but he said nothing about it. Any idea which could give Laura hope was good in itself. She sank into a deep chair by the fire and watched the flames, her chin resting on her hand. She seemed almost unconscious of Ghisleri's presence as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece and looking down at her. "I will go and see how he is," he said at last, and went towards the door. Just as he touched the handle she called him in an odd tone as though she were startled by something. "Signor Ghisleri! Please come back." He obeyed, and resumed his former attitude. "I am very nervous," she said, with a little shiver. "Please do not leave me--I--I am afraid to be alone. If you wish to go, we will go together." Ghisleri concealed his surprise, which was considerable. The wish she expressed was very foreign to her usually quiet and collected nature. He saw that her nerves were rudely shaken. "It is very weak of me," she said presently, in an apologetic tone. "But I see his face all the time, and I hear that dreadful wandering talk--I cannot bear it." "I do not wonder," answered Pietro, quietly. "You must be very tired, too. Will you not lie down on the sofa, while I sit here and wait? It would be so much better. You will need your strength to-morrow." "That is true," she said, as though struck by the truth of the last words. She crossed the room and lay down upon a large sofa at a little distance from the fire, arranged the folds of her dress with that modest, womanly dignity some women have in their smallest actions, clasped her hands, and closed her eyes. Pietro sat down and looked at her, musing over the strange combination of circumstances which formed themselves in his life. It seemed odd that he should be where he was, towards the small hours of the morning, watching over one of the women he admired most in the world, keeping his place at her especial request, when he had in reality come to help in taking care of her husband. How the world would wag its head and talk, he thought, if it could guess where he was! For a long time Laura did not move, and he was sure that she was still awake. Then, all at once, he saw her hands relax and loosen from each other, her head turned a little on the dark velvet cushion, and she sighed as she sank to sleep. She was less quiet after that. Her lips moved, and she stirred uneasily from time to time, evidently dreaming over again the painful scenes of the evening. Ghisleri rang the bell, crossed the room swiftly, and opened the door without noise. Donald appeared in the hall outside. "Her ladyship has fallen asleep on the sofa," said Pietro. "She does not wish to be left alone. Is there any woman servant awake in the house?" "No, sir. Her ladyship sent her maid to bed." "Never mind. Go and sit quietly in the drawing-room, in case she should need anything, while I go and see how Lord Herbert is." "Very good, sir." The world would have been even more surprised now than before, especially if it could have understood the meaning of what Ghisleri did, and the refined reverence implied in his unwillingness to remain in the drawing-room longer than necessary. It would not have believed in his motive, and it would have added that he was very foolish not to enjoy the artistic pleasure of watching over the beautiful woman in her sleep as long as he could, more especially as she had gone to the length of asking him to do so. But Ghisleri thought very differently. He entered the sick-room, and sat down by the bedside. Arden was in a restless state between waking and unconsciousness, moaning aloud without articulating any words, his face flushed to a deep purple hue, his eyes half open and turned up under the lids, so that only the white was visible. The sister was seated by the table, on which stood a small lamp, the light being screened from Arden by a makeshift consisting of the cover of a bandbox supported by a few heavy books. When Ghisleri had entered she had glanced at him, and explained by a sign that there was no change. Neither he nor she thought of speaking during the hour that followed. The sister had a watch before her on the table, and at regular intervals she rose, poured a spoonful of something into Arden's mouth, smoothed his pillow, saw that he was as comfortable as he could be, and went back to her seat. At the end of the hour she took Arden's temperature with the fever thermometer, and wrote down the result on a sheet of paper. It had fallen one-tenth of a degree since midnight. "It generally does towards morning," said the sister, in a low voice, in answer to Ghisleri's inquiry as to whether this was a really favourable symptom of a change for the better. The night passed wearily. Pietro felt that he was of little use, unless his presence in the house afforded Laura some sort of moral support. So far as the nursing was concerned, the sister neither needed nor expected any assistance. Towards five o'clock, Laura entered the room. On waking from her sleep, she had seen Donald seated in Ghisleri's place, and had wondered why the latter had gone away. "He seems better," she whispered, bending over her husband, and softly smoothing the thick brown hair from his forehead. "The temperature has fallen," answered Ghisleri, giving her the only encouragement he could. "Thank God!" Laura sat down by the opposite side of the bed. Presently, by a sign, she asked Ghisleri whether he would not go home. "I will wait in the drawing-room until the doctor comes, and the other sister has arrived for the day," he said, coming to her side. She merely nodded, and he quietly went out. Before long, Donald brought him some coffee, and he sat where he had sat in the early part of the night, anxiously awaiting the doctor's coming. There was little enough to be learned, when the latter actually came. A very bad case, he said, so bad that he would not be averse to asking the opinion of a colleague,--and later, the same colleague came, saw Arden, shook his head, and said that it was the worst case he had ever seen, but that the treatment so far was perfectly correct. There was nothing to be done, but to take the best care possible of the patient. Ghisleri had no hope whatever, and Laura became almost totally silent. She could not be paler than she was, but Pietro almost fancied that she was growing hourly thinner, while the sad eyes seemed to sink deeper and deeper beneath the marble brow. He went home for a few hours to dress, and returned at midday. The loss of one night's rest had not even told upon his face, but his expression was grave and reserved in the extreme, and his manner even more than usually quiet. Laura had not slept since her nap in the drawing-room, and looked exhausted, though she was not yet really tired out. Ghisleri thought it was time to speak seriously to her. "My dear Lady Herbert," he said, "forgive me for being quite frank. This is not a time for turning phrases. You must positively rest, or you will break down and you may be dangerously ill yourself." "I do not feel tired," she said. "Your nerves keep you up. I entreat you to think of what I say, and I must say it. You may risk your own life, if you please; it is natural that you should run at least the risk of contagion, but you have no right to risk another life than your own by uselessly wearing out your strength. Besides, Arden is unconscious now; when he begins to recover he will need you far more, and will not need me at all." A very slight blush rose in Laura's pale cheeks, and she turned away her face. A short pause followed. "I think you are right," she said at last. Then, without looking at him, she left the room. Ghisleri watched her until she disappeared, and there was a strange expression in his usually hard blue eyes. It seemed as though the woman could do nothing without touching some sensitive, sympathetic chord in his inner nature, though her presence left him apparently perfectly cold and indifferent. Yet he had known himself so long, that he dreaded the sensation, and his ever-ready self-contempt rose at the idea that he could possibly find himself capable of loving his friend's wife, even in the most distant future. Besides, there was nothing at all really resembling love in what he felt, so far as he could judge. If it ever developed into love, it would turn out to be a love so far nobler than anything there had been in his life, as to be at present beyond his comprehension. He did not see Laura again for several hours. He spent the day in Arden's room, and for the first time felt that he was of use when his strength was needed to lift the frail body from one bed to the other. Arden grew rapidly worse, Ghisleri thought, and the doctor confirmed his opinion when he came for the third time that day. "To be quite frank," he said gravely, as he took leave of Pietro in the hall, "I have no hope of his recovery, and I doubt whether he will last until to-morrow night." This was no surprise to Ghisleri, who knew how little strength of resistance lay in the crippled frame. He bent his head in silence as the physician went out, and he almost shivered as he thought of what was before him. He knew now that he must stand by Laura's side at the near last moment of great suffering, when she was to see the one being she loved pass away before her eyes. He was more than ever glad that he had induced her to rest. Arden's mind was still wandering, and she could be of no immediate use. So the day ended at last and the night began and wore on, much like the previous one, saving that the anxiety of all was trebled. The other sister had returned, and Ghisleri saw by her face that she had no hope. With the same faultless regularity she performed her duties through the long hours. Towards midnight Laura and Ghisleri met in the drawing-room. For several minutes she stood in silence before the fire. Pietro could see that her lips were trembling as though she were on the point of bursting into tears. He knew how proud she must be, and he moved away towards the door. She heard his step behind her, and without turning round she beckoned to him with her hand to stay. He came back and stood at a little distance from her. Still she was silent for a moment; then she spoke. "It is coming," she said unsteadily. "You must help me to bear it." "I will do my best," answered Ghisleri, earnestly. Another pause followed. Then again she made a gesture, hurried and almost violent, bidding him leave her. Before he could reach the door he heard her first sob, and as he closed it behind him the storm of her passionate grief broke upon the silence of the night. He was not a man easily moved to any outward demonstration of feeling, but the tears stood in his eyes as he went back to Arden's bedside, and they were not for the friend he was so soon to lose. The sick man was unconscious and lay quite still on his back with closed lids. The sister was on her feet, watching him intently. She shook her head sadly when Ghisleri looked at her. The end was not far off, as she in her great experience well knew. In hot haste Pietro sent for the doctor, with a message saying that Lord Herbert was dying. But when he came he admitted reluctantly that he could do nothing; there was no hope even of prolonging life until morning. "Lady Herbert should be told the truth," he said. "If you wish it I will wait in another room until the end." "I think it would be better. Lady Herbert knows that there is no hope, but she will feel less nervous if you are at hand. How long do you expect--?" "He will not live many minutes after he comes to himself, I should say. The little strength there was is all gone. There will be a lucid interval of a few moments, and then the heart will stop. It was always defective." "Then Lady Herbert ought to be with him now, in case it comes," said Ghisleri. He left the doctor in the little room which Arden had used as a study, and went back to the drawing-room, feeling that one of the hardest moments of his life had come. Laura was seated in a deep chair, leaning back, her eyes half-closed and her cheeks still wet with tears. She started as Ghisleri entered. "The doctor has seen him again," he said. "If you are able, it would be better--" He stopped, for he saw that she understood. They went back together. As they entered the room they heard Arden's weak voice. "Laura, darling, where are you?" he was asking. Ghisleri saw that he was quite in possession of his faculties and went quietly out, leaving him with his wife and the sister. "I am here, love," Laura answered, coming swiftly up to his side and supporting him as he tried to sit up. "It was so long," he said faintly. "I am so glad you have come, dear." "You must not try to talk. You must not tire yourself." "It can make no difference now," he answered, letting his head rest upon her shoulder. "I must speak, dear one--this once before I die. Yes, I know I am dying. It is better so. I have had in you all that God has to give, all the happiness of a long life, in these short months." He paused and drew a painful breath. Laura's face was like alabaster, but she did not break down again now until all was over. "I owe it all to you--my life's love. You have given me so much, and I have given you so little. But God will give it all back to you, dear, some day. There is one thing I must say--oh, my breath!" He gasped in an agonised way, and almost choked. Laura thought it was the end, but he rallied again presently. "One thing, darling--you must remember, if you have loved me--ah, and you have, dear--that no promise binds you. You must try and think that if you forego any happiness for the memory of me, you will be taking that same happiness from me as well as from yourself. It will be right and just that you should marry if you wish to." "Oh, Herbert! Herbert!" cried Laura, pressing him to her, "do not talk so!" "Promise me that you will never think yourself bound," he said earnestly, speaking with more and more effort. "I shall not die happily unless you do." Laura bowed her head. "I promise it, dear, because you wish it." "Thank you, love." He was silent for some time. He seemed to be thinking, or at least trying to collect his last thoughts. "If it is a little girl, call her Laura," he said, in a breaking voice. "Then I shall know her in heaven, if she comes to me before you." "Or else Herbert," said Laura, softly. He moved his head a little in assent. "Darling," he said presently, "always remember that my last breath is a blessing for you." Very tenderly she pressed him to her heart and kissed him. Not till long afterwards did she realise the perfect unselfishness of the man's end, nor how every word so painfully spoken was meant to forestall and soothe her coming sorrow. "Say a prayer for me, darling--it is not far off. Say something in your own words--they will be better heard." Still supporting him against her breast, Laura raised her eyes heavenwards. The sister, little used to seeing men die without comfort of Holy Church, knelt down by the table. Then Laura's soft voice was heard in the quiet chamber. "Almighty God, I beseech Thee to receive the soul of this pure and true-hearted man amongst the spotless ones that are with Thee, to forgive all his sins, if any are yet unforgiven, and to render to him in heavenly joy all the happiness he has brought her who loves him on earth, through our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen." She ceased, forcing back the tears. He moved his head a little and kissed the hand that supported him. A long silence followed. "I thought Ghisleri came to the door with you and went out again," he said very feebly. "Would you like to see him, darling?" "Yes. He is a dear friend--better in every way than any one knows." At a word from Laura the sister rose and called Pietro. He was waiting in the passage. He came to the bedside and stood opposite to Laura, bending down and pressing Arden's wasted hand; he was very pale. "Ghisleri--dear old friend--good-bye--I am going. Take care of her--you and Harry--" He gasped for breath. "So help me God, I will do my best," answered Pietro, solemnly. Arden gave him one grateful look. Then with a last effort he drew Laura's face to his and kissed her once more. "Love--love--love--" The light went out in his eyes and Herbert Arden was dead, dying as he had lived of late, and perhaps all his life, unselfish in every thought and deed. With a cry that seemed to break her heart, Laura fell forward upon the shadowy form that seemed so unnaturally small as it lay there under the white coverlet. Ghisleri knelt in silence a few minutes beside his dead friend, and then rose to his feet. "She has fainted," said the sister softly. "If you could lift her with me--" But Ghisleri needed no help as he lifted the unconscious woman in his arms and carried her swiftly from the room. He laid her upon the very sofa on which he had seen her fall asleep on the previous night, and rang for Donald as he had then done. "His lordship is dead," he said in a low voice, as the Scotchman entered. "Her ladyship has fainted. Please send me her maid." Donald turned very white and left the room without a word. When Laura came to herself the women were with her and Ghisleri was gone. With an experienced man's coolness he gave all necessary orders, and foresaw details which no one else would have remembered. Then he went back to the chamber of death. No strange, unloving hands should touch the frail body of the man he had known so well. Pietro Ghisleri, who, as the world said, "never cared," was oddly sensitive at times. On that memorable night he would let no one help him in performing the last offices for Herbert Arden. When Laura next saw her husband, the calm and beautiful face lay on its snowy pillow surrounded with masses of white flowers. That was at daybreak. Late on the following night Ghisleri followed the men who bore the heavy burden down the stairs. A quiet-looking woman of middle age met them and crossed herself as she waited for them to pass her on the landing. She came to take care of Herbert Arden's son. CHAPTER XI. The season had begun, but Pietro Ghisleri had little heart for going into the world. Apart from the very sad scenes of which he had been a witness so recently, he really mourned the loss of his friend with a sincerity for which few would have given him credit. It would, of course, have been an exaggeration to act as though Arden had been his brother and to cast himself off from society for several months; but during a fortnight after he had laid Lord Herbert in the Protestant Cemetery at Monte Testaccio, he was seen nowhere. He went, indeed, to the house of the Contessa dell' Armi, but he made his visits at hours when no one else was received, as everybody knew, and he consequently saw none of his acquaintances except in the street. Twice daily at first, and then once, he went to the door of the Tempietto and sent up for news of Laura and the child. Strange to say, after the first three or four days the news became uniformly good. Ghisleri learned that the little boy had come into the world sound and strong at all points, without the slightest apparent tendency to inherit his father's physical defects which, indeed, had been wholly the result of accident. The Princess of Gerano who, by Laura's express wish, had been kept in ignorance of Arden's illness on the first day and had not learned that he was seriously ill until he was actually dead, had now established herself permanently at the Tempietto, and her presence doubtless did much towards hastening her daughter's recovery. It was wonderful that Laura should have escaped the fever, still more so that she should rally so rapidly from a series of shocks which might have ruined an ordinary constitution; but Laura was very strong. The Princess told Ghisleri that the child seemed to have taken Herbert's place. He was to be called Herbert too, and the other dearly loved one who had borne the name was never spoken of. No one would ever know what Laura felt, but those who knew her well guessed at the depth of a sorrow beyond words or outward signs of grief. In the meanwhile life revived in her and she began to live for her child, as she had lived for her husband, loving the baby boy with a twofold love, for himself and for his father's sake. Ghisleri had written to the Marquess of Lulworth, Arden's brother, but a letter from him to Arden himself arrived on the day after the latter's death, telling him that Lord and Lady Lulworth were just starting to go round the world in their yacht. The Lulworths were people whose movements it was impossible to foretell, and after sending a number of telegrams to ports they were likely to touch at, Ghisleri abandoned all hope of hearing from them for a long time. Meanwhile, he ascertained that Laura was likely to be hampered for ready money. Her mother's private resources were very slender, and Laura was far too proud to accept any assistance from Adele Savelli's father. She could not dispose, as a matter of fact, of anything which her husband had left her except the actual ready money which happened to be in the house; for she could not even draw upon his letters of credit until the will was proved and the legal formalities all carried out. It was natural, too, that at such a time she should neither be aware of her position nor give a thought to such a trivial matter as household expenses. One morning Donald came to Ghisleri's rooms in considerable distress, to ask advice of his master's old friend. He would not disturb Lady Herbert, he said, and he was ashamed to tell the Princess that there was no money in the house. Ghisleri's first impulse was to give him all the cash he had; but he reflected that in the first place the sum might not be sufficient, for Donald, in a rather broken voice, had referred to "the necessary expenses when his lordship died," and which must now be met: and secondly, Pietro felt that when Laura came to know the truth she would not like to find herself under a serious obligation to him. "Donald," he said, after a few moments' reflection, "it is none of my business, but you have been a long time with Lord Herbert, and you are a Scotchman, and the Scotch are said to be careful; have you saved a little money?" "Well, yes sir," answered Donald; "since you ask me, I may say that I have saved a trifle. And I am sure, sir, it would be most heartily at her ladyship's disposal if I could go home and get it." "You need not go for it, Donald. I will lend you the equivalent, in our money, of a couple of hundred pounds. You can then pay everything, and when the law business is finished and you come to settle with her ladyship, you can say that you advanced the sum yourself. That will be quite true, because I lend it to you, personally, as money for your use, and when you get it back you will pay it to me. Do you see?" "Yes, sir; it is a good way, too. But if you will excuse me, sir, you might very well lend the money to her ladyship's self without pretending anything." "No, Donald, I would rather not. Do you understand? Lady Herbert would much rather borrow from you than from a stranger." "A stranger, sir! Well, well, if his poor lordship could hear you call yourself a stranger, sir!" "One who is no relation. She might feel uncomfortable about it, just as you would rather come to me than go to the Princess of Gerano." "Yes, sir. When you put it in that way. I see it." So Ghisleri took Donald with him to a banker's and drew upon his slender resources for five thousand francs, which he gave to the Scotchman in notes. It had seemed to him the simplest way of providing for Laura's immediate necessities, while keeping her in ignorance of the fact that any necessity at all really existed. The sensation of helping her with money was an odd one, he confessed to himself, as he sent Donald home and walked idly away in the opposite direction through the crowded streets. As he strolled down the Corso thinking of Laura's position, he came suddenly upon Donna Adele Savelli, alone and on foot. Even through the veil she wore he could see that she was very much changed. She had grown thin and pale, and her manner was unaccountably nervous when she stopped and spoke to him. "Have you been ill?" he inquired, scrutinising her face. "No, not ill," she answered, looking restlessly to the right and left of him and avoiding his eyes. "I cannot tell what is the matter with me. I cannot sleep of late--perhaps it is that. My husband says it is nothing, of course. I would give anything to go away for a month or two." "You, who are so fond of society! Just at the beginning of the season, too! How odd. But you should be careful of yourself if you are losing your sleep. Insomnia is a dangerous disease. Take sulphonal in small doses. It does real good, and it never becomes a habit, as chloral does." "Sulphonal? I never heard of it. Is it really good? Will you write it down for me?" Ghisleri took one of his cards and wrote the word in pencil. "Any good chemist will tell you how much to take. Even in great quantities it is not dangerous." "Thanks." Donna Adele left him rather abruptly, taking the card with her and holding it in her hand, evidently intending to make use of it at once. Ghisleri had good cause for not liking her and wondered inwardly why he had suggested a means of alleviating her sufferings. It would have been much better to let her bear them, he thought. Then he laughed at himself--any doctor would have told her what to take and would probably have given her a store of good advice besides. Nearly a month had passed when Ghisleri was at last admitted to see Laura. He found her lying upon the same sofa on which she had slept a few hours during the memorable night before her husband died. She was even thinner now, he thought, and her eyes seemed to be set deeper than ever, while her face was almost transparent in its pallor. But the look was different--it was that of a person growing stronger rather than of one breaking down under a heavy strain. She held out her hand to him and looked up with a faint smile as he came to her side. The greeting was not a very cordial one, and Ghisleri felt a slight shock as he realised the fact. She could not help it. As Herbert Arden breathed his last, the old sense of vague, uneasy dislike for Pietro returned almost with the cry she uttered when she lost consciousness. It was quite beyond her control, although it had been wholly forgotten during those hours of suffering and joint nursing which preceded her husband's death. Ghisleri was quite conscious of it, and was inwardly hurt. It was hard, too, to talk of indifferent subjects, as he felt that he must, carefully avoiding any allusion to the time when they had last been together. "How do you pass the time?" he asked, after a few words of commonplace greeting and inquiry. "It must be very tiresome for you, I should think." "I never was so busy in my life," Laura answered. "You have no idea what it is to take care of a baby!" "No," said Ghisleri, with a smile, "I have no idea. But your mother tells me he is a splendid child." "Of course I think so, and my mother does. You shall see him one of these days--he is asleep now. Would you like to know how my day is passed?" And she went on to give him an account of the baby life that so wholly absorbed her thoughts. Ghisleri listened quietly as though he understood it all. He wished, indeed, that it were possible to talk of something else, and he felt something like a sensation of pain as Laura constantly called the child "Herbert," just as she had formerly been used to speak of her husband. Nevertheless, he was conscious also of a certain sense of satisfaction. During the month which had elapsed she had learned to hide her great trouble under the joy of early motherhood. There was something very beautiful in her devotion to the child of her sorrow, and hurt though Ghisleri was by her manner to him, she seemed more lovely and more admirable than ever in his eyes. He said so when he went to see Maddalena dell' Armi late in the afternoon. "I have seen Lady Herbert to-day," he began. "It is the first time since poor Arden died." "Is she very unhappy?" asked the Contessa. "She must be, for she never speaks of him. She talks of nothing but the child." "I understand that," said Maddalena, thoughtfully. "And then, it is such a compensation." "Yes." Ghisleri sighed. He was thinking of what her life might have been if children had been born to her, and he guessed that the same thoughts were in her mind at the time. "Did you ever think," she asked after a short pause, "what would become of me if you left me? I should be quite alone; do you realise that?" Ghisleri remembered how nearly he had broken with her more than once and his conscience smote him. "I would rather not think of it," he said simply. "You should," she answered. "It will come some day. I know it. When it does I shall turn into a very bad woman, much worse than I am now." "Please do not speak so; it hurts me." "That is a phrase, my dear friend," said Maddalena. "I always tell you that you are too fond of making phrases. You ought not to do it with me. You are not really at all sensitive. I do not even believe that you have much heart, though you used to make me believe that you had." "Have I shown you that I am heartless?" "That is always your way of answering. You are a very strange compound of contradictions." "Do you know, my dear lady, that you are falling into the habit of never believing a word I say?" "I am afraid it is true," assented Maddalena, sadly. "And yet I would not be unjust to you for the world. You have given me almost the only happiness I ever knew, and yet, from having believed too much, I know that I am coming to believe too little." "And you even think it is a mere phrase when I tell you that your distrust hurts me." "Sometimes. You are not easily hurt, and I do not believe either--" She stopped suddenly in the midst of her speech. "What?" asked Ghisleri. "I will not say it. I say things to you occasionally which I regret later. I told you that I would not be unjust, and I will try not to be. Be faithful, if you can, but be honest with me. Do not pretend that you care for me one hour longer than you really do. It would be dreadful to know the truth, but it is much worse to doubt. Will you promise?" "Yes," answered Pietro, gravely. "I have promised it before now." "Then remember it. Be sure of what you mean and of yourself, if you can,--be quite, quite sure. You know what it would mean to me to break. I have not even a little child to love me, as Laura Arden has. I shall have nothing when you are gone--nothing but the memory of all the wrong I have done, all that can never be undone in this world or the next." Ghisleri was moved and his strong face grew very pale while she was speaking. He had often realised it all of late, and he knew how greatly he had wronged her. It was not the first time in his life that he had been so placed, and that remorse, real while it lasted, had taken hold of him even before love was extinct. But he had never felt so strongly as he felt to-day, and he did his best to comfort himself with the shadowy medicine of good resolutions. He had honestly hoped that he might never love woman again besides Maddalena dell' Armi, and as that hope grew fainter he felt as though the very last poor fragments of self-respect he had left were being torn from him piecemeal. She, on her part, was very far from guessing what he suffered, for she was unjust to him, in spite of her real desire not to be so, and it was in a measure this same injustice which was undermining what had been once a very sincere love--good in that one way, if sinful and guilty in all other respects. Unbelief is, perhaps, what a man's love can bear the least; as a woman's may break and die at the very smallest unfaithfulness in him she loves, and as average human nature is largely compounded of faithlessness and unbelief, it is not surprising that true love should so rarely prove lasting. Ghisleri saw no one after he left Maddalena on that day. He went home and shut himself up alone in his room, as he had done many times before that in his life, despairingly attempting to see clearly into his own heart, and to distinguish, if possible, the right course from the wrong in the dim light of the only morality left to him then, which was his sense of honour. And the position was a very hard one. He knew too well that his love for Maddalena was waning, and he even doubted whether it had ever been love at all. Most bitterly he reproached himself for the evil he had already brought into her existence, and for the suffering that awaited her in the future. Again and again he went over in his mind the hours of the past, recalling vividly each word and gesture out of the time when the truest sympathy had seemed to exist between them, and asking himself why it might not take a new life again and be all that it once had been. The answer that suggested itself was too despicable in his eyes for him to accept it, for it told him that Maddalena herself had changed and was no longer the same woman whom he had once loved, and whom he could love still, he fancied, if she were still with him. It seemed so utterly disloyal to cast any of the blame on her that the lonely man put the thought from him with an angry oath. Of that baseness at least he would not have to accuse himself. He would never, by the merest suggestion, suffer himself to think one unkind thought of Maddalena dell' Armi. But the great question remained unsolved. Was what was now left really love in any sense, or not, and if not must he keep his promise and tell her the truth, or would it be more honourable to live for her sake by a rule of devotion and faithfulness which his strong will could make real in itself and in the letter, if not in the spirit? He knew that she was in earnest in what she had said. If she knew that he had ceased to love her, she would feel utterly alone in the world, and might well be driven to almost any lengths in the desperate search for distraction. She had not said it, but he knew that in her heart she would lay all the sins of her life at his door and that in this at least she would not be wholly unjust. With such a character as Ghisleri's it is not easy to foresee what direction impulse will take when it comes at last. He was quite capable of giving up the attempt to understand himself and of leaving the whole matter to chance, with a coolness which would have seemed cruel and cynical if it had not been the result of something like despair. He was capable, if he failed to reach a conclusion by logical means, of tossing up a coin to decide whether he should tell poor Maddalena dell' Armi that he did not love her, or else stand by her in spite of every obstacle and devote his whole life to the elaborate fiction of an unreal attachment. Strangely enough Laura Arden played a part, and an important one, in bringing about his ultimate decision. He assuredly had no thought of loving her, nor of the possibility of loving her at that time. He would even have thought it an exaggeration to say that he was devotedly attached to her in the way of friendship. And yet he felt that she exercised a dominating influence over his mind. He found himself laying the matter before her in imagination, as he should never be likely to do in fact, and submitting it to her judgment as to that of a person supremely capable of distinguishing right from wrong and false from true. It was singular, too, that he should make no comparison between her and Maddalena, though possibly no such comparison could have been made. But he compared himself with her--the depth of his moral degradation in his own eyes with the lofty purity of thought and purpose which he attributed to her. The consequence could hardly fail to be a certain aspiration, vague and almost sentimental, to become such a man as might not seem to her wholly unworthy of trust. This did not help him much, however, and when at last he went to bed, having forgotten to go out and dine, and weary of the hard problem, he was not much further advanced than when he had sat down to think of it last in the afternoon. In the morning everything seemed simpler, and the necessity for immediate decision disappeared. He had not yet by any means reached the point of not loving Maddalena at all, and until he did there was no reason why he should form any plan of action. It would in any case, be very hard to act upon such a plan, for the dreaded moment would in all likelihood be a stormy one, and he could not foresee in the least what Maddalena herself would do. After that he felt for a long time much more of the old sympathy with her than he had known of late, and he tormented himself less often with the direction of his own motives and thoughts. He saw much of Laura, too, in those days, and spent long hours beside her as she lay upon her sofa. He always left her with a sensation of having been soothed and rested, though he could not say of her that she was much inclined to talk, or showed any great satisfaction at his coming. Probably, he thought, she was willing to see him so often because he had been Arden's friend. He did not understand that she did not quite like him and that his presence was often irksome to her, for she was far too kind by nature to let him suspect it. He only thought that he was in her eyes a perfectly indifferent person, and he saw no reason for depriving himself of her society so long as she consented to receive him. They rarely talked of subjects at all relating to themselves, either, and their conversation turned chiefly upon books and general topics. Ghisleri read a good deal in a desultory way, and his memory was good. It interested him, too, to propound problems for her judgment and to see how nearly she would solve them in the way he expected her to choose. He was rarely mistaken in his expectations. Little by little, though Laura's principal feeling in regard to him did not change perceptibly, she became interested in his nature, beginning to perceive that there were depths in it which she had not suspected. "Are you a happy man?" she once asked him rather abruptly, and watching the expression of his face. "Certainly not at present," he answered, looking away from her as though to hinder her from reading his thoughts. "Why do you ask that?" "Forgive me. I should not put such a question, I suppose. But you interest me." "Do I?" He glanced quickly at her as he spoke, and she saw that he was pleased. "I am very glad that you should take any interest in me,--of any kind whatever. Would you like to know why I am unhappy?" "Yes." "I can only tell you in a general way. I make no pretence to any sort of goodness or moral rectitude, beyond what we men commonly include in what we call the code of honour. But I am perpetually tormented about my own motives. Knowing myself to be what I am, I distrust every good impulse I have, merely because it is not a bad one, because my natural impulses are bad, and because I will not allow myself to act any sort of comedy, even in my own feelings. That sort of honesty, or desire for honesty, is all I have left--on it hangs the last shred of my tattered self-respect." "How dreadful!" Laura's deep eyes rested on him for the first time with a new expression. There was both pity and wonder in their look--pity for the man and wonder at a state of mind of which she had never dreamed. "Does it seem dreadful to you?" he asked. "If you really feel as you say you do," answered Laura, "I can understand that you should be very unhappy." "Why do you doubt that I feel what I have told you?" Ghisleri wondered, as he asked the question, whether he was ever to be believed again by any woman. "Do you think I am untruthful?" "No," said Laura, quickly. "Indeed I do not. On the contrary, I think you very scrupulously exact when you speak of things you know about. But any one may be mistaken in judging of himself." "That is precisely the point. I am afraid of finding myself mistaken, and so I do not trust my own motives." "Yes--I see. But then, if you do what is right, you need not let your motives trouble you. That seems so simple." "To you. Do you remember? I once told you that you were horribly good." "I am not," said Laura, "but if I were, I should not see anything horrible in it." "I should, and I do. When I see how good you are I am horrified at myself. That is what I mean." "Why do you so often talk about being bad? You will end by making me believe that you are--if I do not believe it already." "As you do, I fancy. What difference can it make to you?" "Everything makes a difference which lowers one's estimate of human nature," Laura answered, with a wisdom beyond her age or experience. "After all, to go back to the point, the choice lies with you. You know what is right; do it, and give up wasting time on useless self-examination." "Useless self-examination!" repeated Ghisleri, with rather a sour smile. "I suppose that is what it really is, after all. How you saints bowl over our wretched attempts at artificial morality!" "No; do not say that, please, and do not be so bitter. I do not like it. Tell me instead why you cannot do as I suggest. If a thing is right, do it; if it is wrong, leave it undone." "If I could tell you that, I should understand the meaning of this life and the next, instead of being quite in the dark about the one and the other." Laura was silent. She was surprised by the result of the question she had at first put to him, and was at the same time conscious that she did not feel towards him as she had hitherto felt. Not that she liked him any better. She was perhaps further than ever from that, though her likes and dislikes did not depend at all upon the moral estimate she formed of people's characters. But she understood what he meant far better than he guessed, and she pitied him and wished that she could say something to make him take a simpler and more sensible view of himself and the world. He interested her much more than half an hour earlier. They did not return to the subject the next time they met, and Ghisleri fancied she had forgotten what he had said, whereas, in reality, she often thought of it and of him. Before long she was able to go out, and they met less frequently. She began to lead the life which she supposed was in store for her during the remainder of her existence. The only difference in the future would be that by and by she would not wear black any longer, that next year she would move into a more modest apartment, and that as time went on little Herbert would grow up to be a man and Laura would be an elderly woman. Matters had been settled at last in England, and the momentary embarrassment which so much distressed Donald had ceased. The good man had felt somewhat guilty when Laura had thanked him for using what she supposed to be his savings in order to save her trouble. But he remembered what Ghisleri had told him and held his tongue, afterwards going early in the morning to Pietro's lodgings to repay the loan. Laura had heard from the Lulworths, too. Ghisleri's letter and one of his telegrams had reached them at the same time somewhere in South America. Lulworth wrote himself to Laura and there was a deep, strong feeling in his few words which made her like him better than ever. He did not speak of coming back, and she thought it quite natural that he should stay away. He only said in a postscript that if she chose to go to England his house was at her disposal, but that he himself might be in Rome during the following winter. But she would not have gone to England for anything. Her mother's presence was a quite sufficient reason for staying where she was, and she knew also that her modest income would seem less restricted in Italy. The Princess of Gerano had proposed to her to come and live in the palace, but Laura would not do that--she would never put herself under any obligation to Adele's father, much as she herself was attached to him. Her mother represented to her that she was too young to live quite alone, but Laura remained unshaken in her determination. "Herbert protects me," she said quietly, but the Princess did not feel sure what she meant by the words, nor whether the Herbert in question was poor Arden, or the baby boy asleep in his cradle in the next room. There was in either case a certain amount of truth in what she said. Great sorrow is undeniably a protection to a woman, and so is her child, under most circumstances. "And as for my living alone," added Laura, "Signor Ghisleri is the only man I receive, and people would be ingenious to couple his name with mine." CHAPTER XII. Adele Savelli followed Ghisleri's advice, and took the new medicine he had so carelessly recommended. At first it did her good and she regained something of her natural manner. But her nerves seemed to be mysteriously affected and terribly unstrung. Her husband, watching her with the cool judgment of a person neither prejudiced by dislike nor over-anxious through great affection, came to the conclusion that she was turning into one of those nervous, hysterical women whom he especially disliked, and whom she herself professed to despise. The world, for a wonder, was at a loss to find a reason for her state, and contented itself with suggesting that the family skeleton in Casa Savelli had probably grown restless of late, and was rattling his bones in his closet in a way which disturbed poor dear Adele, who was such a delicately organised being. To what particular tribe the Savellis' skeleton belonged, the world was not sure. Some said that he was called Insanity, some whispered that his name was Epilepsy, and not a few surmised that his nature was financial. As a matter of fact, no one knew anything about him, though every one was sure that he was just now in a state of abnormal activity, and that his antics accounted for Adele's pale face and startled eyes. There was no doubt of the fact that she was ill, though she would scarcely admit it, and went through the season with a sort of feverish, unnatural gaiety. Being in reality no relation at all to Laura, she merely wore black for three weeks as a token of respect, but did not especially restrict herself in the matter of amusements even during that time, and when it was over, she threw herself into the very central whirl of the gay set with a sort of desperate recklessness which people noticed and commented upon. They were careful, however, not to speak too loud. Adele Savelli was very popular in society, and a very important person altogether, so that the world did not dare to talk about her as it discussed poor Laura Arden. And it found much good to say of Adele. It was so nice of her, it remarked, to change completely in her way of speaking of her step-sister, since the latter had lost that wretched little husband of hers. He, of course, as every one knew, had fallen a victim to his abominable habit of drinking brandy. It was all very well to call it scarlet fever--the world was well aware what that meant. The name of the thing was delirium tremens, and they said the last scene was quite appalling. The cripple, in the violence of the crisis, had twice sprung up and thrown down Ghisleri, who was a very strong man, nevertheless, and who had behaved in the most admirable way. He had not allowed any one to be present except the doctor, and it was impossible to extract a word of the truth from him. That was how it happened and, well--after all, it was a great mercy, and it was no wonder that Laura should have recovered so easily from the shock, and should already be beginning to amuse herself with Ghisleri. There was no doubt about that, either, for he went there every day, as regularly as he went to see the Contessa dell' Armi. And it was really angelic of Adele to stand up so resolutely for her step-sister, considering how the latter had always behaved. Adele took so much trouble to deny the stories that were circulated, that some people learned them for the first time through her denial. In this, as in many other things, Adele was consistent. She denied everything. "It is not even true," she said to Donna Maria Boccapaduli, "that Laura has the evil eye." But as she said it, she quickly folded her two middle fingers over her bent thumb, making what Italians call "horns" with the forefinger and little finger. Donna Maria saw the action, instinctively imitated it, and fell into the habit of repeating it whenever Laura was mentioned. "Why do you do that?" asked the Marchesa di San Giacinto of her the next day. "Eh--my dear! Poor Laura Arden is a terrible jettatrice, you know. Adele says it is not true, but she makes horns behind her back all the same, just as every one else does." Thereupon the Marchesa did the same thing, wondering that she should so long have been ignorant that Laura had the evil eye. In a week's time all Rome made horns when Laura was mentioned. At a dinner party a servant broke a glass when she was being discussed, and at once every one laughed and stuck up two fingers. San Giacinto, who, lean as he was, weighed hard upon sixteen stone, sat down upon a light chair in Casa Frangipani, just as he was saying that this new story about Laura was all nonsense, and the chair collapsed into a little heap of straw and varnished sticks under his weight. It was no wonder, people said, that Arden should have fainted that night at the Palazzo Braccio, for Laura had just accepted him. They seemed to have forgotten how they had interpreted that very scene hitherto. The world was not at all surprised that he should have died in the first year of his marriage, considering that he had married a notorious jettatrice. Look at poor Adele herself! She had never been well since that dinner at which the reconciliation with Laura was sealed and ratified. Pietro Ghisleri should be careful. It was very unwise of him to go and see her every day. Something awful would happen to him. Indeed it had been noticed that he was not looking at all well of late. That dreadful woman would kill him to a certainty. Ghisleri was furious when the tale reached him, as it did before long. He knew very well how dangerous a thing it was to have the reputation of possessing the evil eye. It is a strange fact that at the present day such things should be believed, and well-nigh universally, by a cultured society of men and women. And yet it is a fact, and an undeniable one. Let it once get abroad that a man or a woman "projects"--to translate the Italian "jetta"--the baneful influence which causes accidents of every description, and he or she may as well bid farewell to society forever. Such a person is shunned as one contaminated; at his approach, every hand is hidden to make the sign of defence; no one will speak to him who can help it, and then always with concealed fingers kept rigidly bent in the orthodox fashion, or clasped upon a charm of proved efficacy. Few, indeed, are those brave enough to ask such a man to dinner, and they are esteemed almost miraculously fortunate if no misfortune befalls them during the succeeding four and twenty hours, if their houses do not burn, and their children do not develop the measles. Incredible as it may appear to northern people, a man or woman may be socially ruined by the imputation of "projecting," when it is sustained by the coinciding of the very smallest accident with their presence, or with the mention of their names, and quite enough of such coincidences were actually noted in Laura's case to make the reputation of being a jettatrice cling to her for life. Ghisleri knew this, and his wrath was kindled, and smouldered, and grew hot, till it was ready to burst out at a moment's notice and do considerable damage. "It is an abominable shame," he said to Maddalena dell' Armi. "It is all Adele Savelli's doing. She has taken a new departure. Instead of starting bad reports as true, she begins by denying things of which nobody ever heard. I am quite sure she is at the bottom of it, but I do not see how I can stop the story." "You seem to care a great deal," said Maddalena. "Yes. I do care. If it would do any good, I would call out Francesco Savelli and fight about it." "For Laura Arden's sake?" It was the first time she had ever heard Ghisleri even hint that he would do so much for any one, though she knew that he would for herself. "No," he answered, with sudden gentleness. "Not for Lady Herbert's sake, my dear lady. I would do it because, just when he was dying, Arden told me that I must take care of her, and I mean to do my best, as I promised him." "You are quite right," answered Maddalena, taking his hand and pressing it a little. "I would not have you do otherwise, if I could--if I had all the influence over you which I have not. But oh--if you can help fighting--please--for my sake, if you care--" Maddalena's cold face and small classic features expressed a great deal at that moment, and there were bright tears in her violet eyes. In her own way she loved him more than ever. He was deeply touched as he tenderly kissed the hand that held his. "For your sake, I will do all that a man can do to avoid a quarrel," he said earnestly. "I know you will," she answered. During a few moments there was silence between them, and Maddalena recovered control of herself. "That is the true reason why I ask you," she said. "There are plenty of others which you may care for more than I. You would not care to have it said that you were fighting her battles. Will you promise not to be angry if I tell you something you will not like--something I know positively?" "Yes. I promise. What is it?" "People are beginning to say already that you are making love to her, and that you are always at the house." "The brutes!" exclaimed Ghisleri, fiercely. "Who says that?" "The women, of course. The men are much too sensible, and none of them care to quarrel with you." "Oh!" Pietro contented himself with the exclamation, and controlled his anger as best he could. "Was I wrong to tell you?" asked Maddalena. "No, indeed. I am very glad you have told me. I shall be more careful in future." "It will make very little difference. You know the world as well as I do, and better. People have begun to say that you go to see Lady Herbert every day--they will still say it after you have not been to her house for months." "Yes. That is the way the world talks. I hope this will not reach her ears--though I suppose it ultimately will. Some dear kind friend will go and tell her in confidence, and give her good advice." "Probably. That is generally the way. Only, as she is in deep mourning and receives very few people, it may be a little longer than usual in such cases before the affectionate friend gets at her. Then, too, the idea that she is a jettatrice will keep many of her old acquaintances away. You know how seriously they take those things here." It will be remembered that both Maddalena and Ghisleri were from the north of Italy, where the superstition about the evil eye is much less general amongst the upper classes than in Rome and the south. Pietro himself had not the slightest belief in it, and he had so often laughed at it in conversation with the Contessa that if she had ever had any vague tendency to put faith in the jettatura, it had completely disappeared. But both of them were thoroughly familiar with the society in which they lived, and understood the position in which Laura was placed. "I will help you as much as I can," said Maddalena, "though I cannot do much. At all events, I can laugh at the whole thing and show that I do not believe in it. But as for the rest,--placed as I am, I can hardly make an intimate friend of Lady Herbert Arden, much as I like her." She spoke sadly and a little bitterly. Ghisleri made no reference to the last remark when he answered her. "I shall be very sincerely grateful for anything you can do to help the wife of my old friend," he said. "And I think you can do a good deal. You have great influence in the gay set--and that means the people who talk the most--Donna Adele, Donna Maria Boccapaduli, the Marchesa di San Giacinto, and all the rest, who are, more or less, your intimates. It is very good of you to help me--Lady Herbert needs all the help she can get. Spicca is a useful man, too. If he can be prevailed upon to say something particularly witty at the right moment, it will do good." "I rarely see him," said Maddalena. "He does not like me, I believe." "He admires you, at all events," answered Ghisleri. "I have heard him talk about your beauty in the most enthusiastic way, and he is rarely enthusiastic about anything." Maddalena was pleased, as was natural. She chanced to be in one of her best humours on that day, and indeed of late she had been much more her former self when she was with Ghisleri. A month earlier, the discussion about Laura Arden could not have passed off so peaceably, for the Contessa would then have resented anything approaching to the intimacy which now appeared to exist between Lady Herbert and Pietro. The latter wondered what change had taken place in her character, but accepted her gentle behaviour towards him very gratefully as a relief from a former phase of jealous fault-finding which had cost him many moments of bitterness. As he saw, from time to time, how her cold face softened, he almost believed that he loved her as dearly as ever, though the illusion was not of long duration. He left her, on that afternoon, with a regret which he had not felt for some time at the moment of parting, and he would gladly have stayed with her longer. They agreed to meet in the evening at one of the embassies, where there was to be a dance. In the mean time, they were to dine out at different houses, and the Contessa had a visit to make before going to the ball. Pietro was sorry that he had promised not to quarrel about the story of the evil eye. The affair irritated him to an extraordinary degree, and though he had grown calmer under Maddalena's influence, his anger revived as he walked home and thought over it all. He dined that evening in Casa San Giacinto, and found himself placed between Donna Maria Boccapaduli and Donna Christina Campodonico. The latter was a slim, dark, graceful woman of five and twenty, remarkably quiet, and reported to be very learned, a fact which contributed less to her popularity than her own beauty and her husband's rather exceptional reputation. Gianforte Campodonico was a man whom Ghisleri would have liked if they had not known each other some years previously in circumstances which made liking an impossibility. He respected him more than most people, for he had fought a rather serious duel with him in days gone by, and had seen the man's courage and determination. Campodonico was the brother of the beautiful Princess Corleone who had died in Naples shortly after the above-mentioned duel, and who was said to have been the love of Ghisleri's life. Gianforte, for his sister's sake, had made up his mind to kill Ghisleri or to die in the attempt, with a desperate energy of purpose that savoured of earlier ages. He was, moreover, a first rate swordsman, and the encounter had remained memorable in the annals of duelling. Ghisleri had done all in his power to avoid the necessity of fighting at all, but Campodonico had forced him into it at last, and the weapons had been foils. The world said that Ghisleri was not to be killed so easily. He was as good a fencer as his adversary, and was left-handed besides, which gave him a considerable advantage. The result was that he defended himself successfully throughout one of the longest duels on record, until at last he almost unintentionally ran Gianforte through the sword arm and disabled him. The latter, humiliated and furious at his defeat, had demanded pistols then and there, and Ghisleri had professed himself ready, and had placed himself in the hands of his seconds. But both his own friends and Gianforte's decided that honour was satisfied, and refused to be parties to any further fighting, so that Campodonico had been obliged to accept their verdict. He sought an opportunity of quarrelling again, however, for he was a determined man, and he would probably have succeeded in the end; but at this juncture the Princess died after a short illness, and after exacting a solemn promise from both men that they would never fight again. That was the last act of her brief life of love and unhappiness, and it was at least a good one. Loving her with all their hearts, in their different ways, both Ghisleri and Campodonico respected the obligation they had taken as something supremely sacred. Ghisleri went and lived alone in a remote village of the south for more than a year afterwards, and Gianforte spent an even longer period in almost total seclusion from the world, and in the sole society of his widowed mother. Three years before the time now reached in this chronicle, he had married, as people said, for love, and for once people were right. His elder brother bore the title, and as there was another sister besides the Princess Corleone, Gianforte's portion had been small, for the family was not rich, and he and his wife lived very modestly in a small apartment in the upper part of the city, the Palazzo Campodonico having long ago passed into the hands of the Savelli. And now, at the San Giacinto's dinner table, Ghisleri found himself seated next to Donna Christina, and nearly opposite to her husband. It had long been known and generally understood that Pietro and Gianforte had buried their enmity with the beautiful woman about whom they had fought, and that they had no objection to meeting in the world, and even to conversing occasionally on general subjects, so that there was nothing surprising in the fact that at a dinner of eighteen persons they should be asked together. It chanced that, by the inevitable law of precedence, Ghisleri sat where he did. Donna Christina of course knew the story above related, and in her eyes it lent Ghisleri a somewhat singular interest. Now it happened, towards the end of dinner, that some one mentioned Lady Herbert Arden. Instantly Donna Maria, on Pietro's right, made the sign of the horns with both hands, laughing in a foolish way at the same time. Ghisleri saw it, and a glance round the table showed him that the majority of the guests did the same thing. "How can you believe in such silly tales?" he asked, turning to Donna Maria. "Everybody does," answered the sprightly lady. "Why should not I? And besides, look at the facts--San Giacinto had the name of the lady we do not mention on his lips when he broke that chair the other day--there, I told you so!" she exclaimed suddenly. Young Pietrasanta, who, as it happened, had been the one to speak of Laura Arden, had upset a glass, which, being very delicate and falling against a piece of massive silver, was shivered instantly. The claret ran out in a broad stain. "Allegria--joy!" laughed the lady of the house. Italians very often utter this exclamation when wine is spilled. It is probably a survival of some primeval superstition. "Joy!" repeated Pietrasanta, with quite a different intonation. "If ever I mention that name again!" "You see," said Donna Maria triumphantly to Ghisleri. "There is no doubt about it." "I beg your pardon for contradicting you," answered Ghisleri, coldly, "but I think there is so much doubt that I do not believe in the possibility of the evil eye at all, much less in the ridiculous story that Lady Herbert Arden's name can upset a glass of wine or break a chair." "I agree with you," said Donna Christina, in her quiet voice, on Pietro's other side. "It is almost the only point on which my husband and I differ--is it not true, Gianforte?" she asked, speaking across the table to Campodonico. There had been a momentary lull in the conversation after the little accident, so that he had heard what had been said. "It is quite true," he answered. "I believe in the jettatura, just as most people do, but my wife is a sceptic." "And do you really believe that Pietrasanta upset his glass because he mentioned Lady Herbert?" asked Pietro. "Yes, I do." Their eyes met quietly as they looked at each other, but the whole party became silent, and listened to the remarks exchanged by the two men who had once fought such a memorable fight. Gianforte Campodonico was a very dark man, of medium height, strongly built, and not yet of an age to be stout, with bold aquiline features, keen black eyes, and a prominent chin. A somewhat too heavy moustache almost quite concealed his mouth. At first sight, most people would have taken him for a soldier. Of his type he was very handsome. "Can you give any good reason for believing in anything so improbable?" asked Ghisleri. "There are plenty of facts," answered Campodonico, calmly. "Any one here will give you fifty--a hundred instances, so many indeed, that you cannot attribute them all to coincidence. Do you not agree with me, Marchese?" he asked, appealing to the master of the house, whose opinion was often asked by men, and generally accepted. "I suppose I do," said the giant, indifferently. "I never took the trouble to think of it. Most of us believe in the evil eye. But as for this story about Lady Herbert Arden, I think it is nonsense in the first place, and a malicious lie in the second, invented by some person or persons unknown--or perhaps very well known to some of you. Half of it rests on that absurd story about the chair I broke in Casa Frangipani. If any of you can grow to be of my size, you will know how easily chairs are broken." There was a laugh at his remark, in which Campodonico joined. "But it is true that you were speaking of the lady one does not mention at the moment when the chair gave way," he said. "Yes," said San Giacinto, "I admit that." "I agree with San Giacinto, though I do not believe in the evil eye at all," said Ghisleri. "And I will go a little further, and say that I think it malicious to encourage the story about Lady Herbert. She has had trouble enough as it is, without adding to it gratuitously." "I do not see that we are doing her any harm," observed Campodonico. "The gossip may be perfectly indifferent to her now," said Ghisleri. "She is most probably quite ignorant of what is said. But in the natural course of events, two or three years hence she will go into the world again, and you know what an injury it will be to her then." "You are looking very far ahead, it seems to me. As for wishing to do her an injury, as you call it, why should I?" "Exactly. Why should you?" "I do not." "I beg your pardon. I think every one who contributes to the circulation of this fable does harm to Lady Herbert, most distinctly." "In other words, we are not of the same opinion," said Campodonico, in a tone of irritation. "And I express mine because poor Arden was my oldest friend," answered Ghisleri, with the utmost calm. "If I cannot persuade you, let us agree to differ." "By all means," replied Gianforte, and he turned and began to talk with the lady on his right. Donna Christina leaned towards Ghisleri and spoke to him in a very low voice, quite inaudible to other ears than his, as the hum of general conversation rose again. "Is it true," she asked, "that you and my husband agreed, years ago, that you would never quarrel again?" Ghisleri looked at her in cold surprise. He was amazed that she should refer to that part of his past life, of which no one ever spoke to him. "It is true," he answered briefly. "I am very glad," said Donna Christina. "I thought you were near a quarrel just now about this absurd affair. You hate each other, and Gianforte is very hot-tempered." "There is no danger. But I am sorry you think that I hate your husband. He is one of the few men whom I really respect. There are other reasons why I should not hate him, and why I should not be surprised if he hates me with all his heart, as I dare say he does, from what you say." He glanced at her, but she did not answer at once. She was still young and truthful, and it did not occur to her to be tactful at the expense of veracity. "I am glad you defended Lady Herbert as you did," she said, after a short pause. "It was nice of you." Then she turned and talked with the man on her other side. Donna Maria Boccapaduli had been waiting for her opportunity and attacked Ghisleri as soon as he had ceased talking with his other neighbour. "Tell me," she said, "you like Laura Arden very much, do you not?" Of course she made the sign at Laura's name. "Yes. She is a very charming woman." "She ought to be grateful to you. She would be, if she knew how you stood up for her just now." "I should be sorry if she ever came to know that she needed to be defended," answered Ghisleri, almost indifferently. "She will, of course. It will be all over Rome to-night that you and Campodonico almost quarrelled about her. She is sure to hear about it. Why do you take so much interest in her?" "Because her husband was my friend," Pietro replied, rather wearily. "I just said so." "You need not be so angry with me because I ask questions," said Donna Maria with a laugh. "I always do--it is the way to find out what one wants to know." "And what do you want to know?" "You will be angry if I ask you." "Then ask me something else." "But I want to know so much," objected Donna Maria, with an expression that made Ghisleri smile. "Then you must take the risk," he said. "It is not very great." "Well, then, I will." She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "Is the lady in question--I mean--is she the sort of woman you can imagine falling in love with?" "I do not think I should ever fall in love with her," answered Ghisleri, without betraying emotion or surprise. "Why not? There must be some reason. So many men have said the same thing about her." "She is too good a woman for any of us to love. We feel that she is too far above us to be quite human as we are." "What a strange man you are, Ghisleri! I should never have dreamt that you could say such a thing as that. It is not at all like your reputation you know, and not in the least like those delightfully dreadful verses you addressed to the saint last year on Shrove Tuesday at Gouache's studio. I should think that Mephistopheles would delight in making love to saints." "In real life Mephistopheles would get the worst of it, and be shown to the door with very little ceremony." "I doubt that. Every woman likes a spice of devilry in the man she loves--and as for being shown to the door, that is ridiculous. Is there any reason in the world why you should not fall in love with a woman exactly like the unmentionable lady and marry her, too, if you love her enough--or little enough, according to your views of married life? You are quite free, and so is she, and you said yourself that in the course of time she would naturally come back to the world." "No," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully, "I suppose there is no reason why I should not ask Lady Herbert Arden to marry me in four or five years, except that I do not love her in the least, and that she would most certainly refuse me. And those are two very good reasons." The dinner was over and the party returned to the drawing-room. Ghisleri stood a little apart from the rest, examining a painting with which he had long been familiar, and slowly inhaling the smoke of a cigarette. It was a small copy of one of Zichy's famous pictures illustrating Lermontoff's "Demon"--the one in which Tamara yields at last, in the convent, and throws her arms round the Demon's neck. Prince Durakoff had ordered the copy and had presented it to the Marchesa di San Giacinto. Ghisleri had always liked it, and had a photograph of the original in his rooms. He now stood looking at it and recalling the strange, half allegorical romance of which the great Russian made such wonderful poetry. Presently he was aware that some one was standing at his elbow. He turned to see who it was, and found himself face to face with Gianforte Campodonico, who was looking at him with an expression of indescribable hatred in his black eyes. CHAPTER XIII. Pietro at once realised the situation and the meaning of the look he saw. Something was passing in his old enemy's mind which had passed through his own while he was looking at the picture, for Campodonico and Ghisleri were both thinking of the extraordinary resemblance between poor Bianca Corleone and the Tamara of Zichy's painting. That resemblance, striking in a high degree, was the reason why Ghisleri liked it, and had a photograph of it at his lodging. He regretted now that he should have been so tactless as to stand long before it when Campodonico was in the room. It was too late, however, and there was nothing to be done but to meet the man's angry look quietly, and go away. It was unfortunate that there should have been any discussion between them at dinner, too, for Campodonico, as his wife said, was hot-tempered in the extreme, and Ghisleri, though outwardly calm, had always been liable to outbreaks of dangerous anger. There was, indeed, in the present instance, a very solemn promise given to a dying woman beloved by both, to keep them from quarrelling, and both really meant to respect it as they had done in past years. But to see Ghisleri calmly contemplating a picture which seemed intended to represent Bianca Corleone falling into the arms of a demon lover, was almost too much for the equanimity of Gianforte, which was by no means at any time very stable. Moreover, he not only hated Ghisleri with his whole heart as much as ever, but he despised him quite as much as Pietro despised himself, and probably a little more. He would never have forgiven him, at the best; but he might have respected him if Ghisleri had honoured Bianca's memory by leading a different life. It made his blood sting to think that a man who had been loved to the latest breath by such a woman as Bianca should throw himself at the feet of Maddalena dell' Armi--not to mention any of the others for whom Pietro had felt an ephemeral passion during the last six years and more. And Pietro, on his side, knew that Campodonico was right in judging him as he judged himself, harshly and without mercy. Unfortunately, Pietro's judgments on himself generally came too late, when the evil he hated had already been done, and self-condemnation was of very little use. He had great temptations, too--far greater than most men, and was fatally attracted by difficulty in any shape. On the present occasion he really desired to avoid doing the least thing which could irritate Campodonico, and if the latter had not done what he did Pietro would certainly have gone quietly away. He could not help being a little surprised at the persistent stare of his old adversary, considering that for years they had met and acted with perfectly civil indifference towards one another. Nevertheless, he relit his cigarette which had gone out, and made a step towards the other side of the room. To Campodonico, the calm expression of his face seemed like scorn, and he became exasperated in a moment. He called the other back. They were at some distance from the other guests, and out of hearing if they spoke in low tones. "Ghisleri!" Campodonico pronounced the name he detested with an almost contemptuous accent. Pietro knew that an exchange of unfriendly words was inevitable. He turned instantly and came close to Gianforte, standing before him and looking down into his fierce eyes, for he was by far the taller man. "What is it?" he asked, controlling his voice wonderfully. "Do you not think there are circumstances under which one is justified in breaking a solemn promise?" asked Campodonico. "No. I do not." "I do." "I am very sorry. I suppose you mean to say that you wish to quarrel with me again. Is that it?" "Yes." "You will find it hard. I shall do my very best to be patient whatever you do or say. In the first place, I begin by telling you that I sincerely regret having irritated you twice, as I have done this evening, the second time, as I know, very seriously." "I did not ask you for an apology," said Gianforte, with contempt. "But I have offered you one which you will find it hard not to accept." "You were not formerly so ready with excuses. I dare say you have grown cautious with age, though you are not much older than I." "Perhaps I have." Ghisleri grew slowly pale, as he bore one insult after the other for the dead woman's sake. "In other words, you are a coward," said Campodonico, lowering his voice still more. Pietro opened his lips and shut them without speaking. He glanced at the passionate white face of the woman in the picture before he answered. "I do not think so," he said. "But I make no pretence of bravery. Have you done?" "No. You make a pretence of other things if not of courage. You pretend that you will not quarrel now because of the promise you gave." "It is true." "I do not believe you." "I am sorry for it," answered Pietro. "And do you mean to tell me that the promise binds us? If you had acted as a man should, if you had led a life that showed the slightest respect for that memory, it might be binding on me still." "I think it is." Ghisleri was trembling with anger from head to foot, but his voice was still steady. "I do not," answered Gianforte, scornfully. "If she were here to judge us, if she could see that the man who was loved to the last by Bianca Corleone--God give her rest!--would live down to such a level, would live to throw himself at the feet of a Maddalena dell' Armi--ah, I have touched you now!--she would--" Ghisleri's face was livid. "She whose name you are not more worthy to speak than I, never meant that I should not defend a good and helpless woman because the liar who accuses her chances to be called Gianforte Campodonico." "And the one who defends her, Pietro Ghisleri," retorted Gianforte. "Where can my friends find yours?" "At my lodging, if that suits them." "Perfectly." Campodonico turned on his heel and slowly went towards the group at the other end of the room. Ghisleri followed him at a distance, lighting a fresh cigarette as he walked. He had recovered his composure the moment he had felt himself freed from the obligation to bear the insults heaped upon him by Bianca Corleone's brother. It must not be supposed that no one had watched the two as they stood talking before the picture. More than one person had noticed the fierce look in Campodonico's eyes, and the unnatural paleness of Ghisleri's face. One of these was Donna Maria Boccapaduli. "I suppose you have been discussing that painting," she said carelessly to Pietro. "People always do." "Yes," answered Ghisleri, as indifferently as he could. "And what was the result of the discussion?" "We agreed to differ." Pietro laughed a little harshly. As soon as possible he excused himself and got away, for he had only just the time necessary to find a couple of friends and explain matters, before going to the ball to meet the Contessa, as he had promised to do. He had forgotten an important detail, however, and as he passed Campodonico who was also going away, and without his wife, on pretence of an engagement at the club, he stopped him. "By the by," he said, "I suppose we are ostensibly quarrelling about a painter, or something of that sort." "Yes--anything. Zichy, for instance. Everybody saw us looking at the picture. You like it and I do not." "Very well." So they parted, to meet, in all probability, at dawn on the following morning, in a quiet place outside the city. Ghisleri found two friends in whose hands he placed himself, telling them that he was quite indifferent to the weapons, and only desired to meet his adversary's wishes as far as possible, since the affair was very insignificant. He remarked in an indifferent tone that, as he had once fought with Campodonico, using foils, and as the latter had not seemed satisfied on that occasion, he had no objection to pistols, if the opposite side preferred them. He wished everything to be arranged as amicably as possible, he said, and without any undue publicity. He left them at his lodging and departed to keep his engagement at the embassy. As he drove through the bitter air in an open cab, he meditated on his position, and wondered what Maddalena would say when she learned that he had been out with his old adversary. She should not know anything about the encounter until it was over, if he could keep it from her. At all events, he reflected, he had done all that a man could do to keep out of a quarrel, as he had promised her he would, and he had been driven to break a promise of a far more sacred nature than the one he had given her. If she knew the truth, too, it was for her, and for her alone, that he was to fight. He wondered whether people would say it was for Laura Arden's sake, on account of the discussion about the evil eye which had taken place at table. The suggestion annoyed him very much, but he reached his destination before he had found time to reason out the whole case, or to decide what to do. In any event it would be better if people thought that he had taken the foils in defence of an unprotected widow like Laura, than for the good name of the Contessa dell' Armi. She was there before him, looking very lovely in a gown of palest green, half covered with old lace. The shade suited her fair hair and dazzling skin, and she looked taller in faint colours, as short women do. He found her seated in one of the smaller rooms through which he had to pass on his way to the great ball-room, and she was surrounded by four or five men of the gay set, all talking to her at once, all trying to be extremely witty, and all wishing that the others would go away. But the Contessa held her own with them, making no distinction, and keeping up the lively, empty, rattling conversation without any apparent difficulty. Pietro sat down in the circle, and made a remark from time to time, to which she generally gave a direct answer, until, little by little, she was talking with him alone, and the others began to drop away as they always did in the course of half an hour when Ghisleri appeared in Maddalena's neighbourhood. It was a thing perfectly understood, as a matter not even worth mentioning. "Will you get me something to drink?" she said when only Spicca was left by her side. Pietro went off towards the supper-room, which was rather distant, and as a dance was just over and the place was crowded, it was some minutes before he could get what he wanted, and go back to her with it. Spicca looked at him with an odd expression of something between amusement and sympathy as he rose and left the two together, and Ghisleri at once saw that something unusual had occurred in his absence, for Maddalena was very pale, and her hand shook violently as she took the glass he brought her. "What is the matter?" he asked anxiously, as he sat down. "Something very disagreeable has happened," she answered, looking round nervously. The sofa on which they sat stood out from one side of a marble pillar, with its back to the side of the room the guests crossed who went directly to the ball-room, and facing the side by which they went from the ball-room to the rooms beyond, and to the supper-room, for there were four doors, opposite each other, two of which opened into the great hall where the dancing was going on. Maddalena was seated at the end of the sofa which was against the pillar, so that a person passing through behind her might easily not notice her presence. "Pray tell me what it is," said Ghisleri. "Just as you went to get me the lemonade, I heard two people talking in a low voice behind me," said Maddalena. "They must have stopped first by the door--I looked round afterwards and saw them, but I do not know either of them--some new people from one of the other embassies, or merely foreigners here on a visit. They spoke rather bad French. There was a man and a lady. They saw you cross the room and the lady asked the man who you were, and the man told her, saying that he only knew you by sight. The lady uttered an exclamation, and said that you were the one man in Rome whom she wished to see because you had been loved by--you know whom I mean--I know it hurts you to speak of her, and I understand it. The man laughed and said there had been others since, and that there was especially a certain Marquise d' Armi, as he called me, who was madly in love with you. The most amusing part of the whole thing, concluded the man, was that you were perfectly indifferent to her, as everybody knew. It was horrible, and I almost fainted. Dear old Spicca went on talking, trying to prevent me from hearing them. It was just like him." The Contessa's lip trembled, and her eyes glittered strangely as she looked at Pietro. "It is horrible," he said, in a low voice. He had thought that he had felt enough emotions during that day, but he was mistaken. Even now there were more in store for him. He was deeply shocked, for he guessed what she must have suffered. "Horrible--yes! But oh--can you not tell me it is not true? Do you not see that my heart is breaking?" "No, dearest lady," he answered tenderly, trying to soothe her. "Not one word of it is true. How can you make yourself unhappy by thinking such a thing?" Maddalena drew a painful breath. He spoke very kindly, but there was no ringing note of passion in his voice as there had once been. With a sudden determination that surprised him, she rose to her feet. "Take me to the ball-room," she said hurriedly. "I shall cry if I stay here." It was almost a relief to Ghisleri to see her accept the first man who presented himself as a partner and whirl away with him into the great hall. He stood leaning against the marble door-post, watching her as she wound her way in and out among the many moving couples. He was conscious that he might very possibly never see her again. Campodonico would of course select pistols, and meant to kill him if he could. He might succeed, though duels rarely ended fatally now-a-days. And if he did, Maddalena dell' Armi would be left to her fate. He was horror-struck when he thought of it. She might never know why he had fought, and she would perhaps believe to her last day that he had sacrificed his life for Laura Arden. He could leave a letter for her, but letters often fell into the wrong hands through faithless servants when the people who had written them were dead. Besides, would she believe his words? She had very little faith in his love for her. He sighed bitterly as he thought how right she was in that. He could see the pale, small, classic features, and the half pitiful, half scornful look of the beautiful mouth. "His last bit of comedy!" she would exclaim to herself, as she tossed his last note into the fire. And again she would be right, in a measure. In the case of risking sudden death, he said to himself that it was indeed a strange bit of comedy. He knew that he did not love her as he should. Why should he fight for her, then? But his manliness rose up at this and smote his cynicism out of the field for a time. That little he owed Maddalena, at least--he could not do less than defend her, at whatever cost, and he knew well enough that he always would. As for his wish that she might know it, that was nothing but his own detestable vanity. For his own part, he wished with all his heart that the next morning might end his existence. He had never valued his life very highly, and of late it had been so little to his taste that he was more than ready to part with it, even violently. The future did not appall him, although, strangely enough, he was very far from being an unbeliever, and had been brought up to consider a sudden end, in mortal sin, as the most horrible and irreparable of misfortunes. To him, in his experience of himself, no imaginable suffering could be worse than the self-doubt, the self-contempt, and the self-hatred which had so often tormented him during the past years. If he were to be punished for his misdeeds with the same torture, even though it were to be never-ending, at least he should bear the pain of it alone, such as it was, without the necessity for hiding it and for going through the daily mummery of life with an indifferent face. And in that state there would be no more temptation of the kind he feared. What he had done up to the hour of death would close the chronicle of evil, and in all ages there would be no more. He was used to such refinements of cruelty as perdition could threaten him with, for he had practised them upon his own heart. So the man "who did not care" stood watching the ball, and people envied him his successes, and his past and present happiness, and all that he had enjoyed in his three-and-thirty years of life, little dreaming of what was even then passing in his thoughts, still less that he was waiting for the message which should inform him of the place and hour fixed for encountering the man who most hated him in the world, and who had once before vainly attempted to take his life. At the other end of the great hall the Contessa dell' Armi had paused in her waltz to take breath, and found herself next to Donna Maria Boccapaduli. "You have not heard the news," said the latter in a low voice, bending towards Maddalena, and holding up her fan before her face. "We have all been dining at Casa San Giacinto, sixteen of us besides themselves--the two Campodonico, ourselves, Pietrasanta--ever so many of us. Ghisleri was there, next to me, and there was a discussion about the evil eye, because Pietrasanta broke a glass just as he uttered the name of the lady we do not mention--you know which--Ghisleri's friend. And then, I do not know how it was, but Ghisleri and Campodonico contradicted each other about it, because Campodonico said she was a jettatrice and Ghisleri said she was not, you know. After dinner the two went and talked in whispers at the other end of the big room, and Ghisleri looked ghastly white, and Campodonico was so angry that his eyes were like coals. A few minutes later, they both went away in a great hurry--Campodonico left his wife there. It certainly looks as though there were to be a duel to-morrow. You know how they hate each other, and how they fought long ago about that wonderful Princess Corleone who died. I can remember seeing her before I was married." The Contessa listened to the end. She could not have grown paler than she was on that evening, but while Donna Maria was speaking the shadows deepened almost to black under her eyes, and the veins in her throat swelled and throbbed so that they hurt her. She succeeded in controlling all other outward signs of emotion, however, and when she spoke her voice was calm and quiet. "I hardly believe that those two will fight," she said. "But, of course, they may. We shall probably know to-morrow." Making a little sign to her partner, she began to dance with him again, and continued to waltz until the music ceased a few minutes later. She stopped near the door where Ghisleri was standing, and looked at him. He immediately came to her side, and she left the man she had been dancing with and moved away with Pietro towards a distant room, not speaking on the way. They sat down together in a quiet corner, and he saw that she was very much moved and probably very angry with him. "Will you please to tell me the truth?" she said, in a hard voice. "I have something to ask you." "Yes. I always do," he answered. "Is it true that there is a quarrel between you and Don Gianforte Campodonico?" "Yes--it is true," replied Ghisleri, after hesitating a few seconds. "And that you had a discussion with him about Lady Herbert at the San Giacinto's dinner table?" "Yes," admitted Ghisleri, who saw that his worst fears were about to be realised. "Are you going to fight?" asked Maddalena, in a metallic tone. "Yes. We are going to fight." "So you have already forgotten what you promised me this afternoon. You said you would do all a man could do to avoid a quarrel--for my sake. Six hours had not passed before you had broken your word. That is the sort of faith you keep with me." Pietro Ghisleri began to think that his misfortunes would never end. For some time he sat in silence, staring before him. Should he tell her the whole story? Should he go over the abominable scene with Campodonico, and tell her all the atrocious insults he had patiently borne for Bianca Corleone's sake, until Maddalena's own name had seemed to set him free from his obligation to the dead woman? He reflected that it would sound extremely theatrical and perhaps improbable in her ears, for she distrusted him enough already. Besides, if she believed him, to tell her would only be to afford his own vanity a base satisfaction. This last view was perhaps a false one, but with his character it was not unnatural. "I have kept my word," he said at last, "for I have borne all that a man can bear to avoid this quarrel." "I am sorry you should be able to bear so little for me," answered Maddalena, her voice as hard as ever. "I have done my best. I am only a man after all. If you had heard what passed, you would probably now say that I am right." "You always take shelter behind assertions of that kind. I know it is of no use to ask you to tell me the whole story, for if you were willing to tell it, you would have told it to me already. No one can conceal fact as you can and yet never be caught in a downright falsehood. Half an hour ago, when we were sitting in that other room, you knew just as well as you do now that you were to fight to-morrow, and you had not the slightest intention of telling me." "Not the slightest. Men do not talk about such things. It is not in good taste, and not particularly honourable, in my opinion." "Good taste and honour!" exclaimed the Contessa, scornfully. "You talk as though we were strangers! Indeed, I think we are coming to that, as fast as we can." "I trust not." "The phrase, again! What should you say, after all? You must say something when I put the matter plainly. It would not be in good taste, if you did not contradict me when I tell you that you do not love me. All things considered, perhaps you do not even think it honourable. You are very considerate, and I am immensely grateful. Perhaps you are thinking, too, that it would be more decent, and in better taste on my part, to let you go, now that I have discovered the truth. I am almost inclined to think so. I have seen it long, and I have been foolish to doubt my senses." "For Heaven's sake, do not be so bitter and unjust," said Ghisleri earnestly. "I am neither. Do you know why I have clung to you? Shall I tell you? It may hurt you, and I am bad enough to wish to hurt you to-night--to wish that you might suffer something of what I feel." "I am ready," answered Pietro. "Do you know why I have clung to you, I ask? I will tell you the truth. It was my last chance of respecting myself, my last hold on womanliness, on everything that a woman cares to be. And you have succeeded in taking that from me. You found me a good wife. You know what I am now--what you have made me. Remember that to-morrow morning, when you are risking your life for Lady Herbert Arden. Do you understand me? Have I hurt you?" "Yes." Ghisleri bowed his head, and passed his hand over his forehead. What she said was terribly, irrefutably true. The vision of true love, revived within the last few days, and delusive still that very afternoon, had vanished, and only the other, the vision of sin, remained, clear, sharp, and cruelly well-defined. He made no attempt to deny what she said, even in his own heart, for it would not be denied. "I cannot even ask you to forgive me that," he said at last in a low tone. "No. You cannot even ask that, for you knew what you were doing--I scarcely did. Not that I excuse myself. I was willing to risk everything, and I did, blindly, for the sake of a real love. You see what I have got. You cannot love me, but you shall not forget me. Heaven is too just. And so, good-bye!" "I hope it may be good-bye, indeed," said Ghisleri. "Not that--no, not that!" exclaimed Maddalena. "I wish you no evil--no harm. I had a right to say what I have said. I shall never say it again--for there will be no need. Take me back, please." She rose to go, and her finely chiselled face was as hard as steel. In silence they went back to the supper-room, and a few moments later Ghisleri left her with Francesco Savelli and went home. On his table he found a note from his seconds, as had been arranged, naming the place and hour agreed upon for the duel, and stating that they would call for him in good time. He tossed it into the fire which still smouldered on the hearth, as he did with everything in the nature of notes and letters which came to him. He never kept a scrap of writing of any sort, except such as chanced to be connected with business matters and the administration of his small estate. He hesitated long as to whether he should write to Maddalena or not, sitting for nearly half an hour at his writing-table with a pen in his fingers and a sheet of paper before him. After all, what could he write? A justification of himself in the question of fighting with Campodonico? What difference could it make now? All had been said, and the end had come, as he had of late known that it must, though it had been abrupt and unexpected at the last minute. It was all the same now whether he should afterwards be said to have fought for Laura or for Maddalena. Besides, in real truth, if it were known, he was fighting for neither. Gianforte's old hatred had suddenly flamed up again, and if he had spoken Maddalena's name it was only because he found that no other means could prevail upon the man he hated to break his solemn vow, and because he knew that no man would bear tamely an insult of that kind cast upon a woman he was bound in honour to defend. But all that had been only the result of circumstances. The quarrel was really the old one in which they had fought so desperately, long ago. The dead Bianca's memory still lived, and had power to bring two brave men face to face in a death struggle. Ghisleri rose from the table and stood before the photograph of the picture which had brought matters to the present pass. For the thousandth time he gazed at the wonderful likeness of her he had loved, perfect in all points, as chance had made it under the hand of a man who had never seen her. "I made a promise to you once," he said, in a low voice, "and I have kept it as well as I could. I will make another, for your dear sake and memory. I will not again bring unhappiness upon any woman." Sentimental and theatrical, the world would have said. But the man who could bear to be unjustly called liar and coward rather than break his oath was able to keep such a promise if he chose. And he did. So far as he was humanly able, too, in the world to which he belonged, he kept the first one also; for, when they bent over him as he lay upon the wet grass a few hours later, the pistol he held was loaded still. The world said that he had been shot before he had time to fire, because he was trying to aim too carefully. But Gianforte Campodonico bared his head and bent it respectfully as they carried Pietro Ghisleri away. "There goes the bravest man I ever knew," he said to his second. CHAPTER XIV. The report that Ghisleri had been killed by his old adversary in a quarrel about Laura Arden spread like wildfire through society. It was not until San Giacinto formally proclaimed that he had been to Ghisleri's lodging, and that, although shot through the right lung, he was alive and might recover, that the world knew the truth. It was of course perfectly evident that Laura was the cause of the difference. Even San Giacinto had no other explanation to suggest, when he was appealed to, and could only say that it seemed incredible that two men should fight with pistols at a dangerously short distance, because the one said that Lady Herbert was a jettatrice, and the other denied it. If Campodonico had been less universally liked than he was, he would have become very unpopular in consequence of the duel; for, although few persons were intimate with Ghisleri, he also was a favourite with the world. The Gerano faction was very angry with both men, though Adele was secretly delighted. It was a scandalous thing, they said, that a duel should be fought about a young widow, whose husband had not been buried much more than two months. Both should have known better. And then, Campodonico was a young married man, which made matters far worse. Duelling was an abominable sin, of course; but Ghisleri, at least, was alone in the world and could risk his soul and body without the danger of bringing unhappiness on others. Gianforte's case was different and far less pardonable. But Casa Gerano and Casa Savelli belonged rather to the old-fashioned part of society, though Adele and her husband were undeniably in the gay set, and there were many who judged the two men more leniently. The world had certainly been saying for some time that Ghisleri went very often to see Lady Herbert, and was neglecting Maddalena dell' Armi. The cruel words the Contessa had overheard at the Embassy were but part of the current gossip, for otherwise mere strangers, like those who had spoken, could not have already learned to repeat them. If, then, Ghisleri was in love with Laura Arden, it was natural enough that he should resent the story about the evil eye. Meanwhile, poor man, no one could tell whether he could ever recover from his dangerous wound. The Contessa dell' Armi was one of the very first to know the truth. She had spent a miserable and sleepless night, and it was still very early in the morning when she sent to Ghisleri's lodgings for news. She was very anxious, for she knew more than most people about the old story, and she guessed that Campodonico would do his best to hurt Pietro. But she had no idea that pistols were to be the weapons, and Ghisleri's reputation as a swordsman was very good. Short of an accident, she thought, nothing would be really dangerous to him. But then, accidents sometimes happened. The answer came back, short and decisive. He was shot through the very middle of the right lung, he had not fired upon his adversary, and he lay in great danger, between life and death, in the care of a surgeon and a Sister of Charity, neither of whom left his side for a moment. Maddalena did not hesitate. She dressed herself in an old black frock she found among her things, put on a thick veil, went out alone, and drove to Pietro's lodgings. Such rash things may be done with impunity in Paris or London, but they rarely remain long concealed in a small city like Rome. He was still unconscious from weakness and loss of blood. His eyes were half closed and his face was transparently white. Maddalena stood still at the foot of the bed and looked at him, while the doctor and the nurse gazed at her in surprise. During what seemed an endless time to them she did not move. Then she beckoned to the surgeon, and led him away to the window. "Will he live?" she asked, hardly able to pronounce the words. "He may. There is some hope, for he is very strong. I cannot say more than that for the present." For a few moments Maddalena was silent. She had never seen the doctor, and he evidently did not know her. "My place should be here," she said at last. "Would an emotion be bad for him--if he were angry, perhaps?" "Probably fatal," answered the surgeon with decision. "If he is likely to experience any emotion on seeing you, I beg you not to stay long. He may soon be fully conscious." "He cannot know me now?" she asked anxiously. "No. Not yet." "Not if I went quite near to him--if I touched him?" The doctor glanced back at the white face on the pillow. "No," he answered. "But be quick." Maddalena went swiftly to the bedside, and, bending down, kissed Ghisleri's forehead, gazed at him for a moment, and then turned away. She slipped a little gold bracelet formed of simple links without ornament or distinctive mark from her wrist, and put it into the Sister's hand. "If you think he is dying, give him this, and say I came and kissed him. If he is in no danger, sell it, and give the money to some poor person. Can I trust you, my sister?" "Yes, madame," answered the French nun quietly as she dropped the trinket into her capacious pocket. With one glance more at Ghisleri's face, the Contessa left the room. A quarter of an hour later she was at home again. The servants supposed that she had gone to an early mass, as she sometimes did, possibly to pray for the soul of the Signor Ghisleri. The man who had gone for news of him had not failed to inform the whole household of Pietro's dangerous state, and as Pietro was a constant visitor, and was generous with his five-franc notes, considerable anxiety was felt in the lower regions for his welfare, and numerous prayers were offered for his recovery. Maddalena sent to make inquiries several times in the course of the day, and towards evening was informed that there was more hope, but that if he got well at all it would be by a long convalescence. She herself saw no one, and no one ever knew what she suffered in those endless hours of solitude. Laura Arden heard of the duel through her mother, who was very angry about it, as has been seen. Laura herself was greatly shocked, for at first almost every one thought that Ghisleri must die of his wound. Having been brought up in Rome, in the midst of Roman ideas, she had not the English aversion to duelling, nor, being an Anglican, had she a Catholic's horror of sudden death. She did not even yet really like Ghisleri. But she was horror-struck, though she could hardly have told why, at the thought that the strong man who had been with her when her husband died, and whom she had talked with so often since, should be taken away without warning, in the midst of his youth and strength, for a word said in her defence. Of course the Princess told her all the details of the story as she had heard them, laying particular stress upon the fact that the duel had been fought for Laura. The seconds in the affair had gravely alleged a dispute about the painter Zichy as the true cause of the quarrel, but the world had found time to make up its mind on the previous evening, and was not to be deceived by such absurd tales. "It is not my fault, mother, if they fought about me," said Laura. "But I am dreadfully distressed. I wish I could do anything." "The best thing is to do nothing," answered the Princess, "for nothing can do any good. The harm is done, whether it has been in any way your fault or not. To think it should all have begun in that insane superstition about the evil eye!" "I never even knew that I was suspected of being a jettatrice. People must be mad to believe in such things. You are right, of course. What could any of us do except make inquiries? Poor man! I hope he will get over it." "God grant he may live to be a better man," said the Princess, devoutly. She had never had a very high opinion of Ghisleri's moral worth, and late events had confirmed her in the estimate she had made. "One thing I must say, my dear," she continued. "If he recovers, as I pray he may, you must see less of him than hitherto. You cannot let people talk about you as they will talk, especially after this dreadful affair." "I will be very careful," Laura answered. "Not that there is any danger. The poor man will be ill for weeks, at the best, and the summer will be almost here before he is out of the house. Then I shall be going away, for I do not mean to keep Herbert here during the heat." The Princess was quite used to hearing Laura speak of the little child in that way, and she had never once referred to her husband by name since his death. She meant that the one Herbert should take the place of the other, once and for always, to be cared for and loved, and thought of at every hour of the day. She had silently planned out her life during the weeks of her recovery, and she believed that nothing could prevent her from living it as she intended. Everything should be for little Herbert, from first to last. She looked at the baby face, in which she saw so plainly the father's likeness where others could see only a pair of big brown eyes, plump cheeks, and a mouth like a flower, and she promised herself that all the happiness she would have made for the one who had been taken should be the lot of the one given to her almost on the same day. Her future seemed anything but dark to her, though its greater light had gone out. The anguish, the agonising anxiety, the first moment's joy, and at last the full pride of motherhood, had come between her and the past, deadening the terrible shock at first, and making the memory of it less keen and poignant afterwards, while not in any way dimming the bright recollection of the love that had united her to her husband. She could take pleasure now in looking forward to her boy's coming years, to the time when he should be at first a companion, then a friend, and then a protector of whom she would be proud when he stood among other men. She could think of his schooldays, and she could already feel the pain of parting from him and the joy of meeting him again, taller and stronger and braver at every return. And far away in the hazy distance before her she could see a shadowy but lovely figure, yet unknown to-day--Herbert's wife that was to be, a perfect woman, and worthy of him in all ways. It might be also that somewhere there were great deeds for Herbert to do, fame for him to achieve, glory for him to win. All this was possible, but she thought little of it. Her ambition was to know him some day to be all that his father had been in heart, and to see him all that his father should have been in outward form and stature. More than that she neither hoped nor asked for, and perhaps it was enough. And so she dreamed on, while no one thought she was dreaming at all, for she was always active and busy with something that concerned the child, and her attention never wandered when it was needed. Her mother watched her and was glad of it all. To her, it seemed very merciful that Arden should have died when he did, fond as she herself had been of him. She had not believed that Laura could be permanently happy with such a sufferer, and she had never desired the marriage, though she had done nothing to oppose it when she saw how deeply her daughter loved the man she had chosen. She was very much relieved when she saw how Laura behaved in her sorrow, and realised that there was no morbid tendency in her to dwell over-long on her grief. One thing, which has already been mentioned, alone showed that Laura felt very deeply,--she never spoke of Arden, even to her mother. On this point there seemed to be a tacit understanding between her and Donald. The faithful old servant seemed to know instinctively what she wished done. When all was over, and while Laura was still far too ill to be consulted, he had taken all Arden's clothes and other little effects, even to his brushes and other dressing things, and had packed everything in his dead master's own boxes as though for a long journey. The boxes themselves he locked up in a small spare room, and laid the key in the drawer of Laura's writing-table with a label on which were written the words, "His lordship's effects." Laura found it the first time she came to the drawing-room, and was grateful to the old Scotchman for what he had done. But she could not bring herself to speak of it, even to Donald, though he knew that she was pleased by the look she gave him. Of course, her manner was greatly changed from what it had been. She never laughed now, and rarely ever smiled, except when she held the child in her arms. But there was nothing morbid nor brooding in her gravity. She had accepted her lot and was determined to make the best of it according to her light. In time she would grow more cheerful, and by and by she would be her old self again--more womanly, perhaps, and certainly more mature, but not materially altered in character or disposition. The short months which had sufficed for what had hitherto been the chief acts of her life had not been filled with violent or conflicting emotions, and it is emotion more than anything else which changes the natures of men and women for better or for worse. The love that had been born of mingled pity and sympathy of thought had risen quickly in the peaceful, remote places of her heart, and had flowed smoothly through the sweet garden of her maidenly soul, unruffled and undeviating, until it had suddenly disappeared into the abyss of eternity. It had left no wreck and no ruin behind, no devastation and no poisonous, stagnant pools, as some loves do. The soil over which it had passed had been refreshed and made fertile by it, and would bear flowers and fruit hereafter as fragrant and as sweet as it could ever have borne; and at the last, in that one great moment of pain when she had stood at the brink and seen all she loved plunge out of sight for ever in the darkness, she had heard in her ear the tender cry of a new young life calling to her to turn back and tend it, and love it, and show it the paths that lead to such happiness as the world holds for the pure in heart. She was calm, therefore, and not, in the ordinary sense, broken by her sorrow,--a fact which the world, in its omniscience, very soon discovered. It did not fail to say that she was well rid of her husband, and that she knew it, and was glad to be free, though she managed with considerable effort to keep up a sufficient outward semblance of mourning to satisfy the customs and fashions of polite society--just that much, and not a jot more. But Adele Savelli said repeatedly that all this was not true, and that only a positively angelic nature like Laura's could bear such an awful bereavement so calmly. It was a strange thing, Adele added, that very good people should always seem so much better able to resign themselves to the decrees of Providence than their less perfect neighbours. Of course it could not be that they were colder and felt less than others, and consequently could not suffer so much. Besides, Laura must have loved Arden sincerely to marry him at all, since it appeared to be certain that the rich uncle who was to have left him so much money only existed in the imagination of the gossips, and had evidently been invented by them merely in order to make out that Laura had a secret reason for marrying that uncle's favourite nephew. But then, people would talk, of course, and all that the relations of the family could do was to deny such calumnious reports consistently and at every turn. Adele was looking very ill when the season came to an end. She had grown thin, and her eyes had a restless, hunted look in them which had never been there before. Her husband noticed that she was very much overcome when she heard the first report to the effect that Ghisleri was killed. She seemed particularly horrified at the statement that the original cause of the duel had been the reputation for possessing the evil eye which Laura Arden had so suddenly acquired, and which, as she herself had been the very first to say, was so utterly unfounded. It was evidently a very great relief to her to hear, later in the day, that Pietro was not yet dead, and might even have a chance of recovery. No one could tell what Gianforte Campodonico thought of the matter. He shut himself up obstinately and awaited events. It is not probable that he felt any remorse for what he had done, or that he would have felt any if he had left Ghisleri dead on the field, instead of with a bare chance of life. He had taken the vengeance he had longed for and he was glad of it, but the impression he had of the man was not the same which he had been accustomed to for so many years. He, who generally reflected little, asked himself whether he could have found the courage to bear what Ghisleri had borne for the sake of the promise they had made together, and which he had been the first to break. He was a brave man, too, in his way, and it would not have been safe to predict that he would fail at any given point if put to the test. But he was conscious that, in the present case, Ghisleri had played the nobler part, and he was manly enough to acknowledge the fact to himself, and to respect his adversary as he had not done before. If he stayed at home and refused to be seen in the world or even at his club immediately after the duel, it was because he would not be thought willing to glory in his victory. But, before many days were gone by, it became apparent, so far as the world could judge, that Pietro Ghisleri would not die of the dangerous wound he had received. It would have killed most men, the surgeon said, but Ghisleri was not like other people. He, the doctor, had never seen a stronger constitution, nor one so perfectly untainted by any hereditary evil or weakness. Such blood was rare now, especially in the old families, and such strength would have been rare in any age. He had no longer any hesitation in saying that the patient had a very fair prospect of recovery, and might possibly be as healthy as ever before the end of the summer. The Sister of Charity went about with Maddalena's bracelet in her pocket, feeling very uncomfortable about it, since she had been quite sure from the first that there was something very sinful in the whole affair. But she was quite ready to fulfil her promise if Ghisleri showed signs of departing this life, which he did not, however, either when he first regained consciousness or later. So she, on her part, said nothing, and waited for the day when she might deliver up the trinket to the Mother Superior, to be sold for the poor, as Maddalena had directed. In that, at least, there could be no harm, and she was very thankful that she was not called upon to deliver the message to Ghisleri himself, for that, she felt sure, would have been sinful, or something very like it. The surgeon was surprised by something else in the case. As a general rule, when a man fights a desperate duel in the very middle of the season, and especially such a man as he knew Ghisleri to be, and is severely hurt, he finds himself cut off from society in the midst of some chain of events in which the whole present interest of his life is engaged. He is consequently disturbed in mind, impatient of confinement, and feverishly anxious to get back to the world,--a state of temper by no means conducive to convalescence. Ghisleri, on the contrary, seemed to have forgotten to care for anything. No preoccupation appeared to possess him; no desire to be back again in the throng made him restless. He was perfectly calm and peaceful, always patient, and always resigned to whatever treatment seemed necessary. The Sister wondered much that a man of such marvellous gentleness and resignation could have found it in him to commit mortal sin in fighting a duel, and, perhaps, far down in her woman's heart, she did not wonder at all at what Maddalena had done on that first morning. The surgeon said that Ghisleri's sweet temper had much to do with his rapid recovery. It need not be supposed from this that his character had undergone any radical change, nor that he was turning, all at once, into the saint he was never intended to be. It was very simple. The events of the night preceding the duel had brought his life to a crisis which, once past, had left little behind it to disturb him. First in his mind was the consciousness that his love for Maddalena dell' Armi was gone for ever, and that she herself expected no return of it. That alone was enough to change his whole existence in the present, and in the immediate future. Then, too, he felt that he had at least settled old scores with Campodonico and had in a measure expiated one, at least, of his past misdeeds, almost at the cost of his life. Morally speaking, too, he had kept his oath to Bianca Corleone, for under the utmost provocation he had refused to fight in the old quarrel, and even when driven to bay and forced upon new ground by Campodonico's implacable hatred, he had stood up to be killed without so much as firing at Bianca's brother. There was a deep and real satisfaction in that, and he was perhaps too ill as yet to torture himself by stigmatising it as a bit of vanity. The world might think what it pleased. Maddalena might misjudge his motives, and Gianforte might triumph in his victory--it all made no difference to him. He was conscious that to the best of his ability he had acted according to the dictates of true honour, as he understood it; and at night he closed his eyes and fell peacefully asleep, and in the morning he opened them quietly again upon the little world of his invalid's surroundings. He was not happy, however. What he felt, and what perhaps saved his life, was a momentary absence of responsibility, an absolute certainty that nothing more could be required of him, because, in the events in which he had played a part, that part had been acted out to the very end. He even went so far as to believe that, if he had died, it would not have made any difference to any one, except that his death might possibly have been an added satisfaction to Campodonico. He would have left no sorrowing heart behind to mourn him, nor any gap in any circle which another man could not fill up. Herbert Arden, the only friend who would have really regretted him, was already dead, and there was no one else who stood to him in any relation of acquaintance at all so close as to be called friendship. All this contributed materially to his peace of mind, though in one respect he was mistaken. There was one person who loved him still, for himself, though she knew well enough that his love for her was dead. And it was of her, though he was mistaken about her, that he thought the most during the long hours when he lay there quietly watching the sunbeams stealing across the room when it was fine, or listening to the raindrops pattering against the windows when the weather was stormy. In her was centred the great present regret of his life, and for her sake he felt the most sincere remorse. He asked himself, as she had asked him, what was to become of her, now that he had left her. The fact that she had been really the one to speak the word and cause the first break did not change the truth in the least. It had been his fault from the first to the last. He had not broken her heart, perhaps, because hearts are not now-a-days easily broken, if, indeed, they ever really were; but he had ruined her existence wantonly, uselessly, on the plea of a love neither pure nor lasting, and he fully realised what he had done. What chance had she ever had against him--she, young, inexperienced, trusting, wretchedly unhappy with a husband who had despised and trodden out the simple, girlish love she had offered--what chance had she against Pietro Ghisleri, the hardened, cool-headed man of the world, whose only weakness was that he sometimes believed himself sincere, as he had with her? He was not happy as he thought of it all. There had been little manliness in what he had done, and not much of the honour which he called his last shred of morality. And yet, in the world in which he had his being, few men would blame him, and none, perhaps, venture to condemn him. But that consideration did not cross his mind. He was willing to bear both condemnation and blame, and he heaped both upon himself in a plentiful measure. Nevertheless, he was conscious of being surprised at the calmness of his own repentance, as he called it rather contemptuously, and he wished himself, as usual, quite different from what he was. And yet he had not forgotten the semi-theatrical resolution to change his life, which he had made on the night before the duel, still less had he any intention of breaking it. He had always laughed at men and women who made sudden and important resolutions under the influence of emotion, and, on the whole, he had never seen any reason for looking upon such gratuitous promises as valid, unless there had been witnesses to them, and human vanity afterwards came into play. But now, in his own case, he meant to try the experiment. It made no difference whether he were vain about it or not, if he succeeded, nor, if he failed, whether he scorned his own weakness a little more than before. No one would ever know, and since by Laura Arden's rigid standard of right and wrong the end to be gained belonged distinctly to the right, he would be in a measure following her advice in regard to life in general. Deeper down in his nature, too, there lay another thought which he would not now evoke, lest he should himself condemn it as sentimental. That secret promise had been honestly intended, and had been addressed to the memory of one who, though long dead, still had a stronger influence over him than any one now living. He hardly dared to acknowledge the truth of this and the real meaning of what he had done, lest, if he failed hereafter, he should have to accuse himself of faithlessness towards the one woman to whom he had been really true, and whom, if she had lived, he would have loved till the end, in spite of obstacles, in spite of mankind, in spite, he added defiantly, of Heaven itself. All this he tried to keep out of sight, while firmly resolving, in his own cynical way, to try the experiment of goodness for once, and to do no more harm in the world if he could help it. He thought of Laura Arden, too, in his long convalescence, and her image was always pleasant to his inner vision, as the impression she had produced on him was soothing to recall. There were times when her holy eyes seemed to gaze at him out of the darker corners of the room, and he tried often to bring back her whole presence. The pleasure such useless feats of imagination gave him was artistic if it was anything, because he admired her beauty and had always delighted in it. He tried to fancy what she was doing, on certain days when he thought more of her than usual, and to follow her life a little, always trying in a vague way to fathom the secret of the character that was so wonderful in his estimation. And always, when he had been thinking of her, he came back to the contemplation of his own immediate interests with a renewed calm and with a peaceful sense that there might yet be better days in store for him--possibly days in which he should himself be better than he had been heretofore. How the world would have jeered, could it have suspected that Pietro Ghisleri was thinking almost seriously of such a very commonplace subject as moral goodness, as he lay on his back, day after day, in the quiet of his room. How gladly would Adele Savelli have changed places with the man who, as she thought, for the sake of a bit of gossip she had invented out of spite, had nearly lost his life! CHAPTER XV. When Ghisleri was at last able to go out of the house, his first visit was to Maddalena dell' Armi. He had written a line to say that he was coming, and she expected him. The meeting was a strange one, for both felt at first the constraint of their mutual position. Ghisleri looked at her face, which had been so hard when he had last seen it, and he saw that it had softened. There were no signs of suffering, however, and her expression was almost as placid as his own. He raised her hand to his lips and sat down opposite to her. Then the light fell on his face and she saw how changed he was. She remembered how he had looked when she had seen him after he was wounded, and she saw that he was almost as pale now as then, and that he was thin almost to emaciation. "Are you really growing strong again?" she asked in a tone of anxiety. "Yes, indeed," he answered with a smile. "I feel as though I were quite well--a little gaunt and weak, perhaps, but that will soon pass. And you--how have you spent your time in all these weeks since I last saw you?" "Very much as usual," replied Maddalena, and suddenly a weary look came into her eyes. "If you care to know--as long as you were really in danger I did not go out. Then I went everywhere again, and tried to amuse myself." "Did you succeed?" asked Ghisleri, trying hard to speak cheerfully. There had been something hopeless in Maddalena's tone which shocked him and pained him. "More or less. Why do you ask me that?" "Because I am interested." "Do you care for me in the least--in any way?" she asked abruptly. "You know that I do--" "How should I know it?" Ghisleri did not reply at once, for the question was not easily answered. Maddalena waited in silence until he should speak. "Perhaps you are right," he said at last. "You have no means of knowing it, and I have no means of proving it. Dearest lady, since we have both changed so much, do you not think you could believe a little in my friendship?" "We ought to be friends--you should be my best friend." "I mean to be, if you will let me." A long silence followed. Maddalena sat quite still, leaning back in a corner of the sofa and looking at a picture on the opposite wall. Ghisleri sat upright on a chair at a little distance from her. "You say that you will be my friend, if I will let you," she said slowly, after several minutes. "Even if you could imagine that I could not wish it, you ought to be my best friend just the same. If I made you suffer every hour of the day as I did on that last night, you ought to bear it, and never have one unkind thought of me. No; do not answer me yet: I have much more to say. You know that I have always told you just what I have felt, when I have told you anything about myself. I was very unhappy when we met at that ball--or, rather, when we parted--so unhappy that I hardly knew what I said. I ought to have waited and thought before I spoke. If I could have guessed that you were to be wounded--well, it is of no use now. I am very, very fond of you. In spite of everything, if you felt the least love for me still, however little, I would say, 'Let us be as we were, as long as it can last.' As it is--" She paused and looked at him. He knew what she meant. If there were a spark of love, she would forget everything and take him back on any terms. For a moment the old struggle was violently resumed in his heart. Ought he not, for her sake, to pretend love, and to live out his life as best he could in the letter of devotion if not in the true spirit of love? Or would not such an attempt necessarily be a failure, and bring her more and more unhappiness with each month and year? He only hesitated for an instant while she paused; then he determined to say nothing. That was really the turning-point in Pietro Ghisleri's life. "As it is," continued Maddalena, a little unsteadily, but with a brave effort, "nothing but friendship is possible. Let it at least be a true and honest friendship which neither of us need be ashamed of. Let all the world see it. Go your way, and I will go mine, so far as the rest is concerned. If you love Lady Herbert, marry her, if she will have you, when her mourning is over." "I do not love Lady Herbert at all," said Ghisleri with perfect truth. "Well--if you should, or any other woman. Let the world say what it will, it cannot invent anything worse than it has said of me already. You owe me nothing--nothing but that,--to be a true friend to me always, as I will be to you as long as I live." She put out her hand, and he took it and pressed it. As she felt his, the bright tears started to her eyes. "What is it?" he asked tenderly, bending towards her as he spoke. "Nothing," she answered hastily. "Your hand is so thin--how foolish of me! I suppose you will grow to be as strong as ever?" He saw how she still loved him, in spite of all. It was not too late even now to renew the comedy, but his resolution had grown strong and unalterable in a few moments. "You are much too good to me," he said softly. "I have not deserved it--but I will try to." "Do not let us speak of all this any more for the present," she replied. "Since we are friends, let us talk of other things, as friends do." It was not easy, but Ghisleri did his best, feeling that the effort must be made sooner or later and had therefore best be made at once. He kept up the conversation for nearly half an hour, and then rose to go. "Are you not very tired?" asked Maddalena, anxiously. "Not at all. I am much stronger than I look." "Indeed I hope you are!" she answered, looking at him sadly. "Good-bye. Come soon again." "Yes, I will come very soon." Ghisleri went out and had himself driven about the city for an hour in the bright spring weather. It was all new to him now, and he looked at people and things with a sort of interest he had long forgotten to feel. A few of his acquaintances recognised him at once, and waved their hats to him if they chanced to be men, or made pretty gestures with their hands if they were women. But the greater number did not know him at first, and stared after the death-like face and the gaunt figure wrapped in a fur coat that had grown far too wide. He was very glad that the first meeting with Maddalena was over, for he had looked forward to it with considerable anxiety. Something like what had actually been said about friendship had been inevitable, as he now saw, but he had not realised how much he was still loved, nor that Maddalena could so far humiliate herself as to show that she cared for him still, and to offer a renewal of their old relations. Even now, could he have seen her pale and tear-stained face as she sat motionless in the place where he had left her, he might possibly have been weak enough to yield, strong as his determination was not to do so. But that sight was spared him, and he was glad that he had held his peace when she had paused to give him an opportunity of speaking. It was far better so. To act a miserable play with her, no matter from what so-called honourable motive of consideration, would be to make her life far more unhappy than it would ultimately be if she knew the truth. He was satisfied with what he had done, therefore, when he went back to his rooms and lay down to rest after the fatigue of his first day out. But the meeting had left a very sad and painful impression, and all that he felt of remorse and regret for what he had done was doubled now. He hated to think that by his fault she was cast upon the world, with little left to save her, "trying to amuse herself," as she had said, and he wondered at her gentleness and kindness to himself, so different from her behaviour at their last meeting. That, at least, comforted him. In a woman who could thus forgive there must be depths of goodness which would ultimately come to the surface. He remembered how often he had thought her hard, unjust, unkind, and, above all, unbelieving, in the days that succeeded the first outbursts of unreasoning love, and how, even while loving her, he had not always found it easy not to judge her harshly. She was very different now. Possibly, since she felt that she had lost her old power over him, she would be less impatient with him when she did not understand him, and when he displeased her. Come what might, treat him as she would, he owed her faithful allegiance and service--and those at least he could give. He could never atone to her, but in the changing scenes of the world he might, by devoting to her interest all the skill and tact he possessed, make her life happier and easier. Before night he received a note from Laura Arden. She wrote that she had seen him driving, though he had not seen her pass, as he had been looking in the opposite direction. If he was able to bear the fatigue of making a call, she begged that he would come to her at any hour he chose to name, as she wished to speak to him. He answered at once that he would be at her house on the following day at three o'clock. He knew very well what she wanted, and why she did not wait until he came of his own accord. She meant to speak to him of the duel, and her questions would be hard to answer, since she was probably in ignorance of many details of his former life, familiar enough to people of his own age. He knew, of course, that the world said he had really fought on her account, and that he could never prevail upon the world to think otherwise. But he was very anxious that Laura herself should know the truth. She might forgive him for having let people believe that she had been concerned in the matter rather than Maddalena dell' Armi, out of womanly consideration for the latter, but she would assuredly not pardon him if she continued to suppose that he had made her the subject of useless gossip. The situation was not an easy one. At the appointed hour he entered her drawing-room. He was almost startled by her beauty when he first saw her standing opposite to him. She had developed in every way during the many weeks since he had seen her. The perfectly calm and regular life she led had produced its inevitable good effect. She, on her part, was almost as much shocked by his looks as Maddalena had been. "Have I not asked too much of you?" she inquired, pushing forward a comfortable chair for him, and arranging a cushion in it. "Not at all. Thanks," he added, as he sat down, "you are very good, but pray do not imagine that I am an invalid." "I only saw you in the street," she said, almost apologetically. "I did not realise how desperately ill you still looked. Please forgive me." "But I should have come to-day or to-morrow in any case," protested Ghisleri. "After what has happened--yes, I think I know why you sent for me. You have heard what every one is saying. The men who came to see me before I could go out told me all about it. I knew beforehand that it would turn out as it has, though we gave our seconds another excuse, as you have probably also heard, and which, if the truth were known, was much nearer to betraying the cause of the quarrel than any one supposed. Am I right? You wished to ask me why I had the impertinence to fight a duel about you. Is that it?" "I would not put it in that way," said Laura. "But I did wish to ask you why you took the matter up so violently. Please do not enter into the question now--you are not strong enough. I am very sorry indeed that I wrote to you." "You need not be, for I am quite able to tell you all about it. I have thought the matter over, and I think you will forgive me if I tell you the whole story from beginning to end. It is a confidence, and I have not the least fear that you will betray it. If you are not willing to hear it, you will always believe that I have wantonly made you the talk of the town. It is entirely to justify myself in your eyes that I ask you to listen to what I am going to say. Some points may shock you a little. Have I your leave?" "Yes--if you really wish to tell me for your own sake. For mine, I do not ask you to tell me anything." "It is for my own sake. I am quite selfish. When you have heard all, you will know more or less the history of my life, of which many people know certain details." He paused and leaned back in his deep chair, closing his eyes a moment as though he were collecting his thoughts. Laura settled herself to listen, turning in her seat so as not to face him, but so that she could look at him while he was speaking. "I have never told any one this story," he began, "for I have never had any good reason for doing so. When I was a very young man I loved the Princess Corleone, who was, by her maiden name, Donna Bianca Campodonico, the daughter of the old Duca di Norba who died of paralysis, and own sister to Gianforte Campodonico, with whom I fought this duel. I loved that lady with all my heart to the day of her death, and being young and tactless, I showed it too much. Her brother, Gianforte, hated me in consequence, because there was talk about his sister and me--and our names were constantly coupled together. I did my best to remain on civil terms with him, but at last he insulted me openly and we fought. This first duel took place a little more than six years ago, in Naples, where Donna Bianca lived after her marriage. Campodonico did his best to kill me, and at last I ran him through the arm. On the ground, without heeding the slight wound which disabled his right arm, he demanded pistols, but the seconds on both sides refused, and declared the affair terminated. As the original challenge had come from me, his position was quite untenable. He sought occasion after that to insult me again, but I avoided him. Then the Princess fell ill. Two days before she died, she had herself carried into the drawing-room, and sent for me. Her brother was already there. She made us both promise that for her sake we would never quarrel again. We joined hands and solemnly bound ourselves, for we knew she was dying. Then I took leave of her. I never saw her again, and I shall not see her hereafter." He paused a moment, but not a muscle of his face betrayed emotion. Laura had listened with breathless interest. "Do not say that," she said softly. "I lived alone for a long time," continued Ghisleri, without heeding her remark. "Then at last I came back to the world, and did many things, mostly bad, of which I need not speak. I fell a little in love, now and then, and at last somewhat more seriously with a lady of whom we will not speak, against whose good name no slander had ever been breathed. Now I come to the events which caused the duel. People have been saying that you have the evil eye and are a jettatrice. The absurd tale is repeated from mouth to mouth, and will ultimately make society here unbearable for you. You are enough of a Roman to understand that. There was a big dinner at San Giacinto's one night, and Campodonico and I sat opposite to each other. He believes in this nonsense and I do not. Pietrasanta mentioned your name, and accidentally broke a glass at almost the same moment. Then a discussion arose about the existence of such a thing as the evil eye, and Campodonico and I talked about it across the table, while everybody listened. We exchanged a few rather incisive remarks, but nothing more. That was the end of the matter so far as you were concerned, and it was owing to this discussion that people said we fought on your account." "I see," said Laura. "It was all a mistake, then?" "Yes. But I suppose Campodonico was irritated. In the drawing-room I lit a cigarette, and stood some time looking at a copy of Zichy's picture of Tamara falling into the Demon's arms. Tamara chances to be a very striking likeness of the Princess Corleone, and if I had reflected that Campodonico might have also noticed the fact, I would not have stood there looking at it as I did. But I forgot. Before I knew it, he was at my elbow, evidently very angry, for he perfectly understood why I liked the picture. He asked me whether I did not think that a solemn promise such as we had made might be broken under certain circumstances. I said I did not think so. He lost his temper completely, and said I was a coward. I still refused to quarrel with him, and he grew more and more insulting, until at last he began a sentence which I would not let him end, to the effect that, could Donna Bianca have been there to judge us both, she might wish the promise broken--I suppose that would have been his inference--if she could have seen that the man she had loved had fallen so low as to love the lady to whom I referred a little while ago. He named her. I answered that Donna Bianca never meant that our promise should shield the liar who slandered a good and defenceless woman, because his name chanced to be Campodonico. We told our seconds that we had quarrelled about the talent of Zichy, the painter of the picture, because no immediate and better excuse suggested itself. That is the whole story." "It is a very strange one," said Laura, in a low voice, and looking up at his pale face. "If people only knew the truth about what they see! Tell me, Signor Ghisleri, is it a fact that you did not fire at him?" "Yes." "Why did you not?" "Because--if you really care to know--I still felt bound to my promise, and I should never have forgiven myself if I had hurt him. Will you say that you understand the rest of the story, and will you forgive me if I let it be thought that the duel was about you?" "Indeed I forgive you," Laura answered without hesitation. "You acted splendidly all through, and I would not--" "Please do not praise me," said Ghisleri, interrupting her with word and gesture. "Whatever I did was only the consequence of former actions of mine, most of which were bad in themselves. Besides, I have told you all this by way of an apology, and I thank you very sincerely for accepting it. Let the matter end there." "Very well. That need not prevent me from thinking what I please, need it?" "I shall always be really grateful for any kind thought you give me." Laura was silent for a moment. She was surprised to find that her old feeling of dislike for him had greatly diminished. She had not even noticed it when he had entered the room, for she had been at once struck by his appearance of ill-health, and her first instinct had been that of sympathy for him. And now, whatever effect his personality produced on her, she could hardly conceal her admiration of his conduct. He had told the story very simply, and she felt that he had told it truthfully, and that she was able to judge of the man from a new point of view. She could not but appreciate the courage he had shown in bearing insult, and at last, in not returning his adversary's fire, and he rose in her estimation because he had done these things for the sake of a woman he had really loved. "May I ask you one question?" she inquired after the pause. "Of course, and I will answer it if I can." "I dare say you remember something you told me about yourself a long time ago--how you distrust yourself, and torment yourself about everything you do. Will you tell me whether you have found any fault with your own conduct in this affair, apart from everything which went before the dinner party at which you met Don Gianforte? It would interest me very much to know." Ghisleri thought over his answer for a few seconds before he gave it. "Except in so far as I involved your name in the affair," he said, "I do not think I reproach myself with anything very definite." He had hardly finished speaking when the door opened, and Donald announced Don Francesco and Donna Adele Savelli. A very slight shadow passed over Laura's face, as she rose to meet her step-sister, but Ghisleri remained cold and impassive. Adele started perceptibly, as Laura had done, when she saw him, and Ghisleri was struck by the change in her own appearance. Her expression was that of a woman who is in almost constant pain, and who has grown restless under it, and fears its return at any moment. Her eyes turned uneasily, glancing about the room in all directions, and avoiding the faces of those present. She was pale, too, and looked altogether ill. "I am so glad to see you, Ghisleri," she said, after she had kissed the air somewhere in the neighbourhood of Laura's cheek. "I had no idea you were out already, and as we are going away to-morrow, I was afraid I might not meet you." "Are you going out of town so soon?" asked Ghisleri, in some surprise. "Yes, I am ill, and they say I must go to the country. Do you remember when you met me in the street, and recommended sulphonal? I took it, and it did me good for some time. But then, all at once, I found it did not act so well, and I lost my sleep again. I want the doctors to give me something, but they say all those things become a habit--chloral, you know, and morphia, and a great many things. As if I cared! I would not mind any habit if I could only sleep--and I see things all night--ugh! it is horrible! Have you ever had insomnia? It is quite the most dreadful thing in the world." She shuddered, and Ghisleri could see well enough that the suffering to which she referred was not at all imaginary. "No," he answered. "I have never had anything of that kind. When I go to bed at all I sleep five or six hours very soundly." "How I envy you that! Even five or six hours--I, who used to sleep nine, and always ten after a ball. And now I very often do not close my eyes all night. The sulphonal did me so much good. Can you not tell me of something else?" "The best way to get over it would be to find out what causes it, and cure that," observed Ghisleri. "Generally, too, a quiet and healthy life, exercise, plain food, and a good conscience will do good." He laughed a little as he spoke, and then he noticed that Adele was looking at him rather strangely. He wondered idly whether her mind were wandering in some other direction. "Of course," he continued, "you have no idea of what produces the trouble. If you could find that out, it would be simpler." "Yes, indeed," assented Adele, with a forced smile. "If all that is necessary were to have a good conscience and walk an hour or two every day, I should soon get well." "I have no doubt you will in any case. Are you going to Gerano, or to your own place?" "To Gerano. It is warmer. Castel Savello is too high for the spring. I should freeze there. It would be a charity if you would drive out and spend a day or two with us, when you are stronger. I wish you would come out and see us, Laura," she said, turning to her step-sister, to whom Francesco was talking in a low voice. "You used to like Gerano when we were girls. Do you remember dear old Don Tebaldo, who used to shed tears because you were a Protestant?" "Indeed I do. I hear he is alive still. It is two years since I was there the last time. Francesco has been telling me all about your illness. I am so sorry. I should think you would do better to consult some good specialist. But, of course, the country can do you no harm." "I hope not," said Adele, with sudden despondency. "I have borne enough already. I could not bear much more." "Nobody can understand what is the matter with her," observed Francesco, and his tone showed that he did not care. "You have let her dance too much this winter," said Laura, addressing him. "You ought to keep her from over-tiring herself." "It is not easy to prevent Adele from doing anything she wishes to do," answered Savelli. "This winter she has insisted on going everywhere. I have warned her a hundred times, but she would not listen to me, and of course this is the result." "When did it begin?" asked Ghisleri, who seemed interested in Adele's mysterious illness. "When did you first lose your sleep?" "You remember," she answered. "We were just talking of our meeting in the street, and the sulphonal. It was about that time--a little before that, of course, for I had been suffering several days when I met you." "Ah, yes--I remember when that was," said Ghisleri, in a tone of reflection. He joined in the conversation during a few minutes longer, and then took leave of the three. Formerly he would have gone to spend an hour or two with Maddalena, but he had no inclination to do so now. He would gladly have stayed with Laura if the Savelli couple had not come. He wished to be alone, now, and to think over what he had done. It was the first time that he had ever told the story of his love for Bianca Corleone to any one, and calm as he had seemed while telling it, he had felt a very strong emotion. He was glad to be at home again, alone with his own thoughts, and with the picture that reminded him of the dead woman. He knew that she would have forgiven him for speaking of her to-day as he had spoken, and to such a woman as Laura Arden. For in his heart he compared the two. There had been grand lines in Bianca Corleone's character, as there were in that of her passionate brother, as Ghisleri believed there must be in Laura Arden's also, and great generosities, the readiness to go to any length for the sake of real passion, the power to hate honestly, to love faithfully, and to forgive wholly--all things which Pietro missed in himself. And Laura had to-day waked the memory of that great love which had once filled his existence, and which had not ended with the life that had gone out before its day, in all its beauty and freshness. He was grateful to her for that, and he sat long in his chair after his lonely meal, thinking of her and of the other, and of poor Maddalena dell' Armi, whose very name, sounding in his imagination, sent a throb of remorse through his heart. A pencil lay near him and he took a sheet of paper and began to write, as he often did when he was alone, scribbling verses without rhyme, and often with little meaning except in their connection with his thoughts. He was no poet. "A sweet, dark woman, with sad, holy eyes, Laid her cool hand upon my heart to-day, And touched the dear dead thing that's buried there. Her saintly magic cannot make it live, Nor sting once more with passionate deep thrill The bright torn flesh where my lost love breathed last. "She has no miracles for me--nor God Forgiveness, nor earth healing--nor death fear. I think I fear life more--and yet, to live Were easy work, could I but learn to die; As, if I learned to live, I should hate death. But I cannot hate death--not even death-- Since that is dead which made death hateful once; Nor hate I anything; let all live on, Just and unjust, bad, good, indifferent, Sinner and saint, man, devil, angel, martyr-- What are they all to me? Good night, sweet rest-- I wish you most what I can find the least. We meet again soon. Have you heard the talk About the latest scandal of our town? No? Nor have I. I care less than I did About the men and women I have known. Good night--and thanks for being kind to me." CHAPTER XVI. Donna Adele Savelli was ill. There was no denying the fact, though her husband had ignored it as long as possible, and was very much annoyed to find that he could not continue to do so until the usual time for moving to the country arrived. As has been said already, the world attributed her ill-health to some unexpected awakening of the family skeleton, and when the Savelli couple suddenly retired to Gerano, it was sure that Francesco had lost money and that they had gone for economy. But there was no lack of funds in Casa Savelli. That ancient and excellent house had, as a family, a keen appreciation of values great and small, and continued to put away more of its income in safe investments than any one knew of. Nor was there any other trouble to account for Adele's illness, so far as any member of the household could judge. Every one else was well, including the children. Everybody was prosperous. It was not conceivable that Adele should have taken Herbert Arden's death to heart in a way to endanger her own health. She might, perhaps, feel some remorse for having spoken of him as she had--for Savelli had discovered that something, at least, of the gossip could be traced to her--but she could not be supposed to care so much as to fall ill. What she suffered from was evidently some one of those mysterious nervous diseases which, in Francesco's opinion, modern medical science had invented expressly in order that it might deal with them. Unfortunately, the particular man of learning who could cure Adele was not forthcoming. The doctors who were consulted said that something was preying on her mind, and when she assured them that this was not the case, they shrugged their shoulders and prescribed soothing medicines, country air, and exercise. She particularly dreaded the night, and could not bear to be left alone for a moment after dark. She said she saw things; when asked what things she saw, she seemed to draw upon her imagination. Francesco began to fear that she might go mad, though there was no insanity in the Braccio family. The prospect was not pleasing, and he would have greatly preferred that she should die and leave him at liberty to marry Laura Arden. He never dreamed that the latter would refuse to wed the heir of all the Savelli, if he were free to ask her hand, and in his cautious, unenterprising fashion he loved her still, while remaining religiously faithful to his wife--and not, on the whole, treating her unkindly. The consequence of all this was that he made her try the simple cure suggested by the doctors, and accompanied her to Gerano in the early spring. The hereditary stronghold from which the head of the Braccio family took his principal title was a vast and gloomy fortress in the lower range of the Sabine mountains, situated in a beautiful country, and overlooking the broad Campagna that lay between it and the distant sea. The great dark walls were flanked by round towers, and were in some places ten and twelve feet thick, so that the deep embrasures of the windows were in themselves like little rooms opening off the great halls behind. The furniture was almost all old, and was well in keeping with the vaulted ceilings, the frescoed friezes, and the dark marble door-posts. Donna Adele's sleeping-chamber was as large as most of the drawing-rooms in the Palazzo Braccio, and her dressing-room was almost of the same size. To reach the hall in which she and her husband dined, it was necessary to traverse five other rooms and a vaulted passage fifty or sixty yards long, in which the steps of any one who passed echoed and rang on the stone pavement, and echoed again during some seconds afterwards in a rather uncanny fashion. The sitting-room was next to the dining-hall, and consequently also at a great distance from the bedrooms. There was more of comfort in it than elsewhere, for the walls were hung with tapestries, and there was a carpet on the floor, whereas in the other apartments there were only rugs thrown down here and there, where they were most needed; here, too, the doors had heavy curtains. But, on the whole, a more ghostly and gloomy place than the castle of Gerano could hardly be imagined, especially at dusk when the blackness deepened in the remote corners and recesses of the huge chambers, and the sculptured corbels of grey stone, high up at the spring of each arch, grew shadowy and alive with hideous grimaces in the gathering dimness. Adele had never been subject to any fear of the supernatural, and the old place was so familiar to her from childhood, that she had looked forward with pleasure to seeing it again. She was attached to almost everything connected with it, to the walls themselves, to her own rooms, to the ugly corbels, to the lame old warder, Giacomo, and to his wife who helped him to take care of the rooms. She was a woman quite capable of that sort of feeling, and capable, indeed, of much more, had it fallen in her path. She could not have hated as she did, if she had not had some power to love also. Circumstances, however, had developed the one far more than the other, for her first great passion had been jealousy. She and Francesco reached the castle in the afternoon of the day following their visit to Laura Arden. The weather was fine and the westering sun streamed through the broad windows and lent everything a passing air of life and almost of gaiety. During the first hours, Adele felt that she must soon be better, and that she could find some rest at last in the atmosphere which recalled her childish days and all her peaceful girlhood. But when the sun was low and the golden light turned to purple and then to fainter hues, and died away into twilight, she shivered as she sat in the deep window-seat, and she called to her husband, telling him to order the lamps. "You used to like the dusk," he observed, as he tugged at the old-fashioned bell-rope. "I cannot imagine what makes you so afraid of being in the dark." "Nor I," she said nervously. "It must be part of my illness. Please have as much light as possible, and lamps in the passage and in our rooms as well." "I suppose candles will do," answered Savelli. "I do not believe there are more than half a dozen lamps out here. Your people always bring them when they come." "Oh, candles, then--anything! Only let me have plenty of light. If there were no night, I should get well." "Unfortunately, nature has not provided that form of cure for invalids," said Savelli, with a laugh. "But we will do our best," he added, always willing to humour his wife in anything reasonable. The servants' quarters were very far away, and several minutes elapsed before a man appeared, and Francesco could give the necessary orders. The gloom deepened, and Adele came from her place at the window, evidently in some sort of distress. She sat down close to her husband--almost cowering at his side. He could not see her face clearly, but he understood that she was frightened. "I wish you would tell me what it is you see in the dark," he said, with a sort of good-natured impatience. "Oh, please do not talk about it!" she cried. "Talk to me of something else--talk, for Heaven's sake, talk, until they bring the lamps! I sometimes think I shall go mad when there is no light." It is not a particularly easy affair to comply, at short notice, with such a request for voluble conversation, especially when there is no extraordinary sympathy between two people, nor any close community of ideas. But it chanced that Savelli had been reading the papers he had brought with him, and he began to tell Adele the news he had read, so that he managed to keep up a fairly continuous series of sentences until the first lamp was placed on the table. "Thank you, Carissimo," she said. "No shade!" she exclaimed quickly, as the man was about to slip one over the light. "Do you feel better now?" inquired Francesco, with some amusement. "Yes--much better," she answered, drawing a long breath, and seating herself by the table in the full glare of the unshaded lamp. "I only ask one thing," she continued: "Do not leave me if you can help it, and go with me when we go to our room. I am ashamed of it, but I am so nervous that I am positively afraid to be alone." "Would it not be better to have a nurse out, to stay with you all the time?" inquired Francesco, who had an eye to his own liberty and comfort, and had no idea of spending several weeks in perpetual attendance on his wife. "And there is your maid, too. She might help." "I have taken such a dislike to that woman that I hate the sight of her." "I suppose that is a part of your illness," answered her husband philosophically. On that first evening he scrupulously fulfilled her wishes, and followed her closely when she went from room to room. He was in a certain degree anxious, for her allusion to possible madness coincided with his own preconceived opinion of her case, and he dreaded such a termination very greatly. He saw that what she said was quite true, and that she was unaffectedly frightened if he left her side for a moment. On the following day he sent a messenger to the city to procure a nurse, for he saw that he could not otherwise count on an hour's freedom. Being a careful man, he wished that Adele might have been contented to be followed about by her maid and a woman from the place, but she refused altogether to agree to such an arrangement. In her nervous condition, she could not bear the constant presence of a person for whom she felt an unreasoning repulsion. Moreover, she had almost decided to send Lucia away and to get some one more congenial in her place. Several days passed in this way, and if she was no better she was not worse. She drove and walked in the spring sunshine, and felt refreshed by the clear air of the country, but the nights were as unbearable as ever,--endless, ghostly, full of imaginary horrors, although the lamps burned brightly in her room till sunrise, and the patient nurse sat by her bedside reading to herself, and sometimes reading aloud when Adele desired it. Occasionally, and more often towards morning, snatches of broken sleep interrupted the monotony of the long-drawn-out suffering. Adele had implored the doctor who had charge of her case to give her opiates, or at least chloral; but he had felt great hope that the change to a country life would produce an immediate good effect, and had represented to her in terms almost exaggerated the danger of taking such remedies. The habit once formed, he said, soon became a slavery, and in nervous organisations like hers was very hard to break. People who took chloral often ended by taking morphia, and Donna Adele had doubtless heard enough about the consequences of employing this drug to dread it, as all sensible persons did. Adele was very far from being persuaded, but as she could not procure what she wanted without a doctor's order, which she could not obtain, she was obliged to fall back on the sulphonal which Ghisleri had recommended to her. She took it in large quantities, but it had almost ceased to produce any effect, though she attributed the little rest she got to its influence. The doctor was to come out and see her at the end of a week, unless sent for especially. Before the seven days were out, however, a crisis occurred, brought about by a slight accident, which made his presence imperatively necessary. One evening, immediately after dinner, Adele had seated herself in a low chair by the table in the drawing-room, and had taken up a novel. For a wonder, it had interested her when she had begun it in the afternoon, and she returned to it with unwonted delight, looking forward to the prospect of losing herself in the story during a few hours before going to bed. Not far from her Savelli sat with that day's papers, gleaning the news of the day in an idle fashion, and smoking a cigarette. He rarely smoked anything else, but for some reason or other, he had, on this particular night, discovered that only a cigar would satisfy him. Many men are familiar with that craving, but the satisfaction of it rarely leads to distinct and important results. Francesco rose from his seat, laid down his paper, and went in search of what he wanted, well knowing that he could get it much faster than by a servant, and forgetting that he must leave his wife alone for a few minutes in order to go to his dressing-room where he kept the box. As has been said, the drawing-room was carpeted, and his step made very little noise. Adele, intensely interested in what she was reading, paid less attention to his movements than usual, and indeed supposed that he had only risen to get something from another table. The heavily curtained door which opened upon the great vaulted passage before mentioned was behind her as she sat, and she did not realise that Francesco was gone until she heard his echoing footsteps on the stone pavement outside. Then she started, and almost dropped her book. She held her breath for a moment and then called him. But he walked quickly, and was already out of hearing. Only the booming echo reached her through the curtains, reverberated, and died away. There was nothing to be done but to wait, for she had not the courage to face the dim passage alone and run after him. She clutched her book tightly and tried to read again, pronouncing almost aloud the words she saw. A minute or two passed, and then she heard the echo again. Francesco was returning. No, it was not his walk. She turned very pale as she listened. It was the step of a very lame man, irregular and painful. The novel fell to the ground, and she grasped the arms of her chair. It was exactly like Arden's step; she had heard it before, in the gallery at her father's palace, where the floor was of marble. Nearer and nearer it came, in a sort of triple measure--two shorts and a long, like an anapæst--and the sharp click of the stick between. She tried to look behind her, but her blood froze in her veins, and she could not move. Every instant increased her agony of fear. A moment more and Herbert Arden would be upon her. Suddenly a second echo, that of Francesco Savelli's firm, quick step reached her ears. Then she heard voices, and as the curtain was lifted she recognised the tones of old Giacomo, the lame warder, who had met her husband in the passage, and was asking for the orders to be given to the carter who started for Rome every other night and brought back such provisions as could not be obtained in Gerano. Adele sank back in her chair, almost fainting, in her sudden relief from her ghostly fears. Savelli talked some time with Giacomo. With a great effort at self-command, Adele took up her novel again and held it before her eyes, while her heart beat with terrible violence after having almost stood still while the fright had lasted. Then Francesco came in, with a lighted cigar between his teeth. "Do you wish to send anything to Rome--any message?" he asked. "Nothing else, Giacomo," he said, as he saw that she shook her head. "Good rest, Excellency," she heard Giacomo say. Then the curtain dropped, the door was closed from without, and she listened once more to the lame man's retreating footsteps--terribly like Herbert Arden's walk, though she was not frightened now. "I asked you not to leave me alone," she said, as Savelli resumed his seat and took up the paper again. "It was only for a minute," he answered indifferently. "I wanted a cigar. I hope you were not frightened this time." "No. But I might have been. Another time, please ring for what you want." Savelli, who was already deep in the local news about Rome, made an inarticulate reply intended for assent, and nothing more was said. Adele took up her book again and did her best to read, but without understanding a word as she followed the lines. That night, in despair, she swallowed a larger dose of sulphonal than she had ever taken before. The consequence was that towards two o'clock she fell asleep and seemed more quiet than usual, as the nurse watched her. An hour passed without her waking, then another, and then the dawn stole through the panes of the deep windows, and daylight came at last. The room was quite light, and Adele was generally awake at that hour. But this morning she slept on. The nurse was accustomed to take away the lamps as soon as Adele needed them no longer, not extinguishing them in the room on account of the disagreeable smell they made. It chanced on this occasion--or fate had decreed it--that one of these gave signs of going out. The nurse rose very softly and took it away, moving noiselessly in her felt slippers, passing through the open door of the dressing-room in order to reach the corridor in which the lamps were left to be taken and cleaned at a later hour. She set the one she carried upon a deal table which stood there, and tried to put it out, so as to leave no part of the wick still smouldering, lest it should smoke. She was a very careful and methodical woman, and took pains to be neat in doing the smallest things. Just now, too, she was in no hurry, for it was broad daylight, and Adele would not be nervous if she awoke and found herself alone. And Adele was awake. She opened her eyes wearily, realised that there was no one beside her, and sat up staring at the bright window. Being nervous, restless, and never at any time languid, she got up, threw a wrapper over her, and went to the door of the dressing-room, meaning to look at the rising sun, which was visible from the window on the other side, the dressing-room itself being at one of the angles of the castle, with a door leading from the corner of it into the tower. Adele paused on the threshold, started, stared at something, turned, and uttered a piercing scream of terror. A moment later she fell in a heap upon the floor. She had distinctly seen Herbert Arden's figure standing at one of the windows, his head and hands alone concealed by the inner shutter which, by an accident, was not wide open, but was turned about half-way towards the panes. He was dressed in dark blue serge, as she had often seen him in life, with rather wide trousers almost concealing the feet, and a round jacket. She had even seen how the cloth was stretched at the place where his shoulder was most crooked, and how it hung loosely about his thin figure below that point. He was standing close to the window, with his back almost quite turned towards her, apparently looking out, though the shutter hid his face. The whole attitude was precisely as she had often noticed it when he was alive, and chanced to be looking at something in the street--the misshapen, protruding shoulder, the right leg bent in more than the other, not a detail was missing as she came upon the vision suddenly in the cold morning light. The nurse was at her side almost instantly, bending over her and raising her as well as she could. A moment later the maid rushed in,--she slept on the other side of the corridor where the nurse had left the lamp,--and then Francesco Savelli himself, who temporarily occupied a room next to Adele's and who appeared, robed in a wide dressing-gown of dark brown velvet, and showing signs of considerable anxiety. He reached the door before which his wife had fainted and lifted her in his arms. As he regained his upright position, his eyes naturally fell upon the figure standing at the window. His sight was not remarkably good, and from the fact of the shutter being half closed the dressing-room was darker than the sleeping-chamber. The impression he had was strong and distinct. "Who is that man?" he asked, staring at what he saw, while he held Adele's unconscious form in his arms. The nurse and the maid both started and looked round. The latter laughed a little, involuntarily. "It is not a man, Excellency," she said. "It is Donna Adele's serge driving cloak. I hung it there last night because there are not enough hooks in the dressing-room for all her Excellency's things." She went to the window and took the mantle, which had been hung upon the knob of the old-fashioned bolt by the two tapes sewn under the shoulders for the purpose. The folds of the lower part had taken the precise shape of a man's wide trousers, and the cape, falling half way only, hung exactly like a jacket, the fulness caused by gathering the upper portion together at one point, giving the appearance of a hump on a man's back. "That was what frightened her," said Savelli, as he turned away with his burden. "I do not wonder--the thing looked just as Lord Herbert did when he used to stand at the window." Adele came to herself in a state of the utmost prostration. Her husband explained to her carefully what had happened, and tried to persuade her that she had been the victim of an optical illusion, but though she did not deny this, he could see that the occurrence had produced a very deep impression on her mind, and had perhaps had an even more serious effect on her nerves. He despatched a messenger to Rome for the doctor, and after doing all he could left her to the care of her nurse and maid and went out for a walk in the hills, glad to be free for a while from the irksome task imposed upon him when he remained at home. While making the most desperate attempts to control herself, Adele was in a state of the wildest and most conflicting emotion. Her strength returned, indeed, in a certain measure after a few hours, but her distress seemed rather to increase than to diminish, when she was able to walk about the room and submit to being dressed. Her maid irritated her unaccountably, too, and at last, giving way to the impulse she had felt so long, she told her that she must go at the end of the month. The maid, Lucia by name, had for some time expected that her days in Casa Savelli were numbered, for Adele had shown her dislike very plainly of late, so that the woman did not show much surprise, and accepted her dismissal respectfully and quietly, promising herself to tell tales in her next place concerning Adele's toilette which, though without the slightest foundation, would be repeated and believed all over Rome. Later in the day Adele shut herself up in her room, at the time when the sunshine was streaming in and making everything look bright and cheerful. She stayed there a long time, and the thoughtful Lucia, watching her through the keyhole, saw with surprise that her mistress spent almost an hour upon her knees before the dark old crucifix which hung above the prayer-stool opposite to the door of the dressing-room. She noticed that Adele from time to time beat her breast, and then buried her face in her hands for many minutes. The nurse was asleep far away and Lucia was quite safe. At last Adele rose, and as though acting under an irresistible impulse sat down at a table on which she kept her own writing materials, and began to write rapidly. For a long time she kept her seat, and her hand moved quickly over the paper. Then, when she seemed to have finished, she took up the sheets as though she meant to read them over, and did in fact read a few lines. She dropped the paper suddenly, and Lucia saw the look of horror that was in her white face. She seemed to hesitate, rose, turned, and made two steps towards the crucifix, then returned, and hastily folded up the lengthy letter and slipped it into a large envelope, on which she wrote an address before she left the table a second time. When she opened the door of the dressing-room to call Lucia, the maid was quietly seated by a window with a piece of needle-work, and rose respectfully as her mistress entered. "Send me Giacomo," said Adele, holding the letter in her hand, but as Lucia went towards the door, she stopped her. "No," she said suddenly. "Take this to him yourself; tell him to have it registered at once, and to bring me back the receipt from the post-office. Tell him to be careful, as it is very important. I am going to lie down. Come to me some time before sunset." Lucia took the letter and went out into the corridor. Adele listened a moment, then went back into her room, bolting the door behind her, as well as turning the key in the lock. Since her fright in the morning, she instinctively barricaded herself on that side. But at present the sunshine was so bright and the place was so cheerful that her fears seemed almost groundless. She lay down and closed her eyes. In spite of all the emotions of terror she had suffered on the previous evening and to-day, and although the writing of any letter so long as the one she had just finished must necessarily be very tiring, she felt better than she had been for a long time, and would perhaps have fallen asleep if the doctor had not arrived from Rome soon afterwards. On learning all that had happened, he yielded at last to necessity, and gave her chloral to take in small doses, showing her how to use it. It was evident that unless she slept she must break down altogether before long, and it was no longer safe to let nature have her own way. He had brought the medicine with him, and gave it into Francesco's keeping, cautioning him not to let her use it in larger quantities than he had prescribed. After giving various pieces of good advice he returned to the city. Lucia gave her mistress the receipt for the registered letter, and Adele put it away in the small jewel-case she had brought with her to the country. That night she took the chloral, and fell asleep peacefully before half-past eleven o'clock, not to awake until nearly nine on the following morning. She felt so much better for the one night's rest that she went for a long walk with her husband, ate well for the first time in many weeks, and went to bed again almost without having felt a sensation of fear all day nor during the evening. Once more the chloral had the desired effect, and on the second morning she began to imagine that she was recovering. The world looked bright and cheerful, the swallows wheeled and darted before her windows, and the thrushes and blackbirds sang far down among the fruit-trees. Even Francesco was less tiresome and unsympathetic than usual. She was in such a good humour that she almost repented of having dismissed Lucia. Then the blow came. The post brought her a letter addressed in a small, even handwriting, very plain and entirely without flourish or ornament--such a hand as learned men and theologians often write. The contents read as follows: "MOST EXCELLENT PRINCESS, I have to inform you that I have just received, registered, and evidently addressed by your most excellent hand, an envelope bearing the Gerano postmark, but containing only four blank sheets of ordinary writing paper. As I cannot suppose that your Excellency has designed to make me the object of a jest, and as it is to be feared that the blank paper has been substituted for a writing of importance, by some malicious person, I have immediately informed your Excellency of what has occurred. Awaiting any instruction or enlightenment with regard to this subject which it may please you, most Excellent Princess, to communicate, I write myself "Your Excellency's most humble, obedient servant, "BONAVENTURA, R.R. P.P.O. Min." Now Padre Bonaventura of the Minor Order of St. Francis was Adele's confessor in Rome. After the long struggle which Lucia had watched through the door, Adele's conscience had got the upper hand, aided by the belief that in following its dictates she would be doing the best she could towards recovering her peace of mind. Not being willing to go to the parish priest of Gerano, who had known her and all her family from her childhood, and who was by no means a man able to give very wise advice in difficult cases, and being, moreover, afraid of rousing her husband's suspicions if she insisted upon going to Rome merely to confess, she had written out a most careful confession of those sins of which she accused herself, and, as is allowable in extreme cases, had sent it by post to Padre Bonaventura. The news that such a document had never reached its destination would have been enough to disturb most people. CHAPTER XVII. Laura Arden's plans for the summer were not by any means settled, but she was anxious to leave Rome soon, both because travelling in the heat would be bad for little Herbert, and because she wished to quit the rather expensive apartment in which she had continued to live after her husband's death. A far smaller and less pretentious dwelling would be amply sufficient for her next winter, and in the meantime she intended to go to some quiet town either in Switzerland or by the seaside, and to keep as much alone as possible. Her mother might be willing to spend a month or two with her, and Laura would be very glad of her company, but there was no one else whose society she desired. She could, of course, go to England and stay at her brother-in-law's house in solemn and solitary state, but she feared the long journey for her child, and she cared little for the sort of existence she must lead in the magnificent country-seat, in the absence of the Lulworths themselves. It would be pleasant to lead a very simple and quiet life somewhere out of the world, and as far as possible from the scene of all her sufferings. If Adele and Francesco had not appeared while Ghisleri was making his first visit, she would probably have asked his advice. He had been almost everywhere, and being himself fond of solitude, would in all likelihood have told her of some beautiful and secluded spot where she could live in the way she desired. But in the presence of her step-sister she had not cared to speak on the subject. After they had left her she thought a long time of Ghisleri and his story, and, for the first time in her life, she wished she might see him again before long. He had shown her a side of himself which she had neither seen nor guessed at before, and she began to understand, dimly at first and then more clearly, the strong liking her husband had always shown for him. He was capable of deep and earnest beliefs and of high and generous impulses, in spite of his contempt for himself and of the irregular life he led. His present existence, so far as she knew anything of it, she condemned as unworthy. She was not, however, a woman so easily shocked at the spectacle of evil in the lives of others as might have been expected. There was a great deal of sound good sense in the composition of her character, and she had seen enough of the world to have learnt that perfection is a word used to define what is a little better than the average. What she had disliked in Ghisleri from her first acquaintance with him was not connected with his reputation, of which, at that time, she had known very little. Besides, though people called him fast and wild and more or less heartless, he was liked, on the whole, as much as any unmarried man in society. He was known to be honourable, courageous, and very discreet, and the latter quality almost invariably brings its reward in the end. That he should have been entangled in more than one love affair was only what was to be expected of such a man, at two or three and thirty years of age, and no one really considered him any the worse on that account, while the great majority of women thought him vastly more interesting for that very reason. Laura was not, perhaps, so entirely different from the rest of her sex as Ghisleri was fond of believing. Her education had not been that of young Roman girls, it is true, and the singular circumstances of her short married life had not developed her character in the same direction as theirs generally was by matrimony. But in real womanliness she was as much a woman as any of them, liable to the same influences and to the same class of enthusiasms. Because she had loved and married Herbert Arden, it did not follow that she could not and did not admire all that was brave and generous and strong, independently of moral weakness and faults. Arden himself, indeed, though he had excited her pity by his physical defects, had commanded her respect by the manly courage he showed under all his sufferings. She had been able to forget his deformity in the superior gifts of intelligence and heart which had unquestionably been his, and, after all, she had loved him most because she had felt that but for an accident he would have been pre-eminently a manly man. Cripple as he was, she had always known that she could rely on him, and her instinct had always told her that he could protect her. But she had never trusted Ghisleri. He had the misfortune to show his worst side to most people, and he had shown it to her. She had seen more than once that he was ready to undertake and carry out almost anything for his friend's sake, and she had been honestly grateful to him for all he had done. But she had not been able, until now, to shake off that feeling of distrust and timid dislike she had always felt in his presence. She had, indeed, succeeded tolerably well in hiding it from him, but it had always made her cold in conversation and somewhat formal in manner, and he, being outwardly a rather formal and cold man had, so to say, put himself in harmony with her key. For the first time in their acquaintance, and under pressure of what he considered necessity, he had suddenly unbent, and had told her the principal story of his life with a frankness and simplicity that had charmed her. From that hour she judged him differently. After that first visit, he went often to see her, and on each occasion he felt drawn more closely to her than before. "You are very much changed," he said to her one day. "Do you mind my saying it?" "Not in the least," Laura answered, with a smile. "But in what way am I different?" "In one great thing, I think. You used to be very imposingly calm with me. You never seemed quite willing to speak freely about anything. Now, it is almost always you who make me talk by making me feel that you will talk yourself. That is not very clearly put, is it? I do not know whether you ever disliked me--if you did, you never showed it. But I really begin to think that you almost like me. Is there any truth in that?" "Yes--a great deal." She smiled again. "More truth than you guess--for I do not mind saying it since it is all over. I did not like you, and I used to try and hide it. But I like you now, and I am quite willing that you should know it." "That is good of you--good as everything you do is. But I would really like to know why you have changed your mind. May I?" "Because I have found out that you are not what I took you for." "Most discoveries of that kind are disappointments," observed Ghisleri, with a dry laugh. "That is just the sort of remark I used to dislike you for," said Laura. "The world is not all bad, and you know it. Yet out of ten observations you make, nine, at least, would lead one to believe that you think it is." "Excepting yourself, we are all as bad as we can be. What is the use of denying it?" "We are not all bad, and I do not choose to be made an exception of. I am just like other people, or I should be if I were placed as they are. I not only am sure that you are not a bad man, but I am quite convinced that in some ways you are a very good one." "What an odd mistake!" "Why do you persistently try to make yourself out worse than you are, and to show your worst side to the world?" "I suppose that is the side most apparent to myself," answered Ghisleri. "I cannot help seeing it." "Because you are not Launcelot, you take yourself for Cæsar Borgia--" "That would be flattering myself too much. Borgia was by far the more intelligent of the two. Say Thersites." "I know nothing about Thersites." "Then say Judas. There seems to be very little difference of opinion as to that personage's moral obliquity," Ghisleri laughed. "Very well," said Laura, gravely. "I suppose you have no doubt, then, that Judas would have acted as you did in your affair with Don Gianforte. He would, of course, have submitted to insult rather than break a promise, and would have allowed--" "Will you please stop, Lady Herbert?" Ghisleri fixed his blue eyes on her. "No, I will not," answered Laura, with decision. "What I like about you is precisely what you try the most to hide, and I mean to see it and to make you see it, if possible. You would be much happier if you could. I suppose that if the majority of people could hear us talking now, they would think our conversation utterly absurd. They would say that you were posing, in order to make yourself interesting, and that I was enough attracted by you to be deceived by the comedy. Is not that the way the world would look at it?" "Probably," assented Ghisleri. "Perhaps I am really posing. I do not pretend to know." "I am willing to believe that you are not, if you will let me, and I would much rather. In the first place, you are, at all events, not any worse than most men one knows. That is evident enough from your actions. Secondly,--you see I am arguing the case like a lawyer,--if you had not a high ideal of what you wish to be, you would not have such a poor opinion of what you are. Is that clear?" "If there were no right, there could not possibly be any wrong. But black would be black, even if you could only compare it with blue, green, and yellow, instead of with white." "I am not talking of chromolithographs," said Laura. "What I say is simple enough. If you did not wish to be good, and know what good means, and if you had not a certain amount of goodness in you, you would not think yourself so bad. And you are unhappy, as you have told me before now, because you think all your motives are insincere, or vain, or defective in some way. I suppose you wish to be happy, and if you do, you must learn to find some satisfaction in having done your best. I have said precisely what I mean, and you must not pretend to misunderstand me." "Think yourself good, and you will be happy," observed Ghisleri. "That is the modern form of the proverb." "Of course it is, and the better reason you really have for thinking yourself good, the more real and lasting your happiness will be." Ghisleri laughed to himself, and at himself, as he went away, for being so much impressed as he was by what Laura said. But he could not deny that the impression had been made and remained for some time after he had left her. There was a healthy common-sense about her mind which was beginning to act upon the tortuous and often morbid complications of his own. She seemed to know the straight paths and the short cuts to simple goodness, and never to have guessed at the labyrinthine ways by which he seemed to himself to be always trying to escape from the bugbear sent to pursue him by the demon of self-mistrust. He laughed at himself, for he realised how utterly impossible it would always be for him to think as she did, or to look upon the world as she saw it. There had been a time when he had thought more plainly, when a woman had exerted a strong influence over him, and when a few good things and a few bad ones had made up the sum of his life. But she was dead, and he had changed. Worse than that, he had fallen. As he sat in his room and glanced from time to time at the only likeness he had of Bianca Corleone, he thought of Beatrice's reproach to Dante in the thirty-first canto of the "Purgatory": "And yet, because thou'rt shamed of me in all Thy sin, and that in later days to come Thou mayst be brave, hearing the Siren's voice Sow deep the seed of tears and hear me speak. So shalt thou know how thou should'st have been moved By my dead body in ways opposite. Nor art nor nature had the power to tempt thee With such delight as that fair body could In which I lived--which now is scattered earth-- And if the highest joy was lost to thee By my young death, what mortal living thing Should have had strength to drag thee down with it?" As he repeated the last words he started for they reminded him with painful force of Gianforte Campodonico's insulting speech, and he detested himself for even allowing the thought to cross his mind--for allowing himself to repeat Beatrice's words up to that point. It was he who had dragged down Maddalena dell' Armi to his level, not she who had made him sink to hers. And yet Campodonico had said almost the same thing as Beatrice, and certainly without knowing it. In his heart he knew that Bianca might have reproached him so, but then, deeper still, he knew that the reproach, from her lips, would have fallen on himself alone, and would never have been meant for Maddalena. Ghisleri fell to thinking over his own life and the lives of others, in one of those black moods which sometimes seized him and in which he believed in no one's motives, from his own upward. In the course of his lonely and bitter meditations, he came across an idea which at first seemed wild and improbable enough, but which, little by little, took shape as he concentrated his attention upon it, and at last chased every other memory away. He was not naturally an over-suspicious man, but when his suspicions were once roused he was apt to go far in pursuit of the truth, if the matter interested him. He rose and got a book from the shelves which lined one side of the wall, and began to turn over the pages rapidly, until he stopped at the place he was looking for. He read three or four pages very carefully twice over and returned the volume to its place. Then he sat down to think, and did not move for another quarter of an hour. At the end of that time he called his servant, a quiet, hard-working fellow from the Abbruzzi, who rejoiced in the name of Bonifazio. "Do you happen to know," he asked, "if there was much scarlet fever in the city last winter? I have always wondered how poor Lord Herbert caught it." Bonifazio had known Lord Herbert for years, just as Donald had known Ghisleri, for the two friends had often made short journeys together, taking their servants with them. The Italian thought a long time before he gave an answer. "No, Signore. I do not remember hearing that there were many cases. But then, I am not in the way of knowing. It may have been." "You are a very discreet man, Bonifazio," said Ghisleri. "Lord Herbert fell ill on the day after he had dined in Casa Savelli. Do you think you could find out for me whether any one of the servants had the scarlet fever at that time?" "Perhaps, signore. I will try. I know Giuseppe, the butler, who is a very good person, but who is not fond of talking. When there is such an illness they either send the servants to the hospital, in the Roman houses, or else they put them in an attic and try not to let any one know. For the rest, I will do what I can. You say well, Signore, for it is possible that the blessed soul of the Milord caught the fever at the dinner in Casa Savelli." "That is what I think," said Ghisleri. And he thought a good deal more also, which he did not communicate to his man. Bonifazio, as his master said, was discreet. He was also very patient and very uncommunicative, as the men of the Abbruzzi often are. They make the best servants when they can be got, for, in addition to the good qualities most of them possess in a greater or less degree, they are almost always physically very strong men, though rarely above middle height, and often extremely pale. Ghisleri knew that so soon as Bonifazio had anything to tell, he would tell it without further question or reminder. Several days passed, during which Ghisleri, who gained strength rapidly, began to resume his former mode of life, went to the club, saw his friends, and made a few visits. He went more than once to Maddalena's house and stayed some time with her when he found her alone. Little by little he fancied that her look was changing and growing more indifferent. He was glad of it. He wished that he might be to her exactly what she was to him. That, indeed, could never be, but he wished it were possible. He knew that when she ceased to love him altogether, she could never feel friendly devotion, gratitude, or respect for him, and he felt all three for her in a far greater degree than she could imagine. On the whole, during that time their relations were peaceable, and altogether undisturbed by the frequent differences that had so often nearly estranged them from one another in earlier days. There was, of course, an air of constraint about their meetings, more evident in Maddalena's manner than in Ghisleri's, and the latter hardly hoped that this could ever quite wear off and leave at last a sincere and true friendship behind it. That was, indeed, the best that could be hoped for either of them, and he had no right to expect the best, nor anything approaching to it. One evening as he was dressing for dinner, Bonifazio gave him the news he desired. It had not been easy to extract any communication on the subject from old Giuseppe, the Savelli's butler, but such as he had at last given was clear, concise, and to the point. There had been a case of scarlet fever in the house. Donna Adele's maid had taken it, and was just convalescent at the time when the Ardens dined with Adele and her husband. The woman's name was Lucia, and on falling ill she had been at once removed to a distant room in the upper part of the palace. The case had been rather a severe one, Giuseppe believed, and it was only within the last few weeks that Lucia seemed to have regained her strength. She was at present at Gerano with her mistress, but had written to the wife of the Savelli's porter saying that she had been dismissed, and was to leave at the end of the month, and asking for assistance in finding a new place. Ghisleri was satisfied for the present. It was quite clear that Arden must have caught the fever that killed him so suddenly in Casa Savelli. Whether Donna Adele had in any way communicated the contagion was another matter, and not easily decided. Her inexplicable nervousness, beginning about the time that Arden died, might be accounted for on the ground that she was aware of having been the unintentional cause of his illness, and felt that by a little precaution she might have averted the catastrophe. The idea was constantly present in Ghisleri's mind, but it lacked detail and clearness, and constituted at most a rather strong suspicion. Of course it was quite possible, and, considering Adele's character, more than likely, that she had never been near the maid during her illness. If she had never had the scarlet fever herself, it was quite certain. But that was a point easily settled, and was a very important one. On the following day, Ghisleri called at the Palazzo Braccio. The Princess received him, as she always did, without any signs of satisfaction, but without marked coldness. To her he was always "that wild Ghisleri," and she thoroughly disapproved of him, wishing that he would not visit her daughter so often. He was quite aware of the feeling she entertained towards him, and was always especially careful in his conversation with her. In spite of her long residence in Rome, as a Roman, and among Romans, she had remained altogether English in nature. Laura, English on both sides by her birth, had far less of prejudice than her mother, and was altogether more of a cosmopolitan in every way. On the present occasion, Ghisleri led the conversation so as to speak of her. He began by asking the Princess where she herself meant to spend the summer, and whether she intended to be with her daughter. "I hope to be with her a great part of the time," she answered. "I do not like to think of her as travelling about the world alone. Indeed, I do not at all approve of her living without a companion, as she insists upon doing. She is far too young, and people are far too ready to talk about her." "She has such wonderful dignity," answered Ghisleri, "that she could do with impunity what most women could not do at all. Besides, her mourning protects her for the present, and her child. She is looking wonderfully well--do you not think so?" "Yes. When one thinks of all she has suffered, it is amazing. But she was always strong." "I should suppose so. Any one else would have caught the scarlet fever." "As for that," said the Princess, unsuspiciously, "people rarely have it twice." "She has had it, then." "Oh, yes. Both the girls had it at the same time, when they were little things. Let me see--Laura must have been six years old then. They had it rather badly, and I remember being terribly anxious about them." "I see," answered Ghisleri, carelessly. "That accounts for it. But to go back to what we were speaking of, I wonder that Lady Herbert does not spend the summer with you at Gerano, if you go there as usual." "I do not think she will consent to that," said the Princess, rather coldly. "She says she prefers the north for the baby. It is quite true that it is often very hot at Gerano." "Donna Adele was good enough to ask me to go out and spend a day or two while she is there. It must be very pleasant just now, in the spring weather." "Why do you not go?" asked the Princess, with more warmth, for she preferred that Ghisleri should be where he could not see Laura every day, as she believed he now did. "You would be doing them both a kindness. Poor Adele was obliged to go to the country against her will--she is in such a terribly nervous state. I really do not know what to make of it." "What news have you of her?" inquired Ghisleri, in a tone of polite solicitude. "Is she at all better?" "She was better after the first few days. Then it appears that she had a fright--I do not quite understand how it was from what Francesco wrote to my husband--but it seems to have been one of those odd accidents--optical illusions, I suppose--which sometimes terrify people." "How very unfortunate! What did she fancy she saw?" "It was absurd, of course!" answered the Princess, who had no special reason for being reticent on the subject. "It seems that there was a blue cloak of hers hanging somewhere in her dressing-room,--at a window, I believe,--and she went in suddenly very early in the morning before it was quite broad daylight, and took the cloak for a man. In fact she thought it was poor dear Arden. You know he always used to wear blue serge clothes. Francesco saw it himself afterwards and says that it was extraordinarily like. But I cannot understand how any one in their senses could be deceived in that way. Adele is dreadfully overwrought and imaginative. She has danced too much this winter, I suppose." When Ghisleri went away he was almost quite persuaded that Adele was conscious of having communicated the fever to Arden. Of course, it might all be mere coincidence, but to him the evidence seemed strong. He wrote a note to Adele, asking whether he might avail himself of her invitation, and spend a day at Gerano. Her answer came by return of post, begging him to come at once, and to stay as long as possible. The handwriting was so illegible that he had some difficulty in reading it. To judge from that, at least, Adele was no better. Before leaving Rome, he thought it best to inform Laura of his intended visit. He had never spoken of her step-sister in a way to make her suppose that he disliked her, but Laura knew very well what part he had played at the time when Adele was spreading slanderous reports, for her mother had repeated the story precisely as the Prince had told it to her. Ghisleri, of course, was not aware of this, for Arden had not mentioned the matter to him, unless his reference to the enemies he and Laura had in Rome, during the last conversation he had with his friend, could be taken as implying that Ghisleri knew as much as he himself. But in any case, he was sure that Laura would be surprised at his going to Gerano, even for a day, and it was better to warn her beforehand, and if possible give her some reasonable explanation of his conduct. He chose to refer his visit at once to motives of curiosity, together with a natural desire to breathe the purer air of the country, now that he was able to make the short journey without fatigue or danger. "I have never been to Gerano," he added. "It is said to be a wonderful place--one of the finest mediæval castles in this part of the world. I really wish to see it--they say the air is good--and since Donna Adele is so kind as to ask me, I shall go." "You would see it better if you went when my mother and step-father are there. He would show you everything and give you all sorts of historical details which Adele has forgotten and which Francesco never knew." "No doubt, but there is one objection," answered Ghisleri. "They have never asked me. I am not a favourite with the Princess. I am sure you know that." "She thinks you are very wild," said Laura, with a smile. "She disapproves of you on moral grounds--not at all in the way I used to--and still do, sometimes," she added, incautiously. "Still?" "Oh, it is very foolish! Do not talk about it. When are you going out?" Laura had undeniably felt a sudden return of her old distrust in him, when she had heard of the visit. It was natural enough that she should, considering what she knew. She suspected some new and tortuous development of his character, and would have instinctively drawn back from the intimacy she felt was growing up between him and herself, had she not by experience found out that she might be quite wrong about him after all. She tried, at the present juncture, to shake off the sensation which was now far more distasteful to her than it had formerly been, in proportion as she had fancied that she understood him better. But she could not altogether succeed. It was too strange, in her opinion, that he should willingly be Adele's guest, and put himself under even a slight obligation to her. It showed, she thought, how individual views could differ in regard to friendship. She was even rather surprised to find that she was asking herself whether, if Gianforte and Christina Campodonico possessed a habitable castle and invited her to stop with them, she would accept, considering that Gianforte had almost killed her husband's best friend. She unhesitatingly decided that she would not, and resented Ghisleri's willingness to receive hospitality from one who, as he well knew, had foully slandered both Arden and herself. Her doubts were certainly justifiable to a certain extent. But there was no immediate probability that they would be cleared away for the present. Ghisleri understood her perfectly, and wondered whether he were not risking too much in endangering a friendship so precious to him for the sake of following out a suspicion which might, in the end, prove to have been altogether without foundation. On the other hand, his natural obstinacy of purpose when once called into play was such as not to leave the smallest hesitation in his mind between doing what he had determined to do, or not doing it, when he had once made up his mind, irrespective of consequences. Having lost sight of the virtue of constancy, he clung to a vicious obstinacy as a substitute. CHAPTER XVIII. When Adele had read Padre Bonaventura's letter twice over and had realised its meaning, she behaved like a person stunned by an actual blow. She sank into the nearest chair, utterly overcome. She had barely the presence of mind to tear up the sheet of paper into minute shreds, which she gathered all in one hand, until she could find strength to scatter them out of the window. The position was a terrible one indeed, and for a long time she was unable to think connectedly about it, or of anything else. But for the two nights of sound sleep she had got by taking the chloral, she must inevitably have broken down. As it was, her strong constitution had asserted itself so soon as she had been able to rest, and she was better able to meet this new and real trouble than she had been to face the imaginary horror of Herbert Arden's presence in her dressing-room. But even so, half an hour elapsed before she was able to rise from her seat. She tossed the scraps of paper out of the window and watched them as the wind chased them in all directions, upwards and downwards, upon the castle wall. Then, all at once, she began to think, and her brain seemed to act with an accuracy and directness it had never had before. Either the letter had been opened in the house or at the post-office. It could not have been opened in Rome, or at least, the probabilities were enormously against such an hypothesis. It was scarcely more like that the man at the Gerano post-office should have ventured to tamper with a sealed envelope coming from the castle, and for which he had given a receipt before taking charge of it. He could not have the smallest interest in reading Donna Adele's correspondence, and he had everything to lose if he were caught. He would certainly not have supposed that she or her husband, having but lately left the city, were sending back a sum of money in notes large enough to make it worth his while to incur such a risk. In other words, the theft had been committed in the house, and no one but Lucia could have been the thief. Lucia had been summarily dismissed; Lucia was the only servant in the establishment who had serious cause for discontent; Lucia had guessed from the address that the letter contained something at least of the nature of a confession, and had resolved to hold her mistress in her power. Moreover, it was possible--barely possible--that Lucia knew something else. In any case, she had read every word Adele had written with her own hand, and Adele knew very well why the woman had not returned the sheets to the envelope after mastering their contents. She was utterly, hopelessly, and entirely in Lucia's power. The maid would go from her to a new situation, and wherever she might be would always be able to control Donna Adele's life by merely threatening to betray what she knew to the person or persons concerned. Adele felt that her courage was almost failing her in this extremity, at a time when she needed more than she had ever possessed. And yet it was necessary to act promptly, for the maid might even now be engaging herself with some one else. Come what might, she must never leave Casa Savelli, if it cost Adele all the money she could beg of her husband or borrow of her father to keep the woman with her. First of all, however, she must regain some sort of composure, lest Lucia should suspect that the post had brought her news of the loss of the document. She looked at herself in the glass and scrutinised every feature attentively. She was very pale, but otherwise was looking better than two days earlier. Any kind of stimulant, as she knew, sent the blood to her face in a few minutes, and she saw that what she needed was a little colour. A teaspoonful of Benedictine cordial, of which she had a small flask in her dressing-case, was enough to produce the desired effect. The doctor had formerly recommended her to take it before going to sleep, but she did not like such things, and the flask was almost full. She saw in the mirror that the result was perfectly satisfactory, and when she at last met her husband he remarked that her appearance was very much improved. "I feel so much better!" she exclaimed, knowing that she was speaking the first words of a comedy which would in all probability have to be played during the rest of her life. "I always said that if they would only give me something to make me sleep I should get well at once." She walked again on that day, and by an almost superhuman effort kept up appearances until bedtime, even succeeding in eating a moderately abundant dinner. That night she told Lucia that, on the whole, she would prefer to keep her, that she had always been more than satisfied with her services, and that if she had suddenly felt an aversion to her, it was the result of the extreme nervousness she had suffered of late. Now that she could sleep, she realised how unkind she had been. Lucia humbly thanked her, and said that she hoped to live and die in the service of the most excellent Casa Savelli. Thereupon Adele thanked her too, said very sweetly that she was a good girl and would some day be rewarded by finding a good husband, and ended by giving her five francs. She reflected that to give her more might look like the beginning of a course of bribery, and that to give nothing might be construed as proceeding from the fear of seeming to bribe. The second day could not be harder than the first, she said to herself, as she swallowed her chloral and laid her head upon the pillow, to be read to sleep by the nurse. She slept, indeed, that night, but not so well as before, and she awoke twice, each time with a start, and with the impression that Lucia was reciting the contents of the lost letter to Laura Arden and a whole roomful of the latter's friends. Under the circumstances, she behaved with a courage and determination admirable in themselves. Few women could have borne the constant strain upon the faculties at all, still fewer after such illness as she had suffered. But she was really very strong, though everything which affected her feelings and thoughts reacted upon her physical nature as such things never can in less nervously organised constitutions. She bore the excruciating anxiety about the lost confession better than the shadowy fear of the supernatural which still haunted her in the hours of the night. On the third day she begged her husband to increase the dose of chloral by a very small quantity, saying that if only she could sleep well for a whole week she would then be so much better as to be able to give it up altogether. Savelli hesitated, and at last consented. Since she had seemed so much more quiet he dreaded a return of her former state, for he was a man who loved his ease and hated everything which disturbed it. The doctor had particularly cautioned him to keep the chloral put away in a safe place, warning Francesco that the majority of persons who took it soon began to feel a craving for it in larger quantities, which must be checked to avoid the risk of considerable damage to the health in the event of its becoming a habit. It was, after all, only a palliative, he said, and could never be expected to work a cure on the nerves except as an indirect means to a good result. Francesco kept the bottle in his dressing-bag, which remained in his own room and was fitted with a patent lock. He yielded to Adele's request on the first occasion, and she went with him as he took the glass back to strengthen the dose. "Why do you keep it locked up?" she said. "Do you suppose I would go and take it without consulting you?" "The doctor told me to be careful of it," he answered. "The servants might try a dose of it out of curiosity." He took what he considered necessary and locked the bag again, returning the key to his pocket. Two or three days passed in this way. Adele began to feel that she longed for the night and the soothing influence of the chloral, as she had formerly longed for daylight to end the misery of the dark hours. The days were now made almost intolerable for her by the certainty that her maid knew her secret, and by the necessity for treating the woman with consideration. Yet she could do nothing, and she knew that she never could do anything to lessen her own anxiety, as long as she lived. She was much alone, too, during the day. She walked or drove with her husband during two or three hours in the afternoon, but the rest of the time hung idly on her hands. It is true that his society was not very congenial, and under ordinary conditions she would rather have been left alone than have been obliged to talk with him. At present, however, she thought less when she was with him, and that was a gain not to be despised. She had quite forgotten that she had asked Ghisleri to come out and spend a day or two, when his note came, reminding her of the invitation, and asking if he still might accept it. Francesco liked him, as most men did, and was glad that any one should appear to vary the monotony of the dull country life with a little city talk. He bade her write to Pietro to come and stay as long as he pleased, if she herself cared to have him. She concealed her satisfaction well enough to make Francesco suppose that she wished the guest to come for his sake rather than her own. Ghisleri started early, taking his servant with him, and reached Gerano in time for the midday breakfast. Francesco Savelli received him with considerable enthusiasm, and Adele's habitually rather forced smile became more natural. Both felt in different ways that the presence of a third person was a relief, and would have been delighted to receive a far less agreeable man than their present guest. They overwhelmed him with questions about Rome and their friends. "Of course you have seen everybody and heard everything, now that you are so much better," said Adele, as they sat down to breakfast in the vaulted dining-room. "You must tell us everything you know. We are buried alive out here, and only know a little of what happens through the papers. How are they all? Have you seen Laura again, and how is the baby? My step-mother writes that she is going to spend the summer with them in some place or places unknown. I never thought of her as a grandmother when my own children were born--of course she is not my mother, but it used to seem just the same. What is Bompierre doing? And Maria Boccapaduli? I am dying to hear all about it." Ghisleri laughed at the multitude of questions which followed each other almost without a breathing-space between them. "Donna Maria would have sent you her love if she had known that I was coming to Gerano," he answered. "As for Bompierre, he is an inscrutable mixture of devotion and fickleness. He attaches himself to the new without detaching himself from the old. He worships both the earthly and the Olympian Venus. He is a good fellow, little Bompierre, and I like him, but it is impossible for any man to adore women at the rate of six at a time. I begin to think that he must be a very deep character." "That is the last thing I should say of him," observed Savelli, who was deficient in the sense of humour. "How literal you are, Francesco," laughed his wife. "And yourself, Ghisleri--tell us about yourself. Are you quite well again? You still look dreadfully thin, but you look better than when I saw you last. What does your doctor say?" "He says that if I do not happen to catch cold, or have a choking fit, or a cough, or any of fifty things he names, and if I do not chance to get shot in the same place again, in the course of a year or two I may be as good a man as ever. It appears that I have a good constitution. I always supposed so, because I never had anything the matter with me, so far as I knew." "No one will ever forgive Gianforte!" exclaimed Adele. "If you had died, he would have had to go away for ever. Everybody says he was utterly in the wrong." "The matter is settled," said Ghisleri, "and I do not think either of us need have anything to say about the other's conduct in the affair. I suppose you have heard that the ministry has fallen," he continued, turning to Savelli. "Yesterday afternoon--the old story, of course--finance." "For Heaven's sake do not begin to talk politics at this hour," protested Adele. "To-night, when I am asleep, you can smoke all the cigars in the house, and reconstitute a dozen ministries if you like. I want to hear all about my friends. You have not told me half enough yet." "Where shall I begin? Ah, by the bye, there is an engagement, I hear. I have not left cards because it is not official. Pietrasanta and Donna Guendalina Frangipani--rather an odd match, is it not?" "Pietrasanta!" exclaimed Adele. "Who would have thought that! And Guendalina, of all people! But they will starve, my dear Ghisleri; they will positively not have twenty thousand francs a year between them." "No," said Savelli, "you are quite right, my dear--twelve--seventeen--eighteen thousand five hundred, almost exactly." Savelli was intimately acquainted with the affairs of his friends, and both parties were related to him in the present case. He prided himself upon his extreme exactness about all questions of money. So they talked and gossiped throughout the meal. Ghisleri knew just what sort of news most amused his hostess, and as usual he succeeded in telling her the truth about things and people without saying anything spiteful of any one. He had resolved, too, that he would make himself especially agreeable to the couple in their voluntary exile. He had come with a set purpose, and he meant to execute it if possible. As he was evidently not yet strong, Savelli proposed that they should drive instead of walking. Ghisleri acceded readily, though he would have preferred to stay at home after having travelled nearly thirty miles in a jolting carriage during the morning. The sensation of physical fatigue which he constantly experienced since he had been wounded was new to him and not at all pleasant. Nothing of any importance occurred during the afternoon. The conversation continued in much the same way as it had begun at breakfast, interspersed with remarks about agriculture and the probabilities of crops. Savelli understood the financial side of farming better than Ghisleri, but the latter had a much more practical acquaintance with the capabilities of different sorts of land. After they had returned to the castle, Francesco left Ghisleri with his wife in the drawing-room, and went off to his own quarters to talk with the steward of the estate. Tea was brought, but Pietro noticed that Adele did not take any. "I suppose you are afraid that it would keep you awake at night," he remarked. "How is your insomnia? Do you sleep at all?" "I am getting quite well again," Adele answered. "You know I always told you that I needed something really strong to make me sleep. The doctor has given me chloral, and I never wake up before eight or nine o'clock. It is a wonderful medicine." "Insomnia is one of the most unaccountable things," said Ghisleri, in a meditative tone. "I knew a man in Constantinople who told me that at one time he never slept at all. For three months he literally could not lose consciousness for a moment. I believe he suffered horribly. But then, he had something on his mind at the time which accounted for it to a certain extent." "I suppose he had lost money or something of that kind," conjectured Adele, stirring two lumps of sugar in a glass of water. "No, it was much worse than that. He had accidentally killed his most intimate friend on a shooting expedition in the Belgrad forest." Ghisleri heard the spoon rattle sharply against the glass, as Adele's hand shook, and he saw that she bent down her head quickly, pretending to watch the lumps of sugar as they slowly dissolved. "How terrible!" she exclaimed, in a low voice. "Yes," answered Ghisleri, in the same indifferent tone. "But if you will believe it, he had the courage to refuse chloral, or any sort of sleeping-draught, though he often sat up reading all night. He had been told, you see, that the habit of such things was much more dangerous than insomnia itself, and he was ultimately cured by taking a great deal of exercise. He had an extraordinary force of will. I believe he has never felt any bad effect from what he endured. You know one can get used to anything. Look at the people who starve in public for forty days and do not die." "We shall see Pietrasanta and his wife doing that for the next forty years," said Adele, with a tolerably natural laugh. "They ought to go into training as soon as possible if they mean to be happy. They say nothing spoils the temper like hunger. Were you ever near being starved to death on any of your travels, Ghisleri?" "No; I never got further than being obliged to live on nothing but beans and bad water for nine days. That was quite far enough, though. I got thin, and I have never eaten beans since." "I do not wonder. Fancy eating beans for nearly a fortnight. I should have died. And where was it? Were you imprisoned for a spy in South America? One never knows what may or may not have happened to you--you are such an unaccountable man!" "That never happened to me. It was at sea. I took it into my head to go to Sardinia in a small vessel that was sailing from Amalfi with a cargo of beans to bring back Sardinian wine. We were becalmed, and got short of provisions, so that we fell back on the beans. They kept us alive, but I would rather not try it again." "What endless adventures you have had! How tame this society life of ours must seem to you after what you have been accustomed to! How can you endure it?" "It is never very hard to put up with what one likes," answered Ghisleri, "nor even to endure what one dislikes for the sake of somebody to whom one is attached." "If any one else said that, it would sound like a platitude. But with you, it is quite different. One feels that you mean all you say." Adele was evidently determined to be complimentary, and even more than complimentary, to-day. She was never cold or at all unfriendly with Ghisleri, whom she liked and admired, and whom she always hoped to see ultimately established as a permanent member of her own immediate circle, but he did not remember that she had ever talked exactly as she was talking now, and he attributed her manner to her nervousness. He laughed carelessly at her last remark. "I am not used to such good treatment," he said, "though I never can understand why people take the trouble to doubt one's word. It is so much easier to believe everything--so much less trouble." "I should not have thought that you were a very credulous person," answered Adele. "You have had too much experience for that." "Experience does not always mean disillusionment. One may find out that there are honest people as well as dishonest in the world." If Laura Arden had been present she would have been more than ever inclined to distrust Ghisleri just then. She would have wondered what possessed him to make him say things so very different from those he generally said to her. As a matter of fact, he wished Adele to trust him, for especial reasons, and he knew her well enough to judge how his speeches would affect her. She had betrayed herself to him a few minutes earlier and he desired to efface the impression in her mind before leading her into another trap. "Do you think the world is such a very good place?" she asked. "Have you found it so?" "It is often very unjustly abused by those who live in it--as they are themselves by their friends. Belief on the one side must mean disbelief on the other." This time Adele gave no sign of being touched by the thrust. She was too much accustomed to whatever sensations she experienced when accidental or intentional reference was made to her astonishing talent for gossip. "As for that," she said quite naturally, "every one talks about every one else, and some things are true just as some are not. If we did not talk of people how should we make conversation? It would be quite impossible, I am sure!" "Oh, of course. But if there is to be that sort of conversation, it can always take the form of a discussion, and one can put oneself on the right side from the beginning just as easily as not. It saves so much trouble afterwards. The person who is always on the wrong side is generally the one about whom the others are talking. If we could hear a tenth of what is said about ourselves I fancy we should be very uncomfortable." "Yes, indeed. Even our servants--think how they must abuse us!" "No doubt. But they have a practical advantage over us in that way. When they really know anything particularly scandalous about us they can convert it into ready money." Ghisleri had not the least intention of conveying any hidden meaning by his words, for he was of course completely ignorant of the occurrence which had disturbed Adele's whole life more than any other hitherto. But he noticed that she again bent over her glass and looked into it, though the sugar was by this time quite dissolved. Her hand shook a little as she moved the spoon about in the sweetened water. Then she drank a little, and drew a long breath. "That is always a most disagreeable position," she said boldly. "We were talking about it the other day. I wish you had been there. Gouache was telling a foreigner--Prince Durakoff, I think it was--the old story of how Prince Montevarchi was murdered by his own librarian because he would not pay the man a sum of money in the way of blackmail. You know it, of course. The two families, the Montevarchi and the Saracinesca, kept it very quiet and no one ever knew all the details. Some people say that San Giacinto killed the librarian, and some say that the librarian killed himself. That is no matter. What would you have done? That is the question. Would you have paid the money in the hope of silencing the man? Or would you have refused as the old Prince did? Gouache said that it was always a mistake to yield, and that Montevarchi did quite right." Ghisleri considered the matter a few moments before he gave an answer. He was almost sure by this time that she actually found herself in some such position as she described, and that she really needed advice. It was characteristic of the man who had been trying to make her betray herself and had succeeded beyond his expectation, that he was unwilling to give her such counsel as might lead to her own destruction. In his complicated code, that would have savoured of treachery. He suddenly withdrew into himself as it were, and tried to look at the matter objectively, as an outsider. "It is a most difficult question to answer," he said at last. "I have often heard it discussed. If you care for my own personal opinion, I will give it to you. It seems to me that in such cases one should be guided by circumstances as they arise, but that one can follow very safely a sort of general rule. If the blackmailer, as I call the person in possession of the secret, has any positive proof, such as a written document, or any other object of the kind, without which he or she could not prove the accusation, and if the accusation is really of a serious nature, then I think it would be wiser to buy the thing, whatever it is, at any price, and destroy it at once. But if, as in most of such affairs, the secret is merely one of words which the blackmailers may speak or not at will, and at any time, I believe it is a mistake to bribe him or her, because the demand for hush-money can be renewed indefinitely so long as the person concerned lives, or has any money left with which to pay." Adele had listened with the greatest attention throughout, and the direct good sense of his answer disarmed any suspicion she might have entertained in regard to the remark which had led to her asking his advice. She reasoned naturally enough that if he knew anything of her position, and had come to Gerano to gather information, he would have suggested some course of action which would throw the advantage into his own hands. But she did not know the man. Moreover, in her extreme fear of discovery, she had for a moment been willing to admit that he might know far more than was in any way possible, if he knew anything at all; whereas in truth he was but making the most vague guesses at the actual facts. It was startling to realise how nearly she had taken him for an enemy, after inviting him as a friend, and in perfectly good faith, but as she thought over the conversation she saw how naturally the remarks which had frightened her had presented themselves. There was her own insomnia--he had an instance of a man who had suffered in the same way. A remark about unjust abuse of other people--that was quite natural, and meant nothing. Blackmail extorted by servants--she had herself led directly to it, by speculating upon what servants said of their masters. It was all very natural. She made up her mind that she had been wrong in mistrusting his sincerity. Besides, she liked him, and her judgment instinctively inclined to favour him. "I think you are quite right," she said, after a few moments' thought. "I never heard it put so directly before, and your view seems to be the only sensible one. If the secret can be kept by buying an object and destroying it, then buy it. If not, deny it boldly, and refuse to pay. Yes, that is the wisest solution I have ever heard offered." Ghisleri saw that he had produced a good effect and was well-satisfied. He turned back to a former point in order to change the subject of the conversation. "That old story of the Montevarchi has interested me," he said. "I wish I knew it all. Without being at all of an historical genius, I am fond of all sorts of family histories. Lady Herbert was saying yesterday that there are many strange legends and stories connected with this old place, and that your father knows them all. You must know a great deal about Gerano yourself, I should think." "Oh, of course I do," answered Adele, with alacrity. "I will show you all over the castle to-morrow morning. It is an enormous building, and bigger than you would ever suppose from the outside. I will show you where they used to cut off heads--it is delightful! The head fell through a hole in the floor into a heap of sawdust, they say. And then there is another place, where they threw criminals out of the window, with four seats in it, two for the executioners, one for the confessor, and one in the middle for the condemned man. They did those things so coolly and systematically in those good old days. You shall see it all; there are the dungeons, and the trap-doors through which people were made to tumble into them; there is every sort of appliance--belonging to family life in the middle ages." "I shall be very glad to see it all if you will be my guide," said Ghisleri. They continued to talk upon indifferent subjects. At dinner Pietro took much pains to be agreeable, and succeeded admirably, for he was well able to converse pleasantly when he chose. Though extremely tired, he sat up till nearly midnight talking politics with Savelli, as Adele had foreseen, and when he was at last shown to his distant room by Bonifazio, who had spent most of his day in studying the topography of the castle, he was very nearly exhausted. CHAPTER XIX. Pietro Ghisleri slept soundly that night. Of late, indeed, he had become less restless than he had formerly been, and he attributed the change to the weakness which was the consequence of his wound. There were probably other causes at work at that time of which he was hardly conscious himself, but which ultimately produced a change in him, and in his way of looking at the world. He stood at his open window early in the morning, and gazed out at the fresh, bright country. The delicate hand of spring had already touched the world with colour, and the breath of the coming warmth had waked the life in all those things which die yearly, and are yearly raised again. Ghisleri felt the morning sun upon his thin, pale face, and he realised that he also had been very near to death during the dark months, and he remembered how he had wished that he might be not near only to dying, but dead altogether, never to take up again the play that had grown so wearisome and empty in his eyes. But now a change had come. For the first time in years, he knew that if the choice were suddenly offered him at the present moment he would choose to live out all the days allotted to him, and would wish that they might be many rather than few. There was, indeed, a dark spot on the page last turned, of which he could never efface the memory, nor, in his own estimation, outlive the shame. In his day-dreams Maddalena dell' Armi's coldly perfect face was often before him with an expression upon it which he feared to see, knowing too well why it was there--and out of a deeper depth of memory dead Bianca Corleone's eyes looked at him with reproach and sometimes with scorn. There was much pain in store for him yet, of the kind at which the world never guessed, nor ever could. But he would not try to escape from it. He would not again so act or think as to call himself coward in his own heart's tribunal. He looked out at the distant hills, and down at the broad battlements and massive outworks of the ancient fortress, and fell to thinking rather idly about the people who had lived, and fought, and quarrelled, and slain each other, within and around those enormous walls, and then he thought all at once of Adele Savelli, and of his suspicions regarding her. He was in a particularly charitable frame of mind on that morning, and he suddenly felt that what he had almost believed on the previous night was utterly beyond the bounds of probability. It seemed to him that he had no manner of right to accuse any one of the crime he had imputed to her, on the most shadowy grounds, and absolutely without proof, unless the coincidence of her uneasy behaviour, with certain vague remarks of his own, could be taken as evidence. He sat down to think it all over, drinking his coffee by the open window, and enjoying the sunshine and the sweet morning air. The whole world looked so good and innocent and fresh as he gazed out upon it, that the possibilities of evil seemed to shrink away into nothing. But as he systematically reviewed the events of the past months, his suspicion returned almost with the force of conviction. The coincidences were too numerous to be attributed to chance alone. Adele's distress of mind was too evident to be denied. Altogether there was no escaping from the conclusion that willingly or unwillingly she had been consciously instrumental in bringing about Arden's illness and death. Her questions about the wisest course to pursue in cases of blackmail, pointed to the probability if not the certainty that some third person was acquainted with what had happened, and this person was in all likelihood the maid Lucia. So far his reasoning took him quickly and plausibly enough, but no further. How the scarlet fever had been communicated from Lucia to Herbert Arden was more than Ghisleri could guess, but if Adele was really in the serving woman's power, it must have been done in such a way as to make what had happened quite clear to the latter. After thinking over all the possibilities, and vainly attempting to solve the hard problem, Ghisleri found himself as much at sea as ever, and was driven to acknowledge that he must trust to chance for obtaining any further evidence in the matter. Meanwhile Adele had determined to follow his advice. Her anxiety was becoming unbearable, and she felt that she could not endure such suspense much longer. To accuse Lucia directly of having opened the letter and committed the theft would be rash and dangerous. There was a bare possibility that some one else might have done the deed. She must in any case be cautious. "Lucia," she said that morning, while the woman was doing her hair, "do you remember that some days ago I gave you a letter to be registered, and that you brought back the receipt for it from the post-office?" "Yes, Excellency, I remember very well." Lucia had been expecting for a long time that her mistress would question her and she was quite prepared. She had good nerves, and the certainty that the great lady was altogether in her power made her cool and collected. "A very extraordinary thing happened to that letter," said Adele, looking up at her own face in the glass, to give herself courage. "It was rather important. I had written to Padre Bonaventura, asking spiritual guidance, and I particularly desired an answer. But he wrote to me by return of post, saying that when he opened the envelope he found only four sheets of blank paper without a word written on them. You see somebody must have thought there was money in the letter." "They are such thieves at the post-office!" exclaimed Lucia. "But this is a terrible affair, Excellency! What is to be done? The post-master must be sent to the galleys immediately!" In Lucia's conception of the law such a summary course seemed quite practicable. "I am afraid that would be very unjust, and could do no good at all," said Adele. "I am quite sure that the post-master would not have dared to open a letter already registered, and for which he had given a receipt. As for any one in the house having done it, I cannot believe it either. I gave it into your hands myself and you brought me back the stamped bit of paper--it is there in my jewel case. I only wish you to find out for me, very quietly and without exciting suspicion, who took that letter to the post. If I could get it back I would give the person who brought it to me a handsome reward. You understand, Lucia, how disagreeable it is to feel that a letter concerning one's most sacred feelings is lost, and has perhaps been read by more than one person." "I cannot imagine anything more dreadful! But be easy, Excellency. I will do all I can, and none of the servants shall suspect that I am questioning them." "I shall be very much obliged to you, Lucia," said Adele. "Very much obliged," she repeated, with some emphasis. "It is only my duty to serve your Excellency, who has always been so good to me," answered Lucia, humbly. Adele knew that there was nothing more to be said for the present, and she congratulated herself on having been diplomatic in her way of offering the bribe. Lucia would now in all likelihood take some time to decide, but for the present she would certainly not part with the precious document. Adele felt sure that it had neither been destroyed nor sent out of the castle. Lucia probably kept it concealed in a safe corner of her own room, under lock and key, and to attempt to get possession of it by force would be out of the question. As in most Italian houses, the servants all locked their own rooms and carried the keys about with them. Lucia, of course, did like the rest. But Lucia, on her side, distrusted her mistress. Knowing what she now knew of Adele, she believed her capable of almost anything, including the picking of a lock and the skilful abstraction of the letter from its secret hiding-place. As soon as she was at liberty she went and got the paper and concealed it in her bosom, intending to keep it there until she could select some safe spot in a remote part of the castle, where she might put it away in greater safety. To carry it about with her until Adele took her back to Rome would be rash, she thought. Adele might suspect where it was at any moment, and force her to give it up. Or it might be lost, which would be even worse. Adele herself felt singularly relieved. She had very little doubt but that Lucia would come to terms. She might, indeed, ask a very large sum, and it might be very inconvenient to be obliged to find it at short notice. But the sole heiress to an enormous estate would certainly be able to get money in some way or other. In the meantime Lucia would not offer it to any one else, since of all people her mistress would be willing to make the greatest sacrifice to obtain possession of it. On the whole, therefore, Adele's anxiety diminished on that day, and she seemed better when she met her husband and Ghisleri in the great court-yard where they were sunning themselves and continuing their talk about politics. "I promised that I would show you the castle," she said to Pietro. "Would it amuse you to go with me now? Francesco does not care to come, of course, and he always has his business with the steward to attend to before breakfast." Pietro expressed his readiness to follow her from the deepest dungeon to the topmost turret of the castle. "Have you slept well?" he asked, as they moved away together. "You are looking much better this morning." "Yes. I feel better," she answered. "Do you know I think your coming has had something to do with it. You have cheered us with your talk and your news. We were fast falling into the vegetable stage, Francesco and I." Ghisleri smiled, partly out of politeness and partly at his own thoughts. "I am glad to have been of any use," he said. "I will do my best to be amusing as long as you will have me." "You need not take it as such an enormous compliment," Adele laughed. "Of course, you are very agreeable,--at least, you can be when you choose,--but the great thing is to have somebody, anybody one knows and likes a little, in this dreary place. Shall we begin at the top or the bottom? The prisons or the towers? Which shall it be?" "If there is a choice, let us begin in the lower regions," answered Ghisleri. "Do you like me a little, Donna Adele?" he asked, as she led the way along the curved and smoothly paved descent which led downwards to the subterranean part of the fortress. She laughed lightly, and glanced at him. She had always wished to make a conquest of Pietro Ghisleri, but she had found few opportunities of being alone with him, for he had never been among the assiduous at her shrine. She knew also how much he admired Laura Arden, and she suspected him of being incipiently in love. It would be delightful to detach him from that allegiance. "Yes," she said, "I like you a little. Did you expect me to like you very much? You have never done anything to deserve it." "I wish I could," answered Ghisleri, with complete insincerity. "But I am afraid I should never get so far as that." "Why not?" "When a woman loves her husband--" He did not finish the sentence, for it seemed unnecessary. "I do not want you to make love to me," Adele answered, "though I believe you know how to do it to perfection. It is often a very long way from liking very much to loving a very little. This is the place where old Gianluca kept his brother Paolo in prison for eighteen years. Then Gianluca died suddenly one fine morning, and Paolo was let out by the soldiers and immediately threw Gianluca's wife out of the window of the east tower, and cut off the heads of his two sons on the same afternoon. I will show you where that was done when we go up stairs. Paolo was an extremely energetic person." "Decidedly so, I should say," assented Ghisleri. "You are all descended from him, I suppose." "Yes, he took care that we should be, by killing all the other branches of the family. Those hollows in the stone are supposed to have been made by his footsteps. Think what a walk! It lasted eighteen years. But it is an airy place and not damp. Those windows were there then, they say. Do you see that deep channel in the wall? It leads straight up through the castle to the floor of the little passage between the old guard-room and one of the towers. There used to be a trap-door--it was still there when I was a little girl, but my father has had a slab of stone put down instead. They used to entice their dearest and most familiar enemies up there, and just as the man set foot on the board a soldier in the tower pulled a bolt in the wall and the trap-door fell. It is two hundred feet, they say. It was so cleverly managed! They say that the last person who came to grief there was a Monsignor Boccapaduli in the year sixteen hundred and something, but no one ever knew what had become of him until the next generation." Familiar from her childhood with every corner of the vast building, she led Ghisleri through one portion after another, telling such of the tales of horror as she remembered. Little by little they worked their way to the upper regions. In the guard-room, a vast hall which would have made a good-sized church, she showed him the great slab of stone the Prince had substituted for the wooden trap-door of former days, and which had merely been placed over the yawning chasm without plaster or cement, its own weight being enough to keep it in position. They passed over it and ascended the stairs in the tower, emerging at last into the bright sunshine upon one of the highest battlements. They sat down side by side on a stone bench. "It is pleasanter here," said Adele. "There is a sort of attraction about those dreadful old places down below, because one never quite realises all the things that happened there, and it is rather like an old-fashioned novel, all full of murder and sudden death. But the sunshine is much nicer, is it not? Shall we stay up here till it is time for breakfast?" "By all means. It is a delightful place for a good talk." Ghisleri was tired, and glad to sit down. "Then you must talk to me," continued his companion. "Between the stairs and playing guide, I have no voice left. What will you talk about? Tell me all about your own castle. They say it is very interesting. I wish I could see it!" "After Gerano it would seem very tame to you. It is mostly in ruins, and what there is left of it is very much the worse for wear. I would not advise you to take the trouble to stop, even if you should ever pass near it." "That is a way you have of depreciating everything connected with yourself," said Adele. "Why do you do it?" "Do I?" asked Ghisleri, carelessly. "I suppose I have the idea that it is better to let people be agreeably surprised, if there is to be any surprise at all. When you have heard that a man is insufferable, if he turns out barely tolerable you think him nice." "Then it is mere pose on your part, with the deliberate intention of producing an effect?" "Probably--mere pose." Ghisleri laughed; he looked at the woman at his side and wondered whether he could ever find out the truth about Arden's death, and the connexion with it which, as he believed, she must have had. She, on her part, did not even guess that he suspected her. The thought had crossed her mind on the previous afternoon, but she had very soon dismissed it. She found relief and change from the monotonous suffering of the past days in talking to him, and she tried to enjoy what she could without allowing her mind to wander back to its chief preoccupation. Ghisleri was very careful not to rouse her suspicion by any accidental reference to what filled his thoughts as much as it did her own, and they spent more than half an hour in aimless and more or less amusing conversation. Gerano did not offer any very great variety of amusement. After breakfast, there was the usual interval for smoking and coffee, and after that the usual drive of two or three hours in the hills. Then, tea and small talk, the dressing hour, the arrival of the post with the morning papers from Rome, dinner, more smoking, and more conversation, and bed-time was reached. It was not gay, and when he retired for the night Ghisleri was beginning to wonder how long he could endure the ordeal with equanimity. He was not generally a man very easily bored, and the reasons which had brought him to Gerano were strong enough in themselves to make him ready to sacrifice a good deal, but he realised that he was not making any advance in the direction of discovering the secret. He had learned more in the first few hours of his stay than he had learned since, and so far as he could see, he was not likely to find out anything more. He had noticed, too, the improvement in Adele's appearance on that day. It was possible that she had already acted upon the general advice he had given her, and that she had insured the silence of the person she dreaded, if any such person existed. But it was equally possible that no one knew what she had done, and that she had not meant anything by the question. The third day passed like the second, and the fourth began without promising any change. Adele appeared as usual at eleven o'clock and spent an hour with Ghisleri. They were becoming more intimate by this time than they had ever been before during their long acquaintance, and Adele flattered herself that she had made an impression. Ghisleri would not forget the hospitality she had offered him, and next year would be more often seen in the circle of her admirers. She even imagined that he might fall into a sort of mild and harmless flirtation, if she knew how to manage him. A little before the hour for breakfast she went to her room. Lucia was there, as usual, waiting in case she should be needed. As she retouched Adele's hair, and gave a final twist with the curling tongs to the ringlets at the back of her mistress's neck, she began to speak in a low voice and in a somewhat hurried manner. "I have found out who took the letter, Excellency," she said. "It is in a safe place and no one else has seen it. The person will give it to me at once if the reward is large enough." Adele's eyes sparkled, and a little colour rose in her cheeks. Lucia watched the reflection of her face in the mirror. "How much does she ask?" she inquired, without hesitation, and with a certain business-like sharpness in her tone. There was a moment's pause, as Lucia withdrew the tongs from the little curl. "She asks five thousand francs," she said, in some trepidation, for she had hardly ever in her life even spoken of so large a sum. "That is a great deal," answered Adele, pretending to be surprised, while doing her best to conceal her satisfaction. "I have not so much money out here; indeed, Don Francesco has not either. She must wait until we go to Rome." "A year, if your Excellency pleases," said the maid, blowing scent upon a transparent handkerchief from an atomizer. "In the meanwhile I should like to have the letter. I suppose she would accept my promise--written, if she requires it?" "Of course she would, and she would give me the papers at once--or instead of a promise, I have no doubt she would be perfectly satisfied with a bit of jewelry as a pledge." "That would be simpler," said Adele, coldly. She could not but be astonished at the woman's cool effrontery, though it was impossible to refuse anything she asked. "I will give you a diamond for her to keep as a pledge," she added, "but I want the letter this afternoon." "Yes, Excellency." During the midday meal Adele was by turns absent and then very gay. She seemed restless and uneasy during the coffee and cigarette stage of the afternoon. Ghisleri watched her with curiosity. Fully half an hour earlier than usual she went to her room to get ready for the regulation drive. Lucia was waiting for her, pale as death and evidently in a state of the greatest agitation. Without a word Adele unlocked her jewel case, took out a little morocco covered box, opened it, and glanced at a pair of diamond ear-rings it contained, shut it again and held it out to Lucia. To her surprise the woman drew back, clearly in great terror, and trying to get behind the long toilet table as though in fear of bodily harm. "What is the matter?" asked Adele, in surprise. "Where is the letter? Why do you not give it to me?" "A great misfortune has happened," gasped Lucia, hardly able to speak. "I cannot get it from the person." "What!" Adele's voice rang through the room. "Do you want more money now? What is this comedy?" "The letter is not there--I--she does not know where it is. It is lost--Excellency--" "Lost? Where did you hide it?" Lucia was almost too frightened by this time to tell connectedly what had happened, but Adele understood before long that the maid had looked about for a safe place in which to hide the precious document, and had at last decided to slip it under the great slab of stone which has been already mentioned as covering the opening of the oubliette between the guard-room and the tower. Lucia had found that on one side, owing to the irregularity of the old pavement, there was room to lay the folded papers, and that she could just slip her hand in so as to withdraw them again. She was, of course, quite ignorant that the stone covered a well of which the shaft penetrated to the lowest foundation of the castle, and that one touch of her hand, or a gust of wind, was enough to send the light sheets over the edge close to which she had unwittingly placed them. Adele still pretended to be angry, but she drew a long breath of relief. She knew the exact spot at which to look for what she wanted. She locked up her diamonds again, scolding Lucia for her carelessness all the time, and doing her best to be very severe. Lucia bore all that was said to her very meekly, for she had expected far worse. In her opinion some one had accidentally discovered the letter, and taken it, and would make capital out of it as she had meant to do. Her disappointment was as great, as the sum of five thousand francs had seemed to her enormous, but her fear soon vanished when she saw that Adele had no intention of doing her any bodily injury, nor, apparently, of dismissing her again. That the papers were really gone from the place of concealment she knew beyond a doubt. She had lit a taper in her effort to find them, and had thrust it under the slab, bending low and looking into the crevice. Nothing white of any sort had been visible. Adele dressed herself for going out and left the room. But instead of joining her husband and Ghisleri at once, she turned out of the main passage by the cross corridor which led to the court-yard, went out and walked quickly down the inclined road by which she had led Ghisleri to Paolo Braccio's dungeon. There, where the shaft of the oubliette came down, she was quite sure of finding the little package of sheets which meant so much to her and which had almost meant a fortune to Lucia. She crossed the worn pavement rapidly. There was plenty of light from the grated windows high up under the vault, and she could have seen the paper almost as soon as she entered the place. She stopped short as she reached the foot of the channel in the wall. There was nothing there. She stared up into the blackness above in the hope of seeing a white thing caught and sticking to the stones, but she could not distinguish the faintest reflection of anything. Yet she was convinced that the thing must have fallen all the way. The shaft, as she well knew, was quite perpendicular and the masonry compact and well finished. The object of those who had built it had been precisely to prevent the possibility of the victim catching on a projection of any sort while falling. Adele turned pale and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. If Lucia had acted differently she might have been suspected of having told a falsehood, and of keeping the letter back in order to extort a larger sum for it at some future time. But Lucia had evidently been frightened. Moreover, the woman was undoubtedly ignorant of the existence of the well under the stone, or, she would never have been so foolish as to choose such a place for hiding anything so valuable, and it was clear that she had no idea of the manner in which the package had disappeared. That it must have reached the bottom, Adele was quite sure. In that case some one had been in the dungeon before her and had picked it up, but who the some one might be she had no means of conjecturing. She hardly knew how she reached the court-yard again. It cost her a superhuman effort to walk. In the passage she met her husband. "What is the matter?" he asked, as soon as he saw her face. "I feel very ill--I wanted to breathe the air." She seemed to be gasping for breath. Francesco drew her arm through his and walked with her to her room. She was clearly not in a state in which she could think of going out. Savelli went back and explained to Ghisleri, who, if anything, was glad to escape from the monotonous drive. He got a book and shut himself up in his room to read. That evening Savelli told him that Adele was worse, and was in a state of indescribable nervous agitation. It was clearly his duty to go away, if Adele were about to be seriously ill, and he told Bonifazio to pack his things that night. If matters did not improve, he would leave on the following morning. Though Francesco was not much affected by his wife's sufferings, the dinner was anything but brilliant, for he anticipated a renewal of all the annoyance of the first few days. Moreover, if Adele was liable to sudden relapses of this kind at any moment, and without the smallest reason or warning, his life would, before long, be made a burden to him. As the husband of a permanent invalid he could hope for very little liberty or amusement. A wife may go into the world without her husband, because he is supposed to be occupied with more important affairs, but a husband who frequents parties when his wife is constantly suffering, is considered heartless in the extreme. That, at least, is society's view of the mutual obligation, and if it is not the just one, it is at least founded upon the theory of woman's convenience, as most of society's views are. Francesco was easily prevailed upon to give Adele an increased dose of chloral, in the hope that she might sleep, and consequently give him less trouble on the next day. But in this conclusion he was mistaken. She awoke in great pain, suffering, she said, from a violent headache, and so nervous that her hand trembled violently and she was hardly able to lift a cup to her lips when the nurse brought her tea. Savelli did not attempt to keep Ghisleri when the latter announced his intention of returning to town, though he pressed him to come out again, as soon as Adele should be better. The man who drove Pietro back was instructed to bring the doctor out to Gerano, with fresh horses, and especially not to forget five hundred cigarettes which Francesco wanted for himself. Ghisleri left many messages for Adele, and departed with Bonifazio, very little wiser than when he had arrived, but considerably more curious. CHAPTER XX. It was a relief to be with Laura Arden again for an hour on the day after his return, as Ghisleri felt when he was installed beside her in the chair which had come to be regarded as his. She received him just as usual, and he saw at once that if she had at all resented his visit to Adele, she was not by any means inclined to let him know it. There was a freshness and purity in the atmosphere that surrounded her which especially appealed to him after his visit to Gerano. Whatever she said she meant, and if she meant anything she took no trouble to hide it. He compared her face with her step-sister's, and the jaded, prematurely world-worn look of the one threw the calm beauty of the other into strong relief. He felt no pity for Adele. What she was, she had made herself, and if she suffered, it was as the direct and inevitable consequence of the life she had led and of the things she had done. So, at least, it seemed to him, and if he could have known the whole truth at that time, he would have seen how right he was. The ruthless logic of cause and effect had got Adele into its will and was slowly grinding her whole existence to dust. "It is strange," he said to Laura, "that you and your step-sister should be so unlike in every way. It is true that you are not related, but you were brought up in the same house, by the same people, and yet I do not believe you have a single idea in common." "No," answered Laura, "we have not. We do not like the same persons, nor the same things, nor the same thoughts. We were made to be enemies--and I suppose we are." It was the first time she had ever said so much to him, and even now there was no rancour in her tone. "If all enemies were like you, at least, this would be a very peaceful world." "You do not know me," answered Laura, with a smile. "I have a bad temper. I could tell you something about it. I once felt as though I would like to strangle a certain person, and as though I could do it. Do not imagine that I am all saint and no sinner." "I like to imagine all sorts of nice things about you," said Ghisleri. "But I could never make them nice enough." "That is just it. It would need an enormous imagination." "But I am not sure that I should like to think of you as being on very good terms with Donna Adele, and I am almost glad to hear you admit that you are enemies. There is a satisfaction in knowing that you are human, as well as in believing you to be good." "How is Adele?" Laura asked. "The last I heard was that she was much worse. She behaves in the most unaccountable way. She has the look of a woman in some very great mental distress--pursued and haunted by something very painful from which she cannot escape." "I had the same feeling about her the last time I saw her. I know that look very well. I have seen it in your face, sometimes, as well as in hers." "In mine?" Ghisleri looked keenly at her, as though to ascertain whether she meant more than she said, for the first time in his acquaintance with her. "When did I ever show you that I was in trouble?" he asked. "That was some time ago. You have changed since your illness. You used to look harassed sometimes, like a man who has a wound in the heart. Perhaps it is only something which depends on the way your eyes are made. The first time I ever noticed it was--yes, I remember very well--it was more than a year ago, that night when you spoke your poem in the Shrove Tuesday masquerade. It was not when you were talking to me. You looked perfectly diabolical then. It was later. I saw you standing alone in a doorway after a dance." "What a memory you have! I was probably in a bad humour. I generally am, even now." "Why do you say even now?" asked Laura, watching his face. "Oh, I hardly know," he answered. "All sorts of things have happened to me since then, to simplify my existence. At that time it was very particularly complicated." "And how have you simplified it?" She put the question innocently enough, and quite thoughtlessly, not even guessing at the truth. "It has been simplified for me. It came near being simplified into being no existence at all. A few inches made the difference." "Yes," said Laura, thoughtfully, "the greatest of all differences to you." "And none at all to any one else," added Ghisleri, with a dry laugh. She turned her great dark eyes upon him. The lids drooped a little as she scrutinised his face somewhat coldly, but with an odd interest. "I suppose that might be quite true," she said at last. "Perhaps it is. But I do not like you any the better for saying it in that way." Ghisleri was silent, but he met her gaze quietly and without flinching, until she looked away. She sighed a little as she took up a bit of embroidery she was doing for some garment of little Herbert's. "Why do you sigh?" he asked, not expecting that she would answer the question. "For some one," she said simply, and she began to make a few stitches. He knew that she was thinking of Maddalena dell' Armi, and his heart smote him. "I was wrong to say it," he answered, in a more gentle tone. "There was perhaps one exception to the rule." Ghisleri grew even more careful of his speech after that. But he did not see Laura often before she went away northward for the summer. The spring was going fast, and the time was coming when Rome would be its quiet old-fashioned self again for those few who loved it well enough to face the heat of July and August. Almost every one was thinking of going away. The Prince and Princess of Gerano were going out to the castle earlier than usual, for the news of Adele grew steadily worse. Francesco now had the doctor out regularly three times a week, and was forced to lead an existence he detested. His wife was by this time quite unable to get rest without taking very large quantities of chloral, and at times her sufferings were such that it seemed almost advisable to give her morphia. Every one, however, who brought intelligence from Gerano agreed in saying that she did her best to keep up, and seemed to dread the idea of an illness which might keep her permanently in her room. Whenever she felt able she insisted on driving out and on going through the regular round of monotonous country occupations. Her father and step-mother therefore determined to go out and help Francesco to take care of her, and make her existence as bearable as possible. Amongst all her friends she was spoken of with the utmost compassion, and no one ever suggested that her illness could proceed from any such cause as Ghisleri believed to be at the root of it. A few days before Laura Arden was to go away Donald came to Pietro's room in the morning, with a very grave face. Lady Herbert, he said, thought that Ghisleri would understand why she did not write, but sent Donald in person with a verbal message. She was going away, and was about to give up the apartment in which she had spent the winter, without any intention of taking it again in the following year. There were certain things that had belonged to Lord Herbert--Lady Herbert had no home and did not like to send them to Lord Lulworth--would Ghisleri take charge of them in her absence? Pietro, of course, assented, and two hours later Donald arrived with a large carriage load of boxes. Ghisleri looked on with a very unpleasant sensation in his throat as his old friend's effects were brought up stairs and deposited in a room where he kept such things of his own. When they were all piled together in a corner, he took an old green curtain and covered them with it, spreading it carefully over them with his own hands. Then he locked the door and went away. Some men and women when they die seem to leave something of life behind them, which the mere sight of anything that has belonged to them has power to recall most vividly to the perceptions of those who have known them and loved them. Ghisleri understood Laura Arden's feeling about her husband's belongings. He knew, or thought he knew, that from the moment her child had been given to her, she had desired that no material object should revive the sorrow she had felt so deeply. The memory she cherished was wholly spiritual, and upon its remaining so her peace of mind largely depended. The one Herbert was to live in the other--and there must not be two. Not every one, perhaps, would have understood her so readily. The day came for bidding her good-bye. It was with a somewhat heavy heart that he went up the stairs of her house for the last time. Much of the little happiness he had known during the past months was associated with the place and with her, and not a little of the sorrow as well. The drawing-room was bare, and had lost the comfortable, inhabited look which even a furnished lodging takes from all the little objects a woman brings to it, and which she alone knows how to dispose and arrange as though they were in constant use, thereby at once producing the impression that the habitation she has chosen has been lived in long. Once more Ghisleri sat in the familiar chair near the open window, and once more Laura took her place in the corner of the great sofa. "I have come to say good-bye," he began. "You are still decided to go to-morrow, I suppose." "Yes. I have not changed my plans. Please do not come to the station to see me off, nor send flowers, nor do any of the things which are generally done. I would rather not see any one I know after leaving this house." "May I write to you?" asked Ghisleri. "Of course. Why not?" "I do not know, I am sure. I thought it better to ask you. Some women hate correspondence except with their nearest and dearest. I will give you the news of Rome during the wild gaiety of July and August." "Are you not going away at all?" asked Laura, in some surprise. "You ought to; it will do you good." "I hardly know. I like to be alone in summer. It gives one time to think. One has a chance of leading a sensible life when nobody is here to see. The days pass pleasantly--plenty of reading, a diet of watermelon and sherbet, and a little repentance--it is magnificent treatment for the liver." Laura looked at him and then laughed very softly. "You seem amused," said Ghisleri, gravely. "What I say is quite true--the result of long experience." "I was not laughing at what you said, but at the idea that you should still think it worth while to make such speeches to me." "If I can make you laugh at all it is worth while." "At all events, it is good of you to say so. Which of the three subjects do you mean to take for your letters to me--your reading, your food, or your repentance?" "The food would be the simplest and safest topic. You can read for yourself what you please. Repentance, when it is not a habit, is rarely well done. But one can say the most charming things about strawberries, peaches, and figs, without ever offending any one's taste." "I think you grow worse as you grow older," said Laura, still smiling. "But if you would take your programme seriously, it would not be a bad thing, I fancy. Seriously, however, you ought to get away from Rome." "I should be tempted to go and stay a week near you, if I went away at all," said Ghisleri. Laura did not answer at once. She glanced at him with a vague suspicion in her eyes which disappeared almost instantly, and then took two or three stitches in her embroidery before she spoke. "I would rather you should not do that," she said at last. "I may as well tell you what I think about it. To me, and to you, it seems thoroughly absurd that you should not see me whenever we choose to meet. There are many reasons why I should look upon you as a friend, and why you should come more often than any other man I know. But the world thinks differently. My mother has spoken to me about it more than once, and in one way she is right. You know what a place this is, and how every one talks about everybody. Unfortunately, I believe that you are one of the men about whose private affairs society is most busy. I cannot help it now. I have no right to say anything about your life, past or present, but you have told me enough about yourself to make me understand why there is always gossip about you, and why there always will be. Then, too, you will never make people believe that you did not fight that duel about me, for you cannot tell any one what you told me. The consequence is, that you and I look at it all from one point of view, and the world sees it from quite another. I think it is better to say all this once, and to be done with it. As we shall not meet for several months, people will forget to talk. Am I right to speak to you?" "Perfectly right," answered Ghisleri. An expression of pain had settled on his lean face while she had been talking, and did not disappear at once. Laura saw it and was silent for a moment. "I am sorry if I have hurt you," she said presently. "Perhaps I was wrong." "No, you were quite right," Ghisleri replied. "You would have been very wrong indeed not to tell me. If you did not, who would? But I had no suspicion of all this. I believed that for once they might let me alone, considering what you are--and what I am. The contrast might protect you in the eyes of some persons. Lady Herbert Arden--and Pietro Ghisleri." He pronounced his own name with the utmost bitterness. "Please do not speak of yourself in that way," said Laura, with something like entreaty in her voice. "It is true enough," he answered. "An intelligent being might understand that I could be useful to you, but not that you--" He stopped short, and his tone changed. "I am talking nonsense," he said briefly, by way of explaining the truth. "I think you are, in a way," said Laura, quietly. "It is your old habit of exaggeration. You make me an impossible creature between an archangel and the good mamma in children's story books, and you refer to yourself as to a satanic monster whom no honest woman could call her friend. You are quite right. It is sheer nonsense. If you stay in Rome to repent, as you suggest in fun, do it in earnest. I am not talking of your sins, which are not half so bad as you pretend, but of this silly view you insist upon taking of your own life. If you must think perpetually of yourself, judge yourself by some reasonable standard. You live in the world and you have no right to expect to find that you are a saint. If that is what you wish, take vows, turn monk, and starve yourself up to heaven if you can. And if you chance to think of me, do not set me on a pedestal, and build a church over me, and pray at me. I do not like that sort of thing--it is all unnatural and absurd. I am a woman and nothing else, better than some by force of circumstances, and not so good as some others, perhaps for the same reason. All the rest that you imagine is sentimental trash, and not worth the time it takes you to think it. You will not be wasting your summer if you can get rid of it all by the time we meet in the autumn." For once in his life, Ghisleri was taken by surprise. He had not had any idea that Laura could express herself so strongly on any point, still less that she could talk so plainly about himself. He was far too manly, however, not to be pleased, and his expression changed as he listened to her. She smiled as she finished, and began to make stitches again. "No one ever gave me so much good advice in so short a time," he said, with a laugh. "You have a wonderful power of condensing your meaning. Do you often talk in that way?" "Not often. I think I never did before. Do you not think there is some sense in what I say?" "Indeed, I begin to believe that there is a great deal," Ghisleri answered. "At all events, I shall not forget it. Perhaps you will find me partially reformed when you come back. You must promise to tell me." "It will take me some time to find out. But if I succeed I will tell you." His mood had changed for the better, and he talked of Laura's plans during nearly half an hour. At last he rose to go. "Good-bye," he said, rather abruptly. She looked up quietly as she took his hand, and pressed it without affectation. "Good-bye. I wish you a very pleasant summer--and--since we are parting--I thank you with all my heart for the many kind and friendly things you have done for me." "I have done nothing. Good-bye, again." He turned and she stood looking at his retreating figure until he had disappeared through the door. "I believe there is more good in that man than any one knows," she said to herself. Then she also left the room and went to see whether little Herbert were awake, and to busy herself with the last arrangements for his comfort during the journey. Ghisleri knew that another parting was before him in the near future. As usual, Maddalena dell' Armi was going to spend a considerable part of the summer with her father in Tuscany. He went to see her tolerably often, and their relations had of late been to all appearances friendly and undisturbed. But he doubted whether the final interview before they separated for several months could pass off without some painful incident. He knew Maddalena's character well, and if he did not know his own, it was not for want of study. He almost wished that he might, on that day, choose to call at a time when some other person was present, for then, of course, there could be no show of emotion on either side, nor any words which could lead to such weakness. He went twice to the house during the week which intervened between Laura Arden's departure and the day fixed for Maddalena's, saying each time that he would come again, a promise to which the Contessa seemed indifferent enough. She would always be glad to see as much of him as possible, she said. The last day came. She was to leave for Florence on the following morning. Ghisleri rang, was admitted, and found her alone. "I knew you would come," she said, "though it is so late." "Of course. Did I not say so? I suppose you are still decided to go to-morrow." He was conscious that he was saying the very same indifferent words which he had said a few days earlier to Laura, and Maddalena answered him almost as Laura had done. "Yes. Of course you must not come to the station. That is understood, is it not?" "Since you wish it, I will certainly not come. So we are saying good-bye until next season," he continued, breaking the ice as it were, since he felt it must be broken. "I will try and not be emotional, and I ask you to believe--this once--that I am in earnest. I have something to say to you. May I? Will you listen to me? You and I cannot part with two words and a nod of the head, like common acquaintances." "I will hear all you care to say," answered Maddalena, simply. "And I will try to believe you." He looked at the pale face and the small, perfect features before he spoke, to see if they were as hard as they often were. But for the moment the expression was softened. The evening glow played softly upon the bright hair, and threw a deep, warm light into the violet eyes, as she turned towards him. "What is it?" she asked, as he seemed to hesitate. "Has anything happened? Are you going to be married?" The question shocked him in a way he could not explain. "No. I am not thinking of marrying. We have been a great deal to each other, for a long time. But for my fault--and it is, of course, my fault--we might be as much in one another's lives as ever. We used to meet in the summer, but that will not happen this year. When you come back, we may both be changed more than we think it possible to change at present." "In what way?" "I do not know. Perhaps, when we meet again, we shall feel that we are really and truly devoted friends. Perhaps you may hate me altogether--" "And you me." "No, that is not possible. I am not very sure of myself as a rule. But that, at least, I know." "I hope you are right. If you are not my friend, who should be? So you think I hate you. You are very wrong. I am still very fond of you. I told you so the other day. You should believe me. Remember, when it all ended, it was you who had changed--not I. I am not reproaching you. I might say that you should have known yourself better than to think that you could be faithful; but you might tell me--and it would be quite as just--that I, a woman, knew what I was doing and had been taught to look upon my deeds as you never could. But it was you who changed. If you had loved me, I should have loved you still. Little things showed me long ago that your love was waning. It was never what it was in those first days. And now I have changed, too. I love what was once, but if I could have your love now as it was at its strongest and best, I would not ask for it. Why should I? I could never trust it again, and anything is better than that doubt. And I want no consolation." "Indeed, I should have very little to offer you, worth your accepting," said Pietro, in a low voice. "If I needed any, the best you could give me would be what I ask,--not as consolation at all, but as something I still believe worth having from you,--and that is your honest friendship." Ghisleri was moved in spite of himself. His face grew paler and the shadows showed beneath his eyes where Maddalena had so often seen them. "You are too kind--too good," he said, in an unsteady tone. The last time he had said almost the same words had been when he made his first visit to her after his long illness. Then she had been touched, far more than he. She looked at him for a few moments and saw that he felt very strongly. "Do not distress yourself," she said gently. "Pray do not--it hurts me, too. I mean what I say. I do not believe you can be faithful in love now--to any one. You gave all you had to give long ago. But I have watched you since we became what we are now, and I will do you justice. I do not know any man who can be a more true and devoted friend. You see, I meant what I said." "If it is true--if I can be a friend to any one, I will be one to you. But that is not what I would have, if I could choose." "What would you have, then?" "What is impossible. That is what one would always like. Let us not talk of it. It does no good to wish for what is beyond wishing. I thank you for what you have said--dear. I shall not forget it. Few women could be so good as you are to me. You would have the right to be very different if you chose." "No, I should not. There are reasons--well, as you say, let us not talk about it. We have made up our minds to meet and part as we should--kindly always, lovingly as friends love, truthfully now, since there is nothing left for us to distrust." She had never spoken to him in this way in all the meetings that had followed his recovery. He wondered if there had been any real change in her nature, or whether this were not at last the assertion of her natural self. She spoke so seriously and quietly that he could not doubt her. "I have seen that you can act in that way," she continued presently. "You have done more for the sake of the mere memory of your friend than many men would do for love itself." "Not so much as I would do for the memory of love," said Ghisleri, turning his face away. "Was it so sweet as that?" she asked. "Yes." "And yet you have loved better and longer in other days." "As I was a better man," he said, finding no other answer, for he knew it was true. Maddalena sighed. Perhaps she had hoped that this last time he would say what he had never said--that he had loved her better than Bianca Corleone. "You must have been different then." She spoke a little coldly, in spite of herself. A moment later she smiled. "How foolish it is of me to think of making comparisons, now that it is all over," she said. "So you are not coming to Tuscany this summer, and I shall not see you till next autumn. Why do you not come?" "I want to be alone a long time," answered Ghisleri. "It is much better. I am bad company, and besides, I am not strong enough to wander about the world yet. I need a long rest." "It seems so strange to think of you as not being strong." "Yes--I who used to be so proud of my strength. I believe that was my greatest vanity when I was very young." "How full of contradictions you are!" Maddalena exclaimed, as she had often done before. Ghisleri said nothing, for he knew it better than she could. It was growing late, for the sun had gone down and the twilight deepened in the room. He rose to go, and took her hand as she stood up beside him. "Good-bye," he said, almost in a whisper. "May God forgive me, and bless you--always." "Good-bye--dear." He went out. It had been a strange meeting, and the parting was stranger still. Very often, throughout the long summer months which followed, Ghisleri thought of it, recalling every word and gesture of the woman who had loved him so deeply, and for whom he had nothing left but the poor friendship she was so ready to accept. But that at least he could give her, kindly, lovingly, and truthfully, as she herself had said, and he was grateful to her for asking it of him, though no kindness of hers could heal the wound he had given himself in injuring her. He thought less harshly of the world for half a year or so after that day, and began to believe that it might not be so abominable a place as he had sometimes been inclined to think it. He wrote to Maddalena from time to time, short letters, which said little, but which she was glad to receive and which she often answered in the same strain, with a small chronicle of small doings made to bear the weight of a sweeping comment now and then. Little enough of interest there was in any of those epistles, but there was a general tone in them which assured each that the other had not forgotten that last meeting. Ghisleri did not write to Laura, though he could hardly have told why, especially as he had spoken of doing so. Possibly he felt that she would not understand him through a letter as she did when they were face to face, and he feared to make a bad impression. Of Adele Savelli he had news often, through people who were in intimate correspondence with her and with her step-mother, who spent the greater part of the summer at Gerano. From all accounts she had begun to improve with the warm weather, and though she still looked ill and greatly changed from her former self, she was said to be very much better. It was commonly reported that morphia had saved her, and it was whispered that she was a slave to it in consequence. Ghisleri cared very little. He had almost given up the idea that she had been concerned in bringing on Arden's illness, and even if he sometimes still thought she had been, he saw the impossibility of going any further than he had gone already in the attempt to discover the truth. CHAPTER XXI. Before attempting to chronicle the events which were the ultimate consequences of those already described, it will be necessary to explain how it was that very little worth recording occurred during nearly three years after the day on which Pietro Ghisleri said good-bye to the Contessa dell' Armi, when she was going to make her customary visit to her father. In the natural course of things, every one returned in the following autumn, in more or less lively expectation of the season to come. Laura Arden expected nothing of it, in the way of amusement, nor did she look forward to anything of the sort in her life as possible for many seasons to come. Maddalena dell' Armi, on the other hand, expected much, and was, on the whole, disappointed. Ghisleri had grown indifferent to such a degree as to be almost unrecognizable to his friends. He went out very little, and was said to be busy with some speculation in which he was ruining himself, but of which, as a matter of fact, he had never even heard. Adele Savelli went everywhere, thin, nervous, and careworn, and apparently driven to death by the necessity for excitement. There were people who said she was going mad, and others who said she lived on morphia and that it must ultimately kill her. The division of opinions concerning the nature of her malady still existed, and the wildest stories were sent adrift at a venture down the dangerous rapids of conversation. Donna Adele had quarrelled about Laura with her father, who had disinherited her as far as he was able, and she led a life of daily torment in Casa Savelli in consequence. That was one of the tales. Then it was stated that Francesco's passion for Laura Arden had suddenly developed to heroic proportions, and that his wife was eating her heart out. Thirdly, there was a party which asserted confidently that Adele herself was in love with Pietro Ghisleri, who did not even take the trouble to go and see her more than once or twice a month. The only point upon which opinion was unanimous was Laura Arden's personal and undivided responsibility for all the evil that happened to Adele Savelli. In the first year, so long as Laura never went into the world, the reputation society had given her harmed her very little, and but for the extremely thoughtful kindness of one or two communicative friends, she might have remained in ignorance of it altogether. As it was, she was indifferent, except when she was amused by the still current accusation of possessing the evil eye. That Laura was an undoubted and dangerous jettatrice was now commonly accepted as a matter of fact. Since Ghisleri and Campodonico had fought, the men had been circumspect in their remarks, but there were few who did not make the sign when they saw her go by. If anything had been needed to prove the fact, there was the issue of the duel. The man who had taken Laura's side had nearly lost his life, though he had fought several times previously without ever receiving any serious hurt. That was proof positive. Adele's illness, too, dated almost from the day of her reconciliation with Laura, and seemed likely to end fatally. Then, almost at the same time, the Contessa had broken with Ghisleri in the most heartless way, as the world said. For the world knew something about that, too, and could have told the whole story most exactly as it had never happened, and detailed several conversations accurately which had never taken place. Poor Ghisleri! The world pitied him sincerely, and hated Laura Arden for being the evil-eyed cause of all his misfortunes. How could he still go to see her, knowing, as he must, how dangerous it was? Had she not almost killed him and Adele, as well as quite killing her husband? People who touched Laura Arden's hand would do well to shut themselves up and lie safe at home for four and twenty hours, until the power of the jettatura was past. Those black eyes of hers meant no good to any one, in spite of her inspired, nun-like looks. All these things were said, repeated, affirmed, denied, discussed, and said again in the perpetual vicious circle of gossip, while the persons most concerned lived their own lives almost altogether undisturbed by the reports affecting them. No one refused to bow to Laura Arden in the street, although she was supposed to have the power of bringing murder, pestilence, and sudden death on those who went too near her. Nobody ventured to condole with Adele Savelli upon her husband's flighty conduct, still less upon the supposed loss to her of half the Gerano estate. Nor did any one express to Ghisleri anything like sympathy for having been so abominably treated by the Contessa. Such frankness would have been reprehensible and tactless in the extreme. Adele Savelli's existence was in reality far more wretched than any one could have supposed at that time, and it was destined to be made yet more miserable before a second year had elapsed. In the spring of the year following that described in the last chapter, the Contessa Delmar surprised Ghisleri with a very startling piece of news. They were talking together in the grand stand at one of the May races. "You know I always tell you everything I hear that seems to be of any importance," she said. "We generally know what to believe. I heard a story last night which is so very odd that there may be some truth in it. As it may be nothing but a bit of mischief, I will not name the person who told me. It is said that more than a year ago, when Adele Savelli thought she was dying out at Gerano, she did not wish to confess to the parish priest, whom she had known all her life, and so she wrote out a general confession and sent it to a priest here in Rome. Is that possible, do you think?" "Such things have been done," answered Ghisleri. "I do not know what the rule is about them, but the case is possible." "I was not sure. Now they say that this confession of Adele's never reached its destination, and that a copy of it, if not the original, is in circulation in society, passing quietly from hand to hand. That is a strange story, is it not?" "A very strange story." Pietro's face was grave, for he remembered many circumstances which this tale might explain. "And what is the confession said to contain?" he asked, after a pause. "Some extraordinary revelations about Adele's social career; it is even hinted that there is something which might bring very serious consequences upon her if it were known, though what it is no one can find out. That is what I heard, and I thought it worth while to tell you. I think, so far as I am concerned, that I shall deny it. It looks improbable enough, on the face of it. One need not say that its very improbability makes one think it cannot be all an invention." "No. I think you are wise--and charitable as well. If there is any truth in it, Donna Adele will have another illness when it reaches her ears. I suppose people have not failed to say that it was Lady Herbert who had the confession stolen through a servant." "Strange to say, no one has said that yet, but they will," added Maddalena, with conviction. "Here comes Savelli--take care! Will you put fifty francs for me on the next race? Here is the note." There was no exaggeration in the Contessa's account. The story was actually in circulation, if the lost confession was not. Unlike the majority of such tales, however, this one was not openly repeated or commented upon where more than two people were present. It disappeared and reappeared in unexpected places like the river Alpheus of old, but its shape was not materially changed. It was told in whispers and under terrible oaths of secrecy, and occasionally--very rarely, indeed--the mere word "Confession," spoken in casual conversation, made people smile and look at each other. There was not even a scandalous little paragraph in any of the daily papers, referring to it. For there are moments when society can keep its secrets, strangely communicative as it is at other times. The houses of Savelli and Gerano were too important and, in a way, too powerful still, to be carelessly attacked. Indeed, society very much preferred that neither the one nor the other should be attacked at all, and behaved so carefully in this one instance, that it was very long before any one discovered that a few weeks before the rumour had been set afloat Francesco Savelli had himself summarily dismissed Adele's maid for the really serious offence of helping her mistress to procure more morphia than the doctor's orders allowed. It was longer still before any one knew that the maid's name was Lucia, and that she had immediately found a situation with Donna Maria Boccapaduli. What was never known to the public at all was that when Savelli sent her out of the house, Lucia had threatened to make certain revelations injurious to the family if he persisted, but that Francesco had not paid the slightest attention to the menace, nor even spoken of it to his wife. He was selfish, cold, and was very far from admirable as a man, but he had been brought up in good traditions, and had the instincts of a gentleman when his own comfort was not endangered by them. All Ghisleri's suspicions revived at the news Maddalena gave him. Again he took down the medical work he had consulted on the evening when the idea that Adele was in some way guilty of Arden's death had first flashed across his mind, more than a year previously. Again he read the chapter on scarlet fever carefully from beginning to end, and sat down to think over the possibilities in such a case, and once more, after several days of serious consideration, he grew sceptical, and abandoned the attempt to fathom the mystery, if mystery there were. He knew that even without that, Adele might have written many things to her confessor in confidence which, if repeated openly in the world, would do her terrible harm. He was quite sure that all the infamous slanders on Laura and her husband could ultimately be traced to Adele alone, and it was possible that the stolen document contained a full account of them, though how any sane person could be rash enough to trust such a statement to the post was beyond Ghisleri's comprehension. He did not know that Adele had hardly been responsible for her actions on that day and on many succeeding ones. He had seen, while at Gerano, that she was far from well, but she had been apparently in full possession of her senses. That she should have entrusted to paper the confession that she had wilfully and successfully attempted to make Herbert Arden catch the scarlet fever in her own house, he could not believe, though he thought it possible that the crime might have actually been committed. He saw strong reasons for thinking that the confession had either been destroyed, or had never really been shown, but that some third person had known something of its contents and had perhaps betrayed the knowledge in a fit of anger. The Contessa dell' Armi could never tell him anything further than she had communicated at the races, and she, as he knew, was intimate with many who would be acquainted with all the current gossip. Strange to say, the story neither developed nor changed; and contrary to his expectations and to Maddalena's own, no one ever suggested that Lady Herbert Arden had been instrumental in causing the confession to be stolen. The men did not talk about the story at all, or, at least, no one ever hinted at it when Ghisleri was present. Laura saw him often during that winter, though not so regularly as in the first months which had succeeded her husband's death. It was evident to Pietro that the Princess was seriously disturbed by his frequent visits to her daughter, and he willingly restricted them rather than give offence to the elderly lady. As was to be expected, he gradually became more intimate with Laura as time went on. There were strong bonds of friendship between them, and the elements of a deep sympathy. On more than one occasion each had spoken to the other the whole thoughts of the moment, as people like themselves rarely speak to more than one or two persons who come into their lives. Ghisleri felt that Laura was taking the place of everything in his existence for which he had formerly cared, and the thought of love for any woman had never been so far from him as during that year and the following summer. He began to take a pleasure in small things that concerned her, which he had rarely found in the great emotions of his former life. Occasionally, when he was in a bad temper, he sneered at himself and said that he was growing old, and was only fit to be the guardian of distressed widows and fatherless children. But in spite of such moments, he was sometimes conscious of something not unlike happiness, and he was, on the whole, far more cheerful and less discontented with himself than he had formerly been. "It is the calm before the storm," he said to Laura one day, with a laugh. "Something appalling is going to happen to me before long." "I do not believe it," she answered, confidently. "You have lived such an existence of excitement for so many years, that you cannot understand what peace means now that you have tried it. Of course if you go in search of emotions again, you will find them. They grow on every bush, and are as cheap as blackberries." Laura laughed a little, too, as she made the reply. She thought much of Ghisleri now, and she could hardly realise what her life would be without him. Little Herbert first, then her mother, then Pietro--so the three stood in their respective order when she thought of her rather lonely position in the world. For she was very lonely, even when Arden had been dead eighteen months or more. Her old acquaintances rarely came to see her, and when they did there was a constraint in their manner which told of fear, or dislike, or both. The idle tale of the evil eye which she had so heartily despised once upon a time had done its work. In the following year, when, in the natural course of events, she would have gone out occasionally in a very quiet way, she found herself almost cut off from society. Even then she did not care so much as might have been expected. But her mother was in despair. She and the Prince constantly had Laura to dine with them, and always asked at the same time two or three friends with whom she had formerly been more or less intimate. But when it became known that "to dine quite informally" meant that the person invited was to meet Laura Arden, it became very hard to find evenings when any one chanced to be free to accept an invitation to the Palazzo Braccio. Incredible as it may seem, Laura was almost ostracised. No one who has not seen the social ruin which such a reputation as hers brings with it, could believe how complete it can be. Ghisleri ground his teeth in impotent anger against the stupid and cruel superstition which possessed his fellow-citizens, and which in a year or two would inevitably drive Laura to leave Rome, as it had driven others before then. He could do nothing, for the thing was never mentioned before him, and moreover he would be far more careful now than he had ever been not to be drawn into a quarrel on Laura's account. For he was well aware that his position towards her was anomalous and might very easily be misunderstood in a society where almost all were prejudiced against her. He supposed that the world expected him to marry her when a little more time had passed, and he knew that nothing was further from his thoughts. It was at this time, just two years after Herbert Arden's death, that he began to torment himself, perhaps with better reason than in former days. Knowing as he did what might be said, and what in all likelihood was said about his friendship for Laura, the advisability of discontinuing his visits almost altogether presented itself for consideration, and would not be summarily annihilated by any specious argument. It had formerly seemed to him treacherous even to think of loving Arden's wife, though the thought had rarely crossed his mind even as the wildest hypothesis until some time after his friend had been dead and buried. It now seemed as impossible as ever to love her, but he was obliged by the commonest of common sense considerations to admit that such an affection would not imply the smallest breach of faith to Arden's memory. She was a widow, and any man who knew her had a right to love her and to ask her hand if he so pleased. That right, then, was his also, if ever he should need to avail himself of it. But it was precisely because he did not love Laura Arden that the doubt as to his own conduct arose. As he had no intention of asking her to marry him, could he and should he put her in such a position as to favour speculation in regard to her? Unquestionably he should not. But in that case, what was he to do? The old, ignoble, worldly instinct told him to create a diversion by causing gossip in other directions, where scandal would be easily manufactured, and then to procure himself the liberty of doing what he pleased behind the world's back, so to say. But to his credit it must be admitted that he did not entertain the idea for a moment. It disgusted him and he sought for a solution elsewhere, trying, in his imagination, every conceivable expedient by which he fancied that he might enjoy Laura's society without compromising her in any way. In such cases, however, it is hard to find a stratagem which shall at once satisfy the exigencies of the situation, and an honest man's conscience and sense of honour. He had long given up the custom of going to see Laura every other day, and when she was at her mother's house he was rarely invited, on account of the Princess's prejudice against him, and which no good conduct on his part seemed capable of destroying. To give up seeing Laura altogether was a sacrifice so great that he did not feel strong enough to make it; nor, perhaps, would Laura herself have understood it. Yet, unless he kept away from her for a long time, he knew that the all-wise world would continue to say that he saw her every day. The more he thought about it, the harder he found it to come to any decision. Considering the terms on which he now saw her, and that in former times they had more than once spoken of the same matter, he at last reluctantly resolved to lay the question before her, and to let her decide what he should do. He hated to ask advice of any one, and he detested even the appearance of shifting responsibility upon another. But he could see no other way. Laura found it as hard to come to a determination as he had. During the last six months he had become almost a necessary part of her life, and she would have turned to him as naturally as he now turned to her for counsel in any difficult situation. Her own character was too simple and straightforward to demand the elaborate explanations of the nature of friendship, which he required of himself; but when he put the difficulty before her she saw it plainly enough. "For myself, I am perfectly indifferent," she said at last. "I do not see why I should sacrifice anything because there are people bad enough to imagine evil where there is none. You and I need no justification of our friendship, and as I cannot see that I, at least, am much in debt to the world, it is not clear to me why I should care what it says. But I have to consider my mother." "And yourself, in spite of what you say," answered Ghisleri. "You yourself are first--your mother next." "Of course you, as a man, look at it in that light. But if it were not for my mother, do not imagine that I should take any notice of what people choose to say. They have said such vile things of me already that they can hardly invent anything worse. If it were perfectly indifferent to you, I do not say but that I might prefer to be careful." "If what were indifferent?" asked Ghisleri, who did not understand the rather enigmatic speech. "If you were quite an indifferent person to me--which you are not." Her eyes met his frankly, and she smiled as she spoke. There was not a trace of timidity or shyness in the speech. She had no reason whatever for concealing the fact that she liked him. But he, on his part, experienced an odd sensation, the meaning of which was by no means clear to him. He could not have told whether it partook more of satisfaction or of disappointment, but it was a distinct emotion of a kind which he had never expected to feel in her presence. "I am glad you like me," he said. "I should be very unhappy if you did not. I value your friendship more than anything in the world." "You have earned it if ever a man did," she answered. "It is enough that I have it. I do not know how I have deserved anything half so precious." "I know more of what you have done for me than you suppose," said Laura. "Never mind that. The facts are simple enough. We are good friends; we depend, for a certain amount of happiness, upon seeing one another often; because the world does not understand, it expects us to sacrifice our inclinations. For my part, I refuse. There is only one person to be consulted--my mother, who is dearer to me than any friend can be. I will speak to her and make her see the truth. In the mean time do nothing, and forget all this absurd complication. It is only the unreal shadow of an artificial morality which has no foundation nor true existence whatever. You know that better than I." Ghisleri laughed. "When you choose to express yourself strongly, you do not lack force," he said. "In the old days I used to fancy that if you spoke out plainly, your sentiments would take the form of a prayer, or a hymn, or something of that sort." "I am much more human than you think me," Laura answered. "I told you so once, and you would not believe me." Laura therefore took the matter into her own hands, and spoke to her mother about it. But the Princess was not easily persuaded, and when the summer came the two were still at variance. A woman like Laura's mother is hard to move when she has allowed a prejudice to take firm root in her mind, and becomes altogether obstinate when that prejudice is tolerably well founded. It was an unquestionable fact that Ghisleri had always been considered a dangerous and rather fast man, whose acquaintance did not improve a woman's reputation, and the Princess of Gerano had no means of understanding his real character. It was a constant wonder to her that Laura should like him. The excellent lady never at all realised that the blood of poor Jack Carlyon was in his daughter's veins, and that, sooner or later, it might make itself felt and produce rather unexpected results. Carlyon's chief characteristic had been his recklessness of consequences. If the Princess had remembered that, she would have understood better why Laura had married Herbert Arden in spite of his deformities, and why she made an intimate friend of Pietro Ghisleri in spite of his reputation. But Laura had never shown any subversive tendencies in childhood or early youth, and her fearless truthfulness, her rather melancholy and meditative nature when a young girl, and her really charitable heart had combined with her pale beauty and saintly eyes to make her mother suppose her infinitely more submissive, obedient, and nun-like than she actually was. After long and patient discussion Laura turned rather suddenly. "I am not a child, mother," she said. "I know Signor Ghisleri very much better than you, and better than most people can. I know enough of his past life to understand that, although he has done many foolish things and some cruel ones, he is not what I call a bad man, and he has changed very much for the better during the last two years. I will not give up his friendship for the sake of pleasing a set of people who do not even pretend to like me." "Laura, Laura, take care! You are falling in love with that man, and he is not fit to be your husband." "In love?" Laura's deep eyes flashed angrily, for the first time in her mother's recollection of her. "You do not know what you are saying, mother." The Princess sighed, and turned her face away. She attributed the extraordinary change in her daughter to Ghisleri's bad influence, and her prejudice against him increased accordingly. She could not see that the girl had developed in the course of years into a fully grown woman whose character had not turned out to be what she had expected. And Laura was very angry at the suggestion that she could possibly love Ghisleri--quite unjustifiably so, her mother considered. But here, again, the elder woman did the younger an injustice. Love was very far from Laura's thoughts just then, though her friendship for Pietro was assuming an importance it had not had before. She did not speak again for some minutes, and when she did, she spoke quietly and without any show of anger. Her tone was not hard, nor was anything she said either cutting or defiant, but the Princess felt that there was to be no appeal from the verdict. "Dearest mother," she said, "I never did anything and I never will do anything with the intention of displeasing or hurting you. But I have my own life to lead, and my own responsibilities to bear, in my own way. There are some things in which I must judge for myself, and one of them is in the matter of choosing my friends." "If you had chosen any one but that wild Ghisleri!" sighed the Princess. "A man who knew him better than either you or I can, loved him dearly, and when he was dying bade him take care of me. The promise then made has been faithfully kept. I will not shut my door to my husband's old friend, who has become mine, merely because the world is what it is--a liar, an evil speaker, and a slanderer." Laura was a little pale, and the lids drooped over her eyes as though to hide something she would not show. It was the first time she had ever spoken of Herbert Arden since her child had been born. If the world had been aware that the matter of her intimacy with Ghisleri had been under discussion, it would have been much delighted by her decision. It would really have been too unkind of Laura to deprive it of a subject of conversation full of never-flagging interest. For not a day passed without a reference to Pietro's devotion to her, and the reference was rarely made without a dash of spite and a little flavouring of social venom. Laura was not to be forgiven for having made Ghisleri prefer her company to that of a score of other women, all, in their own estimation, as good-looking as she, and infinitely more agreeable. Ghisleri himself accepted the situation, since Laura wished him to do so, though he was constantly uneasy about his own position. It seemed to him that if there were the slightest danger of giving colour to any serious slander on her name it must be his duty to disobey her and altogether discontinue his visits. And he knew also that he would naturally be the last person to hear what was common gossip. The season, however, passed on quietly enough until Lent began, bringing the period of mortification and fasting during which society uses its legs less and its tongues more. This, it may be here again said for the sake of clearness, was the Lenten season of the second year after Arden's death, and after the final break between Ghisleri and Maddalena dell' Armi. At that time several events occurred which it is necessary to chronicle in greater detail, for the better understanding of this history, and for the more complete refutation of the story which passed commonly current for some time afterwards, and which very nearly brought about the most irreparable consequences. CHAPTER XXII. During nearly a year a large number of persons had been acquainted with the story of Adele's written confession, but, as has been shown, the matter was considered so serious as to deserve secrecy--the highest social honour which can be conferred on truth. It had never reached the ears of any member of the Savelli or of the Gerano families, and but for Maddalena dell' Armi, Ghisleri himself would never have heard it. Although Adele was suffering the dire results of her evil deeds in the shape of almost incurable morphinism, the principal cause of her first fears and consequent illness no longer troubled her as it had once done. She now believed that the confession had, after all, caught upon some projection or in some crevice of the masonry in the shaft of the oubliette at Gerano, and that it would never be heard of again. It was incredible, she thought, that if any person had found it and read it, he or she should not attempt to extort a large sum of money for it. But no one appeared to demand anything. That was sufficient proof that no one possessed the document, and it must therefore have remained safely where it had fallen. Her one and only fear was lest something should happen to that part of the castle which might make repairs necessary, and possibly lead to the discovery of the letter. But that was improbable in the extreme. The massive walls had stood as they were during nearly four centuries, and did not show any signs of weakness. As for Lucia, if she ever betrayed the secret, or hinted to her present mistress that there was a secret to betray, and if any story got afloat by her agency, Adele could deny it, and her position was strong enough in the world to force most people to accept her denial. She almost laughed at the idea. The principal statement contained in the confession would seem almost grotesque in its improbability. She knew very well that if she ever heard such an action imputed to her worst enemy she would not believe it; she would not even take the trouble to repeat it, because nothing was more foolish than to get the reputation of telling incredible tales. She was quite sure of this, for when she mentally tried the position she found that she could not have given credence to such a legend even if any one had accused Laura Arden of having done the deed. And as she hated Laura with a whole-hearted hatred that did not hesitate at trifles, she considered the argument to be conclusive. Her hatred grew as the fatal effects of the morphia began to unsettle her brain and disturb the strong power of self-control which had borne her through so many dangers. The necessity for keeping up an outward show of good relations with her step-sister on pain of the severest financial punishment if she angered her father, irritated her extremely. She was well aware that, in spite of the reconciliation and of her own behaviour, the world still chose to believe most of the things she had formerly said of Laura, and that the latter's position was anything but enviable. Nevertheless, Laura seemed to survive very well, and in Adele's opinion had obtained far more than her share of good things. That she had really suffered terribly, in her own way, by the death of her husband, none knew better than Adele, and that, at least, was a satisfaction. But in other ways she was singularly fortunate. Her little boy was as sturdy and strong and sound as any mother could have wished; for deformity which is the result of accident is not inherited. Moreover, there seemed to be little doubt but that the uncle from whom Arden had expected a large fortune would now leave his money to little Herbert. Laura was, of course, decidedly poor at present, judging from Adele's point of view, but in the life she led she needed very little money, and what she had sufficed for her wants. She was evidently quite contented. Then, as though the rest were not enough, she had what Adele called a monopoly of Pietro Ghisleri, who acted as though he intended to marry her, and whom she received as though she meant to accept him. As Laura Arden, society could treat her as it pleased, but as Ghisleri's wife, society would not only open its arms to her, but would in all likelihood espouse her cause in any future difference or difficulty. Ghisleri would know how to assure her position, and would have no difficulty in making her respected, for he was a most particularly unpleasant person to quarrel with and it was not every one who had Campodonico's luck. Of course, there might yet be time to prevent the marriage, and Adele rashly resolved that if that were possible she would accomplish it. Of late she had begun to include Ghisleri in her hatred of Laura, having finally given up the attempt to attract him into her immediate circle. He was always the same with her, and never, in the course of years, had seemed willing to advance beyond the limits of ordinary and friendly acquaintance, though she had often tried to draw him further. The ordinary methods failed with him. He could not be tempted into making confidences, which step is one of the first and perhaps the most important in the ordinary, business-like flirtation. He was apparently indifferent to praise as he was to blame, except from one or two persons. He never had an enemy, to ruin whom he needed a woman's help--a short method of reaching intimacy which is not to be despised in dealing with refined bad people. Least of all, was he a man who could be led to compromise himself in a woman's eyes in such a way as to consider it his duty to make love to her. Adele had tried all these approved ways of beginning a serious flirtation with Pietro, but had failed each time, and it enraged her to see that Laura could keep him without any stratagem at all, by sheer force of attraction. For she had no belief at all in their platonic friendship. One or the other, or both, must be in love, for the very simple and well-known reason that a permanent close friendship between man and woman within certain limits of age was an utter impossibility. Laura was perhaps too foolish to realise the fact, but Ghisleri was certainly not the man to forget it. She disliked him because she had not been able to attract him herself, and she hated him for being attracted by Laura. She now made up her mind that unless she could ruin him in Laura's estimation, the marriage could not be prevented, and she began to revolve the chances for accomplishing her purpose. Her intelligence was not what it had been, for it was subject now to fits of abnormal activity and to a subsequent reaction, in which she was not always perfectly well aware of what was going on around her. In the one state she was rash, over-excited, nervous; in the other she was dull and apathetic, and lost herself in hazy dreams of a rather disconnected character. The consequence was that she found it very hard to hit upon any consecutive plan which presented even the faintest hope of success. Several times she was on the point of doing something very foolish, when she had almost lost control of herself, and she was only saved by the long habit of worldly tact which would probably survive all her other faculties if they were wrecked by the habit which was killing her. But she grew distrustful of herself and of her powers, and a new suffering was added to the many she already had to bear, as she gradually became conscious of the terrible change in herself. She tried to find out all she could about Pietro Ghisleri. At that time all Rome was going mad about making money by speculation, and all sorts of dishonest transactions necessarily went on under cover of greater ones honest in themselves. Adele did her best to ascertain whether Ghisleri were connected with any of them, or with any affair whatever of a nature which could be criticised. But she failed altogether. He looked on at the general rush for money with perfect indifference, and was quite content with the little he already possessed. It struck Adele that a card scandal would do him as much harm as anything, and she made inquiries as to his fondness for play, but was informed that he rarely played at all, and generally lost a little if he did. He was hard to catch. So far as she could learn, he had changed his mode of life very considerably during the past two years. It was quite certain that he had definitely broken with Maddalena dell' Armi, though no one was really sure of the exact date at which the rupture had taken place. They were both clever people who kept their secrets to themselves on the simple plan that, if a thing is not to be known, it should not be told. Laura was the only other woman whom he visited regularly, and his doings were far too well known to make it possible to float a scandal about him in connexion with some one else, which should reach Laura's ears. Besides, Laura would not care. She was quite capable of not taking the slightest notice, just as in former times she had not cared whether he saw Maddalena every day or not. All she wanted, thought Adele, was that Ghisleri should be at her feet--and there he was. At last she hit upon the rather wild plan of asking Ghisleri himself what she had better do. There was something diabolical in the idea of taking his own advice in order to ruin him, which appealed to her in the present state of her brain and nerves. They often met in society, and she caught sight of him that very night at a Lenten party in Casa Montevarchi--one of the last ever given in that house, by the by, for the family was ruined soon afterwards. She followed him in the crowd and touched his shoulder with her fan. "Will you give me your arm?" she asked. "Thanks. I want to sit down somewhere. There is a sofa over there." "You still come to these talking matches, I see," said Ghisleri, as they sat down. "It must be for the sake of saying something interesting, for it can certainly not be in the hope of hearing anything of the kind." "You can still make sharp speeches," laughed Adele. "I thought my step-sister had converted you, and that you were turning into a sort of Saint Propriety." "Oh, you thought so," said Pietro, coolly. "Well, you see you were mistaken. There is as little of propriety about me as usual, or of saintship either." He looked at the worn and dilapidated features of the woman beside him, at her hollow cheeks and lustreless eyes, and he almost pitied her. He wondered how she had the courage to keep up the comedy and to face the world as she did, night after night, old before her youth was half over, ugly when she had been pretty but two years earlier, weary always, and haunted by the shadow of the poison to which she was a slave. "You need not be angry," she answered. "I did not mean anything disagreeable. I wish you would say more sharp things, it is refreshing to hear a man talk after listening to a pack of little boys." "Why do you listen to them?" "They amuse me for five minutes, and when I have tolerated them as long as that I cannot get rid of them. Then I begin to long for a little serious talk with a man like you--a man one can ask a question of with the hope of getting a reasonable answer." "You are very good to put it in that way," said Ghisleri. "Have you any particular question to ask me now? I will be as intensely reasonable as I can in my reply, on condition that it is a thing of which I know nothing whatever." "What an extraordinary restriction!" exclaimed Adele. "Not at all. If I should know anything about the matter in hand it would be sure to be so little that it would confuse me and hamper the free working of my imagination, which might otherwise produce interesting and even startling effects. You may have heard that a little knowledge is dangerous. That is the meaning of the proverb." "I knew I should get something original from you. You always say something which no one else would." "And you always discover in me some new and beautiful quality which had escaped my notice," answered Ghisleri. "Is it with a view to getting some particular sort of answer to the question you meditate, that you flatter me so nicely before asking it?" "Of course," laughed Adele. "What did you expect? But I do not think you would answer the question at all. You would give me a dissertation on something else and then go away and leave me to be torn to pieces by the little boys again." "What an awful death!" laughed Ghisleri. "I will not leave you. I will protect you against whole legions of little boys." "You look as if you could. You are quite as strong as ever now, are you not? You never feel any pain from your wound?" "Never," answered Pietro, indifferently. "Was that the grave question to which you wanted a serious and well-considered reply?" "Do not be absurd!" cried Adele, with a laugh. "One has to make civil inquiries of that kind sometimes. It is a social duty. Even if I hated you I should ask if you were well." "Of course. The old-fashioned poisoners in the middle ages did that. It was of no use to waste expensive poison on a man who was ill and might die without it. They practised economy." "What a horrible idea!" exclaimed Adele, shuddering. "Horrible ideas were the fashion then," pursued Ghisleri. "I have thought a great deal about those times since you showed me those interesting places at Gerano, nearly two years ago. The modern publisher of primers would have made his fortune under the Borgia domination. Fancy the titles: 'Every man his own executioner, a practical guide for headsmen, torturers and poisoners, by a member of the profession (diploma) with notes, diagrams, and a special table of measurements and instructions for using the patent German rack, etc.' Does not that sound wildly interesting? They would have had it on the drawing-room table in every castle. It would have been a splendid book for hawkers. Gerano made me think of it." Adele laughed in rather a forced way, and her eyes moved uneasily, glancing quickly in one direction and another. "You would have been a dreadful person in those times, I am quite sure," she said. "You would have been a monster of cruelty." "Of course I should. So should we all. But we manage those little things so easily now, and so much more tastefully." "Exactly," said Adele, who saw her chance and an opportunity of turning the conversation at the same time. "I would like your views upon modern social warfare. If you wished to ruin your enemy, how would you go about it?" "A man or a woman?" asked Ghisleri, calmly. "Oh, both. A man first. It is always harder to injure a man than a woman, is it not?" "So they say. Do you wish to kill the man or to ruin him altogether, or only to injure him in the eyes of the world?" "Take the three in the other order," suggested Adele. "A mere injury first--and the rest afterwards." "Very well. I have something very neat in the killing line--to use the shopkeeper style. I will keep it to the end. Let me see. You wish to do a man a great injury--enough, say, to make a woman who loves him turn upon him. Is that it?" "Yes, that would do very well," said Adele, as though she were discussing the fashion of a new frock. "If you happen to be a good hand at forgery," answered Ghisleri, with perfect equanimity, "write a number of letters purporting to be from him to another woman. Put anything you like into them, take them to the woman who loves him, and ask a large sum for them. She will probably pay it and leave him. You will accomplish your object and earn money at the same time. If you cannot forge his handwriting, forge that of an imaginary woman--that is easy enough--and follow the same course as before. It is almost sure to succeed." "What a surpassingly diabolical scheme!" exclaimed Adele, with a laugh. "Yes, I flatter myself it is not bad. Of course you can make the matter public if only you are sure of the forgery being good, or of an imaginary woman being forthcoming at the right moment. But, on the whole, the finest way of ruining a man before the world is to steal his money. No reputation can stand poverty and slander at the same time." "But it is not always easy to steal a man's money," objected Adele. "Oh, yes, unless a man is very rich. Bring a suit against his title, and if he fights it, the lawyers will eat up all he has. Then you can play the magnanimous part and say that you give up the suit out of pity for him. That is very pretty, too. But the prettiest of all is the new way of killing people, because nobody can possibly find you out." "What do you make them die of?" asked Adele nervously. "Cholera--typhus--fever, almost anything you please. It is a convenient way because the epidemic of the day is generally the most ready to hand. What did you say? I beg your pardon, I thought you spoke. Yes, it is delightful, and in most cases I believe it is almost sure to succeed. I dined with Gouache last night, and Professor Wüsterschinder, the great German authority on cutting up live rabbits, you know, was there. A charming man--speaks French like a human being, and understands Italian well. I liked him very much. The conversation turned upon murder. You know Gouache has a taste for horrors, being the gentlest and kindest of men. The professor told a long story of a doctor who murdered the father, mother, and aunt of a girl whom none of the three would let him marry. He did it in the course of medical treatment, with three different vegetable poisons--masterly, the professor said. There was an inquiry and they dug everybody up again, and all that sort of thing, but no one could positively prove anything and the doctor married the girl after all." "You seem full of horrors this evening," said Adele, moving one shoulder in a restless, jerking way which was becoming a habit. "I always am," answered Ghisleri, turning his cold blue eyes on her. "I know the most horrible things and am always just on the point of saying them." "Please do not!" exclaimed Adele, shrinking away from him into the corner of the sofa, almost in physical fear of him now. "I was telling you about the cholera trick, or I was going to tell you. The other story was only the prelude. After giving it to us with a number of details I have forgotten, Professor Wüsterschinder launched out about the wonders of science, as those men always do, and positively made me uncomfortable with the numbers of unfortunate rabbits and puppies he cut to shreds in his conversation. Then he came to the point and began to explain how easy it is to murder people by natural means like typhus. It is done by taking the--good Heavens, Donna Adele, what is the matter!" Adele had uttered a short, low cry, and her face had turned very white. Her lips were contorted in an expression of anguish such as Pietro had never seen, and her fingers were twisting together as though they would break. "Can I do anything?" he asked, anxiously. He feared she was going to be seized by some kind of convulsion, but the woman's strong will helped her even then. "Hold my fan before my arm," she managed to say, and she felt for something in her pocket with her right hand. In a moment she produced a tiny syringe with a point like a needle, and a little bottle. With incredible quickness and skill she filled the syringe, pricked the skin on her left arm, and ran the point into it, and then pressed the tiny piston slowly till it would go no further. In little more than one minute she had put everything into her pocket again, and taking her fan from Ghisleri's hand, leaned back in the corner of the sofa, with a sigh of relief. "I am afraid I made you nervous," he said, in a tone of apology. "Not at all," she answered. "I had forgotten to take my morphia before coming--that was all. I suffer terribly with pains in my head when I do not take it." "And is the pain gone already?" asked Ghisleri, in some surprise, and wondering how she would answer. "Oh, no! But it will be gone very soon. I am quieter when I know I have taken the morphia. Of course," she said, with a forced laugh, "you must not suppose that I take it often, not even every day. I believe it is very bad in large quantities." "Of course." Ghisleri could hardly help smiling at the poor attempt to disclaim any slavery to the fatal drug, contradicting, as it did, what she had said but a moment before. For the third time since Arden's death the conviction came upon him that Adele had been the responsible cause of it, and this time it was destined to be permanent. The theory of coincidence was exhausted, and he abandoned it. The stories he had told her about Professor Wüsterschinder, the great German authority, were quite true, and Ghisleri's eyes had been opened on the previous evening to the possibilities of evil disclosed by modern science. He was not yet sure of what Adele had done, but he was convinced that the general nature of the process she had employed to communicate the fever to Arden was similar to those which the professor had described, and that she must, in all probability, have got the necessary information from a scientific book or article on the subject, which she had either procured expressly, or which had perhaps fallen under her eyes by chance. She, on her part, had been desperately frightened, as she had good cause to be, for it was almost inconceivable to her that he could have accidentally gone so near the mark as he was going when her cry had stopped him. She felt that if he had pronounced the next half a dozen words, she must have gone mad there and then in the drawing-room where she sat, and she had instinctively prevented him proceeding any further. Then in the convulsion of terror she felt, she had resorted to her sole comforter, the morphia, and it had not played her false. In a short time its influence was at work and indeed the mere act of taking it was in itself soothing in the extreme. She felt herself growing calm again and more able to face the new difficulties and terrors that had arisen in her path. And they were many. She had no doubt now that Ghisleri had either read the lost confession or had spoken with some one who had. It was appalling to think that in that very room there might be a score of persons who knew what that letter contained as well as he. The morphia helped her wonderfully. But it was clear that Ghisleri had her in his power. An idea flashed across her mind. It was so simple that she wondered how she had not thought of it before. The letter had really fallen to the bottom of the shaft. Ghisleri, interested perhaps in the story of Paolo Braccio, had strolled down to the dungeon again by himself and had seen the paper lying there. In that case he alone knew of its existence or of its contents, besides herself and Lucia. The thought was so agreeable, compared with the alternative of supposing that all society knew the details of her evil deeds, that she clung to it. Then she looked at the man who, as she supposed, had power to dispose of her existence at his pleasure, and she wondered whether he had a price. All men had, she had heard. But as it seemed to her now, this particular man would not be like the generality, or else the price he would set on her letter would be of the kind which she could not possibly pay, because she would never be able to obtain for him what he might want. The feeling she had known in the first months of her torment returned upon her now, and very strongly--the awful feeling of degradation compared even with the worst of the people she knew. In her eyes, Ghisleri, with all his misdeeds, seemed a being of superior purity and goodness. He had never done what she had done, nor anything approaching to it in the most distant way. He had faced men in fair fight, and hurt them, and been almost mortally hurt himself, but he had never stabbed an enemy in the back nor dealt a blow in the dark. He had loved more than one woman, and had been loved in return, but no one had ever hinted that a woman's confidence had passed his lips, nor that he had ever spoken lightly of any woman's good name. If he had done evil, he had done it fairly, defiantly, above board, and in the light of day. Adele envied him with all her heart as he sat there beside her, confident in his own honourable reputation--as honour is reckoned in the world--and free to go and to come and to do what seemed good in his own eyes without a second thought of the consequences or the least fear of betraying himself. There was not at that moment one person in the room with whom she would not have been only too glad to exchange places, station, fortune, name, reputation--everything. And she fancied Ghisleri knew it, as indeed he almost did, and she feared to meet his eyes. The silence had lasted so long that it was fast becoming awkward. It was rarely indeed that Ghisleri forgot the social duty of destroying silence ruthlessly the moment it appears, with any weapon which comes to hand, from a feather to a bombshell. But on the present occasion his thoughts were so many and so complex as to fill his mind completely for a few minutes, so that all outward considerations sank into insignificance. The effort was made at last by Adele, the one of the two who had by far the most at stake in playing her part. "Are you aware," she began, with an attempt at playfulness which was almost weird, "that you have not spoken a single word during the last quarter of an hour? Have you quite forgotten my existence? My dear friend, you are growing almost rude in your old age!" "Good manners were never anything but an affectation with me," answered Ghisleri. "But you are quite right. There are little conventions of that sort which must be respected if society is to keep together and hold up its head--though why it should not lay down that same head and let itself go to pieces is beyond my comprehension. Present company is always excepted, you know--so you and I would survive as glorious and immortal relics of a by-gone civilisation." He hardly knew what he was saying, but he let the words run on with the easy habit of talking and saying nothing which sometimes saves critical situations for those who possess it and which can be acquired by almost any one who is not shy. The first step in studying that useful accomplishment is to talk when everybody else is talking, and not to pay the slightest attention to the sounds which pass one's lips. Any noise will do, bad or good--as the bearer of the good news to Aix put it--only, if possible, from the first let the noise take the shape of words. As every one else is talking, no one will hear you. Some of Mother Goose's rhymes are excellent for such practice, but those who prefer to recite the Eton grammar will obtain a result quite as satisfactory in the end. No one listens, and it makes no difference. You will then get a reputation for joining cheerfully in the talk of the day. But if you sit looking at your plate because you have nothing to say, the givers of dinner parties will curse you in their hearts, and will rarely ask you to eat their food, which treatment, though it will ultimately prolong your life, will not contribute to your social success. Gradually, if you practise the system assiduously, you will be able to walk alone, so to say. By attraction, your unconscious phrases will become exactly like those of your neighbours. You will then only need to open your mouth, stretch the vocal chords, and supply the necessary breath, and admirably constructed inanities will roll out, even when everybody is listening, and while you are gaining time to select in your mind a sufficiently cutting epithet with which to adorn your friend Smith Tompkins's name when it is mentioned, or while you are nicely calculating the exact amount of money you can ask the said Smith Tompkins to lend you the next time you have lost at baccarat. CHAPTER XXIII. The state of certainty in regard to Adele's doings, at which Ghisleri had now arrived, seemed to make any action in the matter useless if not practically impossible. He ascertained without difficulty the law concerning such attempts to do bodily injury as he was quite sure she had made. The crime was homicide when the attempt led to fatal results. There was no doubt of that. On the other hand, even if it should seem advisable to bring Adele to justice, and to involve both the Savelli and Gerano families in an affair which would socially ruin them for at least one whole generation, in case Adele were convicted, yet the positive proofs would be very hard to produce, and the ultimate good to be gained would be infinitesimally small compared with the injury done to innocent persons. The best course was to maintain the most absolute secrecy and to discourage as far as possible any allusions others might make to the mystery of the lost letter. Ghisleri, too, understood human nature far too well to suppose that Adele had in the first instance desired or expected to kill Herbert Arden. She had most probably only meant to cause Laura the greatest possible anxiety and trouble by bringing a dangerous illness upon her husband. Scarlet fever, as is well known, is not often fatal to adults in Italy, and such cases as Arden's in which death ensues within eight and forty hours, are so rare as to be phenomenal in any part of the world. But Ghisleri had found them described in the book he chanced to possess, under the head of "rudimentary cases ending fatally"--and it was there stated that they were the consequence of "a very violent infection." Adele, in practising some one of the methods of fever-poisoning which the great professor had described so vividly at Gouache's, had of course not known exactly what result she was about to produce. She had assuredly not foreseen that Arden would die, and had very probably not even believed that he would really take the fever at all. As for the wish to do harm, Pietro explained that naturally enough. He knew that the dinner of reconciliation must have been brought about by the Prince of Gerano, and he guessed that in the interview between the father and the daughter Adele had been deeply humiliated by being forced to yield and by the necessity of openly retracting what she had said of Arden and Laura. In a woman whose impulses were naturally bad, and whose mind had never been very well balanced, it was not very hard to explain how the idea had presented itself, if chance had at that moment thrown the necessary information into her way. The whole story was now sufficiently connected from first to last, and Ghisleri, as he thought over it, saw how all the details he remembered confirmed the theory. He recollected the doctor's remarks about the case, and how surprised he had been by its extraordinary violence. He recalled vividly all that he had heard of Adele's behaviour immediately after the dinner party, and his own impression of her appearance when he had met her in the street and had recommended her a soporific, was extremely distinct, as well as her behaviour whenever, in the course of the past two years, he had said anything intentionally, or not, which she could construe as referring to her crime. The chain was complete from the beginning to the end and her present dangerous state was the direct consequence of the very first slander she had cast on Laura Arden. What Ghisleri felt when he was fully persuaded that Adele Savelli had brought about the death of his best friend, is not easily described. In natures like his, the desire for vengeance is very strong--strongest when most justified. The instinct which demands life for life is always present somewhere in the natural human heart and, on the whole, the great body of human opinion has in most ages approved it and given it shape in law--or sanction, where laws have been or still are rudimentary. Ghisleri was not therefore either unusually cruel or bloodthirsty in wishing that Adele might expiate her crime to the full. But in this case, even if capital punishment had not been abolished in Italy, the law would not have applied it, and personal revenge without the law's assistance being out of the question in the nineteenth century, Pietro could hardly have invented a worse fate than actually awaited his friend's murderess. There was a grand logic, as it seemed to him, in the implacable retribution which was pursuing and must before long overtake Adele Savelli. He could enjoy the whole satisfaction of the most complete vengeance without so much as raising a finger to hasten it. That was the first result of his cogitations, and he was very well pleased with it. He bought books containing accounts of morphinism and calmly tried to calculate how long Adele had to live, what precise phenomena her end would exhibit, and to decide whether she would lose her mind altogether before the physical consumption of the tissues destroyed her body. But before long he became disgusted with himself, for he was not cruel by nature, though capable of doing very cruel things under the influence of passion. It was probably not from any inherent nobility of character, but rather out of the commonest pity combined with a rather uncommon though material refinement of taste, that he at last turned from his study and contemplation of Adele's sufferings and resolutely put her and them out of his mind. "Heaven can do with her what it pleases. I will think no more about it," he said to himself one day, and the saying was profoundly characteristic of the man. He had never been an unbeliever since the last years of his boyhood, when, like many boys in our times, he had already fancied himself a man, and had thought it manly to believe in nothing. But such a state of mind was not really natural to him, nor even possible for any length of time. Of his intimate convictions he never spoke, for they concerned no one, and no one had a right to judge him. But that he really had certain convictions no one who knew him well could doubt, and on certain occasions they undeniably guided his actions. Laura Arden had not heard even the faintest hint about the lost letter, and it became one of Ghisleri's principal occupations to keep the story from her. She was, of course, not in the way of hearing it unless some unusually indiscreet person should take pains to acquaint her with it; but such people are unfortunately not uncommon, and Pietro knew that at any moment Laura might hear something which would make her look at her husband's death in a new light. The shock would be terrible, he knew, and he did not like to think of it. He little suspected that when the story reached her ears it would be so distorted as to convey a very different meaning to her, nor did he guess the part he himself was to play in what followed. A month and more passed away without any incident of importance. He saw Laura constantly and met Adele occasionally in society. The latter always greeted him with a great affectation of cordiality, but evidently avoided conversing with him alone. Her expression when she looked at him was invariably smiling, but the eyes which had grown so strange under the daily influence of the poison had something in them on the rare occasions when they met his that might have warned him had he suspected danger. But he anticipated nothing of that sort for himself. He supposed rather that she felt herself to be in his power and feared him, so that she would carefully avoid doing anything which might provoke him. But in this he was very much mistaken. He neither knew that she believed her lost letter to be in a safe place, where no one could find it and where it must ultimately turn to dust, nor realised how far her mind was already unbalanced. Still less did he understand all the causes for which she so sincerely hated him. Even had he felt that she was an active adversary, he would have undervalued her power to do him harm. Adele meditated her last stroke a long time. Though Ghisleri had frightened her terribly during the conversation she had herself asked for on that memorable evening in Casa Montevarchi, he had also suggested the very idea of which she had long been in search. She turned it over, twisted it, so to say, into every possible shape, and at last reached a definite plan. There was already something of madness in the scheme she ultimately adopted, and which she carried out with an ingenuity and secrecy almost beyond belief. Laura Arden was surprised one morning by receiving a letter addressed to her in an unknown handwriting, which she at once judged to be that of a woman, though it was small, cramped, and irregular. "Madam," the letter began, "I apply to your well-known charitable heart in the greatest conceivable distress. My husband, who was for a long time in the service of one of the noblest Roman families as a clerk in the steward's office, lost his position in the ruin which has lately overtaken that most excellent house. He walks the streets from sunrise to sunset in search of employment, and returns at night to contemplate the spectacle of misery afforded him by his starving family. Misery is upon us, and there is no bread, nor even the commonest food, such as day labourers eat, with which to quiet the piteous cries of our children." There followed much more to the same effect. The style was quite that of a woman of the class to which the writer claimed to belong, and the appeal for help, though couched in rather flowery language, had a ring of truth in it which touched Laura's heart. It had, indeed, been copied, with a few alterations, from a genuine letter which Adele Savelli had chanced to receive. The concluding sentences stated that the applicant, "who had never known poverty before was ashamed, for her husband's sake, to give the name which had so long been respectable. If Lady Herbert Arden was moved to pity and would give anything--the very smallest charity--would she put it into an envelope and send it to 'Maria B.' addressed to the general post-office?" Laura hesitated a moment, and then slipped a five franc note with her card into an envelope and addressed it as requested in the letter. On the next day but one she received a second, full of gratitude, and expressing the most humble and sincere thanks for the money, but not asking for anything more. This also was copied from a genuine communication, and the style was unmistakably the same. Adele had answered the first by sending a larger sum than Laura had given, in order that the reply might be relatively effusive. A week passed, and Laura heard no more from Maria B., and had almost forgotten the incident when a third letter came, imploring further assistance. Laura was far from rich, and gave all she could in the way of charity to such poor people as she considered to have an especial claim upon her consideration. On this occasion, therefore, she made no reply. This was exactly what Adele expected, and suited her plan admirably. After a sufficient time had elapsed to make it quite plain that Laura did not intend to answer the second appeal, another communication came through the post. The tone this time, was, if possible, more humble and piteous than before. After enumerating and discanting upon the horrible sufferings the family underwent, and declaring that unless some charitable Christian would give assistance in some shape, even were it but a loaf of bread, the whole household must inevitably perish, and after adding that father, mother, and all four children--the latter of tender age--expected to be turned into the street by a hard-hearted landlord, Maria B. made a distinct proposition. Contemptible as it must appear in the eyes of a great and rich English lady to take advantage of having discovered a secret in order to beg a charity, necessity knows no law. The ex-clerk was in possession of certain letters written by a near connexion of Lady Herbert's to a person with whom the latter was intimately acquainted, and whom, it was commonly reported, she was about to marry. These letters, five in number, referred to a transaction of a very peculiar nature, which it would be advisable not to make public, for the sake of the persons concerned. It was very far from Maria B.'s thoughts to degrade herself by setting a price upon the documents. If Lady Herbert cared to possess them they should be hers, and any small reward she might be willing to give would be humbly and thankfully accepted. In order that she might judge of the nature of the letters in question, Maria B. enclosed a copy of the one last written before the transaction alluded to had been concluded. Lady Herbert would be able to understand the names from the initials used by the copyist. Laura, even then, did not suspect in the least what she was about to find. She unfolded the separate sheet which had dropped from the letter when she had opened it, and began to read with an expression of curiosity and some amusement. "MY DEAR G.:--Of course I understand your position perfectly and I have known you long enough to be sure that you will take every advantage of it, short of doing me an open injury, which would hardly be for your own good. I know perfectly well, also, where you found the paper at Gerano, for I went to the spot myself to look for it, and it was gone. You had been there before me--by chance, no doubt, since you could not possibly guess that there was anything there worth finding. It is quite clear that if you really circulate that letter among our mutual friends, you will subject me to the ridicule of all Rome and to an amount of humiliation which I am not prepared to endure. You see I am quite willing to come to terms. But I think your demand is really out of all proportion to the circumstances. A hundred thousand francs for a miserable scrap of paper! Absurd, my friend. You are not the accomplished scoundrel I took you for if you suppose that I will pay that. Fifty thousand is the most I can possibly offer you. If you are satisfied with that, wear a gardenia in your coat to-night at the Frangipani dance. As for my behaviour in public, you need not warn me. I can keep my countenance almost as well as you. A.S." The letter dropped from Laura's hands before she had read to the end. An instant later she took it up again and tore it to the smallest shreds. She had heard of cases of blackmail, but never of anything so infamous as this. She did not hesitate long, but wrote within the hour a few lines to Maria B. in which she warned the latter not to dare to proceed with her abominable fraud, and rather rashly threatened her with the law if she attempted anything further of the same kind. As for speaking to Ghisleri about it, the idea never crossed her thoughts. Again three days passed. Then, one morning, the post brought a large and rather bulky letter, registered and addressed in a round, ornate, clerk's hand. Adele had got the address written at the post-office on pretence that her own handwriting was not legible enough. Laura supposed that the missive contained a business communication from her banker, and opened it without the least suspicion. It contained three greyish-blue envelopes of the paper now very commonly used for daily correspondence. All three were opened in a peculiar way, and precisely as Laura had more than once seen Ghisleri open a letter in her presence. He had a habit of tearing off a very thin strip along one edge, with so much neatness as almost to give the paper the appearance of having been cut with a sharp instrument. All three were addressed to him, moreover, in Adele Savelli's handwriting, without any attempt at disguise. Laura held them in her hand, turned them over, and saw the tiny prince's coronet over a single initial which Adele had used for years. There was no mistaking the authenticity of everything about the envelopes. Laura's heart stood still. There was no word of explanation from her former correspondent, but Laura recollected that the latter had said that the letters were five in number, whereas these were only three. It was clear that the remaining two had been kept back as a tacit threat in case the request for money were not complied with. Laura's first impulse was to treat them as she had treated the copy Maria B. had at first sent her, and to tear them into minute shreds, without so much as glancing at the contents. But a moment's reflection made her change her mind. She slipped them all back into the large envelope and locked them up in the drawer of her writing-table, putting the key into her pocket. Then she wrote a note to Ghisleri, asking him to come and see her as soon as possible, and despatched Donald with it immediately. She sat down to wait, strangely affected by what had happened. It is hardly to be wondered at, if the whole thing seemed inexplicable. Even at first she could not suspect Pietro Ghisleri. She would hardly have believed him capable of such an action as he was accused of had she seen him write the letters to which these of Adele were supposed to be answers. And yet those answers were there in the drawer, within reach of her hand. She had not the slightest doubt but that the original of which she had already seen a copy was amongst them. She could take it out and read it if she pleased. It was damning evidence--but she would not have believed in Ghisleri's guilt for twice as much proof as that. The one thing she was forced to admit was that Adele had really written the letters, though when, or for what purpose, or in what connexion, she could not guess. The whole thing might turn out to be some Carnival jest carried on by correspondence, and of which she had never heard. That was the only explanation she could find, as she waited for Pietro Ghisleri. He came within the hour. "Has anything happened?" he asked, as he took her hand. "I thought there was something anxious about your note." "Something very strange has happened," she answered, looking into his bright blue eyes, and acknowledging for the hundredth time that she would believe him in spite of any testimony to the contrary. "Sit down," she said. "I have something to give you which seems to belong to you. I will tell you the story afterwards." She opened the drawer again and handed him the envelope. He looked at it in surprise. "Am I to read what is inside?" he asked. "See for yourself." He took out the letters and looked at them as he had first looked at the outer address. Then, realising that they were addressed to himself, his expression changed. He recollected Adele's handwriting though she had rarely written to him anything more than an invitation, and he knew the paper on which she wrote. But where or when he had received these particular ones, or how they had got into Laura's hands, was a mystery. "What are they?" he asked. "Are they old invitations? Why have they been sent to you?" "I believe them to be forgeries," said Laura, "or else that they refer to some standing jest you and she once may have kept up for a time. I have not read them, but I have read a copy of one of them which was sent me, and I know what they are about. I will tell you the whole story afterwards. See for yourself, as I said before." Ghisleri drew out the first sheet. "If they are forgeries, they are very cleverly done," he said, with a laugh. "The person has even imitated my way of opening a letter." His face grew very grave, as Laura watched it while he was reading, and his brow knit together angrily. He read the second and the third, and she could see his anger rising visibly in his eyes as he silently looked at her each time he had finished one of them. When he had reached the end of the last he did not speak for some moments. "Did you say that you knew what these letters were about?" he asked at length, in a steady, cold voice. "I think so. I read a copy of one of them almost without knowing what I was doing. Adele pretends that you are trying to get money from her for a letter of hers you found at Gerano." "Yes, that is what they are about. It is her doing, but it is my fault." "Your fault!" exclaimed Laura. "But surely there never even was such a letter as she refers to. Do you understand at all?" "Yes, I understand much too well. She has done this for a distinct purpose. Tell me in the first place one thing. Do you still trust me in the face of such evidence as this?" "I trust you as much as ever," answered Laura. "Thank you," he said simply, and he looked into her deep eyes a moment before he continued. "There are two stories to tell, yours and mine. Tell yours first. Tell me how you came by the copy you speak of. Who sent it to you, and when?" As briefly as she could, Laura gave him all the details she could remember from the day she had received the first request for help from Maria B. It was painful to her to repeat what she could of the substance of the copy sent her, but she went through with it to the end. "That letter is not among these," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. "It is one of the two which have been kept back for future use. Now let me tell you what I can remember. Do not be surprised that I should never have told you the story before. Since you can trust me in such a matter as this, you will believe me when I say that there was a good reason for not telling you." He gave a concise account of the conversation which had taken place between himself and Adele at the Montevarchi's party, omitting only what referred to his own suspicions concerning the manner of Arden's death. If possible, he meant always to conceal that side of the question from Laura. But it was necessary to tell her something about the document constantly mentioned in the letters. "There is a story in circulation," he said, "to the effect that when Donna Adele was ill at Gerano nearly two years ago, she was unwilling to confess to the parish priest, and wrote a confession to be sent to her confessor in Rome. A servant stole it, says the story, and it is supposed to be in existence, passing from hand to hand in society. It is quite possible that she believes that I bought it of the thief. But I doubt even that. She has most probably regained possession of it before attempting this stroke. And this is almost what I suggested to her in a general way, and laughing, as one way of ruining a man. I remember my own words--an injury that would make a woman who loves a man turn upon him. Substitute friendship for love, and the case is almost identical." "Yes," Laura answered thoughtfully. "Substitute friendship for love." She hardly knew why she repeated the words, and a moment later a faint colour rose in her cheeks. "She has done this thing, therefore, with the deliberate intention of ruining me in your eyes," said Ghisleri. "And she has utterly failed to do so, or even to change my opinion of you a little. But it is very well done. There are people who would have been deceived. The idea of forging--it is not forging--of writing imaginary letters to you herself is masterly." "I do not think she is quite sane. The morphia she takes is beginning to affect her brain. She does not always know what she is doing." "You take far too merciful and charitable a view," answered Laura, with some scorn. "No, on the contrary, if she were quite what she used to be, she would be more dangerous--she would not make mistakes. Two or three years ago she would not have gratuitously thrown herself into danger as she has now. She would not have made such a failure as this." "And what a failure it is! Do you know? It was very puzzling at first. To know positively that you never could have received those letters, and yet to see that they are still in existence, addressed to you, and opened in your peculiar way. I felt as though I were in a dream." "I wonder you did not feel inclined to believe me guilty. The evidence was almost as strong as it could be. In your position I should have hesitated." "Would you have believed such a thing of me, if it had been just as it is, only if the letters had gone to you instead of to me?" asked Laura. "Certainly not!" exclaimed Ghisleri, with strong emphasis. "That would be quite another matter." "I do not see that it would. You would have been exactly in my position, as you hinted a moment ago." "I was not thinking of you. The day I do not believe in you I shall not believe in God. You are the last thing I have left to believe in--and the best, my dear friend." He was very much in earnest, as Laura knew from the tone of his voice. But she would not look at him just then, because she felt that he was looking at her, and she preferred that their eyes should not meet. "Will you do anything about this?" she asked, after a pause, and not referring to what he had last said. "Will you destroy those vile things?" "Since they are addressed to me, I suppose I have a right to do so," answered Ghisleri, and he began slowly to tear up the sheets of the first letter. "There can be no doubt about their being genuine?" asked Laura, with sudden emotion. "Not at all, I should say. But you are the best judge of that. You should know her handwriting better than I. If you like," he added, with a short laugh, "I will go and show them to her and ask her if she wrote them. Shall I?" "Oh, no! Do not do that!" exclaimed Laura, who knew that he was quite capable of following such a course as he suggested. There was apparently nothing to be done. Laura believed that any attempt to make use of the two remaining letters would be as abortive as the first, and there could certainly be no use in keeping those which had been sent. On the contrary, it was possible that if they were preserved, chance might throw them into hands in which they might become far more dangerous than they were. "Shall I write to Maria B., whoever she is?" asked Laura. "You might send her another five francs," answered Ghisleri, grimly. "It would show her how much you value the documents she has for sale." "I will," said Laura, with a laugh. "How furious she will be! Of course it is Adele who gets these things." "Of course. Five francs is quite enough." And Laura, little knowing or guessing how it would be used against her, sent a five-franc note with her card in an envelope and addressed it. On the card she had written in pencil, "For Maria B., with best thanks." "There is one other thing I would like to do," she said. "But I do not know whether you would approve. It would give me such satisfaction--you know I am only a woman, after all." "What is that?" asked Ghisleri, "and why should you need my approval?" "Only this. To-morrow, and perhaps the next day, when she is quite sure I must have received those letters, I would like to drive with you in an open carriage where we should be sure to meet Adele. I would give anything to see her face." Ghisleri laughed. The womanly side of Laura's nature was becoming more apparent of late, and its manifestations pleased and surprised him. He thought Laura would hardly have seemed human if she had not wished to let Adele see how completely the attempt had failed which she had so ingeniously planned and carried out. "If anything would make the town talk, that would," he answered. "The only way to manage it would be to get the Princess to go with you and then take me as--" He stopped short, rather awkwardly. "I should rather go without her," said Laura, turning her face away to hide her amusement at the slip of the tongue of which he had been guilty. In Rome, for Ghisleri to be seen driving with the Princess of Gerano and her daughter would have been almost equivalent to announcing his engagement to Laura. CHAPTER XXIV. Adele had not anticipated such complete failure in the first instance. The five-franc note with Laura Arden's card told her plainly enough what her step-sister thought of the matter, but she had no means of finding out whether Ghisleri had been informed of what she had done or not, and her efforts to extract information from him when she met him were not successful. His tone and his manner towards her were precisely the same as formerly, and he was as ready as ever to enter into desultory conversation with her; but if she ventured to lead the talk in such a direction as to find out what she wanted to know, he instantly met her with a counter-allusion to her doings which frightened her and silenced her effectually. So the months passed in a sort of petty skirmishing which led to no positive result, and she secretly planned some further step which should complete those she had already taken, reverse Laura's judgment, and completely ruin Pietro Ghisleri with her and before the world. The uneasy workings of her unsettled brain grew more and more tortuous every day, until at last she felt unable to reason the question out without the help of some experienced person. She felt quite sure that there must be some way out of all her difficulties, by a short cut to victory, and that a clever man, a good lawyer, for instance, if he could be deceived into believing the story she had concocted, would know how to make use of it against her enemies. The difficulty was two-fold. In the first place she must put together such a body of evidence as no experienced advocate could refuse as ground for an action at law, and, secondly, she must find the said advocate and explain the whole matter to him from her own point of view. The action would be brought in self-defence against Pietro Ghisleri, who would be accused of having systematically attempted to levy blackmail. That was the crude form in which the idea suggested itself to Adele when she set to work. Her conviction now was that Pietro was only partially aware of the substance of the lost confession, and that the letter containing it was still at Gerano. This being the case, she could freely speak of it to her lawyer and describe the contents in any way she pleased, so as to turn the existence of the document to her own advantage. In the letters she had sent Laura and in the other two which she kept by her for future use, she had been careful never to say anything conclusive. Maria B. had indeed spoken of the transaction as being ended, but that could be interpreted as the unfounded supposition of a person not fully acquainted with the facts, and desirous of making money out of them as far as possible. The hardest thing would probably be to produce the woman who was supposed to have written to Laura, in case she should be needed. Money well bestowed, however, would do much towards stimulating the memory of some indigent and unscrupulous person, and the part to be played would, after all, be a small and insignificant one. On the other hand, the weak point in the case would be that Adele, while able to produce an unlimited number of her own letters to Ghisleri, would not have a single line of his writing to show. She could, indeed, fall back upon her own natural sense of caution, and declare that she had destroyed all he had written, in the mistaken belief that it would be safer to do so, and her lawyer could taunt his opponent with his folly in not doing likewise; but that would, after all, be rather a poor expedient. Or it might be pretended that Pietro had invariably written to her in a feigned handwriting signing himself, perhaps, with a single initial, as a precaution in case his letters should fall into the wrong hands. In that case she could produce whatever she chose. The best possible plan would be to extract one or two short notes from him upon which an ambiguous construction might be put by the lawyers. All this, Adele reflected, would need considerable time, and several months must elapse before she could expect to be ready. Her mind, too, worked spasmodically, and she was subject to long fits of apathy and extreme depression in the intervals between her short hours of abnormal activity. She knew that this was the result of the morphia she took in such quantities, and she resolved to make a great effort to cure herself of the fatal habit, if it were not already too late. As has been said more than once, Adele Savelli had possessed a very determined will, and it had not yet been altogether destroyed. Having once made up her mind to free herself if she could, she made the attempt bravely and systematically. The result was that, in the course of several months, she had reduced the amount of her daily doses very considerably. The suffering was great, but the object to be gained was great also, and she steeled herself to endure all that a woman could. She was encouraged, also, by the fact that her mind began to act more regularly and seemed more reliable. Physically, she was growing very weak and was becoming almost emaciated. Francesco Savelli watched her narrowly, and it was his opinion that she could not last long. The Prince of Gerano was very anxious about her all through the spring which followed the events last described, and his wife, though she was far less fond of Adele than in former times, could not but feel a sorrowful regret as she saw the young life that had begun so brightly wearing itself away before her eyes. But the Princess had consolations in another direction. Laura Arden seemed to grow daily more lovely in her mature beauty, and Herbert was growing out of his babyhood into a sturdy little boy of phenomenal strength and of imperturbably good temper. Laura was headstrong where Ghisleri was concerned, but in all other respects she was herself still. The first consequence of Adele's attempt to break the strong friendship which united Laura and Pietro, was to draw them still more closely together, and to make Laura, at least, more defiant of the world's opinion than ever. As for Ghisleri, he almost forgot to ask himself questions. The time to separate for the summer was drawing near, and he knew, when he thought of it, what a different parting this one would be from the one which had preceded it a year earlier. But he tried to think of the present and not of the weary months of solitude he looked forward to between June and November or December. He remembered, in spite of himself, how he had more than once enjoyed the lonely life, even refusing invitations to pleasant places rather than lose a single week of an existence so full of charm. But another interest had been growing, slowly, deep-sown, spreading its roots in silence, and fastening itself about his heart while he had not even suspected that it was there at all. Little by little, without visible manifestation, the strong thing had drawn more strength from his own life, mysteriously absorbing into itself the springs of thought and the sources of emotion, unifying them and assimilating them all into something which was a part, and was soon to be the chief part, of his being. And now, above the harrowed surface of that inner ground on which such fierce battles had been fought throughout his years of storm, a soft shoot raised its delicate head, not timidly, but quietly and unobtrusively, to meet the warm sunshine of the happier days to come. He saw it, and knew it, and held his peace, dreading it and yet loving it, for it was love itself; but not knowing truly what the little blade would come to, whether it was to bloom all at once into a bright and poisonous flower of evil, bringing to him the death of all possible love for ever; or whether it would grow up slowly, calm and fair, from leaf to shrub, from shrub to sapling, from sapling at last to tree, straight, tall, and strong, able to face tempest and storm without bending its lofty head, rich to bear for him in the end the stately blossom and the heavenly fruit of passionate true love. For before the day of parting came Pietro Ghisleri knew that he loved Laura Arden. Ever since that moment when she had quietly given him Adele's letter and had told him that she would believe no evil of him, he had begun to suspect that she was no longer what she had been to him once and what she had remained so long, a friend, kind, almost affectionate, for whom he would give all he had, but only a friend after all. It was different now. The thought of bidding Laura good-bye, even for a few months, sent a thrill of pain through his heart which he had not expected to feel--the small, sharp pain which tells a man the truth about a woman and himself as nothing else can. The prospect of the lonely summer was dreary. Ghisleri was surprised, and almost startled. During nearly two years and a half he had honestly believed that he could never love again, and if a sincere wish, formulated in the shape he unconsciously chose, could be called a prayer, he earnestly prayed that so long as he lived he might not feel what he had felt very strongly twice, at least, since he had been a boy. But such a man could hardly expect that such a wish, or prayer, could be granted or heard, so long as he was spending many hours of each succeeding week in the company of Laura Arden. In the full strength of manhood, passionate, sensitive beneath a cold exterior, always attracted by women, and almost always repelled by men, Pietro Ghisleri could hardly expect that in one moment the capacity for loving should be wholly rooted out and destroyed by something like an act of will, and as the consequence of his being disappointed and disgusted by his own fickleness. The new passion might turn out to be greater or less than the two which had hitherto disturbed his existence, but it could hardly be greater than the first. It would necessarily be different from either, in that it would be hopeless from the beginning, as he thought. For where he was very sincere, he was rarely very confident in himself, if the stake was woman's love, a fact more common with men who are at once sensitive and strong than is generally known. But his first impulse was not to go away and escape from the temptation, as it would have been some time earlier. There was no reason for doing that, as he had reflected before, when he had considered the advisability of breaking off all intercourse with Laura for the sake of silencing the world's idle chatter. He was perfectly free to love her, and to tell her so, if he chose. No one could blame him for wishing to marry her; at most he might be thought foolish for desiring anything so very improbable as that she should accept him. But he was quite indifferent to what any one might think of him excepting Laura herself. One resolution only he made and did his best to keep, and it was a good one. He made up his mind that he would not make love to her, as he understood the meaning of the term. Possibly, as he told himself with a little scorn, this was no resolution at all, but only a way of expressing his conviction that he was quite unable to do what he so magnanimously refused to attempt. For his instinct told him that his love for Laura had already taken a shape which differed wholly from all former passions, one unfamiliar to him, one which would need a new expression if it continued to be sincere. But that he doubted. He was quite ready to admit that when Laura came back in the autumn, this early beginning of love would have disappeared again, and that the old strong friendship would be found in its place, solid, firmly based, and unchanged, a permanent happiness and a constant satisfaction. He was no longer a boy, to imagine that the first breath of love was the forerunner of an all-destroying storm in which he must perish, or of a clear, fair wind before which the ship of his life was to run her straight course to the haven of death's peace. He had seen too much fickleness in himself and in others to believe in any such thing; but if he had anticipated either it would have been the tempest. On the whole, he did the wisest thing he could. He changed nothing in his manner towards Laura and he waited as calmly as he was able, to see what the end would be. Once only before Laura went away the conversation turned upon love, and oddly enough it was Laura who brought up the subject. She had been talking about little Herbert, as she often did, planning out his future according to her own wishes and making it happy in her own way, even to sketching the wife he was to win some five and twenty years hence. "I should like her to be very fair," she said. "Herbert will be dark, as I am, and they say that contrasts attract each other most permanently. But of course, though she must be beautiful, she must have ever so many other good points besides. In the first place, she must be capable of loving him with all her heart and soul. I suppose that is really the hardest thing of all to find." "The 'one-great-passion' sort of person, you mean, I fancy," observed Ghisleri, with a smile. "A rare bird--I agree with you." "I doubt whether the individual exists," said Laura. "Except by accident, or when the course of true love runs so very smoothly that it would need superhuman ingenuity to fall off it." "You are a constant revelation to me!" Ghisleri laughed, and looked at her. "What is there surprising about what I said? You are not a believer in the universal stability of the human heart, are you?" "Hardly that! But women very often are--at first. And then, when they see that change is possible, they are apt to say that there is no such thing as true love at all, whereas we know that there is." "In other words, you think that I take the sensible view. After all, what is the use of expecting humanity to be superhuman?" "I always like the way in which you put things," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. "That is exactly it. Homo sum. I am neither angel, nor ape, but man, and at present, I believe, no near relation of the seraph or the monkey." "And as a man, changeable. So am I, as a woman, I have no doubt. Every one must be, and I do not think it is fair to respect people who do not change at all because they never have the chance." "One cannot help it. Human nature instinctively places the man who has only loved once above the man who has shown that he can love often. It is connected with the idea of faith and loyalty." "Often--that is too much. There comes the question of the limit. How often can a man love sincerely?" "Three times--not more," answered Ghisleri, with conviction. "Why not two, or four? How can you lay down the law in that way?" "It is very simple. I think that no love is worth the name which does not influence a man strongly for at least ten years. Any really great passion will do that. But human life is short. Let a man fall in love at twenty, and three periods of ten years each will bring him to fifty. A man who falls in love after he is fifty is a rarity, and generally an object of ridicule. That seems to me a logical demonstration, and I do not see why it should not apply to a woman as well as to a man." "Yes, I think there is truth in that," said Laura. "At all events, it looks true. Besides, there is something quite reasonable in the idea that a man naturally has three stages, when he is twenty years old, thirty, and forty. I should imagine that the middle stage, while he is still developing, might be the shortest." It was impossible for Ghisleri to imagine that Laura was referring to his own life, but the remark was certainly very applicable to himself, so far. Would the third stage be permanent, if he really reached it? He was inclined to think that nothing about him had much stability, for within the last two years he had come to accept the fact as something which was part of his nature and from which there was no escape, despise the weakness and hate it as he would. It was a singular coincidence that since he had tormented himself less he had become really less changeable. A month later he parted from Laura, to all outward appearances as quietly and calmly as in the previous year. If there were any difference, it was in her manner rather than in his. She said almost sadly that she was sorry the time had come, and that she looked forward to the meeting in the autumn as to one of the pleasantest things in the future. The words she spoke were almost commonplace, though even if taken literally they conveyed more than she had ever said before. But it was quite clear that she meant more than she said. When she was gone Ghisleri felt more lonely than he had for years, and every interest seemed to have died out of his existence. He tried to laugh at himself for turning into a boy again, but even that diversion failed him. He could not even find the bitter words it had once amused him, in a grim way, to put together. Then he left Rome, weary of the sights and sounds of the streets, of the solitude of his rooms, of the effort to show some intelligence when he was obliged to talk with an acquaintance. He went to his own place in Tuscany and passed his time in trying to improve the condition of things. He knew something of practical architecture, and he rebuilt a staircase, and restored the vaulting in a part of the little castle to which he had never done anything before, and which had gone to ruin during the last hundred years or more, since it had last been inhabited. For he, his father, and his grandfather had been only sons, and his mother having died when he was a mere boy, his father had taken a dislike to Torre de' Ghisleri and had lived the remainder of his short life in Florence. Hence the general dilapidation of the old place which was not, however, without beauty. The occupation did him good, and the sight of the old familiar faces of his tenants and few retainers was pleasant, after facing the museum of society masks during seven months and more. But he felt that even here he could not stay any great length of time without a change, and as the summer advanced his restlessness became extreme. He came down to Rome for a week in August. The first person he met in the street was Francesco Savelli, who stopped to speak with him. Ghisleri never voluntarily stopped any one. "How is Donna Adele?" he asked, after they had exchanged the first greetings. "Very nervous," answered Savelli, shaking his head with the air of concern he thought it proper to affect whenever he spoke of his wife's illness. "The nerves are something which no one can understand. I can tell you a story, for instance, about something which happened the other day--to be accurate, in June, when we were at Gerano. Do you remember the oubliette between the guard-room and the tower? Yes--my wife said she showed it to you. We were all staying together--all the children, her father, and the Princess and two or three friends. One morning she said she was quite sure that if we took up that slab of stone and lowered a man into the shaft, we should find a skeleton hanging there--Heaven knows what she imagined! The Prince said he had looked into the shaft scores of times when the trap-door still existed and there was a bar across the passage to prevent any one from going near; that he himself had ordered the stone to be put where it was and knew all about the place. The only skeleton ever found in the castle had been discovered walled up in the thickness of the north tower, with a little window just opposite the face, so that the individual must have died looking at the hills. Nobody knew anything about it. But my wife insisted, and grew angry, and at last furious. It was of no use, of course. You know the old gentleman--he can be perfectly rigid. He answered that no one should touch the stone, that if she yielded to such ideas once, she would soon wish to pull Gerano to pieces to count the mice, and that if she could persuade my father to knock holes in the walls at Castel Savello, that was the affair of the Savelli, but that so long as he lived she should not make any experiments in excavation under his roof. If you will believe me, she had a fit of anger which brought on an attack of the nerves, and she never went out of her room for three days in consequence. Do you wonder that I am anxious?" "Certainly not. It would be amazing if you were indifferent. The story gives one the idea that she is subject to delusions. I am very sorry she is no better. Pray remember me to her." Thereupon Ghisleri passed on, inwardly wondering how long it would be before Adele became quite mad. Two days later he received a note from her. She had heard from her husband that he was in Rome, she said, and wrote to ask a great favour of him. He was doubtless aware of her father's passion for manuscripts, which was well known in Rome. It was reported that a certain dealer had bought Prince Montevarchi's library after the crash, and she very much wished to buy a very interesting manuscript of which she had often heard her father speak, and which contained an account of the famous, or infamous, Isabella Montevarchi's life, written with her own hand--a sort of confession, in fact. As she did not know the exact title of the document, if it had any, she would call it a confession, though, of course, in a strictly lay sense. Now, she inquired, would Ghisleri, for old friendship's sake, try to obtain it for her at a reasonable price? She knew, of course, that such an original would be expensive, but she was prepared to discuss the terms if not wholly beyond her means. She sent her note by the carrier, as that was generally quicker than writing by the post, she said. Would Ghisleri kindly answer by the same means? The man would call again on the next day but one. That would perhaps give time to make preliminary inquiries. With which observation, and with best thanks in anticipation of the service he was about to render, Adele called herself most sincerely his. Ghisleri was not an extremely suspicious man, but he would have given evidence of almost infantine simplicity if he had not seen that there was something wrong about Adele's note. It was certainly very well planned, and if Laura had never shown him the letters Adele had sent her, it might very possibly have succeeded. On ascertaining the price set by the dealer on the manuscript, he would probably have written a few words, stating in a business-like way the sum for which the so-called confession could be bought. In all likelihood, too, he would have only dated his note by the day of the week, omitting altogether the month and the year. He saw at a glance how easily a communication of that kind might have taken such a shape as to be very serviceable against him, and how hard it might have been to show that he was writing about a genuine transaction concerning a manuscript actually for sale. He determined to be very careful. His first step was to find out the name of the dealer who had bought the Montevarchi library. He next ascertained that what Adele wanted was still unsold, and that he must therefore necessarily enter into correspondence with her. After that he sought out a young lawyer whom he had employed once or twice within the last few years when he had needed legal advice in regard to some trifling point, and laid the whole matter before him. This young man, Ubaldini by name, had rapidly acquired a reputation as a criminal lawyer, and had successfully defended some remarkable cases, but, as he justly observed, acquitted prisoners of the classes in which crimes are common, pay very little, and condemned criminals pay nothing at all. He was therefore under the necessity of taking other kinds of business as a means of support. The last murderer who had escaped the law by Ubaldini's eloquence had sent him a bag of beans and a cream cheese, which was all the family could afford in the way of a fee, but upon which a barrister who had a taste for variety could not subsist any length of time. Ghisleri explained at considerable length the whole story, as far as it has been told in these pages, and expressed the belief that Donna Adele Savelli was intent upon ruining him for what, after all, seemed very insufficient reasons. "When a woman lives on morphia and the fear of discovery, instead of food and drink, I would not give much for the soundness of any of her reasons," said Ubaldini, with a laugh. "What shall we do with the Princess? Shall we convict her of homicide, or bring an action for defamation, which we are sure to win? I like this case. We shall amuse ourselves." "I do not wish to bring any accusation nor any action against Donna Adele Savelli," answered Ghisleri. "All I wish to do is to protect myself. Of course I should be curious to know what became of that written confession of hers, if it ever existed. But at present I wish you to have certified copies made of all my letters to her, and to keep the originals of those she writes me. If she makes such another attack on me as the last one, I will ask you, perhaps, to take the matter up. In the mean time, I only desire to keep on the safe side." "In a case like this," said the lawyer, "it is far safer to attack than to wait for the enemy. Be careful in what you write, at all events. It would be wiser to show me the letters before you send them. One never can tell at what point the error of omission or commission will be made, upon which everything will depend. As a bit of general advice, I should warn you always to date every sheet on which you write anything, always to mention the name of the dealer when you speak of him, and invariably to give in full the correct title by which the manuscript is known. If you do that, and take good care that the dealer knows you perfectly each time you see him, and remembers your visits, it will not be easy to manage. But Donna Adele Savelli is evidently a clever person, whether her reasons for hating you are good or bad. That little trick of sending her own letters to the other lady was masterly--absolutely diabolical. The reason she failed was that she struck too high. She over-reached herself. She accused you of too much. That shows that although her methods are clever her judgment is insufficient. The same is true of this last attempt. By the bye, have you ever mentioned me to her, so far as you can recollect?" "No, I believe not." "Then avoid doing so, if you please. It is always better to keep the opposite party in ignorance of one's lawyer's name until the last minute." "Very well." As soon as Ghisleri was gone Ubaldini wrote a draft of a letter to Adele, as follows: "EXCELLENCY:--At the decease of a client of humble station a number of papers have come under my notice and are now in my hands. One of them, of some length, has evidently gone astray, for it is written by your Excellency and apparently addressed to a member of the clergy, besides containing, as one glance told me, matter of a private nature. It is my wish to restore it immediately, and I therefore write to inquire whether I may entrust it to the post-office, or whether I shall hand it sealed to your Excellency's legal representative. I need not add the assurance that so far as I am concerned the matter is a strict secret, nor that I desire to restore the document as a duty of honour, and could not consider for a moment the question of any remuneration. "Deign, Excellency, to receive graciously the expression of profoundest respect with which I write myself, "Your Excellency's most humble, obedient servant, "RINALDO UBALDINI, _Advocate_." CHAPTER XXV. As Ghisleri had anticipated, Adele kept up a lively correspondence with him for some time. All her letters were duly filed by Ubaldini, who took certified copies of Pietro's replies, but did not mention what he himself had done in the matter. Adele bargained sharply until Ghisleri wrote to her as plainly as he well could that the manuscript was not to be had for less than the sum he had repeatedly named, and that he could do nothing more for her. Thereupon she answered that she would consider the matter, and did not write again. Pietro, after waiting several days, left Rome again, and returned to Torre de' Ghisleri, glad to be relieved at last from the irksome and dangerous task of writing concise and lawyer-like communications about a subject which did not interest him at all. Meanwhile Adele had been through a series of emotions of which Pietro knew nothing, and which very nearly drove her to increasing her daily doses of morphia again. On receiving Ubaldini's very respectful and straightforward letter, she had felt that she was saved at last, though it definitely destroyed the illusion by which she had so long persuaded herself that the confession was still in the oubliette at Gerano. Without much hesitation she wrote to Ubaldini, and laid a bank-note for five hundred francs in the folded sheet. She begged him to send a special messenger with the sealed packet to Castel Savello, and requested him, in spite of his protest, to accept the enclosed sum to cover expenses. During forty-eight hours she enjoyed to the full the anticipation of at last getting back the letter which had cost her such terrible anxiety at various times during the past two years and a half. Then came Ubaldini's answer, though when she opened it she had no idea that it was from him. He had made his clerk both write and sign the fair copy of the first letter, which had been written on paper not stamped with an address. He now wrote with his own hand upon the paper he kept for business correspondence upon which, of course, the address was printed. There was consequently not the slightest resemblance between the two letters. But Adele was not prepared for the contents. The first thing she noticed was her bank-note, carefully pinned inside the sheet. Even the form of addressing her was not the same, and the one now employed was the correct one, the Savelli being one of the families in which the title of Prince and Princess belongs indiscriminately to all the children, and consequently to the wives of all the sons. The letter was as follows: "SIGNORA PRINCIPESSA:--I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of a communication from your Excellency, in which you request me to send a certain sealed packet to Castel Savello by a special messenger, and enclosing a bank note for five hundred francs (Banca Romana S. 32/0945) which I return herewith. I take the occasion to say that I know nothing whatever of the sealed packet referred to, and I beg to suggest that your Excellency may have accidentally addressed the letter to me instead of to some other person, perhaps in using a directory. If, however, it was written in answer to one supposed to have been indited to you by me, the letter must have been composed and sent by some designing person in the hope of intercepting the reply and gaining possession of the money, which I am glad to be able to send back to its original owner. Believe me, Signora Principessa, "Your Excellency's most obedient, "RINALDO UBALDINI." The shock was almost more than Adele could bear, and the room reeled with her as she comprehended what had happened, so far as she was able to understand it all. The truth did not strike her, however. What she believed was what the lawyer suggested, that some person had played a trick on her, and had made use of Ubaldini's name and address in the hope of getting the money he or she naturally expected that she would send as compensation for such an important service. The hardest to endure was the disappointment of finding that she was not to have the confession after all. The point proved was that, whether it were still in the oubliette or had been found and carried off, there was in either case at least one person at large who knew it existed, and who knew that the contents would be greatly to her disadvantage if known. And if one person knew it, she argued, all Rome might be acquainted with the story, and probably was. But the comforting conviction that the letter was still safe at Gerano did not return. There was a tone about the first communication disclaimed by Ubaldini, which forced upon her the belief that the writer knew everything, and could ruin her at a moment's notice. What Ubaldini gained was the certainty that the story which Ghisleri described as current gossip was a fact, and a very serious one. He had played detective instead of lawyer, and he had been very successful. He knew also, that, as he had acted altogether in the interests of his client, Ghisleri, and had returned Adele's money, no objection could, strictly speaking, be made to the stratagem, however it might be looked upon by gentlemen and men of the world, like Ghisleri himself. But Ubaldini was a lawyer, and it was not his business to consider what the fine world would think of his doings. He filed Adele's letter with the copies of his own. In the course of a few days, Adele, who was all the time carrying on her correspondence with Pietro, gathered some hope from the latter's answers. She had a suspicion that he might keep all the notes he received from her, and after the first she was as careful never to mention the manuscript except as "the confession," as he, on his part, was always to write out its title in full. It struck her, however, that a man playing such a part as she wished to have it thought that he was playing, would naturally use some such means for making his letters seem commonplace if they should fall into the wrong hands, and it would be easy to persuade her friends that the autobiographic writings of Isabella Montevarchi meant Adele Savelli's confession, by common consent, though she herself had not taken the trouble to use such a long title more than once. The thought elated her, and comforted her in a measure for the disappointment she had suffered, and which had shaken her nerves severely. She now spent much time in going over the correspondence, weighing each word in the attempt to establish its exact value if regarded from the point of view of a systematic attempt to extort money. With a relative coolness which would not have disgraced a strong man, and which showed how far she had recovered control of herself by diminishing the doses of morphia, she set to work to put her case together on the supposition that she meant to lay it before her husband, for instance, or any other intelligent person, with a request for advice. And the case, as she put it, was better than might have been expected, though it depended ultimately, for its solidity, on the supposition that the confession could never be found. In the first place, she intended to admit that she had been jealous of Laura for years, and to own frankly that she had often said cruel and spiteful things of her, and of Arden, just as everybody she knew said spiteful things of somebody. She would even admit that she had first set afloat the rumour that Lord Herbert was intemperate, and that Laura had the evil eye. She could then point out that her conduct had suddenly changed in deference to her father's wishes, that there had been an open reconciliation, not very heartfelt on her part at first, but made sincere by the remorse she felt after Arden's death. For she meant to go even so far as to confess that Arden might have caught the scarlet fever in her house, seeing that her maid was only just recovering from it at the time. The woman's illness had been kept strictly secret, and she had been, from the first, taken to a distant part of the palace, so that Adele had not believed there could be any danger. Even her husband had not known what the maid's illness was, and poor Lucia had pleaded so hard not to be sent to the hospital that Adele had yielded. But to prove, she would say, how little fear of contagion she had, her own children had not been sent into the country. The Palazzo Savelli was big enough to have had a whole infirmary in one part of it, completely isolated from all the rest. Nevertheless, she had always felt that there was a possibility of Arden's last illness having been taken at that dinner-party, and her secret remorse had caused her the greatest suffering. Between that and a nervous disorder from which she had little hope of ever recovering, she had fallen very ill, and had gone to Gerano. While there, her conscience had so pricked her in the matter of her past unkindness to her step-sister and to Arden, that although she had been to confession at Easter, she wrote a long letter to her confessor in Rome, going again over the full details of the past winter. From that point she could tell the truth, without even sparing Lucia, until she came to the discovery that it was Ghisleri himself who had picked up the letter, or confession, under the shaft of the oubliette. And here she would lay great stress on Ghisleri's attachment to Laura, and consequent dislike of herself. The well-known fact that Pietro had fought a desperate duel merely because Campodonico said that Lady Herbert Arden might have the evil eye, sufficiently showed to what lengths he would go in her defence. Nothing more would really be needed. But there was plenty more. All Rome knew that he had broken with Maddalena dell' Armi for Laura's sake, and that he had exhibited the most untiring devotion ever afterwards. Never, since the death of the Princess Corleone, Adele would boldly assert, had he been faithful to any one woman for such a length of time. That was a strong point. The Princess of Gerano herself could testify to her own anxiety about Laura since Ghisleri had been so much with her. Laura herself had behaved in the most admirable manner ever since the reconciliation, but Ghisleri, in constituting himself her champion, had become, so to say, more royalist than the king, and more catholic than the pope. His dislike, if not his positive hatred, for Adele was apparent at every step in the story. He did not, it is true, speak of it to any one, but his reticence was a well-known peculiarity of his character. It was when he was alone in conversation with Adele that he showed what he felt. But his manner was always courteous and rather formal. It was by sarcastic hints that he conveyed his meaning. Nevertheless, Adele had maintained the outward forms of friendly acquaintance, and once, some six months after Arden's death, when matters had not been so bad as they now were, she had asked him to stay a few days at Gerano. Lucia could testify that he was there at the time when the confession disappeared, and Lucia, who had attempted to extort money for it, and would have succeeded if the document had been forthcoming, had naturally been as interested as any one to find it. Not until some time later had Adele suspected that it had been picked up by Ghisleri. The thing, of course, had not any very great value, but what woman, Adele would ask, could bear to think that the most private outpourings of her soul to her spiritual director were in the hands of a man who hated her, and who could, if he pleased, circulate them and make them the talk of the town? When Ghisleri, in the following winter, had begun to torment her systematically by quoting little phrases and expressions which she remembered to have written in the letter, she had at last boldly taxed him with having it in his possession, and he, with the unparalleled cynicism for which he was famous, had laughed at her and owned the truth. Every one would allow that this was very like him. She had threatened to complain to her husband, and he had expressed the utmost indifference. He was a known duelist and a dangerous adversary, and for her husband's sake she had held her tongue, while Ghisleri continued to make her life miserable with his witticisms. Then she had once asked him what he would consider an equivalent for the letter. He had laughed again, and had said that he would take a large sum of money in exchange for it, which, he added, he would devote to building a small hospital in the village of Torre de' Ghisleri, saying that it would be for the good of her soul to found a charity of that kind. She would not undertake to say whether he would have employed the money for that purpose or not, if she had given it to him. Possibly he would. But she had not been able to dispose of any such sum as he had then named. Under her marriage contract she controlled only her pin-money, and her father allowed her nothing out of the great fortune which would some day be hers. She and Ghisleri had corresponded about the matter in town, by notes sent backwards and forwards. She, on her part, had at that time thought she was doing wisely in burning his, but he had been less careful. He had, in fact, been so grossly negligent as to leave five of them at one time in the pocket of one of his coats. It was through his tailor to whom the coat had been sent for some alteration or repair that two of these notes had come back to Adele. A woman, apparently a seamstress, had come to her with them one day, and had offered them to her for sale, together with a card of Lady Herbert Arden's enclosed in an envelope addressed to "Maria B." at the general post-office. On the card were written the words: "For Maria B., with best thanks." The woman confessed that she was in great distress, that she had found the letters in a coat upon which she was working, had easily ascertained who Ghisleri was, and what his relations towards Lady Herbert were, and had appealed to the latter for help, offering the letters in exchange for any charity, and actually sending three of them when she had only received five francs. Lady Herbert had then sent her fifty francs more with the card in question, but the poor woman thought that very little. She bitterly repented not having brought them all at once to Donna Adele. Of course they belonged to her, and Donna Adele had a right to them all, without payment. But the woman was very poor. Adele had unhesitatingly given her a hundred francs and had kept the two notes and the card, which proved at least that even at that time she had been corresponding with Ghisleri and protesting her inability to pay the sum he demanded, and that Laura Arden was aware of the correspondence, and had been willing for Ghisleri's sake to pay money to obtain it. For a long time after this Adele had made no further attempt, but had avoided finding herself alone in conversation with Pietro, as many people had indeed noticed, because she could not bear to be perpetually annoyed by his reference to his power over her. Yet, out of fear lest some harm should befall her husband, she had still held her peace. Early in the preceding summer, shortly before leaving for her annual visit to Gerano, Ghisleri had managed to be alone with her, and had not lost the opportunity of inflicting another wound, which had revived all her old desire to obtain possession of the lost letter. He had, indeed, almost admitted that unless she would reconsider the matter he would send it to one of her friends to read. The Montevarchi library was then about to be sold, and many persons were talking of the famous confession of Isabella Montevarchi. By way of safety, Adele, in agreeing to think the whole thing over once more, had told him that when writing she should speak of her own letter as though it were this well-known manuscript. She had already some experience of his carelessness in regard to notes. Against his own statement, and against her own secret positive conviction, yet to give him one chance, as it were, she had made one desperate effort to have the oubliette opened and searched. Her father would remember how angry she had been, and, indeed, she had lost her temper, being always ill and nervous. He had positively refused. Then, in despair, she had reopened negotiations with Ghisleri, whose demands, though not so high as formerly, were still quite beyond her means. As a matter of fact, the dealer had asked an exorbitant price for the manuscript, being well aware of its historical importance, which was little less than that attaching to the famous manuscript account of the Cenci trial. Adele was in despair. She had no means of raising such a sum as Ghisleri required, except by selling her jewels, which she could not possibly do without exciting her husband's suspicions. She was powerless. Had any woman ever been placed in such a situation? Ghisleri's last letter distinctly stated that he could do nothing more for her if she refused to buy the confession of Isabella Montevarchi at the price he had last named. Those were his very words. They meant that unless she paid, he would make use of the letter he had. He even added, that in that case the manuscript would probably before long be disposed of elsewhere, as though to make his meaning clearer. Her position was very strong, Adele thought, as she reached the end of her statement as she first drew it up in her own mind. A clever lawyer could doubtless make it even stronger, for he would know how to take advantage of every point, and how to call attention to the strongest and pass smoothly over the weaker links in the chain. The real danger, and the only real danger, lay in the possibility that the confession itself might be found and might be produced, with all which she said it contained, and with the one central black statement of which she made no mention in working up the case. But who could produce it? If any one had it, that man was Ghisleri, who had more than once gone very near the truth in the hints he had thrown out. Say that he had it--suppose the hypothesis a fact. Its being in his possession would be the most ruining evidence of all. He would not dare to show it, for though it might ruin her, it would be far worse ruin to him, for it would of itself suffice to prove the truth of every word of her story, and he would not only incur the full penalty of the law for a most abominable attempt at levying blackmail, but his very memory would be blasted for ever as that of the most dastardly and cowardly villain ever sent to penal servitude. As for herself, she felt that she had not long to live, and if worse came to worst, a little over-dose of morphia would end it all. She would have had her triumph, and she would have seen Laura's face by that time. It did not occur to her to ask herself any question about the origin of a hatred so implacable as to make the sacrifice of life itself seem easy in the accomplishment of its end. She was not able to trace the history of her jealousy backwards by a firm concentration of memory, as she was able by the force of vivid imagination to construct the vengeance she anticipated in the future. That the most dire revenge should be contemplated, pursued, and ultimately executed for the sake of a wrong wholly imaginary in the first instance is not altogether novel in the history of humanity. There are minds which under certain conditions cannot judge of the past as they can of events present and to come. Adele's hatred of Laura Arden amounted almost to a fixed idea. It had begun in very small things. Its origin lay, perhaps, in the simple fact that Laura was beautiful whereas Adele had been barely pretty at her best, and its first great development had been the consequence of Francesco Savelli's undisguised preference for the step-sister of his future wife. All the young girl's jealousy and vain nature had been roused and wounded by the slight, and as years had gone by and Savelli showed no signs of forgetting his early attachment to Laura, the wound had grown more sore and more angry until it had poisoned Adele's character and heart to the very core. The worst deed she ever did had not perhaps been the worst in intention. She had not been at all sure that Arden would take the fever, and she had assuredly not meant nor ever expected that he should die. Chance had put the information into her hands at a moment when, through Laura, as it seemed to her, she was suffering the most cruel humiliation she had ever known. On that memorable evening when her father had forced her to submit to his will, and when she was looking forward with bitter loathing to what was very like a public reconciliation, she had been left alone. In attempting to control herself and to regain some outward calm, she had taken up a review and had forced herself to read the first article upon which she opened, and which happened to be a very dull one on the bacilli of various diseases. But one passage had struck her forcibly--the plain account of a case which had recently been observed, in which few medical terms occurred, and which a child could have understood. The extreme simplicity of the facts had startled her, and she had suddenly resolved that Laura and Arden should have cause to remember the reconciliation which would cost her vanity so dear. But she had no intention of doing murder. In her heart she had hardly believed that any result would follow, and remorse had taken hold of her almost at once, simultaneously with the horrible fear of discovery which has more than once driven men and women mad. But remorse is by no means repentance. With it comes often what has been called the impossibility of pardoning the person one has injured, and the insane desire to wreak vengeance upon that person for the acute sufferings endured in one's own conscience. Given the existence of this desire in a very violent degree, and admitting the inevitable disturbance of the faculties ensuing upon the long and vicious abuse of such a poison as morphia, Adele's ultimate state becomes comprehensible. She was, indeed, as Ghisleri had said to Laura, hardly sane, and her incipient madness having originally resulted from jealousy, the latter naturally remained the ruling influence in her unsettled brain, and attained proportions hardly credible to those who have not followed the steps by which the human intelligence passes from sanity to madness. And now that she had worked up her case against Ghisleri, as a lawyer would express it, and had convinced herself that she could tell a long and connected story in which almost every detail should give colour to her principal assertion, she hesitated as to the course she should pursue. It was not in her power to send for a lawyer and to bring an action at law against Pietro, without her husband's consent, and she knew how hard that would be to obtain. Francesco Savelli was by no means a cowardly man, and would, if necessary, have exposed his life in a duel with Ghisleri, not for his wife's sake, but for the sake of the family honour. But he had the true Roman's abhorrence of publicity and scandal, and would make great sacrifices to avoid anything of the kind. Her own father might be willing to take the matter up, but it was extremely hard to deceive him. She knew, however, that if he were once persuaded of the justice of her cause, he would go to any length in her defence and would prove an implacable enemy to the man who, as he would suppose, had injured her. The great difficulty lay in persuading him at the outset. But for the unfortunate fact that he had already once detected her in falsehood, the matter would have been far easier. It was true that she meant to admit all he had then forced her to own, and much more besides, in order to show how high a value Ghisleri set upon the confession which contained a concise account of her doings. But he would, in any case, be prejudiced against her from the first. One thing was in her favour, she thought. The Princess of Gerano did not like Ghisleri, and would in all likelihood be ready to believe evil of him, and to influence her husband, good and just woman though she was. There was one other person to whom Adele could apply--Prince Savelli himself. She thought of him last and wondered why she had not remembered him first. He was a man of singular energy, courage, and coolness, whose chief fault was a tendency to overestimate beyond all limits the importance of his family and the glory of his ancient name. She knew that he was abnormally sensitive on these points and that if she could rouse his ever ready pride, he would hesitate at nothing in order to bring retribution upon any one rash enough to insult or injure any member of his family. And he lived a life of his own and cared little for the world. His passion, strangely enough, was of a scientific kind. He was an astronomer, had built himself an observatory on the top of the massive old palace, and spent the greater part of his time there. Such existences, in the very heart of society, are not unknown in Rome. Prince Savelli had remained what he was by nature, a true student, and was perfectly happy in his own way, caring very little for the world and hardly ever showing himself in it. The Princess was a placid person, extremely devout, but also extremely selfish. It was from her that Francesco inherited his disposition and his yellow hair. It struck Adele that if she could win her father-in-law's sympathy and rouse him to action in her behalf, it would be far easier to persuade her own father that she was in the right. Gerano had a boundless respect for the elder Savelli's opinion, though if he had known him better, he would have discovered that his judgment was far too easily influenced where his exaggerated family pride was concerned. A long time passed before Adele finally made up her mind to the great attempt. Ghisleri had already returned to Rome and Laura Arden was expected in two or three weeks, according to news received by her mother. An incident, trivial in itself, at last decided her to act at once. She and Francesco were dining with the Prince and Princess of Gerano as they did regularly once a week. As a rule nobody was invited to these family meetings, but on that particular evening Gianforte Campodonico and Donna Christina had been asked. It was convenient to have them when Laura was not there, and they were much liked in Casa Gerano where, as has been said, Ghisleri was not a favourite. There was, moreover, a distant relationship between the families of Braccio and Campodonico of which, as they liked one another, both were fond of speaking. Adele looked very ill. By this time her complexion was of a pale yellow, and she was thin to absolute emaciation. In spite of her determined efforts to break the habit that was killing her, or perhaps as a first consequence of them, she was liable to moments of nervousness in which she could hardly control herself and in which she did not seem to remember what had happened a few minutes earlier. Her sufferings at such times were painful to see. She could hardly keep her hands from moving about in a helpless fashion, and her face was often slightly contorted. Very rarely, on fine days when she had been driving, a little colour came into her ghastly cheeks. It was easy to see that only her strong will supported her continually, and that women more weakly organized would long ago have succumbed to the effects of the poison. When she felt that she was liable to a crisis of the nerves she was careful to stay at home, but occasionally she was attacked unawares, more or less violently, when she had believed herself well enough to go out. When this happened she sat in silence while the suffering lasted, and did her best to keep her unruly hands clasped together. By a strong effort she sometimes succeeded in concealing from others what she felt, but the exertion of her will made her irritable to the last degree, if she was called upon to speak or forced to try and join in the conversation. CHAPTER XXVI. The dinner passed off quietly and pleasantly enough until towards the end, when the conversation turned upon the coming season, and all began to speculate as to whether it would be gay or dull, as people always do when they meet after the long separation in the summer. "There will be all the usual pleasant things," observed Francesco Savelli, who loved society as much as his wife did. "Let me see. There will be the evenings in Casa Frangipani, and they will give their two balls as usual at the end. The Marchesa di San Giacinto will do as she did last year--a dance and a ball alternately after the fifteenth of January. Of course Casa Montevarchi does not exist any more since the crash, but that is the only one. Then there are your evenings," he continued, turning to the mistress of the house, "and there are ours, of course, and I suppose Gouache and Donna Faustina will give something at the studio. Have you seen her this year, Adele?" He looked across the table at his wife, and saw that she was beginning to suffer from an unexpected attack. He knew the symptoms well, and was aware that there was nothing to be done but to leave her alone and take no notice of her. She merely nodded in answer to his question, and he went on speaking. "Gouache always does something original," he said. "Do you remember that supper on Shrove Tuesday years ago? It was the most successful thing of that season. By the bye, I saw Ghisleri yesterday. He has come back." It was rather tactless of him to drag Ghisleri's name into the conversation in the presence of Campodonico. But the Princess of Gerano was even more tactless than he. "That wild Ghisleri!" she immediately exclaimed, as she always did when Pietro was mentioned. "Ghisleri is no worse than the rest of us, I am sure," said Campodonico, anxious to show that he was not in the least annoyed. "He has as many good qualities as most men, and perhaps a few more." "It is generous of you to say that," observed Donna Christina, looking at her husband with loving admiration. "I do not see that there is much generosity about it, my dear," he answered warmly. "It would be very spiteful of me not to give him his due, that is all. He is brave and honourable, and that is something to say of any man. Besides, look at his friends--look at the people who like him, beginning with most of you here. That is a very good test of what a man is." He looked straight at Adele Savelli as he spoke, for no special reason except that he always looked straight at somebody when he was speaking. He was hot-tempered, passionate, generous, and truthful, and there was a great directness about everything he did and said. But at that moment Adele was in great pain and was doing her best to hide it. She fancied that Campodonico had noticed what was the matter. "Why do you look at me in that way?" she asked irritably, but with a nervous attempt at a laugh. "I do not know," answered Gianforte. "I suppose I expected you to agree with me. I know Ghisleri is a friend of yours." "How do you know that?" Adele's irritation increased rapidly. "Have you any reason to suppose that I am particularly fond of him? Have I ever done anything to show it?" "Why are you so much annoyed?" asked Savelli, who generally felt uncomfortable when his wife was in such moods, and feared that she would say something to make herself and him ridiculous. "You always liked him." Adele's hand twitched and moved on the table against her will, and she upset some salt. The little incident sufficed to make her lose her head completely. "If people knew what Pietro Ghisleri really is, there is not a house in Rome where he would be received," she said angrily. The dead silence which followed this categorical statement brought her to her senses too late. Campodonico was the first to speak. "I should find it very hard to believe that Ghisleri ever committed a dishonourable action," he said gravely. "That is a very serious statement, Donna Adele." "Yes, indeed," put in the Prince, turning to his daughter. "You should consider what you are saying, my dear, before going so far as that. I think you ought to explain yourself. We may not all like Ghisleri, and if we please we are at liberty to say so here, in the family; but it is quite another matter to say that he is not a fit person to associate with us. To say that, you must be quite sure that he has done something disgraceful, of which we are all in ignorance." "I quite agree with you," said Francesco Savelli. "You only make yourself ridiculous by saying such things," he added, looking coldly at his wife, for he was anxious that none of the ridicule should reflect upon himself, especially in Campodonico's presence. "I am sure, when I call Ghisleri wild," said the Princess, "I mean nothing more than that he is fast. But I am very sorry to have brought about such a discussion. Adele, my dear, what do you mean? Are you in earnest?" "One does not say such things for nothing," answered Adele, angrily. "Then I wonder that you receive him," said the Prince, coldly. "I hope you will explain to me by and by what you refer to." "I will, some day," said Adele, in a low voice. She felt that she had cast the die, and she hardly saw how she could draw back. "In that case, we will say no more about the matter at present," said the master of the house, in a tone of authority. "I had meant to ask you for news of your brother," he said, turning to Campodonico. "I was very sorry to hear that he had been ill. Is he better?" Gianforte answered, and every one made an effort to restore the outward calm which had been so disturbed by Adele's speech. Soon after dinner she went home, and instead of going to his club as usual Francesco got into the carriage with her. "I insist upon knowing what you meant by your accusation against Ghisleri," he said, as soon as they were driving away. "I will not tell you," Adele answered firmly. "You will find it out in time--quite soon enough, I daresay." "I have the right to know. In the world in which we live one makes oneself ridiculous by saying such things. Everybody will laugh at you, and then you will expect me to take your part." "I shall not expect anything of the sort, for I am not so foolish. You never had the slightest affection for me, and you have lost such little decent regard for me as you once felt, because I am always ill and it gives you trouble to be considerate. You would not raise a finger to help me or protect me unless you were afraid of the world's opinion. I have known that a long time, and now that I am in trouble I will not come to you. Why should I? You are only waiting for me to die, in order to ask Laura to marry you. It would annoy you extremely if I lived long enough to give her time to marry Ghisleri." "I think remarks of that sort are in the worst possible taste," answered Savelli, "besides being without the least foundation in truth. I will beg you not to make any more of them. As for what you say about Ghisleri, if you refuse to tell me what you know I shall ask advice of my father, as that is the only proper course I could follow under the circumstances." "For once we agree!" exclaimed Adele, with a scornful laugh. "That is precisely what I mean to do myself, and I will go to him to-morrow morning and tell him the whole story. But I will not tell it to you. He may, if he pleases, and thinks it best." "In that case I have nothing more to say," answered Francesco. "You could not select a more fit person than my father." "I am perfectly well aware of the fact." Adele, womanlike, was determined to have the last word, no matter how insignificant. Both were silent during the remainder of the drive home. At the foot of the grand staircase Francesco left his wife and got into the carriage to be driven to his club. He reflected on the truth of Adele's observation, when she had said that she might live until Laura and Ghisleri were married, and he was by no means pleased as he realised how probable that contingency was. Since she had become a slave to morphia he had, of course, been at some pains to ascertain the limits of the disease, and the possible duration of it, and he was aware that some persons lived for many years in spite of a constant and increasing abuse of the poison. Adele once more went over the whole story in her mind, preparing the details of it and polishing all the parts into a harmonious whole. In spite of what she had suffered that evening she would not increase her dose, though she knew that she must very probably spend a sleepless night. She profited by the hours to review the story she intended to tell her father-in-law. At eleven o'clock on the following morning she sent up to inquire whether he would see her, and he at once appeared in person at the door of her boudoir,--a tall, bearded man of fifty years or more, slightly stooping, not over-carefully dressed, wearing spectacles, and chiefly remarkable for his very beautifully shaped hands, with which he made energetic gestures at almost every minute, when speaking. Adele began in some trepidation to explain how, on the previous evening, she had lost her temper and had been betrayed into making a remark about Ghisleri of which her husband had demanded an explanation. She felt, she said, that the matter was so serious as to justify her in referring it at once to the head of the family, who might then act as he thought best with regard to keeping it a secret or informing his son of what had happened. She did not fail to add that one of her motives in refusing to tell what she knew to Francesco, was her anxiety for his safety, since the affair concerned herself and he would undoubtedly take it up as a personal matter and quarrel with the dangerous man who had so long been her enemy. The Prince approved this course with a grave nod, and waited for more. Then she told her story from beginning to end. She of course took advantage of the fact that her father-in-law was but slightly acquainted with Ghisleri to paint his character with the colours best suited to her purpose, while asserting nothing about him which could be in direct contradiction to the testimony of others. She spoke very lucidly and connectedly, for she knew the lesson well and she was conscious that her whole existence was at stake. One fault, one little error sufficient to cast suspicion on her veracity, might be enough to ruin her in the end. She concluded by a well-turned and pathetic allusion to her state of health, which indeed was pitiable enough. She knew that she was dying, but it would make death doubly painful to think that such an enemy as Ghisleri was left behind to blacken her memory and perhaps hereafter to poison the thought of her in her children's hearts. She also read extracts from Ghisleri's letters and showed Laura's card, before mentioned. As she proceeded she watched the Prince's face, and she saw that she had produced the right impression from the first. The plausibility of the tale, as she told it, was undeniable, and might have shaken the belief in Ghisleri's integrity in the minds of men who knew him far better than the elder Savelli. As she had anticipated, the latter took up the question as one deeply affecting the honour of his name. He was very angry in his calm way, and his blue eyes flashed through his great gold-rimmed spectacles, while his slender, energetic white hand clenched itself and opened frequently upon his knee. "You have done right in coming to me directly," he said, when she had finished and was wiping away the tears which, in her nervous state, she had found easy to bring to her eyes. "Francesco would not have known how to act. He would probably have done the villain the honour of fighting with him. But I will bring him to justice. The law provides very amply for crimes of this sort. I confess I am strongly tempted to go and speak to the man myself. Francesco could not resist the temptation, but he is almost a boy. The cowardly scoundrel of a Tuscan!" He thrust back his long, greyish-brown hair from his forehead with one hand, and shook the other in the air as though at a real adversary. When he did that he was always roused to real anger, as Adele knew. She feared lest he should do something more or less rash which would not ultimately be of any advantage to her. "Would it not be wise to speak to my father?" she asked. "He knows a great deal about the law, I believe." "Yes, perhaps so. Gerano is a very sensible man. As this affects you, besides Francesco and all of us, it might be as well to consult him, or at all events to put him in possession of all the facts. In the meanwhile, you know I am a methodical man. I must have proper notes to go upon from the first. If it does not pain you too much to go over the main points once more, I will write down what I need." "And I will hand you these papers to keep," said Adele, giving him the correspondence, which comprised the greater number of Ghisleri's letters, the two of her own which she had not sent to Laura, the two she had received from the lawyer Ubaldini, and Laura Arden's card in its envelope to "Maria B." With regard to Ubaldini, she told exactly what had happened, and what she had written, for that incident at least was still a mystery to her, and she thought it unwise to conceal what might subsequently come to light through other persons. "I have heard of this fellow," said the Prince, thoughtfully. "He is a very clever criminal lawyer. I should not wonder if Ghisleri had already consulted him. One may expect anything after what you have told me." Adele recapitulated the story with extraordinary exactness, stopping and repeating those portions of it which her father-in-law desired to note. "I have never seen a more complete chain of evidence," exclaimed the latter, when he had finished and was folding up the sheets neatly to match the size of the letters Adele had given him. "There is no court of justice in the world that would not convict a man of extortion on such testimony, and if there is one, I hope it is not in Rome." "I hope not," said Adele, who would have smiled had she been alone. "But you may find it harder to convince my father than a Roman jury. He is prejudiced in Ghisleri's favour--like most people who do not know him as I do." "He shall change his prejudices before long," answered Savelli, in a tone of certainty. "I will send word to him to expect me after breakfast, and I will explain the whole matter to him and show him the letters. If he does not at once understand, it would be better that we should both come to you together. You would make it clearer than I could, perhaps. But it seems clear enough to me. What an infamous affair--and how you must have suffered!" "It is killing me!" said Adele, in a low voice. Savelli left her with many expressions of kindly sympathy. He was not a good judge of human nature, for he lived too much in his studies and in the world of mathematics to understand or appreciate the motives of men and women. But he was kind of heart and affectionate by disposition. So far as he knew, Adele had been a good wife to his eldest son, and was the mother of strong, well-grown children who bore the ancient name in which he took such pride. Moreover, Adele had the honour of lending still greater lustre to the race by means of the great Braccio inheritance, which was all to come to the Savelli through her. She was, therefore, a very important personage, as well as a dutiful daughter-in-law and a good mother, in the eyes of the head of the house, and it would no more have crossed his mind that the story she had just told him was a fabrication, from first to last, than that the Greenwich Almanack for the year could be a fraud and a malicious misstatement of the movements of the heavenly bodies. Moreover, the evidence was, on the whole, such as would have staggered the faith of most of Ghisleri's acquaintances. The Prince lost no time in going to see Gerano, prepared at all points and armed with the papers Adele had given him. The interview lasted fully two hours, and when it was over, Adele's father was almost as thoroughly persuaded of Ghisleri's guilt as Savelli himself. His face was very grave and thoughtful as he leaned back in his easy-chair and looked into his old friend's clear blue eyes. "The man should be tried, convicted, and sent to the galleys," said Gerano. "There can be no doubt of the justice of that, if all this can be established in court. Remember I do not doubt my daughter's word, and it would be monstrous to suppose that she has invented this story. Whatever the truth about it may be, it must be thoroughly investigated. But there may be a good deal of exaggeration about it, for I have known Adele to over-state a case. There is a great difference between shutting one's door on a man, or turning him out of his club, and bringing an accusation against him which, if proved, will entail a term of penal servitude. You see that, I am sure. Do you not think that we ought to go and see Ghisleri together, tell him what we have learned, and ask him to justify himself if he can?" "I think it would be wiser to consult the lawyers first," answered Savelli. "If they are of opinion that he is a criminal, there is no reason why we should give him warning that he may defend himself, as though he were an honest man. If they believe that this is not a case for the law, there will always be time for us to go and see him, since no open steps will have been taken." Gerano was obliged to admit that there was truth in this, though his instinct told him that Ghisleri should be heard before being accused. He was one of those men whose faith being once shaken is not easily re-established, and he could not forget that his daughter had once deceived him, a fact with which Savelli was now also acquainted, since Adele had told him the whole truth about that part of the story, but to which he attached relatively little importance as compared with Ghisleri's villanous conduct in attempting to extort money from a member of the Savelli family. The two agreed upon the lawyer whom they would consult, and on the next day the first meeting took place at the Palazzo Braccio. The man they employed was elderly, steady, and experienced, and rather inclined to be over-cautious. He refused to give any decisive opinion on the case until he had studied it in all its bearings, thoroughly examined the letters, and ascertained the authenticity of the card on which Lady Herbert had written her thanks in pencil. This, of course, was the only one of the documents in evidence of which he could doubt the genuineness, since it was the only one which had not come direct from the hand of the writer. Oddly enough, the lawyer attached very great weight to it, for he said that it proved conclusively that Lady Herbert Arden had considered the matter as serious and had really paid money--whether a small or a large amount mattered little--in order to get possession of some of the letters which proved Ghisleri's guilt. It would be very useful if the woman "Maria B." could be traced and called as a witness, but even if she could not be found, Lady Herbert could not refuse her evidence and would not, upon her oath, deny having sent the money or having received Adele's letters in return for it. Considering the terms of intimacy on which she stood with Ghisleri, the point was a very strong one against the latter's innocence. The two princes were of the same opinion. Gerano was for asking Laura directly if she knew of the affair, but was overruled by Savelli and the lawyer, who objected that she might give Ghisleri warning. Gerano could not move in the matter without the consent of the other two, and resigned himself, though he looked upon the card as very doubtful evidence, and suggested that it might have been found accidentally by the woman who had come to Donna Adele, and used by her as an additional means of inducing the latter to give her money. But neither Prince Savelli nor the lawyer was inclined to believe in any accident which could weaken the chain of evidence they held. There was no further meeting for several days, during which time the lawyer was at work in examining every point which he considered vulnerable. Being himself a perfectly honest man and having received the information he was to make use of from the father and father-in-law of the lady concerned, it would have been very strange if he had entertained any doubts as to her veracity. Adele had thought of this herself and was satisfied that throughout all the preliminaries her position would be as strong as she could wish it to be. The struggle would begin when Ghisleri was warned of what was now being prepared against him, and began to defend himself. Of one thing she was persuaded. If he had the confession in his hands, he would not produce it. Nothing could prove her case so conclusively as his avowal that the letter was in his hands. If he could demonstrate that he had never seen it and was wholly ignorant of its contents, her own case would fall through. The action, however, if brought, would be a criminal one, and he would not be allowed to give his own evidence. It would be hard, indeed, to find any one who could swear to what would be necessary to clear him. The lawyer came back to his clients at last, and informed them that it was his opinion that there was sufficient evidence for obtaining a warrant of arrest against Pietro Ghisleri, and that in all probability the latter would be convicted, on his trial, of an infamous attempt to extort money from the Princess Adele Savelli, as he called her in his written notes. He warned them, however, that Ghisleri would almost undoubtedly be admitted to bail, that he was a man who had numerous and powerful friends in all parties, that he would doubtless be granted a first and second appeal, and that the publicity and scandal of the whole case would be enormous. On the whole, he advised his clients to settle the matter privately. He would, if they desired it, accompany them to Signor Ghisleri's lodgings, and state to him the legal point of view with all the clearness he had at his command. It was not impossible, it was even probable, that Ghisleri would quietly give up the document in question, and sign a paper binding himself never to refer to its existence again and acknowledging that he had made use of it to frighten the Princess Adele Savelli. The said document could then be returned to her and the affair might be considered as safely concluded. The lawyer did not believe that Signor Ghisleri would expose himself to certain arrest and probable conviction, when he had the means of escaping from both in his hands. Socially the two gentlemen could afterwards do what they pleased, and could of course force him to leave Rome with ignominy, never to show himself there again. Prince Savelli, on the whole, concurred in this view. The Prince of Gerano said that he had known Ghisleri long and well, and that the latter would probably surprise them by throwing quite a new light on the case, though he would not be able to clear himself altogether. He, Gerano, was therefore of the same opinion as the others, and he quietly reminded Savelli that he had been the first to propose visiting Ghisleri and demanding a personal explanation. On the same evening Pietro received a note. Prince Savelli and the Prince of Gerano presented their compliments to Signor Ghisleri, and begged to ask whether it would be convenient to him to receive them and their legal adviser on the following morning at half-past ten o'clock, to confer upon a question of grave importance. Ghisleri answered that he should be much honoured by the visit proposed, and he at once sent word to Ubaldini to come to him at eight o'clock, two hours and a half before he expected the others. He at once suspected mischief, though he had hardly been prepared to see it arrive in such a very solemn and dignified shape. He asked Ubaldini's opinion at once, when the latter came as requested. "It is impossible to say what that good lady has done," said the young lawyer after some moments of thoughtful consideration. "You may take it for granted, however, that both Prince Savelli and the Prince of Gerano believe that you are in possession of the lost letter, and that they will make an attempt to force you to give it up. You would do well not to speak of me, but you can say that you foresaw that Donna Adele intended to make use of your letters when she wrote the first one, asking you to purchase the manuscript for her, and that you have kept copies of your answers, as well as the originals of her communications. If we are quick about it, we can bring an action against her for defamation before she can do anything definite." "I will never consent to that," answered Ghisleri, smiling at Ubaldini's ideas of social honour. "Why not?" asked the lawyer, in some surprise. "You would very probably win it and cast her for heavy damages." "I would certainly never do such a thing," replied Pietro. "I should not think it honourable to bring any such action against a lady." Ubaldini shrugged his shoulders, being quite unable to comprehend his client's point of view. "I cannot do anything to help you, until we know what these gentlemen have to say," he observed. "If you wish it, I will be present at the interview, but it is as well that they should not find out who your lawyer is, until something definite is to be done." Ghisleri agreed, and Ubaldini went away, promising to hold himself at his client's disposal at a moment's notice. Pietro sat down to think over the situation. Danger of some sort was evidently imminent, but he could only form a very vague idea of its nature, and Ubaldini had certainly not helped him much, sharp-witted and keen as he was. Ghisleri, who, of course, could not see the case as Adele had stated it to her father-in-law, and as it was now to be stated to himself, could not conceive it possible that he could be indicted for extortion on such slender evidence as he supposed she had been able to fabricate. He imagined that she desired his social ruin, and above all, to make him for ever contemptible in the eyes of Laura Arden; and this he well knew, or thought that he knew, she could never accomplish. Laura had not yet returned, and he was glad, on the whole, that she was away. Matters were evidently coming to a crisis, and he believed that whatever was to happen would have long been over by the time she was in Rome again. If she had already arrived he would have found it hard not to tell her of what occurred from day to day, and, indeed, he would have felt almost obliged to do so for the sake of her opinion of him, seeing how frankly and loyally she had acted in the case of the letters she had received from the supposititious "Maria B." On the other hand, he longed to see her for her own sake. The summer months had been desperately long and lonely. He did not remember that he had ever found the time weigh so heavily on his hands as this year, both at Torre de' Ghisleri and in Rome. He forgot his present danger and the interview before him in thinking of Laura Arden, when Bonifazio threw open the door and announced Prince Savelli, the Prince of Gerano, and the Advocato Geronimo Grondona. CHAPTER XXVII. Ghisleri rose to meet his visitors, who greeted him gravely and sat down opposite him so that they could all look at his face while speaking. Prince Savelli naturally spoke first. "We have come to you," he said, "upon a very difficult and unpleasant affair. In the first place, I must beg you to listen to what I have to say as calmly as you can, remembering that we have not come here to quarrel with you, but to act on behalf of a lady. This being the case, we claim to be treated as ambassadors, to be heard and to be answered." "You speak as though you were about to make a very disagreeable communication," answered Ghisleri. "The presence of Signor Grondona either shows that you intend to make use of what I may say, or that your business is of a legal nature. If the latter supposition is the true one, it would be much better that we should leave the whole matter to our respective lawyers rather than run the risk of useless discussion. But if your lawyer is here to watch me and make notes, I would point out that I have a right to resent such observation, and to request you to find some other means of informing me of your meaning. As you tell me that you are acting for a lady, however, and claim personal immunity, so to say, for yourselves, I am willing to listen to you and to consider what you say as proceeding from her and not from you. But in no case have you any claim to be answered. That is the most I can do towards helping you with your errand. Judge for yourselves whether you will execute it or not." "I will certainly not go away without saying what I have come to say," replied Savelli, fixing his bright, spectacled eyes upon Ghisleri's face. "We are here to represent Donna Adele Savelli--let that be understood, if you please. She wishes you to hand over to us a certain letter, of the nature of a confession, which you found at Gerano about two years and a half ago, and which you still hold." Ghisleri was less surprised than might have been expected. His face grew slowly pale as he listened, steadily returning the speaker's gaze. "I promised you personal immunity from the consequences of what you were about to say," he answered slowly. "It was a rash promise, I find, but I will keep it. You may inform Donna Adele Savelli that although it is commonly said in the world that she has actually lost such a letter as you mention, I have never seen it, nor have I any knowledge of its contents. Further, I demand, as a right, to be told upon what imaginary evidence she ventures to bring such an outrageous accusation against me." The Advocato Grondona smiled, but the two noblemen preserved an unmoved manner. Of the two, Gerano was the more surprised by Ghisleri's answer. He had believed that a letter really existed, and was in the latter's hands, but that it would not prove to have the importance his daughter attached to it. Prince Savelli produced a bundle of papers from his pocket. "I am quite prepared," he said. "I will state my daughter-in-law's case as accurately as I can, and as nearly as possible in her own words, a great part of which I have here, in the form of notes." "It is understood that Donna Adele Savelli is speaking, gentlemen. On that understanding you have my permission to proceed. I will not interrupt you." Savelli began to speak, and, as he had promised, he stated the case as he had heard it from Adele and, on the whole, very much as she had summed it up in her own mind before going to him. Ghisleri sat with folded arms and bent brows, listening to the wonderfully connected chain of false testimony she brought against him, with all the courage and calmness he could command. "Have you done?" he inquired in a voice shaking with anger, when Savelli had finished. "Yes," answered the latter coolly. "I believe that is all." "Then I have to say that a more villanous calumny was never invented to ruin any man. Good morning, gentlemen." He rose, and the three others were obliged to rise also. "And so you positively refuse to give up the letter?" inquired Savelli; there was an angry light in his eyes, too. "I have given you my answer already. Be good enough to convey it to Donna Adele Savelli." "Are you aware, Signore," said the lawyer, stepping in front of his two clients, "that upon such evidence as we possess you are liable to be indicted for an attempt to extort money from the Princess Adele Savelli?" "You are not privileged, like these gentlemen," said Ghisleri, white to the lips. "If you venture to speak again, my servant will silence you. I have already hinted that this interview is ended," he added to Savelli and Gerano. The three went out in silence and left him alone. With characteristic coolness he sat down to recover from the violent shock he had sustained, and to reflect upon his future conduct, before sending for Ubaldini and consulting with him. He had almost expected the demand to restore a document he did not possess, but he was not prepared for the well-constructed story by which Savelli, Gerano, and their lawyer had been persuaded of his guilt. The lawyer's words had placed the whole affair in a light which showed how thoroughly convinced the three men were of the justice of their accusation, and Ghisleri understood well enough that Savelli intended to take legal steps. What those steps might be, Pietro had not the least idea. He rang for Bonifazio and sent him out to buy the Penal Code. It was probably the wisest thing he could do under the circumstances, as he did not even know whether, if he were arrested, he should be admitted to bail or not. He saw well enough that an order for his arrest might very possibly be issued. Grondona was far too grave and learned a lawyer to have uttered such a threat in vain, and was not the man to waste time or words when action was possible. If he had spoken as he had, he had done so for his clients' advantage, in the hope that Ghisleri might be frightened at the last minute into giving up the letter. In that way all publicity and scandal could have been avoided. But it was clear that the die was cast, and that war was declared. More than ever, he was glad that Laura Arden was not in Rome. The thought that if she were present she would necessarily have to follow the course of events little by little, as he must himself, and the certainty that she knew the truth and would feel the keenest sympathy for him, made him rejoice at her absence. When she learned what had taken place, she would know all the circumstances at once, including Ghisleri's proof of his innocence, which, as he felt sure, would be triumphant. In the meantime, she should be kept in ignorance of what was occurring. Having decided this point, he began to think of choosing some person to whom, if he were actually arrested, he might apply for assistance in the matter of obtaining bail. There was no time to be lost, as he was well aware. Since Savelli really believed him guilty of the abominable crime with which he was charged, it was not likely that time would be given him to leave the country, as his adversaries would naturally expect that he would attempt to do. They had probably gone straight from his lodging to the office of the chief of police,--the questore, as he is called in Italy,--and if they succeeded, as in all likelihood they would, in getting a warrant for his arrest, he might expect the warrant to be executed at any moment during the day. It was extremely important that he should be prepared for the worst. He thought of all the men he knew, and after a little hesitation he decided that he would write to San Giacinto. The latter had always been friendly to him, and Pietro remembered how he had spoken at the club, years ago, when Pietrasanta was gossiping about Arden's supposed intemperance. San Giacinto's very great moral weight in the world, due in different degrees to his character, his superior judgment, and his enormous wealth, made him the most desirable of allies. While he was waiting for Bonifazio's return, Ghisleri occupied himself in writing a note advising San Giacinto of the circumstances, and inquiring whether he might ask him for help. The servant returned as he finished, and handed his master the little yellow-covered volume with an expression of inquiry on his face. Ghisleri looked at him and hesitated, debating whether it would be wise to warn the man of what might take place at any moment. There was much friendliness in the relations between the two. Bonifazio had been with Pietro many years and perhaps understood the latter's character better than any one. The servant was almost as unlike other people, in his own way, as Ghisleri himself, and was in two respects a remarkable contrast to him. He was imperturbably good-tempered in the first place, and, in the second, he was extremely devout. But there were resemblances also, and it was for these that Ghisleri liked him. He was honest to a fault. He had more than once proved himself to be coolly courageous in some of his master's dangerous expeditions. Finally, he was discretion itself, and reticent in the highest degree. That such an otherwise perfect creature should have defects was only to be expected. Bonifazio was as obstinate as flint when he had made up his mind as to how any particular thing was to be done. He was silently officious, in his anxiety to be always ready to fulfil his master's wishes, and often annoyed him in small ways by thrusting services upon him which he did not require. On rare occasions he would insist upon giving very useless and uncalled-for advice. Faithful and devoted in every way, he wholly disapproved, on religious grounds, of Ghisleri's mode of life, even so far as he was acquainted with it. He considered that Pietro lived and had lived for many years in seven-fold deadly sin, and he daily offered up the most sincere prayers for Pietro's repentance and reformation. Twice a year, also, he privately presented the parish priest with a small charity out of his savings, requesting him to say a mass for Ghisleri's benefit. Obstinate in this as in everything else, he firmly believed that his master's soul might ultimately be saved by sheer prayer-power, so to say. These last facts, of course, did not come within Ghisleri's knowledge, for Bonifazio made no outward show of pious interest in Pietro's spiritual welfare, well knowing that he could not keep his situation an hour, if he were so unwise as to risk anything of the kind. But his silent disapproval showed itself in his mournful expression when Pietro had done anything which struck him as more than usually wicked and wild. The question of informing him that the police might be expected at any moment was not in itself a serious one. He would assuredly disbelieve the whole story, and vigorously deny the accusation when acquainted with both. Ghisleri determined to say nothing and immediately sent him out again with the note for San Giacinto. He then took up the Penal Code, and found the article referring to the misdeed of which he was accused. It read as follows: ART 409. Whosoever, by in any way inspiring fear of severe injury to the person, the honour, or the property of another, or by falsely representing the order of an Authority, constrains that other to send, deposit, or place at the disposal of the delinquent money, objects, or documents having any legal import whatsoever, is punished with imprisonment for a term of from two to ten years. The law was clear enough. With regard to bail, he discovered with some difficulty that in such cases it could be obtained immediately, either on depositing the sum of money considered requisite according to circumstances, or by the surety of one or more well-known persons. San Giacinto answered the note by appearing in person. When he undertook anything, he generally proceeded to the scene of action at once to ascertain for himself the true state of the case. Ghisleri explained matters as succinctly as possible. "You will hardly believe that such things can be done in our day," he said as he concluded. "I have seen enough in my time, and amongst my own near connexions, to know that almost anything conceivable may happen," answered the giant. "Meanwhile I shall not leave you until the police come, or until we know definitely that they are not coming. My carriage is below and has orders to wait all day and all night." "You do not mean to say you really intend to stay with me?" asked Ghisleri, who was not prepared for such a manifestation of friendship. "That is my intention," replied the other, calmly lighting a long black cigar. "If it lasts long, I will sleep on your sofa. If, however, you prefer that I should go to Savelli and make him tell me what he intends to do, I am quite ready. I think I could make him tell me." "I think you could," said Ghisleri, with a smile, as he looked at his friend. The huge, giant strength of the man was imposing in itself, apart from the terribly determined look of the iron features and deep-set eyes. Few men would have cared to find themselves opposed to San Giacinto even when he was perfectly calm, hardly any, perhaps, if his anger was roused. The last time he had been angry had been when he dragged the forger, Arnoldo Meschini, from the library to the study in Palazzo Montevarchi more than twenty years earlier. His hair was turning grey now, but there were no outward signs of any diminution in his powers, physical or mental. "In any case," he said, "some time must elapse. It will need the greater part of the day to get a warrant of arrest." Ghisleri would have been glad to end his suspense by allowing his friend to go directly to Savelli, as he had proposed to do. But considering what he had already shown himself ready to do, Pietro did not wish to involve him in the affair any further than necessary. "Is it of any use to send for my lawyer?" asked Ghisleri, well aware of San Giacinto's superior experience in all legal matters. "There is not the least hurry," answered the latter. "If the affair is brought to trial, there will be time enough and to spare. But if it amuses you, let us have the man here and ask his opinion. It can do no harm." Accordingly Ubaldini was sent for. He looked very grave when Ghisleri had repeated all that Savelli had told him. "But the mere fact that I consulted you when I did," said Ghisleri, "and had copies of my answers made, ought to prove at once that I knew even then what Donna Adele wished to attempt." But Ubaldini only shrugged his shoulders. "That will be against you," answered San Giacinto. "It will be said that you were well aware of what you were doing, and that you were taking precautions in case of exposure. Even if Lady Herbert were here to give evidence, it would not help you much. After all, Donna Adele's story about the seamstress is plausible, and Lady Herbert took your explanation on faith." "Lady Herbert shall not be called as a witness, if I can help it," said Ghisleri. "It is bad enough that her name should appear at all." "The difficulty," observed Ubaldini, "is that every point can be turned against you from first to last. I am afraid that even my little stratagem has done no good. I wished to find out whether the confession really existed, and I thought it best that you should be in ignorance of the steps I took and of the result I obtained, in case you should be called upon to swear to anything in a possible action brought by you for defamation. The less an innocent man knows of the facts of a case, when he is on his oath, the better it generally turns out for him. The first thing to be done is to find the dealer with whom you negotiated for the purchase of the manuscript. His evidence will be the strongest we can get. Of course, even to that they will answer that you would not be so foolish as to write what looked like an account of a genuine transaction without lending an air of truth to it, in case of necessity, by actually making inquiries about it. If it is found that the prices named in your letters agree with those asked by the dealer, they will say that you cleverly chose a very valuable work, and determined to be guided by the value of it, in appraising the letter you held. If the prices did not agree, they would say that even if the transaction were genuine, you had conducted it dishonestly; but then, as a matter of fact, the discovery was a good proof that it was a mere sham. Of course, too, you will have friends, like the Signor Marchese here present, who will swear to your previous character; but you must not forget that in a case like this the great body of educated public and social opinion is with the woman rather than the man." "In other words," said Ghisleri, with a laugh, "I am to stand my trial for extortion, and am very likely to be convicted. You are not very encouraging, Signor Ubaldini, but I suppose you will find a word to say in my defence before everything is over." "I will do my best," answered the young lawyer, thoughtfully. "I would like to know where this confession is. One thing is quite certain: if it had got into the hands of a dishonest person, Donna Adele would have heard of it before now, and would have tried to buy it, as she did try to get it from the maid Lucia, according to her own account, and from me. In the meanwhile, I will go and examine the dealer. Will you kindly give me his name and address." Ghisleri wrote both on a card and Ubaldini went away. Before Ghisleri and San Giacinto had been alone together half an hour, he came back, looking rather pale and excited. "It is most unfortunate," he exclaimed. "The devil is certainly in this business. The man was buried yesterday. He died of apoplexy two days ago." "Nothing surpasses the stupidity of that!" cried San Giacinto, angrily. "Why could not the idiot have lived a fortnight longer?" Ghisleri said nothing, but he saw what importance both his friend and the lawyer had attached to the dead man's testimony. There was little hope that his clerk would be able to say anything in Ghisleri's favour. He had of course only spoken with the dealer himself, generally in a private room and without witnesses. He began to fear that his case was even worse than he had at first supposed. "The best possible defence, in my opinion," said Ubaldini, "is to tell your own story and compare it, inch by inch, with theirs. I believe that, after all, yours will seem by far the more probable in the eyes of any court of justice. Then we will question Donna Adele's sanity, and bring a couple of celebrated authorities to prove that people who use morphia often go mad and have fixed ideas. Donna Adele's delusion is that you are the possessor of her confession. If we cannot prove that it has been all this time in the hands of some one else, we may at least be able to show that there is no particular reason why it should have been in yours, that you are certainly not in need of fifty thousand francs, and that, so far as any one knows, you are not the man to try and get it in this way if you were. We will do the best we can. I got a man off scot free the other day who had murdered his brother in the presence of three witnesses. I proved that one was half-witted, that the second was drunk, and that the third could not possibly have been present at all, because he ought to have been somewhere else. That was a much harder case than this. The jury shed tears of pity for my ill-used client." "I will do without the tears," said Ghisleri, with a smile, "provided they will see the truth this time." San Giacinto kept his word, and refused to leave Ghisleri's lodging that night, sending Bonifazio to his house for clothes and necessaries, and ordering fresh horses and another coachman and footman to replace those that had waited all day. He distinctly objected to cabs, he said, because they were always too small for him; and if Ghisleri was to be arrested, he intended to drive with him to the prison in order to give bail for him immediately. And so he did. On the following day Rome was surprised by a spectacle unique in the recollection of its inhabitants, high or low. The largest of the large open carriages belonging to Casa San Giacinto was seen rolling solemnly through the city, bearing Pietro Ghisleri, the Marchese di San Giacinto himself, and two policemen, who looked very uncomfortable as they sat, bolt upright, side by side, with their backs to the horses. A few hours later, the same carriage appeared again, Pietro and the giant being still in it, but without the officers of the law. San Giacinto insisted upon driving his friend six times round the Villa Borghese, six times round the Pincio, and four times the length of the Corso, before taking him back at last to his lodgings. "It will produce a good effect," he said; "most people are fools or cowards, or both, and imitation as a rule needs neither courage nor wisdom. Come and dine with us to-morrow night, and I will have a party ready for you who do not belong to the majority. I shall go to the club now and give an account of the day's doings." "Why not wait and let people find out for themselves what has happened?" asked Pietro. "Will it do any good to talk of it?" "Since people must talk or die," answered San Giacinto, "I am of opinion that they had better tell the truth than invent lies." When he was gone Ghisleri wondered what had impelled him to take so much trouble. It would have been quite enough if he had appeared at the right moment to give security for him, and that alone would have been a very valuable service. But San Giacinto had done much more, for his action had shown the world from the first that he intended to take Ghisleri's side. The latter, who was always surprised when any one showed anything approaching to friendship for him, was exceedingly grateful, and determined that he would not in future laugh at the idea of spontaneous human kindness without motive, as he had often laughed in the past. Meanwhile San Giacinto went to his club. A score of men were lounging in the rooms, and most of them had been talking of the new scandal, though in a rather guarded way, for no one wished to quarrel either with Ghisleri or his ally. On seeing the latter go to the smoking-room, almost every one in the club followed him, out of curiosity, in the hope that he would give some explanation of what had occurred. They were not disappointed. San Giacinto stood with his back to the fireplace, looking at each face that presented itself before him. "Gentlemen," he began: "I see that you expect me to say something. I will. I do not wish to offend any one; but, with the exception of all of ourselves here assembled, most people tell lies, consciously or unconsciously, when they do not know the truth, and sometimes when they do, which is worse. So I mean to tell you the truth about my driving with Ghisleri and two policemen to-day, and the reason why I have been driving with him all the afternoon. After that you may believe what you like about the matter. The facts are these. Yesterday Ghisleri wrote me a note telling me that he expected shortly to be arrested on a charge of extortion and asking if I would be bail for him. That is what I have done. The accusation comes from Casa Savelli, and declares that for two years and a half Ghisleri has had possession of that letter belonging to Donna Adele which she wrote to her confessor, which was lost on the way, and of which we have all heard vague hints for some time. Casa Savelli says that Ghisleri has been trying to make her pay money for it, and has otherwise made her life unbearable to her by means of it. There are letters of Ghisleri's referring to the manuscript of Isabella Montevarchi's confession which was for sale this autumn, and Casa Savelli says that this manuscript was spoken of in order to disguise the real transaction contemplated. Ghisleri says it is a plot to ruin him, and that he has been aware of it ever since last spring. Meanwhile he has actually been arrested and I have given bail for him. That is the story. I drove about with him this afternoon to show that I, for my part, take his side, and believe him to be perfectly innocent. That is what I had to say. I am obliged to you for having listened so patiently." As he turned to go away, not caring for any further discussion at the time, he was aware that a dark man of medium height, with very broad shoulders and fierce, black eyes, was standing beside him, facing the crowd. "I am entirely of San Giacinto's opinion," said Gianforte Campodonico, in clear tones. "I believe Ghisleri utterly incapable of any such baseness. Donna Adele Savelli is a relation of mine, but I will stand by Ghisleri in this, come what may. I hope that no one will have the audacity to propose any action of the club in the case, such as requesting him to withdraw, until after the trial." "But when a man is indicted for crime, and has been arrested--" began some one in the crowd. "I said," repeated Gianforte, interrupting the speaker in a hard and menacing voice, "that I hoped no one would have the audacity to propose that the club should take any action in the case. I hope I have made myself clearly understood." Such was the character and reputation of Campodonico that the man who had begun to speak did not attempt to proceed, not so much from timidity, perhaps, as because he felt that in the end two men like Gianforte and San Giacinto must carry public opinion with them. As they stood side by side before the fireplace, they were as strong and determined a pair of champions as any one could have wished to have. "You are quite right," said San Giacinto, in an approving tone. "Of course I have neither the power nor the right to prevent discussion. Every one will talk about this case and the trial, and as it is a public affair every one has a right to do so, I suppose. I only wish it to be known that I believe Ghisleri innocent, and I am glad to see that Campodonico, who knows him very well, is of my opinion." After this there was nothing more to be said, and the crowd dispersed, talking together in low tones. The two men who had undertaken Ghisleri's defence remained together. San Giacinto looked down at his young companion, and his stern face softened strangely. A certain kind of manly courage and generosity was the only thing that ever really touched him. "I am glad to see that there are still men in the world," he said. "Will you have a game of billiards?" The first result of this was that there was relatively very little talk about Ghisleri among the men when they were together. It is probable that both San Giacinto and Campodonico would have spoken precisely as they did, if all the assembled tribe of Savelli and Gerano had been present to hear them; and when the two families heard what had been said, they were very angry indeed. Unfortunately for them, nothing could be done. As San Giacinto had rightly put it, the trial was to be a public affair, and every one had a right to his own opinion. But there were not wanting those who sided with the Savelli, for though Ghisleri had few enemies, if any, besides Adele, yet there were many who were jealous of him for his social successes, and who disliked his calm air of superiority. The story became the constant topic of conversation in most of the Roman families, and many who had for years received Ghisleri immediately determined that they would be very cautious and cool until he should prove his innocence to the world. He himself, during the days which followed, saw much of San Giacinto, who told him what Campodonico had said at the club. CHAPTER XXVIII. When Laura Arden returned to Rome, she was met by her mother with a full account of what had taken place. Under any ordinary circumstances the Princess of Gerano would have been very merciful in her judgment and would assuredly not have hastened to give her daughter every detail of the last great scandal. But she had never liked Ghisleri, and she had feared that Laura was falling in love with him, and he with Laura. Moreover, neither her love for her own child nor Adele's shortcomings had destroyed all her affection for the latter, and under her husband's influence she had lately come to look upon Ghisleri as a monster of iniquity and on Adele as little less than a martyr. She spared Laura nothing as she told the story, and was unconsciously guilty of considerable exaggeration in explaining the view the world in general took of the case, though that was bad enough at best. Laura's dark eyes flashed with indignation as she listened. "I do not believe a word of this story, mother," she said. "As for the part I am supposed to have played in it, you had better know the truth at once. When I got those letters, I sent for Signor Ghisleri, and gave them to him. We knew at once that they came from Adele herself." She told her mother exactly what had occurred, and how she had believed in him then, and should believe in him still. The Princess sighed and shook her head. "There is very little left to believe in, my dear," she said, "trustful though you are, to a fault. I hope you will at all events not receive him until after the trial. Indeed, it will be quite impossible--I am sure you would not think of it. If he has any sense of decency left, he will not call." "I will not only receive him," answered Laura, without hesitation: "whenever he chooses to come, but if he does not come of his own accord, I will make him. What is the use of friendship, if it will not bear any test?" "I suppose it is of no use to discuss the matter," said the Princess, wearily. "You will do as you please. I do not recognise you any longer." As soon as her mother was gone, Laura wrote a note to Pietro, telling him that she had heard all the story, that she believed in him as firmly as ever, and begging him to come and see her on the following day at the usual hour. The last words dropped from her pen naturally. It seemed but yesterday that they had spoken of meeting "at the usual hour" on the morrow of the day after that. Ghisleri's heart beat faster as he broke the seal, and when he came to the words he was conscious that its beating annoyed him. He knew, now, that he loved her well, as he had loved but once before in his life. But he determined that he would not go and see her. He blessed her for believing in his innocence, but there were many strong reasons against his going to her house, or even seeing her. Merely on general grounds he would have kept away, while under the accusation which hung over him, as even the Princess of Gerano had anticipated that he would, and feeling as he did that he loved her in good earnest, it would have seemed absolutely dishonourable to renew their former relations until he had cleared himself. He wrote her a short note. "MY DEAR FRIEND:--I am deeply touched by your wishing to see me, and I am more than ever grateful for your friendship and for the faith you have in me. But I will not come to you at present. I am accused of a crime worse than most crimes, in my opinion, and the world is by no means altogether on my side. When I have cleared myself publicly, I will come and thank you--if I can find words for the thanks you deserve. "Most gratefully and faithfully, "PIETRO GHISLERI." He was not prepared for the answer which came within the hour in the shape of a second note, short, vigorous, and decisive. It seemed hard to realise that the sweet, dark woman with deep, holy eyes, as he had once described her, could be the writer of such determined words. "MY DEAR SIGNOR GHISLERI:--I care for the world and its opinion much less than you do for my sake, or than you suppose I do for myself. I mean to see you, and to have it known that I see you, and I will. If you are not here to-morrow at precisely one o'clock I will go to your lodgings and wait for you if you are out. People may say what they please. "Ever yours sincerely, "LAURA ARDEN." Ghisleri read the note over several times, to be quite sure that he had not misunderstood it, and then burned it, as he had always burned everything in the nature of writing until his last difficulties had begun. He saw that Laura had forced the situation, and he knew her well enough not to doubt that she would execute her threat to the letter, and wait for him, watch in hand, on the morrow. He hated himself for being glad, for he knew that the world she despised would give her little credit for her generous act. Yet, in spite of his self-contempt, he was happy. Five minutes before one o'clock on the next day he rang at her door. She had returned as usual to the small apartment she had occupied since leaving the Tempietto. He found her dressed for walking, all in black, and looking at the clock. As he entered she turned and laughed happily. There was a faint colour in her cheeks too. "I knew you would not let me ruin my reputation for the sake of your obstinacy," she said, as she came forward to meet him. "In four minutes I would have left the house." She grasped his hand warmly as she spoke. "No," he said, "I could not have done that. What ways you have of forcing people to obey you! But you are very wrong; I still maintain that." "Sit down," she said, "and let us talk of more interesting things. I must hear the whole story from your own lips, though I am sure my mother did her best to be quite truthful; but she does not understand you and never will, as I begin to think." "Tell me first how you are, and about Herbert," said Ghisleri. "You will hear quite enough of this miserable affair. It will keep a day or two." "It need not keep so long as that," answered Laura, "I can tell you the news in a few words. I am perfectly well. Herbert is perfectly well too, thank God, and has outgrown his clothes twice and his shoes four times since we have been away. Since I last wrote great things have happened. I have been in England again at last, and have stayed with the Lulworths. You see I am in mourning. Uncle Herbert died a month ago. I never saw the old gentleman but once, for he lived in the most extraordinary way, in complete isolation. You know that--well, he is dead, and he has left all the fortune to my Herbert, with a life interest in one-quarter of it for me, besides an enormous allowance for Herbert's education. That is all there is to tell." "It is good news indeed," said Ghisleri. "I am so glad. It will make an immense difference to you, though of course you have known of it a long time." "It will not make so much difference as you fancy. I shall go on living much as I do, for I have had almost all I wanted in these years. But I am glad for Herbert's sake, of course. And now begin, please, and do not stop until you have told me everything." "Needs must, when you will anything," Ghisleri answered, with a faint smile. So he told her the story, while she listened and watched him. She had developed in strength and decision during the last year, more rapidly than before, and he felt in speaking to her as though she had power to help him and would use it. He was grateful, and more than grateful. Within the last few weeks he had learned that the strongest and most determined men may sometimes need a friend. He had long had one in her, and he had found a new one in San Giacinto; but though the latter's imposing personality had more influence in the world than that of any man Ghisleri knew, there was that in Laura's sympathy which gave him a new strength of his own, and fresh courage to face the many troubles he expected to encounter before long. For man gets no such strength in life to do great deeds or to bear torments sudden and sharp or mean, little and harassing, as he gets from the woman he loves, even though he does not yet know that she loves him again. "I hope I do not take my own side too much," he said, as he ended the long tale, "though I suppose that when a man is perfectly innocent he has a right to say hard things of people who accuse him. For my own part, I believe that Donna Adele is mad. There is the ingenuity of madness in everything she does in this affair. No sane person could invent such a story almost out of nothing, and make half the world believe it." "She may be mad," Laura answered, "but she is bad, too. It will all come out at the trial, and she will get what she deserves." "I hope so. But do you know what I really expect? Unless it can be proved that the confession has been all the time in the safe keeping of some person who has not even read it, I shall be convicted and imprisoned. I am quite prepared for that. I suppose that will come to me by way of expiation for my sins." "Please do not talk like that," cried Laura. "It is absurd! There is no court in the world that would convict you--a perfectly innocent man. Besides I shall give my evidence about those letters. I shall insist upon it. That alone would be enough to clear you." "I am afraid not. Even my lawyer thinks that your testimony would not help me much. After all, you know what happened. I told you that I was innocent, and you believed me. Or, if you please, you believed me innocent before I said I was. There is only your belief or my word to fall back upon, and neither would prove anything in court. Ubaldini says so. I really expect to be convicted, and I will bear it as well as I can. I will certainly not do anything to escape from it all." He had hesitated as he reached the last words, but he saw that Laura understood. "You should not even think of such things," she said gravely. "You are far too brave a man to take your own life even if you were convicted, and you shall not be. I tell you that you shall not be!" she repeated, with sudden energy. "No one can tell. But I am inclined to think that if you were angry you might terrify judge and jury into doing whatever you pleased." He laughed a little. "You have grown so strong of late that I hardly recognise you. What has made the change?" "Something--I cannot explain it to you. Besides--was I ever a weak woman? Did I ever hesitate much?" "No, that is true. Perhaps I did not use the right word. You seem more active, more alive, more determined to influence other people." "Do I? It may be true. I fancy I am less saint-like in your opinion than I was. I am glad of it. You used to think me quite different from what I was. But I know that I have changed during this summer. I feel it now." "So have I. The change began before you went away." Ghisleri glanced at her, and then looked at the wall. A short silence followed. Both felt strangely conscious that their former relation had not been renewed exactly where it had been interrupted by their separation in the summer. But there was nothing awkward about the present break in the conversation. "In what way have you changed?" asked Laura at last. She had evidently been thinking of his words during the pause. "Indeed I should find it hard to tell you now," Ghisleri answered, with a smile at the thought uppermost in his mind. "I would rather not try." "Is it for the worse, then?" Laura's eyes sought his. "No. It is for the better. Perhaps, some day, if all this turns out less badly--" He stopped, angry with himself for having said even that much. "Shall you have more confidence in me when the trial is over?" asked Laura, leaning back and looking down. "Have I shown that I believe in you, or not, to-day?" Had she known what was so near his lips to say, she might not have spoken. "You have done what few women would have done. You know that I know it. If I will not say what I am thinking of, it is for that very reason." His fingers clasped each other and unclasped again with a sharp, nervous movement. "I am sorry you do not trust me altogether," said Laura. "Please do not say that. I do trust you altogether. But I respect you too. Will you forgive me if I go away rather suddenly?" He rose as he spoke and held out his hand. "You are not ill, are you?" Laura stood up, looking anxiously into his face. Unconsciously she had taken his hand in both of her own. "No--I am not ill. Good-bye!" "Come to-morrow, please. I want to see you often. Promise to come to-morrow." Her tone was imperative, and he knew that she had the power to force him to compliance. He yielded out of necessity, and left her. When he was in the street he stood still a few moments, leaning upon his stick as though he were exhausted. His face was white. Oddly enough, what he felt recalled an accident which had once happened to him. On a calm, hot day, several years earlier, he had been slowly sailing along a southern shore. The heat had been intense, and he had thrown himself into the water to get a little coolness, holding by a rope, and allowing himself to be towed along under the side of the boat. Then one of the men called to him loudly to come aboard as quickly as he could. As he reached the deck, the straight black fin of a big shark glided smoothly by. He could remember the shadow it cast on the bright blue water, and the sensation he experienced when he saw how near he had unconsciously been to a hideous death. Like many brave but very sensitive men, he had turned pale when the danger was quite past and had felt for one moment something like physical exhaustion. The same feeling overtook him now as he paused on the pavement before the house in which Laura Arden lived. An instant later he was walking rapidly homeward. At the corner of a street he came suddenly upon Gianforte Campodonico. Both men raised their hats almost at the same moment, for their relations were necessarily maintained upon rather formal terms. Ghisleri owed his old adversary a debt of gratitude for his conduct at the club, but a rather exaggerated sense of delicacy hindered Pietro from stopping and speaking with him in the street. Campodonico, however, would not let him pass on and stood still as Ghisleri came up to him. "I wish to thank you with all my heart for the generous way in which you have spoken of me," said Ghisleri, grasping the other's ready outstretched hand. "You have nothing to thank me for," replied Gianforte. "Knowing you to be a perfectly honourable and honest man, I should have been a coward if I had held my tongue. You have a good friend in San Giacinto, and I suppose I cannot be of much use to you. But if I can, send for me. I shall never like you perhaps, but I will stand by you, because I respect you as much as any man living." "I thank you sincerely," said Ghisleri, pressing his hand again. "You are very generous." "No, but I try to be just." They parted, and Ghisleri pursued his way, meditating on the contradictions of life, and wondering why at the most critical moment of his existence the one man who had come forward unasked and of his own free impulse to defend him publicly and to offer his help, should be his oldest and most implacable enemy. He was profoundly conscious of the man's generosity. The world, he said to himself, might not be such a bad place after all. But he did not guess how soon he was to need the assistance so freely proffered. He went home at once. Bonifazio closed the door behind him and followed him respectfully into the sitting-room. "I beg pardon, signore," he began, standing still as he waited for Ghisleri to turn and look at him. "Do you need money?" asked the latter carelessly. "No, signore. You have perhaps forgotten that you gave me money yesterday. It is something which I have had upon my conscience a long time, and now that you are falsely accused, signore, it is my duty to speak, if you permit me." "Tell me what it is." Ghisleri sat down at his writing-table, and lit a cigarette. "It is a very secret matter, signore. But if I keep it a secret any longer, I shall be doing wrong, though I also did wrong in coming by the information I have, though I did not know it. I have also been to a lawyer who understands these matters, and takes an interest in the case, and he has told me that unless some saint performs a miracle nothing can save you at the trial. So that I must give my evidence. But if I do, the Princess Adele will go to the galleys, and the house of Savelli will be quite ruined. For the Princess murdered Lord Herbert Arden, and tried to murder Donna Laura, as we call her. She invited them to dinner and gave them napkins which she with her own hand had poisoned with infection of the scarlet fever, her maid Lucia having had it at the time. And Lord Herbert died within three days, but Donna Laura did not catch it. And I have read how she did this, and many other wicked things, in a letter written with her own hand. For it was I who found the confession they speak of, when I went alone to look at the old prisons at Gerano, while you and the signori were out driving. And now I do not know what to do, but I had to speak in order to save you, and you must judge of the rest, signore, and pardon me if I have done wrong." Ghisleri knew the truth at last, and his lean, weather-beaten face expressed well enough the thirst for vengeance that burned him. He waited a few moments and then spoke calmly enough. "Have you got the confession here?" he asked. "If it is found in my house it will ruin me, though it may ruin Donna Adele too." "I understand, signore. Have no fear. I read it through, because I found it open and the leaves scattered as it must have fallen, though how it fell there I do not know. But it is still at Gerano. If you will allow me, I will explain what I did. When I had read it, I put it into my pocket, saying to myself that it was a difficult case for the conscience. And I thought about it for more than an hour while I walked about the castle. Then I went and got an envelope and I put the leaves into it thinking that perhaps it would be wrong to burn it. So I wrote on the outside: 'This was found in the prison of the castle of Gerano by Bonifazio di Rienzo,' and I also wrote the date in full. Then at the tobacconist's shop in the village I bought some wax, and took a seal I have, which is this one, signore. It has 'B.R.' on it. And I sealed the letter with much wax, so that the tobacconist laughed at me. But I did not let him see what was written on the envelope. Then I took it to the parish priest whose name is Don Tebaldo, and who seemed to me to be a very respectable and good man. I told him in confidence that I had found something which it was not possible for me to give to the rightful owner, but which I thought it would be wrong to destroy, because the rightful owner might some day make inquiry for it and wish to have it. He asked many questions, but I would not answer them all, and he did not know what the letter was about nor that it was a confession. So I begged him to put it into another envelope and to seal it again with his own seal, and I gave him what was left of the wax I had bought. Then he did as I asked him, and wrote on the back: 'This was brought to me to be kept, by one Bonifazio di Rienzo, until the owner claims it. But it is to be burned when I die.' And there it is to this day, for I have made inquiries and Don Tebaldo is alive and well, and God bless him! So I come to tell you all this, in order that you may act as you see fit, signore. For Don Tebaldo can swear that I gave him the letter on the day I found it and I can swear that you never knew anything of it." Ghisleri looked at his faithful old servant, whose round brown eyes met his so steadily and quietly. "I can never thank you enough, my dear Bonifazio," he said. "You have saved me. I will not forget it." "As for that, signore, I will not accept any present, and I humbly beg you not to offer me any, for it would be the price of blood, such as Judas Iscariot received, seeing that the Princess Adele will go to the galleys." "You need not be afraid of that, Bonifazio," answered Ghisleri. "Casa Savelli will easily prove that she was mad, as I believe she is, and she will end her life in a lunatic asylum. But you must not bring either Don Tebaldo or the letter here. Go at once to the Marchese di San Giacinto and tell him exactly what you have told me, and that I sent you. He will know what to do. Take money with you and execute his orders exactly without returning here, no matter what they are. I can do without you for a week if necessary, and I wish to know nothing of the matter until it is over." "Yes, signore," answered Bonifazio, and without more words he left the room and went directly to San Giacinto's house. The latter received him in his study, and listened to his story with calm attention. Then, without making any remark, he smoked nearly half a cigar, while Bonifazio stood motionless, respectfully watching him. Then he rang the bell, and gave the man who answered it instructions to order out a sort of mail-cart he used for driving himself, and the strongest horses in the stable. "You must come with me," he said to Bonifazio. "We can be back before midnight." Then he began to write rapidly. He wrote a note to his cousin, the Prince of Sant' Ilario, another to Gianforte Campodonico, and then a rather longer one to Savelli. In the last mentioned, he informed the Prince that he would appear on the morrow, with Campodonico and Sant' Ilario, and that he desired to be received by Savelli himself in the presence of Francesco and Adele, as he had a communication of the highest importance to make. In his usual hard way he managed to convey the impression that it would be decidedly the worse for the whole house of Savelli and for Adele in particular if his request were not complied with to the letter. By the time he had finished a servant announced that the carriage was waiting. San Giacinto thrust a handful of black cigars and a box of matches into his outer pocket. "Come," he said to Bonifazio, "I am ready. It is a long drive to Gerano." It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when they started, and the days were very short and the weather threatening. But the horses were splendid animals, and there were few roads between Rome and the Abbruzzi which San Giacinto did not know well. He was acting as he always did, swiftly, surely, and in person, trusting to no one, and making himself alone responsible for the result. Before one o'clock in the morning he was back, bringing with him a mild and timid old priest, muffled in a horse blanket against the bitter wind. But the sealed packet containing Adele Savelli's confession was in his own pocket. On his table he found three notes, which satisfied him that everything would take place as he had hastily planned it before his departure. Campodonico expressed his readiness to serve Ghisleri in any way, Sant' Ilario said that he was ready to support San Giacinto in anything he undertook, though he had never been intimate with Ghisleri, who was much younger than he. Savelli answered coldly that he would receive the three men as requested, adding that he hoped the communication would prove to be of such importance as to justify putting his daughter-in-law to the inconvenience which any prolonged interview caused her in her present state of ill-health. San Giacinto smiled rather grimly. He did not think that his visit to Casa Savelli need be a very long one. Before he went to bed, he debated whether he should send word to Gerano to be present also, but he ultimately decided not to do so. It seemed useless to make Adele's father witness his daughter's humiliation, though he meant not to spare either Savelli or his son. Towards Adele he was absolutely pitiless. It was his nature. If she had been dying, he would have found means to make her listen to what he had to say. If she had been at the very last gasp he would have forced his way to her bedside to say it. He was by no means a man without faults. Meanwhile Ghisleri was pacing his room in solitude, reflecting on the sudden change in all the prospects of the future, and wondering how matters would be managed, but feeling himself perfectly safe in San Giacinto's hands, and well understanding that he was not to be informed of what had happened until all was over. That San Giacinto would face all the assembled Savelli and force them then and there to withdraw all charges against Ghisleri, the latter was sure, and, on the whole, he was glad that he was not to witness their discomfiture. But it was not only of his being in one moment cleared of every accusation that he thought. The consequences to himself were enormous. He remembered the sickening horror he had felt that afternoon when he realised how nearly he had told Laura that he loved her. In four and twenty hours there would be nothing to hinder him from speaking out what filled his heart. If he chose to do so, he might even now write to her and tell her what he had struggled so hard to hide when they had been face to face. But he was not the man to write when there was a possibility of speaking, nor to trust to the black and white of ink and paper to say for him what he could say better for himself. Then the old doubt came back, and he spent a night of strange self-questioning and much useless moral torment. Was this the last, the very last of his loves? He remembered how a little less than three years earlier he had bid good-bye to Maddalena dell' Armi, saying to himself that he could never again feel his heart beat at a woman's voice, nor his face turn pale with passion for a woman's kiss. And now he loved again, perhaps with little hope of seeing his love returned, but with the mad desire to stake his fate upon one cast, and win or lose all for ever. He had never felt that irresistible longing before, not even when he had first loved Bianca Corleone in his early days. Then, it was true, he had been very young, and Bianca had not been like Laura. She had been young herself as he was, and had loved him from the first, almost without hiding it. There had been little need for words on either side, for love told his own tale plainly. Yet it seemed to him now that if he had then thought Bianca as cold as he had reason to believe that Laura was, he might have resigned himself to his fate at the beginning--he might not have found the strength he now had to risk such a defeat as perhaps waited him, to run any danger, now that he was free, rather than live in suspense another day. CHAPTER XXIX. Sant' Ilario and Gianforte Campodonico rang at San Giacinto's door half an hour before the time the latter had appointed for his descent upon Casa Savelli. He had not explained the situation in the hurried notes he had written them on the previous day, and they did not know what was to take place. "It is very simple," said San Giacinto, coolly. "The whole story was a lie from beginning to end, as I always believed. The confession was found at Gerano and deposited with the parish priest under seal on the same day. I went to Gerano and brought the priest and the letter back. Here it is, if you wish to see the outside of it, and the priest is waiting in the next room. This is the document which Donna Adele will have signed an hour hence." He produced a sheet of stamped paper from the drawer of his writing-table and read aloud what was written upon it, as follows: "I, the undersigned, being in full possession of my faculties, and free of my will, hereby publicly withdraw each and every one of the accusations I have made, publicly or privately, either in my own person or through my father, the Prince of Gerano, or my father-in-law, Prince Savelli, my husband, Francesco, Prince Savelli, or through any other persons purporting to represent me, against Pietro Nobile Ghisleri; and I declare upon my oath before God that there is not and never was any truth whatsoever in any one of the said accusations upon which the said Pietro Nobile Ghisleri was unjustly arrested and accused of extortion under Article 409 of the Penal Code. And I further declare that the letters of his which I hold do and did refer directly to the purchase of the manuscript writings of Donna Isabella Montevarchi which were at that time for sale, and to no other manuscript or writing whatsoever; and further, I declare that no such person as 'Maria B.' was ever known to me, but that I wrote the letters received from 'Maria B.' by Lady Herbert Arden, and that I withdrew her answers myself from the general post-office. And if I have done anything else to strengthen the false accusation against the said Pietro Nobile Ghisleri such as may hereafter come to light, this present retraction and denial shall be held to cover it by anticipation. And hereunto I set my hand and seal in the presence of Don Giovanni Saracinesca, Prince of Sant' Ilario, of Don Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, and of Don Gianforte Campodonico di Norba, who in my presence and in the presence of each other are witnesses of this act." San Giacinto ceased reading, and looked at his two companions. Campodonico was grave, but Sant' Ilario smiled. "If you can make her sign that, you are stronger than I supposed, Giovanni," said the latter. "So it seems to me," said Gianforte. "I do not think she will offer much resistance," answered San Giacinto, quietly pocketing the confession and the document he had just read. "I suppose what I am going to do is unscrupulous, but I do not think that Donna Adele has shown any uncommon delicacy of feeling in this little affair. Let us go and see whether she has any objection to signing her name." Don Tebaldo, the priest, and Bonifazio followed the three gentlemen in a cab to the Palazzo Savelli, and all five went up the grand staircase together. Neither Don Tebaldo nor the servant had received any instructions beyond being told that if they were called into the room when the reading took place, they were to answer truthfully any questions which might be put to them. Prince Savelli met them all in an outer drawing-room, the same indeed in which poor Herbert Arden had talked with Francesco a few days before his death. He was coldly courteous to San Giacinto, but greeted the others somewhat more warmly. "May I ask what the nature of your communication is?" he inquired of the former. "I prefer to explain it in the presence of Donna Adele, as it concerns her directly," answered San Giacinto: "It is useless to tell a story twice." The extremely high and mighty head of all the Savelli stared up at the giant through his big spectacles. He was not at all used to being treated with so little consideration. But the other was a match for him, and stood carelessly waiting for the master of the house to lead the way. "Considering whom you represent," said the Prince, "your manner is somewhat imperative." San Giacinto's heavy brows bent in an ominous frown, and Savelli found it impossible to meet the gaze of the hard, deep-set eyes for more than a few seconds. "I represent an innocent man, whom you and yours are trying to ruin. As for my manners, they were learned in an inn and not in Casa Savelli. I shall be obliged if you will lead the way." Sant' Ilario suppressed a smile. He had seen his strong cousin in more than one such encounter, but he had never seen any one resist him long. Savelli did not reply, but turned and went before them and opened the door. They passed through another drawing-room and through a third, and then found themselves in Adele's boudoir. She was seated in a deep chair near the fire, warming her transparent hands at the flame. Her face was exactly of the colour of the yellow ashes of certain kinds of wood. It seemed impossible that any human being could be so thin as she seemed, and live. But there was yet some strength left, and her strong will, aided by the silent but insane satisfaction she felt in Ghisleri's ruin, kept her still in a sort of animation which was sometimes almost like her old activity. She had, of course, been warned of the impending interview, but she thought that San Giacinto had come to propose some compromise to the advantage of Ghisleri, and her father-in-law and husband were inclined to share her opinion; she meant to refuse everything, and to say that she would abide the judgment of the courts. She did not rise when the party entered, but held out her hand to each in succession. Francesco Savelli stood beside her, and also shook hands with each, but made no remark. "Sit down," said Prince Savelli, moving forward a chair. "Thank you," answered San Giacinto, "but it is useless. We shall stay only long enough for Donna Adele to sign a paper I have brought with me. We do not wish to disturb you further than necessary. With your permission I will read the document." And thereupon, standing before her, he read it slowly and distinctly. Prince Savelli gradually turned pale, for he knew the man, and guessed that he possessed some terribly sure means of enforcing his will. But Adele laughed scornfully and her husband followed her example. "Is there any reason why I should sign that very singular and untrue declaration?" she asked, with contempt. San Giacinto looked at her steadily for a moment, and without reasoning she began to feel afraid. "I have a strong argument in my pocket," he said. "For I have your confession here, and the priest with whom it has been deposited since the day it was found is waiting in the hall, if you wish to see him." Adele shook from head to foot, and her hands moved spasmodically. She made a great effort, however, and succeeded in speaking. "The fact that it has been in a place where Ghisleri knew how to find it is the last proof of his guilt we required," she said, mechanically repeating the words she had heard her father-in-law use more than once. "Ghisleri never saw it and never knew where it was until yesterday," answered San Giacinto. "If you will oblige me by signing this paper, I will not trouble you any further." "I will not sign it, nor anything of such a nature," said Adele, desperately. "You are perfectly free to do as you please," answered San Giacinto. "And so am I. Since you positively refuse, there is nothing left for me to do but to go away. But I forgot to tell you that the humble person who found it was able to read, and read it, before taking it to the priest, and that he has informed me most minutely of the contents. I see you are annoyed at that, and I am not surprised, for in half an hour it will be in the hands of the attorney-general. Good morning, Princess." In the dead silence that followed one might have heard a pin fall, or a feather. San Giacinto waited a few moments and then turned to go. Instantly Adele uttered a sharp cry and sprang to her feet. With a quickness of which no one present would have believed her capable, she was at his side, and holding him back by the arm. He turned again and looked calmly down at her. "You do not mean to do what you threaten?" she cried, in abject terror. "I mean to take this sealed document to the attorney-general without losing a moment," he answered. "You know very well what will happen if I do that." Both Savelli and his son came forward while he was speaking. "I will not allow you to hint in my house that anything in that confession could have any consequences to my daughter-in-law," said the Prince, in a loud voice. "You have no right to make any such assertions." "If Donna Adele wishes it, I will break the seal and read her own account," answered San Giacinto. He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and drew out the packet. Altogether losing control of herself, Adele tried to snatch it from his hand, but he held it high in air, and his vast figure towered above the rest of the group, still more colossal by the gesture of the upstretched arm. "You see for yourselves what importance Donna Adele attaches to this trifle," he said, in deep tones. "You would do well to persuade her to sign that paper. That is the only exchange I will take for what I hold. She knows that every word written there is true--as true as every word she has written here," he added, glancing up at the sealed letter. "I will wait one minute more by that clock, and then I will go." The two Savelli gazed at Adele in undisguised astonishment and horror. It was clear enough from her face and terrified manner that San Giacinto spoke the truth, and that the confession he held contained some awful secret of which they were wholly ignorant. "What is the meaning of all this, Adele?" asked the Prince, sternly. "What does that confession contain?" But she did not answer, as she sank into a chair before the table, and almost mechanically dipped a pen into the ink. San Giacinto laid the formal denial before her, holding the confession behind him, for he believed her capable of snatching it from him and tossing it into the fire at any moment. She signed painfully in large, sloping characters that decreased rapidly in size at the end of each of her two names. The pen fell from her hand as she finished, and San Giacinto quietly laid the sealed letter before her. If she had been on the point of fainting, the sight recalled her to herself. She seized it eagerly and broke the seals, one after the other. Then she went to the fire, assured herself that the sheets were all there, and were genuine, and thrust the whole into the flames, watching until the last shred was consumed. Meanwhile San Giacinto silently handed the pen to Sant' Ilario, who signed and passed it to Gianforte. He in his turn gave it to San Giacinto, and the transaction was concluded. The two cousins, as though by common instinct, glanced at the page on which was written twice "Giovanni Saracinesca," and each thought of all the pain and anxiety the coincidence had caused in days long gone by. The last time they had signed a document together had been in the study of the Palazzo Montevarchi more than twenty years earlier, when they were still young men. "You see for yourselves," said San Giacinto, turning to the two Savelli as he neatly folded the paper, "that Donna Adele desires no further explanation, and wishes the contents of the letter she has burned to remain a secret. So far as I am concerned I pledge my word never to divulge it, nor to hint at it, and I have reason to believe that those who are acquainted with it will do the same. So far as one man can answer for another, I will be responsible for them. With regard to the finding of the letter and to the manner of its being kept so long, I leave Don Tebaldo, the parish priest of Gerano, to explain that. You can question him at your leisure. Our mission is accomplished, and Pietro Ghisleri's innocence is established for ever. That is all I wished. Good morning." After burning the confession Adele had let herself fall into the deep chair in which she had been sitting when the three friends entered the room. Her head had fallen back, and her jaw dropped in a ghastly fashion. She looked as though she were dead; but her hands twitched convulsively, rising suddenly and falling again upon her knees. It was impossible to say whether she was conscious or not. The two Savelli, father and son, stood on the other side of the fireplace and looked at her, still speechless at her conduct, which they could only half understand, but which could mean nothing but disgrace to her and dishonour to them. The elder man seemed to suffer the more, and he leaned heavily against the chimney-piece, supporting his head with his hand. Neither the one nor the other paid any attention to the three men as they silently left the room. San Giacinto begged Don Tebaldo to wait a short time, and then to send a messenger inquiring whether the Prince wished to see him, and if not, to return at once to the palace in which San Giacinto lived. Then he took Bonifazio with him as well as Campodonico and Sant' Ilario, and went at once to Ghisleri's lodging. They found him breakfasting alone in a rather sketchy fashion, for Bonifazio had not been allowed by San Giacinto to return to his master until everything was accomplished. He showed some surprise when he opened the door himself, and found the three together on the landing. "Is anything the matter?" he inquired, as he ushered them into the sitting-room, where he had been taking his meal. "On the contrary," said San Giacinto, "we have come to tell you that nothing is the matter. This paper may amuse you; but it is worth keeping, as Campodonico and my cousin can testify, for their names appear in it as witnesses." Ghisleri read the contents carefully, and they could see how his brow cleared at every word. "You have been the best friend to me that any man ever had," he said, grasping San Giacinto's huge hand. "You could have done it quite as well yourself, only I knew you would not do it at all," answered the latter. "I have no scruples in dealing with such people, nor do I see why any one should have any. But you would have gone delicately and presented Donna Adele with the confession, and then when she had burned it before your eyes, you would have told her that you trusted to her sense of justice to right you in the opinion of the world." Ghisleri laughed. He was so happy that he would have laughed at anything. After giving him a short account of what had taken place, all three left him, going, as they said, to breakfast at the club, and inform the world of what had happened. And so they did. And before the clock struck eight that night, Bonifazio had received a hundred visiting cards, each with two words, "to congratulate," written upon it in pencil, and four invitations to dinner addressed to Pietro Ghisleri. For the world is unconsciously wise in its generation, and on the rare occasions when it has found out that it has made a mistake, its haste to do the civil thing is almost indecent. In eight and forty hours the whole Savelli family and the Prince and Princess of Gerano had left Rome, and Ghisleri found it hard to keep one evening a week free for himself. But in the afternoon of that day on which San Giacinto had so suddenly turned the tables upon Pietro's adversaries, Pietro went to see Laura Arden. She, of course, was in ignorance of what had occurred, and was amazed by the change she saw in his face when he entered. "Something good has happened, I am sure!" she exclaimed, as she came half-way across the room to meet him with outstretched hands. "Yes," he said, "something very unexpected has happened. The confession has been found, Donna Adele has admitted that the whole story was a fabrication, and she has signed a formal denial of every accusation, past, present, and to come. I am altogether cleared." "Thank God! Thank God!" Laura cried, wringing his two hands, and gazing into his eyes. "You are glad," he said. "I suppose I knew you would be, but I could not realise that it would make so much difference to you." "In one way it makes no difference," she said more quietly, as she sat down and pointed to his accustomed place. "I knew the truth from the beginning. But it is for you. I saw how unhappy you were yesterday. Now tell me all about it." He told her all that had taken place since he had left her on the previous day, as it has been told in these pages, and his heart beat fast as he saw in her eyes the constant and great interest she felt. "And so I am quite free of it all at last," he said, when he had finished. "And you will be happy now," answered Laura, softly. "You have been through almost everything, it seems to me. Do you realise how much I know of all your life? It is strange, is it not? You are not fond of making confidences, and you never made but one to me, when you could not help yourself. Yes; it is very strange that I should know so much about you." "And still be willing to call me your friend?" added Ghisleri. "I do not know how you can--and yet--" He stopped. "The reason is," he said suddenly, "that you have long been a part of my life--that is why you know me so well. I think that even long ago we were much more intimate than we knew or dreamed of. There were many reasons for that." "Yes," Laura answered. "And then, after all, I have known you ever since I first went out as a young girl. I did not like you at first, I remember, though I could never tell why. But as for your saying that you cannot see why I should still be your friend, I do not understand how you mean it. It seems to me that you have done much to get my friendship and to strengthen it, and nothing to lose it. Besides, you yourself know that you are not what you were. You have changed. You were saying so only yesterday, and you said the change was for the better." "Yes, I have changed," said Ghisleri. "It is of no use to deny it. I do not mean in everything, though I do not lead the life I did. Perhaps it all goes together after all." "That is not very clear," observed Laura, with a low laugh. Ghisleri was silent for a moment. "I do not think of you as I did," he said. "That is the greatest change of all." Laura did not answer. She leaned back in her seat, and looked across the room. "I never thought it would come," he said. "For years I honourably believed I could be your friend. I know, now, that I cannot. I love you far too deeply--with far too little right." Still Laura did not speak. But she turned her face from him, laying her cheek against the silken cushion behind her. "Perhaps I am doing very wrong in telling you this," said Ghisleri, trying to steady his voice. "But I made up my mind that it was better, and more honest. I do not believe that you love me, that you ever can love me in the most distant future of our lives. I am prepared for that. I will not trouble you with my love. I will never speak of it again--for I can never hope to win you. But at least you know the truth." Slowly Laura turned her face again and her eyes met his. There was a deep, warm light in them. She seemed to hesitate. Then the words came sharply, in a loud, clear voice, unlike her own, as though the great secret had burst every barrier and had broken out against her will by its own strength, sudden, startling, new to herself and to the man who heard it. "I love you now!" Ghisleri turned as deadly pale as when Gianforte's bullet had so nearly gone through his heart. The words rang out in the quiet room with an intensity and distinctness of tone not to be described. He had not even guessed that she might love him. For one moment they looked at one another, both white with passion, both trembling a little, the black eyes and the blue both gleaming darkly. Then Ghisleri took the two hands that were stretched out to meet his own, and each felt that the other's were very cold. As though by a common instinct they both rose, and stood a moment face to face. Then his arms went round her. He did not know until long afterwards that when he kissed her he lifted her from the ground. It had all been sudden, strange, and unlike anything in his whole life, unexpected beyond anything that had ever happened to him. Perhaps it was so with her, too. They remembered little of what they said in those first moments, but by and by, as they sat side by side on the sofa, words came again. "I knew it when you went away last summer," said Ghisleri. "And then I thought I should never tell you." "And I found it out when I left you," answered Laura. "I found that I could not live without you and be happy. Did you guess nothing when I made you come to me yesterday? Yesterday--only yesterday! It seems like last year. Did you think it was mere friendship?" "Yes, I thought it was that and nothing more--but such friendship as I had never dreamed of." "Nor any one else, perhaps," said Laura, with a happy smile. "For I would have come, you know, in spite of every one. What would you have done then, I wonder?" "Then? Do not speak of yesterday. What could I have done? Could I have told you that I loved you with such an accusation hanging over me? No, you know that. It was only yesterday that I asked you to let me leave you rather suddenly--did you not guess the reason?" "I thought you were ill--no--well, it crossed my mind that you might be a little, just a little, in love with me." She laughed. "I felt ill afterwards. I was horrified when I thought how nearly I had spoken." "And why should you not have spoken, if it was in your heart?" asked Laura, taking his hand again. "Why should you have thought, even for a moment, that I could care what people said. You are you, and I am I, whether the world is with us or against us. And I think, dear, that we shall need the world very little now. Perhaps it will change its mind and pretend it needs us." "There is no doubt of that. It always happens so. Why should we care?" He paused a moment, then, as his eyes met hers, the great dominating passion broke out again: "Ah--darling--heart's heart--beloved! There are not words to tell you how I love you and bless you, and worship you with all my soul. What can I say, what can I do, to make you understand?" "Love me, dear," she said, "and be faithful, as I will be." And their lips met again. They loved well and truly. Strange, some may say, that a love of that good kind should have begun in friendship on the one side, and indifference if not dislike on the other. But neither had understood the other at all in the beginning. The world-tired and world-weary man had not guessed at the real woman who lived so humanly, and could love so passionately, and whom nature had clothed with such saint-like, holy beauty as to make her seem a creature above all earthly feeling and all mortal weakness. Her eyes had seemed fixed on far-distant, heavenly sights, gazing upon the world only to wonder at its vanity and to loathe its uncleanness. Her best and her greatest thoughts had been, he fancied, of things altogether divine and supernatural, of love celestial, of beatific vision, of the waters of paradise, of goodness and of God. And something of all this there was in her, but there was room for more both in heart and soul, and more was there--the deep, human sympathy, the simple strength to love one man wholly, the singleness of thought and judgment to see the good in him and love it, and to understand and forgive the bad--and far down in the strong, quiet nature was hidden the passion but newly awakened whose irresistible force would have broken every barrier and despised every convention, respecting only its own purity in taking what it loved and desired, and would have at any cost, save the defilement of the soul it moved. Small wonder that when it awoke at last unresisted and meeting its like, it burst into sight with a sudden violence that startled the woman herself, and amazed the man who had not suspected its existence. But she, on her side, had learned to know him more slowly, not ever analysing him, nor trying to guess at his motives, but merely seeing little by little how great and wide was the discrepancy between the hard, sceptical, cynic thoughts he expressed so readily, and the constant, unchangingly brave effort of his heart to do in all cases what was honourable, just, and brave according to his light. She saw him ever striving, often failing, sometimes succeeding in the doing of good actions, and she saw the strange love of truth and simplicity which pervaded and primarily moved the most complicated character she had ever known. He who at first had seemed to her the most worldly of all worldly men, was in reality one whose whole life was lived in his own heart for the one, or two, or three beings who had known how to touch it. To all else he was absolutely and coldly indifferent. She had, indeed, as she said, guessed at last that he loved her a little and more than a little, and she had known for months before he spoke that he was really a part of her life and of all her thoughts and actions. But she had not asked herself what she would do or say when the great moment came, any more than she had accused herself of being unfaithful to the memory of the man whose dying words had bidden her to be happy, if she would have him rest in peace. And now that she loved again, so differently, so passionately, so much more humanly, she realised all the great unselfishness of him who was gone and who had not been willing to leave in her heart the least seed of future self-accusation or the least ground for refusing anything good which life might have in store for her. She saw that she could take what was offered her, freely, without one regret, without one prick of conscience, or one passing thought that Herbert Arden would have suffered an instant's pain could he have known what was passing in the existence of the woman who had loved him so well. Late on that afternoon, Ghisleri went to see Maddalena dell' Armi. There was a drop of bitterness in his cup yet, and something hard for him to do, but he would not let the woman who had sacrificed everything for him in days gone by learn the news from a stranger. "I have come to tell you that I am going to marry Lady Herbert Arden," he said gently, as he took her hand. She looked up quickly, and for a moment he felt a strange anxiety. "I knew that you would, long ago," she answered. "I am glad of it. No, do not think that is a phrase. I do not love you any more. Are you glad to know it? I wish I did. But I am far too fond of you not to wish you to be happy if you can. You are my dearest and best friend. It is strange, is it not? Think of me kindly sometimes, in your new life. And--and do not speak my name before her, if you can help it. She knows what we were to each other once, and it might hurt her." "How changed you are!" exclaimed Ghisleri. But he pressed the hand that lay near him. "I am trying to be a good woman," she answered simply. "If there were more like you, the world would be a better place," he said. CHAPTER XXX. "Just fancy, my dear," exclaimed Donna Maria Boccapaduli to the Marchesa di San Giacinto on the evening of the following day, "Pietro Ghisleri is going to marry Laura Arden, after all! That horrid, spiteful, wicked Adele will die of rage. And they say that the old uncle is dead and has left Laura one of those enormous English fortunes one reads about, and they are going to take the first floor of your brother's palace--your husband says he will buy it some day--I hope he will--and Laura is going to rebuild Ghisleri's queer little castle in Tuscany. What a delightful series of surprises! And two days ago every one believed he was on the point of being sent to prison for ever so many years. But I was always sure he was innocent, though of course one did not like to have him about while the thing was going on." "Giovanni said from the first that it was all an abominable lie," answered the Marchesa. "And Giovanni is generally right. What a charming house it will be! Of course they will give balls." "They say that in the confession there was a full account of the way in which she started the story of the evil eye--what nonsense it was! You have only to look into Laura Arden's eyes--do you think she is as beautiful as Corona Saracinesca ever could have been?" "No, no," exclaimed the Marchesa, who had known the Princess of Sant' Ilario more than twenty years earlier. "No one was ever so beautiful as Corona. Laura is much shorter, too, and that makes a difference. Laura reminds one of a saint, and Corona looked an empress--or what empresses are supposed to be like. But Laura is a beautiful woman. There is no one to compare with her now but Christina Campodonico, and she is too thin. What a good looking couple Ghisleri and his wife will make. He has grown younger during the last two years." "No wonder--when one thinks of the life he used to lead. Every time he quarrelled with Maddalena he used to get at least five pounds thinner. I wonder how she takes it." "She is far too clever a woman to show what she thinks. But I know she has not cared for him for a long time. They have not quarrelled for two years at least, so of course there cannot be any love left on either side. They still sit in corners occasionally. I suppose they like each other. It is very odd. But I shall never understand those things." The last remark was very true, for Flavia Saracinesca loved her giant husband with all her heart and always had, and she knew also that Maria Boccapaduli was the best of wives and mothers, if she was also the greatest of gossips. What the two ladies said to each other represented very well the world's opinion, hastily formed, on the spur of the moment, to meet the exigencies of the altered situation, but immutable now. It shrugged its shoulders as it referred to its past errors of judgment, and said that it could not have been expected to know that Adele Savelli was raving mad when she was allowed to go everywhere just like a sane being, although her eyes had undeniably had a wild look for some time, and she might have been taken for a galvanised corpse. For of course it was now quite certain that she had been out of her mind from the very beginning, seeing that she had concocted her dreadful plot without the slightest reason. As for the old story that Laura Arden loved Francesco, that was downright nonsense! It was another of Adele's scandalous falsehoods--or insane delusions, if you chose to be so good-natured as to use that expression. If anything, it was Francesco who loved Laura, and he ought to be ashamed of himself, considering what a fortune his wife had brought him. But human nature was very ungrateful, especially when it bore the name of Savelli. They did not seem at all thankful for that dear Ghisleri's forbearance. He could have brought an action against them for any number of things--defamation, false imprisonment--almost anything. But he had acted with his usual generosity, and told every one that he had always believed Adele to be insane, and bore no one the least ill-will, since he had been put to no inconvenience whatever, thanks to San Giacinto's timely action. And, said the world, when a man consistently behaved as Pietro Ghisleri had done, he was certain to get his reward. What could any man desire more than to have that dear, beautiful, good Laura Arden for his wife, especially since she was so immensely rich? Doubt the justice of Heaven after that, if you could! As for the world, it meant to tell them both how sorry it was that it had misunderstood them. Of course it would be sinful not to hope that Adele might some day get well, but she had her deserts, and if she ever came back to society, people would not care to meet her. She might go mad again at any moment and try to ruin some one else, and might succeed the next time, too. That was the way in which most people talked during the season, and the world acted up to its words as it generally does when there are balls and dinners to be got by merely being consistent. It was much more agreeable, too, to live on terms of pleasant intercourse with Laura and her betrothed, and much easier, because it is always tiresome to keep up a prejudice against really charming people. But Adele was not mad as people said, and as the two families gave out. There had undoubtedly been a strain of insanity through all her conduct, and that might, some day, develop into real madness. She was sane enough still, however, to suffer, and no such merciful termination to her sufferings as the loss of her reason would be seemed at all imminent. The strong will and acute intelligence had survived, for the poisonous drug she loved had attacked the body, which was the weaker portion of her being. Adele was hopelessly paralysed. The last great effort had been too much for the over-strung nerves. Her hands still moved convulsively, but she could not direct them at all. Her jaw had dropped, as it almost always does in advanced cases of morphinism, and her lower limbs were useless. Day after day she sat or lay before the fire in her room at Castel Savello, as she might remain for years, tended by paid nurses, and helpless to do the slightest thing for herself--through the short days and the long nights of winter, hardly cheered by the sunshine when spring came at last, longing for the end. It was indeed a dreadful existence. Nothing to do, nothing to think of but the terrible black past, nothing to occupy her, save the monotonous tracing back of her present state to her first misdeeds, step by step, inch by inch, in the cold light of an inexorable logic. It was hard to believe what her confessor told her, that she should be grateful for having time and reason left to repent of what she had done, and to expiate, in a measure, the evil of her life. As yet, that was the only comfort she got from any one. She had disgraced the name of Savelli, she was told, and no suffering could atone for that. She felt that she was hated and despised, and that although everything which money could do was done to prolong her wretched being, her death was anticipated as a relief from her detested presence in the household upon which she had brought such shame. It would be hard to conceive a more fearful punishment than she was made to undergo, forcibly kept alive by the constant care and forethought of the most experienced persons, and allowed only just so much of the morphia as was positively necessary. She had no longer the power to grasp the little instrument. If she had been able to do that, she would have found rest for ever, as she told herself. And they cruelly diminished the dose, though they would not tell her by how much. She would live longer, they said, if the quantity could be greatly reduced. She begged, implored, entreated them not to torture her. But they could hardly understand what she said, for the paralysis had made her speech indistinct, and even if they could have distinguished the meaning of all her words they would have paid no attention to them. The orders were strict and were rigidly obeyed in every particular. She was to be made to live as long as possible, and life meant torment, unceasing, passing words to describe. How long it might last she had no idea. She could only hope against hope that it might end soon. The news of Laura's engagement and approaching marriage had been kept from her for some time, it being feared that it might agitate her, but she was told at last, and the knowledge of her step-sister's happiness was an added bitterness in what remained to her of life. Vividly she saw them before her, Laura in her fresh beauty, Ghisleri in his strength, little Herbert with his father's eyes--the eyes that haunted Adele Savelli by night and gazed upon her by day out of the shadowy corners of her room. The three were ever before her moving, as she fancied, through a garden of exquisite flowers, in a clear, bright light. That was doubtless the way in which her diseased brain represented their happiness, for she had loved flowers in the old days, and had associated everything that was pleasant with them in her thoughts. But she hated them now, as she hated everything, even to her own children, whom she refused to see because they reminded her of better times, and her step-mother, whom she was obliged to receive because the good lady would take no denial. The Princess was, indeed, one of her most regular and kindly visitors. A very constant and good woman, she would not and could not turn upon Adele as all the rest had done, even to her own father, who in the bitterness of his heart, had said that he would never see his daughter again, alive or dead. But Adele hated her none the less, and dreaded her long homilies and exhortations to be penitent, and the little printed prayers and books of devotion she generally brought with her. For the Princess was deeply concerned for the welfare of Adele's soul, and being very much in earnest in the matter of religion, she did what she could to save it according to her own views. Possibly her sermons might hereafter bear fruit, but for the present the wretched woman who was forced to listen to them found them almost unbearable. And so her unhappy days dragged on without prospect of relief or termination, no longer in any real meaning of the word a life at all, but only a consequence, the result of what she had made herself when she had been really alive. The Princess of Gerano was the last person won over to a good opinion of Ghisleri, but before the wedding day she had formally avowed to Laura that she had been mistaken in him. She had been most of all impressed by his dignity during the very great difficulties in which he had been placed, and by his gentle forbearance when his innocence had been established and when no one would have blamed him if he had cursed the whole Savelli and Gerano tribe by every devil in Satan's calendar. Instead, he had uniformly said that he had believed Donna Adele to be mad, and that what had happened had therefore not come about by any one's fault. She told Laura that there must be more good than any one had dreamt of in a man who could act as Pietro did under the circumstances, and perhaps she was right. At all events, she was convinced and having once reached conviction she took him to her heart and found that he was a man much more to her taste, and much more worthy of Laura than she had supposed. For the rest, the match was an admirable one. Ghisleri was certainly very far from rich, but he was by no means a pauper, and what he possessed had been wisely administered. He was neither a prince, nor the son of a princely house, but there was many a prince of Europe, and more than one of the Holy Empire, too, whose forefathers had been trudging behind the plough long after the Nobili Ghisleri had built their tower and held their own in it for generations. Then, too, whatever the Princess might think of his past and of his reputation, he had rather a singular position in society, and was respected as many were not, who possessed ten times as many virtues as he. She admitted quite frankly that she had been wrong, and she made ample amends for her former cold treatment of him by the liking she now showed. "I shall never be able to think of you as a serious married man, my dear friend," said Gouache one day when Ghisleri was lounging in the studio with a cigarette, after they had breakfasted together. "I hope you will," was the laconic answer. "No, I never shall. I have always had a sort of artistic satisfaction in your character--for there was much that was really artistic about you, especially as regards your taste in sin, which was perfect and perhaps is still. But marriage is not at all artistic, my dear Ghisleri, until it becomes unhappy, and the husband goes about with a revolver in every pocket, and the wife with a scent bottle full of morphia in hers, and they treat each other with distant civility in private, and with effusive affection when a third person is present, especially the third person who has contributed the most to producing the artistic effect in question. Then the matter becomes interesting." "Like your own marriage," suggested Ghisleri, with a laugh. Gouache and Donna Faustina had not had an unkind thought for one another in nearly twenty years of cloudless happiness. "Ah, my friend, you must not take my case as an instance. There is something almost comic in being as happy as I am. We should never make a subject for a play writer, my wife and I, nor for a novelist either. No man would risk his reputation for truthfulness by describing our life as it is. But then, is there anything artistic about me? Nothing, except that I am an artist. If I had any money I should be called an amateur. To be an artist it is essential to starve--at one time or another. The public never believe that a man who has not been dangerously hungry can paint a picture, or play the fiddle, or write a book. If I had money I would still paint--subjects like Michael Angelo's Last Judgment with the souls of Donna Tullia, Del Ferice, and Donna Adele Savelli frying prominently on the left, and portraits of my wife and myself in the foreground on the right with perfectly new crowns of glory and beatific smiles from ear to ear. If you go on as you have been living since the reformation set in, you will have to bore yourself on our side too, with a little variation in your crown to show what a sinner you have been." "I am quite willing to be bored in your way," answered Ghisleri, laughing again. The marriage took place late in February, to the immense delight of the world, and with the unanimous applause of all society. The newspapers gave minute accounts of all the gowns, and of all the people who wore them, and surprised Ghisleri by informing him that his ancestors had been Guelphs, whereas he had some reason to believe that they had been Ghibellines, and by creating him a commander of the order of Saint Maurice and Saint Lazarus, whereas he was an hereditary Knight of Malta. The description of Laura was an extraordinary contribution to the literature of beauty, and left nothing to be desired except a positive or two to contrast with the endless string of superlatives. Ghisleri and Laura left Rome with a little caravan of servants. Neither the faithful Donald nor the equally faithful Bonifazio could be left behind, and there was Laura's maid, and little Herbert's nurse, both indispensable. The boy was overjoyed by the arrangement which gave him the advantage of Pietro's society "for every day," as he expressed it, and especially at the prospect of living all the summer in a real castle. He was three years old and talked fluently, when he talked at all--a strong, brave-looking little fellow, with clear brown eyes and a well-shaped head, set on a sturdy frame that promised well for his coming manhood. Ghisleri delighted in him, though he was not generally amused by very small children. But they always came to him of their own accord, which some people say is a sign of a good disposition in a man, for children and animals are rarely mistaken in their likes and dislikes. San Giacinto and Gianforte Campodonico went to the station to see them off after the wedding, and threw armfuls of roses and lilies of the valley into the carriage before the door was finally shut by the guard as the preliminary bell was sounded. "Without you two, we two should not be here," said Ghisleri, as he shook hands with them both. "No," added Laura happily. "But we should have been together, if it had been in prison. Good-bye, dear friends." The train moved away, and the two men were left on the platform, waving their hats to the last. "That is a good thing well done," said San Giacinto, lighting a cigar. "They will be happy together." "Yes," said Gianforte, thoughtfully. "I think they will. Women love that man, and he knows how to love them." San Giacinto looked down at him and said nothing. He knew something of Bianca Corleone's short, sad life, and of what had passed between her brother and Ghisleri. He liked them both more than almost any of the younger men he knew, and he honestly admired them for their behaviour towards each other. He guessed what thoughts were passing through Campodonico's mind as he looked after the train that was bearing away Pietro Ghisleri, a married man at last. For Gianforte was saying to himself that though he could neither wholly forget nor freely forgive the past, he could have loved him had fate been different. If ten years ago Ghisleri could have married Bianca, and if Bianca could have lived, the two would have been happy, for even Gianforte admitted that both had loved truly and well until the end. But that was a dream and reality had raised the impassable barrier between men who might have been firm friends. Their hands might stretch across it, and grasp one another from time to time, and their eyes might read good faith and the will to be generous each in the other's soul, but nearer than that they could never be, for the sake of the beautiful dead woman who would not be forgotten by either. One more picture and one word more, and the curtain must fall at last. In the early summer Laura and her husband were at Torre de' Ghisleri in the Tuscan hills. The small castle was very habitable as compared with its former condition, and small as it was by comparison with such fortresses as Gerano, was by no means the mere ruined tower which many people supposed it to be. The square grey keep from which it took its name was flanked by a mass of smaller buildings, irregular and of different epochs, all more or less covered with ivy or with creepers now in bloom. The wide castle yard, in the midst of which stood the ancient well with its wonderfully wrought yoke of iron, its heavy chain, and its two buckets, had been converted into a garden long ago for the bride of some Ghisleri of those days, and the plants and trees had run almost wild for a hundred years, irregularly, as some had survived and others had perished in the winter storms. Here a cypress, there an oak, further on again three laurels, of the Laura Regia kind, side by side in a row, then two cypresses again, growing up straight and slim and dark out of a plot of close-cut grass. And there were roses everywhere, and stiff camelia trees and feathery azaleas and all manner of bright, growing things without order or symmetry, beautiful in their wildness. But in and out there were narrow paths, in which two might walk together, and these were now swept and cared for as they had never been in Pietro's bachelor days. Other things were changed too, but not much, and for the better. A woman's hand had touched, had waked a sweet new life in the old place. The afternoon sun, still above the low surrounding hills, cast the shadow of the tower across the lawn and upon the flowers beyond. There were chairs before the arched doorway, and a garden table. Laura sat watching the swallows as they flew down from the keep to the garden and upwards again in their short, circling flight. A book she had not even thought of reading lay beside her. At her elbow sat Ghisleri in a white jacket, with a straw hat tilted over his eyes which little Herbert was trying to get at, as he rode on Pietro's knee. The man's face had changed wonderfully during the last six months. All the hardness was gone from it, and the contemptuous, discontented look that had once come so readily was never seen now. "You never told me it was so beautiful," said Laura, still watching the swallows and gazing at the flowers. "When we first came, and I looked out of the window in the morning, I thought I had never seen any place so lovely. You used to talk of it in such a careless way." "It is you who make it beautiful for me," answered Ghisleri. "A year ago it seemed dull and ugly enough, when I used to sit here and think of you." "I was not the first woman you had thought of, on this very spot, I daresay," said Laura, with a happy laugh. "No, dear, you were not." He smiled as he admitted the fact. "But you were the last, and unless you turn out to be as bad as you seem to be good, you will have no successor." "What's successor mean?" lisped Herbert, desisting from his attempt to get at the hat and listening. "Somebody who comes after another," answered Laura. "I will try to be good, dear," she said to Ghisleri, laughing again. "So'll I," exclaimed Herbert promptly, doubtless supposing that it was expected of him. "Yes," said Ghisleri, thoughtfully. "I have sat here many a time for hours, dreaming about you, and wishing for you, and trying to see you just as you are now, in a chair beside me. Yes, I have thought of other women here, but it is very long since I wished to see one there--if I ever did. I hardly ever came here when I was very young." There was a pause. His voice had a little sadness in it as he spoke the last words--not the sadness of regret, but of reverence. He was thinking of Bianca Corleone. Then Laura laid her hand upon his arm, and her eyes met his, for he turned as he felt her touch. "Dear, you would have been happy with her," she said very gravely. "But I will be all to you that woman can be to man, if I live to show you how I love you." "No woman ever was what you are to me already," he answered. "No woman, living or dead. You have done everything for me since I first knew you well, and you did much more than you know before I knew what you really were. There can be nothing in the world beyond what you have given, and give me." "I wish I were quite, quite sure of that," said Laura, still looking into his face. "You must be--you shall be!" he said, with sudden energy, and his glance lightened with passion. "You must. Words are not much, I know, nor oaths, nor anything of that sort. But I will tell you this--and by the light and goodness of God, it is true. If I could doubt for one moment that I love you beyond any love I have ever dreamed of, I would tear out my heart with my hands!" "What's love?" asked little Herbert timidly, for he was afraid that it must be something very dreadful as he watched Ghisleri's pale face and blazing eyes. But the lips that might have answered could not; they were sealing the truth they had spoken, upon others that had uttered a doubt for the last time. THE END. LIST OF WORKS BY MR. F. MARION CRAWFORD. IN THE PRESS. A NEW NOVEL. PIETRO GHISLERI. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Obvious typographical and printer errors have been corrected without comment. On page 324: There was no opening quote mark to match the closing quote at the end of the first paragraph on this page. The text does not clearly define where the opening quote mark should be, and so it has been added before the phrase: "who had never known...." On the first page of the Ads section, an asterism is represented in this plain-text version as *.* Other than the above, no effort has been made to standardize internal inconsistencies in spelling, capitalization, punctuation, grammar, etc. The author's usage is preserved as found in the original publication.