page images generously made available by early canadiana online (http://www.canadiana.org) note: images of the original pages are available through early canadiana online. see http://www.canadiana.org/eco/itemrecord/ under false pretences a novel. by adeline sergeant author of _jacobi's wife, beyond recall, an open foe, etc._ entered according to the act of the parliament of canada in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine by william bryce, in the office of the minister of agriculture. toronto; william bryce, publisher. under false pretences. contents chapter i. prologue to the story chapter ii. by the loch. chapter iii. hugo luttrell. chapter iv. in the twilight. chapter v. the dead man's testimony. chapter vi. mother and son. chapter vii. a farewell. chapter viii. in gower-street. chapter ix. elizabeth's wooing. chapter x. brother dino. chapter xi. on a mountain-side. chapter xii. the heiress of strathleckie. chapter xiii. san stefano. chapter xiv. the prior's opinion. chapter xv. the villa venturi. chapter xvi. "without a reference." chapter xvii. percival's holiday. chapter xviii. the mistress of netherglen. chapter xix. a lost letter. chapter xx. "mischief, thou art afoot." chapter xxi. a flask of italian wine. chapter xxii. brian's welcome. chapter xxiii. the wishing well. chapter xxiv. "good-bye." chapter xxv. a covenant. chapter xxvi. elizabeth's confession. chapter xxvii. percival's own way. chapter xxviii. a revelation. chapter xxix. chapter xxix. chapter xxx. friends and brothers. chapter xxxi. accuser and accused. chapter xxxii. retribution. chapter xxxiii. what percival knew. chapter xxxiv. percival's atonement. chapter xxxv. dino's home-coming. chapter xxxvi. by land and sea. chapter xxxvii. wrecked. chapter xxxviii. on the rocas reef. chapter xxxix. between life and death. chapter xl. kitty. chapter xli. kitty's friends. chapter xlii. a false alarm. chapter xliii. trapped. chapter xliv. hugo's victory. chapter xlv. too late! chapter xlvi. a mere chance. chapter xlvii. found. chapter xlviii. angela. chapter xlix. kitty's warning. chapter l. mrs. luttrell's room. chapter li. a last confession. chapter lii. "the end crowns all, and that is yet to come." chapter i. prologue to the story. in two parts. i. it was in the year that an english gentleman named edward luttrell took up his abode in a white-walled, green-shuttered villa on the slopes of the western apennines. he was accompanied by his wife (a scotchwoman and an heiress), his son (a fine little fellow, five years old), and a couple of english servants. the party had been travelling in italy for some months, and it was the heat of the approaching summer, as well as the delicate state of health in which mrs. luttrell found herself, that induced mr. luttrell to seek out some pleasant house amongst the hills where his wife and child might enjoy cool breezes and perfect repose. for he had lately had reason to be seriously concerned about mrs. luttrell's health. the husband and wife were as unlike each other as they well could be. edward luttrell was a broad-shouldered, genial, hearty man, warmly affectionate, hasty in word, generous in deed. mrs. luttrell was a woman of peculiarly cold manners; but she was capable, as many members of her household knew, of violent fits of temper and also of implacable resentment. she was not an easy woman to get on with, and if her husband had not been a man of very sweet and pliable nature, he might not have lived with her on such peaceful terms as was generally the case. she had inherited a great scotch estate from her father, and edward luttrell was almost entirely dependent upon her; but it was not a dependence which seemed to gall him in the very least. perhaps he would have been unreasonable if it had done so; for his wife, in spite of all her faults, was tenderly attached to him, and never loved him better than when he asserted his authority over her and her possessions. mr. and mrs. luttrell had not been at their pretty white villa for more than two months when a second son was born to them. he was baptized almost immediately by an english clergyman then passing through the place, and received the name of brian. he was a delicate-looking baby, but seemed likely to live and do well. mrs. luttrell's recovery was unusually rapid; the soft italian air suited her constitution, and she declared her intention of nursing the child herself. edward luttrell was in high spirits. he had been decidedly nervous before the event took place, but now that it was safely over he was like a boy in his joyous sense of security. he romped with his little son, he talked _patois_ with the inhabitants of the neighbouring village of san stefano, he gossiped with the monks of the benedictine foundation, whose settlement occupied a delightful site on the hillside, and no premonition of coming evil disturbed his heart. he thought himself the most fortunate of men. he adored his wife; he worshipped the baby. his whole heart was bound up in his handsome little dick, who, at five years old, was as nearly the image of his father as a child could be. what had he left to wish for? there had been a good deal of fever at san stefano throughout the summer. when the little brian was barely six weeks old, it became only too evident that mrs. luttrell was sickening of some illness--probably the same fever that had caused so much mortality in the village. the baby was hastily taken away from her, and a nurse provided. this nurse was a healthy young woman with very thick, black eyebrows and a bright colour; handsome, perhaps, but not prepossessing. she was the wife of a gardener employed at the villa, and had been recommended by one of the fathers at the monastery--a certain padre cristoforo, who seemed to know the history of every man, woman and child in san stefano. she was the mother of twins, but this was a fact which the luttrells did not know. this woman, vincenza vasari by name, was at first domiciled in the villa itself with her charge; but as more dangerous symptoms declared themselves in mrs. luttrell's case, it was thought better that she should take the baby to her own home, which was a fairly clean and respectable cottage close to the gates of the villa. here mr. luttrell could visit the child from time to time; but as his wife's illness became more serious he saw less and less of the baby, and left it more than ever to vincenza's care. vincenza's own children were with their grandmother at a hamlet three miles from san stefano. the grandmother, generally known as old assunta, used to bring one or another of them sometimes to see vincenza. perhaps they took the infection of fever in the course of these visits; at any rate one of them was soon reported to be seriously ill, and vincenza was cautioned against taking the luttrells' baby into the village. it was the little lippo vasari who was ill; his twin-brother dino was reported perfectly well. some days afterwards mr. luttrell, on calling at the cottage as usual, noticed that vincenza's eyes were red, and her manner odd and abrupt. old assunta was there, with the baby upon her knee. mr. luttrell asked what was the matter. vincenza turned away and burst into tears. "she has lost her baby, signor," the old woman explained. "the little one died last night at the village, and vincenza could not see it. the doctor will tell you about it all," she said, nodding significantly, and lowering her voice. "he knows." mr. luttrell questioned the doctor, and received his assurance that vincenza's child (one of the twins) had been kept strictly apart from the little brian luttrell; and that there could be no danger of infection. in which assurance the doctor was perfectly sincere, not knowing that vincenza's habit had been to spend a portion of almost every evening at her mother's house, in order to see her own children, to whom, however, she did not seem to be passionately attached. it is to be noted that the luttrells still learned nothing of the existence of the other baby; they fancied that all vincenza's children were dead. vincenza had thought that the english lady would be prejudiced against her if she knew that she was the mother of twins, and had left them both to old assunta's care; so, even when lippo was laid to rest in the churchyard at san stefano, the little dino was carefully kept in the background and not suffered to appear. neither mr. luttrell nor mrs. luttrell (until long afterwards) knew that vincenza had another child. two months passed before mrs. luttrell was sufficiently restored to health to be able to see her children. the day came at last when little richard was summoned to her room to kiss a pale woman with great, dark eyes, at whom he gazed solemnly, wonderingly, but with a profound conviction that his own mamma had gone away and left her place to be filled up by somebody else. in point of fact, mrs. luttrell's expression was curiously changed; and the boy's instinct discovered the change at once. there was a restless, wandering look in her large, dark eyes which had never been visible in them before her illness, except in moments of strong excitement. she did not look like herself. "i want the baby," she said, when she had kissed little richard and talked to him for a few moments. "where is my baby?" mr. luttrell came up to her side and answered her. "the baby is coming, margaret; vincenza is bringing him." then, after a pause--"baby has been ill," he said. "you must be prepared to see a great change in him." she looked at him as if she did not understand. "what change shall i see?" she said. "tell vincenza to make haste, edward. i must see my baby at once; the doctor said i might see him to-day." "don't excite yourself, margaret; i'll fetch them," said mr. luttrell, easily. "come along, dick; let us find vincenza and little brother brian." he quitted the room, with dick at his heels. mrs. luttrell was left alone. but she had not long to wait. vincenza entered, made a low reverence, uttered two or three sentences of congratulation on the english signora's recovery, and then placed the baby on mrs. luttrell's lap. what happened next nobody ever precisely knew. but in another moment vincenza fled from the room, with her hands to her ears, and her face as white as death. "the signora is mad--mad!" she gasped, as she met mr. luttrell in the corridor. "she does not know her own child! she says that she will kill it! i dare not go to her; she says that her baby is dead, and that that one is mine! mine! mine! oh, holy virgin in heaven! she says that the child is mine!" wherewith vincenza went into strong hysterics, and mr. luttrell strode hastily towards his wife's room, from which the cries of a child could be heard. he found mrs. luttrell sitting with the baby on her knee, but although the poor little thing was screaming with all its might, she vouchsafed it no attention. "tell vincenza to take her wretched child away," she said. "i want my own. this is her child; not mine." edward luttrell stood aghast. "margaret, what do you mean?" he ejaculated. "vincenza's child is dead. this is our little brian. you are dreaming." he did not know whether she understood him or not, but a wild light suddenly flashed into her great, dark eyes. she dashed the child down upon the bed with the fury of a mad woman. "you are deceiving me," she cried; "i know that my child is dead. tell me the truth; my child is dead!" "no such, thing, margaret," cried mr. luttrell, almost angrily; "how can you utter such folly?" but his remonstrance passed unheeded. mrs. luttrell had, sunk insensible to the floor; and her swoon was followed by a long and serious relapse, during which it seemed very unlikely that she would ever awake again to consciousness. the crisis approached. she passed it safely and recovered. then came the tug of war. the little brian was brought back to the house, with vincenza as his nurse; but mrs. luttrell refused to see him. doctors declared her dislike of the child to be a form of mania; her husband certainly believed it to be so. but the one fact remained. she would not acknowledge the child to be her own, and she would not consent to its being brought up as edward luttrell's son. nothing would convince her that her own baby still lived, or that this child was not the offspring of the vasari household. mr. luttrell expostulated. vincenza protested and shed floods of tears, the doctor, the monks, the english nurse were all employed by turn, in the endeavour to soften her heart; but every effort was useless. mrs. luttrell declared that the baby which vincenza had brought her was not her child, and that she should live and die in this conviction. was she mad? or was some wonderful instinct of mother's love at the bottom of this obstinate adherence to her opinion? mr. luttrell honestly thought that she was mad. and then, mild man as he was, he rose up and claimed his right as her husband to do as he thought fit. he sent for his solicitor, a mr. colquhoun, through whom he went so far even as to threaten his wife with severe measures if she did not yield. he would not live with her, he said--or mr. colquhoun reported that he said--unless she chose to bury her foolish fancy in oblivion. there was no doubt in his mind that the child was brian luttrell, not lippo vasari, whose name was recorded on a rough wooden cross in the churchyard of san stefano. and he insisted upon it that his wife should receive the child as her own. it was a long fight, but in the end mrs. luttrell had to yield. she dismissed vincenza, and she returned to scotland with the two children. her husband exacted from her a promise that she would never again speak of the wild suspicion that had entered her mind; that under no circumstances would she ever let the poor little boy know of the painful doubt that had been thrown on his identity. mrs. luttrell promised, and for three-and-twenty years she kept her word. perhaps she would not have broken it then but for a certain great trouble which fell upon her, and which caused a temporary revival of the strange madness which had led her to hate the child placed in her arms at san stefano. it was not to be wondered at that edward luttrell made a favourite of his second son in after life. a sense of the injustice done him by his mother made the father especially tender to the little brian; he walked with him, talked with him, made a companion of him in every possible way. mrs. luttrell regained by degrees the cold composure of manner that had distinguished her in earlier life: but she could not command herself so far as to make a show of affection for her younger son. brian was a very small boy indeed when he found that out. "mother doesn't love me," he said once to his father, with grieving lips and tear-filled eyes; "i wonder why." what could his father do but press him passionately to his broad breast and assure him in words of tenderest affection that he loved his boy; and that if brian were good, and true, and brave, his mother would love him too! "i will be very good then," said brian, nestling close up to his father's shoulder--for he was a child with exceedingly winning ways and a very affectionate disposition--and putting one arm round mr. luttrell's neck. "but you know she loves richard always--even when he is naughty. and you love me when i'm naughty, too." what could mr. luttrell say to that? he died when brian was fifteen years old; and the last words upon his tongue were an entreaty that his wife would never tell the boy of the suspicion that had turned her love to him into bitterness. he died, and part of the sting of his death to mrs. luttrell lay in the fact that he died thinking her mad on that one point. the doctors had called her conviction "a case of mania," and he had implicitly believed them. but suppose she had not been mad all the time! ii. in san stefano life went on tranquilly from month to month and year to year. in , padre cristoforo of the benedictine monastery, looked scarcely older than when he picked out a nurse for the luttrell family in . he was a tall man, with a stooping gait and a prominent, sagacious chin; deep-set, meditative, dark eyes, and a somewhat fine and subtle sort of smile which flickered for a moment at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth, and disappeared before you were fully conscience of its presence. he was summoned one day from the monastery (where he now filled the office of sub-prior) at the earnest request of an old woman who lived in a neighbouring village. she had known him many years before, and thought that it would be easier to tell her story to him than to a complete stranger. he had received her communication, and stood by her pallet with evident concern and astonishment depicted upon his face. he held a paper in his hand, at which he glanced from time to time as the woman spoke. "it was not my doing," moaned the old crone. "it was my daughter's. i have but told you what she said to me five years ago. she said that she did change the children; it was lippo, indeed, who died, but the child whom the english lady took to england with her was vincenza's little dino; and the boy whom we know as dino is really the english child. i know not whether it is true! santa vergine! what more can i say?" "why did you not reveal the facts five years ago?" said the father, with some severity of tone. "i will tell you, reverend father. because vincenza came to me next day and said that she had lied--that the child, dino, was her own, after all, and that she had only wanted to see how much i would believe. what was i to do? i do not know which story to believe; that is why i tell both stories to you before i die." "she denied it, then, next day?" "yes, father; but her husband believed it, as you will see by that paper. he wrote it down--he could write and read a little, which i could never do; and he told me what he had written:--'i, giovanni vasari, have heard my wife, vincenza, say that she stole an english gentleman's child, and put her own child in its place. i do not know whether this is true; but i leave my written word that i was innocent of any such crime, and humbly pray to heaven that she may be forgiven if she committed it.' is that right, reverend father? and then his name, and the day and the year." "quite right," said padre cristoforo. "it was written just before giovanni died. the matter cannot possibly be proved without further testimony. where is vincenza?"' "alas, father, i do not know. dead, i think, or she would have come back to me before now. i have not heard of her since she took a situation as maid to a lady in turin four years ago." "why have you told me so useless a story at all, then?" said the father, again with some sternness of voice and manner. "evidently vincenza was fond of romancing; and, probably--probably----" he did not finish his sentence; but he was thinking--"probably the mad fancy of that english lady about her child--which i well remember--suggested the story to vincenza as a means of getting money. i wish i had her here." "i have told you the story, reverend father," said the old woman, whose voice was growing very weak, "because i know that i am dying, and that the boy will be left alone in the world, which is a sad fate for any boy, father, whether he is vincenza's child or the son of the english lady. he is a good lad, reverend father, strong, and obedient, and patient; if the good fathers would but take charge of him, and see that he is taught a trade, or put to some useful work! he would be no burden to you, my poor, little dino!" for a moment the benedictine's eyes flashed with a quick fire; then he looked down and stood perfectly still, with his hands folded and his head bent. a new idea had darted across his mind. did the story that he had just heard offer him no opportunity of advancing the interests of his order and of his church? he turned as if to ask another question, but he was too late. old assunta was fast falling into the stupor that is but the precursor of death. he called her attendant, and waited for a time to see whether consciousness was likely to return. but he waited in vain. assunta said nothing more. the boy of whom she had spoken came and wept at her bed-side, and padre cristoforo observed him curiously. he was well worthy of the monk's gaze. he was light and supple in figure, perfectly formed, with a clear brown skin and a face such as one sees in early italian paintings of angelic singing-boys--a face with broad, serious brows, soft, oval cheeks, curved lips, and delightfully dimpled chin. he had large, brown eyes and a mass of tangled, curling hair. the priest noted that his slender limbs were graceful as those of a young fawn, that his hands and feet were small and well shaped, and that his appearance betokened perfect health--a slight spareness and sharpness of outline being the only trace which poverty seemed to have left upon him. the sub-prior of san stefano saw these things; and meditated upon certain possibilities in the future. he went next day to old assunta's funeral, and laid his hand on dino's shoulder as the boy was turning disconsolately from his grandmother's grave. "my child," he said, gently, "you are alone." "yes, father," said dino, with a stifled sob. "will you come with me to the monastery? i think we can find you a home. you have nowhere to go, poor child, and you will be weary and hungry before long. will you come?" "there is nothing in the world that i should like so well!" cried the boy, ardently. "come then," said the padre, with one of his subtle smiles. "we will go together." he held out his hand, in which dino gladly laid his hot and trembling fingers. then the monk and the boy set out on the three miles walk which lay between them and the monastery. on their arrival, padre cristoforo left the boy in the cool cloisters whilst he sought the prior--a dignitary whose permission would be needed before dino would be allowed to stay. there was a school in connection with the monastery, but it was devoted chiefly to the training of young priests, and it was not probable that a peasant like dino vasari would be admitted to the ranks of these budding ecclesiastics. the prior thought that old assunta's grandchild would make a good helper for giacomo, the dresser of the vines. "does that not satisfy you?" said padre cristoforo, in a rather peculiar tone, when he had carried this proposal to dino, and seen the boy's face suddenly fall, and his eyes fill with tears. "the reverend fathers are very good," said dino, in a somewhat embarrassed fashion, "and i will do all that i can to serve them, and, if i could also learn to read and write--and listen to the music in the chapel sometimes--i would work for them all the days of my life." padre cristoforo smiled. "you shall have your wish, my child," he said, kindly. "you shall go to the school--not to the vine-dressers. you shall be our son now." but dino looked up at him timidly. "and not the english lady's?" he said. "what do you know about an english lady, my son?" "my grandmother talked to me of her. is it true? she said that i might, turn out to be an englishman, after all. she said that vincenza told her that i did not belong to her." "my child," said the monk, calmly but firmly, "put these thoughts away from your mind. they are idle and vain imaginations. assunta knew nothing; vincenza did not always speak the truth. in any case, it is impossible to prove the truth of her story. it is a sin to let your mind dwell on the impossible. your name is bernardino vasari, and you are to be brought up in the monastery of san stefano by wise and pious men. is that not happiness enough for you?" "oh, yes, yes, indeed; i wish for nothing else," said dino, throwing himself at padre cristoforo's feet, and pressing his lips to the monk's black gown, while the tears poured down his smooth, olive cheeks. "indeed i am not ungrateful, reverend father, and i will never wish to be anything but what you want me to be." "better so," soliloquised the father, when he had comforted dino with kind words, and led him away to join the companions that would henceforth be his; "better that he should not wish to rise above the station in which he has been brought up! we shall never prove vincenza's story. if we could do that, we should be abundantly recompensed for training this lad in the doctrines of the church--but it will never be. unless, indeed, the woman vincenza could be found and urged to confession. but that," said the monk, with a regretful sigh, "that is not likely to occur. and, therefore, the boy will be dino vasari, as far as i can see, to his life's end. and vincenza's child is living in the midst of a rich english family under the name of brian luttrell. i must not forget the name. in days to come who knows whether the positions of these two boys may not be reversed?" thus mused father cristoforo, and then he smiled and shook his head. "vincenza was always a liar," he said to himself. "it is the most unlikely thing in the world that her story should be true." end of the prologue. chapter ii. by the loch. "it is you who have been the thief, then?" the question was uttered in tones of withering contempt. the criminal, standing before his judge with downcast face and nervously-twitching fingers, found not a word to reply. "answer me," said richard luttrell, imperatively. "tell me the truth--or, by heaven, i'll thrash you within an inch of your life, and make you speak! did you, or did you not, take this money out of my strong-box?" "i meant to put it back," faltered the culprit. he was a slender lad of twenty, with the olive skin, the curling jet-black hair, the liquid-brown eyes, which marked his descent from a southern race. the face was one of singular beauty. the curved lips, the broad brow on which the dusky hair grew low, the oval cheek and rounded chin might well have served for the impersonation of some spanish beggar-boy or neapolitan fisher-lad. they were of the subtilely sensuous type, expressive of passion rather than of intellect or will. at present, with the usual rich, ripe colour vanished from cheek and lips, with eyes downcast, and trembling hands dropped to his sides, he was a picture of embodied shame and fear which his cousin and guardian, richard luttrell, regarded with unmitigated disgust. luttrell himself was a man of very different fibre. tall, strong, fiercely indignant, he towered over the youth as if he could willingly have smitten him to the earth. he was a fine-looking, broad-shouldered man of twenty-eight, with strongly-marked features, browned by exposure to the sun and wind. the lower part of his face was almost hidden by a crisp chestnut beard and moustache, whilst his eyes were of the reddish hazel tint which often denotes heat of temper. the fire which now shot from beneath the severely knitted brows might indeed have dismayed a person of stouter heart than hugo luttrell. the youth showed no signs of penitence; he was thoroughly dismayed and alarmed by the position in which he found himself, but that was all. the scene of their interview was hardly in accordance with its painful character. the three men--for there was another whom we have not attempted to describe--stood on the border of a small loch, the tranquil waters of which came lapping almost to their feet as they spoke together. the grassy shores were fringed with alder and rowan-trees. above the heads of the speakers waved the branches of a great scotch fir, the outpost and sentinel, as it were, of an army of its brethren, standing discreetly a few yards away from the banks of the loch. richard luttrell's house, though not far distant, was out of sight; and the one little, grey-stone cottage which could be seen had no windows fronting the water. it was a spot, therefore, in which a prolonged conversation could be carried on without much fear of disturbance. beyond the trees, and on each side of the loch, were ranged the silent hills; their higher crags purple in the sunlight, brown and violet in shadow. the tints of the heather were beginning to glow upon the moors; on the lower-lying slopes a mass of foliage showed its first autumnal colouring; here and there a field of yellow stubble gave a dash of almost dazzling brightness to the landscape, under the cloudless azure of a september sky. hills, woods, and firmament were alike reflected with mirror-like distinctness in the smooth bosom of the loch, where little, brown ducks swam placidly amongst the weeds, and swallows skimmed and dipped and flew in happy ignorance of the ruin that guilt and misery can work in the lives of men. richard luttrell stood with his back towards the open door of a large wooden shed used as a boat-house, the interior of which looked densely black by contrast with the brilliant sunlight on the green grass and trees outside it. an open box or two, a heap, of fishing tackle, a broken oar, could be seen but dimly from without. it was in one of these boxes that richard luttrell had made, early in the day, a startling discovery. he had come across a pocket-book which had been abstracted from his strong-box in a most mysterious way about a week before. on opening it, he found, not only certain bank-notes which he had missed, but some marked coins and a cornelian seal which had disappeared on previous occasions, proving that a system of robbery had been carried on by one and the same person--evidently a member of the luttrell household. the spoil was concealed with great care in a locked box on a shelf, and but for an accidental stumble by which luttrell had brought down the whole shelf and broken the box itself, it would probably have remained there undisturbed. no one would ever have dreamt of seeking for luttrell's pocket-book in a box in the boat-house. "how did this get here? who keeps the second key of the boat-house?" demanded richard in the first moment of his discovery. and brian, his younger brother, answered carelessly-- "hugo has had it for the last week or two." then, disturbed by his brother's tone, he came to richard's side and looked at the fragments of the box by which richard was still kneeling. with an exclamation of surprise he took up the lid of the box and examined it carefully. the name of its owner had been printed in ink on the smooth, brown surface--hugo luttrell. and the stolen property was hidden in that little wooden box. the exclamations of the two brothers were characteristic. richard raised himself with the pocket-book in his hand, and said vehemently-- "the young scoundrel! he shall rue it!" while brian, looking shocked and grieved, sat down on the stump of a tree and muttered, "poor lad!" between his teeth, as he contemplated the miserable fragments on the ground. the sound of a bell came faintly to their ears through the clear morning air. richard spoke sharply. "we must leave the matter for the present. don't say anything about it. lock up the boat-house, brian, and keep the key. we'll have hugo down here after breakfast, and see whether he'll make a clean breast of it." "he may know nothing at all about it," suggested brian, rising from his seat. "it is to be hoped so," said luttrell, curtly. he walked out of the boat-house with frowning brows and sparkling eyes. "i know one thing--my roof won't shelter him any longer if he is guilty." and then he marched away to the house, leaving brian to lock the door and follow at his ease. that morning's breakfast was long remembered in the luttrells' house as a period of vague and curious discomfort. the reddish light in richard's eyes was well known for a danger signal; a storm was in the air when he wore that expression of suppressed emotion. brian, a good deal disturbed by what had occurred, scarcely spoke at all; he sat with his eyes fixed on the table, forgetting to eat, and glancing only from time to time at hugo's young, beautiful, laughing face, as the lad talked gaily to a visitor, or fed the dogs--privileged inmates of the dining-room--with morsels from his own plate. it was impossible to think that this handsome boy, just entering on the world, fresh from a military college, with a commission in the lancers, should have chosen to rob the very man who had been his benefactor and friend, whose house had sheltered him for the last ten years of his life. what could he have wanted with this money? luttrell made him a handsome allowance, had paid his bills more than once, provided his outfit, put all the resources of his home at hugo's disposal, as if he had been a son of the house instead of a penniless dependent--had, in short, behaved to him with a generosity which brian might have resented had he been of a resentful disposition, seeing that he himself had been much less liberally treated. but brian never concerned himself about that view of the matter; only now, when he suspected hugo of dishonesty and ingratitude, did he run over in his mind a list of the benefits which the boy had received for many years from the master of the house, and grow indignant at the enumeration. was it possible that hugo could be guilty? he had not been truthful as a schoolboy, brian remembered; once or twice he had narrowly escaped public disgrace for some dishonourable act--dishonourable in the eyes of his companions, as well as of his masters--a fact which was not to hugo's credit. perhaps, however, there was now some mistake--perhaps the matter might be cleared up. appearances were against him, but hugo might yet vindicate his integrity---- brian's meditations were interrupted at this point. his brother had risen from the breakfast-table and was addressing hugo, with a great show of courtesy, but with the stern light in his eyes which always made those who knew him best be on their guard with richard luttrell. "if you are at liberty," he said, "i want you down at the boat-house. i am going there now." brian, who was watching his cousin, saw a sudden change in his face. his lips turned white, his eyes moved uneasily in their sockets. it seemed almost as if he glanced backwards and forwards in order to look for a way of escape. but no escape was possible. richard stood waiting, severe, inflexible, with that ominous gleam in his eyes. hugo rose and followed like a dog at his master's call. from the moment that brian marked his sullen, hang-dog expression and drooping head, he gave up his hope of proving hugo's innocence. he would gladly have absented himself from the interview, but richard summoned him in a voice that admitted of no delay. the lad's own face and words betrayed him when he was shown the pocket-book and the broken box. he stammered out excuses, prevaricated, lied; until at last luttrell lost all patience, and insisted upon a definite reply to his question. and then hugo muttered his last desperate self-justification--that he had "meant to put it back!" richard's stalwart figure, the darkness of his brow, the strong hand in which he was swinging a heavy hunting-crop--caught up, as he left the house, for no decided purpose, but disagreeably significant in hugo's eyes--became doubly terrible to the lad during the interval of silence that followed his avowal. he glanced supplicatingly at brian; but brian had no aid to give him now. and, when brian's help failed him, hugo felt that all was lost. meanwhile, brian himself, a little in the back ground, leaned against the trunk of a tree which grew close to the shallow water's edge, bent his eyes upon the ground and tried to see the boy's face as little as possible. his affection for hugo had given him an influence over the lad which richard had certainly never possessed. for, generous as richard might be, he was not fond of his young cousin; and hugo, being aware of this fact, regarded him with instinctive aversion. in his own fashion he did love brian--a little bit! brian luttrell was at this time barely three-and-twenty. he had rooms in london, where he was supposed to be reading for the bar, but his tastes were musical and literary, and he had not yet made much progress in his legal studies. he had a handsome, intellectual face of a very refined type, thoughtful dark eyes, a long, brown moustache, and small pointed beard of the same colour. he was slighter, less muscular, than richard; and the comment often made upon him was that he had the look of a dreamer, perhaps of an artist--not of a very practical man--and that he was extremely unlike his brother. there was, indeed, a touch of unusual and almost morbid sensitiveness in brian's nature, which, betraying itself, as it did, from time to time, only by a look, a word, a gesture, yet proved his unlikeness to richard luttrell more than any dissimilarity of feature could have done. "you meant to put it back, sir!" thundered richard, after that moment's pause, which seemed like an eternity to hugo. "and where did you mean to get the money from? steal it from some one else? folly! lies! and for what disgraceful reason did you take it at all? you are in debt, i presume?" hugo's white lips signified assent. "you have been gambling again?" he bowed his head. "i thought so. i told you three months ago that i had paid your gambling debts for the last time. i make one exception. i will pay them once again--with the money you have stolen, which you may keep. much good may it do you!" he flung the pocket-book on the turf at hugo's feet as he spoke. "take it. you have paid dearly enough for it, god knows. for the future, sir, manage your own affairs; my house is no longer open to you." "don't be hard on him, richard," said brian, in a voice too low to reach hugo's ears. "forgive him this time; he is only a boy, after all--and a boy with a bad training." "will you be so good as to mind your own business, brian?" said the elder brother, peremptorily. the severity of his tone increased as he addressed himself again to hugo. "you will leave netherglen to-day. your luggage can be sent after you; give your own directions about it. i suppose you will rejoin your regiment? i neither know nor care what you mean to do. if we meet again, we meet as strangers." "willingly," said hugo, lifting his eyes for one instant to his cousin's face, with an expression so full of brooding hatred and defiance that even richard luttrell was amazed. "for heaven's sake don't say that, hugo," began the second brother, with a hasty desire to pave the way for reconciliation. "why not?" said hugo. the look of abject fear was dying out of his face. the worst, he thought, was over. he drew himself up, crossed his arms, and tried to meet brian's reproachful eyes with confidence, but in this attempt he was not successful. in spite of himself, the eyelids dropped until the long, black lashes almost touched the smooth, olive cheek, across which passed a transient flush of shame. this sign of feeling touched brian; the lad was surely not hopelessly bad if he could blush for his sins. but richard went on ruthlessly. "you need expect no further help from me. i own you as a relation no longer. you have disgraced the name you bear. don't let me see you again in my house." he was too indignant, too much excited, to speak in anything but short, sharp sentences, each of which seemed more bitter than the last. richard luttrell was little concerned for hugo's welfare, much for the honour of the family. "go," he said, "at once, and i will not publish your shameful conduct to the world. if you return to my house, if you seek to establish any communication with members of my family, i shall not keep your secret." "speak for yourself, richard," said his brother, warmly, "not for me. i hope that hugo will do better in time; and i don't mean to give him up. you must make an exception for me when you speak of separating him from the family." "i make no exception," said richard. brian drew nearer to his brother, and uttered his next words in a lower tone. "think what you are doing," he said. "you will drive him to desperation, and, after all, he is only a boy of nineteen. quite young enough to repent and reform, if we are not too hard upon him now. do as you think fit for yourself and your own household, but you must not stand in the way of what i can do for him, little though that may be." "i stand to what i have said," answered richard, harshly. "i will have no communication between him and you." then, folding his arms, he looked grimly and sardonically into brian's face. "i trust neither of you," he said. "we all know that you are only too easily led by those whom you like to be led by, and he is a young reprobate. choose for yourself, of course; i have no claim to control you, only, if you choose to be friendly with him, i shall cut off the supplies to you as well as to him, and i shall expose him publicly." brian took away the hand which, in the ardour of his pleading, he had laid upon richard's arm. had it not been for hugo's sake, he would have quitted the spot in dudgeon. he knew in his heart that it was useless to argue with richard in his present state of passion. but for hugo's sake he swallowed his resentment, and made one more trial. "if he repents----" he began doubtfully, and never finished the sentence. "i don't repent," said hugo. his voice was hoarse and broken, but insolently defiant. by a great effort of will he fixed his haggard eyes full on richard luttrell's face as he spoke. richard shrugged his shoulders. "you hear?" he said, briefly to his brother. "i hear," brian answered, in a low, pained tone. with an air of bravado hugo stooped and picked up the pocket-book which still lay at his feet. he weighed it in his hand, and then laughed aloud, though not very steadily. "it is full still," he said. "it will be useful, no doubt. i am much obliged to you, cousin richard." the action, and the words accompanying it, shocked even richard, who professed to think nothing too bad for hugo's powers. he tossed his head back and turned away with a contemptuous "good heavens!" brian walked for a few paces distance, and then stood still, with his back to his cousin. hugo glanced from one to the other with uneasiness, which he tried to veil by an assumption of disdain, and dropped the purse furtively into his pocket. he was ill-pleased to see richard turn back with lowered eyebrows, and a look of stern determination upon his bearded face. "brian," said luttrell, more quietly than he had yet spoken, "i think i see mother coming down the road. will you meet her and lead her away from the loch, without telling her the reason? i don't wish her to meet this--this gentleman--again." the intonation of his voice, the look that he bestowed upon hugo at the words that he emphasised, made the lad quiver from head to foot with rage. brian walked away without turning to bestow another glance or word on hugo. it was a significant action, and one which the young fellow felt, with a throb of mingled shame and hatred, that he could understand. he clenched his hands until the dent of the nails brought blood, without knowing what he did; then made a step or two in another direction, as if to leave the place. richard's commanding voice made him pause. "stop!" said luttrell. "wait until i give you leave to go." hugo waited, with his face turned towards the shining waters of the loch. the purple mist amongst the distant hills, the golden light upon the rippling water, the reddening foliage of the trees, had never been more beautiful than they were that morning. but their beauty was lost upon hugo, whose mind was filled with hard and angry protests against the treatment that he was receiving, and a great dread of the somewhat desolate future. richard luttrell moved about restlessly, stopping short, now and then, to watch the figure in black which he had discerned upon the road near the house. he saw brian meet it; the two stood and spoke together for a few minutes; then brian gave his arm to his mother and led her back to the house. when they were quite out of sight, luttrell turned back to his cousin and spoke again. "now that i have got brian out of the way," he said, as he laid an iron hand on hugo's arm, "i am free to punish you as i choose. mind, i would have spared you this if you had not had the insufferable insolence to pick up that pocket-book in my presence. since you were shameless enough for that, it is plain what sort of chastisement you deserve. take that--and that--and that!" he lifted his hunting-crop as he spoke, and brought it down heavily on the lad's shoulders. hugo uttered a cry like that of a wild animal in pain, and fought with hands, feet, teeth even, against the infliction of the stinging blows; but he fought in vain. his cousin's superior strength mastered him from the beginning; he felt like an infant in richard's powerful grasp. not until the storm of furious imprecations in which the lad at first vented his impotent rage had died away into stifled moans and sobs of pain, did richard's vengeance come to an end. he flung the boy from him, broke the whip between his strong hands, and hurled the fragments far into the water, then walked away to the house, leaving hugo to sob his heart out, like a passionate child, with face down in the short, green grass. chapter iii. hugo luttrell. hugo's sicilian mother had transmitted to him a nature at once fierce and affectionate, passionate and cunning. half-child, half-savage, he seemed to be bound by none of the restraints that civilised men early learn to place upon their instincts. he expressed his anger, his sorrow, his love, with all the abandon that characterised the natives of those sunny shores where the first years of his life were spent. profoundly simple in his modes of feeling, he was yet dominated by the habits of slyness and trickery which seem to be inherent in the truly savage breast. he had the savage's love of secrecy and instinctive suspicion of his fellow-creatures, the savage's swift passions and vindictiveness, the savage's innate difficulty in comprehending the laws of honour and morality. it is possible to believe that, with good training from his infancy, hugo luttrell might have developed into a trustworthy and straightforward man, shrinking from dishonesty and cowardice as infamy worse than death; but his early education had been of a kind likely to foster every vice that he possessed. his father, a cousin of the luttrells of netherglen, after marrying a lovely palermitan, and living for three years with her in her native land, had at last tired of her transports of love and jealousy, and started upon an exploring expedition in south africa. hugo was brought up by a mother who adored him and taught him to loathe the english race. he was surrounded by flatterers and sycophants from his babyhood, and treated as if he were born to a kingdom. when he was twelve years old, however, his mother died; and his father, on learning her death some months afterwards, made it his business to fetch the boy away from sicily and bring him to england. but hugh luttrell, the father, was already a dying man. the seeds of disease had been developed during his many journeyings; he was far gone in consumption before he even reached the english shores. his own money was nearly spent. there was a law-suit about the estates belonging to his wife's father, and it was scarcely probable that they would devolve upon hugo, who had cousins older than himself and dearer to the sicilian grandfather's heart. the dying man turned in his extremity to the young head of the house, richard luttrell, then only twenty-one years of age, and did not turn in vain. richard luttrell undertook the charge of the boy, and as soon as the father was laid in the grave, he took hugo home with him to netherglen. richard luttrell could hardly have treated hugo more generously than he did, but it must be confessed that he never liked the boy. the faults which were evident from the first day of his entrance into the luttrells' home, were such as disgusted and repelled the somewhat austere young ruler of the household. hugo pilfered, lied, cringed, stormed, in turn, like a veritable savage. he was sent to school, and learned the wisdom of keeping his tongue silent, and his evil deeds concealed, but he did not learn to amend his ways. in spite of his frequent misconduct, he had some qualities which endeared him to the hearts of those whom he cared to conciliate. his _naïvete_, his caressing ways, his beautiful, delicate face and appealing eyes, were not without effect even upon the severest of his judges. owing, perhaps, to these attributes rather than to any positive merit of his own, he scrambled through life at school, at a tutor's, at a military college, without any irreparable disgrace, his aptitude for getting into scrapes being equalled only by his cleverness in getting out of them. richard, indeed, had at times received reports of his conduct which made him speak angrily and threaten condign punishment, but not until this day, when the discovery of the lost bank-notes in hugo's possession betokened an absence of principle transcending even richard's darkest anticipations, had any serious breach occurred between the cousins. with some men, the fact that it was the first grave offence would have had weight, and inclined them to be merciful to the offender, but richard luttrell was not a merciful man. when he discovered wrong-doing, he punished it with the utmost severity, and never trusted the culprit again. he had been known to say, in boasting accents, that he did not understand what forgiveness meant. forgiveness of injuries? weakness of mind: that was his opinion. hugo luttrell's nature was also not a forgiving one. he lay upon the grass, writhing, sobbing, tearing at the ground in an access of passion equally composed of rage and shame. he had almost lost the remembrance of his own offence in resentment of its punishment. he had been struck; he had been insulted; he, a sicilian gentleman! (hugo never thought of himself as an englishman.) he loathed richard luttrell; he muttered curses upon him as he lay on the earth, with every bone aching from his cousin's blows; he wished that he could wipe out the memory of the affront in richard's blood. richard would laugh at a challenge; a duel was not the english method of settling quarrels. "i will punish him in another way; it is a _vendetta_!" said hugo to himself, choking down his passionate, childish sobs. "he is a brute--a great, savage brute; he does not deserve to live!" he was too much absorbed in his reflections to notice a footstep on the grass beside him, and the rustle of a woman's dress. some one had drawn near, and was looking pityingly, wonderingly, down upon the slight, boyish form that still shook and quivered with irrepressible emotion. a woman's voice sounded in his ear. "hugo!" it said; "hugo, what is the matter?" with a start he lifted his head, showed a flushed, tear-swollen countenance for one moment, and then hid it once more in his hands. "oh, angela, angela!" he cried; and then the hysterical passion mastered him once more. he could not speak for sobs. she knelt down beside him and placed one hand soothingly upon his ruffled, black locks. for a few minutes she also did not speak. she knew that he could not hear. the world was not wrong when it called angela vivian a beautiful woman, although superfine critics objected that her features were not perfect, and that her hair, her eyes, her complexion, were all too colourless for beauty. but her great charm lay in the harmonious character of her appearance. to deepen the tint of that soft, pale hair--almost ash-coloured, with a touch of gold in the heavy coils--to redden her beautifully-shaped mouth, and her narrow, oval face, to imagine those sweet, calm, grey eyes of any more definite shade would have been to make her no longer the angela vivian that so many people knew and loved. but if fault were found with her face, no exception could be taken to her figure and the grace with which she moved. there, at least, she was perfect. angela vivian was twenty-three, and still unmarried. it was said that she had been difficult to please. but her choice was made at last. she was to be married to richard luttrell before the end of the year. they had been playmates in childhood, and their parents had been old friends. angela was now visiting mrs. luttrell, who was proud of her son's choice, and made much of her as a guest at netherglen. she spoke to hugo as a sister might have done. "what is it, dear?" she asked him, smoothing out his short, dark curls, as she spoke. "can't you tell me? is it some great trouble?" for answer he dragged himself a little closer to her, and bowed his hot forehead on one of her hands, which she was resting on the ground, while she stroked his hair with the other. the action touched her; she did not know why. his sobs were quietening. he was by no means very manly, as english people understand manliness, but even he was ashamed to be found crying like a baby over his woes. "dear hugo, can you not tell me what is wrong?" said angela, more seriously alarmed by his silence than by his tears. she had a right to question him, for he had previously given her as much of his confidence as he ever gave to anybody, and she had been a very good friend to him. "are you in some great trouble?" "yes," he said, in a voice so choked that she could hardly hear the word. "and you have been in some scuffle surely. your clothes are torn--you are hurt!" said she, sympathetically. "why, hugo, you must have been fighting!" then, as he gave her no answer, she resumed in a voice of tender concern, "you are not really hurt, are you, dear boy? you can move--you can get up? shall i fetch anyone to help you?" "no, no, no!" he cried, clutching at her dress, as though to stay her going. "don't leave me. i am not hurt--at least, i can walk and stand easily enough, though i have been hurt--set upon, and treated like--like a dog by him----" "by whom, hugo?" said angela, startled by the tenor of his incoherent sentences. "who has set upon you and ill-treated you?" but hugo hid his face. "i won't tell you," he said, sullenly. there was a silence. "can i do anything for you?" angela asked at length, very gently. "no." she waited a little longer, and, as he made no further sign, she tried to rise. "shall i go, hugo?" she said. "yes--if you like." then he burst out passionately, "of course, you will go. you are like everybody else. you are like richard luttrell. you will do what he tells you. i am abandoned by everybody. you all hate me; and i hate you all!" little as angela understood his words, there was something in them that made her seat herself beside him on the grass, instead of leaving him alone. "dear hugo," she said, "i have never hated you." "but you will soon." "i see," said she, softly. "i understand you now. you are in trouble--you have been doing something wrong, and you think that we shall be angry with you. listen, hugo, richard maybe angry at first, but he is kind as well as just. he will forgive you, and we shall love you as much as ever. i will tell him that you are sorry for whatever it is, and then he will not refuse his pardon." "i don't want it," said hugo, hoarsely. "i hate him." "hugo!" "i hate him--i loathe him. you would hate him, too, if you knew him as well as i do. you are going to marry him! well, you will be miserable all your life long, and then you will remember what i say." "i should be angry with you if i did not know how little you meant this," said angela, in an unruffled voice, although the faint colour had risen to her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverishly bright. "but you are not like yourself, hugo; you are distressed about something. you know, at least, that we do not hate you, and you do not hate us." "i do not hate you," said hugo, with emphasis. he seized a fold of her dress and pressed it to his lips. but he said nothing more, and by-and-bye, when she gently disengaged her gown from his hold, he made no opposition to her going. she left him with reluctance, but she knew that mrs. luttrell would want her at that hour, and did not like to be kept waiting. she glanced back when she reached the bend in the road that would hide him from her sight. she saw that he had resumed his former position, with his head bent upon his arms, and his face hidden. "poor hugo!" she said to herself, as she turned towards the house. netherglen was a quaint-looking, irregular building of grey, stone, not very large, but considerably larger than its appearance led one to conjecture, from the fact that a wing had been added at the back of the house, where it was not immediately apparent. the peculiarity of this wing was that, although built close to the house, it did not actually touch it except at certain points where communication with the main part was necessary; the rooms on the outer wing ran parallel for some distance with those in the house, but were separated by an interval of one or two feet. this was a precaution taken, it was said, in order to deaden the noise made by the children when they were in the nurseries situated in this part of the house. it had certainly been an effectual one; it was difficult to hear any sound proceeding from these rooms, even when one stood in the large central hall from which the sitting-rooms opened. angela was anxious to find richard and ascertain whether or not he was really seriously incensed against his cousin, but he was not to be found. a party of guests had arrived unexpectedly for luncheon; mrs. luttrell and brian were both busily engaged in entertaining them. angela glanced at brian; it struck her that he was not in his usual good spirits. but she had no chance of asking him if anything were amiss. the master of the house arrived in time to take his place at the head of the table, and from the moment of his arrival, angela was certain that he had been, if he were not still, seriously annoyed by some occurrence of the day. she knew his face very well, and she knew the meaning of the gleam of his eye underneath the lowered eyebrows, the twitching nostril, and the grim setting of his mouth. he spoke very little, and did not smile even when he glanced at her. these were ominous signs. "where is hugo?" demanded mrs. luttrell as they seated themselves at the table. "have you seen him, brian?" "yes, i saw him down by the loch this morning," said brian, but without raising his eyes. "the bell had better be rung outside the house," said mrs. luttrell. "it can be heard quite well on the loch." "it is unnecessary, mother," said richard, promptly. "hugo is not coming in to lunch." there was a momentary flash of his eye as he spoke, which convinced angela that hugo's disgrace was to be no transient one. her heart sank; she did not find that richard's wrath was easy to appease when once thoroughly aroused. again she looked at brian, and it seemed to her that his face was paler and more sombre than she had ever seen it before. the brothers were usually on such pleasant terms that their silence to each other during the meal became a matter of remark to others beside angela and mrs. luttrell. had they quarrelled? there was an evident coolness between them; for, on the only occasion on which they addressed each other, richard contemptuously contradicted his brother with insulting directness, and brian replied with what for him was decided warmth. but the matter dropped--perhaps each was ashamed of having manifested his annoyance in public--and only their silence to each other betrayed that anything was wrong. the party separated into three portions after luncheon. mrs. luttrell and a lady of her own age agreed to remain indoors, or to stroll quietly round the garden. angela and two or three other young people meant to get out the boat and fish the loch for pike. richard and a couple of his friends were going to shoot in the neighbouring woods. and, while these arrangements were making, and everybody was standing about the hall, or in the wide porch which opened out into the garden, hugo's name was again mentioned. "what has become of that boy?" said mrs. luttrell. "he is not generally so late. richard, do you know?" "i'll tell you afterwards, mother," answered her son, in a low tone. "don't say anything more about him just now." "is there anything wrong?" said his mother, also lowering her voice. but he had turned away. "brian, what is it?" she asked, impatiently. "for heaven's sake, don't ask brian," said richard, looking back over his shoulder, "there is no knowing what he may not require you to believe. leave the story to me." "i've no desire to tell it," replied brian, moving away. luttrell's friends were already outside the hall door, lighting their cigars and playing with the dogs. a keeper stood in the background, waiting until the party should start. "aren't you coming, brian?" said one of the young men. "i'll join you presently," said brian. "i am going down to the loch first to get out the boat." "what a splendid gun that is of yours!" said archie grant, the younger of the two men. "it is yours, is it not? i saw it in the corner of the hall as i came in. you had it the other day at the duke's." "it was not mine. it belongs to hugo." "let me have a look at it again; it's an awfully fine one." "are you ready, grant?" said richard luttrell, coming forward. "what are you looking for?" "oh, nothing; a gun," said the young fellow. "i see it's gone. i thought it was there when i first came in; it's of no consequence." "not your own gun, i suppose?" "no, no; i have my own. it was hugo's." "yes; rather a fine one," said richard, indifferently. "you're not coming, then?"--to brian--"well, perhaps it's as well." and he marched away without deigning to bestow another look or word upon his brother. five minutes afterwards, mrs. luttrell and angela encountered each other in a passage leading to one of the upper rooms. no one was near. mrs. luttrell--she was a tall, handsome woman, strikingly like richard, in spite of her snow-white hair--laid her hand gently on angela's shoulder. "why do you look so pale, angela?" she said. "your eyes are red, child. have you been crying because those ill-bred lads of mine could not keep a still tongue in their heads at the luncheon-table, but must needs wrangle together as they used to when they were just babies? never you mind, my dear; it's not richard's fault, and brian was always a troublesome lad. it will be better for us all when he's away at his books in london." she patted angela's shoulder and passed on, leaving the girl more vexed than comforted. she was sorry to see mrs. luttrell show the partiality for richard which everyone accused her of feeling. in the mother's eyes, richard was always right and brian wrong. angela was just enough to be troubled at times by this difference in the treatment of the brothers. brian went down to the loch ostensibly to get out the boat. in reality he wanted to see whether hugo was still there. richard had told him of the punishment to which he had subjected the lad; and brian had been frankly indignant about it. the two had come to high words; thus there had, indeed, been some foundation for the visitors' suspicions of a previous quarrel. hugo had disappeared; only the broken brushwood and the crushed bracken told of the struggle that had taken place, and of the boy's agony of grief and rage. brian resolved to follow and find him. he did not like the thought of leaving him to bear his shame alone. besides, he understood hugo's nature, and he was afraid--though he scarcely knew what he feared. but he searched in vain. hugo was not to be found. he did not seem to have quitted the place altogether, for he had given no orders about his luggage, nor been seen on the road to the nearest town, and brian knew that it would be almost impossible to find him in a short space of time if he did not wish to be discovered. it was possible that he had gone into the woods; he was as fond of them as a wild animal of his lair. brian took his gun from the rack, as an excuse for an expedition, then sallied forth, scarcely hoping, however, to be successful in his search. he had not gone very far when he saw a man's form at some little distance from him, amongst the trees. he stopped short and reconnoitered. no, it was not hugo. that brown shooting-coat and those stalwart limbs belonged rather to richard luttrell. brian looked, shrugged his shoulders to himself, and then turned back. he did not want to meet his brother then. but richard had heard the footstep and glanced round. after a moment of evident hesitation, he quitted his position and tramped over the soft, uneven ground to his brother, who, seeing that he had been observed, awaited his brother's coming with some uncertainty of feeling. richard's face had wonderfully cleared since the morning, and his voice was almost cordial. "you've come? that's right," he said. "got anything?" "nothing much. i never saw young grant shoot so wild. and my hand's not very steady--after this morning's work." he laughed a little awkwardly and looked away. "that fellow deserved all he got, brian. but if you choose to see him now and then and be friendly with him, it's your own look out. i don't wish to interfere." it was a great concession from richard--almost as much as an apology. brian involuntarily put out his hand, which richard grasped heartily if roughly. neither of them found it necessary to say more. the mutual understanding was complete, and each hastily changed the subject, as though desirous that nothing farther should be said about it. if only some one had been by to witness that tacit reconciliation! chapter iv. in the twilight. it was already dusk under the thick branches of the wood, although the setting sun shone brilliantly upon the loch. luttrell's friends were to dine with him, and as dinner was not until eight o'clock, they made rather a long circuit, and had some distance to return. brian had joined archie grant; the second visitor was behind them with the keeper; richard luttrell had been accidentally separated from the others, and was supposed to be in front. archie was laughing and talking gaily; brian, whose mind ran much upon hugo, was somewhat silent. but even he was no proof against archie's enthusiasm, when the young fellow suddenly seized him by the arm, and pointed out a fine capercailzie which the dogs had just put up. brian gave a quick glance to his companion, who, however, had handed his gun to the keeper a short time before, and shook his head deprecatingly. brian lifted his gun. it seemed to him that something was moving amongst the branches beyond the bird, and for a moment he hesitated--then pulled the trigger. and just as he touched it, archie sprang forward with a cry. "don't fire! are you blind? don't you see what you are doing!" but it was too late. the bird flew away unharmed, but the shot seemed to have found another mark. there was the sound of a sudden, heavy fall. to brian's horror and dismay he saw that a man had been standing amongst the brushwood and smaller trees just beyond the ridge of rising ground towards which his gun had been directed. the head only of this man could have been visible from the side of the bank on which brian was standing; and even the head could be seen very indistinctly. as brian fired, it seemed to him, curiously enough, as if another report rang in his ears beside that of his own gun. was any one else shooting in the wood? or had his senses played him false in the horror of the moment, and caused him to mistake an echo for another shot? he had not time to settle the question. for a moment he stood transfixed; then he rushed forward, but archie had been before him. the young man was kneeling by the prostrate form and as brian advanced, he looked up with a face as white as death. "keep back," he cried, scarcely knowing what he said. "don't look--don't look, for a moment; perhaps he'll open his eyes: perhaps he is not dead. keep back!" dead! brian never forgot the sick feeling of dread which then came over him. what had he done? he did not hear archie's excited words; he came hurriedly to the side of the man, who lay lifeless upon the ground with his head on the young fellow's knee. archie looked up at him with dilated terrified eyes. and brian stood stock still. it was richard who lay before him, dead as a stone. he had dropped without a cry, perhaps even without a pang. there was a little purple mark upon his temple, from which a drop of black blood had oozed. a half-smile still lingered on his mouth; his face had scarcely changed colour, his attitude was natural, and yet the spectators felt that death had set his imprint on that tranquil brow. richard luttrell's day was over; he had gone to a world where he might perhaps stand in need of that mercy which he had been only too ready to deny to others who had erred. archie's elder brother, donald grant, and the keeper were hurrying to the spot. they found brian on his knees beside the body, feeling with trembling hands for the pulse that beat no longer. his face was the colour of ashes, but as yet he had not uttered a single word. donald grant spoke first, with an anxious glance towards his brother. "how----" he began, and then stopped short, for archie had silenced him with an almost imperceptible sign towards brian luttrell. "we heard two shots," muttered donald, as he also bent over the prostrate form. "only one, i think," said archie. his brother pulled him aside. "i tell you i heard two," he said in a hushed voice. "you didn't fire?" "i had no gun." "was it brian?" "yes. he shot straight at--at richard; didn't see him a bit. he was always short-sighted." donald gave his brother a look, and then turned to the keeper, whose face was working with unwonted emotion at the sight before him. "we must get help," he said, gravely. "he must be carried home, and some one must go to dunmuir. brian, shall i send to the village for you?" he touched brian's shoulder as he spoke. the young man rose, and turned his pale face and lack-lustre eyes towards his friend as though he could not understand the question. donald, repeated it, changing the form a little. "shall i send for the men?" he said. brian pressed his hand to his forehead. "the men?" he said, vaguely. "to carry--him to the house." donald was compassionate, but he was uncomprehending of his friend's apparent want of emotion. he wanted to stir him up to a more definite show of feeling. and to some extent he got his wish. a look of horror came into brian's eyes; a shudder ran through his frame. "oh, my god!" he whispered, hoarsely, "is it i who have done this thing?" and then he threw up his hands as though to screen his eyes from the sight of the dead face, staggered a few steps away from the little group, and fell fainting to the ground. it was a sad procession that wound its way through the woodland paths at last, and stopped at the gate of netherglen. brian had recovered sufficiently to walk like a mourner behind the covered stretcher on which his brother's form was laid; but he paid little attention to the whispers that were exchanged from time to time between the grants and the men who carried that melancholy burden to the luttrells' door. on coming to himself after his swoon he wept like a child for a little time, but had then collected himself and become sadly quiet and calm. still, he was scarcely awake to anything but the mere fact of his great misfortune, and it was not until the question was actually put to him, that he asked himself whether he could bear to take the news to his mother of the death of her eldest son. brave as he was, he shrank from the task. "no, no!" he said, looking wildly into donald's face. "not i. i am not the one to tell her, that i--that i-----" a great sob burst from him in spite of his usual self-control. donald grant turned aside; he did not know how to bear the spectacle of grief such as this. and there were others to be thought of beside mrs. luttrell. miss vivian--richard luttrell's promised wife--was in the house; donald grant's own sisters were still waiting for him and archie. it was impossible to go up to the house without preparing its tenants for the blow that had fallen upon them. yet who would prepare them? "here is the doctor," said archie, turning towards the road. "he will tell them." doctor muir had long been a trusted friend of the luttrell family. he had liked richard rather less than any other member of the household, but he was sincerely grieved and shocked by the news which had greeted him as he went upon his rounds. the grants drew him aside and gave him their account of the accident before he spoke to brian. the doctor had tears in his eyes when they had finished. he went up to brian and pressed his unresponsive hand. "my boy--my boy!" he said; "don't be cast down. it was the will of god." he pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed away a tear from his eyes as he spoke. "shall i just see your poor mother? i'll step up to the house, and ye'll wait here till my return. eh, but it's awful, awful!" the old man uttered the last words more to himself than to brian, whose hand he again shook mechanically before he turned away. brian followed him closely. "doctor," he said, in a low, husky voice, "i'll go with you." "you'll do nothing of the sort," said dr. muir, sharply. "why, man, your face would be enough to tell the news, in all conscience. you may walk to the door with me--the back door, if you please--but further you shall not come until i have seen mistress luttrell. here, give me your arm; you're not fit to go alone with that white face. and how did it happen, my poor lad?" "i don't know--i can't tell," said brian, slowly. "i saw the bird rise from the bank--and then i saw something moving--but i thought i must be mistaken; and i fired, and he--he fell! by my hand, too! oh, doctor, is there a god in heaven to let such things be?" "hut, tut, tut, but we'll have no such words as these, my bairn. if the lord lets these things happen, we'll maybe find that he's had some good reason for't. he's always in the right. and ye must just learn to bow yourself, brian, to the will of the almighty, for there's no denying but he's laid a sore trial upon ye, my poor lad, and one that will be hard to bear." "i shall never bear it," said brian, who caught but imperfectly the drift of the doctor's simple words of comfort. "it is too hard--too hard to bear." they had reached the back door, by which dr. muir preferred to make his entrance. he uttered a few words to the servants about the accident that had occurred, and then sent a message asking to speak alone with mrs. luttrell. the answer came back that mrs. luttrell would see him in the study. and thither the doctor went, leaving brian in one of the cold, stone corridors that divided the kitchens and offices from the living-rooms of the house. meanwhile, the body of richard luttrell was silently carried into one of the lower rooms until another place could be prepared for its reception. how long brian waited, with his forehead, pressed against the wall, deaf and blind to everything but an overmastering dread of his mother's agony which had taken complete possession of him, he did not know. he only knew that after a certain time--an eternity it seemed to him--a bitter, wailing cry came to his ears; a cry that pierced through the thick walls and echoed down the dark passages, although it was neither loud nor long. but there was something in the intensity of the grief that it expressed which seemed to give it a peculiarly penetrating quality. ah, it was this sound that brian now knew he had been dreading; this sound that cut him to the heart. dr. muir, on coming hurriedly out from the study, found brian in the corridor with his hands pressed to his ears as if to keep out the sound of that one fearful cry. "come away, my boy," he said, pitifully. "we can do no good here. where is miss vivian?" brian's hands dropped to his sides. he kept his eyes fixed on the doctor's face as if he would read his very soul. and for the moment doctor muir could not meet that piercing gaze. he tried to pass on, but brian laid his hand on his arm. "tell me all," he said. "what does my mother say? has it killed her?" "killed her? people are not so easily killed by grief, my dear mr. brian," said the doctor. "come away, come away. your mother is not just herself, and speaks wildly, as mothers are wont to do when they lose their first-born son. we'll not mind what she says just now. where is miss vivian? it is she that i want to see." "i understand," said brian, taking away his hands from the doctor's arm and hiding his face with them, "my mother will not see me; she will not forgive my--my--accursed carelessness----" "worse than that!" muttered the doctor to himself, but, fortunately, brian did not hear. and at that moment a slender woman's figure appeared at the end of the corridor; it hesitated, moved slowly forward, and then approached them hastily. "is mrs. luttrell ill?" asked angela. she had a candle in her hand, and the beams fell full upon her soft, white dress and the eucharis lily in her hair. she had twisted a string of pearls three times round her neck--it was an heirloom of great value. the other ornaments were all richard's gifts; two broad bands of gold set with pearls and diamonds upon her arms, and the diamond ring which had been the pledge of her betrothal. she was very pale, and her eyes were large with anxiety as she asked her question of the two men, whom her appearance had struck with dumbness. brian turned away with a half-audible groan. doctor muir looked at her intently from beneath his shaggy, grey eyebrows, and did not speak. "i know there is something wrong, or you would not stand like this outside mrs. luttrell's door," said angela, with a quiver in her sweet voice. "and richard is not here! where is richard?" there was silence. "something has happened to richard? some accident--some----" she stopped, looked at brian's averted face, and shivered as if an icy wind had passed over her. doctor muir took the candle from her hand, then opened his lips to speak. but she stopped him. "don't tell me," she said. "i am going to his mother. i shall learn it in a moment from her face. besides--i know--i know." the delicate tinting had left her cheeks and lips; her eyes were distended, her limbs trembled as she moved. doctor muir stood aside, giving her the benefit of keen professional scrutiny as she passed; but he was satisfied. she was not a woman who would either faint or scream in an emergency. she might suffer, but she would suffer in silence rather than add by word or deed one iota to the burden of suffering that another might have to bear. therefore, doctor muir let her enter the room in which the widowed mother wept, and prayed in his heart that angela vivian might receive the news of her bereavement in a different spirit from that shown by mrs. luttrell. the noise of shuffling feet, of muffled voices, of stifled sobs, reached the ears of the watchers in the corridor from another part of the house. doctor muir had sent a messenger to bid the men advance with their sad burden to a side door which opened into a sitting-room not very generally used. the housekeeper, an old and faithful servant of the family, had already prepared it, according to the doctor's orders, for the reception of the dead. the visitors hurriedly took their departure; donald grant's wagonette had been at the door some little time, and, as soon as he had seen poor richard luttrell's remains laid upon a long table in the sitting-room, he drove silently away, with archie on the box-seat beside him, and the three girls in the seats behind, crying over the troubles of their friends. doctor muir and brian luttrell remained for some time in the passage outside the study door. the doctor tried several times to persuade his companion to leave his post, but brian refused to do so. "i must wait; i must see my mother," he repeated, when the doctor pressed him to come away. "oh, i know that she will not want to see me; she will never wish to look on my face again, but i must see her and remind her that--that--she has one son left--who loves her still." and then brian's voice broke and he said no more. doctor muir shook his head. he did not believe that mrs. luttrell would be much comforted by his reminder. she had never seemed to love her second son. "where is hugo?" the doctor asked, in an undertone, when the silence had lasted some time. "i do not know." "he will be home to-night?" "i do not know." all this time no sound had reached them from the interior of the room where the two women sat together. their voices must have been very low, their sobs subdued. angela had not cried out as mrs. luttrell had done when she received the fatal news. no movement, no sign of grief was to be heard. brian lifted up his grief-stricken eyes at last, and fixed them on the doctor's face. "are they dead?" he muttered, strangely. "will they never speak again?" doctor muir did not immediately reply. he had placed the candle on a wooden bracket in the wall, and its flickering beams lighted, the dark corridor so feebly that until now he had scarcely caught a glimpse of the young man's haggard looks. they frightened him a little. he himself took life so easily--fretted so little against the inevitable--that he scarcely understood the look of anguish which an hour or two of trouble had imprinted upon brian luttrell's face. it was the kind of sorrow which has been known to turn a man's hair from black to white in a single night. "i will knock at the door," said the doctor. but before he could carry out his intention, footsteps were heard, and the handle of the door was turned. both men drew back involuntarily into the shadow as mrs. luttrell and angela came forth. angela had been weeping, but there were no signs of tears upon the elder woman's face. rigid, white, and hard, it looked almost as if it were carved in stone; a mute image of misery too deep for tears. there were lines upon her brow that had never been seen there before; her lips were tightly compressed; her eyes fiercely bright. she had thrown a black shawl over her head on coming away from the drawing-room into the draughty corridors. this shawl, which she had forgotten to remove, together with the dead blackness of her dress, gave her pale face a strangely spectral appearance. clinging to her, and yet guiding her, came angela, with the white flower crushed and drooping from her hair. she also was ashy pale, but there was a more natural and tender look of grief to be read in her wet eyes and on her trembling lips than in the stony tranquility of richard luttrell's mother. brian could not contain himself. he rushed forward and threw himself on the ground at his mother's feet. mrs. luttrell shrank back a little and clutched angela's arm fiercely with her thin, white fingers. "mother, speak to me; tell me that you--mother, only speak!" his voice died away in irrepressible sobs which shook him from head to foot. he dared not utter the word "forgiveness" yet. unintentional as the harm might be that his hand had done, it was sadly irreparable, too. mrs. luttrell looked at him with scarcely a change of feature, and tried to withdraw some stray fold of her garments from his grasp. he resisted; he would not let her go. his heart was aching with his own trouble, and with the consciousness of her loss--angela's loss--all the suffering that richard's death would inflict upon these two women who had loved him so devotedly. he yearned for one little word of comfort and affection, which even in that terrible moment, a mother should have known so well how to give. but he lay at that mother's feet in vain. it was angela who spoke first. "speak to him, mother," she said, tremblingly. "see how he suffers. it was not his fault." the tears ran down her pale cheeks unnoticed as she spoke. it was only natural to angela that her first words should be words of consolation to another, not of sorrow for her own great loss. but mrs. luttrell did not unclose her lips. "ye'll not be hard upon him, madam," said the old doctor, deprecatingly. "your own lad, and a lad that kneels to you for a gentle word, and will be heartbroken if you say him nay." "and is my heart not broken?" asked the mother, lifting her head and looking away into the darkness of the long corridor. "the son that i loved is dead; the boy that came to me like a little angel in the spring of my youth--they say that he is dead and cold. i am going to look at his face again. come, angela. perhaps they have spoken falsely, and he is alive--not murdered, after all." "murdered? mother!" brian raised himself a little and repeated the word with shuddering emphasis. "murdered!" said mrs. luttrell, steadily, as she turned her burning eyes full upon the countenance of her younger son; as if to watch the workings of his agitated features. "if not by the laws of man, by god's laws you are guilty. you had quarrelled with him that day; and you took your revenge. i tell you, james muir, and you, angela vivian, that brian luttrell took his brother's life by no mistake--that he is richard's murderer----" "no; i swear it by the god who made me--no!" cried brian, springing to his feet. but his mother had turned away. chapter v. the dead man's testimony. about ten o'clock at night hugo luttrell was seen entering the courtyard at the back of the house, where keepers, grooms, and indoor servants were collected in a group, discussing in low tones the event of the day. seeing these persons, he seemed inclined to go back by the way that he had come; but the butler--an old englishman who had been in the luttrell family before edward luttrell ever thought of marrying a scotch heiress and settling for the greater part of every year at netherglen--this said butler, whose name was william whale, caught sight of the young fellow and accosted him by name. "mr. hugo, sir, there's been many inquiries after you," he began in a lugubrious tone of voice. "after me, william?" hugo looked frightened and uneasy. "what for?" "you won't have heard of the calamity that has come upon the house," said william, shaking his head solemnly; "and it will be a great shock to you, no doubt, sir; a terrible shock. stand back, you men, there; let mr. hugo pass. come into the housekeeper's room, sir. there's a fire in it; the night has turned chilly. go softly, if you please, sir." hugo followed the old man without another question. he looked haggard and wearied; his clothes were wet, torn and soiled; his very hair was damp, and his boots were soaked and burst as though from a long day's tramp. mrs. shairp, the housekeeper, with whom he was a favourite, uttered a startled exclamation at his appearance. "guid guide us, sirs! and whaur hae ye been hidin' yoursel' a' this day an' nicht, mr. hugo? we've baen sair trouble i' th' hoose, and naebody kent your whaurabouts. bairn! but ye're just droukit! whaur hae you hidden yoursel' then?" "hidden!" hugo repeated, catching at one of the good woman's words and ignoring the others. "i've not hidden anywhere. i've been over the hills a bit--that's all. what is the matter?" he seated himself in the old woman's cushioned chair, and leaned forward to warm himself at the fire as he spoke, holding out first one hand and then the other to the leaping blaze. "how will i tell you?" said mrs. shairp, relapsing into the tears she had been shedding for the last two hours or more. "is it possible that ye've heard naething ava? the laird--netherglen himsel'--oor maister--and have you heard naething aboot him as you cam doun by the muir? i'd hae thocht shame to let you gang hame unkent, if i had been jenny burns at the lodge." "i did not come that way," said hugo, impatiently. "what is the matter with the laird?" "maitter?--maitter wi' the laird? the laird's deid, laddie, and a gude freend was he to me and mine, and to your ain sei' forbye, and the hale kintra side will be at the buryin'," said the housekeeper, shaking her head solemnly. "an' if that were na enow for my poor mistress there's a waur thing to follow. the laird's fa'en by his ain brither's han's. mr. brian shot him this verra nicht, as they cam' thro' the wud." "by mistake, mrs. shairp, by mistake," murmured william whale. but hugo lifted his haggard face, which looked very pale in the glow of the firelight. "you can't mean what you are saying," he said, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. "richard? richard--dead! oh, it must be impossible!" "true, sir, as gospel," said mrs. shairp, touched by the ring of pain that came into the young man's voice as he spoke. "at half-past eight, by the clock, they brought the laird hame stiff and stark, cauld as a stane a'ready. the mistress is clean daft wi' sorrow; an' i doot but mr. brian will hae a sair time o't wi' her and the bonny young leddy that's left ahent." hugo dropped his face into his hands and did not answer. a shudder ran through his frame more than once. mrs. shairp thought that he was shedding tears, and motioned to william whale, who had been standing near the door with a napkin over his arm, to leave the room. william retired shutting the door softly behind him. presently hugo spoke. "tell me about it," he said. and mrs. shairp was only too happy to pour into his ears the whole story as she had learned it from the keeper who had come upon the scene just after the firing of the fatal shot. he listened almost in silence, but did not uncover his face. "and his mother?" he asked at length. mrs. shairp could say little about the laird's mother. it was dr. muir who had told her the truth, she said, and the whole house had heard her cry out as if she had been struck. then miss vivian had gone to her, and had received the news from mrs. luttrell's own lips. they had gone together to look at richard's face, and then miss vivian had fainted, and had been carried into mrs. luttrell's own room, where she was to spend the night. so much mrs. shairp knew, and nothing more. "and where is brian?" "whaur should he be?" demanded the old woman, with some asperity. "whaur but in's ain room, sair cast doun for the ill he has dune." "it was not his fault," said hugo, quickly. "maybe no," replied mrs. shairp, with reserve. "maybe ay, maybe no; it's just the question--though i wadna like to think that the lad meant to harm his brother." "who does think so?" "i'm no saying that onybody thinks sae. mr. brian was aye a kind-hearted lad an' a bonny, but never a lucky ane, sae lang as i hae kent him, which will be twenty years gane at marti'mas. i cam' at the term." hugo scarcely listened to her. he rose up with a strange, scared look upon his face, and walked unsteadily out of the room, without a word of thanks to mrs. shairp for her communications. before she had recovered from her astonishment, he was far down the corridor on his way to the other portion of the house. in which room had they laid richard luttrell? hugo remembered with a shiver that he had not asked. he glanced round the hall with a thrill of nervous apprehension. the drawing-room and dining-room doors stood open; they were in darkness. the little morning-room door was also slightly ajar, but a dim light seemed to be burning inside. it must be in that room, hugo decided, that richard luttrell lay. should he go in? no, he dare not. he could not look upon richard luttrell's dead face. and yet he hesitated, drawn by a curious fascination towards that half-open door. while he waited, the door was slowly opened from the inside, and a hand appeared clasping the edge of the door. a horrible fancy seized hugo that richard had risen from his bed and was coming out into the hall; that richard's fingers were bent round the edge of the open door. he longed to fly, but his knees trembled; he could not move. he stood rooted to the spot with unreasoning terror, until the door opened still more widely, and the person who had been standing in the room came out. it was no ghostly richard, sallying forth to upbraid hugo for his misdeeds. it was brian luttrell who turned his pale face towards the boy as he passed through the hall. hugo cowered before him. he sank down on the lower steps of the wide staircase and hid his face in his hands. brian, who had been passing him by without remark, seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and stopped short before his cousin. the lad's shrinking attitude touched him with pity. "you are right to come back," he said, in a voice which, although abstracted, was strangely calm. "he told you to leave the house for ever, did he not? but i think that--now--he would rather that you stayed. he told me that i might do for you what i chose." the lad's head was bent still lower. he did not say a word. "so," said brian, leaning against the great oak bannisters as if he were utterly exhausted by fatigue, "so--if you stay--you will only be doing--what, perhaps, he wishes now. you need not be afraid." "you are the master--now," murmured hugo from between his fingers. it was the last speech that brian would have expected to hear from his cousin's lips. it cut him to the heart. "don't say so!" he cried, in a stifled voice. "good god! to think that i--i--should profit by my brother's death!" and hugo, lifting up his head, saw that the young man's frame was shaken by shuddering horror from head to foot. "i shall never be master here," he said. hugo raised his head with a look of wonder. brian's feeling was quite incomprehensible to him. "he was always a good brother to me," brian went on in a shaken voice, more to himself than to his cousin, "and a kind friend to you so long as you kept straight and did not disgrace us by your conduct. you had no right to complain, whatever he might do or say to you. you ought to mourn for him--you ought to regret him bitterly--bitterly--while i--i----" "do not you mourn for him, then?" said hugo, when the pause that followed brian's speech had become insupportable to him. "if i were only in his place i should be happy," said brian, passionately. then he turned upon hugo with something like fierceness, but it was the fierceness of a prolonged and half-suppressed agony of pain. "do you feel nothing? do you come into his house, knowing that he is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him while he lived? come with me and look at him--look at his face, and remember what he did for you when you were a boy--what he has done for you during the last eight years." he seized hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise; but the lad, with a face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot. "not to-night--i can't--i can't!" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and his very lips turning white with fear. "to-morrow, brian--not to-night." but brian briefly answered, "come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's arm. and hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron pressure, and followed him to the room where lay all that was mortal of richard luttrell. once inside the door, brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to forget his presence. he slowly removed the covering from the dead face and placed a candle so that the light fell upon it. then he walked to the foot of the table, which served the purpose of a bier, and looked long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless and calm in the repose of death! terrible, indeed, was the sight to one who had sincerely loved richard luttrell--the strong man, full of lusty health and vigour, desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all that makes life worth living only a few short hours before; now silent, motionless for ever struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength, and by a brother's hand! brian had but spoken the truth when he said that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother richard. he forgot hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to that room, he forgot everything except his own unavailing sorrow, his inextinguishable regret. hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall, seemingly incapable of speech or motion, overcome by a superstitious terror of death, which brian was as far from suspecting as of comprehending. in the utter silence of the house they could hear the distant stable-clock strike eleven. the wind was rising, and blew in fitful gusts, rustling the branches of the trees, and causing a loose rose-branch to tap carelessly against the window panes. it sounded like the knock of someone anxious to come in. the candles flickered and guttered in the draught; the wavering light cast strange shadows over the dead man's face. you might have thought that his features moved from time to time; that now he frowned at the intruders, and now he smiled at them--a terrible, ghastly smile. there was a footstep at the door. it was mrs. luttrell who came gliding in with her pale face, and her long black robes, to take her place at her dead son's side. she had thought that she must come and assure herself once more that he was really gone from her. she meant to look at him for a little while, to kiss his cold forehead, and then to go back to angela and try to sleep. she took no notice of brian, nor of hugo; she drew a chair close to the long table upon which the still, white form was stretched, seated herself, and looked steadfastly at the uncovered face. brian started at the sight of his mother; he glanced at her pleadingly, as if he would have spoken; but the rigidity of her face repelled him. he hung his head and turned a little from her, as though to steal away. suddenly a terrible voice rang through the room. "look!" cried the mother, pointing with one finger to the lifeless form, and raising her eyes for the first time to brian's face--"look there!" brian looked, and flinched from the sight he saw. for a strange thing had happened. although not actually unusual, it had never before come within the experience of any of these watchers of the dead, and thus it suggested to them nothing but the old superstition which in old times caused a supposed murderer to be brought face to face with the man he was accused of having killed. a drop of blood was trickling from the nostril of the dead man, and losing itself in the thick, black moustache upon his upper lip. it was followed by another or two, and then it stayed. the mother did not speak again. her hand sank; her eyes were riveted upon brian's face with a mute reproach. and brian, although he knew well enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain, such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. after him crept hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an ague; but brian took no more notice of his cousin. he went straight to his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he might. no formal inquiry was made into the cause of richard luttrell's death. archie grant's testimony completely exonerated brian, even of carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that mr. brian luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had known his lamented brother, richard luttrell of netherglen. so the matter ended. but idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were shaken over the circumstances attending richard luttrell's death. it was partly mrs. luttrell's fault. in the first hours of her bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which brian had had in causing richard's death. she had spoken to doctor muir, to angela, to mrs. shairp--a few words only to each, but enough to show in what direction her thoughts were tending. with the first two her words were sacred, but mrs. shairp, though kindly enough, was not so trustworthy. before the good woman realised what she was doing, the whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that mrs. luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother richard. the grants, who had spent the day of the accident at netherglen, were, of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaintances. the girls were ready enough to chatter. they confided to their intimate friends in mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good terms; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and been positively rude to each other; and they would not go out together; and poor mr. luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself! then the brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to "draw." archie flew into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on brian's part. donald looked "dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject. but his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who knew the business of everybody better than their own. and the rumour waxed and spread. during the days before the funeral brian scarcely saw anyone. he lived shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews only with his lawyer and men who came on business. it was a sad and melancholy house in those days. angela was invisible: whether it was she or mrs. luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. hugo wandered about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. after the first two days, angela's only near relation, her brother rupert, was present in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to hugo, and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, mr. vivian went back to england, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before. the funeral took place at last. when it was over, brian came home, said farewell to the guests, had a long interview with mr. colquhoun, the solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting spirit. his air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years since his brother's death. he dined with hugo, mr. colquhoun and dr. muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and interest. but his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing effect upon his guests. hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. he watched brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his eye. his silence and depression were so marked that the doctor afterwards remarked it to mr. colquhoun. "i did not think that mr. hugo would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said. "do you think he does?" asked mr. colquhoun, drily. "i don't believe he's got a heart, the young scamp. i found him myself in the wood, examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you know, on the morning after richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. 'i was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when i came up. 'brian must have shot very straight.' i told him to go home and mind his own business." "do you think what they say about brian's intentions had any foundation?" asked the doctor. "not a bit. brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. but the mother's very bitter about it. she's as hard as flint. it's a bad look out for brian. he's a ruined man." "not from a pecuniary point of view. the property goes to him." "yes, but he hasn't the strength to put up with the slights and the scandal which will go with it. he has the pluck, but not the physique. it's men like him that go out of their minds, or commit suicide, or die of heart-break--which you doctors call by some other name, of course--when the world's against them. he'll never stand it. mark my words--brian luttrell won't be to the fore this time next year." "where will he be, colquhoun? come, come, brian's a fellow with brains. he won't do anything rash." "he'll be in his grave," said the lawyer, gloomily. "hell be enjoying himself in the metropolis," said the doctor. "he'll have a fine house and a pretty wife, and he'll laugh in our faces if we hint at your prophecies, colquhoun. i should have had no respect at all for brian luttrell if he threw away his own life because he had accidentally taken that of another man." "we shall see," said the lawyer. chapter vi. mother and son. early on the following morning brian received a message from his mother. it was the first communication that she had vouchsafed to him since the day of her eldest son's death. "would he come to her dressing-room at eleven o'clock? she wished to consult him upon special business." brian sent word that he would be with her at that hour, and then fell into anxious meditation as he sat at breakfast, with hugo at the other end of the table. "don't go far away from the house, hugo," he said at last, as he rose to leave the room. "i may want you in the course of the morning." hugo looked up at him without answering. the lad had been studying a newspaper, with his head supported by his left hand, while his right played with his coffee cup or the morsels of food upon his plate. he did not seem to have much appetite. his great, dark eyes looked larger than usual, and were ringed with purple shadow; his lips were tremulous. "it was wonderful," as people said, "to see how that poor young fellow felt his cousin's death." perhaps brian thought so too, for he added, very gently--though when did he not speak gently?-- "there is nothing wrong. i only want to make some arrangements with you for your future. think a little about it before i speak to you." and then he went out of the room, and hugo was left to his meditations, which were not of the most agreeable character, in spite of brian's reassuring words. he pushed his plate and newspaper away from him impatiently; a frown showed itself on his beautiful, low brows. "what will he do for me? anything definite, i wonder? poor beggar, i'm sorry for him, but my position has been decidedly improved since that unlucky shot at richard. did he want him out of the way, i wonder? the gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. what a fool he must be!" hugo pushed back his chair and rose: a cynical smile curled his lips for a moment, but it changed by degrees into an expression of somewhat sullen discontent. "i wish i could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the window. "i've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." then he gazed out into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul was possessed by fear of what brian would do or say. at eleven o'clock brian made his way to his mother's dressing-room, an apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary sitting-room than a dressing-room. he knocked, and was answered by his mother's voice. "come in," she said. "is it you, brian?" "yes, it is i," brian said, as he closed the door behind him. he walked quietly to the hearth-rug, where he stood with one hand resting on the mantelpiece. it was a convenient attitude, and one which exposed him to no rebuffs. he was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his mother by way of greeting. mrs. luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. brian thought that she looked older and more worn; there were fresh wrinkles upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her backbone were made of iron. she was in the deepest possible mourning; even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or three inches of black. brian looked round for angela; he had expected to find her with his mother, but she was not there. the door into mrs. luttrell's bed-room was partly open. "how is angela?" he asked. "angela is not well. could you expect her to be well after the terrible trial that has overtaken her?" brian winced. he could make no reply to such a question. mrs. luttrell scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way:-- "she is probably as well as she can hope to be under the circumstances. her health has suffered--as mine also has suffered--under the painful dispensation which has been meted out to us. we do not repine. hearts that are broken, that have no hopes, no joys, no pleasures in store for them in this life, are not eager to exhibit their sufferings. if i speak as i speak now, it is for the last and only time. it is right that you should hear me once." "i will hear anything you choose to say," answered brian, heavily. "but, mother, be merciful. i have suffered, too." "we will pass over the amount of your suffering," said mrs. luttrell, "if you please. i have no doubt that it is very great, but i think that it will soon be assuaged. i think that you will soon begin to remember the many things that you gain by your brother's death--the social position, the assured income, the estate in scotland which i brought to your father, as well as his own house of netherglen--all the things for which men are only too ready to sell their souls." "all these things are nothing to me," sighed brian. "they are a great deal in the world's eyes. you will soon find out how differently it receives you now from the way it received you a year--a month--a week--ago. you are a rich man. i wish you joy of your wealth. everything goes to you except netherglen itself; that is left in my hands." "mother, are you mad?" said her son, passionately. "why do you talk to me in this way? i swear to you that i would give every hope and every joy that i ever possessed--i would give my life--to have richard back again! do you think i ever wanted to be rich through his death?" "i do not know what you wanted," said mrs. luttrell, sternly. "i have no means of guessing." "is this what you wished me to say?" said brian, whose voice was hoarse and changed. "i said that i would listen--but, you might spare me these taunts, at least." "i do not taunt you. i wish only to draw attention to the difference between your position and my own. richard's death brings wealth, ease, comfort to you; to me nothing but desolation. i am willing to allow the house of which i have been the mistress for so many years, of which i am legally the mistress still, to pass into your hands. i have lost my home as well as my sons. i am desolate." "your sons! you have not lost both your sons, mother," pleaded brian, with a note of bitter pain in his voice, as he came closer to her and tried in vain to take her icy hand. "why do you think that you are no longer mistress of this house? you are as much mistress as you were in my father's time--in richard's time. why should there be a difference now?" "there is this difference," said mrs. luttrell, coldly, "that i do not care to live in any house with you. it would be painful to me; that is all. if you desire to stay, i will go." brian staggered back as if she had struck him in the face. "do you mean to cast me off?" he almost whispered, for he could not find strength to speak aloud. "am i not your son, too?" "you fill the place that a son should occupy," said mrs. luttrell, letting her hand rise and fall upon her lap, and looking away from brian. "i can say no more. my son--my own son--the son that i loved"--(she paused, and seemed to recollect herself before she continued in a lower voice)--"the son that i loved--is dead." there was a silence. brian seated himself and bowed his head upon his hands. "god help me!" she heard him mutter. but she did not relent. presently he looked up and fixed his haggard eyes upon her. "mother," he said, in hoarse and unnatural tones, "you have had your say; now let me have mine. i know too well what you believe. you think, because of a slight dispute which arose between us on that day, that i had some grudge against my brother. i solemnly declare to you that that is not true. richard and i had differed; but we met--in the wood"--(he drew his breath painfully)--"a few minutes only before that terrible mistake of mine; and we were friends again. mother, do you know me so ill as to think that i could ever have lifted my hand against richard, who was always a friend to me, always far kinder than i deserved? it was a mistake--a mistake that i'll never, never forgive myself for, and that you, perhaps, never will forgive--but, at any rate, do me the justice to believe that it was a mistake, and not--not--that i was richard's murderer!" mrs. luttrell sat silent, motionless, her white hands crossed before her on the crape of her black gown. brian threw himself impetuously on his knees before her and looked up into her face. "mother, mother!" he said, "do you not believe me?" it seemed to him a long time--it was, in reality, not more than ten or twelve seconds--before mrs. luttrell answered his question. "do you not believe me?" he had said. and she answered-- "no." the shock of finding his passionate appeal so utterly disregarded restored to brian the composure which had failed him before. he rose to his feet, pale, stricken, indeed, but calm. for a moment or two he averted his face from the woman who judged him so harshly, so pitilessly; but when he turned to her again, he had gained a certain pride of bearing which compelled her unwilling respect. "if that is your final answer," he said, "i can say nothing more. perhaps the day will come when you will understand me better. in the meantime, i shall be glad to hear whether you have any plans which i can assist you in carrying out." "none in which i require your assistance," said mrs. luttrell, stonily. "i have my jointure; i can live upon that. i will leave netherglen to you. i will take a cottage for myself--and angela." "and angela?" "angela remains with me. you may remember that she has no home, except with friends who are not always as kind to her as they might be. her brother is not a wealthy man, and has no house of his own. under these circumstances, and considering what she has lost, it would be mere justice if i offered her a home. henceforth she is my daughter." "you have asked her to stay, and she has consented?" "i have." "and you thought--you think--of taking a home for yourselves?" "yes." "i suppose you do not object," said brian, slowly, "to the gossip to which such a step on your part is sure to give rise?" "i have not considered the matter. gossip will not touch me." "no." brian would not for worlds have said that the step she contemplated taking would be disastrous for him. yet for one moment, he could not banish the consciousness that all the world would now have good reason to believe that his mother held him guilty of his brother's death. he did not know that the world suspected him already. it was with an unmoved front that he presently continued. "i, myself, had a proposition to make which would perhaps render it needless for you to leave netherglen, which, as you say, is legally your own. you may not have considered that i am hardly likely to have much love for the place after what has occurred in it. you know that neither you nor i can sell any portion of the property--even you would not care to let it, i suppose, to strangers for the present. i think of going abroad--probably probably for some years. i have always wanted to travel. the house on the strathleckie side of the property can be let; and as for netherglen, it would be an advantage for the place if you made it your home for as many months in the year as you chose. i don't see why you should not do so. i shall not return to this neighbourhood." "it does not seem to occur to you," said mrs. luttrell, in measured tones, "that angela and i may also have an objection to residing in a place which will henceforth have so many painful memories attached to it." "if that is the case," said brian, after a little pause, "there is no more to be said." "i will ask angela," said mrs. luttrell, stretching out her hand to a little handbell which stood upon the table at her side. brian started. "then i will come to you again," he said, moving hastily to the door. "i will see you after lunch." "pray do not go," said his mother, giving two very decisive strokes of the bell by means of a pressure of her firm, white fingers. "let us settle the matter while we are about it. there will be no need of a second interview." "but angela will not want to see me." "angela----ask miss vivian to come to me at once if she can" (to the maid who appeared at the door)--"angela expressed a wish to see you this morning." brian stood erect by the mantelpiece, biting his lips under his soft, brown moustache, and very much disposed to take the matter into his own hands, and walk straight out of the room. but some time or other angela must be faced; perhaps as well now as at any other time. he waited, therefore, in silence, until the door opened and angela appeared. "brian!" said the soft voice, in as kind and sisterly a tone as he had ever heard from her. "brian!" she was close to him, but he dared not look up until she took his unresisting hand in hers and held it tenderly. then he raised his head a very little and looked at her. she had always been pale, but now she was snow-white, and the extreme delicacy and even fragility of her appearance were thrown into strong relief by the dead black of her mourning gown. her eyes were full of tears, and her lips were quivering; but brian knew in a moment, by instinct, that she at least believed in the innocence of his heart, although his hand had taken his brother's life. he stooped down and kissed the hand that held his own, so humbly, so sorrowfully, that angela's heart yearned over him. she understood him, and she had room, even in her great grief, to be sorry for him too. and when he withdrew his hand and turned away from her with one deep sob that he did not know how to repress, she tried to comfort him. "dear brian," she said, "i know--i understand. poor fellow! it is very hard for you. it is hard for us all; but i think it is hardest of all for you." "i would have given my life for his, angela," said brian, in a smothered voice. "i know you would. i know you loved him," said angela, the tears streaming now down her pale cheeks. "there is only one thing for us to say, brian--it was god's will that he should go." "how you must hate the sight of me," groaned brian. he had almost forgotten the presence of mrs. luttrell, whose hard, watchful eyes were taking notice of every detail of the scene. "i will not trouble you long; i am going to leave scotland; i will go far away; you shall never see my face again." "but i should be sorry for that," said angela's soft, caressing voice, into which a tremor stole from time to time that made it doubly sweet. "i shall want to see you again. promise me that you will come back, brian--some day." "some day?" he repeated, mournfully. "well, some day, angela, when you can look on me without so much pain as you must needs feel now, any day when you have need of me. but, as i am going so very soon, will you tell me yourself whether netherglen is a place that you hold in utter abhorrence now? would it hurt you to make netherglen your home? could you and my mother find happiness--or at least peace--if you lived here together? or would it be too great a trial for you to bear?" "it rests with you to decide, angela," said mrs. luttrell from her sofa. "i have no choice; it signifies little to me whether i go or stay. if it would pain you to live at netherglen, say so; and we will choose another home." "pain me?" said angela. "to stay here--in richard's home?" "would you dislike it?" asked mrs. luttrell. the girl came to her side, and put her arms round the mother's neck. mrs. luttrell's face softened curiously as she did so; she laid one of her hands upon angela's shining hair with a caressing movement. "dislike it? it would be my only happiness," said angela. she stopped, and then went on with soft vehemence--"to think that i was in his house, that i looked on the things that he used to see every day, that i could sometimes do the thing that he would have liked to see me doing--it is all i could wish for, all that life could give me now! yes, yes, let us stay." "it's perhaps not so good for you as one might wish," said mrs. luttrell, regarding her tenderly. "you had perhaps better have a change for a time; there is no reason why you should live for ever in the past, like an old woman, angela. the day will come when you may wish to make new ties for yourself--new interests----" angela's whisper reached her ear alone. "'intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee,'" she murmured in the words of the widowed moabitess, "'for whither thou goest, i will go; and where thou lodgest, i will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god...'" mrs. luttrell clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead. then after a little pause she said to brian-- "we will stay." brian bowed his head. "i will make all necessary arrangements with mr. colquhoun, and send him to you," he said. "i think there is nothing else about which we have to speak?" "nothing," said mrs. luttrell, steadily. "except hugo. as i am going away from home for so long i think it would be better if i settled a certain sum in the funds upon him, so that he might have a moderate income as well as his pay. does that meet with your approval?" "my approval matters very little, but you can do as you choose with your own money. i suppose you wish that this house should be kept open for him?" "that is as you please. he would be better for a home. may i ask what angela thinks?" "oh, yes," said angela, lifting her face slowly from mrs. luttrell's shoulder. "he must not feel that he has lost a home, must he, mother?" she pronounced the title which mrs. luttrell had begged her to bestow, still with a certain diffidence and hesitancy; but mrs. luttrell's brow smoothed when she heard it. "we will do what we can for him," she said. "he has not been very steady of late," brian went on slowly, wondering whether he was right to conceal hugo's misdeeds and evil tendencies. "i hope he will improve; you will have patience with him if he is not very wise. and now, will you let me say good-bye to you? i shall leave netherglen to-morrow." "to-morrow?" said angela, wonderingly. "why should you go so soon?" "it is better so," brian answered. "but we shall know where you are. you will write?" his eyes sought his mother's face. she would not look at him. he spoke in an unnaturally quiet voice, "i do not know." "mother, will you not tell him to write to you?" said angela. the mother sat silent, unresponsive. it was plain that she cared for no letter from this son of hers. "i will leave my address with mr. colquhoun, angela," said brian, forcing a slight, sad smile. "if there is business for me to transact, he will be able to let me know. i shall hear from him how you all are, from time to time." "will you not write to me, then?" said angela. brian darted an inquiring glance at her. oh, what divine pity, what sublime forgetfulness of self, gleamed out of those tender, tear-reddened eyes! "will you let me?" he said, almost timidly. "i should like you to write. i shall look for your letters, brian. don't forget that i shall be anxious for news of you." almost without knowing what he did, he sank down on his knees before her, and touched her hand reverently with his lips. she bent forward and kissed his forehead as a sister might have done. "god bless you, angela!" he said. he could not utter another word. "mother," said the girl, taking in hers the passive hand of the woman, who had sat with face averted--perhaps so that she should not meet the eyes of the man whom she could not forgive--"mother, speak to him; say good-bye to him before he goes." the mother's hand trembled and tried to withdraw itself, but angela would not let it go. "one kind word to him, mother," she said. "see, he is kneeling before you. only look at him and you will see how he has suffered! don't let him go away from you without one word." she guided mrs. luttrell's hand to brian's head; and there for a moment it rested heavily. then she spoke. "if i have been unjust, may god forgive me!" she said. then she withdrew her hand and rose from her seat. she did not even look behind her as she walked to the bed-room door, pushed it open, entered, and closed it, and turned the key in the old-fashioned lock. she had said all that she meant to say: no power, human or divine, should wrest another word from her just then. but in her heart she was crying over and over again the words that had been upon her lips a hundred times to say. "he is no son of mine--no son of mine--this man by whose hand richard luttrell fell. i am childless. both my sons are dead." chapter vii. a farewell. there was a little, sunny, green walk opposite the dining-room windows, edged on either side by masses of white and crimson phlox and a row of sunflowers, where the gentlemen of the house were in the habit of taking their morning stroll and smoking their first cigar. it was here that hugo was slowly pacing up and down when brian luttrell came out of the house in search of him. hugo gave him a searching glance as he approached, and was not reassured. brian's face wore a curiously restrained expression, which gave it a look of sternness. hugo's heart beat fast; he threw away the end of his cigar, and advanced to meet his cousin with an air of unconcern which was evidently assumed for the occasion. it passed unremarked, however. brian was in no mood for considering hugo's expression of countenance. they took two or three turns up and down the garden walk without uttering a word. brian was absorbed in thought, and hugo had his own reasons for being afraid to open his mouth. it was brian who spoke at last. "come away from the house," he said. "i want to speak to you, and we can't talk easily underneath all these windows. we'll go down to the loch." "not to the loch," said hugo, hastily. brian considered a moment. "you are right," he said, in a low tone, "we won't go there. come this way." for the moment he had forgotten that painful scene at the boat-house, which no doubt made hugo shrink sensitively from the sight of the place. he was sorry that he had suggested it. the day was calm and mild, but not brilliant. the leaves of the trees had taken on an additional tinge of autumnal yellow and red since brian last looked at them with an observant eye. for the past week he had thought of nothing but of the intolerable grief and pain that had come upon him. but now the peace and quiet of the day stole upon him unawares; there was a restfulness in the sight of the steadfast hills, of the waving trees--a sense of tranquility even in the fall of the yellowing leaves and the flight of the migrating song-birds overhead. his eye grew calmer, his brow more smooth, as he walked silently onward; he drew a long breath, almost like one of relief; then he stopped short, and leaned against the trunk of a tall fir tree, looking absently before him, as though he had forgotten the reason for his proposed interview with his cousin. hugo grew impatient. they had left the garden, and were walking down a grassy little-trodden lane between two tracks of wooded ground; it led to the tiny hamlet at the head of the loch, and thence to the high road. hugo wondered whether the conversation were to be held upon the public highway or in the lane. if it had to do with his own private affairs, he felt that he would prefer the lane. but he dared not precipitate matters by speaking. brian recollected his purpose at last, however. after a short interval of silence he turned his eyes upon hugo, who was standing near him, and said, gently-- "sit down, won't you?--then we can talk." there was a fallen log on the ground. hugo took his seat on it meekly enough, but continued his former occupation of digging up, with the point of a stick that he was carrying, the roots of all the plants within his reach. he was so much absorbed by this pursuit that he seemed hardly to attend to the next words that brian spoke. "i ought, perhaps, to have had a talk with you before," he said. "matters have been in a very unsettled state, as you well know. but there are one or two points that ought to be settled without delay." hugo ceased his work of destruction; and apparently disposed himself to listen. "first, your own affairs. you have hitherto had an allowance, i believe--how much?" "two hundred," said hugo, sulkily, "since i joined." "and your pay. and you could not make that sufficient?" hugo's face flushed, he did not answer. he sat still, looking sullenly at the ground. brian waited for a little while, and then went on. "i don't want to preach, old fellow, but you know i can't help thinking that, by a little decent care and forethought, you ought to have made that do. still, it's no good my saying so, is it? what is done cannot be undone--would god it could!" he stopped short again: his voice had grown hoarse. hugo, with the dusky red still tingeing his delicate, dark face, hung his head and made no reply. "one can but try to do better for the future," said brian, somewhat unsteadily, after that moment's pause. "hugo, dear boy, will you promise that, at least?" he put his hand on his cousin's shoulder. hugo tried to shrink away, then, finding this impossible, averted his face and partly hid it with his hands. "it's no good making vague promises," he said by-and-bye. "what do you mean? if you want me to promise to live on my pay or anything of that sort----" "nothing of that sort," brian interrupted him. "only, that you will act honourably and straightforwardly--that you will not touch what is not your own----" hugo shook off the kindly hand and started up with something like an oath upon his lips. "why are you always talking about that affair! i thought it was past and done with," he said, turning his back upon his cousin, and switching the grass savagely with his cane. "always talking about it! be reasonable, hugo." "it was only because i was at my wits' end for money," said the lad, irritably. "and that came in my way, and--i had never taken any before----" "and never will again," said brian. "that's what i want to hear you say." but hugo would say nothing. he stood, the impersonation of silent obstinacy, digging the end of his stick into the earth, or striking at the blue bells and the brambles within reach, resolved to utter no word which brian could twist into any sort of promise for the future. he knew that his silence might injure his prospects, by lowering him in brian's estimation--brian being now the arbiter of his fate--but for all that he could not bring himself to make submission or to profess penitence. something made the words stick in his throat; no power on earth would at that moment have forced him to speak. "well," said brian at last, in a tone which showed deep disappointment, "i am sorry that you won't go so far, hugo. i hope you will do well, however, without professions. still, i should have been better satisfied to have your word for it--before i left netherglen." "where are you going?" said hugo, suddenly facing him. "i don't quite know." "to london?" "no, abroad." "abroad?" repeated hugo, with a wondering accent. "why should you go abroad?" "that's my own business." "but--but--" said the lad, flushing and paling, and stammering with eagerness, "i thought that you would stay here, and that netherglen and everything would belong to you, and--and----" "and that i should shoot, and fish, and ride, and disport myself gaily over my brother's inheritance--that my own hand deprived him of!" cried brian, with angry bitterness. "it is so likely! is it you who have no feeling, or do you fancy that i have none?" "but the place is yours," faltered hugo, with a guilty look, "strathleckie is yours, if netherglen is not." "mine! yes, it is mine after a fashion," said brian, while a hot, red flush crept up to his forehead, and his brows contracted painfully over his sad, dark eyes. "it is mine by law; mine by my father's will; and if it had come into my hands by any other way--if my brother had not died through my own carelessness--i suppose that i might have learnt to enjoy it like any other man. but as it is--i wish that every acre of it were at the bottom of the loch, and i there, too, for the matter of that! i have made up my mind that i will not benefit by richard's death. others may have the use of his wealth, but i am the last that should touch it. i will have the two or three hundred a year that he used to give me, and i will have nothing more." hugo's face had grown pale. he looked more dismayed by this utterance than by anything that brian as yet had said. he opened his lips once or twice before he could find his voice, and it was in curiously rough and broken tones that he at length asked a question. "is this because of what people say about--about you--and--richard?" he seemed to find it difficult to pronounce the dead man's name. brian lifted up his face. "what do people say about me and richard, then?" he said. hugo retreated a little. "if you don't know," he said, looking down miserably, "i can't tell you." brian's eyes blazed with sudden wrath. "you have said too little or too much," he said. "i must know the rest. what is it that people say?" "don't you know?" "no, i do not know. out with it." "i can't tell you," said hugo, biting his lips. "don't ask me, ask someone else. anyone." "is 'anyone' sure to know? i will hear it from you, and from no one else. what do people say?" hugo looked up at him and then down again. the struggle that was waging between the powers of good and evil in his soul had its effect even on his outer man. his very lips turned white as he considered what he should say. brian noted this change of colour, and was moved by it, thinking that he understood hugo's reluctance to give him pain. he subdued his own impatience, and spoke in a lower, quieter voice. "don't take it to heart, hugo, whatever it may be. it cannot be worse than the thing i have heard already--from my mother. i don't suppose i shall mind it much. they say, perhaps, that i--that i shot my brother"--(in spite of himself, brian's voice trembled with passionate indignation)--"that i killed richard purposely--knowing what i did--in order to possess myself of this miserable estate of his--is that what they say?" hugo answered by a bare little monosyllable-- "yes." "and who says this?" "everyone. the whole country side." "then--if this is believed so generally--why have no steps been taken to prove my guilt? good god, my guilt! why should i not be prosecuted at once for murder?" "there would be no evidence, they say." hugo murmured, uneasily. "it is simply a matter of assertion; you say you shot at a bird, not seeing him, and they say that you must have known that he was there. that is all." "a matter of assertion! well, they are right so far. if they don't believe my word, there is no more to be said," replied brian, sadly, his excitement suddenly forsaking him. "only i never thought that my word would even be asked for on such a subject by people who had known me all my life. you don't doubt me, do you, hugo?" "how could i?" said hugo, in a voice so low and shaken that brian could scarcely hear the words. but he felt instinctively that the lad's trust in him, on that one point, at least, had not wavered, and with a warm thrill of affection and gratitude he held out his hand. it gave him a rude shock to see that hugo drew back and would not take it. "what! you don't trust me after all?" he said, quickly. "i--i do," cried hugo, "but--what does it matter what i think? i'm not fit to take your hand--i cannot--i cannot----" his emotion was so genuine that brian felt some surprise, and also some compunction for having distrusted him before. "dear hugo," he said, gently, "i shall know you better now. we have always been friends; don't forget that we are friends still, although i may be on the other side of the world. i'm going to try and lose myself in some out-of-the-way place, and live where nobody will ever know my story, but i shall be rather glad to think sometimes that, at any rate, you understand what i felt about poor richard--that you never once misjudged me--i won't forget it, hugo, i assure you." he pressed hugo's still reluctant hand, and then made him sit down beside him upon the fallen tree. "we must talk business now," he said, more cheerfully--though it was a sad kind of cheerfulness after all--"for we have not much time left. i hear the luncheon-bell already. shall we finish our talk first? you don't care for luncheon? no more do i. where had we got to? only to the initial step--that i was going abroad. i have several other things to explain to you." his eyes looked out into the distance as he spoke; his voice lost its forced cheerfulness, and became immeasurably grave and sad. hugo listened with hidden face. he did not care to turn his gloomy brows and anxiously-twitching lips towards the speaker. "i shall never come back to scotland," said brian, slowly. "to england i may come some day, but it will be after many years. my mother has the management of strathleckie; as well as of netherglen, which belongs to her. she will live here, and use the house and dispose of the revenues as she pleases. angela remains with her." "but if you marry----" "i shall never marry. my life is spoilt--ruined. i could not ask any woman to share it with me. i shall be a wanderer on the face of the earth--like cain." "no, no!" cried hugo, passionately. "not like cain. there is no curse on you----" "not even my mother's curse? i am not sure," said brian. "i shall be a wanderer, at any rate; so much is certain: living on my three hundred a year, very comfortably, no doubt; until this life is over, and i come out clear on the other side----" hugo lifted his face. "you don't mean," he whispered, with a look of terrified suspicion, "that you would ever lay hands on yourself, and shorten your life in that way?" "why, no. what makes you think that i should choose such a course? i hope i am not a coward," said brian, simply. "no, i shall live out my days somewhere--somehow; but there is no harm in wishing that they were over." there was a pause. the dreamy expression of brian's eyes seemed to betoken that his thoughts were far away. hugo moved his stick nervously through the grass at his feet. he could not look up. "what else have you to tell me?" he said at last. "do you know the way in which strathleckie was settled?" said brian, quietly, coming down to earth from some high vision of other worlds and other lives than ours. "do you know that my grandfather made a curious will about it?" "no," said hugo. it was false, for he knew the terms of the will quite well; but he thought it more becoming to profess ignorance. "this place belonged to my mother's father. it was left to her children and their direct heirs; failing heirs, it reverts to a member of her family, a man of the name of gordon murray. we have no power to alienate any portion of it. the rents are ours, the house and lands are ours, for our lives only. if we die, you see, without children, the property goes to these murrays." "cousins of yours, are they?" "second cousins. i have never troubled myself about the exact degree of relationship until within the last day or two. i find that gordon murray would be my second cousin once removed, and that his child or children--he has more than one, i believe--would, therefore, be my third cousins. a little while ago i should have thought it highly improbable that any of the gordon murrays would ever come into possession of strathleckie, but it is not at all improbable now." "where do these murrays live?" "in london, i think. i am not sure. i have asked colquhoun to find out all that he can about them. if there is a young fellow in the family, it might be well to let him know his prospects and invite him down. i could settle an income on him if he were poor. then the estate would benefit somebody." "you can do as you like with the income," said hugo. the words escaped him half against his will. he stole a glance at brian when they were uttered, as if anxious to ascertain whether or no his cousin had divined his own grudging, envious thoughts. he heartily wished that richard's money had come to him. in brian's place it would never have crossed his mind that he should throw away the good fortune that had fallen to his lot. if only he were in this lucky young murray's shoes! brian did not guess the thoughts that passed through hugo's mind, but that murmured speech reminded him of another point which he wished to make quite clear. "yes, i can do what i like with the income," he said, "and also with a sum of money that my father invested many years ago which nobody has touched at present. there are twelve thousand pounds in the funds, part of which i propose to settle upon you so as to make you more independent of my help in the future." hugo stammered out something a little incoherent; it was a proposition which took him completely by surprise. brian continued quietly-- "of course, i might continue the allowance that you have had hitherto, but then, in the event of my death, it would cease, for i cannot leave it to you by will. i have thought that it would be better, therefore, to transfer to you six thousand pounds, hugo, over which you have complete control. all i ask is that you won't squander it. colquhoun says that he can safely get you five per cent for it. i would put it in his hands, if i were you. it will then bring you in three hundred a year." "brian, you are too good to me," said hugo. there were tears in his eyes; his voice trembled and his cheek flushed as he spoke "you don't know----" then he stopped and covered his face with his hands. a very unwonted feeling of shame and regret overpowered him; it was as much as he could do to refrain from crying like a child. "i can't thank you," he said, with a sob which made brian smile a little, and lay his hand affectionately on his shoulder. "don't thank me, dear boy," he said. "it's very little to do for you; but it will perhaps help to keep you out of difficulties. and if you are in any trouble, go to colquhoun. i will tell him how far he may go on helping you, and you can trust him. he shall not even tell me what you say to him, if you don't wish me to know. but, for heaven's sake, hugo, try to keep straight, and bring no disgrace upon our name. i have done what i could for you--i may do more, if necessary; but there are circumstances in which i should not be able to help you at all, and you know what those are." he thought that he understood hugo's impulsive disposition, but even he was not prepared for the burst of passionate remorse and affection with which the boy threw himself almost at his feet, kissing his hands and sobbing out promises of amendment with all the abandonment of his southern nature. brian was inclined to be displeased with this want of self-control; he spoke sharply at last and told him to command himself. but some time elapsed before hugo regained his calmness. and when brian returned to the house, he could not induce his cousin to return with him; the young fellow wandered away through the woods with drooping head and dejected mien, and was seen no more till late at night. he came back to the house too late to say good-bye to brian, who had left a few lines of farewell for him. his absence, perhaps, added a pang to the keen pain with which brian left his home; but if so, no trace of it was discernible in the kindly words which he had addressed to his cousin. he saw neither his mother nor angela before he went; indeed, he avoided any formal parting from the household in general, and let it be thought that he was likely to return in a short time. but as he took from his groom the reins of the dog-cart in which he was about to drive down to the station, he looked round him sadly and lingeringly, with a firm conviction at his heart that never again would his eyes rest upon the shining loch, the purple hills, and the ivy-grown, grey walls of netherglen. never again. he had said his last farewell. he had no home now! chapter viii. in gower-street. angela vivian's brother rupert was, perhaps, not unlike her in feature and colouring, but there was a curious dissimilarity of expression between the two. angela's dark, grey eyes had a sweetness in which rupert's were lacking; the straight, regular features, which with her were brightened by a tender play of emotion, were, with him, cold and grave. the mouth was a fastidious one; the bearing of the man, though full of distinction, could sometimes be almost repellantly haughty. the merest sketch of him would not be complete unless we added that his dress was faultless, and that he was apt to bestow a somewhat finical care upon the minor details of his toilet. it was in october, when "everybody" was still supposed to be out of town, that rupert vivian walked composedly down gower-street meditating on the news which the latest post had brought him. in sheer absence of mind he almost passed the house at which he had been intending to call, and he stood for a minute or two upon the steps, as if not quite sure whether or no he would enter. finally, however, he knocked at the door and rang the bell, then prepared himself, with a resigned air, to wait until it should be opened. he had never yet found that a first summons gained him admittance to that house. after waiting five minutes and knocking twice, a slatternly maid appeared and asked him to walk upstairs. rupert followed her leisurely; he knew very well what sort of reception to expect, and was not surprised when she merely opened the drawing-room door, and left him to announce himself. "no ceremony" was the rule in the herons' household, and very objectionable rupert vivian sometimes found it. the day had been foggy and dark, and a bright fire threw a cheerful light over the scene which presented itself to rupert's eyes. a pleasant clinking of spoons and cups and saucers met his ear. he stood at the door for a moment unobserved, listening and looking on. he was a privileged person in that house, and considered himself quite at liberty to look and listen if he chose. the room had an air of comfort verging upon luxury, but if was untidy to a degree which rupert thought disgraceful. for the rich hues of the curtains, the artistic character of the japanese screens and oriental embroideries, the exquisite landscape-paintings on the walls, were compatible with grave deficiencies in the list of more ordinary articles of furniture. there were two or three picturesque, high-backed chairs, made of rosewood (black with age) and embossed leather, but the rest of the seats consisted of divans, improvised by ingenious fingers out of packing-boxes and cushions covered with morris chintzes; or brown windsor chairs, evidently imported straight from the kitchen. a battered old writing-desk had an incongruous look when placed next to a costly buhl clock on a table inlaid indeed with mother-of-pearl, but wanting in one leg; and so no valuable blue china was apt to pass unobserved upon the mantelpiece because it was generally found in company with a child's mug, a plate of crusts, or a painting-rag. a grand piano stood open, and was strewn with sheets of music; two sketching portfolios conspicuously adorned the hearth-rug. a tea-table was drawn up near the fire, and the firelight was reflected pleasantly in the gleaming silver and porcelain of the tea-service. the human elements of the scene were very diverse. mrs. heron, a languid-looking, fair-haired woman, lay at full length on one of the divans. her step-daughter, kitty, sat at the tea-table, and kitty's elder brother, percival, a tall, broad-shouldered young man of eight-and-twenty, was leaning against the mantelpiece. a girl, who looked about twenty-one years of age was sitting in the deepest shadow of the room. the firelight played upon her hands, which lay quietly folded before her in her lap, but it did not touch her face. two or three children were playing about the floor with their toys and a white fox-terrier. the young man was talking very fast, two at least of the ladies were laughing, the children were squabbling and shouting. it was a babel. as rupert stood at the door he caught the sense of percival's last rapid sentences. "no right nor wrong in the case. you must allow me to say that you take an exclusively feminine view of the matter, which, of course, is narrow. i have as much right to sell my brains to the highest bidder as my friend vivian has to sell his pictures when he gets the chance--which isn't often." "there is nothing like the candour of an impartial friend," said rupert, good-humouredly, as he advanced into the room. "allow me to tell you that i sold my last painting this morning. how do you do, mrs. heron?" his appearance produced a lull in the storm. percival ceased to talk and looked slightly--very slightly--disconcerted. mrs. heron half rose; kitty made a raid upon the children's toys, and carried some of them to the other end of the room, whither the tribe followed her, lamenting. then, percival laughed aloud. "where did you come from?" he said, in a round, mellow, genial voice, which was singularly pleasant to the ear. "'listeners hear no good of themselves.' you've proved the proverb." "not for the first time when you are the speaker. i have found that out. how are you, kitty? good evening, miss murray." "how good of you to come to see us, mr. vivian!" said mrs. heron, in a low, sweetly-modulated voice, as she held out one long, white hand to her visitor. she re-arranged her draperies a little, and lay back gracefully when she had spoken. rupert had never seen her do anything but lie on sofas in graceful attitudes since he first made her acquaintance. it was her _métier_. nobody expected anything else from her except vague, theoretic talk, which she called philosophy. she had been kitty's governess in days gone by. mr. heron, an artist of some repute, married her when he had been a widower for twelve months only. since that time she had become the mother of three handsome, but decidedly noisy, children, and had lapsed by degrees into the life of a useless, fine lady, to whom household cares and the duties of a mother were mere drudgery, and were left to fall as much as possible on the shoulders of other people. nevertheless, mrs. heron's selfishness was of a gentle and even loveable type. she was seldom out of humour, rarely worried or fretful; she was only persistently idle, and determined to consider herself in feeble health. vivian's acquaintance with the herons dated from his first arrival in london, six years ago, when he boarded with them for a few months. the disorder of the household had proved too great a trial to his fastidious tastes to be borne for a longer space of time. he had, however, formed a firm friendship with the whole family, especially with percival; and for the last three or four years the two young men had occupied rooms in the same house and virtually lived together. to anyone who knew the characters of the friends, their friendship was somewhat remarkable. vivian's fault was an excess of polish and refinement; he attached unusual value to matters of mere taste and culture. possibly this was the link which really attached him to percival heron, who was a man of considerable intellectual power, although possessed sometimes by a sort of irrepressible brusqueness and roughness of manner, with which he could make himself exceedingly disagreeable even to his friends. percival was taller, stronger, broader about the shoulders, deeper in the chest, than vivian--in fact, a handsomer man in all respects. well-cut features, pale, but healthy-looking; brilliant, restless, dark eyes; thick brown hair and moustache; a well-knit, vigorous frame, which gave no sign as yet of the stoutness to which it inclined in later years, these were points that made his appearance undeniably striking and attractive. a physiognomist might, however, have found something to blame as well as to praise in his features. there was an ominous upright line between the dark brows, which surely told of a variable temper; the curl of the laughing lips, and the fall of the heavy moustache only half concealed a curious over-sensitiveness in the lines of the too mobile mouth. it was not the face of a great thinker nor of a great saint, but of a humorous, quick-witted, impatient man, of wide intelligence, and very irritable nervous organisation. the air of genial hilarity which he could sometimes wear was doubtless attractive to a man of vivian's reserved temperament. percival's features beamed with good humour--he laughed with his whole heart when anything amused him. vivian used to look at him in wonder sometimes, and think that percival was more like a great overgrown boy than a man of eight-and-twenty. on the other hand, percival said that vivian was a prig. kitty, sitting at the tea-table, did not think so. she loved her brother very much, but she considered mr. vivian a hero, a demigod, something a little lower, perhaps, than the angels, but not very much. kitty was only sixteen, which accounts, possibly, for her delusion on this subject. she was slim, and round, and white, with none of the usual awkwardness of her age about her. she had a well-set, graceful little head, and small, piquant features; her complexion had not much colour, but her pretty lips showed the smallest and pearliest of teeth when she smiled, and her dark eyes sparkled and danced under the thin, dark curve of her eyebrows and the shade of her long, curling lashes. then her hair would not on any account lie straight, but disposed itself in dainty tendrils and love-locks over her forehead, which gave her almost a childish look, and was a serious trouble to miss kitty herself, who preferred her step-mother's abundant flaxen plaits, and did not know the charm that those soft rings of curling hair lent to her irregular, little face. vivian took a cup of tea from her with an indulgent smile, he liked kitty extremely well. he lent her books sometimes, which she did not always read. i am afraid that he tried to form her mind. kitty had a mind of her own, which did not want forming. perhaps percival heron, was right when he said that vivian was a prig. he certainly liked to lecture kitty; and she used to look up at him with great, grave eyes when he was lecturing, and pretend to understand what he was saying. she very often did not understand a word; but rupert never suspected that. he thought that kitty was a very simple-minded little person. "there was quite an argument going on when you appeared, mr. vivian," said mrs. heron, languidly. "it is sometimes a most difficult matter to decide what is right and what is wrong. i think you must decide for us." "i am not skilled in casuistry," said vivian, smiling. "is percival giving forth some of his heresies?" "i was never less heretical in my life," cried percival. "state your case, bess; i'll give you the precedence." vivian turned towards the dark corner. "it is miss murray's difficulty, is it?" he said, with a look of some interest. "i shall be glad to hear it." the girl in the dark corner stirred a little uneasily, but she spoke with no trepidation of manner, and her voice was clear and cool. "the question," she said, "is whether a man may write articles in a daily paper, advocating views which are not his own, simply because they are the views of the editor. i call it dishonesty." "so do i," said kitty, warmly. "dishonesty? not a bit of it," rejoined percival. "the writer is the mouthpiece of the paper, which advocates certain views; he sinks his individuality; he does not profess to explain his own opinions. besides, after all, what is dishonesty? why should people erect honesty into such a great virtue? it is like truth-telling and--peaches; nobody wants them out of their proper season; they are never good when they are forced." "i don't see any analogy between truth-telling and peaches," said the calm voice from the corner. "you tell the truth all the year round, don't you, bess?" said kitty, with a little malice. "but we are mortal, and don't attempt to practice exotic virtues," said percival, mockingly. "i see no reason why i should not flourish upon what is called dishonesty, just as i see no reason why i should not tell lies. it is only the diseased sensibility of modern times which condemns either." "modern times?" said vivian. "i have heard of a commandment----" "good heavens!" said percival, throwing back his handsome head, "vivian is going to be didactic! i think this conversation has lasted quite long enough. elizabeth, consider yourself worsted in the argument, and contest the point no longer." "there has been no argument," said elizabeth. "there has been assertion on your part, and indignation on ours; that is all." "then am i to consider myself worsted?" asked percival. but he got no answer. presently, however, he burst out with renewed vigour. "right and wrong! what does it mean? i hate the very sound of the words. what is right to me is wrong to you, and _vice versa_. it's all a matter of convention. 'now, who shall arbitrate? as browning says-- 'now, who shall arbitrate? ten men love what i hate, shun what i follow, slight what i receive; ten, who in ears and eyes match me; we all surmise, they, this thing, and i, that; whom shall my soul believe?" the lines rang out boldly upon the listeners' ears. percival was one of the few men who can venture to recite poetry without making themselves ridiculous. he continued hotly-- "there is neither truth nor falsehood in the world, and those who aver that there is are either impostors or dupes." "ah," said vivian, "you remind me of bacon's celebrated sentence--'many there be that say with jesting pilate, what is truth? but do not wait for an answer.'" "i think you have both quoted quite enough," said kitty, lightly. "you forget how little i understand of these deep subjects. i don't know how it is, but percival always says the things most calculated to annoy people; he never visits papa's studio without abusing modern art, or meets a doctor without sneering at the medical profession, or loses an opportunity of telling elizabeth, who loves truth for its own sake, that he enjoys trickery and falsehood, and thinks it clever to tell lies." "very well put, kitty," said percival, approvingly. "you have hit off your brother's amiable character to the life. like the child in the story, i could never tell why people loved me so, but now i know." there was a general laugh, and also a discordant clatter at the other end of the room, where the children, hitherto unnoticed, had come to blows over a broken toy. "what a noise they make!" said percival, with a frown. "perhaps they had better go away," murmured mrs. heron, gently. "dear lizzy, will you look after them a little? they are always good with you." the girl rose and went silently towards the three children, who at once clustered round her to pour their woes into her ear. she bent down and spoke to them lovingly, as it seemed, and finally quitted the room with one child clinging round her neck, and the others hanging to her gown. percival gave vent to a sudden, impatient sigh. "miss murray is fond of children," said vivian, looking after her pleasantly. "and i am not," snapped kitty, with something of her brother's love of opposition in her tone. "i hate children." "you! you are only a child yourself," said he, turning towards her with a kindly look in his grave eyes, and an unwonted smile. but kitty's wrath was appeased by neither look nor smile. "then i had better join my compeers," she said, tartly. "i shall at least get the benefit of elizabeth's affection for children." vivian's chair was close to hers, and the tea-table partly hid them from percival's lynx eyes. mrs. heron was half asleep. so there was nothing to hinder mr. rupert vivian from putting out his hand and taking kitty's soft fingers for a moment soothingly in his own. he did not mean anything but an elderly-brotherly, patronising sort of affection by it; but kitty was "thrilled through every nerve" by that tender pressure, and sat mute as a mouse, while vivian turned to her step-mother and began to speak. "i had some news this morning of my sister," he said. "you heard of the sad termination to her engagement?" "no; what was that?" "she was to be married before christmas to a mr. luttrell; but mr. luttrell was killed a short time ago by a shot from his brother's gun when they were out shooting together." "how very sad!" "the brother has gone--or is going--abroad; report says that he takes the matter very much to heart. and angela is going to live with mrs. luttrell, the mother of these two men. i thought these details might be interesting to you," said vivian, looking round half-questioningly, "because i understand that the luttrells are related to your young friend--or cousin--miss murray." "indeed? i never heard her mention the name," said mrs. heron. vivian thought of something that he had recently heard in connection with miss murray and the luttrell family, and wondered whether she knew that if brian luttrell died unmarried she would succeed, to a great scotch estate. but he said nothing more. "where is elizabeth?" said percival, restlessly. "she is a great deal too much with these children--they drag the very life out of her. i shall go and find her." he marched away, noting as he went, with much dissatisfaction, that mrs. heron was inviting vivian to dinner, and that he was accepting the invitation. he went to the top of the house, where he knew that a room was appropriated to the use of the younger children. here he found elizabeth for once without the three little herons. she was standing in the middle of the room, engaged in the prosaic occupation of folding up a table-cloth. he stood in the doorway looking at her for a minute or two before he spoke. she was a tall girl, with fine shoulders, and beautiful arms and hands. he noticed them particularly as she held up the cloth, shook it out, and folded it. a clear, fine-grained skin, with a colour like that of a june rose in her cheeks, well-opened, calm-looking, grey-blue eyes, a mass of golden hair, almost too heavy for her head; a well-cut profile, and rather stately bearing, made elizabeth murray a noticeable person even amongst women more strictly beautiful than herself. she was poorly and plainly dressed, but poverty and plainness became her, throwing into strong relief the beauty of her rose-tints and finely-moulded figure. she did not start when she saw percival at the door; she smiled at him frankly, and asked why he had come. "do you know anything of the luttrells?" he asked, abruptly. "the luttrells of netherglen? they are my third cousins." "you never speak of them." "i never saw them." "do you know what has happened to one of them." "yes. he shot his brother by mistake a few days ago." "i was thinking rather of the one who was killed," said percival. "where did you see the account? in the newspaper?" "yes." then she hesitated a little. "and i had a letter, too." "from the luttrells themselves?" "from their lawyer." "and you held your tongue about it?" "there was nothing to say," said elizabeth, with a smile. percival shrugged his shoulders, and went back to the drawing-room. chapter ix. elizabeth's wooing. percival and his friend dined with the herons that evening. mr. heron was an artist by profession; he was a fair, abstracted-looking man, with gold eye-glasses, which he was always sticking ineffectually upon the bridge of his nose and nervously feeling for when they tumbled down again. he had painted several good pictures in his time, and was in the habit of earning a fairly good income; but owing to some want of management, either on his part or his wife's, his income never seemed quite large enough for the needs of the household. the servants' wages were usually in arrear; the fittings of the house were broken and never repaired; there were wonderful gaps in the furniture and the china, which nobody ever appeared to think of filling up. rupert remembered the ways of the house when he had boarded there, and was not surprised to find himself dining upon mutton half-burnt and half-raw, potatoes more like bullets than vegetables, and a partially cooked rice-pudding, served upon the remains of at least three dinner-services, accompanied by sour beer and very indifferent claret. percival did not even pretend to eat; he sat back in his chair and declared, with an air of polite disgust, that he was not hungry. rupert made up for his deficiencies, however; he swallowed what was set before him and conversed with his hostess, who was quite unconscious that anything was amiss. mrs. heron had a vague taste for metaphysics and political economy; she had beautiful theories of education, which she was always intending, at some future time, to put into practice for the benefit of her three little boys, harry, willy, and jack. she spoke of these theories, with her blue eyes fixed on vacancy and her fork poised gracefully in the air, while vivian laboured distastefully through his dinner, and percival frowned in silence at the table-cloth. "i have always thought," mrs. heron was saying sweetly, "that children ought not to be too much controlled. their development should be perfectly free. my children grow up like young plants, with plenty of sun and air; they play as they like; they work when they feel that they can work best; and, if at times they are a little noisy, at any rate their noise never develops into riot." percival did not, perhaps, intend her to hear him, but, below his breath, he burst into a sardonic, little laugh and an aside to his sister kitty. "never into riot! i never heard them stop short of it!" mrs. heron looked at him uncertainly, and took pains to explain herself. "up to a certain point, i was going to say, percival, dear. at the proper age, i think, that discipline, entire and perfect discipline, ought to begin." "and what is the proper age?" said percival, ironically. "for it seems to me that the boys are now quite old enough to endure a little discipline." "oh, at present," said mrs. heron, with undisturbed composure, "they are in elizabeth's hands. i leave them entirely to her. i trust elizabeth perfectly." "is that the reason why elizabeth does not dine with us?" said percival, looking at his step-mother with an expression of deep hostility. but mrs. heron's placidity was of a kind which would not be ruffled. "elizabeth is so kind," she said. "she teaches them, and does everything for them; but, of course, they must go to school by-and-bye. dear papa will not let me teach them myself. he tells me to forget that ever i was a governess; but, indeed"--with a faint, pensive smile--"my instincts are too strong for me sometimes, and i long to have my pupils back again. do i not, kitty, darling?" "i was not a pupil of yours very long, isabel," said kitty, who never brought herself to the point of calling mrs. heron by anything but her christian name. "not long," sighed mrs. heron. "too short a time for me." at this point mr. heron, who noticed very little of what was going on around him, turned to his son with a question about the politics of the day. percival, with his nose in the air, hardly deigned at first to answer; but upon vivian's quietly propounding some strongly conservative views, which always acted on the younger heron as a red rag is supposed to act upon a bull, he waxed impatient and then argumentative, until at last he talked himself into a good humour, and made everybody else good humoured. when they returned to the untidy but pleasant-looking drawing-room, they found elizabeth engaged in picking up the children's toys, straightening the sheets of music on the piano, and otherwise making herself generally useful; she had changed her dress, and put on a long, plain gown of white cashmere, which suited her admirably, although it was at least three years old, undeniably tight for her across the shoulders, and short at the wrists, having shrunk by repeated washings since the days when it first was made. she wore no trimmings and no ornaments, whereas kitty, in her red frock, sported half-a-dozen trumpery bracelets, a silver necklace, and a little bunch of autumn flowers; and mrs. heron's pale-blue draperies were adorned with dozens of yards of cheap cream-coloured lace. vivian looked at elizabeth and wondered, almost for the first time, why she differed so greatly from the herons. he had often seen her before; but, being now particularly interested by what he had heard about her, he observed her more than usual. mrs. heron sat down at the piano; she played well, and was rather fond of exhibiting her musical proficiency. percival and kitty were engaged in an animated, low-toned conversation. rupert approached elizabeth, who was arranging some sketches in a portfolio with the diligence of a housemaid. she was standing just within the studio, which was separated from the drawing-room by a velvet curtain now partially drawn aside. "do you sketch? are these your drawings?" he asked her. "no, they are uncle alfred's. i cannot draw." "you are musical, i suppose," said rupert, carelessly. he took it for granted that, if a girl did not draw, she must needs play the piano. but her next words undeceived him. "no, i can't play. i have no accomplishments." "what do you mean by accomplishments?" asked vivian, smiling. "i mean that i know nothing about french and german, or music and drawing," said elizabeth, calmly. "i never had any systematic education. i should make rather a good housemaid, i believe, but my friends won't allow me to take a housemaid's situation." "i should think not," ejaculated vivian. "but it is all that i am fit for," she continued, quietly. "and i think it is rather a pity that i am not allowed to be happy in my own way." there was a little silence. vivian felt himself scarcely equal to the occasion. presently she said, with more quickness of speech than usual:-- "you have been in scotland lately, have you not?" "i was there a short time ago, but for two days only." "ah, yes, you went to netherglen?" "i did. the luttrells are connections of yours, are they not, miss murray?" "very distant ones," said elizabeth. "you know that brian luttrell has gone abroad?" "i have heard so." there was very little to be got out of miss murray. vivian was almost glad when percival joined them, and he was able to slip back to kitty, with whom he had no difficulty in carrying on a conversation. the studio was dimly lighted, and percival, either by accident or design, allowed the curtain to fall entirely over the aperture between the two rooms. he looked round him. mr. heron was absent, and they had the room to themselves. several unfinished canvasses were leaning against the walls; the portrait of an exceedingly cadaverous-looking old man was conspicuous upon the artist's easel; the lay figure was draped like a monk, and had a cowl drawn over its stiff, wooden head. percival shrugged his shoulders. "my father's studio isn't an attractive-looking place," he said, with a growl of disgust in his voice. "why did you come into it?" said elizabeth. "i had a good reason," he answered, looking at her. if she understood the meaning that he wished to convey, it certainly did not embarrass or distress her in the least. she gave him a very friendly, but serious, kind of smile, and went on calmly with her work of sorting the papers and sketches that lay scattered around her. "elizabeth," he said, "i am offended with you." "that happens so often," she replied, "that i am never greatly surprised nor greatly concerned at hearing it." "it is of little consequence to you, no doubt," said percival, rather huffily; "but i am--for once--perfectly serious, elizabeth. why could you not come down to dinner to-night when rupert and i were here?" "i very seldom come down to dinner. i was with the children." "the children are not your business." "indeed they are. mrs. heron has given them into my charge, and i am glad of it. not that i care for all children," said elizabeth, with the cool impartiality that was wont to drive percival to the very verge of distraction. "i dislike some children very much, indeed, but, you see, i happen--fortunately for myself--to be fond of harry, willie, and jack." "fortunately, for yourself, do you say? fortunately for them! you must be fond of them, indeed. you can have their society all day and every day; and yet you could not spare a single hour to come and dine with us like a rational being. vivian will think they make a nursery-maid of you, and i verily believe they do!" "what does it signify to us what mr. vivian thinks? i don't mind being taken for a nursery-maid at all, if i am only doing my proper work. but i would have come down, percival, indeed, i would, if little jack had not seemed so fretful and unwell. i am afraid something really is the matter with his back; he complains so much of pain in it, and cannot sleep at night. i could not leave him while he was crying and in pain, could i?" "what did you do with him?" asked percival, after a moment's pause. "i walked up and down the room. he went to sleep in my arms." "of course, you tired yourself out with that great, heavy boy!" "you don't know how light little jack is; you cannot have taken him in your arms for a long time, percival," said she, in a hurt tone; "and i am very strong. my hands ought to be of some use to me, if my brain is not." "your brain is strong enough, and your will is strong enough for anything, but your hands----" "are they to be useless?" "yes, they are to be useless," he said, "and somebody else must work for you." "that arrangement would not suit me. i like to work for myself," she answered, smiling. they were standing on opposite sides of a small table on which the portfolio of drawings rested. percival was holding up one side of the portfolio, and she was placing the sketches one by one upon each other. "do you know what you look like?" said percival, suddenly. there was a thrill of pleasurable excitement in his tone, a glow of ardour in his dark eyes. "you look like a tall, white lily to-night, with your white dress and your gleaming hair. the pure white of the petals and the golden heart of the lily have found their match." "i am recompensed for the trouble i took in changing my dress this evening," said elizabeth, glancing down at it complacently. "i did not expect that it would bring me so poetic a compliment. thank you, percival." "'consider the lilies; they toil not, neither do they spin,'" quoted percival, recklessly. "why should you toil and spin?--a more beautiful lily than any one of them. if solomon in all his glory was not equal to those judean lilies, then i may safely say that the queen of sheba would be beaten outright by our queen elizabeth, with her white dress and her golden locks!" "mrs. heron would say you were profane," said elizabeth, tranquilly. "these comparisons of yours don't please me exactly, percival; they always remind me of the flowery leaders in some of the evening papers, and make me remember that you are a journalist. they have a professional air." "a professional air!" repeated percival, in disgust. he let the lid of the portfolio fall with a bang upon the table. several of the sketches flew wildly over the floor, and elizabeth turned to him with a reproachful look, but she had no time to protest, for in that moment he had seized her hands and drawn her aside with him to a sofa that stood on one side of the room. "you shall not answer me in that way," he said, half-irritated, half-amused, and wholly determined to have his way. "you shall sit down there and listen to me in a serious spirit, if you can. no, don't shake your head and look at me so mockingly. it is time that we understood each other, and i don't mean another night to pass over our heads without some decision being arrived at. elizabeth, you must know that you have my happiness in your hands. i can't live without you. i can't bear to see you making yourself a slave to everybody, with no one to love you, no one to work for you and save you from anxiety and care. let me work for you, now, dearest; be my wife, and i will see that you have your proper place, and that you are tended and cared for as a woman ought to be." elizabeth had withdrawn her hands from his; she even turned a little pale. he fancied that the tears stood in her eyes. "oh," she said, "i wish you had not said this to me, percival." it was easy for him to slip down from his low seat to a footstool, and there, on one knee, to look full into her face, and let his handsome, dark eyes plead for him. "why should i not have said it?" he breathed, softly. "has it not been the dream of my life for months?--i might almost say for years? i loved you ever since you first came amongst us, elizabeth, years ago." "did you, indeed?" said elizabeth. a light of humour showed itself through the tears that had come into her eyes. an amused, reluctant smile curved the corners of her mouth. "what, when i was an awkward, clumsy, ignorant schoolgirl, as i remember your calling me one day after i had done something exceptionally stupid? and when you played practical jokes upon me--hung my doll up by its hair, and made me believe that there was a ghost in the attics--did you care for me then? oh, no, percival, you forget! and probably you exaggerate the amount of your feeling as much as you do the length of time it has lasted." "it's no laughing matter, i assure you, elizabeth," said percival, laughing a little himself at these recollections, but looking vexed at the same time. "i am perfectly serious now, and very much in earnest; and i can't believe that my stupid jokes, when i was a mere boy, have had such an effect upon your mind as to prevent you from caring for me now." "no," said elizabeth. "they make no difference; but--i'm very sorry, percival--i really don't think that it would do." "what would not do? what do you mean?" said percival, frowning. "this arrangement; this--this--proposition of yours. nobody would like it." "nobody could object. i have a perfect right to marry if i choose, and whom i choose. i am independent of my father." "you could not marry yet, percival," she said, in rather a chiding tone. "i could--if you would not mind sharing my poverty with me. if you loved me, elizabeth, you would not mind." "i am afraid i do not love you--in that way," said elizabeth, meditatively. "no, it would never do. i never dreamt of such a thing." "nobody expects you to have dreamt of it," rejoined percival, with a short laugh. "the dreaming can be left to me. the question is rather whether you will think of it now--consider it a little, i mean. it seems to be a new idea to you--though i must say i wonder that you have not seen how much i loved you, elizabeth! i am willing to wait until you have grown used to it. i cannot believe that you do not care for me! you would not be so cruel; you must love me a little--just a very little, elizabeth." "well, i do," said elizabeth, smiling at his vehemence. "i do love you--more than a little--as i love you all. you have been so good to me that i could not help caring for you--in spite of the doll and the ghost in the attic." her smile grew gravely mischievous as she finished the sentence. "oh, that is not what i want," cried percival, starting up from his lowly position at her feet. "that is not the kind of love that i am asking for at all." "i am afraid you will get no other," said elizabeth, with a ring of sincerity in her voice that left no room for coquetry. "i am sorry, but i cannot help it, percival." "your love is not given to anyone else?" he demanded, fiercely. "you have no right to ask. but if it is a satisfaction to you, i can assure you that i have never cared for anyone in that way. i do not know what it means," said elizabeth, looking directly before her. "i have never been able to understand." "let me make you understand," murmured percival, his momentary anger melting before the complete candour of her eyes. "let me teach you to love, elizabeth." she was silent--irresolute, as it appeared to him. "you would learn very easily," said he. "try--let me try." "i don't think i could be taught," she answered, slowly. "and really i am not sure that i care to learn." "that is simply because you do not know your own heart," said percival, dogmatically. "trust me, and wait awhile. i will have no answer now, elizabeth. i will ask you again." "and suppose my answer is the same?" "it won't be the same," said percival, in a masterful sort of way. "you will understand by-and-bye." she did not see the fire in his eyes, nor the look of passionate yearning that crossed his face as he stood beside her, or she would scarcely have been surprised when he bent down suddenly and pressed his lips to her forehead. she started to her feet, colouring vividly and angrily. "how dare you, percival!----" she began. but she could not finish the sentence. kitty called her from the other room. kitty's face appeared; and the curtain was drawn aside by an unseen hand with a great clatter of rings upon the pole. "where have you been all this time?" said she. "isabel wants you, lizzie. percival, mr. vivian talks of going." elizabeth vanished through the curtain. percival had not even time to breathe into her ear the "forgive me" with which he meant to propitiate her. he was not very penitent for his offence. he thought that he was sure of elizabeth's pardon, because he thought himself sure of elizabeth's love. but, as a matter of fact, that stolen kiss did not at all advance his cause with elizabeth murray. he did not see her again that night--a fact which sent him back to his lodging in an ill-satisfied frame of mind. he and vivian shared a sitting-room between them; and, on their return from mr. heron's, they disposed themselves for their usual smoke and chat. but neither of them seemed inclined for conversation. rupert lay back in a long lounging-chair; percival turned over the leaves of a new publication which had been sent to him for review, and uttered disparaging comments upon it from time to time. "i hope all critics are not so hypercritical as you are," said vivian at last, when the volume had finally been tossed to the other end of the room with an exclamation of disgust. "pah! why will people write such abominable stuff?" said percival. "reach me down that volume of bacon's essays behind you; i must have something to take the taste out of my mouth before i begin to write." vivian handed him the book, and watched him with some interest as he read. the frown died away from his forehead, and the mouth gradually assumed a gentler expression before he had turned the first page. in five minutes he was so much absorbed that he did not hear the question which vivian addressed to him. "what position," said rupert, deliberately, "does miss murray hold in your father's house?" "eh? what? what position?" away went percival's book to the floor; he raised himself in his chair, and began to light his pipe, which had gone out. "what do you mean?" he said. "is she a ward of your father's? is she a relation of yours?" "yes, of course, she is," said percival, rather resentfully. "she is a cousin. let me see. her father, gordon murray, was my mother's brother. she is my first cousin. and cinderella in general to the household," he added, grimly. "oh, gordon murray was her father? so i supposed. then if poor richard luttrell had not died i suppose she would have been a sort of connection of my sister's. i remember angela wondered whether gordon murray had left any family." "why?" "why? you know the degree of relationship and the terms of the will made by mrs. luttrell's father, don't you?" "not i." "gordon murray--this miss murray's father--was next heir after the two luttrells, if they died childless. of course, brian is still living; but if he died, miss murray would inherit, i understand." "there's not much chance," said percival, lightly. "not much," responded vivian. they were interrupted by a knock at the door. the landlady, with many apologies, brought them a telegram which had been left at the house during their absence, and which she had forgotten to deliver. it was addressed to vivian, who tore it open, read it twice, and then passed it on to percival without a word. it was from angela vivian, and contained these words only-- "brian luttrell is dead." chapter x. brother dino. when brian luttrell left england he had no very clear idea of the places that he meant to visit, or the things that he wished to do. he wished only to leave old associations behind him--to forget, and, if possible to be forgotten. he was conscious of a curious lack of interest in life; it seemed to him as though the very springs of his being were dried up at their source. as a matter of fact, he was thoroughly out of health, as well as out of spirits; he had been over-working himself in london, and was scarcely out of the doctor's hands before he went to scotland; then the shock of his brother's death and the harshness of his mother toward him had contributed their share to the utter disorganisation of his faculties. in short, brian was not himself at all; it might even be said that he was out of his right mind. he had attacks of headache, generally terminating in a kind of stupor rather than sleep, during which he could scarcely be held responsible for the things he said or did. at other times, a feverish restlessness came upon him; he could not sleep, and he could not eat; he would then go out and walk for miles and miles, until he was thoroughly exhausted. it was a wonder that his mind did not give way altogether. his sanity hung upon a thread. it was in this state that he found himself one day upon a rhine boat, bound for mainz. he had a very vague notion of how he had managed to get there; he had no notion at all of his reason for travelling in that direction. it dawned upon him by degrees that he had chosen the very same route, and made the same stoppages, as he had done when he was a mere boy, travelling with his father upon the continent. richard and his mother had not been there; brian and mr. luttrell had spent a particularly happy time together, and the remembrance of it soothed his troubled brain, and caused his eye to rest with a sort of dreamy pleasure upon the scene around him. it was rather late for a rhine expedition, and the boat was not at all full. brian rather thought that the journey with his father had been taken at about the same time of the year--perhaps even a little later. he had a special memory of the wealth of virginian creeper which covered the buildings near coblentz. he looked out for it when the boat stopped at the landing-stage, and thought of the time when he had wandered hand-in-hand with his father in the pleasant anlagen on the river banks, and gathered a scarlet trail of leaves from the castle walls. the leaves were in their full autumnal glory now; he must have been there at about the same season when he was a boy. after determining this fact to his satisfaction, brian went back to the seat that he had found for himself at the end of the boat, and began once more to watch the gliding panorama of "castled crag" and vine-clad slope, which was hardly as familiar to him as it is to most of us. but, after all, drachenfels and ehrenbreitstein had no great interest for him. he had no great interest in anything. perhaps the little excitement and bustle at the landing-places pleased him more than the scenery itself--the peasants shouting to each other from the banks, the baskets of grapes handed in one after another, the patient oxen waiting in the roads between the shafts; these were sights which made no great claim upon his attention and were curiously soothing to his jaded nerves. he watched them languidly, but was not sorry from time to time to close his eyes and shut out his surroundings altogether. the worst of it was, that when he had closed his eyes for a little time, the scene in the wood always came back to him with terrible distinctness, or else there rose up before his eyes a picture of that darkened room, with richard's white face upon the pillow and his mother's dark form and outstretched hand. these were the memories that would not let him sleep at night or take his ease in the world by day. he could not forget the past. there was another passenger on the boat who passed and repassed brian several times, and looked at him with curious attention. brian's face was one which was always apt to excite interest. it had grown thin and pallid during the past fortnight; the eyes were set in deep hollows, and wore a painfully sad expression. he looked as if he had passed through some period of illness or sorrow of which the traces could never be wholly obliterated. there was a pathetic hopelessness in his face which was somewhat remarkable in so young a man. the passenger who regarded him with so much interest was also a young man, not more than brian's own age, but apparently not an englishman. he spoke english a little, though with a foreign accent, but his french was remarkably good and pure. he stopped short at last in front of brian and eyed him attentively, evidently believing that the young man was asleep. but brian was not asleep; he knew that the regular footstep of his travelling companion had ceased, and was hardly surprised, when he opened his eyes, to find the frenchman--if such he were--standing before him. brian looked at him attentively for a moment, and recognised the fact that the young foreigner wore an ecclesiastical habit, a black _soutane_ or cassock, such as is worn in roman catholic seminaries, not necessarily denoting that the person who wears it has taken priest's vows upon him. brian was not sufficiently well versed in the subject to know what grade was signified by the dress of the young ecclesiastic, but he conjectured (chiefly from its plainness and extreme shabbiness) that it was not a very high one. the young man's face pleased him. it was intellectual and refined in contour, rather of the ascetic type; with that faint redness about the heavy eyelids which suggests an insufficiency of sleep or a too great amount of study; large, penetrating, dark eyes, underneath a broad, white brow; a firm mouth and chin. there was something about his face which seemed vaguely familiar to brian; and yet he could not in the least remember where he had seen it before, or what associations it called up in his mind. the young man courteously raised his broad, felt hat. "pardon me," he said, "you are ill--suffering--can i do nothing for you?" "i am not ill, thank you. you are very good, but i want nothing," said brian, with a feeling of annoyance which showed itself in the coldness of his manner. and yet he was attracted rather than repelled by the stranger's voice and manner. the voice was musical, the manner decidedly prepossessing. he was not sorry that the young ecclesiastic did not seem ready to accept the rebuff, but took a seat on the bench by his side, and made a remark upon the scenery through which they were passing. brian responded slightly enough, but with less coldness; and in a few minutes--he did not know how it happened--he was talking to the stranger more freely than he had done to anyone since he left england. their conversation was certainly confined to trivial topics; but there was a frankness and a delicacy of perception about the young foreigner which made him a very attractive companion. he gave brian in a few words an outline of the chief events of his life, and seemed to expect no confidence from brian in return. he had been brought up in a roman catholic seminary, and was destined to become a benedictine monk. he was on his way to join an elder priest in mainz; thence he expected to proceed to italy, but was not sure of his destination. "i shall perhaps meet you again, then?" said brian. "i am perhaps going to italy myself." the young man smiled and shook his head. "you are scarcely likely to encounter me, monsieur," he answered. "i shall be busy amongst the poor and sick, or at work within the monastery. i shall remember you--but i do not think that we shall meet again." "by what name should i ask for you if i came across any of your order?" said brian. "i am generally known as dino vasari, or brother dino, at your service, monsieur," replied the italian, cheerfully. "if, in your goodness, you wished to inquire after me, you should ask at the monastery of san stefano, where i spend a few weeks every year in retreat. the prior, father cristoforo, is an old friend of mine, and he will always welcome you if you should pass that way. there is good sleeping accommodation for visitors." brian took the trouble to make an entry in his note-book to this effect. it turned out to be a singularly useful one. as they were reaching mainz something prompted brian to ask a question. "why did you speak to me this afternoon?" he said, the morbid suspiciousness of a man who is sick in mind as well as body returning full upon him. "you do not know me?" "no, monsieur, i do not know you." the ecclesiastic's pale brow flushed; he even looked embarrassed. "monsieur," he said at last, "you had the appearance--you will pardon my saying so--of one who was either ill or bore about with him some unspoken trouble; it is the privilege of the order to which i hope one day to belong to offer help when help is needed; and for a moment i hoped it might be my special privilege to give some help to you." "why did you think so?" brian asked, hastily. "you did not know my name?" the italian cast down his eyes. "yes, monsieur," he said in a low tone, "i did know your name." brian started up. he did not stop to weigh probabilities; he forgot how little likely a young foreign seminarist would be to hear news of an accident in scotland; he felt foolishly certain that his name--as that of the man who had killed his brother--must be known to all the world! it was the wildest possible delusion, such as could occur only to a man whose mind was off its balance--and even he could not retain it for more than a minute or two; but in that space of time he uttered a few wild words, which caused the young monk to raise his dark eyes to his face with a look of sorrowful compassion. "does everyone know my wretched story, then? do i carry a mark about with me--like cain?" brian cried aloud. "i know nothing of your story, monsieur," said brother dino, as he called himself, after a little pause, "when i said that i knew your name, i should more properly have said the name of your family. a gentleman of your name once visited the little town where i was brought up." he paused again and added gently, "i have peculiar reasons for remembering him. he was very good to a member of my family." brian had recovered his self-possession before the end of the young priest's speech, and was heartily ashamed of his own weakness. "i beg your pardon," he said, sinking back into his seat with an air of weariness and discouragement that would have touched the heart of a tender-natured man, such as was brother dino of san stefano. "i must be an utter fool to have spoken as i did. you knew my father, did you? that must be long ago." "many years." brother dino looked at the englishman with some expression in his eyes which brian did not remark at the moment, but which recurred afterwards to his memory as being singular. there was sympathy in it, pity, perhaps, and, above all, an intense curiosity. "many years ago my friends knew him; not i. the signor luttrell--he lives still in your country?" "no. he died eight years ago." "and----" a question evidently trembled on the italian's lips, but he restrained himself. he could not ask it when he saw the pain and the dread in brian's face. but brian answered the question that he had meant to ask. "my brother is dead, also. my mother is living and well." then he wheeled round and looked at the landing-stage, to which they were now very close. the stranger respected his emotion; he glanced once at the band of crape on brian's arm, and then walked quietly away. when he returned it was only to say good-bye. "i should like to see you again," brian said to him. "perhaps i may find you out and visit you some day. you find your life peaceful and happy, no doubt?" "perfectly." "i envy you," said brian. they parted. brian went away to his hotel, leaving the young seminarist still standing on the deck--a black figure with his pale hands crossed upon his breast in the glow of the evening sunshine, awaiting the arrival of his superior as a soldier waits for his commanding officer. brian looked back at him once and waved his hand: he had not been so much interested in anyone for what seemed to him almost an eternity of time. sitting sadly and alone in the hotel that night, he fell to pondering over some of the words that the young italian had spoken, and the questions that he had asked. he wondered greatly what was the service that his father had rendered to these italians, and blamed himself a little for not asking more about the young man's history. he knew well enough that his parents had once spent two or three years abroad--chiefly in italy; he himself had been born in an italian town, and had spent almost the whole of the first year of his life in a little village at the foot of the apennines. was it not near a place called san stefano, indeed, that he had been nursed by an italian peasant woman? brian determined, in a vague and dreamy way, that at some future time he would visit san stefano, find out the history of his new acquaintance, and see the place where he had been born at the same time. that is if ever he felt inclined to do anything of the sort again. at present--and especially as the temporary interest inspired by the young italian died away--he felt as if he cared too little for his future to resolve upon doing anything. there was a letter waiting for him, addressed in mr. colquhoun's handwriting. he had not even the heart to open it and see what the lawyer had to say. something drew him next morning towards that wonderful old building of red stone, which looks as if it were hourly crumbling away, and yet has lasted so many hundred years, the cathedral of mainz. the service was just over; the organ still murmured soft, harmonious cadences. the incense was wafted to his nostrils as he walked down the echoing nave. there had been a mass for the dead and a funeral that morning; part of the cathedral was draped in black cloth and ornamented by hundreds of wax candles, which flared in the sunlight and dropped wax on the uneven pavement below. there was an oppressiveness in the atmosphere to brian; everything spoke to him of death and decay in that strange, old city, which might veritably be called a city of the dead. he turned aside into the cloisters, and listened mechanically while an old man discoursed to him in crabbed german concerning fastrada's tomb and the carved face of the minstrel frauenlob upon the cloister wall. presently, however, the guide showed him a little door, and led him out into the pleasant grassy space round which the cloisters had been built. he was conscious of a great feeling of relief. the blue sky was above him again, and his feet were on the soft, green grass. there were tombstones amongst the grass, but they were overgrown with ivy and blossoming rose-trees. brian sat down with a great sigh upon one of the old blocks of marble that strewed the ground, and told the guide to leave him there awhile. the man thought that he wanted to sketch the place, as many english artists did, and retired peacefully enough. brian had no intention of sketching: he wanted only to feel himself alone, to watch the gay, little sparrows as they leaped from spray to spray of the monthly rose-trees, the waving of the long grass between the tombstones, and the glimpse of blue sky beyond the mouldering reddish walls on either hand. as he sat there, almost as though he were waiting for some expected visitor, the cloister doors opened once more, and two or three men in black gowns came out. they were all priests except one, and this one was the young italian whose acquaintance brian had made upon the steamer. they were talking rapidly together; one of them seemed to be questioning the young man, and he was replying with the serene yet earnest expression of countenance which had impressed brian so favourably. at first they stood still; by-and-bye they crossed the quadrangle, and here brother dino fell somewhat behind the others. following a sudden impulse, brian suddenly rose as he came near, and addressed him. "can you speak to me? i want to ask you about my father----" he spoke in english, but the young priest replied in italian. "i cannot speak to you now. wait till we meet at san stefano." the words might be abrupt, but the smile which followed them was so sweet, so benign, that brian was only struck with a sudden sense of the beauty of the expression upon that keen italian face. "god be with you!" said brother dino, as he passed on. he stretched out his hand; it held one of the faintly-pink, sweet roses, which he had plucked near the cloister door. he almost thrust it into brian's passive fingers. "god be with you," he said, in his native tongue once more. "farewell, brother." in another moment he was gone. brian had the green enclosure, the birds and the roses to himself once more. he looked down at the little overblown flower in his hand and carried it mechanically to his nostrils. it was very sweet. "why does he think that i shall go to san stefano?" he asked himself. "what is san stefano to me? why should i meet him there?" he sat down again, holding the flower loosely in one hand, and resting his head upon the other. the old langour and sickness of heart were coming back upon him; the momentary excitement had passed away. he would have given a great deal to be able to rouse himself from the depression which had taken such firm hold of his mind; but he failed to discover any means of doing so. he had a vague, morbid fancy that brother dino could help him to master his own trouble--he knew not how; but this hope had failed him. he did not even care to go to san stefano. after a little time he remembered the letter in his pocket, addressed to him in mr. colquhoun's handwriting. he took it out and looked at it for a few minutes. why should mr. colquhoun write to him unless he had something unpleasant to say? perhaps he was only forwarding some letters. this quiet, grassy quadrangle was a good place in which to read letters, he thought. he would open the envelope and see what colquhoun had to say. he opened it very slowly. then he started, and his hand began to tremble. the only letter enclosed was one in his mother's handwriting. upon a slip of blue paper were a few words from the lawyer. "forwarded to mr. brian luttrell at mrs. luttrell's request on the th of october, , by james colquhoun." brian opened the letter. it had no formal opening, but it was carefully signed and dated, and ran as follows:-- "they tell me that i have done you an injury by doubting your word, and that i am an unnatural mother in saying--even in my own chamber--what i thought. i have an excuse, which no one knows but myself and james colquhoun. i think it is well under present circumstances to tell you what it is. "i am a strong believer in race. i think that the influence of blood is far more powerful than those of training or education, how strong soever they may be. therefore, i was never astonished although i was grieved, to see that your love for richard was not so great as that of brothers should have been----" "it is false!" said brian, with a groan, crushing the letter in his hand, and letting it fall to his side. "no brother could have loved richard more than i." presently he took up the letter again and read. "because i knew," it went on, "though many a woman in my position would not have guessed the truth, that you were not richard's brother at all: that you were not my son." again brian paused, this time in utter bewilderment. "is my mother mad" he said to himself. "i--not her son? who am i, then?" "i repeat what i have said,"--so ran mrs. luttrell's letter--"with all the emphasis which i can lay upon the words. the matter may not be capable of proof, but the truth remains. you are not my son, not edward luttrell's son, not richard luttrell's brother--no relation of ours at all; not even of english or scottish blood. your parents were italian peasant-folk; and my son, brian luttrell, lies buried in the churchyard of an italian village at the foot of the western apennines. you are a native of san stefano, and your mother was my nurse." chapter xi. on a mountain-side. "when my child brian was born we were renting a villa near san stefano, and were somewhat far removed from any english doctor. my doctor was, therefore, an italian; and what was worse, he was an italian monk. i hate foreigners, and i hate monks; so you may imagine for yourself the way in which i looked upon him. no doubt he had a hand in the plot that has ended so miserably for me and mine, so fortunately for you. "my brian was nursed by our gardener's wife, a young italian woman called vincenza, whose child was about the age of mine. i saw vincenza's child several times. its eyes were brown (like yours); my baby's eyes were blue. it was when they were both about two months old that i was seized with a malarious fever, then very prevalent. they kept the children away from me for months. at last i insisted upon seeing them. the baby had been ill, they told me; i must be prepared for a great change in him. even then my heart misgave me, i knew not why. "vincenza brought a child and laid it in my lap, i looked at it, and then i looked at her. she was deadly white, and her eyes were red with tears. i did not know why. of course i see now that she had enough of the mother's heart in her to be loath to give up her child. for it was her child that she had placed upon my knee. i knew it from the very first. "'take this child away and give me my own,' i said. 'this is not mine.' "the woman threw up her hands and ran out of the room. i thought she had gone to fetch my baby, and i remained with her child--a puny, crying thing--upon my knees. but she did not return. presently my husband came in, and i appealed to him. 'tell vincenza to take her wretched, little baby away,' i said. 'i want my own. this is her child; not mine.' "my husband looked at me, pityingly, as it seemed to my eyes. suddenly the truth burst upon me. i sprang to my feet and threw the baby away from me upon the bed. 'my child is dead,' i cried. 'tell me the truth; my child is dead.' and then i knew no more for days and weeks. "when i recovered, i found, to my utter horror, that vincenza and her child had not left the house. my words had been taken for the ravings of a mad woman. every one believed the story of this wicked italian woman who declared that it was her child who had died, mine that had lived! i knew better. could i be mistaken in the features of my own child? had my brian those great, dark, brown eyes? i saw how it was. the italians had plotted to put their child in my brian's place; they had forgotten that a mother's instinct would know her own amongst a thousand. i accused them openly of their wickedness; and, in spite of their tears and protestations, i saw from their guilty looks that it was true. my own brian was dead, and i was left with vincenza's child, and expected to love it as my own. "for nobody believed me. my husband never believed me. he maintained to the very last that you were his child and mine. i fought like a wild beast for my dead child's rights; but even i was mastered in the end. they threatened me--yes, james colquhoun, in my husband's name, threatened me--with a madhouse, if i did not put away from me the suspicion that i had conceived. they assured me that brian was not dead; that it was vincenza's child that had died; that i was incapable of distinguishing one baby from another--and so on. they said that i should be separated from my own boy--my richard, whom i tenderly loved--unless i put away from me this 'insane fancy,' and treated that italian baby as my son. oh, they were cruel to me--very cruel. but they got their way. i yielded because i could not bear to leave my husband and my boy. i let them place the child in my arms, and i learnt to call it brian. i buried the secret in my own heart, but i was never once moved from my opinion. my own child was buried at san stefano, and the boy that i took back with me to england was the gardener's son. you were that boy. "i was silent about your parentage, but i never loved you, and my husband knew that i did not. for that reason, i suppose, he made you his favourite. he petted you, caressed you more than was reasonable or right. only once did any conversation on the subject pass between us. he had refused to punish you when you were a boy of ten, and had quarrelled with richard. 'mark my words,' i said to him, 'there will be more quarrelling, and with worse results, if you do not put a stop to it now. i should never trust a lad of italian blood.' he looked at me, turning pale as he looked. 'have you not forgotten that unhappy delusion, then?' he said. 'it is no delusion,' i answered him, composedly, 'to remind myself sometimes that this boy--brian, as you call him--is the son of giovanni vasari and his wife.' 'margaret,' he said, 'you are a mad woman!' he went out, shutting the door hastily behind him. but he never misunderstood me again. do you know what were his last words to me upon his death-bed? 'don't tell him,' he said, pointing to you with his weak, dying hand, 'if you ever loved me, margaret, don't tell him.' and then he died, before i had promised not to tell. if i had promised then, i would have kept my word. "i knew what he meant. i resolved that i would never tell you. and but for richard's death i would have held my tongue. but to see you in richard's place, with richard's money and richard's lands, is more than i can bear. i will not tell this story to the world, but i refuse to keep you in ignorance any longer. if you like to possess richard's wealth dishonestly, you are at liberty to do so. any court of law would give it to you, and say that it was legally yours. there is, i imagine, no proof possible of the truth of my suspicions. your mother and father are, i believe, both dead. i do not remember the name of the monk who acted as my doctor. there may be relations of your parents at san stefano, but they are not likely to know the story of vincenza's child. at any rate, you are not ignorant any longer of the reasons for which i believe it possible that you knew what you were doing when you were guilty of richard luttrell's death. there is not a drop of honest scotch or english blood in your veins. you are an italian, and i have always seen in your character the faults of the race to which by birth and parentage you belong. if i had not been weak enough to yield to the threats and the entreaties with which my husband and his tools assailed me, you would now be living, as your forefathers lived, a rude and hardy peasant on the north italian plains; and i--i might have been a happy woman still." the letter bore the signature "margaret luttrell," and that was all. the custodian of the place wondered what had come to the english gentleman; he sat so still, with his face buried in his hands, and some open sheets of paper at his feet. the old man had a pretty, fair-haired daughter who could speak english a little. he called her and pointed out the stranger's bowed figure from one of the cloister windows. "he looks as if he had had some bad news," said the girl. "do you think that he is ill, father? shall i take him a glass of water, and ask him to walk into the house?" brian was aroused from a maze of wretched, confused thought by the touch of gretchen's light hand upon his arm. she had a glass of water in her hand. "would the gentleman not drink?" she asked him, with a look of pity that startled him from his absorption. "the sun was hot that day, and the gentleman had chosen the hottest place to sit in; would he not rather choose the cool cloister, or her father's house, for one little hour or two?" brian stammered out some words of thanks, and drank the water eagerly. he would not stay, however; he had bad news which compelled him to move on quickly--as quickly as possible. and then, with a certain whiteness about the lips, and a look of perplexed pain in his eyes, he picked up the papers as they lay strewn upon the grass, bowed to gretchen with mechanical politeness, and made his way to the door by which he had come in. one thing he forgot; he never thought of it until long afterwards; the sweet, frail rose that brother dino had placed within his hand when he bade him god-speed. in less than an hour he was in the train; he hardly knew why or whither he was bound; he knew only that one of his restless fits had seized him and was driving him from the town in the way that it was wont to do. mrs. luttrell's letter was a great shock to him. he never dreamt at first of questioning the truth of her assertions. he thought it very likely that she had been perfectly able to judge, and that her husband had been mistaken in treating the matter as a delusion. at any time, this conviction would have been a sore trouble to him, for he had loved her and her husband and richard very tenderly, but just now it seemed to him almost more than he could bear. he had divested himself of nearly the whole of what had been considered his inheritance, because he disliked so much the thought of profiting by richard's death; was he also now to divest himself of the only name that he had known, of the country that he loved, of the nation that he had been proud to call his own? if his mother's story were true, he was, as she had said, the son of an italian gardener called vasari; his name then must be vasari; his baptismal name he did not know. and brian luttrell did not exist; or rather, brian luttrell had been buried as a baby in the little churchyard of san stefano. it was a bitter thought to him. but it could not be true. his whole being rose up in revolt against the suggestion that the father whom he had loved so well had not been his own father; that richard had been of no kin to him. surely his mother's mind must have been disordered when she refused to acknowledge him. it could not possibly be true that he was not her son. at any rate, one duty was plain to him. he must go to san stefano and ascertain, as far as he could, the true history of the vasari family. and in the meantime he could write to mr. colquhoun. he was obliged to go on to geneva, as he knew that letters and remittances were to await him there. as soon as he had received the answer that mr. colquhoun would send to his letter of inquiry, he would proceed to italy at once. some delay in obtaining the expected remittances kept brian for more than a week at geneva. and there, in spite of the seclusion in which he chose to live, and his resolute avoidance of all society, it happened that before he had been in the place three days he met an old university acquaintance--a strong, cheery, good-natured fellow called gunston, whose passion for climbing swiss mountains seemed to be unappeasable. he tried hard to make brian accompany him on his next expedition, but failed. both strength and energy were wanting to him at this time. mr. colquhoun's answers to brian's communications were short, and, to the young-man's mind, unsatisfactory. "at the time when mrs. luttrell first made the statement that she believed you to be vincenza vasari's son, her mind was in a very unsettled state. medical evidence went to show that mothers did at times conceive a violent dislike to one or other of their children. this was probably a case in point. the vasaris were honest, respectable people, and there was no reason to suppose that any fraud had been perpetrated. at the same time, it was impossible to convince mrs. luttrell that her own child had not died; and mr. colquhoun was of opinion that she would never acknowledge brian as her son again, or consent to hold any personal intercourse with him." "it would be better if i were dead and out of all this uncertainty," said brian, bitterly, when he had read the letter. yet, something in it gave him a sort of stimulus. he took several long excursions, late though the season was; and in a few days he again encountered gunston, who was delighted to welcome him as a companion. brian was a practised mountaineer; and though his health had lately been impaired, he seemed to regain it in the cold, clear air of the swiss alps. gunston did not find him a genial companion; he was silent and even grim; but he was a daring climber, and exposed his life sometimes with a hardihood which approached temerity. but a day arrived on which brian's climbing feats came to an end. they had made an easy ascent, and were descending the mountain on the southern side, when an accident took place. it was one which often occurs, and which can be easily pictured to oneself. they were crossing some loose snow when the whole mass began to move, slowly first, then rapidly, down the slope of the mountain-side. brian sank almost immediately up to his waist in the snow. he noticed that the guide had turned his face to the descent and stretched out his arms, and he imitated this action as well as he was able, hoping in that manner to keep them free. but he was too deeply sunk in the snow to be able to turn round, and as he was in the rear of the others he could not see what became of his companions. he heard one shout from gunston, and that was all--"good god, luttrell, we're lost!" and then the avalanche swept them onwards, first with a sharp, hissing sound, and then with a grinding roar as of thunder, and brian gave himself up for lost, indeed. he was not sorry. death was the easiest possible solution of all his difficulties. he had looked for it many times; but he was glad to think that on this day, at least, he had not sought it of his own free will. he thought of his mother--he could not call her otherwise in this last hour--he thought of the father and the brother who had been dear to him in this world, and would not, he believed, be less dear to him in the next; he thought of angela, who would be a little sorry for him, and hugo, whom he could no longer help out of his numerous difficulties. all these memories of his old home and friends flashed over his mind in less than a second of time. he even thought of the estate, and of the miss murray who would inherit it. and then he tried to say a little prayer, but could not fix his mind sufficiently to put any petition into words. and at this point he became aware that he was descending less rapidly. his head and arms were fortunately still free. by a side glance he saw that the snow at some distance before him had stopped sliding altogether. then it ceased to move at a still higher point, until at the spot where he lay it also became motionless, although above him it was still rushing down as if to bury him in a living grave. he threw his hands up above his head, and made a furious effort to extricate himself before the snow should freeze around him. and in this effort he was more successful than he had even hoped to be. but the pressure of the snow upon him was so great that he thought at first that it would break his ribs. when the motion had ceased, however, this pressure became less powerful; by the help of his ice-axe he managed to free himself, and knew that he was as yet unhurt, if not yet safe. he looked round for his friend and for the guides. they had all been roped together, but the rope had broken between himself and his companions. he saw only one prostrate form, and, at some little distance, the hand of a man protruding from the white waste of snow. the thought of affording help to the other members of the party stimulated brian to efforts which he would not, perhaps, have made on his own account. in a short time he was able to make his way to the man lying face downwards in the snow. he had already recognised him as one of the guides. it needed but a slight examination to convince him that this man was dead--not from suffocation or cold, but from the effects of a wound inflicted in the fall. the hand, sticking out of the snow belonged to the other guide; it was cold and stiff, and with all his efforts brian could not succeed in extricating the body from the snow in which it was tightly wedged. of the young englishman, gunston, and the other guide, there was absolutely nothing to be seen. brian turned sick and faint when the conviction was forced upon him that he would see his friend no more. his limbs failed him; he could not go on. he was born to misfortune, he said to himself; born to bring trouble and sorrow upon his companions and friends. without him, gunston would not, perhaps, have attempted this ascent. and how could he carry home to gunston's family the story of his death? after all, it was very unlikely that he would reach the bottom of the mountain in safety. he had no guide; he was utterly ignorant of the way. there were pitfalls without number in his path--crevasses, precipices, treacherous ice-bridges, and slippery, loose snow. he would struggle on until the end came, however; better to move, even towards death, than to lie down and perish miserably of cold. it is said sometimes that providence keeps a special watch over children and drunken men; that is to say, that those who are absolutely incapable of caring for themselves do sometimes, by wonderful good fortune, escape the dangers into which sager persons are apt to fall. so it seemed with brian luttrell. for hours he struggled onwards, sore pressed by cold, and fatigue, and pain; but at last, long after night had fallen, he staggered into a little hamlet on the southern side of the mountain, footsore and fainting, indeed, but otherwise unharmed. nobody noticed his arrival very much. the villagers took him in, put him to bed, and gave him food and drink, but they did not seem to think that he was one of "the rich englishmen" who sometimes visited their village, and they did not at all realise what he had done. to make the descent that brian had done without a guide would have appeared to them little short of miraculous. brian had no opportunity of explaining to them how he had come. he was carried insensible into the one small inn that the village contained and put to bed, where he woke up delirious and quite unable to give any account of himself. when his mind was again clear, he remembered that it was his duty to tell the story of the accident on the mountain, but as soon as he uttered a few words on the subject he was met by an animated and circumstantial account of the affair in all its details. two englishmen, and two guides, and a porter had been crossing the mountain when the avalanche took place; a guide and a porter had been killed, and their bodies had been recovered. one englishman had been killed also, and the other---- "yes, the other," began brian, hurriedly, but the innkeeper stolidly continued his story. the other had made his way back with the guide to the nearest town. he was there still, and had been making expeditions every day upon the mountain to find the dead body of his friend. but he had given up the search now, and was returning to england on the morrow. he had done all he could, poor gentleman, and it was more than a week since the accident took place. brian suddenly put his head down on his pillow and lay still. here was the chance for which his soul had yearned! if the innkeeper spoke the truth, he--brian luttrell--was already numbered amongst the dead. why should he take the trouble to come back to life? "were none of the englishman's clothes or effects found?" he asked, presently. "oh, yes, monsieur. his pocket-book--his hat. they were close to a dangerous crevasse. a guide was lowered down it for fifty, eighty, feet, but nothing of the unfortunate englishman was to be seen. if he did not fall into the crevasse his body may be recovered in the spring--but hardly before. yes, his pocket-book and his hat, monsieur." a sudden gleam came into the little innkeeper's eyes, and he spoke somewhat interrogatively--"monsieur arrived here also without his hat?" for the first time the possibility occurred to the innkeeper's mind of his guest's identity with the missing englishman. brian answered with a certain reluctance; he did not like the part that he would have to play. "i lost my way in walking from v----," he said, mentioning a town at some distance from the mountain-pass by which he had really come; "and my hat was blown off by a gust of wind. the weather was not good. i lost my way." "true, monsieur. there was rain and there was wind: doubtless monsieur wandered from the right track," said the innkeeper, accepting the explanation in all good faith. when he left the room, brian examined his belongings with care. nothing in his possession was marked, owing to the fact that his clothes were mostly new ones, purchased with a view to mountaineering requirements. his pocket-book was lost. mrs. luttrell's letter and one or two other papers, however, remained with him, and he had sufficient money in his pockets to pay the innkeeper and preserve him from starvation for a time. he wondered that nobody had reported an unknown traveller to be lying ill in the village; but it was plain that his escape had been thought impossible. even gunston had given him up for lost. as he learnt afterwards, it was believed that he had not been able to sever the rope, and that he, with one of the guides, had fallen into a crevasse. the rope went straight down into the cleft, and he was believed to be at the end of it. there was not the faintest doubt in the mind of the survivors but that brian luttrell was dead. it remained for brian himself to decide whether he should go back to the town, reclaim his luggage, and take up life again at the point where he seemed to have let it drop--or go forth into the world, penniless and homeless, without a name, without a hope for the future, and without a friend. which should he do? chapter xii. the heiress of strathleckie. "elizabeth an heiress! elizabeth, with a fortune of her own!" said mrs. heron. "it is perfectly incredible." "it is perfectly true," rejoined her step-son. "and it has been true for the last three days." "then elizabeth does not know it," replied kitty. "as to whether she knows it or not," said percival, sardonically, "i am quite unable to form any opinion. elizabeth has a talent for keeping secrets." he was not sorry that the door opened at that moment, and that elizabeth, entering with little jack in her arms, must have heard his words. she flashed a quick look at him--it was one that savoured of reproach--and advanced into the middle of the room, where she stood silent, waiting to be accused. it was twelve o'clock on the morning of a bright, cold november day. mrs. heron was lying on the sofa in the dining-room--a shabbily-comfortable, old-fashioned room where most of the business of the house was transacted. kitty sat on a low chair before the fire, warming her little, cold hands. she had a cat on her lap, and a novel on the floor beside her, and looked very young, very pretty, and very idle. percival was fidgetting about the room with a glum and sour expression of countenance. he was evidently much out of sorts, both in body and mind, for his face was unusually sallow in tint, and there was a dark, upright line between his brows which his relations knew and--dreaded. the genial, sunshiny individual of a few evenings back had disappeared, and a decidedly bad-tempered young man now took his place. mrs. heron's pretty, pale face wore an unaccustomed flush; and as she looked at elizabeth the tears came into her blue eyes, and she pressed them mildly with her handkerchief. elizabeth waited in patience; she was not sure of the side from which the attack would be made, but she was sure that it was coming. percival, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, leaned against a sideboard, and looked at her with disfavour. she was paler than usual, and there were dark lines beneath her eyes. what made her look like that! percival thought to himself. one might fancy that she had been lying awake all night, if the thing were not (under the circumstances) well-nigh impossible! but perhaps it was only her ill-fitting, unbecoming, old, serge gown that made her look so pale. percival was in the humour to see all her faults and defects that morning. "why do you carry that great boy about?" he said, almost harshly. "you know that he is too big to be carried. do put him down." "yes, put him down, elizabeth," said mrs. heron, still pressing her handkerchief to her eye. "i am sure i have no desire to inflict any hardship upon you. if you devoted yourself to my children, i thought that it was from choice and because you had an affection for your uncle's family. but you seem to have had no affection--no respect--no confidence----" a gentle sob cut short her words. "what have i done?" said elizabeth. her face had turned a shade paler than before, but betrayed no sign of confusion. "lie still, jack; i do not mean to put you down just yet. indeed, i think i had better carry you upstairs again." she left the room swiftly, pausing only at the door to add a few words: "i will be down again directly. i shall be glad if percival will wait." there was a short silence, during which mrs. heron dried her eyes, and percival stared uncomfortably at the toe of his left boot. "surely elizabeth has a right to her own secrets," said kitty, from her station on the hearth. but nobody replied. presently elizabeth came down again, with a couple of letters in her hand. it seemed almost as if she had been upstairs to rub a little life and colour into her face, for her cheeks were carnation when she returned, and her eyes unusually bright. "will you tell me what i have done that distresses you?" she said, addressing herself steadily to mrs. heron, though she saw percival glance eagerly, hungrily, towards the letters in her hand. "indeed, i have no right to be distressed," replied mrs. heron, still, however, in an exceedingly hurt tone. "your own affairs are your own property, my dear lizzie, as kitty has just remarked; but, considering the care and--the--the affection-lavished upon you here----" she stopped short; percival's dark eyes were darting their angry lightning upon her. "a care and affection," he said, "which condemned her to the nursery in order that she might indulge her extreme love for children, and save you the expense of a nursery-maid." "you have no right to make such a remark, percival!" exclaimed his step-mother, feebly, but she quailed beneath the sneer instead of resenting it. elizabeth turned sharply upon her cousin. "no," she said, "you have no right to make such a remark. as you know very well, i had no friends, no money, no home, when uncle alfred brought me here. i was a beggar--i should have starved, perhaps--but for him. i owe him everything--and i do not forget my debt." "everything," said percival, incisively, "except, i suppose, your confidence." she turned away and walked up to mrs. heron's sofa. here her manner changed, it became soft and womanly; her voice took a gentler tone. "what is it, aunt isabel?" she said. "i am ready to give you all the confidence that you wish for. i will have no secrets from you." "oh, then, lizzie, is it true?" said kitty, upsetting the cat in her haste, and flying across the room to her cousin's side, while mrs. heron, taken by surprise, did nothing but sob helplessly and hold elizabeth's firm, white hand in a feeble grasp. "is it really true? have you inherited a great fortune? are you going to be very rich?" elizabeth made a little pause before she answered the question. "brian luttrell is dead," she said at last, rather slowly. "and i am very sorry." "and the luttrells are your cousins? and you are the heiress after them?" "yes." "but when did you know this first?" said kitty, anxiously looking up into her tall cousin's face. "yes, when did you know it first?" repeated mrs. heron, with a weak and sighing attempt at solemnity. "i knew that i was the luttrells' cousin all my life," said elizabeth. there was a touch of perversity in her answer. "yes--yes. but when did you know that you were the next heir--or heiress? you cannot have known that all your life," said mrs. heron. "i did not know that until a few days ago. i had a letter from a lawyer when brian luttrell went abroad. mr. brian luttrell wished him to communicate with me and to tell me----" "well?" said mrs. heron, curiously. "to tell you what?" "that it was probable that the property would come to me," elizabeth answered, for the first time with some embarrassment, "as he did not intend to marry. and that he wished to settle a certain sum upon me--in case i might be in want of money now." "and that was a fortnight ago?" said percival. "yes," said elizabeth, without looking at him, "nearly a fortnight ago." "this is very interesting," said mrs. heron, who was languidly brightening as she heard elizabeth's story and recognised the fact that substantial advantages were likely to accrue to the household from elizabeth's good fortune. "and of course you accepted the offer, lizzie dear? but why did you not tell us at once?" "i waited until things should be settled. the matter might have fallen through. it did not seem worth while to mention it until it was settled," said elizabeth. "how much did he offer you? mr. brian luttrell must have been a very generous man." "i think he was--very generous," said elizabeth, looking up warmly. "i considered the matter for some time, and i wished that i could accept his kindness, but----" "you don't mean to say that you refused it?" "i did not refuse it altogether," explained elizabeth, her face glowing. "i told him my circumstances, and all that my uncle had done for me, and that if he chose to place a sum of money at my uncle's disposal--i thought that, perhaps, it would be only right, and that i ought not to place an obstacle in the way. but i could not take anything for myself." there was a little pause. "oh, lizzie, how good you are!" cried kitty, softly. percival took a step nearer; his face looked very dark. "and, pray, what did the lawyer say to your proposition?" he inquired. "he said he must communicate with mr. brian luttrell, but he thought that there would be no objection to it on his part," said elizabeth. "but he had not time to do so, you see. brian luttrell is dead. here are all the letters about it, aunt isabel, if you want to see them. i was going to speak to uncle alfred this very day." "well, lizzie," said mrs. heron, taking the letters from her niece's hand, "i am glad that we are honoured by your confidence at last. i think it would have been better, however, if you had told us a little earlier of poor mr. luttrell's kindness, and then other people could have managed the business for you. of course, it would have been repugnant to your feelings to accept money for yourself, and another person could have accepted it in your name with a much better grace." "but that is what i wanted to avoid," said elizabeth, with a smile. "i would not have taken one penny for myself from mr. brian luttrell, but if he would have repaid my uncle for part of what he has done for me----" her sentence came to an abrupt end. percival had turned aside and flung himself into an arm-chair near the fire. he was the picture of ill-humour; and something in his face took away from elizabeth the desire to say more. mrs. heron read the letters complacently, and kitty put her arm round her cousin's, waist and tried to draw her towards the hearth-rug for a gossip. but elizabeth preserved her position near mrs. heron's sofa, although she looked down at the girl with a smile. "i know what isabel meant--what we all meant," said kitty, "when we were so disagreeable to you a little time ago, lizzie. we all felt that we could not for one moment have kept a secret from you, and we resented your superior self-control. fancy your knowing all this for the last fortnight, and never saying a word about it! tell me in confidence, lizzie, now didn't you want to whisper it to me, under solemn vows of secrecy?" "i'm afraid you would never have kept your vows," said elizabeth. "i meant to tell you very soon, kitty." "and so you are a rich woman, elizabeth!" observed mrs. heron, putting down the letters and smoothing out her dress. "dear me, how strangely things come round! who would have dreamt, ten years ago, that you would ever be richer than all of us--richer than your poor uncle, who was then so kind to you! some people are very fortunate!" "some people deserve to be fortunate, isabel," said kitty, caressing elizabeth's hand, in order to soften down the effect of mrs. heron's sub-acid speech. but elizabeth did not seem to be annoyed by it. she was thinking of other things. "i am sure that if any one deserves it, elizabeth does," said mrs. heron, recovering her usual placidity of demeanour. "she has always been good and kind to everyone around her. i tremble to think of what will become of dear harry, and will, and jack." "what should become of them?" said kitty, in a startled tone. "when elizabeth leaves us"--mrs. heron murmured, applying her handkerchief to her eyes--"the poor children will know the difference." "but you won't leave us, will you, elizabeth?" cried kitty, clinging more closely to her cousin, and looking up to her with tears in her eyes. "you wouldn't go away from us, after living with us all these years, darling? oh, i thought that you loved us as if you were really our own sister, and that nothing would ever take you away!" still elizabeth did not speak. kitty's brown head rested on her shoulder, and she stroked it gently with one hand. her lips were very grave, but her eyes, as she raised them for a moment to percival's face, had a smile hidden in their hazel depths--a smile which he could not understand, and which, therefore, made him angry. he rose and stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him, as he delivered his little homily for kitty's benefit. "i suppose you do not expect that elizabeth will care to sacrifice herself all her life for us and the children," he said. "it would be as unreasonable of you to ask it as it would be foolish of her to do it. of course, she will now begin to enjoy the world a little. she has had few enough enjoyments, hitherto--we need not grudge them to her now." but one would have thought that he himself, grudged them to her considerably. "what do you mean to do, lizzie?" said kitty, dolefully, "shall you take a house in town? or will you go and live in scotland--all that long, long way from us? and shall you"--lifting her face rather wistfully--"shall you keep any horses and dogs?" elizabeth laughed; she could not help it, although her laugh brought an additional pucker to the forehead of one of her hearers, who could not detect the tremulousness that lurked behind the clear, ringing tones. "it is well for you to laugh," he said, gloomily, "and, of course, you have the right, but----" "how interesting it will be," mrs. heron's, pensive voice was understood to murmur, when percival's gruff speech had come to a sudden conclusion, "to notice the use dear lizzie makes of her wealth! i wonder what her income will be, and whether the luttrells' kept up a large establishment." "oh," said elizabeth, suddenly loosening herself from kitty's arms and standing erect before them with a face that paled and eyes that deepened with emotion, "does it not occur to you through what trouble and misery this 'good fortune,' as you call it, has come to me? does it not seem wrong to you to plan what pleasure i can get out of it, when you think of that poor mother sitting at home and mourning over her two sons--two young, strong men--dead in the very prime of life? and miss vivian, too, with her spoiled life and her shattered hopes--she once expected to be the mistress of the very house that they now call mine! i hate the thought of it. please never speak to me as if it were a matter for congratulation. i should be heartily glad--heartily thankful--if brian luttrell were alive again!" she sat down, and put her elbows on the table and her hands over her face. the others looked at her in amaze. percival turned to the fire and stared into it very hard. mrs. heron, who was rather afraid of what she called "elizabeth's high-flown moods," murmured a suggestion to kitty that she ought to go to the children, and glided languidly away, beckoning her step-daughter to follow her. percival did not speak until elizabeth raised her face, and then he was uncomfortably conscious that she had been crying--at least, that her long eyelashes were wet, and that in other circumstances he might have felt a desire to kiss the tears away. but this desire, if he had it, must now be carefully controlled. he did not look at her, therefore, when he spoke. "your feeling is somewhat over-strained, elizabeth. we are all sorry for the luttrells' trouble; but it is absurd to say that we must not be glad of your good fortune." elizabeth rose up with her eyes ablaze and her cheeks on fire. "you know that you are not glad!" she said, almost passionately. "you know that you would rather see me poor--see me the nursery-maid, the cinderella, that you are so fond of calling me!" "well," said percival, with a short laugh, "for my own sake, perhaps, i would." "and so would i," said elizabeth. "but you know, lizzie, you will get over that feeling in time. you will find pleasure in your riches and your beauty; you will learn what enjoyment means--which you have had small chance of finding out, hitherto, in this comfortable household!" he laughed rather bitterly. "you are in the chrysalis state at present; you don't know what it is to be a butterfly. you will like that better--in time." "i will never be a butterfly--god helping me!" said elizabeth. she spoke solemnly, with a noble light in her whole face which made it more than beautiful. percival turned away his eyes from it; he did not dare to look. "if i have had wealth given me," said the girl, "i will use it for worthy ends. others shall benefit by it as well as myself." "don't squander it, lizzie," said percival, with a cynical smile, designed to cover the exceeding sadness and soreness of his heart. "your philanthropist is not often the wisest person in the world." "no, but i will try to use it wisely," she said, with a touch of meekness in her voice which made him feel madly inclined to fall down and kiss the very hem of her garment--or rather the lowest flounce of her shabby, dark-blue, serge gown--"and my friends will see that i do not spend it foolishly. you do not think it would be foolish to use it for the good of others, do you, percival? i suppose i shall be thought very eccentric if i do not take a large house in london, or go much into society; but, indeed, i should not be happy in spending money in those ways----" "why, what on earth do you mean to do?" said percival, sharply. "i see that you have some plan in your head; i should just like to know what it is." she was standing beside him on the hearth-rug, and she looked up at his face and down again before she answered. "yes," she said, seriously, "i have a plan." "and you mean that i have no right to inquire what it is? you are perfectly correct; i have no right, and i beg your pardon for the liberty that i have taken. i think that i had better go." his manner was so restless, his voice so uneven and so angry, that elizabeth lifted her eyes and studied his face a little before she replied. "percival," she said at last, "why are you so angry with me?" "i'm not angry with you." "with whom or with what, then?" "with circumstances, i suppose. with life in general," he answered, bitterly, "when it sets up such barriers between you and me." "what barriers?" "my dear elizabeth, you used to have faculties above those of the rest of your sex. don't let your new position weaken them. i have surely not the least need to tell you what i mean." "you overrate my faculties," said elizabeth. "you always did. i never do know what you mean unless you tell me. i am not good at guessing." "you need not guess then; i'll tell you. don't you see that i am in a very unfortunate position? i said to you the other night that i--i loved you, that i would teach you to love me; and i could have done it, elizabeth! i am sure that you would have loved me in time." "well?" said elizabeth, softly. her lips were slightly tremulous, but they were smiling, too. "well!" repeated her cousin. "that's all. there's an end to it. do you think i should ever have breathed a word into your ear if i had known what i know now?" "the fact being," said elizabeth, "that your pride is so much stronger than your love, that you would never tell a woman you loved her if she happened to have a few pounds more than you." "exactly so," he answered, stubbornly. "then--as a matter of argument only, percival--i think you are wrong." "wrong, am i? do you think that a man likes to take gifts from his wife's hands? do you think it is pleasant for me to hear you offer compensation to my father for the trifle that he has spent on you during the last few years, and not to be in a position to render such an offering unnecessary? i tell you it is the most galling thing in the world, and, if for one moment you thought me capable of speaking to you as i did the other night, now that i know you to be a wealthy woman, i could never look you in the face again. if i seem angry you must try to forgive me; you know me of old--i am always detestable when i am in pain--as i am now." he struck his foot angrily against the fender; his handsome face was drawn and lined with the pain of which he spoke. "be patient, percival," she said, with a smile which seemed to mock him by its very sweetness. "as you say to me, you may think differently in time." "and what if i do think differently? what good will it be?" he asked her. "i am not patient; i am not resigned to my fate, and i never shall be; does it make the loss of my hopes any easier to bear when you tell me that i shall think differently in time? you might as well try to make a man with a broken leg forget his pain by telling him that in a hundred years' time he will be dead and buried!" the tears stood in her eyes. she seemed startled by the intense energy with which he spoke; her next words scarcely rose above a whisper. "percival," she said, "i don't like to see you suffer." "then i will leave you," he said, sternly. "for, if i stay, i can't pretend that i do not feel the pain of losing you." he turned away, but before he had gone two steps a hand was placed upon his arm. "i can't let you go in this way," she said. "oh, percival, you have always been good to me till now. i can't begin a new life by giving you pain. don't you understand what i want to say?" he put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her face. the deep colour flushed his own, but hers was white as snow, and she was trembling like a leaf. "do you love me, elizabeth?" he said. "i don't know," she answered, simply, "but i will marry you, percival, if you like." "that is not enough. do you love me?" "too well," she answered, "to let you go." and so he stayed. chapter xiii. san stefano. when the vines were stripped of their clusters, and the ploughed fields stood bare and brown in the autumnal sun--when the fig trees lost their leaves, and their white branches took on that peculiarly gaunt appearance which characterises them as soon as the wintry winds begin to blow--a solitary traveller plodded wearily across the lombardy plains, asking, as he went, for the road that would lead him to the village and monastery of san stefano. he arrived at his destination on an evening late in november. it was between five and six o'clock when he came to the little, white village, nestling in a cleft of the hills, with the monastery on a slope behind it. there was a background of mountainous country--green, and grey, and purple--with solemn, white heights behind, stretching far into the crystal clearness of the sky. as the traveller reached the village he looked up to those white forms, and saw them transfigured in the evening light. the sky behind them changed to rose colour, to purple, violet, even to delicate pale green and golden, and, when the daylight had faded, an afterglow tinged the snowy summit with a roseate flush more tenderly ethereal than the tint of an oleander blossom, as transient as a gleam of april sunshine, or the changing light upon a summer sea. then a dead whiteness succeeded; the day was gone, and, quick as lightning, the stars began to quiver in the blueness of the sky. the lights in the cottage windows gleamed not inhospitably, but the traveller passed them by. his errand was to the monastery of san stefano, for there he fancied that he should find a friend. he had no reason to feel sure about it, but he was in a mental region where reason had little sway. he was governed by vague impulses and instincts which he did not care to controvert. he was faint, footsore, and weary, but he would not pause until he had reached the monastery gates. he rang the bell with a trembling hand. its clangour startled him, and nearly made him fly from the place. if he had been less weak at that moment he would have turned away; as it was, he leaned against the high, white wall with an intolerable sense of discomfort and fatigue. when the porter came and looked out, it took him several minutes to discern, through the gathering darkness, the worn figure in waiting beside the gate. "i have come a long distance," stammered the traveller, in answer to the porter's exclamation. "i want rest and food. i was told by one of you--one who was called brother dino, i believe--that you gave hospitality to travellers----" "come in, amico," said the porter, genially. "no explanations are needed when one comes to san stefano. so you know our brother dino, do you? he is here again now, after two or three years in paris. a fine scholar, they say, and a credit to the monastery. come to the guest-room and i will tell him that you are here." to this monologue the stranger answered not a word. the porter had meanwhile allowed him to enter, and fastened the gate once more. he then led the way up a garden path to a second door, swinging his lantern and jingling his keys as he went. the traveller followed slowly; his battered felt hat was drawn low over his forehead, his garments, torn and travel-stained, gave the porter an impression that his pockets were not too well filled, and that he might even be glad of a little employment on the farm which the brothers of san stefano were so successful in cultivating. his tone was nonetheless cheery and polite as he ushered the stranger into a long panelled room, where a single oil-lamp threw a vague, uncertain light upon the tessellated floor and plain oak furniture. "you would like some polenta?" he said, as the wearied man sank into one of the wooden chairs with an air of complete exhaustion. "or some of our good red wine? i will see about it directly. the signor can repose here until i return; i will fetch one of the reverend fathers by-and-bye, but they are all at benediction at this moment." "i want to see brother dino," said the stranger, lifting his head. and then the porter changed his mind about the station of the visitor. that slightly imperious tone, the impatient glance of the dark eye, the unmistakably foreign accent, convinced him that he had to do with one of the tourists--english or american signori--who occasionally paid a visit to san stefano. the porter himself was a lay-brother, and prided himself on his knowledge of the world. he answered courteously that brother dino should be informed, and then withdrew to provide the refreshment of which the stranger evidently stood in need. brother dino was not long in coming. he entered quickly, with a look of subdued expectation upon his face. a flash of joy and recognition leaped into his eyes as he beheld the wayworn figure in one of the antique carved oak chairs. his hands, which had been crossed and hidden in the wide sleeves of the habit that he wore, went out to the stranger with a gesture of welcome and delight. "mr. luttrell!" he exclaimed. "you are here already at san stefano! we shall welcome you warmly, mr. luttrell!" the name seemed wonderfully familiar to his tongue. brian, who had risen, held out his hands also, and the young monk caught them in his own; but brian's gesture was an involuntary one, conveying more of apprehension than of greeting. "not that name," he said, breathlessly. "call me by any other that you please, but not that. brian luttrell is dead." brother dino shivered slightly, as if a cold breath of air had passed through the ill-lighted room, but he held brian's hands with a still warmer pressure, and looked steadily into his haggard, hollow eyes. "what shall i call you, then, my brother?" he said, gently. "i have thought of a name," replied brian, in curiously uncertain, faltering tones; "it will harm nobody to take it, because he is dead, too. remember, my name is stretton--john stretton, an englishman--and a beggar." therewith he loosed his hands from brother dino's clasp, uttered a short laugh--it was a moan rather than a laugh, however--and fell like a stone into the italian's arms. dino supported him for a moment, then laid him flat upon the floor, and was about to summon help, when, turning, he came face to face with the prior, padre cristoforo. thirteen years had passed since padre cristoforo brought the friendless boy from turin to the monastery amongst the pleasant hills. those thirteen years had apparently transformed the smiling, graceful lad into a pale, grave-faced, young monk, whose every word and action seemed to be subordinated to the authority of the ecclesiastics with whom he lived. time had thrown into strong relief the keenly intellectual contour of his head and face; it had hollowed his temples and tempered the ardour of those young, brave eyes; but there was more beauty of outline and sweetness of expression than had been visible even in the charming boyish face that had won all hearts when he came to san stefano at ten years old. thirteen years had changed father cristoforo but little. his tonsured head showed a fringe of greyer hairs, and his face was a little more blanched and wrinkled than it used to be; but the bland smile, the polished manner, the look of profound sagacity, were all the same. he gave one glance to dino, one glance to the prostrate form upon the floor, and took in the situation without a moment's delay. "fetch father paolo," he said, after inspecting brian's face and lifting his nerveless hand; "and return with him yourself. we may want you." father paolo, the monk who took charge of the infirmary, soon arrived, and gave it as his opinion that the stranger was suffering from no ordinary fainting-fit, but from an affection of the brain. a bed was prepared for him in the infirmary, and a lay-brother appointed to attend upon him. brian luttrell could not have fallen ill in a place where he would receive more tender care. it was not until the sick man was laid in his bed that father cristoforo spoke again to dino, who was standing a little behind him, holding a lamp. the rays of light fell full upon brian's death-like face, and on the black and white crucifix that hung above his bed on the yellow wall. dino's face was in deep shadow when the prior turned and addressed him. "what was he saying when i came in? that his name was john--john----" "john stretton, an englishman," answered dino, in an unmoved voice. "an englishman and a beggar." padre christoforo did an unusual thing. he took the lamp from brother dino's hand and threw the light suddenly upon the young man's impassive countenance. dino raised his great, serious eyes to the prior's face, and then dropped them to the ground. otherwise not a muscle of his face moved. he was the living image of submission. "have you seen him before?" said padre cristoforo. "twice, reverend father. once on the boat between cologne and mainz; and once, for a moment only, in the quadrangle of the cathedral at mainz." "and then did he bear his present name?" for a moment dino's mouth twitched uneasily. a faint colour crept into his cheeks. "reverend father," he said, hesitatingly, "i did not ask his name." the priest raised the lamp to the level of his head, and again looked penetratingly into his pupil's face. there was a touch of wonder, of pity, perhaps also of some displeasure, expressed in this fixed gaze. it lasted so long that dino turned a little pale, although he did not flinch beneath it. finally, the prior lowered the lamp, gave it back to him, and walked away in silence, with his head lowered and his hands behind his back. dino followed to light him down the dark corridors, and at the door of the prior's cell, fell on his knees, as the custom was in the monastery, to receive the prior's blessing. but, either from forgetfulness or some other reason which passed unexplained, padre cristoforo entered and closed the door behind him, without noticing the young man's kneeling figure. it was the first time such an omission had occurred since dino came to san stefano. was it merely an omission and not a punishment? dino had, for the first time in his life, evaded a plain answer to a question, and concealed from padre cristoforo something which padre cristoforo would certainly have thought that he ought to know. had padre cristoforo divined the truth? according to the notions current amongst italians, and particularly amongst many members of their church, dino felt himself justified in equivocating in a case where absolute truth would not have served his purpose. his conscience did not reproach him for want of truthfulness, but it did for want of confidence in padre cristoforo. for he loved padre cristoforo; and padre cristoforo loved him. brian luttrell's illness was a long and severe one. he lay insensible for some time, and awoke to wild delirium, which lasted for many days. the brothers of san stefano nursed him with the greatest care, and it was observable that the prior himself spent a good deal of time in the patient's room, and showed unusual interest in his progress towards recovery. the prior understood english; but if he had hoped to gather any information concerning brian's history from the ravings of his delirium he was mistaken. brian's mind ran upon the incidents of his childhood, upon the tour that he had made with his father when he was a boy, upon his school-days; not upon the sad and tragic events with which he had been connected. he scarcely ever mentioned the names of his mother or brother. like falstaff, when he lay a-dying, be "babbled of green fields," and nothing more. at one time he grew better: then he had a relapse, and was very near death indeed; but at last the power of youth re-asserted itself, and he came slowly back to life once more. but it was as a man who had been in another world; who had faced the bitterness of death and the darkness of the grave. he was as much startled when he looked at himself for the first time in a looking-glass as a girl who has lost her beauty after a virulent attack of small-pox. not that he had ever had much beauty to boast of; but the look of youth and hope which had once brightened his eyes was gone; his cheeks were sunken, his temples hollow, his features drawn and pinched with bodily pain and weakness. and--greatest change perhaps of all--his hair had turned from brown to grey; an alteration so striking and visible that, as he put down the little mirror which had been brought to him, he murmured to himself, with a bitter smile--"my own mother would not know me now." and then he turned his face away from the light, and lay silent and motionless for so long a space of time that the lay-brother who waited on him thought that he was sleeping. when he rose from his bed and was able to sit in the sunny garden or the cloisters, spring had come in all its tender glow of beauty, and sent a thrill of fresh life through the sick man's veins. nature had always been dear to brian. he loved the sights and sounds of country life. the hills, the waving trees, tranquil skies and running water calmed and refreshed his jaded brain and harrassed nerves. the broad fields, crimsoning with anemones, purpling with hyacinth and auricula; the fresh green of the fig trees, the lovely tendrils of the newly shooting vines even the sight of the oxen with their patient eyes, and the homely, feathered creatures of the farmyard, clucking and strutting at the sandalled feet of the black-robed, silent, lay-brothers who brought them food--all these things acted like an anodyne upon brian's stricken heart. there was a life beside that of feeling; a life of passive, peaceful repose; the life of "stocks and stones," and happy, unresponsive things, amidst which he could learn to bear his burden patiently. he saw little of dino during his illness; but, as soon as he was able to go into the garden, dino was permitted to accompany him. it was plain from his manner that no unwillingness on his own part kept him away. the english stranger had evidently a great attraction for him; he waited upon his movements and followed him, silently and affectionately, like a dog whose whole heart has been given to its master. brian felt the charm of this devotion, but was too weak to speculate concerning its cause. he was conscious of the same kind of attraction towards dino; he knew not why, but he found it pleasant to have dino at his side, to lean on his arm as they went down the garden path together, to listen to the young italian's musical accents as he read aloud at the evening hour. but what was the secret of that indefinable mutual attraction, that almost magnetic power, which one seemed to possess over the other, brian luttrell could not tell. perhaps dino knew. this friendship did not pass unobserved. it was quietly, gently, fostered by the prior, whose keen eyes were everywhere, and seemed to see everything at once. he it was who dispensed dino from his usual duties that he might attend upon the english guest, who smiled benignly when he met them together in the cloister, who dropped a word or two expressive of his pleasure that dino should have an opportunity of practising his knowledge of the english tongue. dino could speak english with tolerable fluency, although with a strong foreign accent. but the quiet state of affairs did not last very long. as brian's strength returned he grew restless and uneasy; and at length one day he sent a formal request to the prior that he might speak to him alone. padre cristoforo replied by coming at once to the guest-chamber, which brian occupied in the daytime, and by asking in his usual mild and kindly way what he could do for him. the guest-room was a bare enough place, but the window commanded a fine view of the wide plain on which the monastery looked down. the blinds were open, for the morning was deliciously cool, and the shadows of the leaves that clustered round the lattice played in the glow of sunshine on the floor. brian was standing as the prior entered the room; his wasted figure, worn face, and grey hairs made him a striking sight in that abode of peace and solitary quietness. it was as though some unquiet visitant from another world had strayed into an italian arcadia. but, as a matter of fact, brian was probably less worldly in thought and aspiration at that moment than the serene-browed priest who stood before him and looked him in the face with such benignant friendly, interest. "you wished to see me, my son?" he began, gently. "i am ashamed to trouble you," said brian. "but i felt that i ought to speak to you as soon as possible. i am growing strong enough to continue my journey--and i must not trespass on your hospitality any longer." "your strength is not very great as yet," said the prior, courteously. "pray take a seat, mr. stretton. we are only too pleased to keep you with us as long as you will do us the honour to remain, and i think it is decidedly against your own interests to travel at present." brian stammered out an acknowledgment of the prior's kindness. he was evidently embarrassed, even painfully so; and padre cristoforo found himself watching the young man with some surprise and curiosity. what was it that troubled this young englishman? brian at last uttered the words that he had wished to say. "if i remained here," he said, colouring vividly with a sensitiveness springing from the reduced physical condition to which he had been brought by his long illness; "if i remained here i should ask you whether i could do any work for you--whether i could teach any of your pupils english or music. i am a poor man; i have no prospects. i would as soon live in italy as in england--at any rate for a time." the prior looked at him steadily; his deeply-veined hand grasped the arm of his wooden chair, a slight flush rose to his forehead. it was in a perfectly calm and unconstrained voice, however, that he made answer. "it is quite possible that we might find work of the kind you mention, signor--if you require it." there was a subdued accent of inquiry in the last four words. brian laughed a little, and put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew out four gold pieces and a few little swiss and italian coins. "you see these, father?" he said, holding them out in the palm of his hand. "they constitute my fortune, and they are due to the institution that has sheltered me so kindly and nursed me back to life and health. i have vowed these coins to your alms-box; when they are given, i shall make a fresh start in the world--as the architect of my own fortunes." "you will then be penniless!" said the priest, in rather a curious tone. "entirely so." there was a short silence. brian's fingers played idly with the coins, but he was not thinking about them; his dreamy eyes revealed that his thoughts were very far away. padre cristoforo was biting his forefinger and knitting his brows--two signs of unusual perturbation of mind with him. presently, however, his brow cleared; he smoothed his gown over his knees two or three times, coughed once or twice, and then addressed himself to brian with all his accustomed urbanity. "our order is a rich one," he said, with a smile, "and one that can well afford to entertain strangers. i will not tell you to make no gifts, for we know that it is very blessed to give--more blessed than to receive. i think it quite possible that we can give you such work as you desire. but before i do so, i think i am justified in asking you with what object you take it?" "with what object? a very simple one--to earn my daily bread." "and why," said the priest leaning forward and speaking in a lower voice--"why should your father's son need to earn his daily bread in a little italian village?" again brian's face changed colour. "my father's son?" he repeated, vaguely. the coins fell to the ground; he sat up and looked at the prior suspiciously. "what do you know about my father?" he said. "what do you know about me?" the prior pushed back his chair. a little smile played upon his shrewd, yet kindly face. the englishman was easier to manage than he had expected to find him, and father cristoforo was unquestionably relieved in his mind. "i do not know much about you," he said, "but i have reason to believe that your name is not stretton--that you were recently travelling under the name of brian luttrell, and that you have a special interest in the village of san stefano. is that not true, my friend?" "yes," said brian slowly. "it is true." chapter xiv. the prior's opinion. the prior's face wore an expression of mild triumph. he was evidently prepared to be questioned, and was somewhat surprised when brian turned to him gravely and addressed him in cold and serious tones. "reverend father," he said, "i am ignorant of the way in which you have possessed yourself of my secret, but, before a word more is spoken, let me tell you at once that it is a secret which must be kept strictly and sacredly between ourselves, unless great trouble is to ensue. it is absolutely necessary now that brian luttrell should be--dead." "what has brian luttrell done," asked the prior, "that he should be ashamed of his own name?" "ashamed!" said brian, haughtily; "i never for one moment said that i was ashamed of it; but----" he turned in his chair and looked out of the window. a new thought occurred to him. probably padre cristoforo knew the history of every one who had lived in san stefano during the last few years. perhaps he might assist brian in his search for the truth. at any rate, as padre cristoforo already knew his name, it would do nobody any harm if he confided in him a little further, and told him something of the story which mrs. luttrell had told to him. meanwhile, padre cristoforo watched him keenly as a cat watches a mouse, though without the malice of a cat. the prior wished brian no harm. but, for the good of his order, he wished very much that he could lay hands, either through brian or through dino, upon that fine estate of which he had dreamt for the last thirteen years. "father cristoforo," brian's haggard, dark eyes looked anxiously into the priest's subtilely twinkling orbs, "will you tell me how you learnt my true name?" he could not bear to cast a doubt upon dino's good faith, and the prior divined his reason for the question. "rest assured, my dear sir, that i learnt it accidentally," he said, with a soothing smile. "i happened to be entering the door when our young friend dino recognised you. i heard you tell him to call you by the name of stretton; i also heard you say that brian luttrell was dead." "ah!" sighed brian, scarcely above his breath. "i thought that dino could not have betrayed me." he did not mean the prior to hear his words; but they were heard and understood. "signor," said the padre, with an inflection of hurt feeling in his voice, "mr. stretton, or mr. luttrell, however you choose to term yourself, dino is a man of honour, and will never betray a trust reposed in him. i could answer for dino with my very life." "i know--i was sure of it!" cried brian. "but, signor, do you think it is right or wise to imperil the future and the reputation of a young man like dino--without friends, without home, without a name, entirely dependent upon us and our provision for him--by making him the depository of secrets which he keeps against his conscience and against the rule of the order in which he lives? brother dino has told me nothing; he even evaded a question which he thought that you would not wish him to answer; but, he has acted wrongly, and will suffer if he is led into further concealment. need i say more?" "he shall not suffer through me," said brian, impetuously. "i ought to have known better. but i was not myself; i don't remember what i said. i was surprised and relieved when i came to myself and found you all calling me mr. stretton. i never thought of laying any burden upon dino." "you will do well, then," said the prior, approvingly, "if you do not speak of the matter to him at all. he is bound to mention it if questioned, and i presume you do not want to make it known." "no, i do not. but i thought that he was bound only to mention matters that concerned himself; not those of other people," said brian, with more hardihood than the priest had expected of him. padre cristoforo smiled, and made a little motion with his hand, as much as to say that there were many things which an englishman and a heretic could not be expected to know. "dino is in a state of pupilage," he said, slightly, finding that brian seemed to expect an answer; "the rules which bind him are very strict. but--if you will allow me to advert once more to your proposed change of name and residence--i suppose that it is not indiscreet to remark that your friends in england--or scotland--will doubtless be anxious about your place of abode at present?" "i do not think so," said brian, in a low tone. "i believe that they think me dead." "why so?" "perhaps you did not hear in your quiet monastery, father, of a party of travellers who perished in an avalanche last november? two guides, a porter, and an englishman, whose body was never recovered. i was that englishman." "i heard of the accident," said padre cristoforo, briefly, nodding his head. "so you escaped, signor? you must have had strong limbs and stout sinews--or else you must have been attended by some special providential care--to escape, when those three skilled mountaineers were lost on the mountain side." "on ne meurt pas quand la mort est la délivrance," quoted brian, with a bitter laugh. "you may be quite sure that if i had been at the height of felicity and good fortune, it would have needed but a false step, or a slight chill, or a stray shot--a stray shot! oh, my god! if only some stray shot had come to me--not to my brother--my brother----" they were the first tears that he had shed since the beginning of his illness. the sudden memory of his brother's fate proved too much for him in his present state of bodily weakness. he bowed his head on his hands and wept. a curiously soft expression stole into the prior's face. he looked at brian once or twice and seemed as if he wished to say some pitying word, but, in point of fact, no word of consolation occurred to him. he was very sorry for brian, whose story was perfectly familiar to him; but he knew very well that brian's grief was not one to which words could bring comfort. he waited silently, therefore, until the mood had passed, and the young man lifted up his heavy eyes and quivering lips with a faint attempt at a smile, which was sadder than those passionate sobs had been. "i must ask pardon," he said, somewhat confusedly. "i did not know that i was so weak. i will go to my room." "let me delay you for one moment," said the prior, confronting him with kindly authority. "it has needed little penetration, signor, to discover that you have lately passed through some great sorrow; i am now more sure of it than ever. i would not intrude upon your confidence, but i ask you to remember that i wish to be your friend--that there are reasons why i should take a special interest in you and your family, and that, humble as i am, i may be of use to you and yours." brian stopped short and looked at him. "me and mine!" he repeated to himself. "me and mine! what do you know of us?" "i will be frank with you," said the priest. "thirteen years ago a document of a rather remarkable nature was placed in my hands affecting the luttrell family. in this paper the writer declared that she, as the nurse of mrs. luttrell's children, had substituted her own child for a boy called brian luttrell, and had carried off the true brian to her mother, a woman named assunta naldi. the nurse, vincenza, died and left this paper in the hands of her mother, who, after much hesitation, confided the secret to me." brian took a step nearer to the prior. "what right have you had to keep this matter secret so long?" he demanded. "say, rather, what right had i to disturb an honourable family with an assertion that is incapable of proof?" "then why did you tell me now?" "because you know it already." brian seated himself and leaned back in his chair, with his eyes still fixed upon the prior's face. "why do you think that i know it?" he said. "because," said padre cristoforo, raising his long forefinger, and emphasising every fresh point with a convincing jerk, "because you have come to san stefano. you would never have come here unless you wanted to find out the truth. because you have changed your name. you would have had no reason to abandon the name of luttrell unless you were not sure of your right to bear it. because you spoke of vincenza in your delirium. do i need more proofs?" there was another proof which he did not mention. he had found mrs. luttrell's letter to brian amongst the sick man's clothes, and had carefully perused it before locking it up with the rest of the stranger's possessions. it was characteristic of the man that, during the last few years, he had set himself steadily to work to master the english language by the aid of every english book or english-speaking traveller that came in his way. he had succeeded wonderfully well, and no one but himself knew for what purpose that arduous task had been undertaken. he found his accomplishment useful; he had thought it particularly useful when he read mrs. luttrell's letter. but naturally he did not say so to brian. "you are right," said brian, in a low voice. "but you say it is incapable of proof. she--my mother--i mean mrs. luttrell--says so, too." "if it were capable of proof," said the prior, softly, "should you contest the matter?" "yes," brian answered, with an angry flash of his eyes, "if i had been in england, and any such claimant appeared, i would have fought the ground to the last inch! not for the sake of the estates--i have given those up easily enough--but for my father's sake. i would not lightly give up my claim to call him father; he never doubted once that i was his son." "he never doubted?" "i am sure he never did." "but mrs. luttrell----" "god help me, yes! but she thinks also that i meant to take my brother's life." it needed but a few words of inquiry to lead brian to tell the story of his brother's death. the prior knew it well enough; he had made it his business to ascertain the history of the luttrell family during the past few years; but he listened with the gentle and sympathetic interest which had often given him so strong a hold over men's hearts and lives. he was a master in the art of influencing younger men; he had the subtle instinct which told him exactly what to say and how far to go, when to speak and when to be silent; and brian, with no motive for concealment, now that his name was once known, was like a child in the prior's hands. in return for his confidence, padre cristoforo told him the substance of his interview with old assunta, and of the confession written by vincenza. but when brian asked to see this paper the prior shook his head. "i have not got it here," he said. "it was certainly preserved, by the desire of some in authority, but it was not thought to afford sufficient testimony." "what was wanting?" "i cannot tell you precisely what was wanting; but, amongst other matters, there is the fact that this vincenza made a directly opposite statement, which counterbalances this one." "then you have two written statements, contradicting each other? you might as well throw them both into the fire," said brian, with some irritation. "who is the 'authority' who preserves them? can i not present myself to him and demand a sight of the documents?" "under what name, and for what reason, would you ask to see them?" brian winced; he had for the moment forgotten what his own hand had done. "i could still prove my identity," he said, looking down. "but, no; i will not. i did not lose myself upon the mountain-side because of this mystery about my birth, but because i wanted to escape my mother's reproaches and the burden of richard's inheritance. nothing will induce me to go back to scotland. to all intents and purposes, i am dead." "then," said the prior, "since that is your resolution--your wise resolution, let me say--i will tell you frankly what my reading of the riddle has been, and what, i think, vincenza did. it is my belief that mrs. luttrell's child died, and was buried under the name of vincenza's child." "you, too, then--you believe that i am not a luttrell?" "if the truth could ever be ascertained, which i do not think it will be, i believe that this would turn out to be the case. the key of the whole matter lies in the fact that vincenza had twins. one of these children was sent to the grandmother in the country; one was nursed in the village of san stefano. a fever had broken out in the village, and vincenza's charge--the little brian luttrell--died. she immediately changed the dead child for her own, being wishful to escape the blame of carelessness, and retain her place; also to gain for her own child the advantages of wealth and position. the two boys, who have now grown to manhood, are brothers; children, of one mother; and brian luttrell--a baby boy of some four months old--sleeps, as his mother declares, in the graveyard of san stefano." "why did the nurse confess only a half-truth, then?" "she wanted to get absolution; and yet she did not want to injure the prospects of her child, i suppose. at the worst, she thought that one boy would be substituted for another. the woman was foolish--and wicked," said the prior, with a grain of impatient contempt in his tone; "and the more foolish that she did not observe that she was outwitting herself--trying to cheat god as well as man." "then--you think--that i----" "that you are the son of an italian gardener and his wife. courage, my son; it might have been worse. but i know nothing positively; i have constructed a theory out of vincenza's self-contradictions; it may be true; it may be false. of one thing i would remind you; that as you have given up your position in england and scotland, you have no responsibility in the matter. you have done exactly what the law would have required you to do had it been proved that you were vincenza's son." "but the other child--the boy who was sent to his grandmother? what became of him?" the prior looked at him in silence for a little time before he spoke. "how do you feel towards him?" he said, finally. "are you prepared to treat him as a brother or not?" brian averted his face. "i have had but one brother," he said, shortly. "i cannot expect to find another--especially when i am not sure that he is of my blood or i of his." "in any case he is your foster-brother. i should like you to meet him." "does he know the story?" "he does." "and is prepared to welcome me as a brother?" said brian, with a bitter but agitated laugh. "where is he? i will see him if you like." he had risen to his feet, and stood with his arms crossed, his brow knitted, his mouth firmly set. there was something hard in his face, something defiant in his attitude, which caused the prior to add a word of remonstrance. "it is not his fault," he said, "any more than it is yours. you need not be enemies; it is my object to make you friends." "let me see him," repeated brian gloomily. "i do not wish to be his enemy. i do not promise to be his friend." | "i will send him to you," said the prior. "wait here till he comes." he left brian alone; and the young man, thinking it likely that | he would be undisturbed for sometime to come, bent his face upon his hands, and tried to [missing word] his position. the strange tangle of circumstances in which he found himself involved would never be easy of adjustment; he wished with all his heart that he had refused the prior's offer to make his foster-brother known to him, but it was too late now. was it too late? could he not send for padre cristoforo, and beg him to leave the italian peasant in his own quiet home, ignorant of brian's visit to the place where he was born? he would do it; and then he would leave san stefano for ever; it was not yet too late. he lifted up his head and rose to his feet. he was not alone in the room. to his surprise he saw before him his friend, dino. "you have come from padre cristoforo, have you?" said brian, quickly and impetuously. he took no notice of the young man's manifest agitation and discomfort, which would have been clear to anybody less pre-occupied than brian, at that moment. "tell him from me that there is no need for me to see the man that he spoke of--that i do not wish to meet him. he will understand what i mean." a change, like that produced by a sudden electric shock, passed over dino's face. his hands fell to his sides. they had been outstretched before, as if in greeting. "you do not want to see him?" he repeated. "i will not see him," said brian, harshly, almost violently. "weak as i am, i'll go straight out of the house and village sooner than meet him. why does he want to see me? i have nothing to give him now." long afterwards he remembered the look on dino's face. pain, regret, yearning affection, seemed to struggle for the mastery; his eyes were filled with tears, his lips were pale. but he said nothing. he went away from the room, and took the message that had been given him to the prior. brian felt that he had perhaps been selfish, but he consoled himself with the thought that the peasant lad would gain nothing by a meeting with him, and that such an embarrassing interview, as it must necessarily be, would be a pain to them both. but he did not know that the foster-brother (brother or foster-brother, which could it be?) was sobbing on the floor of the prior's cell, in a passion of vehement grief at brian's rejection of padre cristoforo's proposition. he would scarcely have understood that grief if he had seen it. he would have found it difficult to realise that the boy, dino, had grown from childhood with a strong but suppressed belief in his mother's strange story, and yet, that, as soon as he saw brian luttrell, his heart had gone out to him with the passionate tenderness that he had waited all his life to bestow upon a brother. "take it not so much to heart, dino," said the prior, looking down at him compassionately. "it was not to be expected that he would welcome the news. thou art a fool, little one, to grieve over his coldness. come, these are a girl's tears, and thou should'st be a man by now." the words were caressingly spoken, but they failed of their effect. dino did not look up. "for one reason," said the prior, in a colder tone, half to himself and half to the novice, "i am glad that he has not seen you. your course will, perhaps, be the easier. because, dino, although i may believe my theory to be the correct one, and that you and our guest are both the children of vincenza vasari, yet it is a theory which is as difficult to prove as any other; and our good friend, the cardinal, who was here last week, you know, chooses to take the other view." "what other view, reverend father?" said dino. "the view that you are, indeed, brian luttrell, and not vincenza's son." "but--you said--that it was impossible to prove----" "i think so, my dear son. but the cardinal does not agree with me. we shall hear from him further. i believe it is the general opinion at rome that you ought to be sent to scotland in order to claim your position and the luttrell estates. the case might at any rate be tried." dino rose now, pale and trembling. "i do not want a position. i do not want to claim anything. i want to be a monk," he said. "you are not a monk yet," returned the prior, calmly. "and it may not be your vocation to take the vows upon you. now, do you see why you have been prevented from taking them hitherto? you may be called upon to act as a layman: to claim the estates, fight the battle with these scotch heretics and come back to us a wealthy man! and in that case, you will act as a pious layman should do, and devote a portion of your wealth to holy church. but i do not say you would be successful; i think myself that you have little chance of success. only let us feel that you are our obedient child, as you used to be." "i will do anything you wish," cried dino, passionately, "so long as i bring no unhappiness upon others. i do not wish to be rich at brian's expense." "he has renounced his birthright," said the prior. "you will not have to fight him, my tender-hearted dino. you will have a much harder foe--a woman. the estate has passed into the hands of a miss elizabeth murray." chapter xv. the villa venturi. an elderly english artist, with carefully-trimmed grey hair, a gold-rimmed eye-glass, and a velvet coat which was a little too hot as well as a little too picturesque for the occasion, had got into difficulties with his sketching apparatus on the banks of a lovely little river in north italy. he had been followed for some distance by several children, who had never once ceased to whine for alms; and he had tried all arts in the hope of getting rid of them, and all in vain. he had thrown small coins to them; they had picked them up and clamoured only the more loudly; he had threatened them with his sketching umbrella, whereat they had screamed and run away, only to return in the space of five seconds with derisive laughter and hands outstretched more greedily than ever. when he reached the spot where he intended to make a sketch, his tormentors felt that they had him at their mercy. they swarmed round him, they peeped under his umbrella, they even threw one or two small stones at his back; and when, in desperation, their victim sprang up and turned upon them, they made a wild dash at his umbrella, which sent it into the stream, far beyond the worthy artist's reach. then they took to their heels, leaving the good man to contemplate wofully the fate of his umbrella. it had drifted to the middle of the stream, had there been caught by a stone and a tuft of weed, and seemed destined to complete destruction. he tried to arrest its course, but could not reach it, and nearly over-balanced himself in the attempt; then he sat down upon the bank and gave vent to an ejaculation of mild impatience--"oh, dear, dear, dear me! i wish elizabeth were here." it was so small a catastrophe, after all, and yet it called up a look of each unmistakable vexation to that naturally tranquil and abstracted countenance, that a spectator of the scene repressed a smile which had risen to his lips and came to the rescue. "can i be of any assistance to you, sir?" he said. the artist gave a violent start. he had not previously seen the speaker, who had been lying on the grass at a few yards' distance, screened from sight by an intervening clump of brushwood. he came forward and stood by the water, looking at the opened umbrella. "i think i could get it," he said. "the water is very shallow." "but--my dear sir--pray do not trouble yourself; it is entirely unnecessary. i do not wish to give the slightest inconvenience," stammered the englishman, secretly relieved, but very much embarrassed at the same time. "pray, be careful--it's very wet. good heaven!" the last exclamation was caused by the fact that the new-comer had calmly divested himself of his boots and socks and was stepping into the water. "indeed, it's scarcely worth the trouble that you are taking." "it is not much trouble to wade for a minute or two in this deliciously cool water," said the stranger, with a smile, as he returned from his expedition, umbrella in hand. "there, i think you will find it uninjured. it's a wonder that it was not broken. you would have been inconvenienced without it on this hot day." he raised his hat slightly as he spoke and moved away. the artist received another shock. this young man--for he moved with the strength and lightness of one still young, and his face was a young face, too--this young man had grey hair--perfectly grey. there was not a black thread amongst it. for one moment the artist was so much astonished that he nearly forgot to thank the stranger for the service that he had rendered him. "one moment," he said, hurriedly. "pray allow me to thank you. i am very much obliged to you. you don't know how great a service you have done me. if i can be of any use to you in any way----" "it was a very trifling service," said the young man, courteously. "i wish it had been my good fortune to do you a greater one. this was nothing." "foreign!" murmured the artist to himself, as the stranger returned to his lair behind the thicket, where he seemed to be occupying himself in putting on his socks and boots once more. "no englishman would have answered in that way. i wish he had not disappeared so quickly. i should like to have made a sketch of his head. hum! i shall not sketch much to-day, i fancy." he shut up his paint-box with an air of resolution, and walked leisurely to the spot where the young man was completing his toilet. "i ought perhaps to explain," he began, with an air which he fancied was machiavellian in its simplicity, "that the loss of that umbrella would have been a serious matter to me. it might have entailed another and more serious loss--the loss of my liberty." the young man looked up with a puzzled and slightly doubtful expression. "i beg your pardon," he said. "the loss of----" "the loss of my liberty," said the englishman, in a louder and rather triumphant tone of voice. "the fact is, my dear sir, that i have a very tender and careful wife, and an equally tender and careful daughter and niece, who have so little confidence in my power of caring for my own safety that they have at various times threatened to accompany me in all my sketching expeditions. now, if i came home to them and confessed that i had been attacked by a troop of savage italian children, who tossed my umbrella into the river, do you think i should ever be allowed to venture out alone again?" the young man smiled, with a look of comprehension. "can i be of any further use to you?" he said. "can i walk back to the town with you, or carry any of your things?" "you can be of very great use to me, indeed," said the gentleman, opening his sketch-book in a great hurry, and then producing a card from some concealed pocket in his velvet coat. "i'm an artist--allow me to introduce myself--my name is heron; you would be of the very greatest use to me if you would allow me to--to make a sketch of your head for a picture that i am doing just now. it is the very thing--if you will excuse the liberty that i am taking----" he had his pencil ready, but he faltered a little as he saw the sudden change which came over his new acquaintance's face at the sound of his proposition. the young man flushed to his temples, and then turned suddenly pale. he did not speak, but mr. heron inferred offence from his silence, and became exceedingly profuse in his apologies. "it is of no consequence," said the stranger, breaking in upon mr. heron's incoherent sentences with some abruptness. "i was merely surprised for the moment; and, after all--i think i must ask you to excuse me; i have a great dislike--a sort of nervous dislike--to sitting for a portrait. i would rather that you did not sketch me, if you please." "oh, certainly, certainly; i am only sorry that i mentioned it," said mr. heron, more formally than usual. he was a little vexed at his own precipitation, and also by the way in which his request had been received. for a few moments there was a somewhat awkward silence, during which the young man stood with his eyes cast down, apparently absorbed in thought. "a striking face," thought mr. heron to himself, being greatly attracted by the appearance of his new friend; "all the more picturesque on account of that curious grey hair. i wonder what his history has been." then he spoke aloud and in a kindlier tone. "i will accept your offer of help," he said, "and ask you to walk back with me to the town, if you are going that way. i came by a short cut, which i am quite sure that i shall never remember." the young man awoke from his apparently sad meditations; his fine, dark eyes were lightened by a grateful smile as he looked at mr. heron. it seemed as though he were glad that something had been suggested that he could do. but the smile was succeeded by a still more settled look of gloom. "i must introduce myself," he said. "i have no card with me--perhaps this will do as well." he held out the book that he had been reading; it was a copy of horace's _odes_, bound in vellum. on the fly-leaf, a name had been scrawled in pencil--john stretton. mr. heron glanced at it through his eye-glass, nodded pleasantly, and regarded his new friend with increased respect. "you're a scholar, i see," he said, good-humouredly, as they strolled leisurely towards the little town in which he had told john stretton that he was staying; "or else you would not bring horace out with you into the fields on a sunshiny day like this. i have forgotten almost all my classical lore. to tell the truth, mr. stretton, i never found it very much good to me; but i suppose all boys have got to have a certain amount of it drilled into them----?" he stopped short in an interrogative manner. "i suppose so," said stretton, without a smile. his eyes were bent on the ground; there was a joyless contraction of his delicate, dark brows. it was with an evident effort that he suddenly looked up and spoke. "i have an interest in such subjects. i am trying to find pupils myself--or, at least, i hope to find some when i return to england in a week or two. i think," he added with a half-laugh, "that i am a pretty good classic--good enough, at least, to teach small boys!" "i dare say, i dare say," said mr. heron, hastily. he looked as if he would like to put another question or two, then turned away, muttered something inaudible, and started off upon a totally different subject, about which he laid down the law with unaccustomed volubility and decision. stretton listened, assented now and then, but took care to say little in reply. a sudden turn in the road brought them close to a fine, old building, grey with age, but stately still, at the sight of which mr. heron became silent and slackened his pace. "a magnificent old place," said stretton, looking up at it as his companion paused before the gateway. "picturesque, but not very waterproof," said mr. heron, with a dismal air of conviction. "it is what they call the villa venturi. there are some charming bits of colour about it, but i am not sure that it is the best possible residence." "you are residing here?" "for the present--yes. you must come in and see the banqueting-hall and the terrace; you must, indeed. my wife will be delighted to thank you herself--for the rescue of the umbrella!" and mr. heron laughed quietly below his breath. "yes, yes"--as stretton showed symptoms of refusing--"i can take no denial. after your long, hot walk with me, you must come in and rest, if it is but for half-an-hour. you do not know what pleasure it gives me to have a chat with some one like yourself, who can properly appreciate the influence of the renaissance upon italian art." stretton yielded rather than listen to any more of such gross and open flattery. he followed mr. heron under the gateway into a paved courtyard, flanked on three sides by out-buildings and a clock tower, and on the fourth by the house itself. mr. heron led the way through some dark, cool passages, expatiating as he went upon the architecture of the building; finally they entered a small but pleasant little room, where he offered his guest a seat, and ordered refreshments to be set before him. "i am afraid that everyone is out," mr. heron said, after opening and shutting the doors of two or three rooms in succession, and returning to stretton with rather a discomfited countenance. "the afternoon is growing cool, you see, and they have gone for a drive. however, you can have a look at the terrace and the banqueting-hall while it's still light, and we shall hope for the pleasure of your company at some other time when my wife is at home, mr. stretton, if you are staying near us." "you are very kind," murmured stretton. "but i fear that i must proceed with my journey to-morrow. i ought not to stay--i must not----" he broke off abruptly. mr. heron forgot his good manners, and stared at him in surprise. there was something a little odd about this grey-haired young man after all. but, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. mr. heron was sorry to hear of his probable departure. they wandered round the garden together. it was a pleasant place, with terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well have passed for that fair garden to which boccaccio's fine ladies and gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in florence, or for the scene on which the hapless francesca looked when she read the story of lancelot that led to her own undoing. some such fancies as these passed through the crannies of stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening to mr. heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the consideration of mediæval art. mr. heron was in raptures with his listener. "oh, by-the-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one of the windows on the terrace, "if i may trouble you to wait here a minute, i will go and fetch the sketch i have made of the garden from this point. you will excuse me for a moment. won't you go inside the house? the window is open--go in, if you like." he disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving stretton somewhat amused by his host's unceremonious demeanour. he did not accept the invitation; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid to approach. as he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. it was the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he stood and then to recede. he soon discovered that it was accompanied by a soft but regular footfall. it was plain that somebody--some woman, evidently--was pacing the floor of the room to which this window belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to some silent listener. as she came near the window, stretton heard the words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar-- "i saw the new moon, late yestreen, wi' the old moon in her arm: and if we gang to sea, master, i fear we'd come to harm." the voice died away as it travelled down the space of the long room. presently it came nearer; the verses were still going on-- "oh, lang, lang may the ladies sit, with their fans into their hand, before they see sir patrick spens come sailing to the strand. and lang lang may the maidens sit, with their gowd combs in their hair, a' waiting for their ain dear loves, for them they'll see nae mair." "betty," said a feeble little voice--a child's voice, apparently quite close to the window now--"i want you to say those two verses over again; i like them. and the one about the old moon with the new moon in her arms; isn't that pretty?" "you like that, do you, my little jack?" said the woman's voice; a rich, low voice, so melodious in its loving tones that stretton positively started when he heard it, for it had been carefully subdued to monotony during the recitation, and he had not realised its full sweetness. "do you know, darling, i thought that you were asleep?" "asleep, betty? i never go to sleep when you are saying poetry to me. aren't you tired of carrying me?" "i am never tired of carrying you, jack." "my own dear, sweet queen bess!" there was the sound of a long, loving kiss; and then the slow pacing up and down and the recitation re-commenced. stretton had thought that morning that nothing could induce him to interest himself again in the world's affairs; but at that moment he was conscious of the strongest possible feeling of curiosity to see the owner of so sweet a voice. the slightest movement on his part, the slightest possible push given to the window, which opened into the room like a door and was already ajar, would have enabled him to see the speakers. but he would not do this. he told himself that he ought to move away from the window, but self-government failed him a little at that point. he could not lose the opportunity of hearing that beautiful voice again. "it ought to belong to a beautiful woman," he thought, with a half smile, "but, unfortunately, nature's gifts are distributed very sparingly sometimes. this girl, whosoever she may be--for i know she is young--has a lovely voice, and probably a crooked figure or a squint. i suppose she is mr. heron's daughter. ah, here he comes!" the artist's flying grey beard and loose velvet coat were seen upon the terrace at this moment. "i cannot find the sketch," he cried, dolorously. "the servants have been tidying the place whilst i was out--confound them! you must positively stop over to-morrow and see it. this is the banqueting-room--why didn't you go in?" and he pushed wide the window which the young man had refrained from opening a single inch. a flood of light fell on a yard or two of polished oak flooring; but at first stretton could see nothing more, for the rest of the room seemed to be in complete darkness to his dazzled eyed. the blinds of the numerous windows were all drawn down, and some minutes elapsed before he could distinguish any particular object in the soft gloom of the apartments. and then he saw that mr. heron was speaking to a lady in white, and he discovered at once, with a curious quickening of his pulses, that the reciter of the ballad stood before him with a child in her arms. she was beautiful, after all! that was stretton's first thought. she was as stately as a queen, with a natural crown of golden-brown hair upon her well-poised head; the grand lines of her figure were emphasized by the plainness of her soft, white dress, which fell to her feet in folds that a sculptor might have envied. the only ornament she wore was a string of venetian beads round the milky whiteness of her throat, but her beauty was not of a kind that required adornment. it was like that of a flower--perfect in itself, and quite independent of exterior aid. in fact, she was not unlike some tall and stately blossom, or so stretton thought, no exotic flower, but something as strong and hardy as it was at the same time delicately beautiful. her eyes had the colouring that one sees in the iris-lily sometimes--a tint which is almost grey, but merges into purple; eyes, as the poet says-- "too expressive to be blue. too lovely to be grey." in her arms she carried little jack heron, and by the way in which she held him, it was plain that she was well accustomed to the burden, and that his light weight did not tire her well-knit, vigorous limbs. his pale, little face looked wistfully at the stranger; it was a curious contrast to the glowing yet delicate beauty and perfect health presented by the countenance of his cousin elizabeth. meanwhile, mr. heron was introducing the stranger, which he did with a note of apology in his voice, which stretton was not slow to remark. but elizabeth--he did not catch her name, and still thought her to be a miss heron--soon put him at his ease. she accompanied the artist and his friend round the banqueting-hall, as they inspected the fine, old pictures with which it was hung; she walked with them on the terrace--little jack still cradled in her arms; and wheresoever she went, it seemed to stretton that he had never in all his life seen any woman half so fair. he did not leave the house, after all, until late that night. he dined with the herons; he saw mrs. heron, and kitty, and the boys; but he had no eyes nor ears for anyone but elizabeth. he did not know why she charmed him; he knew only that it was a pleasure to him to see and hear her slightest word and movement; and he put this down to the fact that she had a sympathetic voice, and a face of undoubted beauty. but in very truth, john stretton--alias brian luttrell--returned to his inn that night in the brilliant italian moonlight, having (for the first time in his life, be it observed) fallen desperately, passionately in love. and the woman that he loved was the heiress of the luttrell estates; the last person in the world whom he would have dreamt of loving, had he but known her name. chapter xvi. "without a reference." brian--or to avoid confusion, let us call him by the name that he had adopted, stretton--rose early, drank a cup of coffee, and was sitting in the little verandah outside the inn, looking dreamily out towards a distant view of the sea, and thinking (must the truth be told?) of elizabeth, when a visitor was announced. he looked round, and, to his surprise, beheld mr. heron. the artist was graver in manner and also a little more nervous than usual. after the first greetings were over he sank into an embarrassed silence, played with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and, at last, burst somewhat abruptly into the subject upon which he had really come to speak. "mr. stretton," he said, "i trust that you will excuse me if i am taking a liberty; but the fact is, you mentioned to me yesterday that you thought of taking pupils----" "yes," stretton answered, simply. "i should be very glad if i could find any." "we think that we could find you some, mr. stretton." the young man's pale face flushed; but he did not speak. he only looked anxiously at the artist, who was pulling his pointed grey beard in a meditative fashion, and seemed uncertain how to proceed with his proposition. "i have two boys running wild for want of a tutor," he said at last. "we shall be here some weeks longer, and we don't know what to do with them. my wife says they are too much for her. elizabeth has devoted herself to poor little jack (something sadly wrong with his spine, i'm afraid, mr. stretton). kitty--well, kitty is only a child herself. the point is--would it be a waste of your time, mr. stretton, to ask you to spend a few weeks in this neighbourhood, and give these boys two or three hours a day? we thought that you might find it worth your while." stretton was standing, with his shoulder against one of the vine-clad posts that supported the verandah. mr. heron wondered at his discomposure; for his colour changed from red to white and from white to red as sensitively as a girl's, and it was with evident difficulty that he brought himself to speak. but when he spoke the mystery seemed, in mr. heron's eyes, to be partly solved. "i had better mention one thing from the very first," said the young man, quietly. "i have no references. i am afraid the lack of them will be a fatal drawback with most people." "no references!" stammered mr. heron, evidently much taken aback. "but--my dear young friend--how do you propose to get a tutor's work without them?" "i don't know," said stretton, with a smile in which a touch of sternness made itself felt rather than seen. "i don't suppose that i shall get very much work at all. but i hope to earn my bread in one way or another." "i--i--well, i really don't know what to say," remarked mr. heron, getting up, and buttoning his yellow gloves reflectively. "i should have no objection. i judge for myself, don't you know, by the face and the manner and all that sort of thing; but it's a different thing when it comes to dealing with women, you know. they are so particular----" "i am afraid i should not suit mrs. heron's requirements," said stretton, in a very quiet tone. "it isn't that exactly," said mr. heron, hesitating; "and yet--well, of course, you know it isn't the usual thing to be met with the plain statement that you have no references! not that i might even have thought of asking for them; ten to one that it would ever have occurred to me--but my wife----. come, you don't mean it literally? you have friends in england, no doubt, but you don't want to apply to them." "excuse me, mr. heron; i spoke the literal truth. i have no references to give either as to character, attainments, or birth. i have no friends. and i agree with you and mrs. heron that i should not be a fit person to teach your boys their latin accidence--that's all." "not so fast, if you please," said mr. heron, more impressed by stretton's tone of cold independence than he would have been by sheaves of testimonials to his abilities; "not so fast, my good fellow. now, will you do me a favour? let me think the matter over for half-an-hour, and come to you again. then we will decide the matter, one way or the other." "i should prefer to consider the matter decided now," said stretton. "nonsense, my dear sir, you must not be hasty. in half-an-hour i shall see you again," cried the artist, as he turned his back on the young man, and walked off towards the villa venturi, swinging his stick jauntily in his hand. stretton watched him, and bit his lip. "i was a fool to say that i wanted work," he said to himself, "and perhaps a greater fool to blurt out the fact that i had no respectable references so easily. however, i've done for myself in that quarter. the british dragon, mrs. grundy, would never admit a man as tutor to her boys under these mysterious circumstances. all the better, perhaps. i should be looked upon with suspicion, as a man 'under a cloud.' and i should not like that, especially in the case of that beautiful miss heron, whose clear eyes seem to rebuke any want of candour or courage by their calm fearlessness of gaze. well, i shall not meet her under false pretences now, at any rate." and then he gave vent to a short, impatient sigh, and resumed the seat that he had vacated for mr. heron's benefit. he tried to read; but found, to his disgust, that he could not fix his mind on the printed page. he kept wondering what report mr. heron was giving to his wife and family of the interview that he had had with the english tutor "without references." "perhaps they think that i was civil to the father because i hoped to get something out of them," said stretton to himself, frowning anxiously at the line of blue sea in the distance. "perhaps they are accusing me of being a rank impostor. what if they do? what else have i been all my life? what a fool i am!" in despair he flung aside his book, went up to his bed-room, and began to pack the modest knapsack which contained all his worldly wealth. in half-an-hour--when he had had that five minutes' decisive conversation with mr. heron--he would be on his way to naples. he had all but finished his packing when the landlord shuffled upstairs to speak to him. there was a messenger from the villa venturi. there was also a note. stretton opened it and read:-- "dear mr. stretton,--will you do me the favour to come up to the villa as soon as you receive this note? i am sorry to trouble you, but i think i can explain my motive when we meet. "yours truly, "alfred heron." stretton crumpled the note up in his hand, and let it drop to the floor. he glanced at his knapsack. had he packed it too soon or not? he followed the servant, whom he found in waiting for him--a stolid, impenetrable-looking englishman, who led the way to an entrance into the garden of the villa--an entrance which stretton did not know. "is your master in the garden? does he wish me to come this way?" he asked, rather sharply. the stolid servant bowed his head. "my master desired me to take you to the lower terrace, sir, if you didn't find it too 'ot," he said, solemnly. and stretton said nothing more. the lower terrace? it was not the terrace by the house; it was one at the further end of the garden, and, as he soon saw, it was upon a cliff overlooking the sea. it was overshadowed by the foliage of some great trees, and commanded a magnificent view of the coast, broken here and there into inlets and tiny bays, beyond which stretched "the deep sapphire of the sea." a slight haze hung over the distance, through which the forms of mountain peaks and tiny islets could yet be clearly seen. the wash of the water at the foot of the cliff, the chirp of the cicadas, were the only sounds to be heard. and here, on a low, wooden bench, in the deepest and coolest shade afforded by the trees, stretton found--not mr. heron, as he had expected, but--elizabeth. he bowed, hesitating and confused for the moment, but she gave him her white hand with a friendly look which set him at his ease, just as it had done upon his entrance to the villa on the previous evening. "sit down, mr. stretton," she said, "will you not? my uncle has gone up to the house for a paper, or a book, or something, and i undertook to entertain you until he came back. have we not a lovely view? and one is always cool here under the trees, now that the heats of summer are past. i think you will find it a good place to read in when you are tired of giving lessons--that is, if you are going to be so kind as to give lessons to our troublesome boys." she had looked at him once, and in that glance she read what would have taken mr. heron's obtuse male intellect weeks to comprehend. she saw the young man's slight embarrassment and the touch of pride mingling with it; she noticed the spareness of outline and the varying colour which suggested recent illness, or delicacy of health; above all, she observed the expression of his face, high, noble, refined, as it had always been, but darkened by some inexplicable shadow from the past, some trace of sorrow which could never be altogether swept away. seeing all these things, she knew instinctively that the calmest and quietest way of speaking would suit him best, and she felt that she was right when he answered, in rather low and shaken tones-- "pardon me. it is for mr. heron to decide; not for me." "i think my uncle has decided," said elizabeth. "he asked me to ascertain when you would be willing to give the boys their first lesson." "he said that, now? since he saw me?" cried stretton, as if in uncontrollable surprise. elizabeth's lips straightened themselves for a moment. then she turned her face towards the young man, with the look of mingled dignity and candour which had already impressed him so deeply, and said, gently-- "is there anything to be surprised at in that?" "yes," said stretton, hanging his head, and absently pulling forward a long spray of clematis which grew beside him. "it is a very surprising thing to me that mr. heron should take me on trust--a man without recommendation, or influence, or friends." he plucked the spray as he spoke, and played restlessly with the leaves. elizabeth watched his fingers; she saw that the movement was intended to disguise the fact that they were trembling. "as it is," he went on, "even though your father--i beg pardon, your uncle--admits me to this house, i doubt whether i do well to come. i think it would be better in many ways that i should decline this situation." he let the leaves fall from his hand and rose to his feet. "will you tell mr. heron what i say?" he asked, in an agitated voice. "tell him i will not take advantage of his kindness. i will go on to naples--this afternoon." elizabeth was puzzled. this was a specimen of humanity the like of which she had never met before. it interested her; though she hardly wished to interfere in the affairs of a man who was so much of a riddle to her. that he was a stranger and that he was young--not much older than herself, very probably--were facts that did not enter her mind with any deterrent force. but as stretton lifted his hat and turned to leave her, she noticed how white and wan he looked. "mr. stretton," she said, imperiously, "please to sit down. you are not to attempt that long, hot walk again just now. besides, you must wait to see my uncle. sit down, please. now, tell me, you have been ill lately, have you not?" "yes," said stretton, seating himself as she bade him, and answering meekly. "i had brain fever more than a year ago at the monastery of san stefano, and my recovery was a slow one." "i know the prior of san stefano--padre cristoforo. do you remember him?" "yes. he was very good to me. i was there for twelve months or more. he gave me work to do in the school." "will you mention that to my uncle? he is very fond of padre cristoforo." "i thought," said stretton, colouring a little, and almost as though he were excusing himself, "that it would be useless to give the name of a romanist prior as a referee to mr. heron. most people would think it an objection in itself?" "why not give english names, then?" said elizabeth. "because i have no english friends." there was a little silence. stretton was leaning back in his seat, looking quietly out to sea; elizabeth was sitting erect, with her hands crossed on her lap. presently she spoke, but without turning her head. "mr. stretton, i do not want you to think my remarks impertinent or uncalled for. i must tell you first that i am in a somewhat unusual position. my aunt is an invalid, and does not like to be troubled about the children; my uncle hates to decide anything for himself. they have fallen into the habit--the unlucky habit for me--of referring many practical matters to my decision, and, therefore, you will understand that my uncle came to me on his return from the inn this morning and told me what you had said. i want to explain all this, so that you may see how it is that i have heard it so quickly. no one else knows." "you are very good," said stretton, feeling his whole heart strengthened and warmed by this frank explanation. "i think you must see how great a drawback my absence of recommendations is likely to be to me." "yes," said elizabeth, seriously, "i do. but if you cannot overcome it in this case, how are you going to overcome it at all?" "i don't know, miss heron." "you said that you wished to take pupils," elizabeth went on, too much interested in the subject to notice the mistake made in her name; "you told my uncle so, i believe. will you get them more easily in england than here?" "i shall no doubt find somebody who will forego the advantages of a 'character' for the sake of a little scholarship," said stretton, rather bitterly. "some schoolmaster, who wants his drudgery done cheap." "drudgery, indeed!" said elizabeth, softly. then, after a pause--"that seems a great pity. and you are an oxford man, too!" stretton looked up, "how do you know that?" he said, almost sharply. "you talked of balliol last night as if you knew it." "you have a good memory, miss heron. yes, i was at balliol; but you will not identify me there. the truth will out, you see; i was not at oxford under my present name." he thought he should read a look of shocked surprise upon her face; but he was mistaken. she seemed merely to be studying him with grave, womanly watchfulness; not to be easily biassed, nor lightly turned aside. "that is your own affair, of course," she said. "you have a right to change your name if you choose. in your own name, i dare say you would have plenty of friends." "i had," he answered, gravely, but not, as she noticed, as if he were ashamed of having lost them. "and you have none now?" "absolutely none." "through your own fault?" she wondered afterwards how she had the courage to ask the question; but, at the moment, it came naturally to her lips, and he answered it as simply as it was asked. "no. through my misfortune. pray ask me nothing more." "i beg your pardon," she said. "i ought not to have asked anything. but i was anxious--for the children's sakes--and there was nobody to speak but myself. i will say nothing more." "i shall beg of you," said stretton, trying to speak in as even a tone as hers, although the muscles round his lips quivered once or twice and made utterance somewhat difficult, "i shall beg of you to tell what i have said to mr. heron only; you and he will perhaps kindly guard my secret. i wish i could be more frank; but it is impossible. i trust that, when i find employment, my employers will be as kind, as generous, as you have been to-day. you will tell your uncle?" "what am i to tell him?" she said, turning her eyes upon him with a kindly smile in their serene depths. "that you will be here to-morrow at nine o'clock--or eight, before the day grows hot? eight will be best, because the boys get so terribly sleepy and cross, you know, in the middle of the day; and you will be able to breakfast here at half-past ten as we do." he looked at her, scarcely believing the testimony of his own ears. she saw his doubt, and continued quietly enough, though still with that lurking smile in her sweet eyes. "you must not find fault with them if they are badly grounded; or rather you must find fault with me, for i have taught them nearly everything they know. they are good boys, if they are a little unruly now and then. here is my uncle coming from the house. you had really better wait and see him, will you not, mr. stretton? i will leave you to talk business together." she rose and moved away. stretton stood like a statue, passionately desiring to speak, yet scarcely knowing what to say. it was only when she gave him a slight, parting smile over her shoulder that he found his voice. "i can't thank you," he said, hoarsely. she paused for a moment, and he spoke again, with long gaps between the sentences. "you don't know what you have done for me.... i have something to live for now.... god bless you." he turned abruptly towards the sea, and elizabeth, after hesitating for a moment, went silently to meet her uncle. she was more touched than she liked to acknowledge to herself by the young man's emotion; and she felt all the pleasurable glow that usually accompanies the doing of a good deed. "perhaps we have saved him from great misery--poverty and starvation," she mused to herself. "i am sure that he is good; he has such a fine face, and he speaks so frankly about his troubles. of course, as my uncle says, he may be an adventurer; but i do not think he is. we shall soon be able to judge of his character." "well, betty," said mr. heron, as he came up to her, "what success? have you dismissed the young man in disgrace, or are we to let him try to instruct these noisy lads every morning?" "i think you had better try him, uncle." "my dear elizabeth, it is not for me to decide the question. you know very well that i could not do what you insist upon doing for us all----" "don't tell mr. stretton that, please, uncle." mr. heron stopped short, and looked at her almost piteously. "dear child, how can i go on pretending to be the master of this house, and hiring tutors for my children, when the expense comes out of your purse and not out of mine?" "my purse is wide enough," said elizabeth, laughing. "dear uncle, i should hate this money if i might not use it in the way i please. what good would it be to me if you could not all share it? besides, i do not want to be gossiped about and stared at, as is the lot of most young women who happen to be heiresses. i am your orphan niece--that is all that the outside world need know. what does it matter which of us really owns the money?" "there are very few people of your opinion, my dear," said her uncle. "but you are a good, kind, generous girl, and we are more grateful to you than we can say. and now, shall i talk to this young man? have you asked him any questions?" "yes. i do not think that we need reject him because he has no references, uncle." "very well, elizabeth. i quite agree with you. but, on the whole, we won't mention the fact of his having no references to the rest of the family." "just what i was about to say, uncle alfred." thereupon she betook herself to the house, and mr. heron proceeded to the bench on the cliff, where he held a long and apparently satisfactory colloquy with his visitor. and at the end of the conversation it was decided that mr. john stretton, as he called himself, should give three or four hours daily of his valuable time to the instruction of the more youthful members of the heron family. chapter xvii. percival's holiday. "hey for the south, the sunny south!" said percival heron, striding into his friend vivian's room with a lighted cigar between his teeth and a letter in his hand. "i'm off to italy to-morrow." "i wish to heaven that i were off, too!" returned rupert, leaning back in a lounging-chair with a look of lazy discontent. "the fogs last all the year round in london. this is may; i don't know why i am in town at all." "nor i," said his friend, briskly. "especially when you have the cash to take you out of town as often as you like, and whenever you like, while i have to wait on the tender mercies of publishers and editors before i can put fifty pounds in my pocket and go for a holiday." "you're in luck just now, then, i am to understand?" "very much so. look at that, my boy." and he flourished a piece of thin paper in vivian's face. "a cheque for a hundred. i am going to squander it on railway lines as soon as possible." "you are going to join your family?" "yes, i am going to join my family. what a sweetly domestic sound! i don't care a rap for my family. i am going to see the woman i love best in the world, and, if she were not in italy, i doubt whether wild horses would ever draw me from this vast, tumultuous, smoky, beloved city of mine--alma mater, indeed, to me, and to scores of men who are your brothers and mine----" "now, look here, percival," said rupert, in a slightly wearied tone, "if you are going to rant and rave, i'll go out. my room is quite at your disposal, but i am not. i've got a headache. why don't you go to a theatre or a music hall, and work off your superfluous energy there by clapping and shouting applause?" percival laughed, but seated himself and spoke in a gentler tone. "i'll remember your susceptibilities, my friend. let me stay and smoke, that's all. throw a book at my head if i grow too noisy. or hand me that 'review' at your elbow. i'll read it and hold my tongue." he was as good as his word. he read so long and so quietly that vivian turned his head at last and addressed him of his own accord. "what makes your people stay so long abroad?" he said. "are they going to stop there all the summer? i never heard that a summer in italy was a desirable thing." "it's elizabeth's doing," answered percival, coolly. "she and my father between them got up an italian craze; and off they went as soon as ever she came into that property, dragging the family behind them, all laden with books on italian art, and quoting augustus hare, symonds, and ruskin indiscriminately. i don't suppose kitty will have a brain left to stand on when she comes back again--if ever she does come back." "what do you mean?" said rupert, with a sudden deep change of voice. "i mean--nothing. i mean, if she does not marry an italian count or an english adventurer, or catch malaria and die in a swamp." "good heavens, percival! how can you talk so coolly? one would think that it was a joke!" vivian had risen from his chair, and was standing erect, with a decided frown upon his brow. percival glanced at him, and answered lightly. "don't make such a pother about nothing. she's all right. they're in a very healthy place; a little seaside village, where it has been quite cool, they say, so far. and they will return before long, because they mean to spend the autumn in scotland. yes, they say it is 'quite cool' at present. don't see how it can be cool myself; but that's their look out. they've all been very well, and there's no immediate prospect of the marriage of either of the girls with an italian or an english adventurer; not even of miss murray with your humble servant." rupert threw himself back into his chair again as if relieved, and a half-smile crossed his countenance. "how is miss murray?" he asked, rather maliciously. "very well, as far as i know," said percival, turning over a page and smoothing out the "review" upon his knee. he read on for two or three minutes more, then suddenly tossed the book from him, gave it a contemptuous kick, and discovered that his cigar had gone out. he got up, walked to the mantelpiece, found a match, and lighted it, and then said, deliberately-- "they've done a devilish imprudent thing out there." "what?" "hired a fellow as tutor to the boys without references or recommendations, solely because he was good-looking, as far as i can make out." "who told you?" "my father." "did he do it?" "he and elizabeth between them. kitty sings his praises in every letter. he teaches the girls italian." rupert said nothing. "so i am going to italy chiefly to see what the fellow is like. i can't make out whether he is young or old. kitty calls him divinely handsome; and my father speaks of his grey hairs." "and miss murray?" "miss murray," said percival, rather slowly, "doesn't speak of him at all." then, he added, in quicker tones--"doubtless he isn't worth her notice. elizabeth can be a very grand lady when she likes. upon my word, vivian, there are times when i wonder that she ever deigned to bestow a word or look even upon me!" "you are modest," said rupert, drily. "modesty's my foible; it always was. so, hey for the sunny south, as i said before. 'o, swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, and tell her, tell her, what i tell to thee.' any message for the swallow, sir?" touching an imaginary cap. "shall i say that 'dark and true and tender is the north,' and 'fierce and false and fickle is the south,' or any similar statement?" "i have no message," said rupert. "so be it. do you know anything of young luttrell--hugo luttrell--by-the-bye?" "very little. my sister is interested in him." "he is going to the bad at an uncommonly swift pace--that is all." "old mrs. luttrell talks of making him her heir," said vivian. "she asked him down last winter but he wouldn't go." "i don't wonder at it. she must be a very tough old lady if she thinks that he could shoot there with much pleasure after his cousin's accident." "i don't suppose that mrs. luttrell asked him with any such notion," returned rupert. "she merely wanted him to spend a few days with her at netherglen." "has she much to leave? i thought the estates were entailed," said percival. "she has a rather large private fortune. i expected to find that you knew all about it," said rupert, with a smile. "it's the last thing that i should concern myself about," said percival, superbly. and vivian was almost sorry that he had made the remark, for it overset all the remains of his friend's good temper, and brought into ugly prominence the upright, black mark upon his forehead caused by his too frequent frown. matters were not mended when rupert asked, by way of changing the conversation, whether percival's marriage were to take place on miss murray's return to england. "marriage? no! what are you thinking of?" said he, starting up impatiently. "don't you know that our engagement--such, as it is--is a profound secret from the world in general? you are nearly the only person who knows anything about it outside our own family; and even there it isn't talked about. marriage! i only wish there was a chance of it. but she is in no hurry to give up her liberty; and i can't press her." and then he took his departure, with an injured feeling that rupert had not been very sympathetic. "i've a good mind to offer to go with him," said mr. vivian to himself when his friend was gone. "i should like to see them all again; i should like to enjoy the italian sunshine and the fresh, sweet air with kitty, and hear her innocent little comments on the remains of mediæval art that her father is sure to be raving about. but it is better not. i might forget myself some day. i might say what could not be unsaid. and then, poor, little kitty, it would be hard both for you and for me. no, i won't go. stay in italy and get married, kitty: that is the best thing for us both. you will have forgotten your old friend by the time you come back to london; and i shall drag on at the old round, with the same weary, clanking chain at my heels which nobody suspects. good god!" cried rupert, with a sudden burst of passion which would have startled the friends who had seen in him nothing but the perfectly self-possessed, cold-natured, well-mannered man of the world, "what a fool a man can make of himself in his youth, and repent it all his life afterwards in sackcloth and ashes--yet repent it in vain--in vain!" percival heron did not choose to announce his coming to his friends. he travelled furiously, as it was his fashion to travel when he went abroad, and arrived at the little village, on the outskirts of which stood the villa venturi, so late in the evening that he preferred to take a bed at the inn, and sup there, rather than disturb his own people until morning. he enjoyed the night at the inn. it was a place much frequented by fishermen, who came to fill their bottles before going out at night, or to talk over the events of the previous day's fishing. there was a garden behind the house--a garden full of orange and i lemon trees--from which sweet breaths of fragrance were wafted to the nostrils of the guests as they sat within the little hostelry. percival could speak italian well, and understood the _patois_ of the fishermen. he had a wonderful gift for languages; and it pleased him to sit up half the night, drinking the rough wine of the country, smoking innumerable cigarettes, and laughing heartily at the stories of the fisher-folk, until the simple-minded italians were filled with admiration and astonishment at this _inglese_ who was so much more like one of themselves than any of the _inglesi_ that they had ever met. owing to these late hours and the amount of talking, perhaps, that he had got through, percival slept late next morning, and it was not until eleven o'clock that he started, regardless of the heat, for the villa venturi. he had not very far to go, and it was with a light heart that he strode along holding a great, white umbrella above his head, glancing keenly at the view of sea and land which made the glory of the place, turning up his nose fastidiously at the smells of the village, and wondering in his heart what induced his relations to stay so long out of london. he rang the bell at the gateway with great decision, and told the servant to inform mr. heron that "an english gentleman" wished to speak to him. he was ushered into a little ante-room, requested to wait there until mr. heron was found, and left alone. but he was not content to wait very patiently. he was sure that he heard voices in the next room. being quite without the scruples which had made stretton, not long before, refuse to push open a door one single inch in order to see what was not meant to meet his eyes, he calmly advanced to an archway screened by long and heavy curtains, parted them with his fingers, and looked in. it was an innocent scene, and a pretty scene enough, on which his eyes rested, and yet it was one that gave percival little pleasure. the room was not very light, and such sunshine as entered it fell through the coloured panes of a stained-glass window high in the wall. at an old oak table, black and polished with age, sat two persons--a master and a pupil. they had one book between them, and the pupil was reading from it. papers, dictionaries, and copybooks strewed the table; it was evident that other pupils had been there before, but that they had abandoned the scene. percival set his teeth, and the brightness went out of his eyes. if only the pupil had not been elizabeth! it was not that she showed any other feeling than that of interest in the book that she was reading. her eyes were fixed upon the printed page; her lips opened only to pronounce slowly and carefully the unfamiliar syllables before her. the tutor was quiet, grave, reserved; but percival noticed, quickly and jealously, that he once or twice raised his eyes as if to observe the expression of elizabeth's fair face; and, free from all offence as that glance certainly was, it made a wild and unreasoning fury rise up in the lover's heart. he looked, he heard an interchange of quiet question and answer, he saw a smile on her face, a curiously wistful look on his; then came a scraping sound, as the chairs were pushed back over the marble floor, and master and pupil rose. the lesson was over. percival dropped the curtain. he was so pale when elizabeth came to him in the little ante-room that she was startled. "are you not well, percival?" she asked, as she laid her hand in his. she did not allow him to kiss her; she did not allow him to announce her engagement; and, as he stood looking down into her eyes, he felt that the present state of things was very unsatisfactory. "i shall be better if you administer the cure," he said. "give me a kiss, elizabeth; just one. remember that i have not seen you for nearly eight months." "i thought we made a compact," she began, trying to withdraw her hand from his; but he interrupted her. "that i should not kiss you--often; not that i should never kiss you at all, elizabeth. and as i have come all the way from england, and have not seen you for so long, you might as well show me whether you are glad or not." "i am very glad to see you," said elizabeth, quietly. "are you? then kiss me, my darling,--only once!" he put one arm round her. his face was very near her own, and his breath came thick and fast, but he waited for her permission still. in his own heart he made this kiss the crucial test of her faithfulness to him. but elizabeth drew herself away. it seemed as though she found his eagerness distasteful. "then you don't care for me? you find that you don't love me!" said percival, almost too sharply for a lover. "i may go back to england as soon as i like? i came only to see you. tell me that my journey has been a useless one, and i'll go." she smiled as she looked at him. "you have not forgotten how to be tyrannical," she said. "i hardly knew you when i first came in, because you looked so quiet and gentle. don't be foolish, percival." "oh, of course, it is folly for a man to love you," groaned percival, releasing her hands and taking a step or two away from her. "you have mercy on every kind of folly but that. well, i'll go back." "no, you will not," said elizabeth, calmly. "you will stay here and enjoy yourself, and go for a sail in the boat with us this evening, and eat oranges fresh from the trees, and play with the children. we are all going to take holiday whilst you are here, and you must not disappoint us." "then you must kiss me once, elizabeth." but percival's face was melting, and his voice had a half-laughing tone. "i must be bribed to do nothing." "very well, you shall be bribed," she answered, but with a rather heightened colour upon her cheek. and then she lifted up her face; but, as percival perceived with a vague feeling of irritation, she merely suffered him to kiss her, and did not kiss him in return. his next proceeding was to put his father through a searching catechism upon the antecedents and abilities of the tutor, mr. john stretton, who was by this time almost domiciled at the villa venturi. mr. heron's replies to his son's questions were so confused, and finished so invariably by a reference to elizabeth, that percival at last determined to see what he could extract from her. he waited for a day or two before opening the subject. he waited and watched. he certainly discovered nothing to justify the almost insane dislike and jealousy which he entertained with respect to mr. stretton; when he reasoned with himself he knew that he was prejudiced and unreasonable; but then he had a habit of considering that his prejudices should be attended to. he examined the children, hoping to find that the new tutor's scholarship might give him a loophole for criticism; but he could find nothing to blame. in fact, he was driven reluctantly to admit that the tutor's knowledge was far wider and deeper than his own, although percival was really no mean classical scholar, and valued himself upon a thorough acquaintance with modern literature of every kind. he was foiled there, and was therefore driven back upon the subject of the tutor's antecedents. "who is this man stretton, elizabeth?" he asked one day. "my father says you know all about him." "i?" said elizabeth, opening her eyes. "i know nothing more than uncle alfred does." "indeed. then you engaged him with remarkably little prudence, as it appears to me." "prudence is not quite the highest virtue in the world." "now, my dear queen bess, as jack calls you, don't be didactic. where did you pick up this starveling tutor? was he fainting by the roadside?" "mr. stretton teaches very well, and is much liked by the boys, percival. you heard aunt isabel tell the story of his first meeting with uncle alfred." "ah, yes; the rescue of the umbrella. well, what else? of course, he got somebody to introduce him in proper form after that?" "no," said elizabeth. "no! then you had friends in common? you knew his family?" "no." "then how, in heaven's name, elizabeth, did he make good his footing here?" there was a silence. the two were sitting upon the low bench on the cliff. it was evening, and the sun was sinking to rest over the golden waters; the air was silent and serene, percival had been smoking, but he flung his cigar away, and looked full into elizabeth's face as he asked the question. she spoke at last, tranquilly as ever. "he was poor, percival, and we wanted to help him. you and i are not likely to think the worse of a man for being poor, are we? he had been ill; he seemed to be in trouble, and we were sorry for him; and i do not think that my uncle made a mistake in taking him." "and i," said percival, with an edge in his voice, "think that he made a very great mistake." "why?" "why?" he repeated, with a short, savage laugh. "i shall not tell you why." "do you know anything against mr. stretton?" "yes." "what, percival?" her tone was indignant; the colour was flaming in her cheeks. "i know that stretton is not his name. my father told me so." there was a pause, and then percival went on, in a low voice, but with a gathering intensity which made it more impressive than his louder tones. "i'll tell you what i should do if i were my father. i should say to this fellow--'now, you may be in trouble through no fault of your own, but that is no matter to me. if you cannot bear your own name, you have no business to live in an honest man's house under false pretences; you may, therefore, either tell me your whole story, and let me judge whether it is a disgraceful one or not, or you may go--the quicker the better.' that's what i should say to mr. stretton; and the sooner it is said to him the more i shall be pleased." "fortunately," said elizabeth, "the decision does not rest in your hands." she rose, and drew herself to her full height; her cheeks were crimson, her eyes gleamed with indignation. "mr. stretton is a gentleman; as long as he is in my employment--mine, if you please; not yours, nor your father's, after all--he shall be treated as one. you could not have shown yourself more ungenerous, more poor-spirited, percival, than by what you have said to-day." and then she walked with a firm, resolute step and head erect, towards the house. percival did not attempt to follow her. he watched her until she was out of sight, then he re-seated himself, and sank into deep meditation. it was night before he roused himself, and struck a blow with his hand upon the arm of the seat, which sent the rotten woodwork flying, as he gave utterance to his conclusion. "i was right after all. my father will live to own it some day. he has made a devil of a mistake." then he rose and took the path to the house. before he entered it, however, he looked vengefully in the direction in which the twinkling lights of the little village inn could be seen. "if you have a secret," he said, slowly and resolutely, from between his clenched teeth, "i'll find it out. if you have a disgraceful story in your life, i'll unmask it. if you have another name you want to hide, i'll publish it to the world. so help me, god! because you have come, or you are coming, between me and the woman that i love. and if i ever get a chance to do you a bad turn, mr. john stretton, i'll do it." chapter xviii. the mistress of netherglen. "shall i go, or shall i not go?" meditated hugo luttrell. he was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length of time in london. he had been smoking a dainty, perfumed cigarette--he very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes--but he held it absently between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read a letter which his servant had just brought to him. nearly two years had passed since richard luttrell's death; years which had left their mark upon hugo in many ways. the lines of his delicately beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his two-and-twenty years. there were worn lines about his eyes, and a decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of an oriental character to his appearance. he had lost the youthful, almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust. the letter was from angela vivian. she had written, at mrs. luttrell's request, to ask hugo to pay them a visit. mrs. luttrell still occupied the house at netherglen, and she seemed anxious for an interview with her nephew. hugo had not seen her for many months; he had left scotland almost immediately after brian's departure, with the full intention of setting foot in it no more. but he had then considered himself tolerably prosperous. brian's death had thrown a shade over his prospects. he could no longer count upon a successful application to mr. colquhoun if he were in difficulties, and brian's six thousand pounds melted before his requirements like snow before an april sun. he had already squandered the greater part of it; he was deeply in debt; and he had no relation upon whom he could rely for assistance--unless it were mrs. luttrell, and hugo had a definite dislike to the thought of asking mrs. luttrell for money. it was no more than a dislike, however. it was an unpleasant thing to do, perhaps, but not a thing that he would refrain from doing, if necessary. why should not mrs. luttrell be generous to her nephew? possibly she wished to make him her heir; possibly she would offer to pay his debts; at any rate, he could not afford to decline her help. so he must start for netherglen next day. "netherglen! they are still there," he said to himself, as he stared moodily at the sheet of black-edged note-paper, on which the name of the house was stamped in small, black letters. "i wonder that they did not leave the place. i should have done so if i had been aunt margaret. i would give a great deal to get out of going to it myself!" a sombre look stole over his face; his hand clenched itself over the paper that he held; in spite of the luxurious warmth of the room, he gave a little shiver. then he rose and bestirred himself; his nature was not one that impelled him to dwell for very long upon any painful or disturbing thought. he gave his orders about the journey for the following day, then dressed and went out, remembering that he had two or three engagements for the evening. the season was nearly over, and many people had left london, but there seemed little diminution in the number of guests who were struggling up and down the wide staircase of a house at which hugo presented himself about twelve o'clock that night, and he missed very few familiar faces amongst the crowd as he nodded greetings to his numerous acquaintances. "ah, luttrell," said a voice at his ear, "i was wondering if i should see you. i thought you might be off to scotland already." "who told you i was going to scotland?" said hugo. the dark shadow had crossed his face again; if there was a man in england whom at that time he cordially disliked, it was this man--angela's brother--rupert vivian. he did not know why, but he always had a presage of disaster when he saw that high-bred, impassive face beside him, or heard the modulation of vivian's quiet, musical voice. hugo was superstitious, and he firmly believed that rupert vivian's presence brought him ill luck. "angela wrote to me that mrs. luttrell was inviting you to netherglen. i was going there myself, but i have been prevented. a relation of mine in wales is dying, and has sent for me, so i may not be able to get to scotland for some weeks." "sorry not to see you. i shall be gone by the time you reach scotland, then," responded hugo, amiably. "yes." rupert looked down with a reflective air. "come here, will you?" he said, drawing hugo aside into a small curtained recess, with a seat just wide enough for two, which happened at that moment to be empty. "i have something to ask you; there is something that you can do for me if you will." "happy to do anything in my power," murmured hugo. he did not like to be asked to help other people, but there was a want of assurance in vivian's usually self-contained demeanour which roused his curiosity. "what is it?" "well, to begin with, you know the herons and miss murray, do you not?" "i know them by name. i have met percival heron sometimes." "do you know that they have returned rather unexpectedly from italy and gone to strathleckie, the house on the other side of the property--about six miles from netherglen?" "how's that?" "i suppose that miss murray thinks she may as well take possession of her estate," replied rupert, rather shortly. "may i ask whether you are going to call?" "oh, yes, i shall certainly call." "then, look here, luttrell, i want you to do something for me," said vivian, falling into a more friendly and confidential strain than he usually employed with hugo. "will you mention--in an incidental sort of way--to mrs. heron the reason why i have not come to scotland--the claim that my relation in wales has on me, and all that sort of thing? it is hardly worth while writing about it, perhaps; still, if it came in your way, you might do me a service." hugo was so much relieved to find nothing more difficult required of him that he gave vent to a light laugh. "why don't you write?" he said. "there's nothing to write about. i do not correspond with them," said rupert, actually colouring a little beneath hugo's long, satirical gaze. "but i fancy they may think me neglectful. i promised some time ago that i would run down; and i don't see how i can--until november, at the earliest. and, if you are there, you may as well mention the reason for my going to wales, or, you see, it will look like a positive slight." "i'm to say all this to mrs. heron, am i? and to no one beside?" "that will be quite sufficient." there was a slight touch of hauteur in vivian's tone. "and, if i may trouble you with something else----" "no trouble at all. another message?" "not exactly. if you would take care of this little packet for me i should be glad. i am afraid of its being crushed or lost in the post. it is for miss heron." he produced a little parcel, carefully sealed and addressed. it looked like a small, square box. hugo smiled as he took it in his hand. "perishable?" he asked, carelessly. "not exactly. the contents are fully a hundred years old already. it is something for miss heron's birthday. she is a great favourite of mine--a nice little girl." "quite a child, i suppose?" "oh, of course. one won't be able to send her presents by-and-bye," said rupert, with rather an uneasy laugh. "what a pity it is that some children ever grow up! well, thanks, hugo; i shall be very much obliged to you. are you going now?" "must be moving on, i suppose. i saw old colquhoun the other day and he began telling me about miss murray, and all the wonders she was doing for the herons. makes believe that the money is theirs, not her own, doesn't she?" "yes." "odd idea. she must be a curiosity. they brought a tutor with them from italy, i believe; some fellow they picked up in the streets." "he has turned out a very satisfactory one," rupert answered, coldly. "they say that he makes a capital tutor for the little boys. i think he is a favourite with all of them; he teaches miss heron italian." his voice had taken a curiously formal tone. it sounded as though he was displeased at something which had occurred to him. hugo thought of that tone and of the conversation many times before he left london next evening. he was rather an adept at the discovery of small mysteries; he liked to draw conclusions from a series of small events, and to ferret out other people's secrets. he thought that he was now upon the track of some design of vivian's, and he became exceedingly curious about it. if it had been possible to open the box without disturbing the seals upon it, he would certainly have done so; but, this being out of the question, he contented himself with resolving to be present when it was opened, and to observe with care the effect produced by vivian's message on the faces of mrs. heron, miss heron, and miss murray. he reached dunmuir (where the nearest station to his aunt's house was situated) at eleven o'clock in the morning. mrs. luttrell had sent the mail-phaeton for him. as hugo took the reins and glanced at the shining harness and the lustrous coats of the beautiful bays, he could not help remembering the day when the mail-phaeton had last been sent to bring him from the station. richard had then sat in the place that he now occupied, with angela beside him; and brian and hugo laughed and talked in the back seat, and were as merry as they well could be. nearly two years ago! what changes had been seen since then. the bays were fidgetty and would not start at once. hugo was just shouting a hasty direction to the groom at their heads when he happened to glance aside towards the station door where two or three persons were standing. the groom had cause to wonder what was the matter. hugo gave the reins a tremendous jerk, which brought the horses nearly upon their haunches, and then let them go at such a pace that it seemed as if he had entirely lost control over them. but he was a very good whip, and soon mastered the fiery creatures, reducing their mad speed by degrees to a gentle trot, which enabled the groom to overtake them, panting and red in the face, indeed, as he swung himself up behind. the groom was inclined to think that mr. hugo had lost his nerve for a few moments; for "his face turned as white," honest john remarked afterwards, "as if he had seen a ghost." "john," said hugo, after driving for a good two miles in silence, "who was that gentleman at the station door?" "gentleman, sir?" "a young man--at least, he seemed young--in a great-coat." "oh!--i don't think that's a young gentleman, exactly; least-ways he's got grey hair. that's the gentleman that teaches at mr. heron's, sir; mr. heron, the uncle to miss murray that has the property now. his name's mr. stretton, sir. i asked mr. heron's coachman." "what made you ask?" the groom hesitated and shuffled; but, upon being kept sharply to the point, avowed that it was because the gentleman "seen from behind" looked so much like mr. brian luttrell. "of course, his face is quite different from mr. brian's, sir," he said, hastily, noting a shadow upon hugo's brow; "and he has grey hair and a beard, and all that; but his walk was a little like poor mr. brian's, sir, i thought." hugo was silent. he had not noticed the man's gait, but, in spite of the grey hair, the tanned complexion, the brown beard--which had lately been allowed to cover the lower part of mr. stretton's face, and had changed it very greatly--in spite of all these things he had noticed, and been startled by, the expression of a pair of grave, brown eyes--graver and sadder than brian's eyes used to be, but full of the tenderness and the sweetness that hugo had never seen in the face of any other man. full, also, of recognition; there was the rub. a man who knows you cannot look at you in the same way as one who knows you not, and it was this look of knowledge which had unnerved hugo, and make him doubt the evidence of his own senses. he was still silent and absorbed when he arrived at netherglen, and felt glad to hear that he was not to see his aunt until later in the day. angela came to meet him at the door; she was pale, and her black dress made her look very slender and fragile, but she had the old, sweet smile and pleasant words of welcome for him, and could not understand why his face was so gloomy, and his eyes so obstinately averted from her own. it was four o'clock in the afternoon when hugo was admitted to mrs. luttrell's sitting-room. he had scarcely seen her since the death of her eldest son, and was manifestly startled and shocked to see her looking so much more aged and worn than she had been two years ago. she greeted him much after her usual fashion, however; she allowed him to touch her smooth, cold cheek with his lips, and take her stiff hand into his own, but she showed no trace of any softening emotion. "sit down, hugo," she said. "i am sorry to have brought you away from your friends." "oh, i was glad to come," said hugo, confusedly. "i was not with friends; i was in town. it was late for town, but i--i had business." "this house is no longer a cheerful one," continued mrs. luttrell, in a cold, monotonous voice. "there are no attractions for young men now. it has been a house of mourning. i could not expect you to visit me." "indeed, aunt margaret, i would have come if i had known that you wanted me," said hugo, wondering whether his tardiness would entail the loss of mrs. luttrell's money. he recovered his self-possession and his fluency at this thought; if danger were near, it behoved him to be on the alert. "i have wanted you," said mrs. luttrell. "but i could wait. i knew that you would come in time. now, listen to what i have to say." hugo held his breath. what could she say that needed all this preamble? "hugo luttrell," his aunt began, very deliberately, "you are a poor man and an extravagant one." hugo smiled, and bowed his head. "but you are only extravagant. you are not vicious. you have never done a dishonourable thing--one for which you need blush or fear to meet the eye of an honest man? answer me that, hugo. i may know what you will say, but i want to hear it from your own lips." hugo did not flinch. his face assumed the boyish innocence of expression which had often stood him in good stead. his great, dark eyes looked boldly into hers. "that is all true, aunt margaret. i may have done foolish things, but nothing worse. i have been extravagant, as you say, but i have not been dishonourable." he could not have dared to say so much if richard or brian had been alive to contradict him; but they were safely out of the way and he could say what he chose. "then i can trust you, hugo." "i will try to be worthy of your trust, aunt margaret." he bent down to kiss her hand in his graceful, foreign fashion; but she drew it somewhat hastily away. "no. none of your sicilian ways for me, hugo. that foreign drop in your blood is just what i hate. but you're the only luttrell left; and i hope i know my duty. i want to have a talk with you about the house, and the property, and so on." "i shall be glad if i can do anything to help you," said hugo, smoothly. his cheek was beginning to flush; he wished that his aunt would come to the point. suspense was very trying! but mrs. luttrell seemed to be in no hurry. "you know, perhaps," she said, "that i am a tolerably rich woman still. the land, the farms, and the moors, and all that part of the property passed to miss murray upon my sons' deaths; but this house and the grounds (though not the loch nor the woods) are still mine, and i have a fair income with which to keep them up. i should like to know that one of my husband's name was to come after me. i should like to know that there would be luttrells of netherglen for many years to come." she paused a few minutes, but hugo made no reply. "i have a proposition to make to you," she went on presently. "i don't make it without conditions. you shall hear what they are by-and-bye. i should like to make you my heir. i can leave my money and my house to anyone i choose. i have about fifteen-hundred a-year, and then there's the house and the garden. should you think it worth having?" "i think," said hugo, with a wily avoidance of any direct answer, "that it is very painful to hear you talk of leaving your property to anyone." "that is mere sentimental nonsense," replied his aunt, with a perceptible increase in the coldness of her manner. "the question is, will you agree to the conditions on which i leave my money to you?" "i will do anything in my power," murmured hugo. "i want you, then, to arrange to spend at least half the year with me here. you can leave the army; i do not think that it is a profession that suits you. live here, and fill the place of a son to me. i have no sons left. be as like one of them as it is in your power to be." in spite of himself hugo's face fell. leave the army, leave england, bury himself for half the year with an old woman in a secluded spot, which, although beautiful in summer and autumn, was unspeakably dreary in winter? she had not required so much of richard or brian; why should she ask for such a sacrifice from him? mrs. luttrell watched his face, and read pretty clearly the meaning of the various expressions which chased each other across it. "it seems a hard thing to you at first, no doubt," she said, composedly. "but you would find interests and amusements in course of time. you would have six months of the year in which to go abroad, or to divert yourself in london. you should have a sufficient income. and my other condition is that you marry as soon as you can find a suitable wife." "marry?" said hugo, in dismay. "i never thought of marriage!" | "you will think of it some time, i presume. an early marriage is good for young men. i should like to see you married, and have your children growing up about me." "perhaps you have thought of a suitable lady?" said hugo, with a half-sneer. the prospect that had seemed so desirable at first was now very much lowered in his estimation, and he did not disguise the sullen anger that he felt. but he hardly expected mrs. luttrell's answer. "yes, i have." "indeed! who is it?" "miss murray. elizabeth murray, to whom your cousins' estates have gone." "what sort of a person is she?" "young, beautiful, rich. a little older than yourself, but not much. you would make a fine couple, hugo. she came to see me the other day, and you would have thought she was a princess." "i should like to see her," said hugo, thoughtfully. "well, you must just go and call. and then you can think the matter over and let me know. i'm in no hurry for a decision." "you are very good, aunt margaret." "no. i am only endeavouring to be just. i should like to see you prosperous and happy. and, while you are here, you will oblige me by considering yourself the master of the house, hugo. give your own orders, and invite your own friends." hugo murmured some slight objection. "it will not affect my comfort in the least. i kept some of the horses, and one or two vehicles that i thought you would like. use them all. you will not expect to see very much of me; i seldom come downstairs, so the house will be free for you and your friends. when you have decided what you mean to do, let me know." hugo thanked her and retired. he did not see her again until the following evening, when she met him with a question. "have you seen miss murray yet?" "yes," said hugo, lowering his eyes. "and have you come to any decision?" "yes." "i should like to know what it is," said mrs. luttrell. her hands, which were crossed before her on her knee, trembled a little as she said the words. hugo hesitated for a moment. "i have made my decision," he said at last, in a firm voice, "and it is one that i know i shall never have cause to repent. aunt margaret, i accept your kind--your generous--offer, and i will be to you as a son." he had prepared his little speech so carefully that it scarcely sounded artificial when it issued from those curved, beautiful lips, and was emphasised by the liquid softness of his southern eyes. chapter xix. a lost letter. hugo's visit to the herons was paid rather late in the afternoon, and he, therefore, had the full benefit of the whole family party, as each member of it dropped in to tea. mrs. heron's old habits still re-asserted themselves, in spite of the slight check imposed on her by the remembrance that the house belonged to elizabeth, that the many new luxuries and comforts, including freedom from debt, had come from elizabeth's purse, and that elizabeth, although she chose to abdicate her power, was really the sovereign of strathleckie. but elizabeth arrogated so little to herself, and was so wonderfully content to be second in the house, that mrs. heron was apt to forget the facts of the case, and to act as if she were mistress as much as she had ever been in the untidy dwelling in gower-street. as regarded the matter of tidiness, elizabeth had made reforms. there were now many more servants than there had been in gower-street, and the drawing-room could not present quite the same look of chaos as had formerly prevailed there. but elizabeth knew the ways of the household too well to expect that mr. heron's paint-brushes, mrs. heron's novels, and the children's toys would not be found in every quarter of the house; it was as much as she could do to select rooms that were intended to fill the purposes of studio, boudoir, and nursery; she could not make her relations confine themselves and their occupations to their respective apartments. she had had a great struggle with her uncle before the present state of affairs came about. he had roused himself sufficiently to protest against making use of her money and not giving her, as he said, her proper position; but elizabeth's determined will overcame all his objections. "i never wanted this money," she said to him; "i think it a burden. the only way in which i can enjoy it is by making life a little easier to other people. and you have the first claim--you and my cousins; because you took me in and were good to me when i was a little, friendless orphan of twelve years old. so, now that i have the chance, you must come and stay with me in my house and keep me from feeling lonely, and then i shall be able to think that my wealth is doing good to somebody beside myself. you make me feel as if i were a stranger, and not one of yourselves, when you object to my doing things for you. would you mind taking gifts from kitty? and am i so much less dear to you than kitty? you used to tell me that i was like a daughter to you. let me be your daughter still." mr. heron found it difficult to make protests in the face of these arguments; and mrs. heron slid gracefully into the arrangement without any protest at all. kitty's objections were easily overcome; and the children thought it perfectly natural that their cousin should share her good gifts with them, in the same way that, when she was younger, she divided with them the toys and sweeties that kind friends bestowed upon her. therefore, when hugo called at strathleckie, he was struck with the fact that it was mrs. heron, and not elizabeth, who acted as his hostess. it needed all his knowledge of the circumstances and history of the family to convince himself that the house did not belong to alfred heron, the artist, and that the stately girl in a plain, black dress, who poured out the tea, was the real mistress of the house. she acted very much as though she were a dependent, or at most an elder daughter, in the same position as little kitty, who assumed no airs of authority over anybody or anything. hugo admired elizabeth, as he admired beautiful women everywhere; but he was not interested in her. mentally he called her fool for not adopting her right station and spending her money in her own way. she was too grave for him. he was more at his ease with kitty. rupert vivian's message--if it could be called a message--was given lightly and carelessly enough, but hugo had the satisfaction of seeing the colour flash all over miss heron's little _mignonne_ face as he listened to mrs. heron's languid reply. "dear me! and is that old relative in wales really dying? mr. vivian has always made periodical excursions into wales ever since i knew him. well, i wondered why he did not write to say that he was coming. it was an understood thing that he should stay with us as soon as we returned from italy, and i was surprised to hear nothing from him. were not you, kitty?" "no, i was not at all surprised," said kitty, rather sharply. "i had a commission to execute for my friend," said hugo, turning a little towards her. "mr. vivian asked me to take charge of a parcel, and to place it in your own hands; he was afraid that it would be broken if it went by post. he told me that it was a little birthday remembrance." he laid the parcel on a table beside the girl. he noticed that her colour varied, but that she did not speak. mrs. heron's voice filled the pause. "how kind of you to bring it, mr. luttrell! mr. vivian always remembers our birthdays; especially kitty's. does he not, kitty?" "not mine especially," said kitty, frowning. she looked at the box as if she did not care to open it. "do let us see what it is," pursued mrs. heron. "mr. vivian has such exquisite taste! shall we open the box, kitty?" "if you like," returned kitty. "here is a pair of scissors." "oh, we could not think of opening your box for you; open it yourself, dear. make haste; we are all quite curious, are we not, mr. luttrell?" mr. luttrell smiled a little, and toyed with his tea-spoon; his eyes were fixed questioningly on kitty's mutinous face, with its down-dropped, curling lashes and pouting rose-leaf lips. he felt more curiosity respecting the contents of that little box than he cared to show. she opened it at last, slowly and reluctantly, as it seemed to him, and took out of a nest of pink cotton-wool a string of filagree silver beads. they were very delicately worked, and there was some ground for vivian's fear that they might get injured in the post, for their beauty was very great. mrs. heron went into ecstasies over the gift. it was accompanied merely by a card, on which a few words were written: "for miss heron's birthday, with compliments and good wishes from rupert vivian." kitty read the inscription; her lip curled, but she still kept silence. hugo thought that her eye rested with some complacency upon the silver beads; but she did not express a tithe of the pleasure and surprise which flowed so readily from mrs. heron's fluent tongue. "don't you like them, kitty?" asked an inconvenient younger brother who had entered the room. "they are very pretty," said kitty. "not so pretty as the ornament he sent you last year," said harry. "but it's very jolly of him to send such nice things every birthday, ain't it?" "yes, he is very kind," kitty answered, with a shy sort of stiffness, which seemed to show that she could well dispense with his kindness. hugo laughed to himself, and pictured vivian's discomfiture if he had seen the reception of his present. he changed the subject. "have you been long in scotland, miss murray?" "for a fortnight only. we came rather suddenly, hearing that the tenant had left this house. we expected him to stay for some time longer." "it is fortunate for us that strathleckie happened to fall vacant," said hugo, gravely. "do you know, betty," said one of the boys at that moment, "that mr. stretton says he has been in scotland before, and knows this part of the country very well?" "yes, he told me so." "mr. stretton is our tutor," said harry, kindly explaining his remark to the visitor. "he only came yesterday morning. he had a holiday when we came here; and so had we." "i presume that you like holidays," said hugo, caressing the silky moustache that was just covering his upper lip, and smiling at the child, with a notion that he was making himself pleasant to the ladies of the party by doing so. "i liked holidays before mr. stretton came to us," said harry. "but i don't mind lessons half so much now. he teaches in such a jolly sort of way." "mr. stretton is a favourite," remarked hugo, looking at the mother. "such a clever man!" sighed mrs. heron. "so kind to the children! we met him in italy." "i think i saw him at the station yesterday. he has grey hair?" "yes, but he's quite young," interposed harry, indignantly. "he isn't thirty; i asked him. he had a brain fever, and it turned his hair grey; he told me so." "it has a very striking effect," said mrs. heron, languidly. "he has a fine face--my husband says a beautiful face--and framed in that grey hair----i wish you could see him, mr. luttrell, but he is so shy that it seems impossible to drag him out of his own particular den." "so very shy, is he?" thought hugo to himself. "i wonder where i have seen him. i am sure i have seen him before, and i am sure that he knew me. well, i must wait. i suppose i shall meet him again in the course of time." he took his leave, remembering that he had already out-stayed the conventional limits of a call; and he was pleased when mrs. heron showed some warmth of interest in his future movements, and expressed a wish to see him again very soon. her words showed either ignorance or languid neglect of the usages of society, but they did not offend him. he wanted to come again. he wanted to see more of kitty. he had ridden from strathleckie to netherglen, and he paced his horse slowly along the solitary road which he had to traverse on his way homewards. the beautiful autumn tints and the golden haze that filled the air had no attractions for him. but it was pleasant to him to be away from mrs. luttrell; and he wanted a little space of time in which to meditate upon his future course of action. he had seen the woman whom his aunt wished him to marry. well, she was handsome enough; she was rich; she would look well at the head of his table, ruling over his household, managing his affairs and her own. but he would rather that it had been kitty. at this point he brought his horse to a sudden standstill. before him, leaning over a gate with his back to the road, he saw a man whom he recognised at once. it was mr. stretton, the tutor. he had taken off his hat, and his grey hair looked very remarkable upon his youthful figure. hugo walked his horse slowly forward, but the beat of the animal's feet on the hard road aroused the tutor from his reverie. he glanced round, saw hugo approaching, and then, without haste, but without hesitation, quietly opened the gate, and made his way into the field. hugo stopped again, and watched him as he crossed the field. he was very curious concerning this stranger. he felt as if he ought to recognise him, and he could not imagine why. mr. stretton was almost out of sight, and hugo was just turning away, when his eye fell upon a piece of white paper on the ground beside the gate. it looked like a letter. had the tutor dropped it as he loitered in the road? hugo was off his horse instantly, and had the paper in his hand. it was a letter written on thin, foreign paper, in a small, neat, foreign hand; it was addressed to mr. john stretton, and it was written in italian. to hugo, italian was as familiar as english, and a momentary glance showed him that this letter contained information that might be valuable to him. he could not read it on the road; the owner of the letter might discover his loss and turn back at any moment to look for it. he put it carefully into his pocket, mounted his horse again, and made the best of his way to netherglen. he was so late in arriving that he had little time to devote to the letter before dinner. but when mrs. luttrell had kissed him and said good-night, when he, with filial courtesy, had conducted her to the door of her bed-room, and taken his final leave of her and of angela on the landing, then he made his way to the library, rang for more lights, more coal, spirits and hot water, and prepared to devote a little time to the deciphering of the letter which mr. john stretton had been careless enough to lose. he was not fond of the library. it was next to the room in which they had laid richard luttrell when they brought him home after the "accident." it looked out on the same stretch of garden; the rose trees that had tapped mournfully at that other window, when hugo was compelled by brian to pay a last visit to the room where the dead man lay, had sent out long shoots that reached the panes of the library window, too. when there was any breeze, those branches would go on tap, tapping against the glass like the sound of a human hand. hugo hated the noise of that ghostly tapping: he hated the room itself, and the long, dark corridor upon which it opened, but it was the most convenient place in the house for his purpose, and he therefore made use of it. "san stefano!" he murmured to himself, as he looked at the name of the place from which the letter had been dated. "why, i have heard my uncle mention san stefano as the place where brian was born. they lived there for some months. my aunt had an illness there, which nobody ever liked to talk about. hum! what connection has mr. john stretton with san stefano, i wonder? let me see." he spread the letter carefully out before him, turned up the lamp, and began to read. as he read, his face turned somewhat pale; he read certain passages twice, and then remained for a time in the same position, with his elbows upon the table and his face supported between his hands. he found matter for thought in that letter. it ran as follows:-- "my dear mr. stretton,--i will continue to address you by this name as you desire me to do, although i am at a loss to understand your motive in assuming it. you will excuse my making this remark; the confidence that you have hitherto reposed in me leads me to utter a criticism which might otherwise be deemed an impertinence. but it seems to me a pity that you either did not retain your old name and the advantages that this name placed in your way, or that you did not take up the appellation which, as i fear i must repeat, is the only one to which you have any legal right. if your name is not luttrell, it is vasari. if you object to retaining the name of luttrell, why not adopt vasari? why complicate matters by taking a name (like that of stretton) which has no meaning, no importance, no distinction? all unnecessary concealment of truth is foolish; and this is an unnecessary concealment. "secondly, may i ask why you propose to accompany your english friends to a place so near your old home? if you wish it to be thought that you are dead, why, in heaven's name, do you go to a spot which is not ten miles from the house where you were brought up? true, your appearance is altered; your hair is grey and your beard has grown. but your voice: have you thought how easily your voice may betray you? and i have known cases where the eyes alone have revealed a person's identity. if you wish to keep your secret, let me entreat you not to go to strathleckie. if you wish to undo all that you have succeeded in doing, if you wish to deprive the lady who has inherited the strathleckie property of her inheritance, then, indeed, you will go to scotland, but in so doing you show a want of judgment and resolution which i cannot understand. "you were at the monastery with us after your illness for many months. we learned to know you well and to regard you with affection. we were sorry when you grew restless and wandered away from us to seek fresh work amongst english people--english and protestant--for the sake of old associations and habit. but we did not think--or at least i did not think--that you were so illogical and so weak as your present conduct drives me to consider you. "there is only one explanation possible. you risk discovery, you follow these people to scotland because one of the ladies of the family has given you, or you hope that she will give you, some special marks of favour. in plain words, you are in love. i have partially gathered that from your letters. perhaps she also is in love with you. there is a miss heron, who is said to be beautiful; there is also miss murray. is it on account of either of these ladies that you have returned to scotland? "i speak very frankly, because i conceive that i have a certain claim upon your confidence. i do not merely allude to the kindness shown to you by the brothers of san stefano, which probably saved your life. i claim your regard because i know that you were born in this village, baptised by one of ourselves, that you are of italian parentage, and that you have never had any right to the name that you have borne for four-and-twenty years. this was suspicion when i saw you last; it is certainty now. we have found the woman vincenza, who is your mother. she has told us her story, and it is one which even your english courts of law will find it difficult to disprove. she acknowledges that she changed the two children; that, when one of her twins died, she thought that she could benefit the other by putting it in the place of the english child. her own baby, bernardino, was brought up by the luttrell family and called brian luttrell. that was yourself. "how about the english boy, the real heir to the property? i told you about him when you were with us; i offered to let you see him: i wanted you to know him. you declined; i think you were wrong. you did see him many a time; you were friendly with him, although you did not know the connection that existed between you. i believe that you will remember him when i tell you that he was known in the monastery as brother dino. dino vasari was the name by which he had been known; but i think that you never learnt his surname. he had a romantic affection for you, and was grieved when you refused to meet the man who had so curious a claim upon your notice. i sent him away from the monastery in a few days, as you will perhaps remember; i knew that if he saw much of you, not even my authority, my influence, would induce him to keep the secret of his birth--from you. you are rivals, certainly; you might be enemies; and, just because that cause of rivalry and enmity subsists, dino vasari loves you with his whole soul. if you stood in your old position, even i could not persuade him to dispossess you; but you have voluntarily given it up. your property has gone to your cousin, and dino has now no scruple about claiming his rights. now that vincenza vasari's evidence has been obtained, it is thought well that he should make the story public, and try to get his position acknowledged. therefore he is starting for england, where he will arrive on the eighteenth of the month. he has his orders, and he will obey them. it is perhaps well that you should know what they are. he is to proceed at once to scotland, and obtain interviews as soon as possible with mr. colquhoun and mrs. luttrell. he will submit his claims to them, and ascertain the line that they will take. after that, he will put the law in motion, and take steps towards dispossessing miss murray. "i write all this to you at dino's own request. i grieve to say that he is occasionally headstrong to a degree which gives us pain and anxiety. he refused to take any steps in the matter until i had communicated with you, because he says that if you intend to make yourself known by your former name, and take back the property which accrued to you upon mr. richard luttrell's death, he will not stand in your way. i have pointed out to him, as i now point out to you, that this line of action would be dishonest, and practically impossible, because, in his interests, we should then take the matter up and make the facts public, but he insists upon my mentioning the proposal. i mention it in full confidence that your generosity and sense of honour will alike prevent you from putting obstacles in the way of my pupil's recognition by his mother and succession to his inheritance. "if you wish that dino (as for the sake of convenience i will still call him) should be restored to his rights, and if you desire to show that you have no ill-feeling towards him on account of this proposed endeavour to recover what is really his own, he begs you to meet him on his arrival in london on the th of august. he will be in lodgings kept by a good catholic friend of ours at no. , tarragon-street, russell-square, and you will inquire for him by the name of mr. vasari, as he will not assume the name of brian luttrell until he has seen you. he will, of course, be in secular dress. "i have now made you master of all necessary facts. if i have done so under protest, it is no concern of yours. i earnestly recommend you to give up your residence in scotland, and to return, at any rate until this matter is settled, to san stefano. i need hardly say that brian luttrell will never let you know the necessity of such drudgery as that in which you have lately been engaged. "with earnest wishes for your welfare, and above all for your speedy return to the bosom of the true catholic church in which you were baptised, and of which i hope to see you one day account yourself a faithful child, i remain, my dear son, "your faithful friend and father, "cristoforo donaldi, "prior of the monastery of san stefano." chapter xx. "mischief, thou art afoot." hugo's meditations were long and deep. more than an hour elapsed before he roused himself from the thoughtful attitude which he had assumed at the close of his first perusal of this letter. when he lifted his face from his hands, his lips were white, although they were twisted into the semblance of a smile. "so that is why i fancied i knew his face," he said, half aloud. "who would have thought it? brian alive, after all! what a fool he must be! what an unmitigated, egregious fool!" he poured out some brandy for himself with rather a shaky hand, and drank it off without water. he shivered a little, and drew closer to the fire. "it's a very cold night," he muttered, holding his hands out to the leaping flame, and resting his forehead upon the marble mantelpiece. "it's a cold night, and ---- it all, are my wits going? i can't think clearly; i can hardly see out of my eyes. it's the shock; that's what it is. the shock? yes, dio mio, and it is a shock, in all conscience! whoever would have believed that brian could possibly be alive all this time! poor devil! i suppose that little 'accident' to richard preyed upon his mind. he must be mad to have given up his property from a scruple of that sort. i never should have thought that a man could be such a fool. it's an awful complication." he threw himself into an arm-chair, and leaned back with his dark, delicately-beautiful face slanted reflectively towards the ceiling. he was too much disturbed in mind to afford himself the solace of a cigar. "this old fellow--the prior--seems to know the family affairs very intimately," he went on thinking. "this is another extraordinary occurrence. brian alive is nothing to the fact that brian is the son of some italian woman--a peasant-woman probably. did aunt margaret suspect it? she always hated brian; every one could see that. when she said once, 'he is not my son,' did she mean the words literally? quite possible." "and the real brian luttrell is now to appear on the scene! what is his name? dino--bernardino--vasari. of course, there was little use in his coming forward as long as richard luttrell was alive. now that he is gone and brian is heir to the property, this young fellow, whom the priests have got hold of, becomes important. no doubt this is what they have hoped for all along. he will have the property and he is a devout son of the church, and will employ it to catholic ends. i know the jargon--i heard enough of it in sicily. they have the proofs, no doubt--they could easily manufacture them if they were wanting; and they will oust elizabeth murray and set their pet pupil in her place, and manage the land and the money and everything else for him. and what will mrs. luttrell say?" he paused, and changed his position uneasily. his brows contracted; his eye grew restless as he continued to reflect. "it's my belief," he said at last, "that mrs. luttrell will be enchanted. and then what will become of me?" he rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the room. "what will become of me?" he repeated. "what will become of the fifteen-hundred a-year, and the house and grounds, and all the rest of the good things that she promised to give me? they will go, no doubt, to the son and heir. did she ever propose to give me anything while richard and brian had to be provided for? not she! she notices me now only because she thinks that i am the only luttrell in existence. when she knows that there is a son of her's still living, i shall go to the wall. i shall be ruined. there will be no netherglen for me, no marriage with an heiress, no love-making with pretty little kitty. i shall have to disappear from the scene. i cannot hold my ground against a son--a son of the house! curses on him! why isn't he dead?" hugo bestowed a few choice sicilian epithets of a maledictory character upon dino vasari and brian luttrell both; then he returned to the table and studied the latter pages of father cristoforo's letter. "meet him in london. i should like to meet dino vasari, too. i wonder whether brian had read this letter when he dropped it. these instructions come at the very end. if he has not read these sentences, i might find a way of outwitting them all yet. i think i could prevent dino vasari from ever setting foot in scotland. how can i find out?" "and what an extraordinary thing for brian to do--to take a tutorship in the very family where elizabeth murray is living. what has he done it for? is he in love with one of those girls? or does he hope to retrieve his mistake by persuading elizabeth murray to marry him? a very round-about way of getting back his fortune, unless he means to induce dino vasari to hold his tongue. if dino vasari were out of the way, and brian felt his title to the estate rather shaky, of course, it would be very clever of him to make love to elizabeth. but he's too great a fool for that. what was his motive, i wonder? is it possible that he did not know who she was?" but he rejected this suggestion as an entirely incredible one. after a little further thought, another idea occurred to him. father cristoforo's letter consisted of three closely-written sheets of paper. he separated the first sheet from the others; the last words on the sheet ran as follows:-- "is it on account of either of these ladies that you have returned to england?" this sheet he folded and enclosed in an envelope, which he carefully sealed and addressed to john stretton, esquire. he placed the other sheets in his own pocket-book, and then went peacefully to bed. he could do nothing more, he told himself, and, although his excitable disposition prevented his sleeping until dawn grew red in the eastern sky, he would not waste his powers unnecessarily by sitting up to brood over the resolution that he had taken. before ten o'clock next morning he was riding to strathleckie. on reaching the house he asked at once if he could see mr. stretton. the maid-servant who answered the door looked surprised, hesitated a moment, and then asked him to walk in. he followed her, and was not surprised to find that she was conducting him straight to the school-room, which was on the ground-floor. he had thought that she looked stupid; now he was sure of it. but it was a stupidity so much to his advantage that he mentally vowed to reward it by the gift of half-a-crown when he had the opportunity. the boys were at their lessons; their tutor sat at the head of the table, with his back towards the light. when he saw hugo enter, he calmly took a pair of blue spectacles from the table and fixed them upon his nose. hugo admired the coolness of the action. the blue spectacles were even a better disguise than the grey hair and the beard; if mr. stretton had worn them when he was standing at the railway station door, hugo would never have been haunted by that look of recognition in his eyes. "mary has made a mistake," said mr. stretton to one of the boys, in a curiously-muffled voice. "take this gentleman up to the drawing-room, harry." "there is no mistake," said hugo, suavely. "i called to see mr. stretton on business; it will not take me a moment to explain. mr. stretton, may i ask whether you have lost any paper--a letter, i think--during the last few days?" "yes. i lost a letter yesterday afternoon." "on the high road, i think. then i was not mistaken in supposing that a paper that the wind blew to my feet this morning, as i was strolling down the road, belonged to yourself. will you kindly open this envelope and tell me whether the paper contained in it is yours?" mr. stretton took the envelope and opened it without a word. he looked at the sheet, saw that one only was there, and then replied. "i am much obliged to you for your kindness. yes, this is part of the letter that i lost." "only part? indeed, i am sorry for that," said hugo, with every appearance of genuine interest. "i was first attracted towards it because it looked like a foreign letter, and i saw that it was written in italian. on taking it up, i observed that it was addressed to a mr. stretton, and i could think of no other mr. stretton in the neighbourhood but yourself." "i am much obliged to you," mr. stretton repeated. "i hope you will find the rest of the letter," said hugo, with rather a mocking look in his beautiful eyes. "it is awkward sometimes to drop one's correspondence. i need hardly say that it was safe in my hands----" "i am sure of that," said mr. stretton, mechanically. "but others might have found it--and read it. i hope it was not an important letter." "i hope not," mr. stretton answered, recovering himself a little; "but the fact is that i had read only the first page or two when i was interrupted, and i must have dropped it instead of putting it into my pocket." "that was unfortunate," said hugo. "i hope it contained no very important communication. good morning, mr. stretton; good morning to you," he added, with a smile for the children. "i must not interrupt you any longer." he withdrew, with a feeling of contemptuous wonder at the carelessness of a man who could lose a letter that he had never read. it was not the kind of carelessness that he practised. he did not leave the house without encountering mrs. heron and kitty. he was easily persuaded to stay for a little time. it cost him no effort to make himself agreeable. he was like one of those sleek-coated animals of the panther tribe, sufficiently tamed or tameable to like caresses; and very few people recognised the latent ferocity that lay beneath the velvet softness of those dreamy eyes. he could bask in the sunshine like a cat; but he was only half-tamed after all. elizabeth distrusted him; kitty thought her unjust, and therefore acted as though she liked him better than she really did. she was a child still in her love of mischief, and she soon found a sort of pleasure in alternately vexing and pleasing her new admirer. but she was not in earnest. what did it matter to her if hugo luttrell's eyes glowed when she spoke a kind word to him, or his brow grew black as thunder if she neglected him for someone else? it never occurred to her to question whether it was wise to trifle with passions which might be of truly southern vehemence and intensity. hugo did not leave the house without making--or thinking that he had made--a discovery. mr. stretton did not appear at luncheon, but hugo caught sight of him afterwards in the garden--with elizabeth. to hugo's mind, the very attitude assumed by the tutor in speaking to miss murray was a revelation. he was as sure as he was of his own existence that mr. stretton was "in love." whether the affection was returned by miss murray or not he could not feel so sure. he made his way, after his visit to the herons, to mr. colquhoun's office, and was fortunate in finding that gentleman at home. "well, hugo, and how are you?" asked the lawyer, who did not regard mrs. luttrell's nephew with any particular degree of favour. "what brings you to this part of the world again?" "my aunt's invitation," said hugo. "ah, yes; your aunt has a hankering after anybody of the name of luttrell, at present. it won't last. don't trust to it, hugo." "i cannot say that i know what you mean, mr. colquhoun. i suppose i am at liberty to accept my aunt's repeated and pressing invitation? i came here to ask you a question. i will not trespass on your time longer than i can help." "ask away, lad," said the old lawyer, not much impressed by hugo's stateliness of demeanour. "ask away. you'll get no lies, at any rate. and what is it you're wanting now?" "have you any reason to suppose that my cousin brian is not dead?" "no," said mr. colquhoun, shortly. "i haven't. i wish i had. have you?" without replying to this question, hugo asked another. "you have no reason to think that there is any other man who would call himself by that name?" "no," said mr. colquhoun again, "i haven't. and i don't wish i had. but have you?" "yes," said hugo. "come, come, come," said the lawyer, restlessly; "you are joking, young man. don't carry a joke too far. what do you mean?" again hugo replied by a question. "did you ever hear of a place called san stefano?" he said, gently. old mr. colquhoun bounded in his seat. "good god!" he said, although he was not a man given to the use of such ejaculations. and then he stared fixedly at hugo. "i can't think how it has been kept quiet so long," said hugo, tentatively. he was feeling his way. but this remark roused mr. colquhoun's ire. "kept quiet? there was nothing to be kept quiet. nothing except mrs. luttrell's own delusion on the subject; nobody wanted it to be known that she was as mad as a march hare on the subject. the nurse was as honest as the day. i saw her and questioned her myself." "but my aunt never believed----" "she never believed brian to be her son. so much i may tell you without any breach of confidence, now that they are both in their graves, poor lads!" and then mr. colquhoun launched out upon the story of mrs. luttrell's illness and (so-called) delusion, to all of which hugo listened with serious attention. but at the close of the narrative, the lawyer remembered hugo's opening question. "and how did you come to know anything about it?" he said. hugo's answer was ready. "i met a queer sort of man in the town this morning who was making inquiries that set me on the alert. i got hold of him--walked along the road with him for some distance--and heard a long story. he was a priest, i think--sent from san stefano to investigate. i got a good deal out of him." "eh?" said mr. colquhoun, slowly. "and where might he be staying, yon priest?" "didn't ask," replied hugo. "i told him to come to you for information. so you can look out. there's something in the wind, i'm sure. i thought you might have heard of it. thank you for your readiness to enlighten me, mr. colquhoun. i've learnt a good deal to-day. good morning." "now what did he mean by that?" said the lawyer, when he was left alone. "it's hard to tell when he's telling the truth and when he's lying just for the pleasure of it, so to speak. as for his priest--i'm not so sure that i believe in his priest. i'll send down to the hotel and inquire." he sent to every hotel in the place, and from every hotel he received the same answer. they had no foreign visitor, and had had none for the last three weeks. there was apparently not a priest in the place. "it'll just be one of master hugo's lies," said mr. colquhoun, grimly. "there's a rod in pickle for that young man one of these days, and i should like well to have the applying of it to his shoulders. he's an awful scamp, is hugo." there was a triumphant smile upon hugo's face as he rode away from the lawyer's office. twice in that day had his generalship been successful, and his success disposed him to think rather meanly of his fellow-creatures' intellects. it was surely very easy, and decidedly pleasant, to outwit one's neighbours! he had made both brian and mr. colquhoun give him information which they would have certainly withheld had they known the object for which it had been asked. he was proud of his own dexterity. on his arrival at netherglen he found that mrs. luttrell and angela had gone for a drive. he was glad of it. he wanted a little time to himself in brian's old room. he had already noticed that an old-fashioned davenport which stood in this room had never been emptied of its contents, and in this davenport he found two or three papers which were of service to him. he took them away to his bed-room, where he practised a certain kind of handwriting for two or three hours with tolerable success. he tried it again after dinner, when everybody was in bed, and he tried it again next day. it was rather a difficult hand to imitate well, but he was not easily discouraged. "i am afraid, dear aunt, that i must run up to town for a day or two," he said to mrs. luttrell that evening, with engaging frankness. "i have business to transact. but i will be back in three or four days at most, if you will permit me." "do as you please, hugo," said mrs. luttrell, in her stoniest manner. "i have no wish to impose any kind of trammels upon you." "dear aunt margaret, the only trammels that you impose are those of love!" said hugo, in his silkiest undertone. angela looked up. for the moment she was puzzled. to her, hugo's speech sounded insincere. but the glance of the eye that she encountered was so caressing, the curves of his mouth were so sweetly infantine, that she accused herself of harsh judgment, and remembered hugo's foreign blood and continental training, which had given him the habit, she supposed, of saying "pretty things." she could not doubt his sincerity when she looked at the peach-like bloom of that oval face, the impenetrable softness of those velvet eyes. hugo's physical beauty always stood him in good stead. "you are an affectionate, warm-hearted boy, i believe, hugo," said mrs. luttrell. then, after a short pause, she added, with no visible link of connection, "i have written instructions to colquhoun. i expect him here to-morrow." hugo looked innocent and attentive, but made no comment. his aunt kissed him with more warmth than usual when she said good-night. she had seldom kissed her sons after they reached manhood; but she caressed hugo very frequently. she was softer in her manner with him than she had been even with richard. "take care of yourself in london," she said to him. "do you want any money?" "no, thank you, aunt margaret. i shall be back in three days if i start to-morrow--at least, i think so. i'll telegraph if i am detained." "yes, do so. to-morrow is the seventeenth. you will be back by the twentieth?" "if my business is done," said hugo. and then he went back to his little experiments in caligraphy. it was not until the afternoon of the th of august that he found himself at the door of no. , tarragon-street. it was a dingy-looking house in a dismal-looking street. hugo shivered a little as he pulled the tarnished bell-handle. "how can people live in streets like this?" he said to himself, with a slight contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "mr. vasari?" he said, interrogatively, as a downcast-looking woman came to the door. "yes, sir. what name, sir, if you please?" "say that a gentleman from scotland wishes to see him." the woman gave him a keen look, as if she knew something of the errand upon which dino vasari had come to her house; but said nothing, and ushered him at once into a sitting-room on the ground-floor. the room was curtained so heavily that it seemed nearly dark. hugo could not see whether it was tenanted by more than one person; of one he was sure, because that one person came to meet him with outstretched hands and eager words of greeting. "mr. luttrell! you have come, then; you have come--i knew you would!" "i beg your pardon," said hugo, and at the sound of his voice the first speaker fell back amazed; "but i am hugo luttrell--not brian. i come from him." "a thousand pardons; this english darkness is to blame," said the other, in fluent english speech, though with a slightly foreign accent. "let us have lights; then we can know each other. i am--dino vasari." he said the name with a certain hesitation, as though not sure whether or no he ought to call himself by it. the light of a candle fell suddenly upon the two faces--which were turned towards one another in some curiosity. the two had a kind of superficial likeness of feature, but a total dissimilarity of expression. the subtlety of hugo's eyes and mouth was never shown more clearly than when contrasted with the noble gravity that marked every line of dino's traits. they stood and looked at each other for a moment--dino, wrapped in admiration; hugo, lost in a thought of dark significance. "so you are the man!" he was saying to himself. "you call yourself my cousin, do you? and you want the strathleckie and the luttrell estates? be warned and go back to italy, my good cousin, while you have time; you will never reach scotland alive, i promise you. i shall kill you first, as i should kill a snake lying in my path. never in your life, mr. dino vasari, were you in greater danger than you are just now." chapter xxi. a flask of italian wine. "i am brian luttrell's cousin," said hugo, quietly, "and i come from him." "then you know--you know----" dino stammered, and he looked eagerly into hugo's face. "i know all." "you know where he is now?" "i do. i have brought you a letter from him--a sort of introduction," said hugo, with a faint smile. "i trust that you will find it satisfactory." "no introduction is necessary," was dino's polite reply. "i have heard him speak of you." hugo's eyes flashed an interrogation. what had brian said of him? but dino's tones were so courteous, his face so calmly impassive, that hugo was reassured. he bowed slightly, and placed a card and a letter on the table. dino made an apology for opening the letter, and moved away from the table whilst he read it. there was a pause. hugo's face flushed, his hands twitched a little. he was actually nervous about the success of his scheme. suppose dino were to doubt the genuineness of that letter! it consisted of a few words only, and they were italian:-- "dino mio," it began, "the bearer of this letter is my cousin hugo, who knows all the circumstances and will explain to you what are my views. i am ill, and cannot come to london. burn this note. "brian luttrell." dino read it twice, and then handed it to hugo, who perused it with as profound attention as though he had never seen the document before. when he gave it back, he was almost surprised to see dino take it at once to the grate, deposit it amongst the coals, and wait until it was consumed to ashes before he spoke. there was a slight sternness of aspect, a compression of the lips, and a contraction of the brow, which impressed hugo unfavourably during the performance of this action. it seemed to show that dino vasari might not be a man so easy to deal with as brian luttrell. "i have done what i was asked to do," he said, drawing himself up to his full height, and turning round with folded arms and darkening brow. "i have burnt his letter, and i should now be glad, mr. luttrell, to hear the views which you were to explain to me." "my cousin brian----" began hugo, with some deliberation; but he was not allowed to finish his sentence. quick as thought, dino vasari interrupted him. "pardon me, would it not be as well--under the circumstances--to speak of the gentleman in question as mr. stretton?" hugo shrugged his shoulders. "i have no objection," he said, "so long as you do not take my calling him by that name to be the expression of my opinion concerning the subject under consideration." this was so elaborate a sentence that dino took some little time to consider it. "i see," he said at last, with a questioning look; "you mean that you are not convinced that he is the son of vincenza vasari?" "neither is he," said hugo. "but if we have proof----" "mr. vasari, you cannot imagine that my cousin will give up his rights without a struggle?" "but he has given them up," said dino, vehemently. "he refuses to be called by his own name; he has let the estates pass away from him----" "but he means to claim his rights again," said hugo. "oh." then there was a long silence. dino sat down in a chair facing that of hugo, and confronted him steadily. "i understood," he said at last, "when i was in italy, that he had resolved to give up all claim to his name, or to his estate. he had disagreeable associations with both. he determined to let himself be thought dead, and to earn his own living under the name of john stretton." "he did do so," said hugo, softly; "but he has changed his mind." "and why?" "if i tell you why, may i ask you to keep what i say a profound secret?" dino hesitated. then he said firmly, "i will keep it secret so long as he desires me to do so." "then listen. the reason of his change of mind is this. he has fallen in love. you will ask--with whom? with the woman to whom his estate has passed--miss murray. he means to marry her, and in that way to get back the estate which, by his own mad folly, he has forfeited." "is this true?" said dino, slowly. he fixed his penetrating dark eyes upon hugo as he spoke, and turned a little pale. "and does this lady--this miss murray--know who he is? for i hear that he calls himself stretton in her house. does she know?" hugo deliberated a little. "no," he answered, "i am sure that she does not." dino rose to his feet. "it is impossible," he said, with an indignant flash of his dark eyes, which startled hugo; "brian would never be so base." "my only wonder is," murmured hugo, reflectively, "that brian should be so clever." "you call it clever?" said dino, still more indignantly. "you call it clever to deceive a woman, to marry her for her money, to mislead her about one's name? are these your english fashions? is it clever to break your word, to throw away the love and the help that is offered you, to show yourself selfish, and designing, and false? this is what you tell me about the man whom you call your cousin, and then you ask me to admire his behaviour? oh, no, i do not admire it. i call it mean, and base, and vile. and that is why he would not come to see me himself; that is why he sent you as an emissary. he could not look me in the face and tell me the things that you have told me!" he sat down again. the fire died out of his eyes, the hectic colour from his cheek. "but i do not believe it!" he said, more sorrowfully than angrily; and in a much lower voice; "i do not believe that he means to do this thing. he was always good and always true." hugo watched him, and spoke after a little pause. "you had his letter," he said. "he told you to believe what i said to you. i could explain his views." "ah, but look you, perhaps you do not understand," said dino, turning towards him with renewed vivacity. "it is a hard position, this of mine. ever since i was a little child, it was hinted to me that i had english parents, that i did not belong to the vasari family. when i grew older, the whole story of vincenza's change of the children was told to me, and i used to think of the italian boy who had taken my place, and wonder whether he would be sorry to exchange it for mine. i was not sorry; i loved my own life in the monastery. i wanted to be a priest. but i thought of the boy who bore my name; i wove fancies about him night and day; i wished with all my heart to see him. i used to think that the day would come when i should say to him--'let us know each other; let us keep our secret, but love each other nevertheless. you can be brian luttrell, and i will be dino vasari, as long as the world lasts. we will not change. but we will be friends.'" his voice grew husky; he leaned his head upon his hands for a few moments, and did not speak. hugo still watched him curiously. he was interested in the revelation of a nature so different from his own; interested, but contemptuous of it, too. "i could dream in this way," said dino at last, "so long as no land--no money--was concerned. while brian luttrell was the second son the exchange of children was, after all, of very little consequence. when richard luttrell died, the position of things was changed. if he had lived, you would never have heard of vincenza vasari's dishonesty. the priests knew that there would be little to be gained by it. but when he died my life became a burden to me, because they were always saying--'go and claim your inheritance. go to scotland and dispossess the man who lords it over your lands, and spends your revenues. take your rights.'" "and then you met brian?" said hugo, as the narrator paused again. "i met him and i loved him. i was sorry for his unhappiness. he learnt the story that i had known for so many years, and it galled him. he refused to see the man who really ought to have borne his name. he knew me well enough, but he never suspected that i was mr. luttrell's son. we parted at san stefano with friendly words; he did not suspect that i was leaving the place because i could not bear to see him day by day brooding over his grief, and never tell him that i did not wish to take his place." "but why did you not tell him?" "i was ordered to keep silence. the prior said that he would tell him the whole story in good time. they sent me away, and, after a time, i heard from father cristoforo that he was gone, and had found a tutorship in an english family, that he vowed never to bear the name of luttrell any more, and that the way was open for me to claim my own rights, as the woman vincenza vasari had been found and made confession." "so you came to england with that object?" "with the object, first," said dino, lifting his face from his crossed arms, "of seeing him and asking him whether he was resolved to despoil himself of his name and fortune. i would not have raised a hand to do either, but, if he himself did it, i thought that i might pick up what he threw away. not for myself, but for the church to which i belong. the church should have it all." "would you give it away?" cried hugo. "i am to be a monk. a monk has no property," was dino's answer. "i wanted to be sure that he did not repent of his decision before i moved a finger." "you seem to have no scruple about despoiling miss murray of her goods," said hugo, drily. a fresh gleam shot from the young man's eyes. "miss murray is a woman," he said, briefly. "she does not need an estate. she will marry." "marry brian luttrell, perhaps." "if she marries him as mr. stretton, she must take the consequences." "well," said hugo, "i must confess, mr. vasari, that i do not understand you. in one breath you say you would not injure brian by a hair's-breadth; in another you propose to leave him and his wife in poverty if he marries miss murray." "no, pardon me, you mistake," replied dino, gently. "i will never injure him whom you call, brian, but if he keeps the name of stretton i shall claim the rights which he has given up. and, when the estate is mine, i will give him and his wife what they want; i will give them half, if they desire it, but i will have what is my own, first of all, and in spite of all." "you say, in fact, that you will not injure brian, but that you do not care how much you injure miss murray." "that is not it," cried dino, his dark eye lighting up and his form positively trembling with excitement. "i say that, if brian himself had come to me and asked me to spare him, or the woman he loved, for his sake i would have yielded and gone back to san stefano to-morrow; i would have destroyed the evidence; i would have given up all, most willingly; but when he treats me harshly, coldly--when he will not, now that he knows who i am, make one little journey to see me and tell me what he wishes; when he even tries to deceive me, and to deceive this lady of whom you speak--why, then, i stand upon my rights; and i will not yield one jot of my claim to the luttrell estate and the luttrell name." "you will not?" "i will fight to the death for it." hugo smiled slightly. "there will be very little fighting necessary, if you have your evidence ready. you have it with you, i presume?" "i have copies; the original depositions are with my lawyer." "ah. and he is----" "a mr. grattan; there is his address," said dino, placing a card before his visitor. "i suppose that all further business will be transacted through him?" "i suppose so. then you have made your decision?" "yes. one moment, mr. luttrell. excuse me for mentioning it; but you have made two statements, one of which seems to me to contradict the other." dino had recovered all his usual coolness, and fixed his keen gaze upon hugo in a way which that young man found a little embarrassing. "you told me that brian--as we may still call him--intended to claim his old name once more. then you said that he meant to marry miss murray under the name of stretton. you will remark that these two intentions are incompatible; he cannot do both these things." hugo felt that he had blundered. "i spoke hastily," he said, with an affectation of ingenuous frankness, which sat very well upon his youthful face. "i believe that his intentions are to preserve the name of stretton, and to marry miss murray under it." "then i will tell mr. grattan to take the necessary steps to-morrow," said dino, rising, as if to hint that the interview had now come to an end. hugo looked at him with surprised, incredulous eyes. "oh, mr. vasari," he said, naively, "don't let us part on these unfriendly terms. perhaps you will think better of the matter, and more kindly of brian, if we talk it over a little more." "at the present moment, i think talk will do more harm than good, mr. luttrell." "won't you write yourself to brian?" faltered hugo, as if he hardly dared to make the suggestion. "no, i think not. you will tell him my decision." "i'm afraid i have been a bad ambassador," said hugo, with an air of boyish simplicity, "and that i have offended you." "not at all." dino held out his hand. "you have spoken very wisely, i think. do not let me lose your esteem if i claim what i believe to be my rights." hugo sighed. "i suppose we ought to be enemies--i don't know," he said. "i don't like making enemies--won't you come and dine with me to-night, just to show that you do not bear me any malice. i have rooms in town; we can be there in a few minutes. come back with me and have dinner." dino tried to evade the invitation. he would much rather have been alone; but hugo would take no denial. the two went out together without summoning the landlady: hugo took his companion by the arm, and walked for a little way down the street, then summoned a hansom from the door of a public-house, and gave an address which dino did not hear. they drove for some distance. dino thought that his new friend's lodgings were situated in a rather obscure quarter of london; but he made no remark in words, for he knew his own ignorance of the world, and he had never been in england before. hugo's lodgings appeared to be on the second-floor of a gloomy-looking house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by a public bar and refreshment-room. the waiters were german or french, and the cookery was distinctly foreign in flavour. there was a touch of garlic in every dish, which dino found acceptable, and which was not without its charm for hugo luttrell. dessert was placed upon the table, and with it a flask of some old italian wine, which looked to dino as if it had come straight from the cellars of the monastery at san stefano. "it is our wine," he said, with a smile. "it looks like an old friend." "i thought that you would appreciate it," said hugo, with a laugh, as he rose and poured the red wine carelessly into dino's glass. "it is too rough for me; but i was sure that you would like it." he poured out some for himself and raised the glass, but he scarcely touched it with his lips. his eyes were fixed upon his guest. dino smiled, praised his host's thoughtfulness, and swallowed a mouthful or two of the wine; then set down his glass. "there is something wrong with the flavour," he said: "something a little bitter." "try it again," said hugo, averting his eyes. "i thought it very good. at any rate, it is harmless: one may drink any amount of it without doing oneself an injury." "yes, but this is curiously coarse in flavour," persisted dino. "one would think that it was mixed with some other spirit or cordial. but i must try it again." he drained his glass. hugo refilled it immediately, but soon perceived that it was needless to offer his guest a second draught. dino raised his hand to his brow with a puzzled gesture, and then spoke confusedly. "i do not know how it is," he said. "i am quite dizzy--i cannot see--i----" his eyes grew dim: his hands fell to his sides, and his head upon his breast. he muttered a few incoherent words, and then sank into silence, broken only by the sound of his heavy breathing and something like an occasional groan. hugo watched him carefully, and smiled to himself now and then. in a short time he rose, emptied the remainder of the wine in the flask into dino's glass, rinsed out the flask with clear water, then poured the dregs, as well as the wine in the glasses, into the mould of a large flower-pot that stood in a corner of the room. "nobody can tell any tales now, i think," said hugo, with a triumphant, disagreeable smile. and then he called the waiter and paid his bill--as if he were a temporary visitor instead of having lodgings in the house, as he had led dino to believe. the waiter glanced once or twice at the figure on the chair. "gentleman had a leetle moche to drink," he said, nodding towards poor dino. "a little too much," said hugo, carelessly. "he'll be better soon." then he went and shook the young man by the arm. "come," he said, "it's time for us to go. wake up; i'll see you home. that wine was a little too strong for you, was it not?" dino opened his eyes, half-rose, muttered something, and then sank back in his chair. "gentleman want a cab, perhaps?" said the waiter. "well, really, i don't know," said hugo, looking quite puzzled and distressed. "if he can't walk we must have a cab; but if he can, i'd rather not; his lodgings are not far from here. come, jack, can't you try?" dino, addressed as jack for the edification of the waiter, rose, and with hugo's help staggered a few steps. hugo was somewhat disconcerted. he had not counted upon dino's small experience of intoxicating liquors when he prepared that beverage for him beforehand. he had meant dino to be wild and noisy: and, behold, he presented all the appearance of a man who was dead drunk, and could hardly walk or stand. they managed to get him downstairs, and there, revived by the fresh air, he seemed able to walk to the lodgings which, as hugo said, were close at hand. the landlord and the waiters laughed to each other when the two gentlemen were out of sight. "he must have taken a good deal to make him like that," said one of them. "the other was sober enough. who were they?" the landlord shook his head. "never saw either of them before yesterday," he said. "they paid, at any rate: i wish all my customers did as much." and he went back to the little parlour which he had quitted for a few moments in order to observe the departure of the gentleman who had got so drunk upon a flask of heady italian wine. meanwhile, hugo was leading his victim through a labyrinth of dark streets and lanes. dino was hard to conduct in this manner; he leaned heavily upon his guide, he staggered at times, and nearly fell. the night was dark and foggy; more than once hugo almost lost his bearings and turned in a wrong direction. but he had a reason for all the devious windings and turnings which he took; he was afraid of being spied upon, followed, tracked. it was not until he came at last to a dark lane, between rows of warehouses, where not a light twinkled in the rooms, nor a solitary pedestrian loitered about the pavement, that he seemed inclined to pause. "this is the place," he said to himself, tightening his grasp upon the young man's arm. "this is the place i chose." he led dino down the lane, looking carefully about him until he came to a narrow archway on his left hand. this archway opened on a flagged passage, at the end of which a flight of steps led up to one of the empty warehouses. it was a lonely, deserted spot. he dragged his companion into this entry; the steps of the two men echoed upon the flags for a little way, and then were still. there was the sound of a fall, a groan, then silence. and after five minutes of that silence, hugo luttrell crept slowly back to the lane, and stood there alone. he cast one fearful glance around him: nobody was in sight, nobody seemed to have heard the sounds that he had heard. with a quick step and resolute mien he plunged again into the network of little streets, reached a crowded thoroughfare at last, and took a cab for the strand. he had a ticket for a theatre in his pocket. he went to the theatre. chapter xxii. brian's welcome. the hint given in the prior's letter concerning brian's reasons for continuing to teach in the heron family, together with hugo's own quickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon something very like the exact truth. he had exaggerated it in his conversation with dino: he had attributed motives to brian which certainly never entered brian's mind; but this was done for his own purposes. he thought that brian's love for elizabeth murray might prove a useful weapon in the struggle between dino's sense of his rights and the romantic affection that he entertained for the man who had taken his place in the world--an affection which hugo understood so little and despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over dino's resolution to fight for his rightful position. it was greatly to his surprise that he found so keen a sense of justice and resentment at the little trust that brian had reposed in him present in dino's mind: the young man had been irritatingly firm in his determination to possess the strathleckie estate; he knew precisely what he wanted, and what he meant to do. and although he was inclined to be generous to brian and to miss murray, there seemed no reason to expect that he would be equally generous to hugo. therefore hugo had felt himself obliged to use what he called "strong measures." he did not like strong measures. they were disagreeable to him. but they were less disagreeable than the thought of being poor. hugo made little account of human life and human suffering so long as the suffering did not actually touch himself. he seemed to be born with as little heart as a beast of prey, which strikes when it is angry, or when it wants food, with no remorse and no regret. "a disagreeable necessity," hugo called his evil deed, but he considered that the law of self-preservation justified him in what he did. and brian luttrell? what reason was it that made him fling prudence to the winds, and follow the herons to the neighbourhood of a place where he had resolved never to show his face again? there was one great, overmastering reason--so great that it made him attempt what was well-nigh impossible. his love for elizabeth murray had taken full possession of him: he dreamed of her, he worshipped the very ground she trod upon; he would have sacrificed life itself for the chance of a gentle word from her. life, but not honour. much as he loved her, he would have fled to the very ends of the earth if he had known, if he had for one moment suspected, that she was the miss murray who owned the landed estate which once went with the house and grounds of netherglen. it seemed almost incredible that he should not have had this fact forced from the first upon his knowledge; but such at present was the case. they had remained in italy for the first three months of his engagement, and, during that time, he had not lived in the villa venturi, but simply given his lessons and taken his departure. sometimes he breakfasted or lunched with the family party, but at such times no business affairs were discussed. and elizabeth had made it a special request that mr. stretton should not be informed of the fact that it was she who furnished money for the expenses of the household. she had taken care that his salary should be as large as she could make it without attracting remark, but she had an impression that mr. stretton would rather be paid by mr. heron than by her. and, as she wished for silence on the subject of her lately-inherited wealth, and as the herons were of that peculiarly happy-go-lucky disposition that did not consider the possession of wealth a very important circumstance, mr. stretton passed the time of his sojourn in italy in utter ignorance of the fact that elizabeth was the provider of villa, gardens, servants, and most of the other luxuries with which the herons were well supplied. percival, in his outspoken dislike of the arrangement, would probably have enlightened him if they had been on friendly terms; but percival showed so decided and unmistakable an aversion to the tutor, that he scarcely spoke to him during his stay, and, indeed, made his visit a short one, chiefly on account of mr. stretton's presence. the change from italy to scotland was made at the doctor's suggestion. the children's health flagged a little in the heat, and it was thought better that they should try a more bracing air. when the matter was decided, and mr. colquhoun had written to them that strathleckie was vacant, and would be a convenient house for miss murray's purposes in all respects--then, and not till then, was mr. stretton informed of the proposed change of residence, and asked whether he would accompany the family to scotland. brian hesitated. he knew well enough the exact locality of the house to which they were going: he had visited it himself in other days. but it was several miles from netherglen: he would be allowed, he knew, to absent himself from the drawing-room or the dinner-table whenever he chose, he need not come in contact with the people whom he used to know. besides, he was changed beyond recognition. and probably the two women at netherglen led so retired a life that neither of them was likely to be encountered--not even at church; for, although the tenants of netherglen and strathleckie went to the same town for divine worship on sunday mornings, yet mrs. luttrell and angela attended the established church, while the herons were certain to go to the episcopal. and hugo was away. there was really small chance of his being seen or recognised. he thought that he should be safe. and, while he still hesitated, he looked up and saw that the eyes of miss murray were bent upon him with so kindly an inquiry, so gracious a friendliness in their blue depths, that his fears and doubts suddenly took wing, and he thought of nothing but that he should still be with her. he consented. and then, for the first time, it crossed his mind to wonder whether she was a connection of the murrays to whom his estate had passed, and from whom he believed that mr. heron was renting the strathleckie house. he had left england without ascertaining what members of the murray family were living; and the letter in which mr. colquhoun detailed the facts of elizabeth's existence and circumstances, had reached geneva after his departure upon the expedition which was supposed to have resulted in his death. he had never heard of the herons. he imagined gordon murray to be still living--probably with a large family and a wife. he knew that they could not live at netherglen, and he wondered vaguely whether he should meet them in the neighbourhood to which he was going. murray was such an ordinary name that in itself it told him nothing at all. elizabeth murray! why, there might be a dozen elizabeth murrays within twenty miles of netherglen: there was no reason at all to suppose that this elizabeth murray was a connection of the gordon murrays who were cousins of his own--no, not of his own: he had forgotten that never more could he claim that relationship for himself. they were cousins of some unknown brian luttrell, brought up under a false name in a small italian village. what had become of that true brian, whom he had refused to meet at san stefano? and had father cristoforo succeeded in finding the woman whom he sought, and supplying the missing links in the evidence? in that case, the murrays would soon hear of the claimant to their estate, and there would be a law-suit. brian began to feel interested in the matter again. he had lost all care for it in the period following upon his illness. he now foresaw, with something almost like pleasure, that he could easily obtain information about the murrays if he went with the herons to strathleckie. and he should certainly take the first opportunity of making inquiries. even if he himself were no luttrell, there was no reason why he should not take the deepest interest in the luttrells of netherglen. he wanted particularly to know whether the italian claimant had come forward. he was perfectly ignorant of the fact of which father cristoforo's letter would have informed him, that this possible italian claimant was no other than his friend, dino vasari. of course, he could not be long at strathleckie without finding out the truth about elizabeth. if he had lived much with the herons, he would have found it out in the course of the first twenty-four hours. elizabeth's property was naturally referred to by name: the visitors who came to the house called upon her rather than upon the herons: it was quite impossible that the secrecy upon which elizabeth had insisted in italy could be maintained in scotland. the only wonder was that he should live, as he did live, for five whole days at strathleckie without discovering the truth. perhaps elizabeth took pains to keep it from him! she had been determined to keep another secret, even if she could not hide the fact, that she was a rich woman. she would not have her engagement to percival made public. for two whole years, she said, she would wait: for two whole years neither she nor her cousin should consider each other as bound. but that she herself considered the engagement morally binding might be inferred from the fact of her allowing percival to kiss her--she surely would not have permitted that kiss if she had not meant to marry him! so percival himself understood it; so elizabeth knew that he understood. she was not quite like herself in the first days of her residence in scotland. she was graver and more reticent than usual: little inclined to talk, and much occupied with the business that her new position entailed upon her. mr. colquhoun, her solicitor, was astonished at her clear-headedness; stewart, the factor, was amazed at the attention she bestowed upon every detail; even the herons were surprised at the methodical way in which she parcelled out her days and devoted herself to a full understanding of her position. she seemed to shrink less than heretofore from the responsibilities that wealth would bring her, and perhaps the added seriousness of her lip and brow was due to her resolve to bear the burden that providence meant her to bear instead of trying to lay it upon other people's shoulders. a great deal of this necessary business had been transacted before mr. stretton made his appearance at strathleckie. he had been offered a fortnight's holiday, and had accepted it, seeing that his absence was to some extent desired by mrs. heron, who was always afraid lest her dear children should be overworked by their tutor. thus it happened that he did not reach strathleckie until the very day on which hugo also arrived on his way to netherglen. they had seen each other at the station, where brian incautiously appeared without the blue spectacles which he relied upon as part of his disguise. from the white, startled horror which overcast hugo's face, this young man saw that he had been almost, if not quite, recognised; and he expected to be sought out and questioned as to his identity. but hugo made no effort to question him: in fact, he did not see the tutor again until the day when he came to restore a fragment of the letter which brian had carelessly dropped in the road before he read it. during this interview he betrayed no suspicion, and brian comforted himself with the thought that hugo had, at any rate, not read the sheet that he returned to him. a dog-cart was sent for him and his luggage on the day of his arrival. he had a five miles' drive before he reached strathleckie, where he received a tumultuous welcome from the boys, a smiling one from mrs. heron and kitty, a hearty shake of the hands from mr. heron. but where was elizabeth? he did not dare to ask. she was out, he learnt afterwards: she had driven over to the town to lunch with the colquhouns. for a moment he did think this strange; then he put aside the thought and remembered it no more. there was a long afternoon to be dragged through: then there was a school-room tea, nominally at six, really not until nearly seven, according to the lax and unpunctual fashion of the heron family. mr. stretton had heard that there were to be guests at dinner, and, keeping up his character as a shy man, declined to be present. he was sitting in a great arm-chair by the cheerful, little fire, which was very acceptable even on an august evening: the clock on the mantelpiece had just chimed a quarter-past seven, and he was beginning to wonder where the boys could possibly be, when the door opened and elizabeth came in. he rose to his feet. "they told me that you had come," she said, extending her hand to him with quiet friendliness. "i hope you had a pleasant journey, mr. stretton." "very pleasant, thank you." he could not say more: he was engaged in devouring with his eyes every feature of her fair face, and thinking in his heart that he had underrated the power of her beauty. in the fortnight that he had been away from her he had pictured her to himself as not half so fair. she had taken off her out-door things, and was dressed in a very plain, brown gown, which fitted closely to her figure. at her throat she wore a little bunch of sweet autumn violets, with one little green leaf, fastened into her dress by a gold brooch. it was the very ostentation of simplicity, yet, with that noble carriage of her head and shoulders, and those massive coils of golden-brown hair, nobody could have failed to remark the distinction of her appearance, nor to recognise the fact that there is a kind of beauty which needs no ornament. brian took off the ugly, blue spectacles which he had adopted of late, and laid them upon the mantelshelf. he did not need them in the flickering firelight, which alone illumined the dimness of the room. elizabeth laid her shapely arm upon the mantelpiece and looked into the fire. he stood beside her, looking down at her--for he was a little taller than herself--but she seemed unconscious of his gaze. she spoke presently in rather low tones. "the boys are late. i hope they do not often keep you waiting in this way." "they have never done it before. i do not mind." "they were very anxious to have you back. they missed you very much." had she missed him, too? he could not venture to ask that question. "you will find things changed," she went on, restlessly lifting a little vase upon the mantelpiece and setting it down again; "you will find us much busier than we used to be--much more absorbed in our own pursuits. scotland is not like italy." "no. i wish it were." "and i----" her voice broke, as if some emotion troubled her; there came a swift, short sigh, and then she spoke more calmly. "i wish sometimes that one had no duties, no responsibilities; but life would not be worth having if one shirked them, after all." "there is a charm in life without them--at least, so far without them as that pleasant life in italy used to be," said he, rather eagerly. "yes, but that is all over." "all over?" she bowed her head. "is there nothing left?" said brian, approaching her a little more nearly. then, as she was silent, he continued in a hurried, low voice, "i knew that life must be different here, but i thought that some of the pleasantest hours might be repeated--even in scotland--although we are without those sunny skies and groves of orange trees. even if the clouds are grey, and the winds howl without, we might still read dante's 'paradiso' and petrarca's 'sonnets,' as we used to do at the villa venturi." "yes," said elizabeth, gently, "we might. but here i shall not have time." "why not? why should you sacrifice yourself for others in the way you do? it is not right." "i--sacrifice myself?" she said, lifting her eyes for a moment to his face. "what do you mean?" "i mean," he said, "that i have watched you for the last three months, and i have seen you day after day give up your own pleasure and your own profit for others, until i longed to ask them what right they had to claim your whole life and leave you nothing--nothing--for yourself----" "you mistake," she interrupted him quickly. "they leave me all i want; and they were kind to me when i came amongst them--a penniless child----" "what does it matter if you were penniless?" said brian. "have you not paid them a thousand times for all that they did for you?" then, as she looked at him with rather a singular expression in her eyes, he hastened to explain. "i mean that you have given them your love, your care, your time, in a way that no sister, no daughter, ever could have done! you have taught the children all they know; you have sympathised with the cares of every one in turn--i have watched you and seen it day by day! and i say that even if you are penniless, as you say, you have repaid them a thousand times for all that they have done; and that you are wrong to let them take your time and your care, to the exclusion of your own interests. i beg your pardon; i have said too much," he said, breaking off suddenly, as the singular expression deepened upon her musing face. "no," she said, with a smile, "i like to hear it: go on. what ought i to do?" "ah, that i cannot tell you. but i think you give yourself almost too much to others. surely, no one could object if you took a little time from the interests of the rest of the family for your own pleasure, for your studies, your amusements?" "no," she answered, quietly, "i do not suppose they would." she stood and looked into the fire, and the smile again crossed her face. "i have said more than i ought to have done," repeated brian. "forgive me." "i will forgive you for everything," she said, "except for thinking that one can do too much for the people that one loves. i am sure that you do not act upon that principle, mr. stretton." "it can be carried to an extreme, like any other," said mr. stretton, wisely. "and you think i carry it to an extreme? oh, no. i only do what it is a pleasure to me to do. think of the situation: an orphaned, penniless girl--that is what you have said to yourself is it not----?" "yes," said brian, wondering a little at the keen inquiry in her eyes as she paused for the reply. the questioning look was lost in a lovely smile as she proceeded; she cast down her eyes to hide the expression of pleasure and amusement that his words had caused. "an orphaned, penniless girl, then, cast on the charity of friends who were then not very well able to support her, educated by them, loved by them--does she not owe them a great debt, mr. stretton? what would have become of me without my uncle's care? and, now that i am able to repay them a little--in various ways"--she hesitated as she spoke--"ought i not to do my best to please them? ought i not to give them as much of myself as they want? make a generous answer, and tell me that i am right." "you are always right--too right!" he said, half-impatiently. "if you could be a little less generous----" "what then?" said elizabeth. "why, then, you would be--more human, perhaps, more like ourselves--but less than what we have always taken you for," said mr. stretton, smiling. elizabeth laughed. "you have spoilt the effect of your lecture," she said, turning away. "i beg your pardon. i ought not to have said what i did," said brian, sensitively alive to her slightest change of tone. "miss murray, tell me at least that i have not offended you before you go." "you have not offended me," she said. he could not see her face. "you are quite sure?" he said, anxiously. "for, indeed, i had forgotten that it was not my part to offer any opinion upon your conduct, and i am afraid that i have given it with impertinent bluntness. you will forgive me?" she turned round and looked at him with a smile. there was a colour in her cheek, a softness in her eye, that he did not often see. "indeed, mr. stretton," she said, gently, "i have nothing to forgive. i am very much obliged to you." he took a step towards her as if there was something else that he would have gladly said; but at that moment the sound of the boys' voices echoed through the hall. "there is no time for more," said brian, with some annoyance. "no," she answered. "and yet i have something else to say to you. will you remember that some other day?" "indeed, i shall remember," he said, fervently. and then the boys burst into the room, and in the hubbub of their arrival elizabeth escaped. her violets had fallen out of her brooch. brian found them upon the floor when she had gone; henceforth he kept them amongst his treasures. chapter xxiii. the wishing well. hugo's first call at strathleckie was made on the day following mr. stretton's arrival. father cristoforo's letter had been delivered by that morning's post, and it was during a stroll, in which, to tell the truth, brian was more absorbed by the thought of elizabeth than by any remembrance of his own position or of the prior's views, that he dropped the letter of which the contents had so important a bearing on his future life. in justice to brian, it must be urged that he had no idea that the prior's letter was likely to be of any importance. ever since he left san stefano, the prior had corresponded with him; but his letters were generally on very trivial subjects, or filled with advice upon moral and doctrinal points, which brian could not find interesting. the severe animadversions upon his folly in returning to scotland under an assumed name, which filled the first sheet, did not rouse in him any lively desire to read the rest of the letter. it was not likely to contain anything that he ought to know; and, at any rate, he could explain the loss and apologise for it in his next note to padre cristoforo. the meeting between him and elizabeth in the garden, which had been such a revelation to hugo's mind, was purely accidental and led to no great result. she had been begged by the children to ask mr. stretton for a holiday. they wanted to go to a wishing well in the neighbourhood, and to have a picnic in honour of kitty's birthday. mr. stretton was sure not to refuse them they said--if elizabeth asked. and mr. stretton did not refuse. his love for elizabeth--that love which had sprung into being almost as soon as he beheld her, and which had grown with every hour spent in her company--was one of those deep and overmastering passions which a man can feel but once in a lifetime, and which many men never feel at all. if brian had lived his life in london and at netherglen with no great shock, no terrible grief, no overthrow of all his hopes, he might not have experienced this glow and thrill of passionate emotion; he might have walked quietly into love, made a suitable marriage, and remained ignorant to his life's end of the capabilities for emotion which existed within him. but, as often happens immediately after the occurrence of a great sorrow or recovery from a serious illness, his whole being seemed to undergo a change. when the strain of anxiety and prolonged anguish of mind was relaxed, the claims of youth re-asserted themselves. with returning health and strength there came an almost passionate determination to enjoy as much as remained to be enjoyed in life. the sunshine, the wind, the sea, the common objects of nature, "to him were opening paradise." and when, for the first time, love also entered into his life, the world seemed to be transfigured. although he had suffered much and lost much, he found it possible to dream of a future in which he might make for himself a home, and know once more the meaning of happiness. was he selfish in hoping that life still contained a true joy for him, in spite of the sorrows that fate had heaped upon his head, as if she meant to overwhelm him altogether? at least, the hope was a natural one, and showed courage and resolution. he clung to it desperately, fiercely; he felt that after all he had lost he could not bear to let it go. the hope was too sweet--the chance of happiness too beautiful--to be lost. he felt as if he had a right to this one blessing. he had lost all beside. but, perhaps, this was a presumptuous mood, destined to rebuke and disappointment. the fourth day after his arrival dawned, and he had not yet perceived, in his blindness of heart, the difference of position between the elizabeth of his dreams and the elizabeth of reality. could the crisis be averted very much longer? he fancied that elizabeth was colder to him after that little scene in the study than she had ever been before. she looked pale and dispirited, and seemed to avoid speaking to him or meeting his eye. at breakfast-time that morning he noticed that she allowed a letter that had been brought to her to lie unopened beside her plate "it's from percival, isn't it?" said kitty, thoughtlessly. "you don't seem to be very anxious to read it." elizabeth made no answer, but the colour rose to her cheek and then spread to the very roots of her golden-brown hair. brian noticed the blush, and for the first time felt his heart contract with a bitter pang of jealousy. what right had percival heron to write letters to elizabeth? why did she blush when she was asked a question about a letter from him? the whole party set off soon after ten o'clock for an expedition to a little loch amongst the hills. they intended to lunch beside the loch, then to enjoy themselves in different ways: mr. heron meant to sketch; mrs. heron took a novel to read; the others proposed to visit a spring at some little distance known as "the wishing well." this programme was satisfactorily carried out; but it chanced that kitty and the boys reached the well before the others, and then wandered away to reach a further height, so that brian and elizabeth found themselves alone together beside the wishing well. it was a lonely spot from which nothing but stretches of barren moor and rugged hills could be discerned. one solitary patch of verdure marked the place where the rising spring had fertilised the land; but around this patch of green the ground was rich only in purple heather. not even a hardy pine or fir tree broke the monotony of the horizon. yet, the scene was not without its charm. there was grandeur in the sweep of the mountain-lines; there was a wonderful stillness in the sunny air, broken only by the buzz of a wandering bee and the trickle of the stream; there was the great arch of blue above the moor, and the magical tints of purple and red that blossoming heather always brings out upon the mountain-sides. the bareness of the land was forgotten in its wealth of colouring; and perhaps brian and elizabeth were not wrong when they said to each other that italy had never shown them a scene that was half so fair. the water of the spring fell into a carved stone basin, which, tradition said, had once been the font of an old roman catholic chapel, of which only a few scattered stones remained. people from the surrounding districts still believed in the efficacy of its waters for the cure of certain diseases; and the practice of "wishing," which gave the well its name, was resorted to in sober earnest by many a village boy and girl. elizabeth and brian, who had hitherto behaved in a curiously grave and reserved manner to each other, laughed a little as they stood beside the spring and spoke of the superstition. "we must try it," said elizabeth, looking down into the sparkling water. "a crooked pin must be thrown in, and then we must silently wish for anything we especially desire, and, of course, we shall obtain it." "quite worth trying, if that is the case," said brian. "but--i have tried the experiment before." "here?" "yes, here." "i did not know that you had been to dunmuir before." "my wish did not come to pass," remarked brian; "but there is no reason why you should not be more successful than i was, miss murray. and i feel a certain sort of desire to try once again." "here is a crooked pin," said elizabeth. "drop it into the water." "are you going to try?" he asked, when the ceremony had been performed. "there is nothing that i wish for very greatly." "nothing? ah, i have one wish--only one." "i am unfortunate in that i have none," said elizabeth. "then give me the benefit of your wishes. wish that my wish may be fulfilled," said brian. she hesitated for a moment, then smiled, and threw a crooked pin into the water. "i have wished," she said, as she watched it sink, "but i must not say what i wish: that breaks the charm." "sit down and rest," said brian, persuasively, as she turned away. "there is a little shade here; and the others will no doubt join us by-and-bye. you must be tired." "i am not tired, but i will sit down for a little while," said elizabeth. she seated herself on a stone beside the well; and brian also sat down, but rather below her, so that he seemed to be sitting at her feet, and could look up into her face when he spoke. he kept silence at first, but said at last, with gentle deference of tone:-- "miss murray, there was something that you said you would tell me when you had the opportunity." she paused before she answered. "not just now," he understood her to say at last, but her words were low and indistinct. "then--may i tell you something?" she spoke more clearly in reply. "i think not." "forgive me for saying so, but you must hear it some time. why not now?" she did not speak. her colour varied a little, and her brows contracted with a slight look of pain. "i do not know how to be silent any longer," he said, raising his eyes to her face, with a grave and manly resolve in their brown depths. "i have thought a great deal about it--about you; and it seems to me that there is no real reason why i should not speak. you are of age; you can do as you please; and i could work for both--because--elizabeth--i love you." it was brokenly, awkwardly said, after all; but more completely uttered, perhaps, than if he had told his tale at greater length, for then he would have been stopped before he reached the end. as it was, elizabeth's look of terror and dismay brought him to a sudden pause. "oh, no!" she said, "no; you don't mean that. take back what you have said, mr. stretton." "i cannot take it back," he said, quickly, "and i would not if i could; because you love me, too." the conviction of his words made her turn pale. she darted a distressed look at him, half-rose from her seat, and then sat down again. twice she tried to speak and failed, for her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. but at last she found her voice. "you do not know," she said, hurriedly and hoarsely, "that i am engaged to my cousin percival." he rose to his feet, and withdrew two or three paces, looking down on her in silent consternation. she did not lift her eyes, but she felt that his gaze was upon her. it seemed to pierce to the very marrow of her bones, to the bottom of her heart. "is this true?" he said at last, in a voice as changed as her own had been--hoarse and broken almost beyond recognition. "and you never told me?" "why should i have told you? only my uncle knows. it was a secret," she answered, in a clearer and colder tone. "i am sorry you did not know." "so am i. god knows that i am sorry," said the young man, turning away to hide the look of bitter despair and disappointment, which he could not help but feel was too visibly imprinted on his face. "for if i had known, i might never have dared to love you. if i had known, i should never have dreamt of you as my wife." at the sound of these two words, a shiver ran through her frame, as if a cold wind had blown over her from the mountain-heights above. she did not speak, however, and brian went on in the low, difficult voice which told the intensity of his feelings more clearly than his words. "i have been blind--mad, perhaps--but i thought that there was a hope for me. i fancied that you cared for me a little, that you guessed what i felt--that you, perhaps, felt it also. oh, you need not tell me that i have been presumptuous. i see it now. but it was my one hope in life--i had nothing left; and i loved you." his voice sank; he still stood with his face averted; a bitter silence fell upon him. for the moment he thought of the many losses and sorrows that he had experienced, and it seemed to him that this was the bitterest one of all. elizabeth sat like a statue; her face was pale, her under-lip bitten, her hands tightly clasped together. at the end of some minutes' silence she roused herself to speak. there was an accent of hurt pride in her voice, but there was a tremor, too. "i gave you no reason to think so, mr. stretton," she said. "no," he answered, still without turning round. "i see now; i made a mistake." "that you should ever have made the mistake," said elizabeth, slowly, "seems to me----" she did not finish the sentence. she spoke so slowly that brian found it easy to interrupt her. he turned and broke impetuously into the middle of her phrase. "it seems an insult--i understand. but i do not mean it as an insult. i mean it only as a tribute to your exquisite goodness, your sweetness, which would not let me pass upon my way without a word of kindly greeting--and yet what can i say, for i did not misunderstand that kindliness. i was not such a fool as to do that! no, i never really hoped; i never thought that you could for a moment look at me; believe me when i say that, even in my wildest dreams, i knew myself to be far, infinitely far, below you, utterly unworthy of your love, elizabeth." "no, no," she murmured, "you must not say that." "but i do say it, and i mean it. i only ask to be forgiven for that wild dream--it lasted but for a moment, and there was nothing in it that could have offended even you, i think; nothing but the love itself. and i believe in a man's right to love the woman who is the best, the most beautiful, the noblest on earth for him, even if she were the queen herself! if you think that i hoped where i ought to have despaired, forgive me; but don't say you forgive me for merely loving you; i had the right, to do that." she altered her attitude as he spoke. her hands were now before her face, and he saw that the tears were trickling between her fingers. all the generosity of the man's nature was stirred at the sight. "i am very sorry that i have distressed you," he said. "i am sorry that i spoke so roughly--so hastily--at first. trust me when i say that i will not offend in the same way again." she lifted her face a little, and tried to wipe away her tears. "i am not offended, mr. stretton," she said. "you mistake me--i am only sorry--deeply sorry--that i--if i--have misled you in any way." "oh, you did not mislead me, miss murray," replied brian, gently; "it was my own folly that was to blame. but since i have spoken, may i say something more? i should like, if possible, to justify myself a little in your eyes." she bowed her head. "will you not sit down?" she said, softly. "say what you like; or, at least, what you think best." he did not sit down exactly, but he came back to the stone on which he had been sitting at her feet, and dropped on one knee upon it. "let me speak to you in this way, as a culprit should speak," he said, with a faint smile which had in it a gleam of some slightly ironical feeling, "and then you can pardon or condemn me as you choose." "if you feel like a culprit you condemn yourself," said elizabeth, lifting her eyes to his. "i do not feel like a culprit, miss murray. i have, as i said before, a perfect right to love you if i choose----" elizabeth's eyes fell, and the colour stole into her cheeks--"i would maintain that right against all the world. but i want you to be merciful: i want you to listen for a little while----" "not to anything that i ought not to hear, mr. stretton." "no: to nothing that would wrong mr. percival heron even by a thought. only--it is a selfish wish of mine; but i have been misjudged a good deal in my life, and i do not want you to misjudge me--i should like you to understand how it was that i dared--yes, i dared--to love you. may i speak?" "i don't know whether i ought to listen. i think i ought to go," said elizabeth, with an irrepressible little sob. "no, do not speak--i cannot bear it." "but in justice to me you ought to listen," said brian, gently, and yet firmly. he laid one hand upon hers, and prevented her from rising. "a few words only," he said, in pleading tones. "forgive me if i say i must go on. forgive me if i say you must listen. it is for the last--and the only--time." with a great sigh she sank back upon the stone seat from which she had tried to rise. brian still held her hand. she did not draw it away. the lines of her face were all soft and relaxed; her usual clearness of purpose had deserted her. she did not know what to do. "if you had loved me, elizabeth--let me call you elizabeth just for once; i will not ask to do it again--or if you had even been free--i would have told you my whole history from beginning to end, and let you judge how far i was justified in taking another name and living the life i do. but i won't lay that burden upon you now. it would not be fair. i think that you would have agreed with me--but it is not worth while to tell you now." "i am sure that you would not have acted as you did without a good and honourable motive," said elizabeth, trembling, though she did not know why. "i acted more on impulse than on principle, i am afraid,", he answered. "i was in great trouble, and it seemed easier--but i saw no reason afterwards to change my decision. elizabeth, my friends think me dead, and i want them to think so still. i had been accused of a crime which i did not commit--not publicly accused, but accused in my own home by one--one who ought to have known me better; and i had inadvertently--by pure accident, remember--brought great misery and sorrow upon my house. in all this--i could swear it to you, elizabeth--i was not to blame. can you believe my word?" "i can, i do." "god bless you for saying so, my love--the one love of my life--elizabeth! forgive me: i will not say it again. to add to my troubles, then, i found reason to believe that i had no right to the name i bore, that i was of a different family, a different race, altogether; that it would simplify the disposal of certain property if i were dead; and so--i died. i disappeared. i can never again take the name that once was mine." he said all this, but no suspicion of the truth crossed elizabeth's mind. that she was the person who had benefited by his disappearance was as far from her thoughts as from brian's at that moment. that he was the brian luttrell of whom she had so often heard, whose death in the alps had seemed so certain that even the law courts had been satisfied that she might rightfully inherit his possessions, that he--john stretton, the boys' tutor--could be this dead cousin of her's, was too incredible a thought ever to occur to her. she felt nothing but sorrow for his past troubles, and a conviction that he was perfectly in the right. "but you are deceiving your friends," she said. "for their good, as i firmly believe," answered brian, sorrowfully. "if i went back to them, i should cause a great deal of confusion and distress: i should make my so-called heirs uncomfortable and unhappy, and, as far as i can see, i should have no right to the property that they would not consent to retain if i were living." "yes--if i am dead, and if no one else appears to claim it. it is a complicated business, and one that would take some time to explain. let it suffice that i was utterly hopeless, utterly miserable, when i cast away what had always seemed to me to be my birthright; that i was then for many months very ill; and that, when you met me in italy, i was just winning my way back to health, and repose of mind and body. and then--do you remember how you looked and spoke to me? of course, you do not know. you were good, and sweet, and kind: you stretched out your hand to aid a fallen man, for i was poorer and more friendless than you knew; and from the moment when you said you trusted me, as we sat together on the bench upon the cliffs my whole soul went out to you, elizabeth, and i loved you as i never had loved before--as i never shall love again." "in time," she murmured, "you will learn to care for someone else, in time you will forget me." "forget you! i can never forget you, elizabeth. your trust in me--an unknown, friendless man, your goodness to me, your sweet pity for me, will never be forgotten. can you wonder if i loved you, and if i thought that my love must surely have betrayed itself? i fancied that you guessed it----" "no, no," she said, hurriedly. "i did not guess. i did not think. i only knew that you were a kind friend to me, and taught me and helped me in many ways. i have been often very lonely--i never had a friend." "is percival heron, then, no friend to you?" he asked, with something of indignant sternness in his voice. "ah, yes, he is a friend; but not--not--i cannot tell you what he is----" "but you love him?" cried brian, the sternness changing to anguish, as the doubt first presented itself to him. "elizabeth, do not tell me that you have promised yourself to a man that you do not love! i may be miserable; but do not let me think that you will be miserable, too." he caught both her hands in his and looked her steadily in the face. "i have heard them say that you never told a lie in all your life," he went on. "speak the truth still, elizabeth, and tell me whether you love percival heron as a woman should love a man! tell me the truth." she shrank a little at first, and tried to take her hands away. but when she found that brian's clasp was firm, she drew herself up and looked him in the face with eyes that were full of an unutterable sadness, but also of a resolution which nothing on earth could shake. "you have no right to ask me the question," she said; "and i have no right to give you any answer." but something in her troubled face told him what that answer would have been. chapter xxiv. "good-bye." "i see," he said, dropping her hands and turning away with a heavy sigh. "i was too late." "don't misunderstand me," said elizabeth, with an effort. "i shall be very happy. i owe a debt to my uncle and my cousins which scarcely anything can repay." "give them anything but yourself" he said, gravely. "it is not right--i do not speak for myself now, but for you--it is not right to marry a man whom you do not love." "but i did not say that i do not love him," she cried, trying to shield herself behind this barrier of silence. "i said only that you had no right to ask the question." brian looked at her and paused. "you are wrong," he said at last, but so gently that she could not take offence. "surely one who cares for you as i do may know whether or not you love the man that you are going to marry. it is no unreasonable question, i think, elizabeth. and if you do not love him, then again i say that you are wrong and that it is not like your brave and honest self to be silent." "i cannot help it," she said, faintly. "i must keep my word." "you are the best judge of that," he answered. but there was a little coldness in his tone. "yes, i am the best judge," she went on more firmly. "i have promised; and i will not break the promise that i have made. i told you before how much i consider that i owe to them. now that i have the chance of doing a thing that will benefit, not only percival, but all of them--from a worldly point of view, i mean--i cannot bear to think of drawing back from what i said i would do." "how will it benefit them?" "in a very small way, no doubt," she said, looking aside, so that she might not see the mute protest of his face; "because worldly prosperity is a small thing after all; but if you had seen, as i have, what it was to my uncle to live in a poverty-stricken, sordid way, hampered with duns and debts, and percival harassing himself with vain endeavours to set things straight, and the children feeling the sting of poverty more and more as they grew older--and then to know that one has the power in one's hands of remedying everything, without giving pain or hurting any one's pride, or----" "i am sorry," said brian, as she hesitated for a word. "but i do not understand." "why not!" "how can you set things straight? and how is it that things want setting straight? mr. heron is--surely--a rich man." she laughed; even in the midst of her agitation, she laughed a soft, pleasant, little laugh. "oh, i forgot," she said, suddenly. "you do not know. i found out on the day you came that you did not know." "did not know--what?" she raised her eyes to his face, and spoke with gravity, but great sweetness. "nobody meant to deceive you," she said; "in fact, i scarcely know how it is that you have not learnt the truth--partly; i suppose, because in italy i begged them not to tell anybody the true state of the case; but, really, my uncle is not rich at all. he is a poor man. and percival is poor, too--very poor," she added, with a lingering sigh over the last two words. "poor! but--how could a poor man travel in italy, and rent the villa venturi, say nothing of strathleckie?" "he did not rent it. they were my guests." "your guests? and what are they now, then?" "my guests still." brian rose to his feet. "then you are a rich woman?" "yes." "it is you, perhaps, who have paid me for teaching these boys?" "there is no disgrace in being paid for work that is worth doing and that is done well," said elizabeth, flashing an indignant look at him. he bowed his head to the rebuke. "you are right, miss murray. but you will, i hope, do me the justice to see that i was perfectly ignorant of the state of affairs; that i was blind--foolishly blind----" "not foolishly. you could not help it." "i might have seen. i might have known. i took you for----" and there brian stopped, actually colouring at the thought of his mistake. "for the poor relation; the penniless cousin. but it was most natural that you should, and two years ago it would have been perfectly true. i have not been a rich woman for very many months, and i do not love my riches very much." "if i had known," began brian; and then he burst out with a sudden change of tone. "give them your riches, since they value them and you do not, and give yourself to me, elizabeth. surely your debt to them would then be paid." "what! by recompensing kindness with treachery?" she said, glancing at him mournfully. "no, that plan would not answer. the money is a small part of what i owe them. but i do sometimes wish that it had gone to anybody but me; especially when i remember the sad circumstances under which it became mine. when i think of poor mrs. luttrell of netherglen, i have never felt as if it were right to spend her sons' inheritance in what gave pleasure to myself alone." "mrs. luttrell of ---- but what have you to do with her?" said brian, with a sudden fixity of feature and harshness of voice that alarmed elizabeth. "mrs. luttrell of netherglen! good heaven! it is not you--you--who inherited that property? the luttrell-murrays----" "i am the only luttrell-murray living," said elizabeth. he stared at her dumbly, as if he could not believe his ears. "and you have the luttrell estate?" he said at last. "i have." "i am glad of it," he answered; and then he put his hand over his eyes for a second or two, as if to shut out the light of day. "yes, i am very glad." "what do you mean, mr. stretton?" said elizabeth, who was watching him intently. "do you know anything of my family? do you know anything of the luttrells?" "i have met some of them," he answered, slowly. his face was paler than usual, and his eyes, after one hasty glance at her, fell to the ground. "it was a long time ago. i do not know them now." "you said you had been here before. you----" "miss murray, don't question me as to how i knew them. you cannot guess what a painful subject it is to me. i would rather not discuss it." "but, mr. stretton----" "let me tell you something else," he said, hastily, as if anxious to change the subject. "let me ask you--as you are the arbitress of my destiny, my employer, i may call you--when you will let me go. could the boys do without me at once, do you think? you would soon find another tutor." "mr. stretton! why should you go? do you mean to leave us?" exclaimed elizabeth. "oh, surely it is not necessary to do that!" "do you think it would be so easy for me, then, to take money from your hands after what has passed between us?" "money is a small thing," said she. "money! yes; but there are other things in the world beside money. and it is better that i should go away from you now. it is not for my peace to see you every day, and know that you are to marry percival heron. cannot you guess what pain it is to me?" "but the children: you have no love for them, then. i thought that you did love our little jack--and they are so fond of you." "don't try to keep me," he said, hoarsely. "it is hard enough to say good-bye without having to refuse you anything. the one thing now for which i could almost thank god is that you never loved me, elizabeth." she shivered, and drew a long, sobbing breath. her face looked pale and cold: her voice did not sound like itself as she murmured-- "why?" "because--no, i can't tell you why. think for yourself of a reason. it is not that i love you less; and yet--yet--not for the world would i marry you now that i know what i know." "you would not marry me because i am rich: that is it, is it not?" she asked him. "i knew that some men were proud; but i did not think that you would be so proud." "what does it signify? there is no chance of your marrying me; you are going to marry another man--whom you do not love; we may scarcely ever see each other again after to-day. it is better so." "if i were free," she said, slowly, "and if--if--i loved you, you would be doing wrong to leave me because--only because--i was a little richer than you. i do not think that that is your only motive. it is since you heard that i was one of the luttrell-murrays that you have spoken in this way." "what if it were? the fact remains," he said, gloomily. "you do not care for me; and i--i would give my very soul for you, elizabeth. i had better go. think of me kindly when i am away--that is all. i see miss heron and the boys on the brow of the hill signalling to us. will you excuse me if i say good-bye to you now, and walk back towards strathleckie?" "must it be now?" she said, scarcely knowing what the words implied. she turned her face towards him with a look that he never forgot--a look of inexpressible regret, of yearning sweetness, of something only too like the love that he thought he had failed to win. it caused him to turn back and to lean over her with a half-whispered question-- "would it have been possible, elizabeth, if we had met earlier, do you think that you ever could have loved me?" "do you think you ought to ask me?" "ah, give me one word of comfort before i go. remember that i go for ever. it will do no one any harm. could you have loved me, elizabeth?" "i think i could," she murmured in so low a tone that he could hardly hear the words. he seized her hands and pressed them closely in his own; he could do no more, for the herons were very near. "good-bye, my love, my own darling!" were the last words she heard. they rang in her ears as if they had been as loud as a trumpet-call; she could hardly believe that they had not re-echoed far and wide across the moor. she felt giddy and sick. the last sight of his face was lost in a strange, momentary darkness. when she saw clearly again he was walking away from her with long, hasty strides, and her cousins were close at hand. she watched him eagerly, but he did not turn round. she knew instinctively that he had resolved that she should never see his face again. "what is the matter, betty?" cried one of the children. "you look so white! and where is mr. stretton going? mr. stretton! wait for us!" "don't call mr. stretton," said elizabeth, collecting her forces, and speaking as nearly as possible in her ordinary tone. "he wants to get back to strathleckie as quickly as possible. i am rather tired and am resting." "you are not usually tired with so short a walk," said kitty, glancing sharply at her cousin's pallid cheeks. "are you not well?" "yes, i am quite well," elizabeth answered. "but i am very, very tired." and then she rose and made her way back to the loch-side, where mr. and mrs. heron were still reposing. but her steps lagged, and her face did not recover its usual colour as she went home, for, as she had said, she was tired--strangely and unnaturally tired--and it was with a feeling of relief that she locked herself into her own room at strathleckie, and gave way to the gathering tears which she had hitherto striven to restrain. she would willingly have stayed away from the dinner-table, but she was afraid of exciting remark. her pale face and heavy eyelids excited remark as much as her absence would have done; but she did not think of that. mr. stretton, who usually dined with them, sent an excuse to mrs. heron. he had a headache, and preferred to remain in his own room. "it must have been the sun," said mrs. heron. "elizabeth has a headache, too. have you a headache, kitty?" "not at all, thank you," said kitty. there was something peculiar in her tone, thought elizabeth. or was it only that her conscience was guilty, and that she was becoming apt to suspect hidden meanings in words and tones that used to be harmless and innocent enough? the idea was a degrading one to her mind. she hated the notion of having anything to conceal--anything, at least, beyond what was lawful and right. her inheritance, her engagement to percival, had been to some extent kept secret; but not, as she now said passionately to herself, not because she was ashamed of them. now, indeed, she was ashamed of her secret, and there was nothing on earth from which she shrank so much as the thought of its being discovered. she went to bed early, but she could not sleep. the words that brian had said to her, the answers that she had made to him, were rehearsed one after the other, turned over in her mind, commented on, and repeated again and again all through the night. she hardly knew the meaning of her own excitement of feeling, nor of the intense desire that possessed her to see him again and listen once more to his voice. she only knew that her brain was in a turmoil and that her heart seemed to be on fire. sleep! she could not think of sleep. his face was before her, his voice was sounding in her ears, until the cock crew and the morning sunlight flooded all the room. and then for a little while, indeed, she slept, and dreamt of him. she awoke late and unrefreshed. she dressed leisurely, wondering somewhat at the vehemence of last night's emotion, but not mistress enough of herself to understand its danger. in that last moment of her interview with brian she had given way far more than he knew. if he had understood and taken advantage of that moment of weakness, she would not have been able to refuse him anything. at a word she would have given up all for him--friends, home, riches, even her promise to percival--and gone forth into the world with the man she loved, happier in her poverty than she had ever been in wealth. "ask me no more, for at a touch i yield," was the silent cry of her inmost soul. but brian had not understood. he did not dream that with elizabeth, as with most women, the very weakest time is that which immediately follows the moment of greatest apparent strength. she had refused to listen to him at all--and after that refusal she was not strong, but weak in heart and will as a wearied child. realising this, elizabeth felt a sensation of relief and safety. she had escaped a great gulf--and yet--and yet--she had not reached that point of reasonableness and moderation at which she could be exactly glad that she had escaped. she made her way downstairs, and reached the dining-room to find that everyone but herself had breakfasted and gone out. she was too feverish to do more than swallow a cup of coffee and a little toast, and she had scarcely concluded her scanty meal before mr. heron entered the room with a disconcerted expression upon his face. "do you know the reason of this freak of stretton's, elizabeth?" he asked almost immediately. "what do you mean, uncle alfred?" "i mean--has he taken a dislike to strathleckie, or has anybody offended him? i can't understand it. just when we were settling down so nicely, and found him such an excellent tutor for the boys! to run away after this fashion! it is too bad!" "does mr. stretton think of leaving strathleckie?" said elizabeth, with her eyes bent steadfastly upon the table-cloth. "think of leaving! my dear lizzie, he has left! gone: went this morning before any of us were down. spoke to me last night about it; i tried to dissuade him, but his mind was quite made up." "what reason did he give?" "well, he would not tell me the exact reason. i tried to find out, but he was as close as--as--wax," said mr. heron, trying to find a suitable simile. "he said he was much obliged to us all for our kindness to him; had no fault to find with anything or anybody; liked the place; but, all the same, he wanted to go, and go he must. i offered him double the salary--at least, i hinted as much: i knew you would not object, lizzie dear, but it was no use. partly family affairs; partly private reasons: that was all i could get out of him." mr. heron's long speech left elizabeth the time to consider what to say. "it does not matter very much," she answered at length, indifferently: "we can find someone who will teach the boys quite as well, i have no doubt." "do you think so?" asked mr. heron. "well, perhaps so. but, you see, it is not always easy to get a tutor at this time of the year, elizabeth; and, besides, we shall not find one, perhaps, so ready to read italian with you, as mr. stretton used to do----" oh, those italian readings! how well she remembered them! how the interest which mr. stretton had from the first inspired in her had grown and strengthened in the hours that they spent together, with heads bent over the same page, and hearts throbbing in unison over the lines that spoke of dante's beatrice, or petrarca's laura! she shuddered at the remembrance, now fraught to her with keenest pain. "i shall not want to read italian again," she said, rising from the table. "we had better advertise for a tutor, uncle alfred, unless you think the boys might run wild for a little while, or unless percival can find us one." "shall you be writing to percival to-day, my dear?" "i don't know." "because you might mention that mr. stretton has left us. i am afraid that percival will be glad," said mr. heron, with a little laugh; "he had an unaccountable dislike to poor stretton." "yes, percival will be glad," said elizabeth, turning mechanically to leave the room. at the door she paused. "mr. stretton left an address, i suppose?" "no, he did not. he said he would write to me when his plans were settled. and i'm sorry to say he would not take a cheque. i pressed it upon him, and finally left it on the table for him--where i found it again this morning. he said that he had no right to it, leaving as suddenly as he did--some crochet of that kind. i should think that stretton could be very quixotic if he chose." "when he writes," said elizabeth, "you will send him the cheque, will you not, uncle alfred? i do not think that he is very well off; and it seems a pity that he should be in want of money for the sake of--of--a scruple." she did not wait for a reply, but closed the door behind her, and stood for a few moments in the hall, silently wondering what to do and where to go. finally she put on her garden hat and went out into the grounds. she felt that she must be alone. a sort of numbness came over her. he had gone, without a word, without making any effort to see her again. his "good-bye" had been spoken in solemn earnest. he had been stronger than elizabeth; although in ordinary matters it might be thought that her nature was the stronger of the two. there was nothing, therefore, for her to say or do; she could not write to him, she could not call him back. if she could have done so she would. she had never known before what it was to hunger for the sight of a beloved face, to think of the words that she might have said, and long to say them. she did not as yet know by what name to call her misery. only, little by little she woke up to the fact that it was what people meant when they spoke of love. then she began to understand her position. she had promised to marry percival heron, but her heart was given to the penniless tutor who called himself john stretton. chapter xxv. a covenant. brian had no fixed notion of what he should do, but he thought it better to go to london, where he could more easily decide on his future movements. he was in no present difficulty, for the liberal salary which he had received from the herons during the past few months was almost untouched, and although he had just now a morbid dislike to touching the money that had come to him through elizabeth's generosity, he had the sense to see that he must make use of it, and turn it to the best possible account. in the course of his journey he bought a newspaper. his eyes fell almost immediately upon a paragraph which caused him some amazement. "mysterious case of attempted murder.--a young man of respectable appearance was discovered early this morning in a state of complete insensibility at the end of a passage leading out of mill-street, blackfriars. he was found to have received a severe wound, presumably with a knife, in the left side, and had lost a considerable amount of blood, but, although weak, was still living. his watch and purse had not been abstracted, a fact which points to the conclusion either that the wound was inflicted by a companion in a drunken brawl, or that the thief was disturbed in his operations before the completion of the work. the young man speaks a little english as well as italian, but he has not yet been able to give a precise account of the assault committed upon him. it is thought that the police have a clue to the criminal. the name given in the gentleman's pocket-book is vasari; and he has been removed to guy's hospital, where he is reported to be doing well." "vasari! dino vasari! can it be he?" said brian, throwing down his newspaper. "what brings him to london?" then it occurred to him that father cristoforo's long letter might have contained information concerning dino's visit to london: possibly he had been asked to do the young italian some service, which, of course, he had been unable to render as he had not read the letter. he felt doubly vexed at his own carelessness as he thought of this possibility, and resolved to go to the hospital and see whether the man who had been wounded was dino vasari or not. and then he forgot all about the newspaper paragraph, and lost himself in sad reflections concerning the unexpected end of his connection with the herons. arrived in london, he found out a modest lodging, and began to arrange his plans for the future. a fit of restlessness seemed to have come upon him. he could not bear to think of staying any longer in england. he paid a visit next morning to an emigration agency office, asking whether the agents could direct him to the best way of obtaining suitable work in the colonies. he did not care where he went or what he did; his preference was for work in the open air, because he still at times felt the effect of that brain-fever which had so nearly ended his existence at san stefano; but his physique was not exactly of the kind which was most suited to bush-clearing and sheep-farming. this he was told, and informed, moreover, that so large a number of clerks arrived yearly in australia and america, that the market in that sort of labour was over-stocked, and that, if he was a clerk, he had a better chance in the old world than in the new. "i am not a clerk; i have lately been a tutor," said brian. references? he could refer them to his late employer. a degree? oxford or cambridge? and there the questions ceased to be answered satisfactorily. he could not tell them that he had been to oxford, because he dared not refer them to the name under which he studied at balliol. he hesitated, blundered a little--he certainly had never mastered the art of lying with ease and fluency--and created so unfavourable an impression in the mind of the emigration agent that that gentleman regarded him with suspicion from that moment, and apparently ceased to wish to afford him any aid. "i am very sorry," he said, politely, "but i don't think that we have anything that would suit you. there is a college at dunedin where they want a junior master, but there, a man with a good degree and--hum--unimpeachable antecedents would be required. people out there are in want of men with a trade: not of clerks, nor of poor professional men." "then i must go as a hodman or a breaker of stones," said brian, "for i mean to go." "i don't think that that employment is one for which you are especially fitted, mr. smith," said the agent, with a slight smile. brian had impatiently given the name of smith in making his application, and the agent, who was a man of wide experience, did not believe that it was his own; "but, of course, if you like to try it, you can look at these papers about 'assisted passages.'" "thank you, that is not necessary," answered brian, rather curtly. "a steerage passage to australia does not cost a fortune. if i go out as a labouring man i think i can manage it. but i am obliged to you for your kindness in answering my questions." he had resumed his usual manner, which had been somewhat ruffled by the tone taken by the agent, and now asked one or two practical questions respecting the fares, the lines of steamers, and matters of that kind; after which he bade the agent a courteous good-morning and went upon his way. he foresaw that the inevitable cloud hanging over his past story would prove a great obstacle to his obtaining employment in the way he desired. any work requiring certificates or testimonials was utterly out of the question for him in england. in australia or new zealand things might be different. he had no great wish to go to america--he had once spent a summer holiday in the eastern states, and did not fancy that they would be agreeable places of residence for him in his present circumstances, and he had no great desire to "go west;" besides, he had a wish to put as great a distance as possible between himself and england. as he walked away from the emigration office he made up his mind to take the first vessel that sailed for sydney. he had nothing to do. he wanted to divert his mind from thoughts of elizabeth. it flashed across his mind that he would go to the hospital and inquire after the man who had been stabbed, and who called himself vasari. he made his request to see the patient, and was admitted with such readiness that he suspected the case to be a dangerous one. and, indeed, the house-surgeon acknowledged this to be so. the stab, he said, had gone wonderfully near the vital parts; a hair's-breadth deviation to the right or left, and vasari would have been a dead man. it was still uncertain whether he would recover, and all agitation must be avoided, as he was not allowed either to move or speak. "i am not sure whether he is the young man i used to know or not," said brian, doubtfully. "vasari--was there a christian name given as well?" "yes: bernardino, and in another place simply dino. was that the name of your friend?" "yes, it was. if i saw him i should be sure. i don't suppose that my appearance would agitate him," said brian, little suspecting the deep interest and importance which would attach to his visit in dino's mind. "come, then." and the surgeon led the way to the bed, hidden by a screen from the rest of the ward, where dino lay. brian passed with the nurse inside the screen, and looked pityingly at the patient. "yes," he said, in a low tone, "it is the man i know." he thought that dino was unconscious, but at the sound of his voice--low though it was--the patient opened his eyes, and fixed them upon brian's face. brian had said that his appearance would produce no agitation, but he was mistaken. a sudden change passed over that pale countenance. dino's great dark eyes seemed to grow larger than ever; his face assumed a still more deathly tinge; the look of mingled anguish and horror was unmistakable. he tried to speak, he tried to rise in his bed, but the effort was too great, and he sank back insensible. the indignant nurse hustled brian away, and would not allow him to return; he ought to have known, she said, that the sight of him would excite the patient. brian had not known, and was grieved to think that his visit had been unacceptable. but that did not prevent him from writing an account of the state in which he had found dino vasari to his friend, padre cristoforo; nor from calling at the hospital every day to inquire after the state of his italian friend. he was glad to hear at last that dino was out of danger; then, that he was growing a little stronger; and then that he had expressed a desire to see the english gentleman when he called again. by this time he had, to some extent, changed his plans. neither australia nor new zealand would be his destination. he had taken his passage in a vessel bound for pernambuco, and a very short time remained to him in england. he was glad to think that he should see dino before he went. he found the young man greatly altered: his eyes gleamed in orbits of purple shadow: his face was white and wasted. but the greatest change of all lay in this--that there was no smile upon his lips, no pleasure in his eyes, when he saw brian draw near his bed. "dino!" said brian, holding out his hand. "how did you come here, amico mio?" and then he noticed the absence of any welcoming word or gesture on dino's part. the large dark eyes were bent upon him questioningly, and yet with a proud reserve in their shadowy depths. and the blue-veined hands locked themselves together upon the coverlet instead of returning brian's friendly grasp. "why have you come?" said dino, in a loud whisper. "what do you want?" "i want nothing save to ask how you are and to see you again," replied brian, after a pause of astonishment. "if you want to alter your decision it is not yet too late. i have taken no steps towards the claiming of my rights." "his mind must be wandering," thought brian to himself. he added aloud in a soothing tone, "i have made no decision about anything, dino. can i do anything for you?" dino looked at him long and meditatively. brian's face expressed some surprise, but perfect tranquility of mind. he had seated himself at dino's bed-side, and was leaning his chin upon his hand and his elbow upon his crossed knees. "why did you make hugo luttrell your messenger? why not come to meet me yourself as padre cristoforo begged you to do?" brian shook his head. "i don't think you had better talk, dino," he said. "you are feverish, surely. i will come and see you again to-morrow." "no, no: answer my question first," said dino, a slight flush rising to his thin cheeks. "why could you not come yourself?" "when?" "when! you know." "upon my honour, dino, i don't know what you mean." "you--you--had a letter from padre cristoforo--about me?" said dino, stammering with eagerness. brian looked guilty. "i was a great fool, dino," he said, penitently. "i had a letter from him, and i managed to lose it before i had read more than the first sheet, in which there was nothing about you. i suppose he told me in that letter why you came to london, and asked me to meet you or something; and i wish i had met you, if it would have prevented this unfortunate accident of yours, or whatever it was. my own carelessness is always to blame," said brian, with a heavy sigh, "and i don't wonder that you look coldly upon me, dino, when i seem to have done you such an unfriendly turn. but i don't think i need say that i never meant to do it." "how did you know that i was here?" asked dino, with breathless interest. "i saw in the papers an account of your being found insensible from a wound in your side. the name vasari was mentioned, and i came to see if it could possibly be you." dino was silent for a few minutes. then his face lighted up, his pale lips parted with a smile. "so you never read father cristoforo's letter?" he said. "and you sent me no message of reply?" "certainly not. how could i, when i did not know that you were in england?" dino held out his hands. "i misjudged you," he said, simply, "will you forgive me and take my hand again?" brian clasped his hand. "you know there's nothing to forgive," he said, with a smile. "but i am glad you don't think i neglected you on purpose, dino. i had not forgotten those pleasant days at san stefano." dino smiled, too, but did not seem inclined to speak again. the nurse came to say that the interview had lasted long enough, and brian took his leave, promising to come on the morrow, and struck with the look of perfect peace and quiet upon the placid face as it lay amongst the white pillows, almost as white as they. he had only a couple of days left before he was to start for pernambuco, where he had heard of work that was likely to suit him. he had made his arrangements, taken his passage in the steerage: he had nothing to do now but to write a farewell letter to mr. heron, telling him whither he was bound, and another--should he write that other or should he not?--to elizabeth. he felt it hard to go without saying one last farewell to her. the discovery that she was the heiress of his property had finally decided him to leave england. he dared not risk the chance of being recognised and identified, if such recognition and identification would lead to her poverty. for even if, by a deed of gift in his supposed name of brian luttrell, he devised his wealth to her, he knew that she would never consent to take it if he were still alive. the doubt thrown on his birth and parentage would not be conclusive enough in her mind to justify her in despoiling him of what all the judges in the land would have said was his birthright. but then brian did not know that vincenza vasari had been found. the existence of another claimant to the luttrell estate never troubled him in the least. he wronged nobody, he thought, by allowing elizabeth murray to suppose that brian luttrell was dead. he wrote a few lines to mr. heron, thanking him for his kindness, and informing him that he was leaving england for south america; and then he proceeded to the more difficult task of writing to elizabeth. he destroyed many sheets of paper, and spent a great deal of time in the attempt, although the letter, as it stood at last, was a very simple affair, scarcely worthy of the pains that had been bestowed upon it. "dear miss murray," he wrote, "when you receive this note i shall have left england, but i cannot go without one word of farewell. you will never know how much you did for me in those early days of our acquaintance in italy; how much hope you gave me back, how much interest in life you inspired in me; but for all that you did i thank you. is it too much to ask you to remember me sometimes? i shall remember you until the hour of my death. forgive me if i have said too much. god bless you, elizabeth! let me write that name once, for i shall never write to you nor see your face again." he put no signature. he could not bear to use a false name when he wrote to her; and he was sure that she would know from whom the letter came. he went out and dropped it with his own hands into a letter-box; then he came back to his dreary lodgings, never expecting to find there anything of interest. but he found something that interested him very much indeed. he found a long and closely written letter from the prior of san stefano. father cristoforo could not resist the opportunity of lecturing his young friend a little. he gave him a good many moral maxims before he came to the story that he had to tell, and he pointed them by observing rather severely that if it were not for brian's carelessness, his pupil might possibly have escaped the "accident" that had befallen him. for if brian had met dino in london on the appointed day, he would not have been wandering alone in the streets (as father cristoforo imagined him to have been) or fallen into the hands of thieves and murderers. with which prologue the padre once more began his story. and this time brian read it all. he put down the letter at last with a curious smile: the smile of a man who does not want to acknowledge that he suffers pain. "dino," he said to himself, lingeringly. "dino! it is he who is brian luttrell, then, after all. and what am i? and, oh, my poor elizabeth! but she will only regret the loss of the money because she will no longer be able to help other people. the herons will suffer more than she. and percival heron! how will it affect him? i think he will be pleased. yes, i think he is disinterested enough to be thoroughly pleased that she is poor. i should be pleased, in his case. "there is no doubt about it now, i suppose," he said, beginning to pace up and down the little room, with slow, uneven steps and bent head. "i am not a luttrell. i am a vasari. my mother's name was vincenza vasari--a woman who lied and cheated for the sake of her child. and i was the child! good god! how can it be that i have that lying blood in my veins? yet i have no right to say so; it was all done for me--for me--who never knew a mother's love. oh, mother, mother, how much happier your son would have been if you had reared him in the place where he was born, amongst the vines and olive-yards of his native land. "and i must see dino to-morrow. so he knows the whole story. i understand now why he thought ill of me for not coming to meet him, poor fellow! i must go early to-morrow." he went, but as soon as he reached dino's bed-side he found that he knew not what to say, dino looked up at him with eyes full of grave, wistful affection, and suddenly smiled, as if something unwontedly pleasant had dawned upon his mind. "ah," he said, "at last--you know." "yes, i know," said brian. "and you are sorry? i am sorry, too." "no," said brian, finding it rather difficult to express himself at that moment; "i am not sorry that you are the man who will bear the name of luttrell, that i have wrongly borne so long. i suppose--from what the prior says--that your claim can be proved; if i were in my old position i should be the first to beg you to prove it, and to give up my name and place to you if justice required it. as it is, i do not stand in your way, because the old brian luttrell--the one who killed his brother, you know--is dead." "but if you were in your old position, could you still pardon me and be friendly with me, even if i claimed my rights?" "i hope so," said brian. "i hope that i should not be so ungenerous as to look upon you as an enemy because you wished to take your own place amongst your own kindred. you ought rather to look upon me as your enemy, because i have occupied your place so long." "you are good--you are generous--you are noble!" said dino, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. "if all the world were like you! and do you know what i shall do if the estate ever becomes mine? you shall take the half--you may take it all, if it please you better. but we will divide it, at any rate, and be to each other as brothers, shall we not? i have thought of you so often!" he spoke ardently, eagerly; pressing brian's hands between his own from time to time. it was from an impulse as strong and simple as any of dino's own that brian suddenly stooped down and kissed him on the forehead. the caress seemed natural enough to dino; it was as the ratification of some sacred bond to the english-bred brian luttrell. henceforth, the two became to each other as brothers, indeed; the interests of one became the interests of the other. before long, dino learnt from brian himself the whole of his sad story. he lay with shining eyes and parted lips, his hand clasped in brian's, listening to his account of the events of the last two years. the only thing that brian did not touch upon was his love for elizabeth. that wound was too recent to be shown, even to dino, who had leaped all at once, as it seemed, into the position of his bosom friend. but dino guessed it all. as brian walked back to his lodgings from the hospital, he was haunted by a verse of scripture which had sprung up in his mind, and which he repeated with a certain sense of pleasure as soon as he recollected the exact words. "and it came to pass"--so ran the verse that he remembered--"when he had made an end of speaking unto saul that the soul of jonathan was knit with the soul of david, and jonathan loved him as his own soul." he liked the words. he looked them out in a bible belonging to his landlady when he reached home, and he found another verse that touched him, too. "then jonathan and david made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul." had not brian luttrell and dino vasari made a covenant? the practical result of their friendship was an important one to brian. he sacrificed his passage money, and did not sail on the following day for pernambuco. chapter xxvi. elizabeth's confession. "i wonder what she wants with me," said percival heron, meditatively. he was sitting at his solitary breakfast-table, having pushed from him an empty coffee-cup and several newspapers: a letter from elizabeth was in his hands. it consisted of a few lines only, and the words that had roused his wonderment were these:-- "i am very anxious to see you. could you come down to strathleckie at once? if not, pray come as soon as possible." "i suppose she is too true a woman to say exactly what she wants," said percival, a gay smile curling his lips beneath his black moustache. "perhaps she won't be very angry with me this time if i press her a little on the subject of our marriage. we parted on not very good terms last time, rather _en délicatesse_, if i'm not mistaken, after quarrelling over our old subject of dispute, the tutor. well, my lady's behests are to be obeyed. i'll wire an acceptance of the invitation and start to-night." he made the long journey very comfortably, grumbling now and then in a good-tempered way at elizabeth for sending for him in so abrupt a fashion; but on the whole he felt pleased that she had done so. it showed that she had confidence in him. and he was very anxious for the engagement to be made public: its announcement would be a sort of justification to him in allowing her to do as much as she had done for his family. percival had, in truth, always protested against her generosity, but failed in persuading his father not to accept it. mr. heron was too simple-minded to see why he should not take elizabeth's gifts, and mrs. heron did not see the force of percival's arguments at all. "elizabeth is not here, then," he said to kitty, who met him at the station. "no," answered kitty in rather a mysterious voice. "she wouldn't come." "why wouldn't she come?" said percival, sharply. he followed his sister into the waggonette as he spoke: he did not care about driving, and gladly resigned the reins to the coachman. "i can't tell you. i don't think she is well." "not well? what's the matter?" "i don't know. she always has a headache. did she want you to come, percival?" "she wrote to ask me." "i'm glad of that." "kitty, will you have the goodness to say what you mean, instead of hinting?" kitty looked frightened. "i don't mean anything," she said, hurriedly, while a warm wave of colour spread itself over her cheeks and brow. "don't mean anything? that's nonsense. you should not say anything then. out with it, kitty. what do you think is wrong with elizabeth?" "oh, percival, don't be so angry with me," said kitty, with the tears in her eyes. "indeed, i scarcely meant to speak; but i did wish you to understand beforehand----" "what?" "i don't think she wants to marry you." and then kitty glanced up from under her thick, curling lashes, and was startled at the set and rigid change which suddenly came over her brother's features. she dared not say any more, and for some minutes they drove on in silence. presently, percival turned round to her with an icy sternness in his voice. "you should not say such things unless you have authority from elizabeth to say them. did she tell you to do so?" "no, no, indeed she did not," cried kitty, "and, of course, i may be mistaken; but i came to see you, percival, on purpose to tell you." "no woman is happy unless she is making mischief," said her brother, grimly. "you ought not to say that, percival; it is not fair. and i must say what i came to say. elizabeth is very unhappy about something. i don't know what; and after all her goodness to us you ought to be careful that you are not making her do anything against her will." "did you ever know elizabeth do anything against her will?" "against her wishes, then," said kitty, firmly, "and against the dictates of her heart." "'these be fine words, indeed!'" quoted percival, with a savage laugh. "and who has taught you to talk about the 'dictates of her heart?' leave elizabeth and me to settle our affairs between ourselves, if you please. we know our duty to each other without taking advice from a little schoolgirl." kitty stifled a sob. "if you break elizabeth's heart," she said, vehemently, "you can't say i didn't warn you." percival looked at her, stifled a question at the tip of his tongue, and clutched his newspaper viciously. it occurred to him that kitty knew something, that she would never have uttered a mere vague suspicion; but he would not ask her a direct question. no, elizabeth's face and voice would soon tell him whether she was unhappy. he was right. kitty had seen the parting between brian and elizabeth; and she had guessed a great deal more than she saw. she spoke out of no desire to make mischief, but from very love for her cousin and care for her happiness; but when she noted percival's black brows she doubted whether she had done right. percival did not speak again throughout the drive. he sat with his eyes bent on his newspaper, his hand playing with his moustache, a frown on his handsome face. it was not until the carriage stopped at the door of strathleckie, and he had given his hand to kitty to help her down that he opened his lips. "don't repeat what you have said to me to any other person, please." "of course not, percival." there was no time for more. the barking of dogs, the shouts of children, the greeting of mr. heron, prevented anything further. percival looked round impatiently. but elizabeth was not there. he was tired, although he would not confess it, with his night journey; and a bath, breakfast, and change of clothes did not produce their usual exhilarating effect. he found it difficult to talk to his father or to support the noise made by the children. kitty's hint had put his mind into a ferment. "can these boys not be sent to their lessons?" he said, at last, knitting his brows. "oh, don't you know?" said harry, cutting a delighted caper. "we have holidays now. mr. stretton has gone away. he went away a fortnight ago, or nearly three weeks now." percival looked suddenly at kitty, who coloured vividly. "why did he go?" he asked. "i'm sure i can't tell you," said mr. heron, almost peevishly. "family affairs, he said. and now he has gone to south america. i don't understand it at all." neither did percival. "where is elizabeth?" said mr. heron, looking round the room as if in search of her. "she can't know that percival has come: go and tell her, one of you boys." "no, never mind," said percival, quickly; but it was too late, the boy was gone. there was a little silence. percival sat at one side of the whitely-draped table, with a luxurious breakfast before him and a great bowl of autumn flowers. the sunshine streamed in brightly through the broad, low windows; the pleasant room was fragrant with the scent of the burning wood upon the fire; the dogs wandered in and out, and stretched themselves comfortably upon the polished oak floor. kitty sat in a cushioned window-seat and looked anxious; mr. heron stood by the fireplace and moved one of the burning logs in the grate with his foot. a sort of constraint had fallen over the little party, though nobody quite knew why; and it was not dispelled, even when harry's footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and he threw open the door for elizabeth. percival threw down his serviette and started up to meet her. and then he knew why his father and sister looked uncomfortable. elizabeth was changed; it was plain enough that elizabeth must be ill. she was thinner than he had ever seen her, and her face had grown pale. but the fixed gravity and mournfulness of her expression struck him even more than the sharpened contour of her features or the dark lines beneath her eyes. she looked as if she suffered: as if she was suffering still. "you are ill!" he said, abruptly, holding her by the hand and looking down into her face. "that's what i've been saying all along!" muttered mr. heron. "i knew he would be shocked by her looks. you should have prepared him, kitty." "i have had neuralgia, that is all," said elizabeth, quietly. "strathleckie does not suit you; you ought to go away," remarked percival, devouring her with his eyes. "what have you been doing to yourself?" "nothing: i am perfectly well; except for this neuralgia," she said, with a faint, vexed smile. "did you have a comfortable journey, and have you breakfasted?" "yes, thank you." "then you will come out with me for a little stroll? i want to show you the grounds; and the others can spare you to me for a little while," she went on, with perfect ease and fluency. the only change in her manner was its unusual gravity, and the fact that she did not seem able to meet percival's eye. "are you too tired?" "not at all." and they left the room together. she took him down the hill on which the house stood, by a narrow, winding path, to the side of a picturesque stream in the valley below. he had seen the place before, but he followed her without a word until they reached a wooden seat close to the water's edge, with its back fixed to the steep bank behind it. the rowan trees, with their clusters of scarlet berries, hung over it, and great clumps of ferns stood on either hand. it was an absolutely lonely place, and percival knew instinctively that elizabeth had brought him to it because she could here speak without fear of interruption. "it is a beautiful place, is it not?" she said, as he took his seat beside her. he did not answer. he rather disdained the trivial question. he was silent for a few minutes, and then said briefly:-- "tell me why you wanted me." "i have been unhappy," she said, simply. "that is easy to be seen." "is it? oh, i am sorry for that. but i have had neuralgia. i have, indeed. that makes me look pale and tired." percival threw his arm over the back of the seat with an impatient motion, and looked at the river. "nothing else?" he asked, drily. "it seems hardly worth while to send for me if that was all. the doctor would have done better." "there is something else," said elizabeth, in so quiet and even a voice as to sound almost indifferent. "well, i supposed so. what is it?" "you are making it very hard for me to tell you, percival," said she, with one of her old, straight glances. "what is it you know? what is it you suspect?" "excuse me, elizabeth, i have not said that i know or suspect anything. everybody seems a little uncomfortable, but that is nothing. what is the matter?" as she did not answer, he turned and looked at her. her face was pale, but there was a look of indomitable resolve about her which made him flinch from his purpose of maintaining a cold and reserved manner. a sudden fear ran through his heart lest kitty's warning should be true! "elizabeth," he said, quickly and passionately, "forgive me for the way in which i have spoken. i am an ill-tempered brute. it is my anxiety for you that makes me seem so savage. i cannot bear to see you look as you do: it breaks my heart!" her lip trembled at this. she would rather that he had preserved his hard, sullen manner: it would have made it more easy for her to tell her story. she locked her hands closely together, and answered in low, hesitating tones:-- "i am not worth your anxiety. i did not mean to be--untrue--to you, percival. i suffered a great deal before i made up my mind that i had better tell you--everything." a tear fell down her pale cheek unheeded. percival rose to his feet. "i don't think there is much to tell, is there?" he said. "you mean that you wish to give me up, to throw me over? is that all?" his words were calm, but the tone of ironical bitterness in which they were uttered cut elizabeth to the quick. she lifted her head proudly. "no," she said, "you are wrong. i wish nothing of the kind." he stood in an attitude of profound attention, waiting for her to explain. his face wore its old, rigid look: the upright line between his brows was very marked indeed. but he would not speak again. "percival," she said--and her tone expressed great pain and profound self-abasement--"when i promised to marry you--someday, you will remember that i never said i loved you. i thought that i should learn to love in time. and so i did--but not--not you." "and who taught you the lesson that i failed to impart?" asked percival, with the sneer in his voice which she knew and dreaded. "don't ask me," she said, painfully. "it is not fair to ask me that. i did not know until it was too late." "until he--whoever he was--asked you to marry him, i suppose? well, when is the ceremony to take place? do you expect me to dance at the wedding? do you think i am going tamely to resign my rights? my god, elizabeth, is it you who can treat me in this way? are all women as false as you?" he struck his foot fiercely against the ground, and walked away from her. when he came back he found her in the same position; white as a statue, with her hands clasped together upon her knee, and her eyes fixed upon the running water. "do you think that i am a stone," he said, violently, "that you tell me the story of your falseness so quietly, as if it were a tale that i should like to hear? do you think that i feel nothing, or do you care so little what i feel? you had better have refused me outright at once than kept me dangling at your feet for a couple of years, only to throw me over at the last!" "i have not thrown you over," she said, raising her blue-grey eyes steadily to his agitated face. "i wanted to tell you; that was all. if you like to marry me now, knowing the truth, you may do so." "what!" "i may have been false to you in heart," she said, the hot blood tinting her cheeks with carnation as she spoke, "but i will not break my word." "and what did your lover say to that?" he asked, roughly, as he stood before her. "did he not say that you were as false to him as you were to me? did he not say that he would come back again and again, and force you to be true, at least, to him? for that is what i should have done in his place." "then," elizabeth said, with a touch of antagonism in her tones, "he was nobler than you." "oh, no doubt," said percival, tossing aside his head. "no doubt he is a finer fellow in every way. am i to have the pleasure of making his acquaintance?" his scorn, his intolerance, were rousing her spirit at last. she spoke firmly, with a new light in her eyes, a new self-possession in her manner. "you are unjust, percival. i think that you do not understand what i mean to tell you. he accepted my decision, and i shall never see him again. i thought at first that i would not tell you, but let our engagement go on quietly; and then again i thought that it would be unfair to you not to tell you the whole truth. i leave it to you to say what we should do. i have no love to give you--but you knew that from the first. the difference now is that i--i love another." her voice sank almost to a whisper as she uttered the last few words, and she covered her face with her hands. percival's brow cleared a little; the irony disappeared from his lips, the flash of scorn from his eye. he advanced to her side, and stood looking down at her for several minutes before he attempted any answer to her speech. "you mean to say," he began, in a softer tone, "that you rejected this man because you had given your promise to me?" "yes." "you sent him away?" "yes." "and he knew the reason? did he know that you loved him, elizabeth?" the answer was given reluctantly, after a long pause. "i do not know. i am afraid--he did." percival drew a short, impatient breath. "you must forgive me if i was violent just now, elizabeth. this is very hard to bear." "i dare not ask your pardon," she murmured, with her face still between her hands. "oh, my pardon? that will do you little good," he said, contemptuously. "the question is--what is to be done? i suppose this man--this lover of yours--is within call, as it were, elizabeth? you could summon him with your little finger? if i released you from this engagement to me, you could whistle him back to you next day?" "oh, no," she said, looking up at him wonderingly. "he is gone away from england. i do not know where he is." "it is this man stretton, then?" said percival, quietly. a sudden rush of colour to her face assured him that he had guessed the truth. "i always suspected him," he muttered. "you had no need. he behaved as honourably as possibly. he did not know of my engagement to you." "honourably? a penniless adventurer making love to one of the richest women in scotland!" "you mistake, percival. he did not know that i was rich." "a likely story!" "you insult him--and me," said elizabeth, in a very low tone. "if you have no pity, have some respect--for him--if you have none for me." and then she burst into an agony of tears, such as he had never seen her shed before. but he was pitiless still. the wound was very deep: his pain very sharp and keen. "have you had any pity for me?" he said. "why should i pity him? to my mind, he is the most enviable man on earth, because he has your love. respect him, when he has stolen from me the thing that i value more than my life! you do not know what you say." she still wept, and presently he sat down beside her and leaned his head on his hand, looking at her from out of the shadow made by his bent fingers above his eyes. "let me understand matters clearly," he said. "you sent him away, and he has gone to america, never to return. is that it? and you will marry me, although you do not love me, because you have promised to do so, if i ask you? what do you expect me to say?" she shook her head. she could not speak. "i am not generous," he went on deliberately. "you have known me long enough to be aware that i am a very selfish man. i will not give you up to stretton. he is not the right husband for you. he is a man whom you picked up in the streets, without a character, without antecedents, with a history which he dares not tell. so much i gathered from my father. i say nothing about his behaviour in this case; he may have acted well, or he may have acted badly; i have no opinion to give. but you shall never be his wife." elizabeth's tears were dried as if by magic. she sat erect, listening with set lips and startled eyes to the fierce energy of his tones. "i accept your sacrifice," he said. "you will thank me in the end that i did so. no, i do not release you from your engagement, elizabeth. you have said that you would keep your word, and i hold you to it." he drew her to him with his arm, and kissed her cheek with passionate determination. she shrank away, but he would not let her go. "no," he proceeded, "you are my promised wife, elizabeth. i have no intention of giving you up for stretton or anybody else. i love you more than ever now that i see how brave and honest you can be. we will have no more concealments. when we go back to the house we will tell all the world of our engagement. it was the secrecy that worked this mischief." she wrenched herself away from him with a look of mingled pain and anger. "percival!" she cried, "do you want to make me hate you?" "i would rather have hate than indifference," he answered. "and whether you hate me or not, elizabeth, you shall be my wife before the year is out. i shall not let you go." chapter xxvii. percival's own way. percival had his way. he came back to the house looking stern and grim, but with a resolute determination to carry his point. in half-an-hour it was known throughout the whole household that miss murray was engaged to be married to young mr. heron, and that the marriage would probably take place before christmas. kitty cast a frightened glance at elizabeth's face when the announcement was made, but gathered little from its expression. a sort of dull apathy had come over the girl--a reaction, perhaps, from the excitement of feeling through which she had lately passed. it gave her no pain when percival insisted upon demonstrations of affection which were very contrary to her former habits. she allowed him to hold her hand, to kiss her lips, to call her by endearing names, in a way that would ordinarily have roused her indignation. she seemed incapable of resistance to his will. and this passiveness was so unusual with her that it alarmed and irritated percival by turns. anger rather than affection was the motive of his conduct. as he himself had said, he was rather a selfish man, and he would not willingly sacrifice his own happiness unless he was very sure that hers depended upon the sacrifice. he was enraged with the man who had won elizabeth's love, and believed him to be a scheming adventurer. neither patience nor tolerance belonged to percival's character; and although he loved elizabeth, he was bitterly indignant with her, and not indisposed to punish her for her faithlessness by forcing her to submit to caresses which she neither liked nor returned. if he had any magnanimity in him he deliberately put it on one side; he knew that he was taking a revenge upon her for which she might never forgive him, which was neither delicate nor generous, but he told himself that he had been too much injured to show mercy. it was elizabeth's own fault if he assumed the airs of a sultan with a favourite slave, instead of kneeling at her feet. so he argued with himself; and yet a little grain of conscience made him feel from time to time that he was wrong, and that he might live to repent what he was doing now. "we will be married before christmas, elizabeth," he said one day, when he had been at strathleckie nearly a week. he spoke in a tone of cool insistence. "as you think best," she answered, sadly. "would you prefer a later date?" "oh, no," said elizabeth, smiling a little. "it is all the same to me. 'if 'twere done at all, 'twere well done quickly,' you know." "do you mean that?" "yes." "then why delay it at all? why not next week--next month, at latest? what is there to wait for?" they were sitting in the little school-room, or study, as it was called, near the front door--the very room in which elizabeth had talked with brian on the night of his arrival at strathleckie. the remembrance of that conversation prompted her reply. "oh, no," she said, in a tone of almost agonised entreaty. "percival, have a little mercy. not yet--not yet." his face hardened: his keen eyes fixed themselves relentlessly upon her white face. he was sitting upon the sofa: she standing by the fireplace with her hands clasped tightly before her. for a minute he looked at her thus, and then he spoke. "you said just now that it was all the same to you. may i ask what you mean?" "there is no need to ask me," she said, resolutely, although, her pale lips quivered. "you know what i mean. i will marry you before christmas, if you like; but not with such--such indecent haste as you propose. not this month, nor next." "in december then?" "yes." "you promise? even if this man--this tutor--should come back?" "i suppose i have given you a right to doubt me, percival," she said. "but i have never broken my word--never! from the first, i only promised to try to love you; and, indeed, i tried." "oh, of course, i know that i am not a lovable individual," said percival, throwing himself back on the cushions with a savage scowl. she looked up quickly: there was a bitter word upon her tongue, but she refrained from uttering it. the struggle lasted for a moment only; then she went over to him, and laid her hand softly upon his arm. "percival, are you always going to be so hard upon me?" she said. "i know you do not easily forgive, and i have wronged you. can i do more than be sorry for my wrong-doing? i was wrong to object to your wishes. i will marry you when you like: you shall decide everything for me now!" his face had been gloomily averted, but he turned and looked at her as she said the last few words, and took both her hands in his. "i'm not quite such a brute as you think me, elizabeth," he answered, with some emotion in his voice. "i don't want to make you do what you find painful." "that is nonsense," she said, more decidedly than he had heard her speak for many days. "the whole matter is very painful to both of us at present. the only alleviation----" "well, what is the only alleviation? why do you hesitate?" she lifted her serious, clear eyes to his face. "i hesitated," she said, "because i did not feel sure whether i had the right to speak of it as an alleviation. i meant--the only thing that makes life bearable at all is the trying to do right; and, when one has failed in doing it, to get back to the right path as soon as possible, leaving the sin and misery behind." he still held her hands, and he looked down at the slender wrists (where the blue veins showed so much more distinctly than they used to do) with something like a sigh. "if one failure grieves you in this way, elizabeth, what would you do if you had chosen a path from which you could not turn back, although you knew that it was wrong? there are many men and women whose lives are based upon what you would call, i suppose, wrong-doing." there was little of his usual sneering emphasis in the words. his face had fallen into an expression of trouble and sadness which it did not often wear; but there was so much less hardness in its lines than there had been of late that elizabeth felt that she might answer him freely and frankly. "i don't think there is any path of wrong-doing from which one might not turn back, percival. and it seems to me that the worst misery one could go through would be the continuing in any such path; because the consciousness of wrong would spoil all the beauty of life and take the flavour out of every enjoyment. it would end, i think, by breaking ones heart altogether." "a true woman's view," said percival, starting up and releasing her hands, "but not one that is practicable in the world of men. i suppose you think you know one man, at least, who would come up to your ideal in that respect?" "i know several; you amongst them," she replied. "i am sure you would not deliberately do a wicked, dishonourable action for the world." "you have more faith in me than i deserve," he said, walking restlessly up and down the room. "i am not so sure--but of one thing i am quite sure, elizabeth," and he came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders, "i am quite sure that you are the best and truest woman that ever lived, and i beg your pardon if i seemed for one moment to doubt you. will you grant it to me, darling?" for the first time since the beginning of the visit, she looked at him gratefully, and even affectionately. "i have nothing to forgive you," she said. "if only i could forgive myself!" and then she burst into tears, and percival forgot his ill-humour and his sense of wrong in trying to soothe her into calmness again. this conversation made them both happier. elizabeth lost her unnatural passiveness of demeanour, and looked more like her clear-headed, energetic self; and percival was less exacting and overbearing than he had been during the past week. he went back to london with a strong conviction that time would give him elizabeth's heart as well as her hand; and that she would learn to forget the unprincipled scoundrel--so percival termed him--who had dared to aspire to her love. the herons were to return to london in november, and the purchase of elizabeth's trousseau was postponed until then. but other preparations were immediately begun: there was a great talk of "settlements" and "entail" in the house; and mr. colquhoun had some very long and serious interviews with his fair client. it need hardly be stated that mr. colquhoun greatly objected to miss murray's marriage with her cousin, and applied to him (in strict privacy) not a few of the adjectives which percival had bestowed upon the tutor. but the lawyer was driven to admit that mr. percival heron, poor though he might be, showed a very disinterested spirit when consulted upon money matters, and that he stood firm in his determination that elizabeth's whole fortune should be settled upon herself. he declared also that he was not going to live upon his wife's money, and that he should continue to pursue his profession of journalism and literature in general after his marriage; but at this assertion mr. colquhoun shook his head. "it shows a very independent spirit in ye, mr. heron," he said, when percival announced his resolve in a somewhat lordly manner; "but i think that in six months' time after the marriage, ye'll just agree with me that your determination was one that could not be entirely carried out." "i usually do carry out my determinations, mr. colquhoun," said percival, hotly. "no doubt, no doubt. it's a determination that reflects credit upon ye, mr. heron. ye'll observe that i'm not saying a word against your determination," replied mr. colquhoun, warily, but with emphasis. "it's highly creditable both to miss murray and to yourself." and although percival felt himself insulted, he could not well say more. the continuation of his connection with the daily press was the proof which he intended to offer to the world of his disinterestedness in marrying elizabeth murray. he disliked the thought of her wealth, but he was of too robust a nature, in spite of his sensitiveness on many points, to refuse to marry a woman simply because she was richer than himself. in fact, that is a piece of quixotism not often practised, and though percival would perhaps have been capable of refusing to make an offer of marriage to elizabeth after she had come into her fortune, he was not disposed to withdraw that offer because it had turned out a more advantageous one for himself than he had expected. it is only fair to say that he did not hold elizabeth to her word on account of her wealth; he never once thought of it in that interview with her on the river-bank. selfish as he might be in some things, he was liberal and generous to a fault when money was in the question. it was mr. colquhoun who told mrs. luttrell of miss murray's engagement. he was amazed at the look of anger and disappointment that crossed her face. "ay!" she said, bitterly, "i am too late, as i always am. this will be a sore blow to hugo." "hugo!" said the old lawyer. "was he after miss murray too? not a bad notion, either. it would have been a good thing to get the property back to the luttrells. he could have called himself murray-luttrell then." "too late for that," said mrs. luttrell, grimly. "well, he shall have netherglen." "are you quite decided in your mind on that point?" queried mr. colquhoun. "quite so. i'll give you my instructions about the will as soon as you like." "take time! take time!" said the lawyer. "i have taken time. i have thought the matter over in every light, and i am quite convinced that what i possess ought to go to hugo. there is no other luttrell to take netherglen--and to a luttrell netherglen must go." "i should have thought that you would like better to leave it to miss murray, who is of your own father's blood," said mr. colquhoun, cautiously. "she is your second cousin, ye'll remember; and a good girl into the bargain." "a good girl she may be, and a handsome one; and i would gladly have seen her the mistress of netherglen if she were hugo's wife; but netherglen was never mine, it was my husband's, and though it came to me at his death, it shall stay in the luttrell family, as he meant it to do. elizabeth murray has the strathleckie property; that ought to be enough for her, especially as she is going to marry a penniless cousin, who will perhaps make ducks and drakes of it all." "hugo's a fortunate lad," said mr. colquhoun, drily, as he seated himself at a writing-table, in order to take mrs. luttrell's instructions. "i hope he may be worthy of his good luck." hugo did not seem to consider himself very fortunate when he heard the news of miss murray's approaching marriage. he looked thoroughly disconcerted. mrs. luttrell was inclined to think that his affections had been engaged more deeply than she knew, and in her hard, unemotional way, tried to express some sympathy with him in his loss. it was not a matter of the affections with hugo, however, but his purse. his money affairs were much embarrassed: he was beginning to calculate the amount that he could wring out of mrs. luttrell, and, if she failed him, he had made up his mind to marry elizabeth. "heron!" he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and disgust, "i don't believe she cares a rap for heron." "how can you tell?" said his aunt. hugo looked at her, looked down, and said nothing. "if you think she liked you better than mr. heron," said mrs. luttrell, in a meditative tone, "something might yet be done to change the course of affairs." "no, no," said hugo, hastily. "dear aunt margaret, you are too kind. no, if she is happy, it is all i ask. i will go to strathleckie this afternoon; perhaps i can then judge better." "i don't want you to do anything dishonourable," said his aunt, "but, if elizabeth likes you best, hugo, i could speak to mr. heron--the father, i mean--and ascertain whether the engagement is absolutely irrevocable. i should like to see you happy as well as elizabeth murray." hugo sighed, kissed his aunt's hand, and departed--not to see elizabeth, but kitty heron. he felt that if his money difficulties could only be settled, he was well out of that proposed marriage with elizabeth; but then money difficulties were not easily settled when one had no money. in the meantime, he was free to make love to kitty. percival spent two or three busy weeks in london, and found that hard work was the best specific for the low spirits from which he had suffered during his stay in scotland. he heard regularly from elizabeth, and her letters, though not long, and somewhat coldly expressed, gave him complete satisfaction. he noticed with some surprise that she spoke a good deal of hugo luttrell; he seemed to be always with them, and the distant cousinship existing between him and elizabeth had been made the pretext for a good deal of apparent familiarity. he was "hugo" now to the whole family; he had been "mr. luttrell" only when percival left strathleckie. he was sitting alone in his "den," as he nicknamed it, late in the afternoon of a november day, when a low knock at the door made itself faintly heard. percival was smoking; having come in cold and tired, he had wheeled an arm-chair in front of the fire, and was sitting with his feet on the bars of the grate, whereby a faint odour of singed leather was gradually mingling with the fumes of the very strong tobacco that he loved. his green shaded lamp stood on a small table beside him, throwing its light full upon the pages of the french novel that he had taken up to read (it was "spiridion" and he was reading it for about the twentieth time); books and newspapers, as usual, strewed the floor, the tables, and the chairs; well-filled book-shelves lined three of the walls; the only ornaments were the photographs of two or three actors and actresses, some political caricatures pinned to the walls, a couple of foils and boxing-gloves, and on the mantelpiece a choice collection of pipes. the atmosphere was thick, the aspect of the furniture dusty: percival heron's own appearance was not at that moment calculated to insure admiration. his hair was absolutely dishevelled; truth compels us to admit that he had not shaved that day, and that his chin was consequently of a blue-black colour and bristly surface, which could not be called attractive: his clothes were shabby to the last degree, frayed at the cuffs, and very shiny on the shoulders. heron was a poor man, and had a good deal of the bohemian in his constitution: hence came a certain contempt for appearances, which sometimes offended his friend vivian, as well as a real inability to spend money on clothes and furniture without getting into debt. and percival, extravagant as he sometimes seemed, was never in debt: he had seen too much of it in his father's house not to be alive to its inconveniences, and he had had the moral courage to keep a resolution made in early boyhood, that he would never owe money to any man. hence came the shabbiness--and also, perhaps, some of the arrogance--of which his friends complained. owing partly therefore to the shabbiness, partly to the untidiness, partly to the very comfort of the slightly overheated room, the visitor who entered it did not form a very high opinion of its occupant. percival's frown, and momentary stare of astonishment, were, perhaps, enough to disconcert a person not already very sure of his reception. "am i dreaming?" muttered heron to himself, as he cast the book to the ground, and rose to his feet. "one would think that george sand's visionary young monk had walked straight out of the book into my room. begging, i suppose. good evening. you have called on behalf of some charity, i suppose? come nearer to the fire; it is a cold night." the stranger--a young man in a black cassock--bowed courteously, and seated himself in the chair that percival pointed out. he then spoke in english, but with a foreign accent, which did not sound unpleasantly in heron's ears. "i have not come on behalf of any charity," he said, "but i come in the interests of justice." "the same thing, i suppose, in the long run," percival remarked to himself. "but what a fine face the beggar has! he's been ill lately, or else he is half-starved--shall i give him some whisky and a pipe? i suppose he would feel insulted!" while he made these reflections, he replied politely that he was always pleased to serve the interests of justice, offered his guest a glass of wine (chiefly because he looked so thin and pale)--an offer which was smilingly rejected--then crossed his legs, looked up to the ceiling, and awaited in silent resignation the pitiful story which he was sure that this young monk had come to tell. but, after a troubled glance at mr. heron's face, (which had a peculiarly reckless and defiant expression by reason of the tossed hair, the habitual frown and the bristles on his chin), the visitor began to speak in a very different strain from the one which percival had expected. "i have come," he said, "on affairs which concern yourself and your family; and, therefore, i most heartily beg your pardon if i appear to you an insolent intruder, speaking of matters which it does not concern me to know." his formal english sentences were correct enough, but seemed to be constructed with some difficulty. percival's eyes came down from the ceiling and rested upon his thin, pale face with lazy curiosity. "i should not have thought that my affairs would be particularly interesting to you," he said. "but there you are wrong, they interest me very much," said the young man, with much vivacity. his dark eyes glowed like coals of fire as he proceeded. "there is scarcely anyone whose fortunes are of so much significance to me." "i am much obliged to you," murmured percival, with lifted eyebrows; "but i hardly understand----" "you will understand quite soon enough, mr. heron," said the visitor, quietly. "i have news for you that may not be agreeable. i believe that you have a cousin, a miss murray, who lately succeeded to a great fortune." "yes, but what has that to do with you, if you please?" demanded heron, his amiability vanishing into space. the stranger lifted his hand. "allow me one moment. she inherited this fortune on the death of a mr. brian luttrell, i think?" "exactly--but what----" "excuse me, mr. heron. i come to my piece of news at last. miss murray has no right to the property which she is enjoying. mr. brian luttrell is alive!" chapter xxviii. a revelation. percival started from his chair. his first exclamation was a rather profane one, for which the monk immediately reproved him. he did not take much notice of the reproof: he stared hard at the young man for a minute or two, unconsciously repeated the objectionable expression, and then took one or two turns up and down the room. after which he came to a standstill, thrust his hands into his pockets, and allowed his features to relax into a sardonically-triumphant smile. "you couldn't tell me a thing which i should be better pleased to hear," he said. "but i don't believe it's true." this was rude, but the visitor was not disconcerted. he looked at percival's masterful face with interest, and a little suspicion, and answered quietly:-- "i do not know exactly what evidence will satisfy you, sir. of course, you will require evidence. i, myself, bernardino vasari of san stefano, can testify that i saw brian luttrell in our monastery on the th day of november, some days after his reputed death. i can account for all his time after that date, and i can tell you where he is to be found at present. his cousin, hugo luttrell, has already recognised him, and, although he is much changed, i fancy that there would be small doubt about his identification." "but why, in heaven's name, did he allow himself to be thought dead?" cried percival. "you know, probably, the circumstances attending his brother's death?" said dino, gently. "these, and a cruel letter from mrs. luttrell, made him resolve to take advantage of an accident in which his companions were killed. he made his way to a little inn on the southern side of the alps, and thence to our monastery, where i recognised him as the gentleman whom i had previously seen travelling in germany. i had had some conversation with him, and he had interested me--i remembered him well." "did he give his name as brian luttrell then?" "i accosted him by it, and he begged me at once not to do so, but to give him another name." "what name?" "i will tell you the name presently, mr. heron. he remained in the monastery for some months: first ill of a fever on the brain, then, after his recovery, as a teacher to our young pupils. when he grew stronger he became tired of our peaceful life; he left the monastery and wandered from place to place in italy. but he had no money: he began to think of work. he was learned: he could teach: he thought that he might be a tutor. shall i go on?" "good god!" said percival, below his breath. he had actually turned pale, and was biting his moustache savagely. "go on, sir!" he thundered, looking at dino from beneath his knitted brows. "tell me the rest as quickly as you can." "he met with an english family," dino continued, watching with keen interest the effect of his words. "they were kind to him: they took him, without character, without recommendations, and allowed him to teach their children. he did not know who they were: he thought that they were rich people, and that the young lady who was so dutiful to them, and cared so tenderly for their children, was poor like himself, a dependent like himself. he dared, therefore----" "he lies and you lie!" percival burst out, furiously. "how dare you come to me with a tale of this sort? he must have known! it was simply a base deception in order to get back his estate. if i had him here----" "if you had him here you would listen to him, mr. heron," said dino, in a perfectly unmoved voice, "as you will listen to me when the first shock of your surprise is over." "your garb, i suppose, protects you," said percival, sharply. "else i would throw you out of the window to join your accomplice outside. i daresay he is there. i don't believe a word of your story. may i trouble you to go?" "this conduct is unworthy of you, sir," said dino. "brian luttrell's identity will not be disproved by bluster. there is not the least doubt about it. mr. brian luttrell is alive and has been teaching in your father's family for the last few months under the name of john stretton." "then he is a scoundrel," said percival. he threw himself into his chair again, with his feet stretched out before him, and his hands still thrust deep into his trousers' pockets. his face was white with rage. "i always thought that he was a rogue; and, if this story is true, he has proved himself one." "how?" said dino, quietly. "by living in poverty when he might have been rich? by allowing others to take what was legally his own, because he had a scruple about his moral right to it? if you knew all brian luttrell's story you would know that his only fault has been that of over-conscientiousness, over-scrupulousness. but you do not know the story, perhaps you never will, and, therefore, you cannot judge." "i do not want to judge. i have nothing to do with mr. stretton and his story," said percival. "i will tell you----" "i will not hear. you are impostors, the pair of you." dino's eyes flashed and his lips compressed themselves. his face, thin from his late illness, assumed a wonderful sternness of expression. "this is folly," he said, with a cold serenity of tone which impressed percival in spite of himself. "you will have to hear part of his story sooner or later, mr. heron; for your own sake, for miss murray's sake, you had better hear it now." "look here, my good man," said percival, sitting up, and regarding his visitor with contemptuous disgust, "don't go bringing miss murray's name into this business, for, if you do, i'll call a policeman and give you in charge for trying to extort money on false pretences, and you may thank your priest's dress, or whatever it is, that i don't kick you out of the house. do you hear?" "sir," said dino, mildly, but with great dignity, "have i asked you for a single penny?" heron looked at him as if he would like to carry out the latter part of his threat, but the young man was so frail, so thin, so feeble, that he felt suddenly ashamed of having threatened him. he rose, planted his back firmly against the mantelpiece, and pointed significantly to the door. "go!" he said, briefly. "and don't come back." "if i go," said dino, rising from his chair, "i shall take the express train to scotland at eight o'clock to-night, and i shall see miss murray to-morrow morning." the shot told. a sort of quiver passed over percival's set face. he muttered an angry ejaculation. "i'll see you d----d first," he said. "you'll do nothing of the kind." "then will you hear my story?" heron paused. he could have ground his teeth with fury; but he was quite alive to the difficulties of the situation. if this young monk went with his story to elizabeth, and elizabeth believed it, what would become of her fidelity to him? with his habitual cynicism, he told himself that no woman would keep her word, if by doing so she lost a fortune and a lover both. he must hear this story, if only to prevent its being told to her. "well," he said at last, taking his pipe from the mantelshelf, "i'll listen. be so good as to make your story short. i have no time to waste." and then he rammed the tobacco into the bowl with his thumb in a suggestively decisive manner, lighted it, and proceeded to puff at his pipe with a sort of savage vigour. he sent out great clouds of smoke, which speedily filled the air and rendered speaking difficult to dino, whose lungs had become delicate in consequence of his wound. but percival was rather pleased than otherwise to inconvenience him. "there are several reasons," the young man began, "why brian luttrell wished to be thought dead. he had killed his brother by accident, and mrs. luttrell thought that there had been malice as well as carelessness in the deed. that was one reason. his mother's harshness preyed upon his mind and drove him almost to melancholy madness. mrs. luttrell made another statement, and made it in a way that convinced him that she had reasons for making it----" "can't you cut it short?" said percival. "it's all very interesting, no doubt: but as i don't care a hang what brian luttrell said, or thought, or did, i should prefer to have as little of it as possible." "i am sorry to inconvenience you, but i must tell my story in my own way," answered dino. the flash of his eye and the increased colour in his cheek showed that heron's words irritated him, but his voice was carefully calm and cool. "mrs. luttrell's statement was this: that brian luttrell was not her son at all. i have in my possession the letter that she wrote to him on the subject, assuring him confidently that he was the child of her italian nurse, vincenza vasari, and that her own child had died in infancy, and was buried in the churchyard of san stefano. here is the letter, if you like to assure yourself that what i have said is true." percival made a satirical little bow of refusal. but a look of attention had come into his eyes. "brian believed this story absolutely, although he had then no proof of its truth," continued dino. "she told him that the vasari family lived at san stefano----" "vasari! relations of your own, i presume," interposed percival, with ironical politeness. "and to san stefano, therefore, he was making his way when the accident on the mountain occurred," said dino, utterly disregarding the interruption. "there were inquiries made about him at san stefano soon after the news of his supposed death arrived in england, for mrs. luttrell guessed that he would go thither if he were still living; but he had not then appeared at the monastery. he did not arrive at san stefano, as i said before, until a fortnight after the date of the accident; he had been ill, and was footsore and weary. when he recovered from the brain-fever which prostrated him as soon as he reached the monastery, he told his whole story to the prior, padre cristoforo of san stefano, a man whose character is far beyond suspicion. i have also padre cristoforo's statement, if you would like to see it." percival shook his head. but his pipe had gone out; he was listening now with interest. "as it happened," the narrator went on, "padre cristoforo was already interested in the matter, because the mother of mrs. luttrell's nurse, vincenza, had, before her death, confided to him her suspicions, and those of vincenza's husband concerning the child that she had nursed. there was a child living in the village of san stefano, a child who had been brought up as vincenza's child, but vincenza had told her this boy was the true brian luttrell, and that her son had been taken back to scotland as mrs. luttrell's child." "i see your drift now," remarked percival, quietly re-lighting his pipe. "where is this italian brian luttrell to be found?" "need i tell you? should i come here with this story if i were not the man?" he asked the question almost sadly, but with a simplicity of manner which showed him to be free from any desire to produce any theatrical effect. he waited for a moment, looking steadily at percival, whose darkening brow and kindling eyes displayed rapidly-rising anger. "i was called dino vasari at san stefano," he continued, "but i believe that my rightful name is brian luttrell, and that vincenza vasari changed the children during an illness of mrs. luttrell's." "and that, therefore," said percival, slowly, "you are the owner of the strathleckie property--or, as it is generally called, the luttrell property--now possessed by miss murray?" dino bowed his head. percival puffed away at his pipe for a minute or two, and surveyed him from head to foot with angry, contemptuous eyes. the only thing that prevented him from letting loose a storm of rage upon dino's head was the young man's air of grave simplicity and good faith. he did not look like an intentional impostor, such as percival heron would gladly have believed him to be. "do you know," inquired heron, after a momentary pause, "what the penalties are for attempting to extort money, or for passing yourself off under a false name in order to get property? did you ever hear of the claimant and portland prison? i would advise you to acquaint yourself with these details before you come to me again. you may be more fool than knave; but you may carry your foolery or your knavery elsewhere." dino smiled. "you had better hear the rest of my story before you indulge in these idle threats, mr. heron. i know perfectly well what i am doing." there was a tone of lofty assurance, almost of superiority, in dino's calm voice, which galled percival, because he felt that it had the power of subduing him a little. before he had thought of a rejoinder, the young benedictine resumed his story. "you will say rightly enough that these were not proofs. so padre cristoforo said when he kept me in the monastery until i came to years of discretion. so he told brian luttrell when he came to san stefano. but since that day new witnesses have arisen. vincenza vasari was not dead: she had only disappeared for a time. she is now found, and she is prepared to swear to the truth of the story that i have told you. mrs. luttrell's suspicions, the statement made by vincenza's husband and mother, the confession of another woman who was vincenza's accomplice, all form corroborative evidence which will, i think, be quite sufficient to prove the case. so, at least, messrs. brett and grattan assure me, and they have gone carefully into the matter, and have the original papers in their possession." "brett and grattan!" repeated percival. he knew the names. "do you say that brett and grattan have taken it up? you must have managed matters cleverly: brett and grattan are a respectable firm." "you are at liberty, of course, to question them. you may, perhaps, credit their statement." "i will certainly go to them and expose this imposture," said percival, haughtily. "i suppose you have no objection," with a hardly-concealed sneer, "to go with me to them at once?" "not in the least. i am quite ready." percival was rather staggered by his willingness to accompany him. he laid down his pipe, which he had been holding mechanically for some time in his hand, and made a step towards the door. but as he reached it dino spoke again. "i wish, mr. heron, that before you go to these lawyers you would listen to me a little longer. if for a moment or two you would divest yourself of your suspicions, if you would for a moment or two assume (only for the sake of argument) the truth of my story, i could tell you then why i came. as yet, i have scarcely approached the object of my errand." "money, i suppose!" said percival. "truth will out, sooner or later." "mr. heron," said dino, "are we to approach this subject as gentlemen or not? when i ask you for money, you will be at liberty to insult me, not before." again that tone of quiet superiority! percival broke out angrily:-- "i will listen to nothing more from you. if you like to go with me to brett and grattan, we will go now; if not, you are a liar and an impostor, and i shall be happy to kick you out into the street." dino raised his head; a quick, involuntary movement ran through his frame, as if it thrilled with anger at the insulting words. then his head sank; he quietly folded his arms across his breast, and stood as he used to stand when awaiting an order or an admonition from the prior--tranquil, submissive, silent, but neither ill-humoured nor depressed. the very silence and submission enraged percival the more. "if you were of scotch or english blood," he said, sharply, pausing as he crossed the room to look over his shoulder at the motionless figure in the black robe, with folded arms and bent head, "you would resent the words i have hastily used. that you don't do so is proof positive to my mind that you are no luttrell." "if i am a luttrell, i trust that i am a christian, too," said dino, tranquilly. "it is a monk's duty--a monk's privilege--to bear insult." "detestable hypocrisy!" growled percival to himself, as he stepped to the door and ostentatiously locked it, putting the key into his pocket, before he went into the adjoining bed-room to change his coat. "we'll soon see what brett and grattan say to him. confound the fellow! who would think that that smooth saintly face covered so much insolence! i should like to give him a good hiding. i should, indeed." he returned to the sitting-room, unlocked the door, and ordered a servant to fetch a hansom-cab. then he occupied himself by setting some of the books straight on the shelves, humming a tune to himself meanwhile, as if nobody else were in the room. "mr. heron," dino said at last, "i came to propose a compromise. will you listen to it yet?" "no," said percival, drily. "i'll listen to nothing until i have seen brett. if your case is as good as you declare it is, he will convince me; and then you can talk about compromises. i'm not in the humour for compromises just now." he noticed that dino's eyes were fixed earnestly upon something on his writing-table. he drew near enough to see that it was a cabinet photograph of elizabeth murray in a brass frame--a likeness which had just been taken, and which was considered remarkably good. the head and shoulders only were seen: the stately pose of the head, the slightly upturned profile, the rippling mass of hair resting on the fine shoulders, round which a shawl had been loosely draped--these constituted the chief points of a portrait which some people said was "idealised," but which, in the opinion of the herons, only showed elizabeth at her best. percival coolly took up the photograph and marched away with it to another table, on which he laid it face downwards. he did not choose to have the italian impostor scrutinising elizabeth murray's face. dino understood the action, and liked him for it better than he had done as yet. the drive to messrs. brett and grattan's office was accomplished in perfect silence. the office was just closing, but mr. brett--the partner with whom percival happened to be acquainted--was there, and received the visitors very civilly. "you seem to know this--this gentleman, mr. brett?" began percival, somewhat stiffly. "i think i have that pleasure," said mr. brett, who was a big, red-faced, genial-looking man, as much unlike the typical lawyer of the novel and the stage, as a fox-hunting squire would have been. but mr. brett's reputation was assured. "i think i have that pleasure," he repeated, rubbing his hands, and looking as though he was enjoying the interview very much. "i have seen him before once or twice, have i not? eh, mr.--er--mr.----" "ah, that is just the point," said percival. "will you have the goodness to tell me the name of this--this person?" mr. brett stopped rubbing his hands, and looked from dino to percival, and back again to dino. the look said plainly enough, "what shall i tell him? how much does he know?" "i wish to have no secrets from mr. heron," said dino, simply. "he is the gentleman who is going to marry miss elizabeth murray, and, of course, he is interested in the matter." "ah, of course, of course. i don't know that you ought to have brought him here," said mr. brett, shaking his head waggishly at dino. "against rules, you know: against custom: against precedent. but i believe you want to arrange matters pleasantly amongst yourselves. well, mr. heron, i don't often like to commit myself to a statement, but, under the circumstances, i have no hesitation in saying that i believe this gentleman now before you, who called himself vasari in italy, is in reality----" "well?" said percival, feeling his heart sink within him and speaking more impatiently than usual in consequence, "well, mr. brett?" "is in reality," said mr. brett, with great deliberation and emphasis, "the second son of edward and margaret luttrell, stolen from them in infancy--brian luttrell." chapter xxix. dino's proposition. dino turned away. he would not see the discomfiture plainly depicted upon percival's face. mr. brett smiled pleasantly, and rubbed his hands. "i see that it's a shock to you, mr. heron," he said. "well, we can understand that. it's natural. of course you thought miss murray a rich woman, as we all did, and it is a little disappointing----" "your remarks are offensive, sir, most offensive," said percival, whose ire was thoroughly roused by this address. "i will bid you and your client good-evening. i have no more to say." he made for the door, but dino interposed. "it is my turn now, i think, mr. heron. you insisted upon my coming here: i must insist now upon your seeing the documents i have to show you, and hearing what i have to say." and with a sharp click he turned the key in the lock, and stood with his back against the door. "tut, tut, tut!" said mr. brett; "there is no need to lock the door, no need of violence, mr. luttrell." in spite of himself, percival started when he heard that name applied to the young monk before him. "let the matter be settled amicably, by all means. you come from the young lady; you have authority to act for her, have you, mr. heron?" "no," said percival, sullenly. "she knows nothing about it." "this is an informal interview," said dino. "mr. heron refused to believe that you had undertaken my case, mr. brett, until he heard the fact from your own lips. i trust that he is now satisfied on that point, at any rate." "mr. brett is an old acquaintance of mine. i have no reason to doubt his sincerity," said percival, shortly and stiffly. if dino had hoped for anything like an apology, he was much mistaken. percival's temper was rampant still. "then," said dino, quitting the door, with the key in his hand, "we may as well proceed to look at those papers of mine, mr. brett. there can be no objection to mr. heron's seeing them, i suppose?" the lawyer made some objections, but ended by producing from a black box, a bundle of papers, amongst which were the signed and witnessed confessions of vincenza vasari and a woman named rosa naldi, who had helped in the exchange of the children. mr. brett would not allow these papers to go out of his own hands, but he showed them to percival, expounded their contents, and made comments upon the evidence, remarking amongst other things that vincenza vasari herself was expected in england in a week or two, padre cristoforo having taken charge of her, and undertaken to produce her at the fitting time. "the evidence seems to be very conclusive," said mr. brett, with a pleasant smile. "in fact, miss murray has no case at all, and i dare say her legal adviser will know what advice to give her, mr. heron. is there any question that you would like to ask?" "no," said percival, rising from his chair and glancing at dino, who had stood by without speaking, throughout the lawyer's exposition of the papers. then, very ungraciously: "i suppose i owe this gentleman in ecclesiastical attire--i hardly know what to call him--some sort of apology. i see that i was mistaken in what i said." "my dear sir, i am sure mr. luttrell will make allowance for words spoken in the heat of the moment. no doubt it was a shock to you," said mr. brett, with ready sympathy, for which percival hated him in his heart. his brow contracted, and he might have said something uncivil had dino not come forward with a few quiet words, which diverted him from his purpose. "if mr. heron thinks that he was mistaken," he said, "he will not refuse now to hear what i wished to say before we left his house. it will be simple justice to listen to me." "very well," answered percival, frowning and looking down. "i will listen." "could we, for a few moments only, have a private room?" said dino to mr. brett, with some embarrassment. "you won't want me again?" said that cheerful gentleman, locking his desk. "then, if you won't think me uncivil, i'll leave you altogether. my clerk is in the outer room, if you require him. i have a dinner engagement at eight o'clock which i should like to keep. good-bye, mr. heron; sorry for your disappointment. good-bye, mr. luttrell; i wish you wouldn't don that monkish dress of yours. it makes you look so un-english, you know. and, after all, you are not a monk, and never will be." "do not be too sure of that," said dino, smiling. mr. brett departed, and the two young men were left together. percival was standing, vexation and impatience visible in every line of his handsome features. he gave his shoulders a shrug as the door closed behind mr. brett, and turned to the fire. "and now, mr. heron," said dino, "will you listen to my proposition?" he spoke in italian, not english, and percival replied in the same language. "i have said i would listen." "it refers to brian luttrell--the man who has borne that name so long that i think he should still be called by it." "ah! you have proved to me that mr. brett believes your story, and you have shown me that your case is a plausible one; but you have not proved to me that the man stretton is identical with brian luttrell." "it is not necessary that that should be proved just now. it can be proved; but we will pass over that point, if you please. i am sorry that what i have to say trenches somewhat on your private and personal affairs, mr. heron. i can only entreat your patience for a little time. your marriage with miss murray----" "need that be dragged into the discussion?" "it is exactly the point on which i wish to speak." "indeed." percival pulled the lawyer's arm-chair towards him, seated himself, and pulled his moustache. "i understand. you are mr. stretton's emissary!" "his emissary! no." the denial was sharply spoken. it was with a softening touch of emotion that dino added--"i doubt whether he will easily forgive me. i have betrayed him. he does not dream that i would tell his secret." "are you friendly with him, then?" "we are as brothers." "where is he?" "in london." "not gone to america then?" "not yet. he starts in a few days, if not delayed. i am trying to keep him back." "i knew that his pretence of going was a lie!" muttered percival. "of course, he never intended to leave the country!" "pardon me," said dino, who had heard more than was quite meant for his ears. "the word 'lie' should never be uttered in connection with any of brian's words or actions. he is the soul of honour." percival sneered bitterly. "as is shown----" he began, and then stopped short. but dino understood. "as is shown," he said, steadily, "by the fact that when he learnt, almost in the same moment, that miss murray was the person who had inherited his property, and that she was promised in marriage to yourself, he left the house in which she lived, and resolved to see her face no more. was there no sense of honour shown in this? for he loved her as his own soul." "upon my word," explained percival, with unconcealed annoyance, "you seem to know a great deal about miss murray's affairs and mine, mr.--mr.--vasari. i am flattered by the interest they excite; but i don't see exactly what good is to come of it. i knew of mr. stretton's proposal long ago: a very insolent one, i considered it." "let me ask you a plain question, mr. heron. you love miss murray, do you not?" "if i do," said heron, haughtily, "it is not a question that i am disposed to answer at present." "you love miss murray," said dino, as if the question had been answered in the affirmative, "and there is nothing on earth so dear to me as my friend brian luttrell. it may seem strange to you that it should be so; but it is true. i have no wish to take his place in scotland----" "then what are you doing in mr. brett's office?" asked percival, bluntly. for the first time dino showed some embarrassment. "i have been to blame," he said, hanging his head. "i was forced into this position--by others; and i had not the strength to free myself. but i will not wrong brian any longer." "if your story is proved, it will not be wronging brian or anybody else to claim your rights. take the luttrell property, by all means, if it belongs to you. we shall do very well without it." "yes," said dino, almost in a whisper, "you will do very well without it, if you are sure that she loves you." percival sat erect in his chair and looked dino in the face with an expression which, for the first time, was devoid of scorn or anger. it was almost one of dread; it was certainly the look of one who prepares himself to receive a shock. "what have you to tell me?" he said, in an unusually quiet voice. "is she deceiving me? is she corresponding with him? have they made you their confidant?" "no, no," cried dino, earnestly. "how can you think so of a woman with a face like hers, of a man with a soul like brian's? even he has told me little; but he has told me more than he knows--and i have guessed the rest. if i had not known before, your face would have told me all." "tricked!" said percival, falling back in his chair with a gesture of disgust. "i might have known as much. well, sir, you are wrong. and miss murray's feelings are not to be canvassed in this way." "you are right," said dino; "we will not speak of her. we will speak of brian, of my friend. he is not happy. he is very brave, but he is unhappy, too. are we to rob him of both the things which might make his happiness? are you to marry the woman that he loves, and am i to take to myself his inheritance?" "hardly to be called his inheritance, i think," said percival, in a parenthetic way, "if he was the child of one vincenza vasari, and not of the luttrells." "i have my proposals to make," said dino again lowering his voice. a nervous flush crept up to his forehead: his lips twitched behind the thin fingers with which he had partly covered them: the fingers trembled, too. percival noted these signs of emotion without seeming to do so: he waited with some curiosity for the proposition. it startled him when it came. "i have been thinking that it would be better," said dino, so simply and naturally that one would never have supposed that he was indicating a path of stern self-sacrifice, "if i were to withdraw all my claims to the estate, and you to relinquish miss murray's hand to brian, then things would fall into their proper places, and he would not go to america." percival stared at him for a full minute before he seemed quite to understand all that was implied in this proposal; then he burst into a fit of scornful laughter. "this is too absurd!" he cried. "am i to give her up tamely because mr. brian luttrell, as you call him, wishes to marry her? i am not so anxious to secure mr. brian luttrell's happiness." "but you wish to secure miss murray's, do you not?" percival became suddenly silent. dino went on persuasively. "i care little for the money and the lands which they say would be mine. my greatest wish in life is to become a monk. that is why i put on the gown that i used to wear, although i have taken no vows upon me yet, but i came to you in the spirit of one to whom earthly things are dead. let me give up this estate to brian, and make him happy with the woman that he loves. when he is married to elizabeth you shall never see my face again." "this is your proposition?" said percival, after a little pause. "yes." "if i give up elizabeth"--he forgot that he had not meant to call her by her christian name in dino vasari's presence--"you will give up your claim to the property?" "yes." "and if i refuse, what will you do?" "fight the matter out by the help of the lawyers," said dino, with an irrepressible flash of his dark eyes. and then there was another pause, during which percival knitted his brows and gazed into the fire, and dino never took his eyes from the other's face. "well, i refuse," said percival at last, getting up and walking about the room, with an air of being more angry than he really was. "i will have none of your crooked italian ways. fair play is the best way of managing this matter. i refuse to carry out my share of this 'amicable arrangement,' as brett would call it. let us fight it out. every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost." the last sentence was an english one. "but what satisfaction will the fight give to anybody?" said dino, earnestly. "for myself--i may gain the estate--i probably shall do so--and what use shall i make of it? i might give it, perhaps, to brian, but what pleasure would it be to him if she married you? miss murray will be left in poverty." "and do you think she will care for that? do you think i should care?" "money is a good thing: it is not well to despise it," said dino. "think what you are doing. if you refuse my proposition you deprive miss murray of her estate, and--i leave you to decide whether you deprive her of her happiness." "miss murray can refuse me if she chooses," said percival, shortly. "i should be a great fool if i handed her over at your recommendation to a man that i know nothing about. besides, you could not do it. this italian friend of yours, this prior of san stefano, would not let the matter fall through. he and brett would bring forward the witnesses----" dino turned his eyes slowly upon him with a curiously subtle look. "no," he said. "i have received news to-day which puts the matter completely in my own hands. vincenza vasari is dead: rosa naldi is dying. they were in a train when a railway accident took place. they will never be able to appear as witnesses." "but they made depositions----" "yes. i believe these depositions would establish the case. but depositions are written upon paper, and hearsay evidence is not admitted. nobody could prove it, if i did not wish it to be proved." "i doubt whether it could be proved at all," said percival, hesitatingly. "of course, it would make miss murray uncomfortable. and if that other brian luttrell is living still, the money would go back to him. would he divide it with you, do you think, if he got it, even as you would share it all with him?" "i believe so," answered dino. "but i should not want it--unless it were to give to the monastery; and san stefano is already rich. a monk has no wants." "but i am not a monk. there lies the unfairness of your proposal. you give up what you care for very little: i am to give up what is dearer than the whole world to me. no; i won't do it. it's absurd." "is this your answer, mr. heron?" said dino. "will you sacrifice brian's happiness--i say nothing of her's, for you understand her best--for your own?" "yes, i will," percival declared, roundly. "no man is called upon to give up his life for another without good reason. your friend is nothing to me. i'll get what i can out of the world for myself. it is little enough, but i cannot be expected to surrender it for some ridiculous notion of unselfishness. i never professed to be unselfish in my life. mr. stretton is a man to whom i owe a grudge. i acknowledge it." dino sighed heavily. the shade of disappointment upon his face was so deep that heron felt some pity for him--all the more because he believed that the monk was destined to deeper disappointment still. he turned to him with almost a friendly look. "you can't expect extraordinary motives from an ordinary man like me," he said. "i must say in all fairness that you have made a generous proposal. if i spoke too violently and hastily, i hope you will overlook it. i was rather beside myself with rage--though not with the sort of regret which mr. brett kindly attributes to me." "i understood that," said dino. by a sudden impulse percival held out his hand. it was a strong testimony to dino's earnestness and simplicity of character that the two parted friends after such a stormy interview. as they went out of the office together percival said, abruptly:-- "where are you staying?" dino named the place. "with the man you call brian luttrell?" "with brian luttrell." "what is the next thing you mean to do?" "i must tell brian that i have betrayed his secret." "oh, he won't be very angry with you for that!" laughed percival. dino shook his head. he was not so sure. as soon as they had separated, percival went off at a swinging pace for a long walk. it was his usual way of getting rid of annoyance or excitement; and he was vexed to find that he could not easily shake off the effects that his conversation with dino vasari had produced upon his mind. the unselfishness, the devotion, of this man--younger than himself, with a brilliant future before him if only he chose to take advantage of it--appealed powerfully to his imagination. he tried to laugh at it: he called dino hard names--"quixotic fool," "dreamer," and "enthusiast"--but he could not forget that an ideal of conduct had been presented to his eyes, which was far higher than any which he should have thought possible for himself, and by a man upon whose profession of faith and calling he looked with profound contempt. he tried to disbelieve the story that he had been told. he tried hard to think that the man whom elizabeth loved could not be brian luttrell. he strove to convince himself that elizabeth would be happier with him than with the man she loved. last of all he struggled desperately with the conviction that it was his highest duty to tell her the whole story, set her free, and let brian marry her if he chose. with the respective claims of dino, brian, and elizabeth to the estate, he felt that he had no need to interfere. they must settle it amongst themselves. of one thing he wanted to make sure. was the tutor who had come with the herons from italy indeed brian luttrell? how could he ascertain? chance favoured him, he thought. on the following morning he met hugo luttrell in town, and accosted him with unusual eagerness. "i've an odd question to ask you," he said, "but i have a strong reason for it. you saw the tutor at strathleckie when you were in scotland?" "yes," said hugo, looking at him restlessly out of his long, dark eyes. "had you any idea that stretton was not his real name?" hugo paused before he replied. "it is rather an odd question, certainly," he said, with a temporising smile. "may i ask what you want to know for?" "i was told that he came to the house under a feigned name: that's all." "who told you so?" "oh, a person who knew him." "an italian? a priest?" hugo was thinking of the possibility of father christoforo's having made his way to england. "yes," said percival, dubiously. "a benedictine monk, i believe. he hinted that you knew stretton's real name." "quite a mistake," said hugo. "i know nothing about him. but your priest sounds romantic. an old fellow, isn't he, with grey hair?" "not at all: young and slight, with dark eyes and rather a finely-cut face. calls himself dino vasari or some such name." hugo started: a yellowish pallor overspread his face. for a moment he stopped short in the street: then hurried on so fast that percival was left a few steps behind. "what's the matter? so you know him?" said heron, overtaking him by a few vigorous strides. "a little. he's the biggest scoundrel i ever met," replied hugo, slackening his pace and trying to speak easily. "i was surprised at his being in england, that was all. do you know where he lives, that i may avoid the street!" he added, laughing. percival told him, wondering at his evident agitation. "then you can't tell me anything about stretton?" he said, as they came to a building which he was about to enter. "nothing. wish i could," said hugo, turning away. "so he escaped, after all!" he murmured to himself, as he walked down the street, with an occasional nervous glance to the right and left. "i thought i had done my work effectually: i did not know i was such a bungler. does he guess who attacked him, i wonder? i suppose not, or i should have heard of the matter before now. fortunate that i took the precaution of drugging him first. what an escape! and he has got hold of heron! i shall have to make sure of the old lady pretty soon, or i foresee that netherglen--and kitty--never will be mine." chapter xxx. friends and brothers. in a little room on the second-floor of a london lodging-house near manchester-square, brian luttrell was packing a box, with the few scanty possessions that he called his own. he had little light to see by, for the slender, tallow candle burnt with a very uncertain flame: the glare of the gas lamps in the street gave almost a better light. the floor was uncarpeted, the furniture scanty and poor: the fire in the grate smouldered miserably, and languished for want of fuel. but there was a contented look on brian's face. he even whistled and hummed to himself as he packed his box, and though the tune broke down, and ended with a sigh, it showed a mind more at ease than brian's had been for many a long day. "heigho!" he said, rising from his task, and giving the box a shove with his foot into a corner, "i wonder where dino is? he ought not to be out so late with that cough of his. i suppose he has gone to brett and grattan's. i am glad the dear fellow has put himself into their hands. right ought to be done: she would have said so herself, and i know dino will be generous. it would suit him very well to take a money compensation, and let her continue to reign, with glories somewhat shorn, however, at strathleckie. i am afraid he will do nothing but enrich san stefano with his inheritance. he certainly will not settle down at netherglen as a country squire. "what will my mother say? pooh! i must get out of that habit of calling her my mother. she is no relation of mine, as she herself told me. mrs. luttrell!--it sounds a little odd. odder, too, to think that i must never sign myself brian luttrell any more. bernardino vasari! i think i might as well stick to the plain john stretton, which i adopted on the spur of the moment at san stefano. i suppose i shall soon have to meet the woman who calls herself--who is--my mother. i will say nothing harsh or unkind to her, poor thing! she has done herself a greater injury than she has done me." so he meditated, with his face bent over his folded arms upon the mantelpiece. a slow step on the stair roused him, he poked the fire vigorously, lighted another candle, and then opened the door. "is that you, dino?" he said. "where have you been for the last three hours?" dino it was. he came in without speaking, and dropped into a chair, as if exhausted with fatigue. brian repeated his question, but when dino tried to answer it, a fit of coughing choked his words. it lasted several minutes, and left him panting, with the perspiration standing in great beads upon his brow. with a grave and anxious face brian brought him some water, wrapped a cloak round his shaking shoulders, and stood by him, waiting for the paroxysm of coughing to abate. dino's cough was seldom more than the little hacking one, which the wound in his side seemed to have left, but it was always apt to grow worse in cold or foggy weather, and at times increased to positive violence. brian, who had visited him regularly while he was in hospital, and nursed him with a woman's tenderness as soon as he was discharged from it, had never known it to be so bad as it was on this occasion. "you've been overdoing yourself, old fellow," he said, affectionately, when dino was able to look up and smile. "you have been out too late. and this den of mine is not the place for you. you must clear out of it as soon as you can." "not as long as you are here," said dino. "that was all very well as long as we could remain unknown. but now that brett and grattan consent to take up your case, as i knew they would all along, they will want to see you: your friends and relations will want to visit you; and you must not be found here with me. i'll settle you in new lodgings before i sail. there's a comfortable place in piccadilly that i used to know, with a landlady who is honest and kind." "too expensive for me," dino murmured, with a pleasant light in his eyes, as brian made preparations for their evening meal, with a skill acquired by recent practice. "you forget that your expenses will be paid out of the estate," said brian, "in the long run. did not brett offer to advance you funds if you wanted them?" "yes, and i declined them. i had enough from father christoforo," answered dino, rather faintly. "i did not like to run the risk of spending what i might not be able to repay." "brett would not have offered you money if he did not feel very sure of his case. there can be no doubt of that," said brian, as he set two cracked tea-cups on the table, and produced a couple of chops and a frying-pan from a cupboard. "you need not be afraid." for some minutes the sound of hissing and spluttering that came from the frying-pan effectually prevented any further attempts at conversation. when the cooking was over, dino again addressed his friend. "do you want to know what i have been doing?" "yes, i mean you to give an account of yourself. but not until you have had some food. eat and drink first; then talk." dino smiled and came to the table. but he had no appetite: he swallowed a few mouthfuls, evidently to please brian only; then went back to the solitary arm-chair by the fire, and closed his eyes. brian did not disturb him. it was plain that dino, not yet strong after his accident, had wearied himself out. he was glad, however, when the young man roused himself from a light and fitful doze, and said in his naturally tranquil voice:-- "i am ready to give an account of myself, as you call it, now." "then tell me," said brian, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looking down upon the pale, somewhat emaciated countenance, with a tender smile, "what you mean by going about london in a dress which i thought that you had renounced for ever?" "it only means," said dino, returning the smile, "that you were mistaken. i had not renounced it, and i think that i shall keep to it now." "you can hardly do that in your position," said brian, quietly. "my position! what is that to me? 'i had rather be a door-keeper in the house of the lord'--you know what i mean: i have said it all to you before. if i go back to italy, brian, and the case falls through, as it may do through lack of witnesses, will you not take your own again?" "and turn out miss murray? certainly not." then, after a pause, brian asked, rather sternly, "what do you mean by the lack of witnesses? there are plenty of witnesses. there is--my--my mother--for one." "no. she is dead." "dead. vincenza vasari dead?" dino recounted to him briefly enough the details of the catastrophe, but acknowledged, in reply to his quick questions, that there was no necessity for his claim to be given up on account of the death of these two persons. mr. brett, with whom he had conferred before visiting percival heron, had assured him that there could be no doubt of his identity with the child whom mrs. luttrell had given vincenza to nurse; and, knowing the circumstances, he thought it probable that the law-suit would be an amicable one, and that miss murray would consent to a compromise. all this, dino repeated, though with some reluctance, to his friend. "you see, brian," he continued, "there will be no reason for your hiding yourself if my case is proved. you would not be turning out miss murray or anybody else. you would be my friend, my brother, my helper. will you not stay in england and be all this to me? i ask you, as i have asked you many times before, but i ask it now for the last time. stay with me, and let it be no secret that you are living still." "i can't do it, dino. i must go. you promised not to ask it of me again, dear old fellow." "let me come with you, then. we will both leave miss murray to enjoy her inheritance in peace." "no, that would not be just." "just! what do i care for justice?" said dino, indignantly, while his eyes grew dark and his cheeks crimson with passionate feeling. "i care for you, for her, for the happiness of you both. can i do nothing towards it?" "nothing, i think, dino mio." "but you will stay with me until you go? you will not cast me off as you have cast off your other friends? promise me." "i promise you, dino," said brian, laying his hand soothingly on the other's shoulder. it seemed to him that dino must be suffering from fever; that he was taking a morbidly exaggerated view of matters. but his next words showed that his excitement proceeded from no merely physical cause. "i have done you no harm, at any rate," he said, rising and holding brian's hand between his own. "i have made up my mind. i will have none of this inheritance. it shall either be yours or hers. i do not want it. and i have taken the first step towards ridding myself of it." "what have you done?" said brian. "will you ever forgive me?" asked dino, looking half-sadly, half-doubtfully, into his face. "i am not sure that you ever will. i have betrayed you. i have said that you were alive." brian's face first turned red, then deathly pale. he withdrew his hand from dino's grasp, and took a backward step. "you!" he said, in a stifled voice. "you! whom i thought to be my friend!" "i am your friend still," said dino. brian resumed his place by the mantelpiece, and played mechanically with the ornaments upon it. his face was pale still, but a little smile had begun to curve his lips. "so," he said, slowly, "my deep-laid plans are frustrated, it seems. i did not think you would have done this, dino. i took a good deal of trouble with my arrangements." the tone of gentle satire went to dino's heart. he looked appealingly at brian, but did not speak. "you have made me look like a very big fool," said brian, quietly, "and all to no purpose. you can't make me stay in england, you know, or present myself to be recognised by mrs. luttrell, and old colquhoun. i shall vanish to south america under another name, and leave no trace behind, and the only result of your communication will be to disturb people's minds a little, and to make them suppose that i had repented of my very harmless deception, and was trying to get money out of you and miss murray." "nobody would think so who knows you." "who does know me? not even you, dino, if you think i would take advantage of what you have said to-night. go to-morrow, and tell brett that you were mistaken. it is brett you have told, of course." "it is not brett." "who then?" "mr. percival heron," said dino, looking him steadily in the face. brian drew himself up into an upright posture, with an ejaculation of astonishment. "good heavens, dino! what have you been doing?" "my duty," answered dino. "your duty! good heavens!--unpardonable interference i should call it from any one but you. you don't understand the ways of the world! how should you, fresh from a romish seminary? but you should understand that it is wiser, safer, not to meddle with the affairs of other people." "your affairs are mine," said dino, with his eyes on the ground. brian laughed bitterly. "hardly, i think. i have given no one any authority to act for me. i may manage my affairs badly, but on the whole i must manage them for myself." "i knew that i should have to bear your reproaches," said dino, with folded arms and downcast eyes. then, after a pause, during which brian walked up and down the room impatiently, he added in a lower tone, "but i did not think that they would have been so bitter." brian stopped short and looked at him, then came and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "poor dino!" he said, "i ought to remember how unlike all the rest of the world you are. forgive me. i did not mean to hurt you. no doubt you thought that you were acting for the best." dino looked up, and met the somewhat melancholy kindness of brian's gaze. his heart was already full: his impulsive nature was longing to assert itself: with one great sob he threw his arms round brian's neck, and fell weeping upon his shoulder. "but, my dear dino," said brian, when the storm (the reason of which he understood very imperfectly) had subsided, "you must see that this communication of my secret to mr. heron will make a difference in my plans." "what difference?" "i must start to-morrow instead of next week." "no, brian, no." "i must, indeed. heron will tell your story to brett, to colquhoun, to mrs. luttrell, to miss murray. he may have telegraphed it already. it is very important to him, because, you see," said brian, with a sad half-smile, "he is going to marry miss murray, and, unless he knows your history, he will think that my existence will deprive her of her fortune." "i do not believe he will tell your story to anyone." "dino, caro mio! heron is a man of honour. he can do nothing less, unfortunately." "i think he will do less. i think that no word of what i have told him will pass his lips." "it would be impossible for him to keep silence," remarked brian, coldly, and dino said nothing more. it was after a long silence, when the candle had died out, and the fire had grown so dim that they could not see each other's faces, that brian said in a low, but quiet tone-- "did you tell him why i left strathleckie?" "yes, i did." brian suppressed a vexed exclamation. it was no use trying to make dino understand his position. "what did he say?" he asked. "he knew already." "ah! yes. so i should have supposed." and there the conversation ended. long after dino was tranquilly sleeping, brian luttrell sat by the ricketty round table in the middle of the room labouring at the composition of one or two letters, which seemed very difficult to write. sheet after sheet was torn up and thrown aside. the grey dawn was creeping in at the window before the last word was written, and the letters placed within their respective envelopes. slowly and carefully he wrote the address of the longest letter--wrote it, as he thought, for the last time--mrs. luttrell, netherglen, dunmuir. then he stole quietly out of the house, and slipped it into the nearest pillar-box. the other letter--a few lines merely--he put in his pocket, unaddressed. on his return he entered the tiny slip of a room which dino occupied, fearing lest his movements should have disturbed the sleeper. but dino had not stirred. brian stood and looked at him for a little while, thinking of the circumstances in which they had first met, of the strange bond which subsisted between them, and lastly of the curious betrayal of his confidence, so unlike dino's usual conduct, which brian charitably set down to ignorance of english customs and absence of english reserve. he guessed no finer motive, and his mouth curled with an irrepressible, if somewhat mournful, smile, as he turned away, murmuring to himself:-- "i have had my revenge." he did not leave england next day. dino's entreaties weighed with him; and he knew also that he himself had acted in a way which was likely to nullify his friend's endeavours to reinstate him in his old position. he waited with more curiosity than apprehension for the letter, the telegram, the visit, that would assure him of percival's uprightness. for brian had no doubt in his own mind as to what percival heron ought to do. if he learnt that brian luttrell was still living, he ought to communicate the fact to mr. colquhoun at least. and if mr. colquhoun were the kindly old man that he used to be, he would probably hasten to london to shake hands once more with the boy that he had known and loved in early days. brian was so certain of this that he caught himself listening for the door-bell, and rehearsing the sentences with which he should excuse his conduct to his kind, old friend. but two days passed away, and he watched in vain. no message, no visitor, came to show him that percival heron had told the story. perhaps, however, he had written it in a letter. brian silently calculated the time that a letter and its answer would take. he found that by post it was not possible to get a reply until an hour after the time at which he was to start. in those two days dino had an interview with mr. brett, from which he returned looking anxious and uneasy. he told brian, however, nothing of its import, and brian did not choose to ask. the day and the hour of brian's departure came without further conversation between them on the subject which was, perhaps, nearer than any other to their hearts. dino wanted to accompany his friend to the ship by which he was to sail: but brian steadily refused to let him do so. it was strange to see the relation between these two. in spite of his youth, dino usually inspired a feeling of respect in the minds of other men: his peculiarly grave and tranquil manner made him appear older and more experienced than he really was. but with brian, he fell naturally into the position of a younger brother: he seemed to take a delight in leaning upon brian's judgment, and surrendering his own will. he had been brought up to depend upon others in this way all through his life; but brian saw clearly enough that the habit was contrary to his native temperament, and that, when once freed from the leading-strings in which he had hitherto been kept, he would certainly prove himself a man of remarkably strong and clear judgment. it was this conviction that caused brian to persist in his intention of going to south america: dino would do better when left to himself, than when leaning upon brian, as his affection led him to do. "you will come back," said dino, in a tone that admitted of no contradiction. "i know you will come back." "dino mio, you will come to see me some day, perhaps," said brian. "listen. i leave their future in your care. do you understand? make it possible for them to be happy." "i will do what is possible to bring you home again." "caro mio, that is not possible," said brian. "do not try. you see this letter? keep it until i have been an hour gone; then open it. will you promise me that?" "i promise." "and now good-bye. success and good fortune to you," said brian, trying to smile. "when we meet again----" "shall we ever meet again?" said dino, with one arm round brian's neck, with his eyes looking straight into brian's, with a look of pathetic longing which his friend never could forget. "or is it a last farewell? brother--my brother--god bless thee, and bring thee home at last." but it was of no earthly home that dino thought. and then they parted. it was more than an hour before dino thought of opening the letter which brian had left with him. it ran as follows:-- "dino mio, pardon me if i have done wrongly. you told my story and i have told yours. i feared lest you, in your generosity, should hide the truth, and therefore i have written fully to your mother. go to her if she sends for you, and remember that she has suffered much. i have told her that you have the proofs: show them to her, and she will be convinced. god bless you, my only friend and brother." dino's head dropped upon his hands. were all his efforts vain to free himself from the burden of a wealth which he did not desire? the prior of san stefano had forced him into the position of a claimant to the estate. with his long-formed habits of obedience it seemed impossible to gainsay the prior's will. here, in england, it was easier. and dino was more and more resolved to take his own way. a letter was brought to him at that moment. he opened it, and let his eyes run mechanically down the sheet. then he started violently, and read it again with more attention. it contained one sentence and a signature:-- "if dino vasari of san stefano will visit me at netherglen, i will hear what he has to say. "margaret luttrell." could he have expected more? and yet, to his excited fancy, the words seemed cold and hard. chapter xxxi. accuser and accused. there had been solemn council in the house of netherglen. mrs. luttrell and mr. colquhoun had held long interviews; letters and papers of all sorts had been produced and compared; the dressing-room door was closed against all comers, and even angela was excluded. hugo was once summoned, and came away from the conference with the air of a desperate man at once baffled and fierce. he lurked about the dark corners of the house, as if he were afraid to appear in the light of the day; but he took no one into his confidence. fortune, character, life itself, perhaps, seemed to him to be hanging on a thread. for, if dino vasari remembered his treachery and exposed it, he knew that he should be ruined and disgraced. and he was resolved not to survive any such public exposure. he would die by his own hand rather than stand in the dock as a would-be murderer. even if things were not so bad as that, he did not see how he was to exonerate himself from another charge; a minor one, indeed, but one which might make him look very black in some people's eyes. he had known of dino's claims for many weeks, as well as of brian's existence. why had he told no one of his discoveries? what if dino spoke of the tissue of lies which he had concocted, the forgery of brian's handwriting, in the interview which they had had in tarragon-street? fortunately, dino had burned the letter, and there had been no auditor of the conversation. of course, he must deny that he had known anything of the matter. dino could prove nothing against him; he could only make assertions. but assertions were awkward things sometimes. so hugo skulked and frowned and listened, and was told nothing definite; but saw by the light of previous knowledge that there was great excitement in the bosoms of his aunt and the family lawyer. there were letters and telegrams sent off, and hugo was disgusted to find that he could not catch sight of their addresses, much less of their contents. mr. colquhoun looked gloomy; mrs. luttrell sternly exultant. what was going on? was brian coming home; or was dino to be recognised in brian's place? hugo knew nothing. but one fine autumn morning, as he was standing in the garden at netherglen, he saw a dog-cart turn in at the gate, a dog-cart in which four men had with some difficulty squeezed themselves--the driver, mr. colquhoun, dino vasari, and a red-faced man, whom hugo recognised, after a minute's hesitation, as the well-known solicitor, mr. brett. hugo drew back into the shrubbery and waited. he dared not show himself. he was trembling in every limb. the hour of his disgrace was drawing near. should he take advantage of the moment, and leave netherglen at once, or should he wait and face it out? after a little reflection he determined to wait. from what he had seen of dino vasari he fancied that it would not be easy to manage him. yet he seemed to be a simple-minded youth, fresh from the precincts of a monastery: he could surely by degrees be cajoled or bullied into silence. if he did accuse hugo of treachery, it was better, perhaps, that the accused should be on the spot to justify himself. if only hugo could see him before the story had been told to mrs. luttrell! he loitered about the house for some time, then went to his own room, and began to pack up various articles which he should wish to take away with him, if mrs. luttrell expelled him from the house. at every sound upon the stairs, he paused in his occupation and looked around nervously. when the luncheon-bell rang he actually dared not go down to the dining-room. he summoned a servant, and ordered brandy and water and a biscuit, alleging i an attack of illness as an excuse for his non-appearance. and, indeed, the suspense and anxiety which he was enduring made him feel and look really ill. he was sick with the agony of his dread. the afternoon wore on. his window commanded a view of the drive: he was sure that the guests had not yet left the house. it was four o'clock when somebody at length approached his door, knocked, and then shook the door-handle. "hugo! are you there?" it was mr. colquhoun's voice. "can't you open the door?" hugo hesitated a moment: then turned the key, leaving mr. colquhoun to enter if he pleased. he came in looking rather astonished at this mode of admittance. "so! it's sick, you are, is it? well, i don't exactly wonder at that. you've lost your chance of netherglen, mr. hugo luttrell." hugo's face grew livid. he looked to mr. colquhoun for explanation, but did not speak. "it's just the most remarkable coincidence i ever heard of," said mr. colquhoun, seating himself in the least comfortable chair the room afforded, and rubbing his forehead with a great, red silk-handkerchief. "brian alive, and meeting with the very man who had a claim to the estate! though, of course, if one thinks of it, it is only natural they should meet, when mrs. luttrell, poor body, had been fool enough to send brian to san stefano, the very place where the child was brought up. you know the story?" "no," said hugo. his heart began to beat wildly. had dino kept silence after all? mr. colquhoun launched forth upon the whole history, to which hugo listened without a word of comment. he was leaning against the window-frame, in a position from which he could still see the drive, and his face was so white that mr. colquhoun at last was struck by its pallor. "man alive, are you going to faint, hugo? what's wrong?" "nothing. i've had a headache. then my aunt is satisfied as to the genuineness of this claim?" "satisfied! she's more than satisfied," said the old lawyer, with a groan. "i doubt myself whether the court will see the matter in the same light. if miss murray, or if brian luttrell, would make a good fight, i don't believe this italian fellow would win the case. he might. brett says he would; but brian--god bless him! he might have told me he was living still--brian has gone off to america, poor lad! and elizabeth murray--well, i'll make her fight, if i can, but i doubt--i doubt." "my aunt wants this fellow to have strathleckie and netherglen, too, then?" "yes, she does; so you are cut out there, hugo. don't build on netherglen, if margaret luttrell's own son is living. i must be going: brett's to dine with me. i used to know him in london." "is dino vasari staying here, then?" mr. colquhoun raised a warning finger. "you'll have to learn to call him by another name, if he stays in this house, young man," he said. "he declines to be called brian--he has that much good sense--but it seems that dino is short for bernardino, or some such mouthful, and we're to call him bernard to avoid confusion. bernard luttrell--humph!--i don't know whether he will stay the night or not. we met miss murray on our way up. the young man looked at her uncommonly hard, and asked who she was. i think he was rather struck with her. good-bye, hugo; take care of yourself, and don't be too downhearted. poor brian always told me to look after you, and i will." but the assurance did not carry the consolation to hugo's mind which mr. colquhoun intended. the two lawyers drove away to dunmuir together. hugo watched the red lamps of the dog-cart down the road, and then turned away from the window with a gnawing sense of anxiety, which grew more imperious every moment. he felt that he must do something to relieve it. he knew where the interview with dino was taking place. mrs. luttrell had lately been growing somewhat infirm: a slight stroke of paralysis, dangerous only in that it was probably the precursor of other attacks, had rendered locomotion particularly distasteful to her. she did not like to feel that she was dependent upon others for aid, and, therefore, sat usually in a wheeled chair in her dressing-room, and it was the most easily accessible room from her sleeping apartment. she was in her dressing-room now, and dino vasari was with her. hugo stole quietly through the passage until he reached the door of mrs. luttrell's bed-room, which was ajar. he slipped into the room and looked round. it was dimly lighted by the red glow of the fire, and by this dim light he saw that the door into the dressing-room was also not quite closed. he could hear the sound of voices. he paused a moment, and then advanced. there was a high screen near the door, of which one fold was so close to the wall that only a slight figure could slip behind it, though, when once behind there, it would be entirely hidden. hugo measured it with his eye: he would have to pass the aperture of the door to reach it, but a cautious glance from a distance assured him that both mrs. luttrell and dino had their backs to him and could not see. he ensconced himself, therefore, between the screen and the wall: he could see nothing, but every word fell distinctly upon his ear. "sit down beside me," mrs. luttrell was saying--how could her voice have grown so tender?--"and tell me everything about your past life. i knew--i always knew--that that other child was not my son. i have my own brian now. call me mother: it is long since i have heard the word." "mother!" dino's musical tones were tremulous. "my mother! i have thought of her all my life." "ay, my poor son, and but for the wickedness of others, i might have seen and known you years ago. i had an interloper in my house throughout all those years, and he worked me the bitterest sorrow of my life." "do not speak so of brian, mother," said dino, gently. "he loved you--and he loved richard. his loss--his grief--has been greater even than yours." "how dare you say so to me?" said mrs. luttrell, with a momentary return to her old, grim tones. then, immediately softening them--"but you may say anything you like. it is pleasure enough to hear your voice. you must stay with me, brian, and let me feast my eyes on you for a time. i have no patience, no moderation left: 'my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.'" he raised his mother's hand and kissed it silently. the action would, of course, have been lost upon hugo, as he could not see the pair, but for mrs. luttrell's next words. "nay," she said, "kiss me on the cheek, not on the hand, brian. i let hugo luttrell do it, because of his foreign blood; but you have only a foreign training which you must forget. they said something about your wearing a priest's dress: i am glad you did not wear it here, for you would have been mobbed in dunmuir. it's a sad pity that you're a papist, brian; but we must set mr. drummond, our minister, to talk to you, and he'll soon show you the error of your ways." "i shall be very glad to hear what mr. drummond has to say," said dino, with all the courtesy which his monastic training had instilled; "but i fear that he will have his labour thrown away. and i have one or two things to tell you, mother, now that those gentlemen have gone. if i am to disappoint you, let me do it at once, so that you may understand." "disappoint me? and how can you do that?" asked mrs. luttrell, scornfully. "perhaps you mean that you will winter in the south! if your health requires it, do you think i would stand in the way? you have a sickly air, but it makes you all the more like one whom i well remember--your father's brother, who died of a decline in early youth. no, go if you like; i will not tie you down. you can come back in the summer, and then we will think about your settling down and marrying. there are plenty of nice girls in the neighbourhood, though none so good as angela, nor perhaps so handsome as elizabeth murray." "mother, i shall never marry." "not marry? and why not?" cried mrs. luttrell, indignantly. "but you say this to tease me only; being a luttrell--the only luttrell, indeed, save hugo, that remains--you must marry and continue the family." "i shall never marry," said dino, with a firmness which at last seemed to make an impression upon mrs. luttrell, "because i am going to be a monk." hugo could not stifle a quick catching of his breath. did dino mean what he said? and what effect would this decision have upon the lives of the many persons whose future seemed to be bound up with his? what would mrs. luttrell say? at first she said nothing. and then dino's voice was heard again. "mother, my mother, do not look at me like that. i must follow my vocation. i would have given myself years ago, but i was not allowed. the prior will receive me now. and nothing on earth will turn me from my resolution. i have made up my mind." "what!" said mrs. luttrell, very slowly. "you will desert me too, after all these years!" dino answered by repeating in latin the words--"he that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me." but mrs. luttrell interrupted him angrily. "i want none of your latin gibberish," she said. "i want plain commonsense. if you go into a monastery, do you intend to give the property to the monks? perhaps you want to turn netherglen into a convent, and establish a priory at strathleckie? well, i cannot prevent you. what fools we are to think that there is any happiness in this world!" "mother!" said dino, and his voice was very gentle, "let me speak to you of another before we talk about the estates. let me speak to you of brian." "brian!" her voice had a checked tone for a moment; then she recovered herself and spoke in her usual harsh way. "i know no one of that name but you." "i mean my friend whom you thought to be your son for so many years, mother. have you no tenderness for him? do you not think of him with a little love and pity? let me tell you what he suffered. when he came to us first at san stefano he was nearly dying of grief. it was long before we nursed him back to health. when i think how we all learnt to love him, mother, i cannot but believe that you must love him, too." "i never loved him," said mrs. luttrell. "he stood in your place. if you had a spark of proper pride in you, you would know that he was your enemy, and you will feel towards him as i do." "he is an enemy that i have learned to love," answered dino. "at any rate, mother"--his voice always softened when he called her by that name--"at any rate, you will try to love him now." "why now?" she asked the question sharply. "because i mean him to fill my place." there was a little silence, in which the fall of a cinder from the grate could be distinctly heard. then mrs. luttrell uttered a long, low moan. "oh, my god!" she said. "what have i done that i should be tormented in this way?" "mother, mother, do not say so," said dino, evidently with deep emotion. then, in a lower and more earnest voice, he added--"perhaps if you had tried to love the child that vincenza placed within your arms that day, you would have felt joy and not sorrow now." "do you dare to rebuke your mother?" said mrs. luttrell, fiercely. "if i had loved that child, i would never have acknowledged you to-day. not though all the witnesses in the world swore to your story." "that perhaps would have been the better for me," said dino, softly. "mother, i am going away from you for ever; let me leave you another son. he has never grieved you willingly; forgive him for those misfortunes which he could not help; love him instead of me." "never!" "he has gone to the other side of the world, but i think he would come back if he knew that you had need of him. let me send him a line, a word, from you: make him the master of netherglen, and let me go in peace." "i will not hear his name, i will not tolerate his presence within these walls," cried mrs. luttrell, passionately. "he was never dear to me, never; and he is hateful to me now. he has robbed me of both my sons: his hand struck richard down, and for twenty-three years he usurped your place. i will never see him again. i will never forgive him so long as my tongue can speak." "then may god forgive you," said dino, in a strangely solemn voice, "for you are doing a worse injustice, a worse wrong, than that done by the poor woman who tried to put her child in your son's place. have you held that child upon your knee, kissed his face, and seen him grow up to manhood, without a particle of love for him in your heart? did you send him away from you with bitter reproaches, because of the accident which he would have given his own life to prevent? you have spoilt his life, and you do not care. your heart is hard then, and god will not let that hardness go unpunished. mother, pray that his judgments may not descend upon you for this." "you have no right to talk to me in that way," said mrs. luttrell, with a great effort. "i have not been unjust. you are ungrateful. if you go away from me, i will leave all that i possess to hugo, as i intended to do. brian, as you call him--vincenza vasari's son--shall have nothing." "and brian is to be disinherited in favour of hugo luttrell, is he?" said dino, in a still lower voice, but one which the listener felt instinctively had a dangerous sound. "do you know what manner of man this hugo luttrell is, that you wish to enrich him with your wealth, and make him the master of netherglen?" "i know no harm of him," she answered. he paused a little, and turned his face--was it consciously or unconsciously?--towards the open door, from which could be seen the screen, behind which the unhappy listener crouched and quivered in agony of fear. willingly would hugo have turned and fled, but flight was now impossible. the fire was blazing brightly, and threw a red glow over all the room. if he emerged from behind the screen, his figure would be distinctly visible to dino, whose face was turned in that direction. what was he going to say? "i know no harm of him," she answered. "then i will enlighten you. hugo luttrell knew that brian was alive, that i was in england, two months ago. a letter from the prior of san stefano must have been in some way intercepted by him; he made use of his knowledge, however he obtained it, to bring the messages from brian which were utterly false, to try and induce me to relinquish my claim on you; he forged a letter from brian for that purpose; and finally----" mrs. luttrell's voice, harsh and strident with emotion, against which she did her best to fight, broke the sudden silence. "do you call it fair and right," she said, "to accuse a man of such faults as these behind his back? if you want to tell me anything against hugo, send for him and tell it to me in his presence. then he can defend himself." "he will try to defend himself, no doubt," said dino, with a note of melancholy scorn in his grave, young voice. "but i will do nothing behind his back. you wish him to be summoned?" "yes, i do. ring the bell instantly!" cried mrs. luttrell, whose loving ardour seemed to have given way to the most unmitigated resentment. "tell the servants to find him and bring him here." "they would not have far to go," said dino, coolly. "he is close to hand. hugo luttrell, come here and answer for yourself." "what do you mean? where is he?" exclaimed mrs. luttrell, struck with his tone of command. "he is not in this room!" "no, but he is in the next, hiding behind that screen. he has been there for the last half-hour. you need play the spy no longer, sir. have the goodness to step forward and show yourself." the inexorable sternness of his voice struck the listeners with amaze. pale as a ghost, trembling like an aspen leaf, hugo emerged from his hiding-place, and confronted the mother and the son. chapter xxxii. retribution. "confess!" said dino, whose stern voice and outstretched, pointing finger seemed terrible as those of some accusing and avenging angel to the wretched culprit. "confess that i have only told the truth. confess that you lied and forged and cheated | to gain your own ends. confess that when other means failed you tried to kill me. confess--and then"--with a sudden lowering of his tones to the most wonderful exquisite tenderness--"god knows that i shall be ready to forgive!" but the last words passed unheeded. hugo cowered before his eye, covered his ears with his hands, and made a sudden dash to the door, with a cry that was more like the howl of a hunted wild animal, than the utterance of a human being. mrs. luttrell called for help, and half-rose from her chair. but dino laid his hand upon her arm. "let him go," said he. "i have no desire to punish him. but i must warn you." the door clanged behind the flying figure, and awakened the echoes of the old house. hugo was gone: whither they knew not: away, perhaps, into the world of darkness that reigned without. mrs. luttrell sank back into her chair, trembling from head to foot. "mother," said dino, going up to her, and kneeling before her, "forgive me if i have spoken too violently. but i could not bear that you should never know what sort of man this hugo luttrell has grown to be." her hand closed convulsively on his. "how--how did you know--that he was there?" "i saw his reflection in the mirror before me as he passed the open door. he was afraid, and he hid himself there to listen. mother, never trust him again." "never--never," she stammered. "stay with me--protect me." "you will not need my protection," he said, looking at her with calm, surprised eyes. "you will have your friends: mr. colquhoun, and the beautiful lady that you call angela. and, for my sake, let me think that you will have brian, too." "no, no!" her voice took new strength as she answered him, and she snatched her hand angrily away from his close clasp. "i will never speak to him again." "not even when he returns?" "you told me that he was gone to america!" "i feel sure that some day he will come back. he will learn the truth--that i have withdrawn my claim; then he and miss murray must settle the matter of property between them. they may divide it; or they might even marry." his voice was perfectly calm; he had brooded over this arrangement for so long that it scarcely struck him how terrible it would sound in mrs. luttrell's ears. "do you mean it?" she said, feebly. "you renounce your claim--to be--my son?" "oh, not your son, mother," he said, kissing the cold hand, which she immediately drew away from him. "not your son! not the claim to be loved, and the right to love you! but let that rest between ourselves. why should the money that i do not want come between me and you, between me and my friend? let brian come home, and you will have two sons instead of one." "rather say that i shall have no son at all," said mrs. luttrell, with gathering anger. "if you do this thing i cast you off. i forbid you to give what is your own to vincenza vasari's son." "you make it hard for me to act if you forbid me," said dino, rising and standing before her with a pleading look upon his face. "but i hold to my intention, mother. i will not touch a penny of this fortune. it shall be brian's, or miss murray's--never mine." "the matter is in a lawyer's hands. your rights will be proved in spite of you." "i do not think they will. i hold the proofs in my hand. i can destroy them every one, if i choose." "but you will not choose. besides, these are the copies, not the originals." "no, excuse me. i obtained the originals from mr. brett. he expects me to take them back to him to-night." dino held out a roll of papers. "they're all here. i will not burn them, mother, if you will send for brian back and let him have his share." "they would be no use if he came back. you must have the whole or nothing. let us make a bargain; give up your scheme of entering a monastery, and then i will consent to some arrangement with brian about money matters. but i will never see him!" dino shook his head. he turned to the fireplace with the papers in his hand. "i withdraw my claims," he said, simply. mrs. luttrell was quivering with suppressed excitement, but she mastered herself sufficiently to speak with perfect coldness. "unless you consent to abandon a monastic life, i would rather that your claims were given up," she said. "let elizabeth murray keep the property, and do you and the man vasari go your separate ways." "mother----" "call me 'mother' no longer," she said, sternly, "you are no more my son than he was, if you can leave me, in my loneliness and widowhood, to be a monk." "then--this is the end," said dino. with a sudden movement of the hand he placed the roll of papers in the very centre of the glowing fire. mrs. luttrell uttered a faint cry, and struggled to rise to her feet, but she had not the strength to do so. besides, it was too late. with the poker, dino held down the blazing mass, until nothing but a charred and blackened ruin remained. then he laid down the poker, and faced mrs. luttrell with a wavering but victorious smile. "it is done," he said, with something of exultation in his tone. "now i am free. i have long seen that this was the only thing to do. and now i can acknowledge that the temptation was very great." with lifted head and kindling eye, he looked, in this hour of triumph over himself, as if no temptation had ever assailed, or ever could assail, him. but then his glance fell upon mrs. luttrell, whose hands fiercely clutched the arms of her chair, whose features worked with uncontrollable agitation. he fell on his knees before her. "mother!" he cried. "forgive me. perhaps i was wrong. i will--i will ... i will pray for you." the last few words were spoken after a long pause, with a fall in his voice, which showed that they were not those which he had intended to say when he began the sentence. there was something solemn and pathetic in the sound. but mrs. luttrell would not hear. "go!" she said, hoarsely. "go. you are no son of mine. sooner brian--or hugo--than you. go back to your monastery." she thrust him away from her with her hands when he tried to plead. and at last he saw that there was no use in arguing, for she pulled a bell which hung within her reach, and, when the servant appeared, she placed the matter beyond dispute by saying sharply:-- "show this gentleman out." dino looked at her face, clasped his hands in one last silent entreaty, and--went. there was no use in staying longer. the door closed behind him, and the woman who had thrust away from her the love that might have been hers, but for her selfishness and hardness of heart, was left alone. a whirl of raging, angry thoughts made her brain throb and reel. she had put away from her what might have been the great joy of her life; her will, which had never been controlled by another, had been simply set aside and disregarded. what was there left for her to do? all the repentance in the world would not give her back the precious papers that her son had burnt before her eyes. and where had he gone? back to his monastery? should she never, never see him again? was he tramping the long and weary way to the dunmuir station, where the railway engine would presently come shrieking and sweeping out of the darkness, and, like a fabled monster in some old fairy tale, gather him into its embrace, and bear him away to a place whence he would never more return? so grotesque this fancy appeared to her that her anger failed her, and she laughed a little to herself--laughed with bloodless lips that made no sound. a kind of numbness of thought came over her: she sat for a little time in blank unconsciousness of her sorrow, and yet she did not sleep. and then a host of vividly-pictured images began to succeed each other with frightful rapidity across the _tabula rasa_ of her mind. it seemed to her in that quiet hour she saw her son as he walked dawn the dark road to dunmuir. the moon was just rising; the trees on either hand lifted their gaunt branches to a wild and starless sky. whose face, white as that of a corpse, gleamed from between those leafless stems? hugo's, surely. and what did he hold in his hand? was it a knife on which a faint ray of moonlight was palely reflected? he was watching for that solitary traveller who came with heedless step and hanging head upon the lonely road. in another moment the spring would be taken, the thrust made, and a dying man's blood would well out upon the stones. could she do nothing? "brian! brian!" she cried--or strove to cry; but the shriek seemed to be stifled before it left her lips. "brian!" three times she tried to call his name, with an agony of effort which, perhaps, brought her back to consciousness--for the dream, if dream it was, vanished, and she awoke. awoke--to the remembrance of what she had heard, concerning hugo's attempt on dino's life, and the fact that she had sent her son out of the house to walk to dunmuir alone. she was not so blind to hugo's inherited proclivities to passion and revenge as she pretended to be. she knew that he was a dangerous enemy, and that dino had incurred his hatred. what might not happen on that lonely road between netherglen and dunmuir if dino (brian, she called him) traversed it unwarned, alone, unarmed? she must send servants after him at once, to guard him as he went upon his way. she heard her maid in the next room. should she call janet, or should she ring the bell? what a curiously-helpless sensation had come over her! she did not seem able to rouse herself. she could not lift her hand. she was tired; that was it. she would call janet. "janet!" but janet did not hear. how was it that she could not speak? her faculties were as clear as usual: her memory was as strong as ever it had been. she knew exactly what she wanted: she could arrange in her own mind the sentences that she wished to say. but, try as she would, she could not articulate a word, she could not raise a finger, or make a sign. and again the terrible dread of what would happen to the son she loved took possession of her mind. oh, if only he would return, she would let him have his way. what did it matter that the proof of his birth had been destroyed? she would acknowledge him as her son before all the world; and she would let him divide his heritage with whomsoever he chose. netherglen should be his, and the three claimants might settle between themselves, whether the rest of the property should belong to one of them, or be divided amongst the three. he might even go back to san stefano; she would love him and bless him throughout, if only she knew that his life was safe. she went further. she seemed to be pleading with fate--or rather with god--for the safety of her son. she would receive brian with open arms; she would try to love him for dino's sake. she would do all and everything that dino required from her, if only she could conquer this terrible helplessness of feeling, this dumbness of tongue which had come over her. surely it was but a passing phase: surely when someone came and stood before her the spell would be broken, and she would be able to speak once more. the maid peeped in, thought she was sleeping, and quietly retired. no one ventured to disturb mrs. luttrell if she nodded, for at night she slept so little that even a few minutes' slumber in the daytime was a boon to her. a silent, motionless figure in her great arm-chair, with her hands folded before her in her lap, she sat--not sleeping--with all her senses unnaturally sharpened, it seemed to her; hearing every sound in the house, noting every change in the red embers of the fire in which the proof of her son's history had been consumed, and all the while picturing to herself some terrible tragedy going on outside the house, which a word from her might have averted. and she not able to pronounce that word! dino, meanwhile, had plunged into the darkness, without a thought of fear for himself. he walked away from the house just as she had seen him in her waking dream, with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground. he took the right road to dunmuir, more by accident than by design, and walked beneath the rows of sheltering trees, through which the loch gleamed whitely on the one hand, while on the other the woods looked ominously black, without a thought of the revengeful ferocity which lurked beneath the velvet smoothness of hugo luttrell's outer demeanour. if something moved amongst the trees on his right hand, if something crouched amongst the brushwood, like a wild animal prepared to spring, he neither saw nor heard the tokens which might have moved him to suspicion. but suddenly it seemed to him that a wild cry rang out upon the stillness of the night air. his friend's name--or was it his own?--three times repeated, in tones of heartrending pain and terror. "brian! brian! brian!" whose voice had called him? not that of anyone he knew. and yet, what stranger would use that name? he stopped, looked round, and answered:-- "yes, i am here." and then it struck him that the voice had been close beside him, and that, standing where he stood in the middle of the long, white road, it was quite impossible that any one could be so near, and yet remain unseen. with a slight shudder he let his eyes explore the sides of the road: the hedgerows, and the bank that rose on his right hand towards the wood. surely there was something that moved and stopped, and moved again amongst the bracken. with one bound dino reached the moving object, and dragged it forth into the light. he knew whom he was touching before he saw the face. it was hugo who lurked in the hedgerows, waiting--and for what? "you heard it?" said dino, as the young man crouched before him, scarcely daring to lift up his head, although at that moment, if he had had his wits about him, he could not have had a better chance for the accomplishment of any sinister design. "who called?" hugo cast a quick startled glance at the wood behind him. "i heard nothing," he said, sullenly. "i heard a voice that called me," said dino. then he looked at hugo, and pressed his shoulder somewhat heavily with his hand. "what were you doing there? for whom were you waiting?" "for nobody," muttered hugo. "are you sure of that? i could almost believe that you were waiting for me; and should i be far wrong? when i think of that other time, when you deceived me, and trapped me, and left me dying, as you thought, in the streets, i can believe anything of you now." hugo's trembling lips refused to articulate a word. he could neither deny the charge nor plead for mercy. dino's exultation of mood led him to despise an appeal to any but the higher motives. he would not condescend to threaten hugo with the police-court and the criminal cell. he loosed his hold on the young man's shoulder, and told him to rise from the half-kneeling posture, to which fear, rather than dino's strength, had brought him. and when hugo stood before him, he spoke in the tone of one to whom the spiritual side of life was more real, more important than any other, and it seemed to hugo as if he spoke from out some other world. "there is a day coming," he said, "when the secrets of all men's hearts will be revealed. and where will you be, what will you do in that dread day? when you stand before the judge of all men on his great white throne, how will you justify yourself to him?" the strong conviction, the deep penetrating accents of his words, carried a sting to hugo's conscience. he felt as if dino had a supernatural knowledge of his past life and his future, when he said solemnly:-- "think of the secrets of your heart which shall then be made known to all men. what have you done? have you not broken god's laws? have you not in very truth committed murder?... there is a commandment in god's word which says, 'thou shalt not kill.'" "stop, stop, for heaven's sake, stop!" gasped hugo, covering his face with his hands. "how can you know all this? i did not mean to kill him. i meant only to have my revenge. i did not know----" "nay, do not try to excuse yourself," said dino, who caught the words imperfectly, and did not understand that they referred to any crime but the one so nearly accomplished against himself. "god knows all. he saw what you did: he can make it manifest in his own way. confess to him now: not to me. i pardon you." there was a great sob from behind hugo's quivering fingers; but it was only of relief, not repentance. dino waited a moment or two before he said, with the tone of quiet authority which was natural to him:-- "now fetch me the knife which you dropped amongst the ferns by the hedge over there." with the keen, quick sight that he possessed, he had caught a glimpse of it in the scuffle, and seen it drop from hugo's hand. but the young sicilian took the order as another proof of the sort of superhuman knowledge of his deeds and motives which he attributed to dino vasari, and went submissively to the place where the weapon was lying, picked it up, and with hanging head, presented it humbly to the man whose spiritual force had for the moment mastered him. "you must not return to netherglen," said dino, looking at him as he spoke. "my mother will not see you again: she does not want you near her. you understand?" hugo assented, with a sort of stifled groan. "i was forced to tell her, in order to put her on her guard. but if you obey me, i will tell no one else. i have not even told brian. if i find that you return to your evil courses, i shall keep the secret of your conduct no longer. then, when brian comes home, he can reckon with you." "brian!" ejaculated hugo. "yes: brian. what i require from you is that you trouble netherglen no more. i cannot think of you with peace in my mother's house. you will leave it to-night--at once." "yes," hugo muttered. he had no desire to return to netherglen. "i am going to dunmuir," said dino. "you can walk on with me." hugo made no opposition. he turned his face vaguely in the specified direction, and moved onward; but the sound of dino's voice, clear and cold, gave him a thrill of shame, amounting to positive physical pain. "walk before me, if you please. i cannot trust you." they walked on: hugo a pace or two in front, dino behind. not a word was spoken between them until they reached the chief street of dunmuir, and then dino called to him to pause. they were standing in front of mr. colquhoun's door. "you are not going in here?" said hugo, with a sharp note of terror in his voice. "you will not tell colquhoun?" "i will tell no one," said dino, "so long as you fulfil the condition i have laid upon you. this is our last word on the subject. god forgive you, as i do." they stood for a moment, face to face. the moon had risen, and its light fell peacefully upon the paved street, the old stone houses, the broad, beautiful river with its wooded banks, the distant sweep of hills. it fell also on the faces of the two men, not unlike in feature and colouring, but totally dissimilar in expression, and seemed to intensify every point of difference between them. there was a lofty serenity upon dino vasari's brow, while guilt and fear and misery were deeply imprinted on hugo's boyish, beautiful face. for the first time the contrast between them struck forcibly on hugo's mind. he leaned against the stone wall of mr. colquhoun's house, and gave vent to his emotion in one bitter, remorseful sob of pain. chapter xxxiii. what percival knew. mr. colquhoun and mr. brett were sitting over their wine in the well-lighted, well-warmed dining-room of the lawyer's house. they had been friends in their earlier days, and were delighted to have an opportunity of meeting (in a strictly unprofessional way) and chatting over the memories of their youth. it was a surprise to both of them when the door was opened to admit dino vasari and hugo luttrell: two of the last visitors whom mr. colquhoun expected. his bow to dino was a little stiff: his greeting of hugo more cordial than usual. "you come from mrs. luttrell?" he asked, in surprise. hugo's pallid lips, and look of agitation, convinced him that some disaster was impending. but dino answered with great composure. "i come to bring you news which i think ought not to be kept from you for a moment longer than is necessary," he said. "pray take a glass of wine, mr.--er--mr.----" the lawyer did not quite know how to address his visitor. "won't you sit down, hugo?" "i have not come to stay," said dino. "i am going to the hotel for the night. i wished only to speak to you at once." he put one hand on the table by which he was standing and glanced at mr. brett. for the first time he showed some embarrassment. "i hope it will not inconvenience you," he said, "if i tell you that i have withdrawn my claim." dead silence fell on the assembly. mr. brett pushed back his chair a little way and stared. mr. colquhoun shook his head and smiled. "i find," continued dino, "that mrs. luttrell and i have entirely different views as to the disposition of the property and the life that i ought to lead. i cannot give up my plans--even for her. the easiest way to set things straight is to let the estate remain in miss murray's hands." "you can't!" said mr. colquhoun, abruptly. "brian luttrell is alive!" "then let it go to brian luttrell." "my dear sir," said mr. brett, "you have offered us complete documentary evidence that the gentleman now on his way to america is not brian luttrell at all." "yes, but there is only documentary evidence," said dino. "the deaths of vincenza vasari and rosa naldi in a railway accident deprived us of anything else." "where are those papers?" asked mr. brett, sharply. "i hope they are safe." "quite safe, mr. brett. i have burnt them all." the shock of this communication was too much, even for the case-hardened mr. brett. he turned positively pale. "burnt them! burnt them!" he ejaculated. "oh, the man is mad. burnt the proofs of his position and birth----" "i have done all that i wanted to do," said dino, colouring as the three pairs of eyes were fastened upon him with different expressions of disbelief, surprise, and even scorn. "my mother knows that i am her son: that is all i cared for. that is what i came for, not for the estate." "but, my dear, young friend," said mr. colquhoun, with unusual gentleness, "don't you see that if mrs. luttrell and brian and miss murray are all convinced that you are mrs. luttrell's son, you are doing them a wrong by destroying the proofs and leaving everybody in an unsettled state? you should never have come to scotland at all if you did not mean to carry the matter through." "that's what i say," cried mr. brett, who was working himself up into a violent passion. "he has played fast and loose with all us! he has tricked and cheated me. why, he had a splendid case! and to think that it can be set aside in this way!" "very informal," said mr. colquhoun, shaking his head, but with a little gleam of laughter in his eye. if dino vasari had told the truth, the matter had taken a fortunate turn in mr. colquhoun's opinion. "scandalous! scandalous!" exclaimed mr. brett. "actionable, i call it. you had no right to make away with those papers, sir. however, it may be possible to repair the loss. they were not all there." "i will not have it," said dino, decisively. "nothing more shall be done. i waive my claims entirely. brian and miss murray can settle the rest." and then the party broke up. mr. brett seized his client by the arm and bore him away to the hotel, arguing and scolding as he went. before his departure, however, dino found time to say a word in mr. colquhoun's ear. "will you kindly look after hugo to-night?" he said. "mrs. luttrell will not wish him to return to netherglen." "oh! there's been a quarrel, has there?" said mr. colquhoun eyeing the young man curiously. after a little consideration, dino thought himself justified in saying "yes." "i will see after him. you are going with brett. you'll not have a smooth time of it." "it will be smoother by-and-bye. you will shake hands with me, mr. colquhoun?" "that i will," said the old lawyer, heartily. "and wish you god-speed, my lad. you've not been very wise, maybe, but you've been generous." "you will have brian home, before long, i hope." "i hope so. i hope so. it's a difficult matter to settle," said mr. colquhoun, cautiously, "but i think we might see our way out of it if brian were at home. if you want a friend, lad, come to me." left alone with hugo, the solicitor took his place once more at the table, and hastily drank off a glass of wine, then glanced at his silent guest with a queerly-questioning look. "what's wrong with ye, lad?" he said. "cheer up, and drink a glass of good port wine. your aunt has quarrelled with many people before you, and she'll like enough come to her senses in course of time." "did he say i had quarrelled with my aunt?" asked hugo, in a dazed sort of way. "well, he said as much. he said there had been a quarrel. he asked me to keep an eye on you. why, hugo, my man, what's the matter?" for hugo, utterly careless of the old man's presence, suddenly laid his aims on the table, and his head on his arms, and burst into passionate hysterical tears. "tut, tut, tut, man! this will never do," said mr. colquhoun, rebukingly. "you're not a girl, nor a child, to cry for a sharp word or two. what's wrong?" but he got no answer. not even when hugo, spent and exhausted with the violence of his emotion, lifted up his face and asked hoarsely for brandy. mr. colquhoun gave him what he required, without asking further questions, and tried to induce him to take some solid food; but hugo absolutely refused to swallow anything but a stiff glass of brandy and water, and allowed himself to be conducted to a bed-room, where he flung himself face downwards on the bed, and preserved a sullen silence. mr. colquhoun did not press him to speak. "i'll hear it all from margaret luttrell to-morrow morning," he said to himself. "my mind misgives me that there have been strange doings up at netherglen to-night. but i'll know to-morrow." it was at that very moment that angela vivian, going into the dressing-room, found a motionless, silent figure, sitting upright in the wheeled arm-chair, a figure, not lifeless, indeed, but with life apparent only in the agonised glance of the restless eyes, which seemed to plead for help. but no help could be given to her now. no more hard words could fall from those stricken lips: no more bitter sentences be written by those nerveless fingers. she might live for years, if dragging on a mute, maimed existence could be, indeed, called living; but, as far as power over the destiny of others, of doing good or harm to her loved ones, was concerned, margaret luttrell was practically dead! mr. colquhoun heard the news of mrs. luttrell's seizure on the following morning, and made good use of it as a reproach to dino in the conversation that he had with him. but dino, although deeply grieved at the turn which things had taken, stood firm. he would have nothing to do with the strathleckie or the luttrell properties. whereupon, mr. colquhoun went straight to miss murray, and told her, to the best of his ability, the long and intricate story. be it observed that, although mr. colquhoun knew that brian was living, and that he had lately been in england, he did not know of brian's appearance at strathleckie under the name of stretton, and was, therefore, unable to give elizabeth any information on this point. elizabeth was imperative in her decision. "at any rate," she said, "the property cannot belong to me. it must belong either to mr. luttrell or to mr. vasari. i have no right to it." "possession is nine points of the law, my dear," said the lawyer. "nobody can turn you out until brian comes home again. it may be all a mistake." "you don't think it a mistake, mr. colquhoun?" mr. colquhoun smiled, pursed up his lips, and gave his head a little shake, as much as to say that he was not going to be tricked into any expression of his private opinions. "the thing will be to get mr. brian luttrell back," said elizabeth. "not such an easy thing as it seems, i am afraid, miss murray. the lad, dino vasari, or whatever his name is, tried hard to keep him, but failed. he is an honest lad, i believe, this dino, but he's an awful fool, you know, begging your pardon. if he wanted to keep brian in england, why couldn't he write to me?" "perhaps he did not know of your friendship for brian," said elizabeth, smiling. "then he knew very little of brian's life and brian's friends, my dear, and, according to his own account, he knew a good deal. of course, he is a foreigner, and we must make allowances for him, especially as he was brought up in a monastery, where i don't suppose they learn much about the forms of ordinary life. what puzzles me is the stupidity of one or two other people, who might have let me know in time, if they had had their wits about them. i've a crow to pluck with your mr. heron on that ground," concluded mr. colquhoun, never dreaming that he was making mischief by his communication. elizabeth started forward. "percival!" she said, contracting her brows and looking at mr. colquhoun earnestly. "you don't mean that percival knew!" mr. colquhoun perceived that he had gone too far, but could not retract his words. "well, my dear miss murray, he certainly knew something----" and then he stopped short and coughed apologetically. "oh," said elizabeth, with a little extra colour in her cheeks, and the faintest possible touch of coldness, "no doubt he had his reasons for being silent; he will explain them when he comes." "no doubt," said the lawyer, gravely; but he chuckled a little to himself over the account which mr. brett had given him that morning of mr. heron's disappointment. (mr. brett had thrown up the case, he told his friend colquhoun; would have nothing more to do with it at any price. "i think the case has thrown you up," said mr. colquhoun, laughing slyly.) he had taken up some papers which he had brought with him and was turning towards the door when a new thought caused him to stop, and address elizabeth once more. "miss murray," he said, "i do not wish to make a remark that would be unpleasant to you, but when i remember that mr. heron was in possession of the facts that i have just imparted to you, nearly a week ago, i do think, like yourself, that his conduct calls for an explanation." "i did not say that i thought so, mr. colquhoun," said elizabeth, feeling provoked. but mr. colquhoun was gone. nevertheless, she agreed with him so far that she sent off a telegram to percival that afternoon. "come to me at once, if possible. i want you." when percival received the message, which he did on his return from his club about eleven o'clock at night, he eyed the thin, pink paper on which it was written as if it had been a reptile of some poisonous kind. "i expected it," he said to himself, and all the gaiety went out of his face. "she has found something out." it was too late to do anything that night. he felt resentfully conscious that he should not sleep if he went to bed; so he employed the midnight hours in completing some items of work which ought to be done on the following day. before it was light he had packed a hand-bag, and departed to catch the early train. he sent a telegram from peterborough to say that he was on the way. of course, it was late when he reached strathleckie, and he assured himself with some complacency that elizabeth would expect no conversation with him until next morning. but he was a little mistaken. in her quality of mistress, she had chosen to send everyone else to bed: the household was so well accustomed to percival's erratic comings and goings, that nobody attached any importance to his visits; and even old mr. heron appeared only for a few minutes to gossip with his son while he ate a comfortable supper, retiring at last, with a nod to his niece which percival easily understood. it meant--"i will do now what you told me you wished--leave you together to have your talk out." and percival felt irritated by elizabeth's determination. "will you smoke?" she asked, when the meal was over. "i don't mind if i do. will you come into the study--that's the smoking-room, is it not?--or is it too late for you?" "it is not very late," said elizabeth. when they were seated in the study, percival in a great green arm-chair, and elizabeth opposite to him in a much smaller one, he attempted to take matters somewhat into his own hands. "i won't ask to-night what you wanted me for," he said, easily. "i am rather battered and sleepy; we shall talk better to-morrow." "you can set my mind at rest on one point, at any rate," rejoined elizabeth, whose face burned with a feverish-looking flush. "it is, of course, a mistake that you knew a week ago of brian luttrell being in london?" "oh, of course," said percival. but the irony in his voice was too plain for her to be deceived by it. "did you know, percival?" "well, if you must have the plain truth," he said, sitting up and examining the end of his cigar with much attention, "i did." she was silent. he raised his eyes, apparently with some effort, to her face; saw there a rather shocked and startled look, and rushed immediately into vehement speech. "what if i did! do you expect me to rush to you with every disturbing report i hear? i did not see this man, brian luttrell; i should not know him if i did--as brian luttrell, at any rate. i merely heard the story from a--an acquaintance of mine----" "dino vasari," said elizabeth. "oh, i see you know the facts. there is no need for me to say any more. of course, you attach no weight to any reasons i might have for silence." "indeed, i do, percival; or i should do, if i knew what they were." "can you not guess them?" he said, looking at her intently. "can you think of no powerful motive that would make me anxious to delay the telling of the story?" "none," she said. "none, except one that would be beneath you." "beneath me? is it possible?" scoffed percival. "no motive is too base for me, allow me to tell you, my dear child. i am the true designing villain of romance. go on: what is the one bad motive which you attribute to me?" "i do not attribute it to you," said elizabeth, slowly, but with some indignation. "i never in my life believed, i never shall believe, that you cared in the least whether i was rich or poor." percival paused, as if he had met with an unexpected check, and then went off into a fit of rather forced laughter. "so you never thought that," he said. "and that was the only motive that occurred to you? then, perhaps you will kindly tell me the story as it was told to you, for you seem to have had a special edition. has dino vasari been down here?" she gave him a short account of the events that had occurred at netherglen, and she noticed that as he listened, he forgot to smoke his cigar, and that he leaned his elbow on the arm of the great chair, and shaded his eyes with his hand. there was a certain suppressed eagerness in his manner, as he turned round when she had finished, and said, with lifted eyebrows:-- "is that all?" "what else do you know?" said elizabeth. he rubbed his hand impatiently backwards and forwards on the arm of the chair, and did not speak for a moment. "what does colquhoun advise you to do?" he asked, presently. "to wait here until brian luttrell is found and brought home." "brought home. they think he will come?" "oh, yes. why not? when everybody knows that he is alive there will be no possible reason why he should stay away. in fact, if he is a right-thinking man, he will see that justice requires him to come home at once." "i should not think, myself, that he was a right-thinking man," said percival, without looking at her. "because he allowed himself to be thought dead?" said elizabeth, watching him as he relighted his cigar. "but, then, he was in such terrible trouble--and the opportunity offered itself, and seemed so easy. poor fellow! i was always very sorry for him." "were you?" "yes. his mother, at least, mrs. luttrell, for i suppose she is not his mother really, must have been very cruel. from all that i have heard he was the last man to be jealous of his brother, or to wish any harm to him." "in short, you are quite prepared to look upon him as a _héros de roman_, and worship him as such when he appears. possibly you may think there is some reason in dino vasari's naive suggestion that you should marry mr. luttrell and prevent any division of the property." "a suggestion which, from you, percival, is far more insulting than that of the motive which i did not attribute to you," said elizabeth, with spirit. "you wouldn't marry brian luttrell, then?" "percival!" "not under any consideration? well, tell me so. i like to hear you say it." elizabeth was silent. "tell me so," he said, stretching out his hand to her, and looking at her attentively, "and i will tell you the reason of my week's silence." "i have no need to tell you so," she answered, in a suppressed voice. "and if i did you would not trust me." "no," he said, drily, "perhaps not; but promise me, all the same, that under no circumstances will you ever marry brian luttrell." "i promise," she said, in a low tone of humiliation. her eyes were full of tears. "and now let me go, percival. i cannot stay with you--when you say that you trust me so little." he had taken advantage of her rising to seize her hand. he now tossed his cigar into the fire, and rose, too, still holding her hand in his. he looked down at her quivering lips, her tear-filled eyes, with gathering intensity of emotion. then he put both arms round her, pressed her to his breast with passionate vehemence, and kissed her again and again, on cheek, lip, neck, and brow. she shivered a little, but did not protest. "there!" he said, suddenly putting her away from him, and standing erect with the black frowning line very strongly marked upon his forehead. "i will tell you now why i did not try to keep brian luttrell in england. i knew that i ought to make a row about it. i knew that i was bound in honour to write to colquhoun, to you, to mrs. luttrell, to any of the people concerned. and i didn't do it. i didn't precisely mean not to do it, but i wanted to shift the responsibility. i thought it was other people's business to keep him in england: not mine. as a matter of fact, i suppose it was mine. what do you say?" "yes," said elizabeth, lifting her lovely, grieved eyes to his stormy face. "i think it was partly yours." "well, i didn't do it, you see," said percival. "i was a brute and a cad, i suppose. but it seemed fatally easy to hold one's tongue. and now he has gone to america." "but he can be brought back again, percival." "if he will come. i fancy that it will take a strong rope to drag him back. you want to know the reason for my silence? it isn't far to seek. brian luttrell and the tutor, stretton, who fell in love with you, were one and the same person. that's all." and then he walked straight out of the room, and left her to her own reflections. chapter xxxiv. percival's atonement. percival felt a decided dread of his next meeting with elizabeth. he could not guess what would be the effect of his information upon her mind, nor what would be her opinion of his conduct. he was in a state of exasperating uncertainty about her views. the only thing of which he was sure was her love and respect for truthfulness; he did not know whether she would ever forgive any lapse from it. "though, if it comes to that," he said to himself, as he finished his morning toilet, "she ought to be as angry with stretton as she is with me; for he took her in completely, and, as for me, i only held my tongue. i suppose she will say that 'the motive was everything.' which confirms me in my belief that one man may steal a horse, while the other may not look over the wall." and then he went down to breakfast. he was late, of course; when was he not late for breakfast? the whole family-party had assembled; even mrs. heron was downstairs to welcome her step-son. percival responded curtly enough to their greetings; his eyes and ears and thoughts were too much taken up with elizabeth to be bestowed on the rest of the family. and elizabeth, after all, looked much as usual. perhaps there was a little unwonted colour in her cheek, and life in her eye; she did not look as if she had not slept, or had had bad dreams; there was rather an unusually restful and calm expression upon her face. "confound the fellow!"--thus percival mentally apostrophised the missing brian luttrell. "one would think that she was glad of what i told her." he was thoroughly put out by this reflection, and munched his breakfast in sulky silence, listening cynically to his step-mother's idle utterances and kitty's vivacious replies. he was conscious of some disinclination to meet elizabeth's tranquil glance, of which he bitterly resented the tranquillity. and she scarcely spoke, except to the children. "i wonder how poor mrs. luttrell is to-day," isabel heron was saying. "it is sad that she should be so ill." "yes, i wondered yesterday what was the matter, when i met hugo," said kitty. "he looked quite pale and serious. he was staying at dunmuir, he told me. i suppose he does not find the house comfortable while his aunt is ill." "rather a cold-blooded young fellow, if he can consider that," said mr. heron. "mrs. luttrell has always been very kind to him, i believe." "perhaps he is tired of netherglen," said kitty. ("nobody knows anything about the story of the two brian luttrells, then!" percival reflected, with surprise. "elizabeth has a talent for silence when she chooses.") kitty went on carelessly, "netherglen is damp in this weather. i don't think i should care to live there." then she blushed a little, as though some new thought had occurred to her. "the weather is growing quite autumnal," said mrs. heron, languidly. "we ought to return to town, and make our preparations----" she looked with a sly smile from percival to elizabeth, and paused. "when is it to be, lizzie?" elizabeth drew up her head haughtily and said nothing. percival glanced at her, and drew no good augury from the cold offence visible in her face. there was an awkward silence, which mrs. heron thought it better to dispel by rising from the table. percival smoked his morning cigar on the terrace with his father, and wondered whether elizabeth was not going to present herself and talk to him. he was ready to be very penitent and make every possible sign of submission to her wishes, for he felt that he had wronged her in his mind, and that she might justly be offended with him if she guessed his thoughts. he paced up and down, looking in impatiently at the windows from time to time, but still she came not. at last, standing disconsolately in the porch, he saw her passing through the hall with little jack in her arms, and the other boys hanging on to her dress, quite in the old gower-street fashion. "elizabeth, won't you come out?" he said. "i can't, just now. i am going to give the children some lessons. i do that, first thing." "always?" "ever since mr. stretton left," she said. "give them a holiday. i want you. there are lots of things we have to talk about." "are there? i thought there was nothing left to say," said she, sweetly but coldly. "but i am going to dunmuir at half-past two this afternoon, and you can drive down with me if you like." she passed on, and shut herself into the study with the children. percival felt injured. "she should not have brought me all the way from london if she had nothing to say," he grumbled. "i'll go back to-night. and i might as well go and see colquhoun this morning." he went down to mr. colquhoun's office, and was not received very cordially by that gentleman. the interview resulted in rather a violent quarrel, which ended by percival being requested to leave mr. colquhoun's presence, and not return to it uninvited. mr. colquhoun could not easily forgive him for neglecting to inform the luttrells, at the earliest opportunity, of brian's reappearance. "we should have saved time, money, anxiety: we might have settled the matter without troubling miss murray, or agitating mrs. luttrell; and i call it downright dishonesty to have concealed a fact which was of such vital importance," said mr. colquhoun, who had lost his temper. and percival flung himself out of the room in a rage. he was still inwardly fuming when he seated himself beside elizabeth that afternoon in a little low carriage drawn by two grey ponies--an equipage which she specially affected--in order to drive to dunmuir. for full five minutes neither of them spoke, but at last elizabeth said, with a faint accent of surprise:-- "i thought you had something to say to me." "i have so many things that i don't know where to begin. have you nothing to say--about what i told you last night?" "i can only say that i am very glad of it." "the deuce you are!" thought percival, but his lips were sealed. elizabeth went on to explain herself. "i am glad, because now i understand various things that were very hard for me to understand before. i can see why mr. stretton hesitated about coming here; i see why he was startled when he discovered that i was the very girl whom he must have heard of before he left england. of course, i should never have objected to surrender the property to its rightful owner; but in this case i shall be not only willing but pleased to give it back." her tone was proud and independent. percival did not like it, but would not say so. "i was saying last night," she continued, "that brian luttrell must come back. this discovery makes his return all the more necessary. i am going now to ask mr. colquhoun what steps had better be taken for bringing him home." "do you think he will come?" "he must come. he must be made to see that it is right for him to come. i have been thinking of what i will ask mr. colquhoun to say to him. if he remembers me"--and her voice sank a little--"he will not refuse to do what would so greatly lighten my burden." "better write yourself, elizabeth," said percival, in a sad yet cynical tone. "you can doubtless say what would bring him back by the next steamer." she made no answer, but set her lips a little more firmly, and gave one of the grey ponies a slight touch with the whip. it was the silence that caused percival to see that she was wounded. "i have a knack of saying what i don't mean," he remarked, rousing himself. "i beg your pardon for this and every other rude speech that i may make, elizabeth; and ask you to understand that i am only translating my discontent with myself into words when i am ill-tempered. have a little mercy on me, for pity's sake." she smiled. he thought there was some mockery in the smile. "what are you laughing at?" he said, abruptly, dropping the apologetic tone. "i am not laughing. i was wondering that you thought it worth while to excuse yourself for such a trifle as a rude word or two. i thought possibly, when i came out with you, that you had other apologies to make." "may i ask what you mean?" "i mean that, by your own showing, you have not been quite straightforward," said elizabeth, plainly. "and i thought that you might have something to say about it." "not straightforward!" he repeated. it was not often that his cheeks tingled as they tingled now. "what have i done to make you call me not straightforward, pray?" "you knew that i inherited this property because of brian luttrell's death. you knew--did you not?--that he had only a few days to spend in london, and that he meant to start for america this week. you must have known that some fresh arrangement was necessary before i could honestly enjoy any of his money--that, in fact, he ought to have it all. and, unless he himself confided in you under a promise of secrecy, or anything of that sort, i think you ought to have written to mr. colquhoun at once." "he did not confide in me: i did not see him. it was dino vasari who sought me out and told me," said percival, with some anger. "and did dino vasari intend you to keep the matter a secret?" "no. the real fact was, elizabeth, that i did not altogether believe vasari's story. i did not in the least believe that brian luttrell was living. i thought it was a hoax. upon my word, i am half-inclined to believe so still. i thought it was not worth while to take the trouble." "you did not know where to find him, i suppose?" "well--yes; i had the address." "and you did nothing?" she said, flashing upon him a look of indignant surprise. "i did nothing," returned percival. "that is what i complain of," she remarked, shortly. for some time she drove on in silence, lightly flicking her ponies' heads from time to time with her whip, her face set steadily towards the road before her, her strong, well-gloved hands showing determination in the very way she held the whip and reins. percival grew savage, and then defiant. "you ask too much," he said, pulling his long moustache, and uttering a bitter laugh. "it would have been easy and natural enough to move heaven and earth for the sake of brian luttrell's rights, if brian luttrell had not constituted himself my rival in another domain. but when his 'rights' meant depriving you of your property, and placing mr. stretton in authority--i decline." "i call that mean and base," said elizabeth, giving the words a low but clear-toned emphasis, which made percival wince. "thank you," he said. and there was another long silence, which lasted until they drew up at mr. colquhoun's door. percival waited for nearly an hour before she came back, and had time to go through every possible phase of anger and mortification. he felt that he had more reason on his side than elizabeth could understand: the doubt of dino's good faith, which seemed so small to her, had certainly influenced him very strongly. no doubt it would have been better--wiser--if he had tried to find out the truth of dino's story; but the sting of elizabeth's judgment lay in the fact that he had fervently hoped that dino's story was not true, and that he had refused to meet dino's offer half-way, the offer that would have secured elizabeth's own happiness. would she ever hear a full account of that interview? and what would she think of his selfishness if she came to know it? ever since that conversation in mr. brett's office percival had been conscious of bitter possibilities of evil in his own soul. he had had a bad time of it during the past week, and, when he contrasted his own conduct with the generous candour and uprightness that elizabeth seemed to expect from him, he was open to confess to himself that he fell very short of her standard. she came back to her place attended by mr. colquhoun, who wrapped her rugs about her in a fatherly way, and took not the slightest notice of mr. percival heron. she had some small purchases to make in the town, and it was growing almost dusk before they turned homewards. then she began to speak in her ordinary tone. "mr. colquhoun has been telling me what to do," she said, "and i think that he is right. dino vasari has already gone back to italy, but before he went, he signed a paper relinquishing all claim to the property in favour of brian luttrell and myself. mr. colquhoun says it was a useless thing to do, except as it shows his generosity and kindness of heart, and that it would not be valid in a court at all; but that nothing farther can be done, as he does not press his claim, until brian luttrell comes back to england or writes instructions. there might be a friendly suit when he came; but that would be left for him (and, i suppose, myself) to decide. when he comes we shall try to get dino vasari back, and have a friendly consultation over the matter. i don't see why we need have lawyers to interfere at all. i should resign the property with a very good grace, but mr. colquhoun thinks that mr. luttrell will have scruples." "he ought to have," muttered percival, but elizabeth took no notice. "it seems that he went in a sailing vessel," she went on, in a perfectly calm and collected voice, "because he could get a very cheap passage in that way. mr. colquhoun proposes that we should write to pernambuco; but he might not be expecting any letters--he might miss them--and go up the country; there is no knowing. i think that a responsible, intelligent person ought to be sent out by a fast steamer and wait for him at pernambuco. then everything would be satisfactorily explained and enforced--better than by letter. mr. colquhoun says he feels inclined to go himself." she gave a soft, pleased laugh as she said the words; but there was excitement and trouble underneath its apparent lightness. "that, of course, would never do; but he has a clerk whom he can thoroughly trust, and he will start next week for the brazils." percival sat mute. had she no idea that he was suffering? she went on quickly. "mr. salt--that is the clerk's name--will reach pernambuco many days before the sailing vessel; but it is better that he should be too early than too late. they may even pass the _falcon_--that is the name of mr. luttrell's ship--on the way. the worst is"--and here her voice began to tremble--"that mr. colquhoun has heard a report that the _falcon_ was not--not--quite--sea-worthy." she put up one gloved hand and dashed a tear from her eyes. percival's silence exasperated her. for almost the first time she turned upon him with a reproach. "will you remember," she said, bitterly, "if his ship goes to the bottom, that you might have stopped him, and--did not think it worth while to take the trouble?" "good god, elizabeth, how unjust you are!" cried percival, impetuously. elizabeth did not answer. she had to put up her hand again and again to wipe away her tears. the strain of self-control had been a severe one, and when it once slipped away from her the emotion had to have its own way. percival tried to take the reins from her, but this she would not allow; and they were going uphill on a quiet sheltered road of which the ponies knew every step as well as he did himself. when she was calmer, he broke the silence by saying in an oddly-muffled, hoarse voice:-- "it is no use going on like this. i suppose you wish our engagement to be broken off?" "i?" said elizabeth. "yes, you. can't i see that you care more for this man stretton or luttrell than you care for me? i don't want my wife to be always sighing after another man." "that you would not have," she said, coldly. "i don't care. i know now what you feel. and if stretton comes back, i suppose i must go to the wall." "i will keep my word to you if you like," said elizabeth, after a moment's pause. she could not speak more graciously. "i did not think of breaking off the engagement: i thought that matter was decided." "you called me mean and base just now, and you expect me to put up with it. you think me a low, selfish brute. i may be all that, and not want you to tell me so." some of percival's sense of humour--a little more grim than usual--was perceptible in the last few words. "i am sorry if i told you so. i will not tell you so again." "but you will feel it." "if you are low and base and mean, of course, i shall feel it," said elizabeth, incisively. "it rests with you to show me that you are not what you say." percival found no word to answer. they were near strathleckie by this time, and turned in at the gates without the exchange of another sentence. elizabeth expected him to insist upon going back to london that night, or, at least, early next morning, but he did not propose to do so. he hung about the place next day, smoking, and speaking little, with a certain yellowness of tint in his complexion, which denoted physical as well as mental disturbance. in the afternoon he went to dunmuir, and was away for some hours; and more than one telegram arrived for him in the course of the day, exciting mrs. heron's fears lest something should have "gone wrong" with his business affairs in london. but he assured her, on his return, with his usual impatient frown, that everything was going exactly as he would like it to do. it was with one of the telegraphic despatches crushed up in his hand, that he came to elizabeth as she sat in the drawing-room after dinner, and said, with a little paleness visible about his lips:-- "can i speak to you for a few moments alone?" she looked up, startled; then rose and led the way to an inner drawing-room, where they would be undisturbed. she seated herself in the chair, which, with unwonted ceremoniousness, he wheeled forward for her; but he himself stood on the hearth-rug, twisting and untwisting the paper in his hand, as if--extraordinary occurrence!--as if he were actually nervous. "i have a proposition to make to you," he said. he uttered his words very rapidly, but made long pauses between some of the sentences. "you say that mr. colquhoun is going to send out his clerk, salt, to stop brian luttrell when he lands at pernambuco. i have just seen mr. colquhoun, and he agrees with me that this proceeding is of very doubtful utility.... now, don't interrupt me, i beg. if i throw cold water on this plan, it is only that i may suggest another which i think better.... salt is a mere clerk: we cannot tell him all the circumstances, and the arguments that he will use will probably be such as a man like luttrell will despise. i mean that he will put it on the ground of luttrell's own interests--not dino vasari's, or--or yours.... what i propose is that someone should go who knows the story intimately, who knows the relations of all the parties.... if you like to trust me, i will do my best to bring brian luttrell home again." "you!" exclaimed elizabeth. "oh, percival, no." "and why not? i assure you i will act carefully, and i am sure i shall succeed. i have even persuaded mr. colquhoun of my good intentions--with some difficulty, i confess. here is a note from him to you. he read it to me after writing it, and i know what he advises you to do." elizabeth read the note. it consisted only of these words: "if you can make up your mind to let mr. percival heron go in salt's place, i think it would be the better plan.--j. c." "i'll be on my good behaviour, i promise you," said percival, watching her, with lightness of tone which was rather belied by the mournful expression of his eyes. "i'll play no tricks, either with him or myself; and bring him safely back to scotland--on my honour, i will. do you distrust me so much, elizabeth?" "oh, no, no. would it not be painful to you? i thought--you did not like mr. luttrell." she spoke with great hesitation. percival made a grimace. "i don't say that i do like him. i mean to say that i want to show you--and myself--that i do--a little bit--regret my silence, and will try my best to remedy the mischief caused by it. a frank confession which ought to please you." "it does please me. i am sure of it. but you must not go--you must not leave your work----" "oh, my work can be easily done by somebody else. that is what this telegram is about, by-the-bye. i must send an answer, and it depends upon your decision." "can i not consult any one? my uncle? mr. colquhoun?" "you know mr. colquhoun's opinion. my father will think exactly as you and i do. no, it depends entirely upon whether you think i shall do your errand well, elizabeth, and whether you will give me the chance of showing that i am not so ungenerous and so base as you say you think me. tell me to fetch brian luttrell home again, and i will go." and, with tears in her eyes, elizabeth said, "go." chapter xxxv. dino's home-coming. "it is to be understood," said percival, two or three days later, with an affectation of great precision, "that i surrender none of my rights by going on this wild-goose chase. i shall come back in a few months' time to claim my bride." elizabeth smiled rather sadly. "very well," she said. "in fact," percival went on expansively, "i shall expect the wedding to be arranged for the day after my arrival, whenever that takes place. so get your white gown and lace veil ready, and we will have brian luttrell as best man, and dino vasari to give you away." it was rather cruel jesting, thought elizabeth; but then percival was in the habit, when he was in a good humour, of turning his deepest feelings into jest. the submission with which she listened to him, roused him after a time to a perception that his words were somewhat painful to her; and he relapsed into a silence which he broke by saying in an entirely different sort of voice:-- "have you no message for brian luttrell, elizabeth?" "you know all that i want to say." "but is there nothing else? no special message of remembrance and friendship?" "tell him," said elizabeth, flushing and then paling again, "that i shall not be happy until he comes back and takes what is his own." "well, i can't say anything much stronger," said percival, drily. "i will remember." they talked no more about themselves, until the day on which he was to start, and then, when he was about to take his leave of her, he said, in a very low voice:-- "do you mean to be true to me or not when luttrell comes home, elizabeth?" "i shall keep my word to you, percival. oh, don't--don't--say that to me again!" she cried, bursting into tears, as she saw the lurking doubt that so constantly haunted his mind. "i won't," he said. "i will never say it again if you tell me that you trust me as i trust you." "i do trust you." "and i am not so base and mean as you said i was?" for, perhaps, the first time in her life, she kissed him of her own accord. it was with this kiss burning upon his lips that percival leaned out of the window of the railway-carriage as the train steamed away into the darkness, and waved a last farewell to the woman he loved. he had been rather imperious and masterful during the last few days; he felt conscious of it now, and was half-sorry for it. it had seemed to him that, if he did this thing for brian luttrell, he had at least the right to some reward. and he claimed his reward beforehand, in the shape of close companionship and gentle words from elizabeth. he did not compel her to kiss him--he remembered his magnanimity in that respect with some complacency--but he had demanded many other signs of good-fellowship. and she had seemed ready enough to render them. she had wanted to go with him and mr. heron to london, and help him to prepare for the voyage. but he would not allow her to leave strathleckie. he had only a couple of days to spare, and he should be hurried and busy. he preferred saying good-bye to her at dunmuir. the reason of his going was kept a profound secret from all the herons except the father, who gave his consent to the plan cordially, though with some surprise. "but what will become of your profession?" he had asked of percival. "won't three or four months' absence put you sadly out of the running?" "you forget my prospects," percival replied, with his ready, cynical laugh. "when i've squared the matter with brian luttrell, and married elizabeth, i shall have no need to think of my profession." mr. heron shifted his eye-glasses on his nose uneasily, and screwed up his face into an expression of mild disapproval, but couldn't think of any suitable reply. "besides," said percival, "i've got a commission to do some papers on brazilian life. the _evening mail_ will take them. and i am going to write a book on 'modern morality' as i go out. i fully expect to make my literary work pay my travelling expenses, sir." "i thought elizabeth paid those," said mr. heron, in a hesitating sort of way. "well, she thinks she will do so," said percival, "and that's all she need know about the matter." mr. colquhoun, to whom elizabeth had gone for advice on the day after percival's proposition, was very cautious in what he said to her. "it's the best plan in the world," he remarked, "in one way." "in what way?" asked elizabeth, anxiously. "well, mr. heron goes as your affianced husband, does he not? of course, he can represent your interests better than anybody else." "i thought he was going to prevent my interests from being too well represented," said elizabeth, half-smiling. "i want him to make mr. luttrell understand that i have no desire to keep the property at all." "there is one drawback," said mr. colquhoun, "and one that i don't see how mr. heron will get over. he has never seen brian, has he? how will he recognise him? for the lad's probably gone under another name. it's just a wild-goose chase that he's starting upon, i'm afraid." "they have seen each other." "mr. heron didn't tell me that. and where was it they saw each other, miss murray?" "in italy--and here. here at strathleckie. oh, mr. colquhoun, it was brian luttrell who came with us as the boys' tutor, and we did not know. he called himself stretton." and then elizabeth shed a small tear or two, although she did not exactly know why. mr. colquhoun's wrath and astonishment were not to be described. that brian should have been so near him, and that they should have never met! "i should have known him anywhere!" cried the old man. "grey hair! do you tell me? what difference does that make to a man that knew him all his life, and his father before him? and a beard, you say? toots! beard or no beard, i should have known brian luttrell anywhere." angela vivian, being taken into their confidence, supplied them with several photographs of brian in his earlier days. and percival was admitted to netherglen to look at a portrait of the brothers (or reputed brothers), painted not long before richard's death. he looked at it long and carefully, but acknowledged afterwards that he could not see any likeness between his memories of mr. stretton and the pictured face, with its fine contour, brown moustache, and smiling eyes, a face in which an expression of slight melancholy seemed to be the index to intense susceptibility of temperament and great refinement of mind. "the eyes are like stretton's," he said, "and that is all." he took two of the photographs with him, however, as part of his equipment. mrs. luttrell continued in the state in which she had been found after her interview with dino. she could not speak: she could not move: her eyes had an awful consciousness in them which told that she was living and knew what was going on around her: otherwise she might easily have been mistaken for one already dead. it was difficult to imagine that she understood the words spoken in her presence, and for some time her attendants did not realise this fact, and spoke with less caution than they might have done respecting the affairs of the neighbourhood. but when the doctor had declared that her mind was unimpaired, mr. colquhoun thought it better to come and give her some account of the things that had been done during her illness, on the mere chance that she might hear and understand. he told her that dino had gone to italy, that brian had sailed for south america, and that percival heron had gone to fetch him back, in order to make some arrangement about the property which elizabeth murray wished to give up to him. he thought that there was a look of relief in her eyes when he had finished; but he could not be sure. hugo, after staying for some days at the hotel in dunmuir, ventured rather timidly back to netherglen. now that dino was out of the way, he did not see why he should not make use of his opportunities. he entered the door of his old home, it was true, with a sort of superstitious terror upon him: dino had obtained a remarkable power over his mind, and if he had been either in england or scotland, hugo would never have dared to present himself at netherglen. but his acquaintances and friends--even angela--thought his absence so strange, that he was encouraged to pay a call at his aunt's house, and when there, he was led, almost against his will, straight into her presence. he had heard that she could not speak or move; but he was hardly prepared for the spectacle of complete helplessness that met his gaze. there might be dread and loathing in the eyes that looked at him out of that impassive face; but there was no possibility of the utterance by word of mouth. an eternal silence seemed to have fallen upon margaret luttrell: her bitterest enemy might come and go before her, and against none of his devices could she protect herself. while looking at her, a thought flashed across hugo's mind, and matured itself later in the day into a complete plan of action. he remembered the will that mrs. luttrell had made in his favour. had that will ever been signed? by the curious brusqueness with which mr. colquhoun had lately treated him, he fancied that it had. if it was signed, he was the heir; he would be the master ultimately of netherglen. why should he go away? dino vasari had ordered him never to come again into mrs. luttrell's presence; but dino vasari was now shut up in some italian monastery, and was not likely to hear very much about the affairs of a remote country-house in scotland. at any rate, when mrs. luttrell was dead, even dino could not object to hugo's taking possession of his own house. when mrs. luttrell was dead! and when would she die? the doctor, whom hugo consulted with great professions of affection for his aunt, gave little hope of long life for her. he wondered, he said, that she had survived the stroke that deprived her of speech and the use of her limbs: a few weeks or months, in his opinion, would see the end. hugo considered the situation very seriously. it would be better for him to stay at netherglen, where he could ascertain his aunt's condition from time to time, and be sure that there were no signs of returning speech and muscular power. dared he risk disobedience to dino's command? on deliberation, he thought he dare. dino could prove nothing against him: it would be assertion against assertion, that was all. and most people would look on the accusations that dino would bring as positive slander. hugo felt that his greatest danger lay in his own cowardice--his absence of self-control and superstitious fear of dino's eye. but if the young monk were out of england there was no present reason to be afraid. and when such a piece of luck had occurred as mrs. luttrell's paralytic stroke seemed likely to prove to hugo, it would be folly to take no advantage of it. hugo had had one or two wonderful strokes of luck in his life; but he told himself that this was the greatest of all. he was rather inclined to attribute it to his possession of a medal which had been blessed by the pope (for, as far as he had any religion at all, hugo was still a romanist), which his mother had hung round his neck whilst he was a chubby-faced boy in sicily. he wore it still, and was not at all above considering it as a charm for ensuring him a larger slice of good fortune than would otherwise have fallen to his share. and, therefore, in a few days after mrs. luttrell's seizure, hugo was once again at netherglen, ruling even more openly and imperiously than he had done in the days of his aunt's health and strength. his presence there, and mrs. luttrell's helplessness, caused some of angela vivian's friends to object seriously to her continued residence at netherglen. she was still a young woman of considerable beauty; and hugo was two-and-twenty. of what use could she be to mrs. luttrell? she ought, at any rate, to have an older friend to chaperone her, to be with her in her walks and drives, and be present at the meals which she and hugo now shared alone. angela took little notice of the remonstrance of aunts and cousins, but when she heard that her brother rupert was coming to stay at the herons, and proposed to spend a day or two at netherglen on his way thither, she felt a qualm of fear. rupert was very careful of his sister: she felt sure that she would never be permitted to do what he thought in the least degree unbecoming. meanwhile, the man who had resolved to be known as dino vasari for his lifetime--or at least until he laid down his name, together with his will, his affections, and all his other possessions at the door of the religious house which he desired to enter, was hastening towards his old home, his birthplace, (whether he was dino vasari or brian luttrell) under sunny italian skies. he did not quite dare to think how he should be received. he had thwarted the plans of the far-seeing monks: he had made their anxious efforts for his welfare of no avail. he had thrown away the chance of an inheritance which might have been used for the benefit of his church: would the rulers of that church easily forgive him? he reached san stefano at night, and took up his quarters at the inn, whence he wrote a letter to the prior, asking to be allowed to see him, and hinting at his wish to enter the monastery for life. perhaps the humility of the tone of his epistle made father cristoforo suspect that something was wrong. to begin with, dino was not supposed to act without the advice of those who had hitherto been his guardians, and he had committed an act of grave insubordination in leaving england without their permission. the priest to whom he had reported himself on his arrival in london, had already complained to father cristoforo of the young man's self-reliant spirit, and a further letter had given some account of "very unsatisfactory proceedings" on dino's part--of a refusal to tell where he had been or what he had been doing, and, finally, of his sudden and unauthorised departure from british shores. this letter had not tended to put father cristoforo into charity with his late pupil--child of the house, as, in a certain sense, he had been for many years, and special pet and favourite with the prior--he was rather inclined to order dino back to england without loss of time. padre cristoforo set a high value upon that inheritance in scotland. he wished to secure it for dino--still more for the church. he sent back a curt verbal answer. dino might come to the cloisters on the following morning after early mass. the prior would meet him there as he came from the monastery chapel. dino was waiting at the appointed hour. in spite of the displeasure implied in padre cristoforo's message, his heart was swelling with delight at the sight of the well-known italian hills, at the sunshine and the sweet scents that came to him with the crystal clearness of the italian atmosphere. he loved the white walls of the monastery, the vine-clad slopes and olive groves around it, the glimpses of purple sea which one caught from time to time in the openings left in the chestnut-woods, where he had wandered so often when he was a boy. these things were dear to dino: he had loved them all his life, and it was a veritable home-coming to him when he presented himself at san stefano. and yet the home-coming would not be without its peculiar trials. never once had father cristoforo been seriously angry with him, and the habit of obedience, of almost filial reverence, reviving in dino's heart as he approached the monastery precincts, made him think with some awe of the severity which the prior's face had sometimes shown to impenitent culprits. was he impenitent? he did not know. was he afraid? no, dino assured himself, looking up to the purple mountains and the cloudless sky, with a grave smile of recognition and profound content, he was afraid of nothing now. he waited until the service was over. the peal of the organ, the sound of the monks' chant, reached him where he stood, but he did not enter the little chapel. a sense of unworthiness came over him. as the short, sharp stroke of the bell smote upon his ear, he fell upon his knees, and rested his forehead against the wall. old words of prayer rose familiarly to his lips. he remembered his sins of omission and commission--venial faults they would seem, to many of us, but black and heinous in pure-hearted dino's eyes--and pleaded passionately for their forgiveness. and then the words turned into a prayer for the welfare of his friend brian and the woman that brian loved. dino was one of those rare souls who love their neighbour better than themselves. the prior quitted the chapel at last, and approached his former pupil. he did not come alone, but the brothers who followed him kept at some little distance. some of the other occupants of the monastery--monks, lay-brothers, pupils--occasionally passed by, but they did not even lift their eyes. still, there was a certain sense of publicity about the interview which made dino feel that he was not to be welcomed--only judged. father cristoforo's face was terrible in its very impassiveness. there was no trace of emotion in those rigidly-set features and piercing eyes. he looked at dino for some minutes before he spoke. the young man retained his kneeling posture until the prior said, briefly-- "rise." dino stood up immediately, with folded arms and bowed head. it was not his part to speak till he was questioned. "you left england without permission," said the prior in a dry tone, rather of assertion than of inquiry. "reverend father, yes." "why?" "there was no reason for me to stay in england. the estate is not mine." "who says it is not?" "reverend father, i cannot take it away from those to whom it now belongs," said dino, faltering, and growing red and white by turns. the prior looked at him with an examining eye. in spite of his apparent coldness, he was shocked by the change that he perceived in his old pupil's bearing and appearance. the finely-cut face was wasted; there were hollows in the temples and the cheeks, the dew of perspiration upon the forehead marked physical weakness as well as agitation. there was more kindness in the prior's manner as he said:-- "you felt, perhaps, the need of rest? the english winds are keen. you came to recruit yourself before going back to fight your cause in a court of law? you wanted help and counsel?" dino's head sank lower upon his breast: he breathed quickly, and did not speak. "had you not proof sufficient? i sent all necessary papers by a trusty messenger. you received them?" "yes." dino's voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper. "you have them with you?" dino flashed one look of appeal into the prior's face, and then sank on his knees. "father," he said, desperately, "i have not done as you commanded me. i could not fight this cause. i could not turn them out of their inheritance--their home. i destroyed all the papers. there is no proof left." in spite of his self-possession the prior started. of this contingency he had certainly never thought. he came a step nearer to the young man, and spoke with astonished urgency. "you destroyed the proofs? you? every one of them?" "every one." a sudden white change passed over padre cristoforo's face. his lips locked themselves together until they looked like a single line; his eyes flashed ominously beneath his heavy brows. in his anger he did, as he was privileged to do to any inferior member of his community, forgetting that dino vasari, with his five-and-twenty years, had passed from under his control, and was free to resent an offered indignity. but dino had laid himself open to rebuke by adopting the tone of a penitent. thence it came that the prior lifted his hand and struck him, as he sometimes struck an offending novice--struck him sharply across the face. dino turned scarlet, and then white as death; he sank a little lower, and crushed his thin fingers more closely together, but he did not speak. for a moment there was silence. the waiting monks, the passing pupils who saw the blow given and received, wondered what had been the offence of one who used to be considered the brightest ornament of the monastic school, the pride and glory of his teachers. his fault must be grave, indeed, if it could move the prior to such wrath. padre cristoforo stood with his hand lifted as if he meant to repeat the blow; then it fell slowly to his side. he gathered his loose, black robe round him, as though he would not let his skirts touch the kneeling figure before him--the scorn of his gesture was unmistakable--and hastily turned away. as he went, dino fell on his face on the marble pavement, crushed by the silence rather than the blow. monks and pupils, following the prior, passed their old companion, and did not dare to speak a word of greeting. but dino would not move. a wave of religious fervour, of passionate yearning for the old devotional life, had come across him. he might die on the pavement of the cloister; he would not be sorry even to die and have done with the manifold perplexities of life; but he would not rise until the prior--the only father and protector that he had ever known--bade him rise. and so he lay, while the noon-day sunlight waxed and waned, and the drowsy afternoon declined to dewy eve, and the purple twilight faded into night. if the hours seemed long or short, he could not tell. a sort of stupor came over him. he knew not what was going on around him; dimly he heard feet and voices, and the sound of bells and music, but which of the sounds came to him in dreams, and which were realities, he could not tell. it was certainly a dream that brian and elizabeth stood beside him hand-in-hand, and told him to take courage. that, as he knew afterwards, was quite too impossible to be true. but it was a dream that brought him peace. chapter xxxvi. by land and sea. at night the prior sent for him. dino's hearing was dulled by fatigue and fasting: he did not understand at first what was said. but, by-and-bye, he knew that he was ordered to go into the guest-room, where the prior awaited his coming. the command gave dino an additional pang: the guest-room was for strangers, not for one who had been as a child of the house. but he lifted himself up feebly from the cold stones, and followed the lay-brother, who had brought the message, to the appointed place. the prior was an austere man, but not devoid of compassion, nor even of sympathy. he received dino with no relaxation of his rather grim features, but told him to eat and drink before speaking. "i will not talk to you fasting," he said; and dino felt conscious of some touch of compassion in the old man's eyes as he looked at him. dino sat, therefore, and tried to eat and drink, but the effort was almost in vain. when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water mixed with a little wine, which was all that he could touch, he stood up in token that he was ready for the prior's questions; and father cristoforo, who had meanwhile been walking up and down the room with a restless air, at once stopped short and began to speak. let it be remembered that dino felt towards this rugged-faced, stern-voiced priest as loving as a son feels towards a wise father. his affections were strong; and he had few objects on which to expend them. the prior's anger meant to him not merely the displeasure of one in authority, but the loss of a love which had shielded and enveloped him ever since he came to the monastery-school when he was ten years old. he seemed to have an absolute need of it; without it, life was impossible to go on. father cristoforo was not without visitings of the same sort of feeling; but he allowed no trace of such soft-heartedness to appear as he put dino through a searching examination concerning the way in which he had spent his time in england. dino answered his questions fully and clearly: he had nothing that he wished to hide. even the prior could not accuse him of a wish to excuse himself. he told the story of his interview with hugo, of the dinner, of hugo's attack upon him, and of his sojourn in the hospital, where brian had sought him out and convinced him (without knowing that he was doing so) of his innocence with respect to hugo's plot. then came the story of his intercourse with brian, his discovery that brian's happiness hinged upon his love for elizabeth murray, and his attempts to unravel the very tangled skein of his friend's fortunes. mr. brett's opinion of the case, brian's letter to mrs. luttrell, dino's own visit to scotland, with its varied effects, including the final destruction of the papers--all this was quietly and fully detailed, with an occasional interruption only from padre cristoforo in the shape of a question or a muttered comment. and when the whole story was told the prior spoke. everything that dino had done was, of course, wrong. he ought never to have seen hugo, or dined with him: he ought to have gone to father connolly, the priest to whose care he had been recommended, as soon as he came out of hospital: he ought never to have interfered in brian's love affairs, nor gone to scotland, nor sought to impose conditions on mrs. luttrell, nor, in short, done any of the thousand and one things that he had done. as for the destruction of the papers, it was a point on which he (father cristoforo) hardly dared, he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, to touch. the base ingratitude, the unfaithfulness to the interests of the church, the presumption, the pride, the wilfulness, manifested in that action, transcended all his powers of reprobation. the matter must be referred to a higher authority than his. and so forth. and every word he said was like a dagger planted in dino's breast. as for his desire to be a monk, the prior repudiated the notion with contempt. dino vasari a monk, after this lapse from obedience and humility? he was not fit to do the humblest work of the lowest servant of those who lived by the altar. he had not even shown common penitence for his sin. let him do that: let him humble himself: let him sit in dust and ashes, metaphorically speaking: and then, by-and-bye, the church might open her arms to him, and listen to the voice of his prayer. but now--father cristoforo declined even to hear any formal confession: his pupil must wait and prepare himself, before he was fit for the sacrament of penance. to dino, this was a hard sentence. he did not know that the prior was secretly much better satisfied with his submissive state of mind than he chose to allow, or that he had made up his mind to relax his severity on the morrow. just for this one night the prior had resolved to be stern and harsh. "i will make him eat dust," he said to himself, out of his real vexation and disappointment, as he looked vengefully at dino, who was lying face downwards on the ground, weeping with all the self-abandonment of his nature. "he must never rebel again." the prior knew that his measures were generally effectual: he meant to take strong ones now. "there is something more in it that i can understand," he murmured to himself, presently, after he had taken a few turns up and down the room. he halted beside dino's prostrate form, and looked down upon it with a hidden gentleness shining out of his deep-set eyes. but he would not speak gently. "you have not told me all," he said. "rise: let me see your face." dino struggled to his knees, and, after a moment's hesitation, dropped his hands to his sides. "what else have you to tell me?" said the priest, fixing his eyes on the young man's face, as if he could read the secrets of his soul. "i have told you all that i did," stammered dino. "but not all that you thought." there was a short silence. then dino spoke again, in short-broken sentences, which at times the prior could scarcely hear. "reverend father, there is one thought, one feeling. i do not know what it is. i am haunted by a face which never leaves me. and yet i saw it twice only: once in a picture and once in life; but it comes between me and my prayers. i cannot forget her." "whose face was this?" asked the prior, with the subtle change of eye and lip which showed that dino's answer had fulfilled his expectations. "her name?" but the name that dino murmured was not one that padre cristoforo had expected to hear from him. "elizabeth murray!" he repeated. "the woman that brian luttrell loves--for whose sake you gave up your inheritance--that you might not turn her out. the mystery is solved. i see the motive now. you love this woman." "and if i have loved her, if i do love her," said dino, passionately, his whole face lighting up with impetuous feeling, and his hands trembling as they clasped each other, "it is no sin to love." the prior gave him a long, steady gaze. "you have sacrificed your faith to your love," he said, "and that is a sin. you have forgotten your obedience to the church for a woman's sake--and that is a sin. lastly, you come here professing a monk's vocation, yet acknowledging--with reluctance--that this woman's face comes between you and your prayers. i do not say that this is a sin, but i say that you had better leave us to-morrow, for you have proved yourself unfit for the life that we lead at san stefano. go back to scotland and marry. or, if you cannot do that, we will give you money, and start you in some professional career; your aims are too low, your will is too weak, for us." again the prior was not quite in earnest. he wanted to try the strength of his pupil's resolve. but when dino said, "i will not leave you, i will tend the vines and the goats at your door, but i will never go away," the priest felt a revival of all the old tenderness which he had been used to lavish silently on the brown-eyed boy who had come to him from old assunta. "i will not go!" cried dino. "i have no one in the world but you. ah, my father, will you never forgive me?" "it is not my forgiveness you need," said the prior, shortly. "but come, the hour is late. we will give you shelter for the night, at least." "let me go to the chapel first," pleaded dino, in a voice which had suddenly grown faint. "i dared not enter it this morning, but now let me pray there for a little while. i must ask forgiveness there." "pray there if you choose," said the prior; "and pray for the penitence which you have yet to learn. when that is won, then talk of forgiveness." he coldly withdrew the hand that dino tried to kiss; he left the room without uttering one word of comfort or encouragement. it was good for his pupil, he thought, to be driven well-nigh to despair. dino, left to himself, remained for a few minutes in the posture in which the prior had left him; then rose and made his way, slowly and feebly, to the little monastery chapel, where a solitary lamp swung before the altar, and a flood of moonlight fell through the coloured panes of the clerestory windows. dino stood passive in that flood of moonlight, almost forgetting why he had come. his brain was dizzy, his heart was sick. his mind was distracted with the thought of a guilt which he did not feel to be his own, of sin for which his conscience did not smite him. for, with a strange commingling of clear-sightedness and submission to authority, he still believed that he had done perfectly right in giving up his claim to the scotch estate, and yet, with all his heart, desired to feel that he had done wrong. and when the words with which father cristoforo had reproached him came back to his mind, his burden seemed greater than he could bear. with a moan of pain he sank down close beside the altar-steps. and there, through the midnight hours, he lay alone and wrestled with himself. it was no use. everything fell from him in that hour except that faith and that love which had been the controlling powers of his life. he had loved brian as a brother; and he had done well: he had loved elizabeth--though he had not known that the dreaming fancies which had lately centred round her deserved the name which the prior had given to them--and he had not done ill; and it was right that he should give to them, what might, perhaps, avail to make their lives a little happier--at any rate all that he had to give. the prior had said that he was wrong. and would the good god, whom he had always loved and worshipped from the days of his earliest boyhood, would the good god condemn him, too! he did not think so. he was not sorry for what he had done at all. no, he did not repent. but how would it fare with him next day if he told the prior this, the inmost conviction of his heart? he would be told again that he was not fit to be a monk. and the desire to be a monk--curious as it may seem to us--had grown up with dino as a beautiful ideal. was he now to be thrust out into the world--the world where men stole and lied and stabbed each other in the dark, all for the sake of a few acres of land or a handful of gold pieces--and denied the hard, ascetic, yet tranquil and finely-ordered life which he had hoped to lead, when he put on his monkish robe, for the remainder of his days? dino was an enthusiast: he might, perhaps, have been disenchanted if he had lived as one of themselves amongst the brethren who seemed to him so enviable; but just now his whole being rose in revolt against a decision which deprived him of all that he had been taught to consider blessed. then a strange revulsion of feeling came. there were good men in the world, he remembered, as well as bad: there were beautiful women; there was art, and music, and much that makes life seem worth living. why, after all, if the monks rejected him, should he not go to the world and take his pleasure there like other men? and there came a vision of elizabeth, with her pale face turned to him in pity, and her hand beckoning him to follow her. then, after a little interval, he came to himself, and knew that his mind had wandered; and so, in order to steady his thoughts, he began to speak aloud, and a novice, who had been sent to say a certain number of prayers at that hour in church by way of penance, started from a fitful slumber on his knees, and heard the words that dino said. they sounded strange to the young novice: he repeated them next day with a sense that he might be uttering blasphemy, and was very much astonished when the prior drew his hand across his eyes as if to wipe away a tear, and did not seem horrified in the very least. and this was what dino said:-- "wrong! wrong! all wrong! and yet it seemed right to love god's creatures.... perhaps i loved them too much. so i am punished.... but, after all, he knows: he understands. if they put me out of his church, perhaps he will let me serve him somewhere--somehow--i don't know where: he knows. oh, my god, if i have loved another more than thee, forgive me ... and let me rest ... for i am tired--tired--tired----" the voice sank into an inarticulate murmur, in which the novice, frightened and perplexed, could not distinguish words. then there was silence. one little sigh escaped those lips, and that was all. the novice turned and fled, terrified at those words of prayer, which seemed to him so different from any that he had ever heard--so different that they must be wrong! at four in the morning the monks came in to chant their morning prayer. one by one they dropped into their places, scarcely noticing the prostrate figure before the altar-steps. it was usual enough for one of their number, or even a stranger staying in the monastery, to humiliate himself in that manner as a public penance. the prior only gave a little start, as if an electric shock passed through his frame, when, on taking his seat in the choir, his eye fell upon that motionless form. but he did not leave his place until the last prayer had been said, the last psalm chanted. then he rose and walked deliberately to the place where dino lay, and laid his hand upon his head. "my son!" he said, gently. there was a great fear in his face, a tremor of startled emotion in his voice. "dino, my beloved! i pardon thee." but dino did not hear. his prayer had been granted him; he was at rest. god had been more merciful than man. the prior's pardon came too late. * * * * * and far away, on a southern sea, where each great wave threatened to engulf the tiny boat which seemed like a child's toy thrown upon the waters, three men were struggling for dear life--for the life that dino vasari had been so ready to lay down--toiling, with broken oars, and roughly-fashioned sails, and ragged streamers as signals of distress, to win their way back to solid land, and live once more with their fellows the common but precious life of common men. they had narrowly escaped death by fire, and were fast losing hope of ultimate rescue. for five days they had been tossing on the waves of the southern atlantic, and they had seen as yet no sign of land; no friendly sail bearing down upon them to bring relief. their stock of food was scanty, the water supply had now entirely failed. the tortures of a raging thirst under a sultry sky had begun: the men's lips were black and swollen, their bloodshot eyes searched the horizon in anguished, fruitless yearning. there was no cloud in all the great expanse of blue: there was nothing to be seen between sea and sky but this one frail boat with its three occupants. another and a larger boat had set out with them, but they had lost sight of it in the night. there had been five men in this little cockle-shell when they left the ship; but one of them had lost his senses and jumped over-board, drowning before their very eyes; and one, a mere lad, had died on the second day from injuries received on board the burning vessel. and of the three who were left, it seemed as if one, at least, would speedily succumb to the exposure and privations which they had been driven to endure. this man lay prostrate at the bottom of the boat. he could hold out no longer. his half-closed eyes, his open mouth and swollen features showed the suffering which had brought him to this pass. another man sat bowed together in a kind of torpor. a third, the oldest and most experienced of the party, kept his hand upon the tiller; but there was a sullen hopelessness in his air, a nerveless dejection in the pose of his limbs, which showed that he had neither strength nor inclination to fight much longer against fate. it was at nine o'clock on the fifth day of their perilous voyage, that the steersman lifted up his eyes, and saw a faint trail of smoke on the horizon. he uttered a hoarse, inarticulate cry, and rose up, pointing with one shaking finger to the distant sign. "a steamer!" he could say nothing more, but the word was enough. it called back life even to the dull eyes of the man who had lain down to die. and he who was sitting with his head bowed wearily upon his knees, looked up with a quick, sudden flicker of hope which seemed likely enough to be extinguished as soon as it was evident. for it was probable that the steamer would merely cross the line of vision and disappear, without approaching them near enough to be of any use. eagerly they watched. they strained their eyes to see it: they spent their strength in rigging up a tattered garment or two to serve as a signal of distress. then, they waited through hours of sickening, terrible suspense. and the steamer loomed into sight: nearer it came and nearer. they were upon its track: surely succour was nigh at hand. and succour came. the great vessel slackened its pace: it came to a standstill and waited, heaving to and fro upon the waters, as if it were a live thing with a beating and compassionate heart. the two men in the boat, standing up and faintly endeavouring to raise their voices, saw that a great crowd of heads was turned towards them from the sides of the vessel, that a boat was lowered and pushed off. the plashing of oars, the sound of a cheer, came to the ears of the seafarers. the old sailor muttered something that sounded like "thank god!" and his companion burst into tears, but the man at the bottom of the boat lay still: they had not been able to make him hear or understand. the officer in the boat from the steamer stood up as it approached, and to him the old man addressed himself as soon as he could speak. "we're the second mate and bo'sun of the _falcon_, sir, and one steerage passenger. destroyed by fire five days ago; and we've been in this here cockle-shell ever since." but his voice was so husky and dry that he was almost unintelligible. "mates, for the love of heaven, give us summat to drink," cried the other man, as he was lifted into the boat. and in a few minutes they were speeding back to the steamer, and the sailors were trying to pour a few drops of brandy and water down the parched throat of the one man who seemed to be beyond speech and movement. the mate was able to give a concise account of the perils of the last few days when he arrived on board the _arizona_; but there was little to relate. the story of a fire, of a hurried escape, of the severance of the boats, and the agonies of thirst endured by the survivors had nothing in it that was particularly new. the captain dismissed the men good-humouredly to the care of cook and steward: it was only the steerage passenger who required to be put under the doctor's care. it seemed that he had been hurt by the falling of a spar, and severely scorched in trying to save a child who was in imminent danger; and, though he had at first been the most cheery and hopeful of the party, his strength had soon failed, and he had lain half or wholly unconscious for the greater part of the last two or three days. there was one passenger on board the _arizona_ who listened to all these details with a keener interest than that shown by any other listener. he went down and talked to the men himself as soon as he had the chance and asked their names. one of the officers came with him, and paid an almost equally keen attention to the replies. "mine's thomas jackson, sir; and the bo'sun's name it is fall--andrew fall. and the passenger, sir? steerage he was: he was called mackay." "no, he warn't," said the boatswain, in a gruff tone. "saving your presence, sir, his name was smith." "mackay," said the mate, with equal positiveness. "and a fine fellow he was, too, and one of the best for cheering of us up with his stories and songs; and not above a bit of a prayer, too, when the worst came to the worst. i heard him myself." "no sign of your friend here, mr. heron, i'm afraid," whispered the ship's officer. "i am afraid not. was there a passenger on board the _falcon_ called stretton." "no, sir. i'm sure o' that." "or--luttrell?" percival heron knew well enough that no such name had been found amongst the list of passengers; but he had a vague notion that brian might have resumed his former appellation for some reason or other after he came on board. thomas jackson considered the subject for a few minutes. "i ain't rightly sure, sir. seems to me there was a gent of that name, or something like it, on board: but if so, he was amongst those in the other boat." "i should like to see this man mackay--or smith," said percival. the berth in which the steerage passenger lay was pointed out to him: he looked at the face upon the pillow, and shook his head. a rough, reddened, blistered face it was, with dirt grained into the pores and matting the hair and beard: not in the least like the countenance of the man whom he had come to seek. "we may fall in with the other boat," suggested the officer. but though the steamer went out of her course in search of it, and a careful watch was kept throughout the day and night, the other boat could not be seen. chapter xxxvii. wrecked. percival cultivated acquaintance with the two sailors, and tried to obtain from them some description of the passengers on board the _falcon_. but description was not their forte. he gained nothing but a clumsy mass of separate facts concerning passengers and crew, which assisted him little in forming an opinion as to whether brian luttrell had, or had not, been on board. he was inclined to think--not. "but he seemed to have a slippery habit of turning up in odd places where you don't in the least expect to find him," soliloquised percival over a cigar. "why couldn't he have stayed comfortably dead in that glacier? or why did the brain fever not carry him off? he has as many lives as a cat. he, drowned or burnt when the _falcon_ was on fire? not a bit of it. i'll believe in mr. brian luttrell's death when i have seen him screwed into his coffin, followed him to the grave, ordered a headstone, and written his epitaph. and even then, i should feel that there was no knowing whether he had not buried himself under false pretences, and was, in reality, enjoying life at the antipodes. i don't know anybody else who can be, 'like cerberus, three gentlemen at once.' i shall nail him to one _alias_ for the future, if i catch him. but there seems very little chance of my catching him at all. i've come on a wild-goose chase, and can't expect to succeed." this mood of comparative depression did not last long. percival felt certain that the other boat would be overtaken, or that brian would be found to have sailed in another ship. he could not reconcile himself to any idea of returning to elizabeth with his task half done. they were nearing the equator, and the heat of the weather was great. it was less fine, however, than was usually the case, and when percival turned into his berth one night, he noticed that the stars were hidden, and that rain was beginning to fall. he slept lightly, and woke now and then to hear the swish of water outside, and the beat of the engines, the dragging of a rope, or the step of a sailor overhead. he was dreaming of elizabeth, and that she was standing with him beside brian luttrell's grave, when suddenly he awoke with a violent start, and a sense that the world was coming to an end. in another moment he was out of his berth and on the floor. there had been a scraping sound, then a crash--and then the engines had stopped. there was a swaying sensation for a second or two, and then another bump. percival knew instinctively what was the matter. the ship had struck. after that moment's silence there was an outcry, a trampling of feet, a few minutes' wild confusion. the voice of the captain rose strong and clear above the hubbub as he gave his orders. percival, already half-dressed, made his appearance on deck and soon learned what was the matter. the ship had struck twice heavily, and was now filling as rapidly as possible. the sailors were making preparations for launching the long boat. "women and children first," said the captain, in his stentorian tones. the noise subsided as he made his calm presence felt. the children cried, indeed, and a few of the women shrieked aloud; but the men passengers and crew alike, bestirred themselves to collect necessary articles, to reassure the timid, and to make ready the boats. percival was amongst the busiest and the bravest. his strength made him useful, and it was easier for him to use it in practical work than to stand and watch the proceedings, or even to console women and children. for one moment he had a deep and bitter sense of anger against the ordering of his fate. was he to go down into the deep waters in the hey-day of his youth and strength, before he had done his work or tasted the reward of work well done? had brian luttrell experienced a like fate? and what would become of elizabeth, sitting lonely in the midst of splendours which she had felt were not justly hers, waiting for weeks and months and years, perhaps, for the lovers who would never come back until the sea gave up its dead? percival crushed back the thought. there was no time for anything but action. and his senses seemed gifted with preternatural acuteness. he saw a child near him put her little hand into that of a soldierly-looking man, and heard her whisper--"you won't leave me, papa?" and the answer--"never, my darling. don't fear." just behind him a man whispered in a woman's ear--"forgive me, mary." percival wondered vaguely what that woman had to forgive. he never saw any of the speakers again. for a strange thing happened. strange, at least, it seemed to him; but he understood it afterwards. the ship was really resting upon a ledge of the rock on which she had struck: there was little to be seen in the darkness except a white line of breakers and a mass of something beyond--was it land? the ship gave a sudden outward lurch. there went up a cry to heaven--a last cry from most of the souls on board the ill-fated _arizona_--and then came the end. the vessel fell over the edge of the rocky shelf into deep water and went down like a stone. percival was a good swimmer, and struck out vigorously, without any expectation, however, of being able to maintain himself in the water for more than a very short time. escape from the tangled rigging and floating pieces of the wreck was a difficult matter; but the water was very calm inside the reef, and not at all cold. he tried to save a woman as she was swept past him: for a time he supported a child, but the effort to save it was useless. the little creature's head struck against some portion of the wreck and it was killed on the spot. percival let the little dead face sink away from him into the water and swam further from the point where it went down. "there must be others saved as well as myself," he thought, when he was able to think at all coherently. "at least, let me keep myself up till daylight. one may see some way of escape then." it had been three o'clock when the ship struck. he had remembered to look at his watch when he was first aroused. would his strength last out till morning? if his safety had depended entirely on his swimming powers he would have been, indeed in evil case. but long before the first faint streak of dawn appeared, it seemed to him that he was coming in contact with something solid--that there was something hard and firm beneath him which he could touch from time to time. the truth came to him at last. the tide was going down; and as it went down, it would leave a portion of the reef within his reach. there might be some unwashed point to which he could climb as soon as daylight came. at any rate, as the waters ebbed, he found that he could cling to the rock, and then, that he could even stand upon it, although the waves broke over him at every moment, and sometimes nearly washed him from his hold. never was daylight more anxiously awaited. it came at last; a faint, grey light in the east, a climbing flush of rose-colour, a host of crimson wavelets on a golden sea. and, as soon as the darkness disappeared, percival found that his conjecture was a correct one. he was not alone. there were others beside himself who had won their way to even safer positions than his own. portions of the reef on which the ship had struck were now to be plainly seen above the sea-level; it was plain that they were rarely touched by the salt water, for there was an attempt at vegetation in one or two places. and beyond the reef percival saw land, and land that it would be easy enough to reach. he turned to look for the remains of the _arizona_, but there was little to be seen. the tops of her masts were visible only in the deep water near the reef. spars, barrels, articles of furniture, could here and there be distinguished; nothing of value nor of interest. percival determined to try for the shore. but first he would see whether he could help the other men whom he had discerned at a little distance from him on a higher portion of the reef. he crept out to them, feeling his way cautiously, and not sure whether he might not be swept off his feet by the force of the waves. to his surprise, when he reached the two men, he found that they were two of the survivors from the wreck of the _falcon_. one of them was thomas jackson, and the other was mackay, the steerage passenger. "it's plain you weren't born to be drowned," said percival, addressing jackson, familiarly. "no, sir, it don't seem like it," returned the man. "there's one or two more that have saved themselves by swimming, too, i fancy. we'd better make land while we can, sir." "your friend's not able to help himself much, is he?" said percival, with a sharp glance at the bearded face of the steerage passenger. "swims like a duck when he's all right, sir; but at present he's got a broken leg. fainted just now; he'll be better presently. i wouldn't have liked to leave him behind." "we'll haul him ashore between us," said percival. it was more easily said than done; but the task was accomplished at last. thomas jackson was of a wiry frame: percival's trained muscles (he had been in the boats at oxford) stood him in good stead. they reached the mainland, carrying the steerage passenger with them; for the poor man, not yet half-recovered from the effects of exposure and privation, and now suffering from a fracture of the bone just above the ankle, was certainly not in a fit state to help himself. on the island they found a few cocoa-nut trees: under one of these they laid their burden, and then returned to the shore to see whether there was any other castaway whom they could assist. in this search they were successful. one man had already followed their example and swam ashore, but he was so much exhausted that they felt bound to help him to the friendly shade of the cocoa-nut trees, where the steerage passenger, now conscious of his position, and as deadly white with the pain of his broken bone as the discolouration of his scorched face permitted him to be, moved aside a little in order to make room for him. there was another man on the reef; but he had been crushed between the upper and lower topsails, and it was almost impossible to get him to shore. percival and jackson made the effort, but a great wave swept the man into a cavern of the reef to which he was clinging before they could come to his assistance, and he was not seen again. with a lad of sixteen and another sailor they were more fortunate. so that when at last they met under the tree to compare notes and count their numbers, they found that the party consisted of six persons: heron, thomas jackson, and his pet, the steerage passenger; george pollard, the steward; fenwick, the sailor; and jim barry, the cabin boy. they stared at each other in rather helpless silence for about a minute, and then heron burst into a strange laugh. "well, i've heard of a desert island all my life," he said, "but i never was on one before." "i was," said fenwick, slowly, "and i didn't expect to get landed upon another. but, lord! if once you go to sea, there's no telling." "you must feel thankful that you're landed at all," remarked percival. "you might have been food for the fishes by this time." "i'd most as soon," said fenwick, in a stolid tone, which had a depressing effect on the spirits of some of the party. the lad barry began to whimper a little, and pollard looked very downcast. "cheer up, lads," said percival, quickly. it was wonderful to see how naturally he fell into a position of command amongst them. "that isn't the way to get home again. never fear but a ship will pass the island and pick us up. we can't be far out of the ordinary course of the steamers. we shall be here a day or two only, or a week, perhaps. what do you say, jackson?" jackson drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and seemed to meditate a reply; but while he considered the matter, the steerage passenger spoke for the first time. "mr. heron is right," he said, causing percival a moment's surprise at the fact of his name being so accurately known by a man to whom he had never spoken either on board the _arizona_ or since they landed. "we all ought to feel thankful to almighty god for bringing us safe to land, instead of grumbling that the island has no inhabitants. we have had a wonderful escape." "and so say i, sir," said jackson, touching an imaginary cap with his forefinger, while barry and fenwick both looked a little ashamed of themselves, and pollard mechanically followed the example set by the sailor. "them as grumbles had better keep out of my sight unless they want to be kicked." "you're fine fellows, both of you," cried percival, heartily. and then he shook hands with jackson, and would have followed suit with the steerage passenger, had not mackay drawn back his hand. "i'm not in condition for shaking hands with anybody," he said, with a smile; and percival remembered his burns and was content. "i know this place," said jackson, looking round him presently. "it's a dangerous reef, and there's been a many accidents near it. ships give it a wide berth, as a general rule." the men's faces drooped when they heard this sentence. "the _duncan dunbar_ was wrecked here on the way to auckland. the _mercurius_, coming back from sydney by way of 'frisco, she was wrecked, too--in ' . it's the rocas reef, mates, which you may have heard of or you may not; and, as near as i remember, it's about three degrees south of the line: longitude thirty-three twenty, west." "i remember now," said percival, eagerly. his work as a journalist helped him to remember the event to which jackson alluded. "the men of the _mercurius_ found some iron tanks filled with water, left by the _duncan dunbar_ people. we might go and see if they are still here. but first we must attend to this man's leg." "it is not very bad," said mackay. "it's tremendously swollen, at any rate. are you good at this sort of work, jackson? i can't say i am." "i know something about it," said jackson. "let's have a look, mate." he knelt down and felt the swollen limb, putting its owner to considerable pain, as percival judged from the way in which he set his teeth during the operation. jackson had, however, a tolerable knowledge of a rough sort of surgery, and managed to set the bone and bind up the swollen limb in a manner that showed skill and tenderness as well as knowledge. and then percival proposed that they should try to find some food, and make the tour of the island before the day grew hotter. the leadership of the party had been tacitly accorded to him from the first; and, after a consultation with the others, jackson stepped forward to say that they all wished to consider themselves under mr. heron's orders, "he having more head than the rest of them, and being a gentleman born, no doubt." at which heron laughed good-humouredly and accepted the position. "and none of us grudge you being the head," said jackson, sagely, "except, maybe, one, and he don't count." heron made no response; but he wondered for a moment whether the one who grudged him his leadership could possibly be mackay, whose eyes had a quiet attentiveness to all his doings, which looked almost like criticism. but there was no other fault to be found with mackay's manner, while against fenwick's dogged air percival felt some irritation. the want of food was decidedly the first difficulty. sea-birds' eggs and young birds, shell-fish and turtle, were all easily to be obtained; but how were they to be cooked? percival was not without hopes that some tinned provisions might be cast ashore from the wreck; but at present there was nothing of the kind to be seen. a few cocoa-nuts were procurable: and these provided them with meat and drink for the time being. then came the question of fire. the only possible method of obtaining it was the indian one of rubbing two sticks diligently together for the space of some two hours; and thomas jackson sat down with stoical patience worthy of an indian himself to fulfil this operation. percival, who felt that he could not bear to be doing nothing, started off for a walk round the island, and the rest of the party dozed in the shade until the return of their leader. when heron came back he made his report as cheerful as he could, but he could not make it a particularly brilliant one, although he did his best. he was one of those men who grumble at trifles, but are unusually bright and cheerful in the presence of a great emergency. the sneer had left his face, the cynical accent had disappeared from his voice; he employed all his social gifts, which were naturally great, for the entertainment of his comrades. as they ate boiled eggs and fried fish and other morsels which seemed especially dainty when cooked over the fire that jackson's patient industry had lighted at last, the spirits of the whole party seemed to rise; and percival's determination to look upon the bright side of things, produced a most enlivening effect. some of them remembered afterwards, with a sort of puzzled wonder, that they had more than once laughed heartily during their first meal upon the rocas reef. yet none of them were insensible to the danger through which they had passed, nor the terrible position in which they stood. uppermost in the minds of each, although none of them liked to put it into words, was the question--how long shall we stay here? is it likely that any ship will observe our signal of distress and come to our aid? they looked each other furtively in the eyes, and read no comfort in each other's face. they had landed upon one of two islands, about fifteen acres each in size, which were separated at high water, but communicated with each other when the tide had ebbed. both islands lay low, and had patches of white sand in the centre; but there was very little vegetation. even grass seemed as if it would not grow; and the cocoa-nut trees were few and far between. the signs of previous wrecks struck the men's hearts with a chill. there was a log hut, to which mackay was moved when evening came on; there were the iron tanks of which percival had made mention, filled with rain-water; there were some rotten boards, and a small hammer and a broken knife; but there was no fresh-water spring, and there were no provision chests, such as heron had vainly hoped to find. the setting up of a distress-signal on the highest point of the island was the next matter to be attended to; and for this purpose nothing could be found more suitable than a very large yellow silk-handkerchief which percival had found in his pocket. it did not make a very large flag, although it was enormous as a handkerchief; but no other article of clothing could well be spared. indeed, the spareness of their coverings was a matter of some regret and anxiety on percival's part. he could not conceive what they were to do if they were on the island for more than a few days; the rough work which would be probably necessary being somewhat destructive of woollen and linen garments. jackson, with whom he ventured a joke on the subject, did not receive it in very good part. "you needn't talk as if we was to stay here for ever, mr. heron, sir," he murmured. "but there's always cocoa-nut fibre, if the worst comes to the worst." "ah, yes, cocoa-nut fibre," said percival, turning his eyes to one of the slim, straight stems of the palm trees. "i forgot that. i seem to have walked straight into one of jules verne's books. gad! i wish i could walk out of it again. what a thrilling narrative i'll make of this for the _mail_ when i get home. if ever i do get home. bah, it's no use to talk of that." these reflections were made under his breath, while jackson walked on to examine a nest of sea-birds' eggs; for percival was wisely resolved against showing a single sign of undue anxiety or depression of spirits, lest it should re-act on the minds of those who had declared themselves his followers. for the rest of the day the party worked hard at various contrivances for their own welfare and comfort. firewood was collected; birds and fish caught for the evening meal. to each member of the party a task was assigned: even mackay could make himself useful by watching the precious flame which must never be suffered to go out. and thus the day wore on, and night came with its purple stillness and its tropical wealth of stars. the men sought shelter in the hut: percival only, by his own choice, remained outside until he thought that they were sleeping. he wanted to be alone. he had banished reflection pretty successfully during the day; but at night he knew that it would get the better of him. and he felt that he must meet and master the thronging doubts and fears and regrets that assailed him. whatever happened he would not be sorry that he had come. if he never saw elizabeth's face again, he was sure that her memories of him would be full of tenderness. what more did he want? and yet he wanted more. he found out what his heart desired before he laid himself down to sleep amongst the men. he would have given a year of his life to know whether brian luttrell was alive or dead. and he could not honestly say that he wished brian luttrell to be alive. chapter xxxviii. on the rocas reef. the morning light showed several articles on the shore which had been washed up from the wreck. some tins of biscuits were likely to be very useful, and a box of carpenter's tools, most of them sadly rusted, was welcomed eagerly; but nothing else was found, and the day might have begun with murmurs of discontent but for a discovery made by mackay, which restored satisfaction to the men's faces. close by his head in the log hut where he had spent the night, he found a sort of cupboard--something like a rabbit-hutch. and this cupboard contained--oh, joyful discovery!--not gold or gems, nor any such useless glittering lumber, but something far more precious to these weary mariners--two bottles of brandy and a chest of tea. perhaps a former sojourner on the island had placed them in that hiding-place, thinking compassionately of the voyagers who might in some future day find themselves in bitter need upon the rocas reef. "whoever it was as left 'em here," said pollard, "got off safe again, you may depend on it; and so shall we." percival said nothing: he had been thinking that perhaps the former owner of this buried treasure had died upon the island. he hoped that they would not find his grave. he measured out some tea for the morning's meal, but decided that neither tea nor spirits should be used, except on special occasions or in cases of illness. the men accepted his decision as a reasonable one; they were all well-disposed and tractable on the whole. percival was amazed to find them so easy to manage. but they were more depressed that morning at the thought of their lost comrades, their wrecked ship, and the prospect of passing an indefinite time upon the coral-reef, than they had been on the previous day. it was a relief when they were busy at their respective tasks; and percival found an odd kind of pleasure in all sorts of hard and unusual work; in breaking up rotten planks, for instance; in extracting old nails painfully and laboriously from them for future use; and in tramping to and fro between the sea-shore and the log hut, carrying the driftwood deposited on the sand to a more convenient resting-place. they had planned to build another hut, as the existing structure was both small and frail; and percival laboured at his work like a giant. in the hot time of the day, however, he was glad to do as the others did; to throw down his tools, such as they were, and creep into the shadow of the log hut. the heat was very great; and the men were beginning to suffer from the bites of venomous ants which infested the island. in short, as percival said to himself, the rocas reef was about as little like robinson crusoe's island as it could possibly be. life would be greatly ameliorated if goats and parrots could be found amongst the rocks; shell-fish and sea-fowl were a poor exchange for them; and an island that was "desert" in reality as well as in name, was a decidedly prosaic place on which to spend a few days, or weeks, or months. of course he made none of these remarks in public; he contented himself with humming in an undertone the words of alexander selkirk, as interpreted by cowper:-- "i am monarch of all i survey, my right there is none to dispute--" a quotation which brought a meaning smile to mackay's face, whereupon percival laughed and checked himself. "how are you to-day?" he said, addressing the steerage passenger with some show of good-humoured interest. mackay was lying on the sand, propped up against the wall of the hut, and percival was breaking his nails over an obstinate screw which was deeply embedded in a thick piece of wood. "better, thanks." the voice was curiously hoarse and gruff. "jackson isn't a bad surgeon, i fancy." "not at all." "lucky for you that he was saved." "i owe my life twice to him and once to you." "i hope you think it's something to be grateful for," said percival, carelessly. "you've had some escapes to tell your friends about when you get home." mackay turned aside his head. "i have no friends to tell," he said, shortly. "ah! more's the pity. well, no doubt you will make some in pernambuco--when you get there." "do you think we ever shall get there?" percival shot a rather displeased glance at him. "don't go talking like that before the men," he said. "i am not talking before the men," rejoined the steerage passenger, with a smile: "i am talking to you, mr. heron. and i repeat my question--do you think we shall ever get to pernambuco?" "yes," said percival, stoutly. "a ship will see our signal and call for us." "it's a very small flag," said mackay, in a significant tone. "good heavens!" burst out percival, with the first departure from his good-humoured tone that mackay had heard from him: "why do you take the trouble to put that side of the question to me? don't you think i see it for myself? there is a chance, if it is only a small one; and i'm not going to give up hope--yet." then he walked away, as if he refused to discuss the subject any longer. mackay looked at the sea and sighed; he was sorry that he had provoked mr. heron's wrath by his question. but he found afterwards that it contributed to form a kind of silent understanding between him and percival. it was a sort of relief to both of them, occasionally to exchange short, sharp sentences of doubt or discouragement, which neither of them breathed in the ear of the others. percival divined quickly enough, that the steerage passenger was not a man of thomas jackson's class. as the hoarseness left his voice, and the disfiguring redness disappeared from his face, percival distinguished signs of refinement and culture which he wondered at himself for not perceiving earlier. but there was nothing remarkable in his having made a mistake about mackay's station in life. the man had come on board the _arizona_ in a state of wretched suffering: his face had been scorched, his hair and beard singed, his clothes, as well as his person, blackened by dust and smoke. then his clothes were those of a working-man, and his speech had been rendered harsh to the ear from the hoarseness of his voice. but he gradually regained his strength as he lay in the fresh air and the sunshine, and returning health gave back to him the quiet energy and cheerfulness to which jackson had borne testimony. he was a great favourite with the men, who, in their rough way, made a sort of pet of him, and brought him offerings of the daintiest food that they could find. and his hands were not idle. he wove baskets and plaited hats of cocoa-nut fibre with his long white fingers, which were very unlike those of the working-man that he professed to be. percival heron was often struck by the appearance of that hand. it was one of unusual beauty--the sort of hand that titian or vandyke loved to draw: long, finely-shaped, full of quiet power, and fuller, perhaps, of a subtle sort of refinement, which seems to express itself in the form of tapering fingers with filbert nails and a well-turned wrist. it was not the hand of a working-man, not even of a skilled artizan, whose hand is often delicately sensitive: it was a gentleman's hand, and as such it piqued percival's curiosity. but mackay was of a reserved disposition, and did not offer any information about himself. one day when rain was falling in sheets and torrents, as it did sometimes upon the rocas reef, percival turned into the log hut for shelter. mackay was there, too; his leg had been so painful that he had not left the rude bed, which his comrades had made for him, even to be carried out into the fresh air and sunshine, for two or three days. percival noticed the look of pain in the languid eyes, and had, for a moment, a fancy that he had seen this man before. but the burns on his face, the handkerchief tied round his head to conceal a wound on the temple, and the tangled brown beard and moustache, made it difficult to seize hold of a possible likeness. percival threw himself on the ground with a half-sigh, and crossed his arms behind his head. "is anything the matter?" asked mackay. percival noticed that he never addressed him as "sir" or "mr. heron," unless the other men were present. "jackson's ill," said percival, curtly. mackay started and turned on his elbow. "ill?" "fever, i'm afraid. not bad; just a touch of it. he's in the other hut." "i'm sorry for that," said mackay, lying down again. "so am i. he is the steadiest man among them. how the rain pours! pollard is sitting with him." there was a little silence, after which percival spoke again. "are you keeping count of the days? how long is it since we landed?" "sixteen days." "is that all? i thought it had been longer." "you were anxious to get to your journey's end, i suppose," said the steerage passenger, after a little hesitation. "aren't we all anxious? do we want to stay here for ever?" and then there was another pause, which ended by percival's saying, in a tone of subdued irritation: "there are few of our party that have the same reasons that i have for wishing myself on the way back to england." "you are not going to stay in south america, then?" "not i. there is someone i want to find; that's all." "a man?" "yes, a man. i thought that he had sailed in the _falcon_; but i suppose i was mistaken." "and if you don't find him?" "i must hunt the world over until i do. i won't go back to england without him, if he's alive." "friend or enemy?" said mackay, fixing his eyes on percival's face with a look of interest. at any other time percival might have resented the question: here, in the log hut, with a tempest roaring and the rain streaming outside, and the great stormy sea as a barrier between the dwellers on the island and the rest of the civilised world, such questions and answers seemed natural enough. "enemy," said percival, sharply. it was evident that some hidden sense of wrong had sprung suddenly to the light, and perhaps amazed him by its strength, for he began immediately to explain away his answer. "hum! not that exactly. but not a friend." "and you want to do him an injury!" said mackay, with grave consideration. "no, i don't," said percival, angrily, as if replying to a suggestion that had been made a thousand times before, and flinging out his arm with a reckless, agitated gesture. "i want to do him a service--confound him!" there was a silence. percival lay with his outstretched hand clenched and his eyes fixed gloomily on the opposite wall: mackay turned away his head. presently, however, he spoke in a low but distinct tone. "what is the service you propose doing me, mr. heron?" "doing you? good heavens! you! what do you mean?" "i suppose that my face is a good deal disfigured at present," said the steerage passenger, passing his hand lightly over his thick, brown beard; "but when it is better, you will probably recognise me easily enough. but, perhaps, i am mistaken. i thought for a moment that you were in search of a man called stretton, who was formerly a tutor to your step-brothers." percival was standing erect by this time in the middle of the floor. his hands were thrust into his pockets: his deep chest heaved: the bronzed pallor of his face had turned to a dusky red. he did not answer the words spoken to him; but after a few seconds of silence, in which the eyes of the two men met and told each other a good deal, he strode to the doorway, pushed aside the plank which served for a door, and went out into the storm. he did not feel the rain beating upon his head: he did not hear the thunder, nor see the forked lightning that played without intermission in the darkened sky; he was conscious only of the intolerable fact that he was shut up in a narrow corner of the earth, in daily, almost hourly, companionship with the one man for whom he felt something not unlike fierce hatred. and in spite of his resolution to act generously for elizabeth's sake, the hatred flamed up again when he found himself so suddenly thrust, as it were, into brian luttrell's presence. when he had walked for some time and got thoroughly wet through, it occurred to him that he was acting more like a child than a grown man; and he turned his face as impetuously towards the huts as he had lately turned his back upon them. he found plenty to do when the rain ceased. the fire had for the first time gone out, and the patience of jackson could not now be taxed, because he was lying on his back in the stupor of fever. percival set one of the men to work with two sticks; but the wood was nearly all damp, and it was a weary business, even when two dry morsels were found, to get them to light. however, it was better than having nothing to do. want of employment was one of their chief trials. the men could not always be catching fish and snaring birds. they were thinking of building a small boat; but jackson's illness deprived them of the help of one who had more practical knowledge of such matters than any of the others, and threw a damp over their spirits as well. jackson's illness seemed to give percival a pretext for absenting himself from the hut in which the so-called mackay lay. he had, just at first, an invincible repugnance to meeting him again; he could not make up his mind how brian luttrell would expect to be treated, and he was almost morbidly sensitive about the mistake that he had made respecting "the steerage passenger." at night he stayed with jackson, and sent the other men to sleep in mackay's hut. but in the morning an absolute necessity arose for him to speak to his enemy. jackson was sensible, though extremely weak, when the daylight came: and his first remark was an anxious one concerning the state of his comrade's broken leg. "will you look after it a bit, sir?" he said, wistfully, to heron. "i'll do my best. don't bother yourself," said percival, cheerfully. and accordingly he presented himself at an early hour in the other sleeping-place, and addressed brian in a very matter of fact tone. "your leg must be seen to this morning. i shall make a poor substitute for jackson, i'm afraid; but i think i shall do it better than pollard or fenwick." "i've no doubt of that," said the man with the brown beard and bright, quick eyes. "thank you." and that was all that passed between them. it was wonderful to see the determined, unsparing way in which percival worked that day. his energy never flagged. he was a little less good-tempered than usual; the upright black line in his forehead was very marked, and his utterances were not always amiable. but he succeeded in his object; he made himself so thoroughly tired that he slept as soon as his head touched his hard pillow, and did not wake until the sun was high in the heaven. the men showed a good deal of consideration for him. fenwick watched by the sick man, and pollard and barry bestirred themselves to get ready the morning meal, and to attend to the wants of their two helpless companions. it was not until evening that brian found an opportunity to say to percival:-- "what did you want to find me for?" "can't you let the matter rest until we are off this ---- island?" said percival, losing control of that hidden fierceness for a moment. and brian answered rather coldly:--"as you please." percival waited awhile, and then said, more deliberately:-- "i'll tell you before long. there is no hurry, you see"--with a sort of grim humour--"there is no post to catch, no homeward-bound mail steamer in the harbour. we cannot give each other the slip now." "do you mean that i gave you the slip?" said brian, to whom percival's tone was charged with offence. "i mean that brian luttrell would not have been allowed to leave england quite so easily as mr. stretton was. but i won't discuss it just now. you'll excuse my observing that i think i would drop the 'mackay' if i were you. it will hurt nobody here if you are called luttrell; and--i hate disguises." "the name luttrell is as much a disguise as any other," said brian, shortly. "but you may use it if you choose." he was hardly prepared, however, for the round eyes with which the lad barry regarded him when he next entered the log hut, nor for the awkward way in which he gave a bashful smile and pulled the front lock of his hair when brian spoke to him. "what are you doing that for?" he said, quickly. "well, sir, it's mr. heron's orders," said barry. "what orders?" "that we're to remember you're a gentleman, sir. gone steerage in a bit of a freak; but now you've told him you'd prefer to be called by your proper name. mr. luttrell, that is." "i'm no more a gentleman than you are," said brian, abruptly. "call me mackay at once as you used to do." barry shook his head with a knowing look. "daren't sir. mr. heron is a gentleman that will have his own way. and he said you had a big estate in scotland, sir; and lots of money." "what other tales did he tell you?" said brian, throwing back his head restlessly. "well, i don't know, sir. only he told us that we'd better nurse you up as well as we could before we left the island, and that there was one at home as would give money to see you alive and well. a lady, i think he meant." "what insane folly!" muttered brian to himself. "look here, barry," he added aloud, "mr. heron was making jokes at your expense and mine. he meant nothing of the kind; i haven't a penny in the world, and i'm on the way to the brazils to earn my living as a working-man. now do you understand?" barry retired, silenced but unconvinced. and the next time that brian saw percival alone, he said to him drily:-- "i would rather make my own romances about my future life, if it's all the same to you." "eh? what? what do you mean?" "don't tell these poor fellows that i have property in scotland, please. it is not the case." "oh, that's what you're making a fuss about. but i can't help it," said percival, shrugging his shoulders. "if you are brian luttrell, as vasari swears you are--swearing it to his own detriment, too, which inclines me to believe that it is true--the strathleckie estate is yours." "you can't prove that i am brian luttrell." "but i might prove--when we get back to scotland--that you bore the name of brian luttrell for three or four-and-twenty years of your life." "i am not going back to scotland," said the young man, looking steadily and attentively at percival's troubled countenance. "yes, you are. i promised that you should come back, and you must not make me break my word." "whom did you promise?" "i promised elizabeth." and then the two men felt that the conversation had better cease. percival walked rapidly away, while brian, who could not walk anywhere, lay flat on his back and listened, with dreamy eyes, to the long monotonous rise and fall of the waves upon the shore. chapter xxxix. between life and death. "pollard's down with this fever," was the announcement which percival made to brian a few days later. "badly?" "a smart touch. and jackson doesn't mend as he ought to do. i can't understand why either of them should have it at all. the island may be barren, but it ought to be healthy." "i wish i could do anything beside lying here like a log." "well, you can't," said percival, by no means unkindly. "i never heard that it was any good to stand on a broken leg. i'll manage." such interchange of semi-confidential sentences was now rare between them. percival was, for the most part, very silent when circumstances threw him into personal contact with brian; and there was something repellant about this silence--something which prevented brian from trying to break it. brian was feeling bitterly that he had done percival some wrong: he knew that he might justly be blamed for returning to scotland after his supposed death. he need not have practised any deception at all, but, having practised it, he ought to have maintained it. he had no right to let the estates pass to elizabeth unless he meant her to keep them. such, he imagined, might well be percival's attitude of mind towards him. and then there was the question of his love for elizabeth, of which both elizabeth herself and dino vasari had made heron aware. but in this there was nothing to be ashamed of. when he fell in love with elizabeth, he thought her comparatively poor and friendless, and he did not know of her engagement to percival. he never whispered to himself that he had won her heart: that fact, which elizabeth fancied that she had made shamefully manifest, had not been grasped by brian's consciousness at all. he would have thought himself a coxcomb to imagine that she cared for him more than as a friend. if he had ever dreamt of such a thing, he assured himself that he had made a foolish mistake. he thought that he understood what percival wanted to say to him. of course, since dino had disclosed the truth, elizabeth murray desired to give up the property, and her lover had volunteered to come in search of the missing man. it was a generous act, and one that brian thoroughly admired: it was worthy, he thought, of elizabeth's lover. for he knew that he had always been especially obnoxious to percival heron in his capacity as tutor; and now, if he were to assume the character of a claimant to elizabeth's estates, he would certainly not find the road to percival's liking. for his own part, brian respected and liked percival heron much more than he had found it possible to do during those flying visits to italy, when he had systematically made himself disagreeable to the unknown mr. stretton. he admired the way in which percival assumed the leadership of the party, and bore the burden of all their difficulties on his own broad shoulders: he admired his cheerfulness and untiring energy. he was sure that if heron could succeed in carrying him off to england, and forcing him to make elizabeth a poor woman instead of a rich one, he would be only too pleased to do so. but this was a thing which brian did not mean to allow. jackson's illness was a protracted one, and left him in a weak state, from which he had not recovered when pollard died. then the boy barry fell ill--out of sheer fright, percival declared; but his attack was a very slight one, prolonged from want of energy rather than real indisposition. heron was the only nurse, for fenwick's strength had to be utilised in procuring food for the party; and, as he was often up all night and busy all day long, it was no surprise to brian when at last he staggered, rather than walked into the hut, and threw himself down on the ground, declaring himself so tired that he could not keep awake. and he had scarcely said the words when slumber overpowered him. brian, who was beginning to move about a very little, crawled to the door and managed to attract fenwick's attention. the man--a rough, black-bearded sailor--came up to him with a less surly look than usual. "how's barry?" said brian. "better. he's all right. they've both got round the corner now, though i think the master thought yesterday that barry would follow pollard. it was faint-heartedness as killed pollard, and it's faint-heartedness that'll kill barry, if he don't look out." "see here," said brian, indicating the sleeper with his finger. "you don't think mr. heron has got the fever, do you?" fenwick took a step forward and looked stolidly at percival's face, which was very pale. "not he. dead-beat, sir; that's all. he's done his work like a man, and earned a sleep. he'll be right when he wakes." armed with this assurance, brian resumed his occupation of weaving cocoa-nut fibre; but he grew uneasy, when, at the end of a couple of hours, percival's face began to flush and his limbs to toss restlessly upon the ground. he muttered incoherent words from time to time, and at last awoke and asked for water. brian's walking was a matter of difficulty; he took some minutes in crossing the room to bring a cocoa-nut, which had been made into a cup, to percival's side; and by the time he had done it, heron was wide awake. "what on earth are you doing, bringing me water in this way? you ought to be lying down, and i ought to go to barry. if i were not so sleepy!" "go to sleep," said brian. "barry's all right. i asked fenwick just now." "i suppose i've gone and caught it," said percival, in a decidedly annoyed tone of voice. "a nice state of things if i were to be laid up! i won't be laid up either. it's to a great extent a matter of will; look at barry--and pollard." his voice sank a little at the latter name. "you're only tired: you will be all right presently." "you don't think i'm going to have the fever, then?" "no," said brian, wondering a little at his anxiety. there was a long pause: then heron spoke again. "luttrell." it was the first time that he had addressed brian by his name. "if i have the fever and go off my head as the others have all done, will you remember--it's just a fancy of mine--that i--i don't exactly want you to hear what i say! leave me in this hut, or move me into the other one, will you?" "i'll do as you wish," said brian, seriously, "but i needn't tell you that i should attach no importance to what you said. and i should be pleased to do anything that i was able to do for you, if you were ill." "well," said percival, "i may not be ill after all. but i thought i would mention it. and, luttrell, supposing i were to follow pollard's example--" "what is the good of talking in that way when you are not even ill?" "never mind that. if you get off this island and i don't, i want you to promise me to go and see elizabeth." then, as brian hesitated, "you must go. you must see her and talk to her; do you hear? good heavens! how can you hesitate? do you mean to let her think for ever that i have betrayed her trust?" decidedly the fever was already working in his veins. the flushed face, the unnaturally brilliant eyes, the excitement of his manner, all testified to its presence. brian felt compelled to answer quietly, "i promise." "all right," said percival, lying down again and closing his eyes. "and now you can tell fenwick that he's got another patient. it's the fever; i know the signs." and he was right. but the fever took a different course with him from that which it had taken with the others: he was never delirious at all, but lay in a death-like stupor from which it seemed that he might not awake. once--some days after the beginning of his illness--he came to himself for a few minutes with unexpected suddenness. it was midnight, and there was no light in the hut beyond that which came from the brilliant radiance of the moon as it shone in at the open door. percival opened his eyes and made a sound, to which brian answered immediately by giving him something to drink. "you've broken your promise," said percival, in a whisper, keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on brian's face. "no. you have never been delirious, so i never needed to leave you." "a quibble," murmured heron, with the faintest possible smile. "however--i'm not sorry to have you here. you'll stay now, even if i talk nonsense?" "of course i will." brian was glad of the request. in another moment the patient had relapsed into insensibility; but, curiously enough, after this, conversation, percival's mind began to wander, and he "talked nonsense" as persistently as the others had done. brian could not see why he had at first told him to keep away. he was quite prepared for some revelation of strong feeling against himself, but none ever came. elizabeth's name occurred very frequently; but for the most, part, it was connected with reminiscences of the past of which brian knew nothing. early meetings, walks about london, boy and girl quarrels were talked of, but about recent events he was silent. brian wondered whether he himself and fenwick would also succumb to the malarious influences of the place; but these two escaped. fenwick was never ill; and brian grew stronger every day. when percival opened his eyes once more upon him, after three weeks of illness, he said, abruptly:-- "ah, if you had looked like that when you came on board the _arizona_, i should never have been deceived." brian smiled, and made no answer. percival watched him hobbling about the room for some minutes, and then said:-- "how long have we been on the island?" "forty-seven days." "and not a sail in sight the whole time?" "two, but they did not come near enough to see our signals--or passed them by." "my god!" said percival, faintly. "will it never end?" and then he turned away his face. after a little silence he asked, uneasily:-- "did i say much when i was ill?" "nothing of any consequence." "but about you," said percival, turning his hollow eyes on brian with painful earnestness, "did i talk about you? did i say----" "you never mentioned my name so far as i know. so make your mind easy on that score. now, don't talk any more: you are not fit for it. you must eat, and drink, and sleep, so as to be ready when that dilatory ship comes to take us off." percival did his duty in these respects. he was a more docile patient than brian had expected to find him. but he did not seem to recover his buoyant spirits with his strength. he had long fits of melancholy brooding, in which the habitual line between his brows became more marked than ever. but it was not until two or three weeks more of their strangely monotonous existence had passed by, that brian luttrell got any clue to the kind of burden that was weighing upon heron's mind. the day had been fiercely hot, but the night was cool, and brian had half-closed the door through which the sea-breeze was blowing, and the light of the stars shone down. he and percival continued to share this hut (the other being tenanted by the three seamen), and brian was sitting on the ground, stirring up a compound of cocoa-nut milk, eggs and brandy, with which he meant to provide percival for supper. percival lay, as usual, on his couch, watching his movements by the starlight. when the draught had been swallowed, heron said:-- "don't go to sleep yet. i wish you would sit down here. i want to say something." brian complied, and percival went on in his usual abrupt fashion. "you know i rather thought i should not get better." "i know." "it might have been more convenient if i had not. did you never feel so?" "no, never." "if i had been buried on the rocas reef," said percival, with biting emphasis, "you would have kept your promise, gone back to england, and--married elizabeth." "i never considered that possibility," answered brian, with perfect quietness and some coldness. "then you're a better fellow than i am. look here," said percival, with vehemence, "in your place i could not have nursed a man through an illness as you have done. the temptation would have been too strong: i should have killed him." "i am sure you would have done nothing of the kind, heron. you are incapable of treachery." "you won't say so when you know all that i am going to tell you. prepare your mind for deeds of villainy," said percival, rallying his forces and trying to laugh; "for i am going to shock your virtuous ear. it's been on my mind ever since i was taken ill; and i was so afraid that i should let it out when i was light-headed, that, as you know, i asked you not to stay with me." "don't tell me now: i'll take it on trust. any time will do," said brian, shrinking a little from the allusion to his own story that he knew would follow. "no time like the present," responded heron, obstinately. "i've been a pig-headed brute; that's the chief thing. now, don't interrupt, luttrell. miss murray, you know, was engaged to me when you first saw her." "yes, but i didn't know it!" said brian, with vehemence almost equal to percival's own. "of course you didn't. i understand all that. it was the most natural thing in the world for you to admire her." "admire her!" repeated brian, in an enigmatic tone. "let the word stand for something stronger if you don't like it. perhaps you do not know that your friend, dino vasari, the man who claimed to be brian luttrell, betrayed your secrets to me. it was he who told me your name, and your love for miss murray. she had mentioned that to me, too; or rather i made her tell me." "dino confessed that he had been to you," said brian, who was sitting with his hand arched over his eyes. "he had some wild idea of making a sort of compromise about the property, to which i was to be a party." "did he tell you the terms of the compromise?" "no." "then i won't--just now. i'll tell you what i did, luttrell, and you may call me a cad for it, if you like: i refused to do anything towards bringing about this compromise, and, although i knew when you were to sail, i did not try to detain you! you should have heard the blowing-up i had afterwards from old colquhoun for not dropping a word to him!" "i am very glad you did not. he could not have hindered me." "yes, he could. or i could. some of us would have hindered you, you may depend on it. and, if i had said that word, don't you see, you would never have set foot in the _falcon_ nor i in the _arizona_, and we should both have been safe at home, instead of disporting ourselves, like robinson crusoe and his man friday, on a desert island." "it's too late to think of that now," said brian, rather sadly. "too late! that's the worst of it. you've the right to reproach me. of course, i know i was to blame." "no, i don't see that. i don't reproach you in the least. you knew so little, that it must have seemed unnecessary to make a fuss about what you had heard." "i heard quite enough," said percival, with a short laugh. "i knew what i ought to do--and i didn't do it. that's the long and the short of it. if i had spoken, you would not be here. that makes the sting of it to me now." "don't think of that. i don't mind. you made up for all by coming after me." "i think," said percival, emphatically, "that if a word could have killed you when i first knew who you were, you wouldn't have had much chance of life, luttrell. i was worse than that afterwards. if ever i had the temptation to take a man's life----" "keep all that to yourself," said brian, in a quick, resolute tone. "there is no use in telling it to me. you conquered the temptation, if there was one; that i know; and if there was anything else, forget it, as i shall forget what you have told me. i have something to ask your pardon for, besides." percival's chest heaved; the emotion of the moment found vent in one audible sob. he stretched out his hand, which brian clasped in silence. for a few minutes neither of them spoke. "it was chiefly to prove to myself that i was not such a black sheep as some persons declared me to be, that i made up my mind to follow you and bring you back," said percival, with his old liveliness of tone. "you see i had been more selfish than anybody knew. shall i tell you how?" "if you like." "you say you don't know what dino vasari suggested. that subtle young man made a very bold proposition. he said he would give up his claim to the property if i would relinquish my claim to miss murray's hand. the property and the hand thus set at liberty were both to be bestowed upon you, mr. brian luttrell. dino vasari was then to retire to his monastery, and i to mine--that is, to my bachelor's diggings and my club--after annihilating time and space 'to make two lovers happy.'" "don't jest on that subject," said brian in a low, pained tone. "what a wild idea! poor dino!" "poor me, i think, since i was to be in every sense the loser. i am sorry to say i didn't treat your friend with civility, luttrell. after your departure, however, he went himself to netherglen, and there, it seems, he put the finishing stroke to any claim that he might have on the property." and then percival proceeded to relate, as far as he knew it, the story of dino's visit to mrs. luttrell, its effect on mrs. luttrell's health, and the urgent necessity that there was for brian to return and arrange matters with elizabeth. brian tried to evade the last point, but percival insisted on it so strongly that he was obliged to give him a decisive answer. "no," he said, at last. "i'm sorry to make it seem as if your voyage had been in vain; but, if we ever get off the rocas reef, i shall go on to the brazils. there is not the least reason for me to go home. i could not possibly touch a penny of the luttrells' money after what has happened. miss murray must keep it." "but, you see, there will be legal forms to go through, even if she does keep it, for which your presence will be required." "you don't mean that, heron; you know i can do all that in writing." "you won't get miss murray to touch a farthing of it either." "you must persuade her," said brian, calmly. "i think you will understand my feeling, when i say that i would rather she had it--she and you--than anybody in the world." "you must come back. i promised to bring you back," returned percival, with some agitation of manner. "i said that i would not go back without you." "i will write to mr. colquhoun and explain." "confound it! what colquhoun thinks does not signify. it is elizabeth whom i promised." "well," said brian slowly, and with some difficulty, "i think i can explain it to her, too, if you will let me write to her." percival suppressed a groan. "why should i go back?" asked luttrell. "i see no reason." "and i wish you did not drive me to tell you the reason," said percival, in crabbed, reluctant tones. "but it must come, sooner or later. if you won't go for any other reason, will you go when i tell you that elizabeth murray cares for you as she never cared for me, and never will care for any other man in the world? that was why i came to fetch you back; and, if you don't find it a reason for going back and marrying her, why--you deserve to stop on the rocas reef for the remainder of your natural life!" chapter xl. kitty. winter had come to our cold northern isles. the snow lay thick upon the ground, but a sharp frost had made it hard and crisp. it sparkled in a flood of brilliant sunshine; the air was fresh and exhilarating, the sky transparently blue. it was a pleasant day for walking, and one that miss kitty heron seemed thoroughly to enjoy, as she trod the white carpet with which nature had provided the world. she carried a little basket on her arm: a basket filled with good things for some children in a cottage not far from strathleckie. the good things were of elizabeth's providing; but kitty acted as her almoner. kitty was a very charming almoner, with her slight, graceful little figure and _mignonne_ face set off by a great deal of brown fur and a dress of deep indian red. the sharpness in the air brought a faint colour to her cheeks--kitty was generally rather pale--and a new brightness to her pretty eyes. there was something delightfully bewitching about her: something provoking and coquettish: something of which hugo luttrell was pleasantly conscious as he came down the road to meet her and then walked for a little way at her side. they did not say very much. there were a few ardent speeches from him, a vehement sort of love-making, which kitty parried with a good deal of laughing adroitness, some saucy speeches from her which all the world might have heard, and then the cottage was reached. "let me go in with you," said hugo. "certainly not. you would frighten the children." "am i so very terrible? not to you; don't say that i frighten you." "i should think not," said kitty, with a little toss sideways of her dainty head. "i am frightened of nothing." "i should think not. i should think that you were the bravest of women, as you are the most charming." "oh, please! i am not accustomed to these compliments. i must take my cakes to the children. good-bye." "good-bye," said hugo, taking her hand, and keeping it in his own while he spoke. "i may wait for you here and go back with you to strathleckie, may i not?" "oh, dear, no," said kitty. "you'll catch cold." then she looked down at her imprisoned hand, and up into his face, sweetly smiling all the time, and, if they had not been within sight of the cottage windows, hugo would have taken her in his arms and kissed her there and then. "i never catch cold. i shall walk about here till you come back. you don't dislike my company, i hope?" it was said vehemently, with a sudden kindling of his dark eyes. "oh, no," answered kitty, feeling rather frightened, in spite of her previous professions of courage, though she did not quite know why. "i shall be very pleased. i must go now." and then she vanished hastily into the cottage. hugo waited for some time, little guessing the fact that she was protracting her visit as much as possible, and furtively peeping through the blinds now and then in order to see if he were gone. kitty had had some experience of his present mood, and was not certain that she liked it. but his patience was greater than hers. she was forced to come out at last, and before she had gone two steps he was at her side. "i thought you were never going to leave that wretched hole," he said. "don't call it a wretched hole. it is very clean and nice. i often think that i should like to live in a cottage like that." "with someone who loved you," said hugo, coming nearer, and gazing into her face. kitty made a little _moue_. "the cottage would only hold one person comfortably," she said. "then you shall not live in a cottage. you shall live in a far pleasanter place. what should you say to a little villa on the shores of the mediterranean, with orange groves behind it, and the beautiful blue sea before? should you like that, kitty? you have only to say the word, and you know that it will be yours." "then i won't say the word," said kitty, turning away her head. "i like scotland better than the mediterranean." "then let it be scotland. what should you say to netherglen?" "i prefer strathleckie," replied the girl, with her most provoking smile. "that is no answer. you must give me an answer some day," said hugo, whose voice was beginning to tremble. "you know what i mean: you know----" "oh, what a lovely bit of bramble in the hedge!" cried kitty, making believe that she had not been listening. "look, it has still a leaf or two, and the stem is frosted all over and the veins traced in silver! do get it for me: i must take it home." hugo did her bidding rather unwillingly; but his sombre eyes were lighted with a reluctant smile, or a sort of glow that did duty for a smile, as she thanked him. "it is beautiful: it is like a piece of fairies' embroidery; far more beautiful than jewels would be. oh, i wonder how people can make such a fuss about jewels, when they are so much less beautiful than these simple, natural things." "these will soon melt away; jewels won't melt," said hugo. "i should like to see you with jewels on your neck and arms--you ought to be covered with diamonds." "that is not complimentary," laughed kitty, "it sounds as if you thought they would make me better-looking. now, you should compliment a person on what she is, and not on what she might be." "i have got beyond the complimentary stage," said hugo. "what is the use of telling you that you are the most beautiful girl i ever met, or the most charming, or anything of that kind? the only thing i know"--and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and spoke with a fierce intensity that made kitty shrink away from him--"the only thing i know is that you are the one woman in the world for me, and that i would sooner see you dead at my feet than married to another man!" kitty had turned pale: how was she to reply? she cast her eyes up and down the road in search of some suggestion. oh, joy and relief! she saw a figure in the distance. perhaps it was somebody from strathleckie; they were not far from the lodge now. she spoke with renewed courage, but she did not know exactly what she said. "who is this coming down the road? he is going up to strathleckie, i believe; he seems to be pausing at the gates. oh, i hope it is a visitor. i do like having the house full; and we have been so melancholy since percival went on that horrid expedition to brazil. who can it be?" "what does it matter?" said hugo. "can you not listen to me for one moment? kitty--darling--wait!" "i can't; i really can't!" said kitty, quickening her pace almost to a run. "oh, hugo--mr. luttrell--you must not say such things--besides--look, it's mr. vivian; it really is! i haven't seen him for two years." and she actually ran away from him, coming face to face with her old friend, at the strathleckie gates. hugo followed sullenly. he did not like to be repulsed in that way. and he had reasons for wishing to gain kitty's consent to a speedy marriage. he wanted to leave the country before the return of percival heron, whose errand to south america he guessed pretty accurately, although mr. colquhoun had thought fit to leave him in the dark about it. hugo surmised, moreover, that dino had told brian luttrell the history of hugo's conduct to him in london: if so, brian luttrell was the last man whom hugo desired to meet. and if brian returned to england with percival, the story would probably become known to the herons; and then how could he hope to marry kitty? with brian's return, too, some alteration in mrs. luttrell's will might possibly be expected. the old lady's health had lately shown signs of improvement: if she were to recover sufficiently to indicate her wishes to her son, hugo might find himself deprived of all chance of netherglen. for these reasons he was disposed to press for a speedy conclusion to the matter. he came up to the gates, and found kitty engaged in an animated conversation with mr. vivian; her cheeks were carnation, and her eyes brilliant. she was laughing with rather forced vivacity as he approached. in his opinion she had seldom appeared to more advantage; while to rupert's eyes she seemed to have altered for the worse. dangerously, insidiously pretty, she was, indeed; but a vain little thing, no doubt; a finished coquette by the way she talked and lifted her eyes to hugo's handsome face; possibly even a trifle fast and vulgar. not the simple child of sixteen whom he had last seen in gower-street. "won't you come in, hugo? i am sure everybody would be pleased to see you," said poor kitty, unconscious of being judged, as she tried to propitiate hugo by a pleading look. she did not like him to go away with such a cross look upon his face--that was all. but as she did not say that she would be pleased to see him, hugo only sulked the more. "how cross he looks! i am rather glad he is not coming in," said kitty, confidentially, as hugo walked away, and she escorted rupert up the long and winding drive. "and where did you come from? i did not know that you were near us." "i have been staying at lord cecil's, thirty miles from dunmuir. i thought that i should like to call, as you were still in this neighbourhood. i wrote to mrs. heron about it. i hope she received my note?" "i see you don't know the family news," said kitty, with a beaming smile. "i have a new stepsister, just three weeks old, and isabel is already far too much occupied with the higher education of women to attend to such trifles as notes. she generally hands them over to elizabeth or papa. then, you know, papa broke one of his ribs and his collar-bone a fortnight ago, and i expect that this accident will keep us at strathleckie for another month or two." "that accounts for you being here so late in the year." "or so early! this is january, not december. but i think we may stay until the spring. it is not worth while to take a london house now." kitty spoke so dolefully that rupert was obliged to smile. "you are sorry for that?" he said. "yes. we are all rather dull; we want something to enliven us. i hope you will enliven us, mr. vivian." "i am afraid i can hardly hope to do so," said rupert, coldly. "of course, you have not the occupation that you used to have when you were in london." "when i went to school! no, i should think not," said kitty, with her giddiest laugh. "i have locked up my lesson books and thrown away the key. so you must not lecture me on my studies as you used to do, mr. vivian." "i should not presume to do so," he said, with rather unnecessary stiffness. "but you used to do it! have you forgotten?" asked kitty, peeping up at him archly from under her long, curling eyelashes. there was a momentary smile upon his lips, but it disappeared as he answered quietly:-- "what was allowable when you were a child, would justly be resented by you now, miss heron." "i should not resent it; indeed i should not mind," said kitty, eagerly. "i should like it: i always like being lectured, and told what i ought to do. i should be glad if you would scold me again about my reading; i have nobody to tell me anything now." "i could not possibly take the responsibility," said rupert. "if you have thrown away the key of your book-box, miss heron, i don't think that you will be anxious to find it again." "oh, but the lock could be picked!" cried kitty, and then repented her words, for rupert's impassive face showed no interest beyond that required by politeness. the tears were very near her eyes, but she got rid of them somehow, and plunged into a neat and frosty style of conversation which she heartily detested. "this is strathleckie; you have never seen it before, i think? it is on the leckie property, but it is not an old place like netherglen. i think it was built in ." "not a very good style of architecture," said rupert, scanning it with an attentive eye. "a good style of architecture, indeed!" commented kitty to herself, as she ran away to her own room, after committing mr. vivian to the care of her step-mother, who was lying on a sofa in the drawing-room, quite ready to unfold her views about the higher education of girls. "what a piece of ice he is! he used not to be so frigid. i wonder if we offended him in any way before we left london. he has never been nice since then. nice? he is simply hateful!" and kitty stamped on the floor of her bed-room with alarming vehemence, but the crystal drops that had been so long repressed were trembling on her eyelashes, and giving to her face the grieved look of a child. meanwhile vivian was thinking:--"what a pity she is so spoilt! a coquettish, hare-brained flirt: that is all that she is now, and she promised to be a sweet little woman two years ago! what business had she to be out walking with hugo luttrell? i should have heard of it if they were going to be married. i suppose she has had nobody to look after her. and yet miss murray always struck me as a sensible, staid kind of girl. why can she not keep her cousin in order?" and then rupert was conscious of a certain sense of impatience for kitty's return, much as he disapproved of her alluring ways. he was prevailed on to stay the night, and his visit was prolonged day after day, until it was accepted as a settled thing that he would remain for some time--perhaps even until percival came home. it had been calculated that percival might easily be home in february. he could not easily maintain the coldness and reserve with which he had begun to treat kitty heron. there was something so winning and so childlike about her at times, that he dropped unconsciously into the old familiar tone. then he would try to draw back, and would succeed, perhaps, in saying something positively rude or unkind, which would bring the tears to her eyes, and the flush of vexation to her face. at least, if it was not really unkind it sounded so to kitty, and that came to the same thing. and when she was vexed, he was illogical enough to feel uncomfortable. but kitty's crowning offence was her behaviour at a dinner-party, on the occasion of the christening of mrs. heron's little girl. hugo luttrell and the two young grants from dunmuir were amongst the guests; and with them kitty amused herself. she did not mean any harm, poor child; she chattered gaily and looked up into their faces, with a gleeful consciousness that rupert was watching her, and that she could show him now that some people admired her if he did not. archie grant certainly admired her prodigiously; he haunted her steps all through the evening, hung over the piano when she sang a gay little french _chanson_; turned over a portfolio of mr. heron's sketches with her in a corner. on the other hand, hugo, who took her in to dinner, whispered things to her that made her start and blush. vivian would have liked very much to know what he said. he did not approve of that darkly handsome face, with the haggard, evil-looking eyes, being thrust so close to kitty's soft cheeks and pretty flower-decked head. he was glad to think that he had prevailed on angela to leave netherglen. he was not fond of hugo luttrell. he was stiffer and graver than usual that evening; not even the appearance of the newly-christened dorothy elizabeth, in a very long white robe, won a smile from him. he never approached kitty--never said a word to her--until he was obliged to say good-night. and then she looked up to him with her dancing eyes and pretty smile, and said:-- "you never came near me all the evening, and you had promised to sing a duet with me." "is the little coquette trying her wiles on me!" thought rupert, sternly; but aloud he answered, with grave indifference, "you were better employed. you had your own friends." "and are you not a friend?" cried kitty, biting her lip. "i am not your contemporary. i cannot enter into competition with these younger men," he answered, quietly. kitty quitted him in a rage. elizabeth encountered her as she ran upstairs, her cheeks crimson, her lips quivering, her eyes filled with tears. "my dear kitty, what is the matter?" she said, laying a gently detaining hand on the girl's arm. "nothing--nothing at all," declared kitty; but she suffered herself to be drawn into elizabeth's room, and there, sinking into a low seat by the fire, she detailed her wrongs. "he hates me; i know he does, and i hate him! he thinks me a horrid, frivolous girl; and so i am! but he needn't tell me that he does not want to be a friend of mine!" "well, perhaps, you are rather too old to take him for a friend in the way you used to do," said elizabeth, smiling a little. "you were a child then; and you are eighteen now, you know, kitty. he treats you as a woman: that is all. it is a compliment." "then i don't like his compliments: i hate them!" kitty asseverated. "i would rather he let me alone." "don't think about him, dear. if he does not want to be friendly with you, don't try to be friendly with him." "i won't," said kitty, in the tone of one who has taken a solemn resolution. then she rose, and surveyed herself critically in elizabeth's long mirror. "i am sure i looked very nice," she said. "this pink dress suits me to perfection and the lace is lovely. and then the silver ornaments! i'm glad i did not wear anything that he gave me, at any rate. i nearly put on the necklace he sent me when i was seventeen; i'm glad i did not." "dearest kitty, why should you mind what he thinks?" said elizabeth, coming to her side, and looking at the exquisitely-pretty little figure reflected in the glass, a figure to which her own, draped in black lace, formed a striking contrast. but she was almost sorry that she had said the words, for kitty immediately threw herself on her cousin's shoulder and burst into tears. the fit of crying did not last long, and kitty was unfeignedly ashamed of it: she dried her tears with a very useless-looking lace handkerchief, laughed at herself hysterically, and then ran away to her own room, leaving elizabeth to wish that the sense and spirit that really existed underneath that butterfly-like exterior would show itself on the surface a little more distinctly. but the last thing she dreamed of was that kitty, with all her little follies, would outrage rupert's sense of the proprieties in the way she did in the course of the following morning. rupert was standing alone in the drawing-room, looking out of a window which commanded an extensive view. neither mr. nor mrs. heron had come downstairs. kitty had breakfasted in her own room; elizabeth was busy. mr. vivian was wondering whether it might not be as well to go back to london. it vexed him to see little kitty heron flirting with half-a-dozen men at once. a voice at the door caused him to turn round. kitty was entering, and as her hands were full, she had some difficulty in turning the handle. rupert moved forward to assist her, and uttered a courteous good-morning, but kitty only looked at him with flushed cheeks and wide-open resentful eyes, and made no answer. she was wearing an embroidered apron over her dark morning frock, and this apron, gathered up by the corners in her hands, was full of various articles which rupert could not see. he was thoroughly taken aback, therefore, when she poured its contents in an indiscriminate heap upon the sofa, and said, in a decided tone:-- "there are all the things you ever gave me; and i would rather not keep them any longer. i take presents only from my friends." foolish kitty! chapter xli. kitty's friends. "how have i had the misfortune to offend you?" said rupert, in a voice from which he could not banish irony as completely as he would have liked to do. "you said so yourself," replied kitty, facing him with the dignity of a small princess. "you said that you were not my friend now." "when did i make that statement?" said rupert, lifting his eyebrows. "last night. and i knew it. you are not kind as you used to be. it does not matter to me at all; only i felt that i did not like to keep these things--and i brought them back." "and what am i to do with them?" said rupert, approaching the sofa and looking at the untidy little heap. he gave a subdued laugh, which offended kitty dreadfully. "i don't see anything to laugh at," she said. "neither do i." but the smile still trembled on his finely-cut mouth. "what did you mean me to do with these things?" he asked. "these are trifles: why don't you throw them into the fire if you don't value them?" "they are not all trifles; and i did value them before you came to see us this time," said kitty, with a lugubriousness which ought to have convinced him of her sincerity. "there are some bangles, and a cup and saucer, and two books; and there is the chain that you sent me by mr. luttrell in the autumn." "ah, that chain," said vivian, and then he took it up and weighed it lightly in his hand. "i have never seen you wear it. i thought at first that you had got it on last night: but my eyes deceived me. my sight is not so good as it used to be. really, miss heron, you make me ashamed of my trumpery gifts: pray take them away, and let me give you something prettier on your next birthday for old acquaintance sake." "no, indeed!" said kitty. "and why not? because i don't treat you precisely as i did when you were twelve? you really would not like it if i did. no, i shall be seriously offended if you do not take these things away and say no more about them. it would be perfectly impossible for me to take them back; and i think you will see--afterwards--that you should not have asked me to do so." the accents of that calmly inflexible voice were terrible to kitty. he turned to the window and looked out, but, becoming impatient of the silence, walked back to her again, and saw that her face had grown white, and was quivering as if she had received a blow. her eyes were fixed upon the sofa, and her fingers held the chain which he had quietly placed within them; but it was evident that she was doing battle with herself to prevent the tears from falling. rupert felt some remorse: and then hardened himself by a remembrance of the glances that had been exchanged between her and hugo in that very room the night before. "i am old enough to be your father, you know," he began, gravely. this statement was not quite true, but it was true enough for conversational purposes. "i have sent you presents on your birthday since you were a very little girl, and i hope i may always do so. there is no need for you to reject them, because i think it well to remember that you are not a child any longer, but a young lady who has 'come out,' and wears long frocks, and does her hair very elaborately," he said, casting a smiling glance at kitty's carefully-frizzled head. "i certainly do not wish to cease to be friends with--all of you; and i hope you will not drive me away from a house where i have been accustomed to forget the cares of the world a little, and find pleasant companionship and relaxation." "oh, mr. vivian!" said kitty, in a loud whisper. the suggestion that she had power to drive him away seemed almost impious. she felt completely crushed. "don't think any more about it," said rupert, kindly, if condescendingly. "i never wished to be less of a friend to you than i was when you lived in gower-street; but you must remember that you are a great deal altered from the little girl that i used to know." kitty could not speak; she stooped and began to gather the presents again into her apron. vivian came and helped her. he could not forbear giving her hand a little kindly pat when he had finished, as if he had been dealing with a child. but the playful caress, if such it might be called, had no effect on kitty's sore and angry feelings. she was terribly ashamed of herself now: she could hardly bear to remember his calmly superior tone, his words of advice, which seemed to place her on a so much lower footing than himself. but in a day or two this feeling wore off. he was so kindly and friendly in manner, that she was emboldened to laugh at the recollection of the tone in which he had alluded to her elaborately-dressed hair and long dresses, and to devise a way of surprising him. she came down one day to afternoon tea in an old school-girlish dress of blue serge, rather short about the ankles, a red and white pinafore, and a crimson sash. her hair was loose about her neck, and had been combed over her forehead in the fashion in which she wore it in her childish days. thus attired, she looked about fourteen years old, and the shy way in which she glanced at the company from under her eyelashes, added to the impression of extreme youth. to carry out the character, she held a battledore and shuttlecock in her hand. "kitty, are you rehearsing for a fancy ball?" said mrs. heron. "no, isabel. i only thought i would try to transform myself into a little girl again, and see what it felt like. do i look very young indeed?" "you look about twelve. you absurd child!" "is the battledore for effect, or are you going to play a game with it?" asked rupert, who had been surveying her with cold criticism in his eyes. "for effect, of course. don't you think it is a very successful attempt?" she said, looking up at him saucily. he made no answer. elizabeth wanted the tea-kettle at that moment, and he moved to fetch it. hugo luttrell, however, who was paying a call at the house, was ready enough with a reply. "it could not be more successful," he said, looking at her admiringly. "i suppose"--in a lowered tone--"that you looked like this in the school-room. i am glad those days are over, at any rate." "i am not," said kitty, helping herself to bread and butter. "i should like them all over again--lessons and all." she stole a glance at rupert, but his still face betrayed no consciousness of her remark. "i am going to keep up my character. i am going to play at battledore and shuttlecock with the boys in the dining-room. who will come, too? _qui m'aime me suit._" "then i will be the first to follow," said hugo, in her ear. she pouted and drank her tea, glancing half-reluctantly toward rupert. but he would not heed. "i will come, too," said elizabeth, relieving the awkwardness of a rather long pause. "i always like to see you play. kitty is as light as a bird," she added to mr. vivian, who bowed and looked profoundly uninterested. nevertheless, in a few minutes he found the drawing-room so dull without the young people, that he, too, descended to see what was going on. he heard the sound of counting in breathless voices as he drew near the drawing-room. "ninety-eight, ninety-nine, three hundred. one, two, three----" "kitty and mr. luttrell have kept up to three hundred and three, mr. vivian!" cried one of the boys as he entered the room. mr. vivian joined the spectators. it was a pretty sight. kitty, with her floating locks, flushed face, trim, light figure, and unerring accuracy of eye, was well measured against hugo's lithe grace and dexterity. the two went on until eight hundred and twenty had been reached; then the shuttlecock fell to the ground. kitty had glanced aside and missed her aim. "you must try, now, mr. vivian," she said, advancing towards him, battledore in hand, and smiling triumphantly in his face. "no, thank you," said rupert, who had been shading his eyes with one hand, as if the light of the lamps had tried them: "i could not see." "could you not? oh, you are short-sighted, perhaps. ah! there go hugo and johnny. this is better than being grown-up, i think. am i like the little girl that you used to know in gower-street now, mr. vivian?" it was perhaps her naming hugo so familiarly that caused rupert to reply, with a smile that was more cutting than reproof would have been:-- "i prefer the little girl in gower-street still." from the colour that instantly overspread her face and neck, he saw that she was hurt or offended--he did not know which. she left his side immediately, and plunged into the game with renewed ardour. she played until hugo left the house about seven o'clock; and then she rushed up to her room and bolted herself in with unnecessary violence. she came down to dinner in a costume as different as possible from the one which she had worn in the afternoon. her dress was of some shining white stuff, very long, very much trimmed, cut very low at the neck; her hair was once more touzled, curled and pinned, in its most elaborate fashion; and her gold necklet and bracelets were only fit for a dinner-party. it is to be feared that rupert vivian did not admire her taste in dress. if she had worn white cotton it would had pleased him better. there was a wall between them once more. she was more conscious of it than he was, but he did not perceive that something was wrong. he saw that she would not look at him, would not speak to him; he supposed that he had offended her. he himself was aware of an increasing feeling of dissatisfaction--whether with her, or with her circumstances, he could not define--and this feeling found expression in a sentence which he addressed to her two days after the game of battledore and shuttlecock. hugo had been to the house again, and had been even less guarded than usual in his love-making. kitty meant to put a stop to it sooner or later; but she did not quite know how to do it (not having had much experience in these matters, in spite of the coquettishness which rupert attributed to her), and also she did not want to do it just at present, because of her instinctive knowledge of the fact that it annoyed mr. vivian. she was too much of a child to know that she was playing with edged tools. so she allowed hugo a very long hand-clasp when he said good-bye, and held a whispered consultation with him at the door in a confidential manner, which put rupert very much out of temper. then she came back to the drawing-room fire, laughing a little, with an air of pretty triumph. rupert was leaning against the mantelpiece; no one else was in the room. kitty knelt down on the rug, and warmed her hands at the fire. "we have such a delightful secret, hugo and i," she said, brightly. "you would never guess what it was. shall i tell it to you?" "no," he answered, shortly. "no?" she lifted her eyebrows in astonishment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "you are not very polite to me, mr. vivian!" she said, half-playfully, half-pettishly. "i do not wish to share any secret that you and mr. hugo luttrell may have between you," said rupert, with emphasis. kitty's face changed a little. "don't you like him?" she said, in a rather timid voice. "before i answer i should like to know whether you are engaged to marry him," said mr. vivian. "certainly not. i never dreamt of such a thing. you ought not to ask such a question," said kitty, turning scarlet. "i suppose i ought not. i beg your pardon. but i thought it was the case." "why should you think so?" said kitty, turning her face away from him. "you would have heard about it, you know--and besides--nobody ever thought of such a thing." "excuse me: mr. luttrell seems to have thought of it," said rupert, with rather an angry laugh. "what mr. luttrell thinks of is no business of yours," said kitty. "you cannot deny it then!" exclaimed vivian, with a mixture of bitterness and sarcastic triumph in his tone. she made no answer. he could not see her face, but the way in which she was twisting her fingers together spoke of some agitation. he tried to master himself; but he was under the empire of an emotion of which he himself had not exactly grasped the meaning nor estimated the power. he walked to the window and back again somewhat uncertainly; then paused at about two yards' distance from her kneeling figure, and addressed her in a voice which he kept carefully free from any trace of excitement. "i have no right to speak, i know," he said, "and, if i were not so much older than yourself, or if i had not promised to be your friend, kitty, i would keep silence. i want you to be on your guard with that man. he is not the sort of man that you ought to encourage, or whom you would find any happiness in loving." "i thought it was not considered generous for one man to blacken another's character behind his back," said kitty, quickly. "well, you are right, it is not. if i had put myself into rivalry with hugo luttrell, of course, i should have to hold my tongue. but as i am only an outsider--an old friend who takes a kindly interest in the child that he has seen grow up--i think i am justified in saying, kitty, that i do not consider young luttrell worthy of you." the calm, unimpassioned tones produced their usual effect on poor kitty. she felt thoroughly crushed. and yet there was a rising anger in her heart. what reason had rupert vivian to hold himself so far aloof from her? was he not percival's friend? why should he look down from such heights of superiority upon percival's sister? "i speak to you in this way," rupert went on, with studied quietness, "because you have less of the guardianship usually given to girls of your age than most girls have. mrs. heron is, i know, exceedingly kind and amiable, but she has her own little ones to think of, and then she, too, is young. miss murray, although sensible and right-thinking in every way, is too near your own age to be a guide for you. percival is away. therefore, you must let me take an elder brother's place to you for once, and warn you when i see that you are in danger." kitty had risen from her knees, and was now standing, with her face still averted, and her lips hidden by a feather fan which she had taken from the mantelpiece. there was a sharper ring in her voice as she replied. "you seem to think i need warning. you seem to think i cannot take care of myself. you have reminded me once or twice lately that i was a woman now and not a child. pray, allow me the woman's privilege of choosing for myself." "i am sorry to have displeased you," said vivian, gravely. "am i to understand that my warning comes too late?" there was a moment's pause before she answered coldly:-- "quite too late." "your choice has fallen upon hugo luttrell?" kitty was stripping the feathers ruthlessly from her fan. she answered with an agitated little laugh: "that is not a fair question. you had better ask him." "i think i do not need," said rupert. then, in a low and rather ironical tone, he added, "pray accept my congratulations." she bowed her head with a scornful smile, and let him leave the room without another word. what was the use of speaking? the severance was complete between them now. they had quarrelled before, but kitty felt, bitterly enough, that now they were not quarrelling. she had built up a barrier between them which he was the last man to tear down. he would simply turn his back upon her now and go his own way. and she did not know how to call him back. she felt vaguely that her innocent little wiles were lost upon him. she might put on her prettiest dresses, and sing her sweetest songs, but they would never cause him to linger a moment longer by her side than was absolutely necessary. he had given her up. she felt, too, with a great swelling of heart, that her roused pride had made her imply what was not true. he would always think that she was engaged to hugo luttrell. she had, at least, made him understand that she was prepared to accept hugo when he proposed to her. and all the world knew that hugo meant to propose--kitty herself knew it best of all. the day came on which rupert was to return to london. scarcely a word had been interchanged between him and kitty since the conversation which has been recorded. she thought, as she stole furtive glances towards him from time to time, that he looked harassed, and even depressed, but in manner he was more cheerful than it was his custom to be. when the time came for saying good-bye, he held out his hand to her with a kindly smile. "come, kitty," he said, "let us be friends." her heart gave a wild leap which seemed almost to suffocate her; she looked up into his face with changing colour and eager eyes. "i am sorry," she began, with a little gasp. "i did not mean all i said the other day, and i wanted to tell you----" to herself it seemed as if these words were a tremendous self-betrayal; to vivian they were less than nothing--commonplace sentences enough; uttered in a frightened, childish tone. "did you not mean it all?" he said, giving her hand a friendly pressure. "well, never mind; neither did i. we are quits, are we not? i will not obtrude my advice upon you again, and you must forgive me for having already done so. good-bye, my dear child; i trust you will be happy." "i shall never be happy," said kitty, withdrawing her hand from his, "never, never, never!" and then she burst into tears and rushed out of the room. vivian looked after her with a slightly puzzled expression, but did not attempt to call her back. it was not a very favourable day for hugo's suit, and he was received that afternoon in anything but a sunshiny mood by miss heron. for almost the first time she snubbed him unmercifully, but he had been treated with so much graciousness on all previous occasions that the snubs did not produce very much impression upon him. and, finding himself alone with her for a few minutes, he was rash enough to make the venture upon which he had set his heart, without considering whether he had chosen the best moment for the experiment or not. accordingly, he failed. a few brief words passed between them, but the few were sufficient to convince hugo luttrell that he had never won kitty heron's heart. to his infinite surprise and mortification, she refused his offer of marriage most decidedly. chapter xlii. a false alarm. angela's departure from netherglen had already taken place. hugo was not sorry that she was gone. her gentle words and ways were a restraint upon him: he felt obliged to command himself in her presence. and self-command was becoming more and more a difficult task. what he wanted to say or to do presented itself to him with overmastering force: it seemed foolishly weak to give up, for the sake of a mere scruple of conscience, any design on which he had set his heart. and above all things in life he desired just now to win kitty heron for himself. "she has deceived me," he thought, as he sat alone on the evening of the day on which she had refused to marry him. "she made me believe that she cared for me, the little witch, and then she deliberately threw me over. i suppose she wants to marry vivian. i'll stop that scheme. i'll tell her something about vivian which she does not know." the fire before which he was sitting burnt up brightly, and threw a red glow on the dark panelling of the room, on the brocaded velvet of the old chair against which he leaned his handsome head, on the pale, but finely-chiselled, features of his face. the look of subtlety, of mingled passion and cruelty, was becoming engraved upon that face: in moments of repose its expression was evil and sinister--an expression which told its own tale of his life and thoughts. once, in london, when he had incautiously given himself up in a public place to rejection upon his plans, an artist said to a friend as they passed him by: "that young fellow has got the very look i want for the fallen angel in my picture. there's a sort of malevolent beauty about his face which one doesn't often meet." hugo heard the remark, and smoothed his brow, inwardly determining to control his facial muscles better. he did not wish to give people a bad impression of him. to look like a fallen angel was the last thing he desired. in society, therefore, he took pains to appear gentle and agreeable; but the hours of his solitude were stamping his face with ineradicable traces of the vicious habits, the thoughts of crime, the attempts to do evil, in which his life was passed. the ominous look was strongly marked on his face as he sat by the fire that evening. it was not the firelight only that gave a strange glow to his dark eyes--they were unnaturally luminous, as the eyes of madmen sometimes are, and full of a painful restlessness. the old, dreamy, sensuous languor was seldom seen in their shadowy depths. "i will win her in spite of herself," he went on, muttering the words half-aloud: "i will make her love me whether she will or no. she may fight and she may struggle, but she shall be mine after all. and before very long. before the month is out, shall i say? before brian and her brother come home at any rate. they are expected in february. yes--before february. then, kitty, you will be my wife." he smiled as he said the words, but the smile was not a pleasant one. he did not sleep much that night. he had lately grown very wakeful, and on this night he did not go to bed at all. the servants heard him wandering about the house in the early hours of the morning, opening and shutting doors, pacing the long passages, stealing up and downstairs. one of the maids put her head out of her door, and reported that the house was all lit up as if for a dance--rooms and corridors were illuminated. it was one of hugo's whims that he could not bear the dark. when he walked the house in this way he always lighted every lamp and candle that he could find. he fancied that strange faces looked at him in the dark. confusion and distress reigned next day at netherglen. mr. luttrell had taken upon himself to dismiss one or two of the servants, and this was resented as a liberty by the housekeeper, who had lived there long before he had made his appearance in scotland at all. he had paid two of the maids a month's wages in advance, and told them to leave the house within four-and-twenty hours. the household had already been considerably reduced, and the indignant housekeeper immediately announced her intention of going to mr. colquhoun and inquiring whether young mr. luttrell had been legally empowered to manage his aunt's affairs. and seeing that this really was her intention, hugo smiled and spoke her fair. "you're a little hard on me, mrs. shairp," he said, in dulcet tones. "i was going to speak to you privately about these arrangements. you, of course, ought never to go away from netherglen, and, whoever goes, you shall not. you must be here to welcome mr. brian when he comes home again, and to give my wife a greeting when i bring her to netherglen--which i hope i shall do very shortly." "an' wha's the leddy, maister hugo?" said the housekeeper, a little mollified by his words. "it'll be miss murray, maybe? the mistress liked the glint of her bonny een. 'jean,' she said to me; the day miss murray cam' to pay her respects, 'jean, yon lassie steps like a princess.' ye'll be nae sae far wrang, maister hugo, if it's miss murray that ye mak' your bride." "it is not miss murray," said hugo, carelessly; "it is her cousin, miss heron." mrs. shairp's eyebrows expressed astonishment and contempt, although her lips murmured only--"that wee bit lassie!" but she made no further objection to the plan which hugo now suggested to her. he wanted her not to leave mrs. luttrell's service (or so he said), but to take a few weeks' holiday. she had a sister in aberdeen--could she not pay this sister a visit? mrs. luttrell should have every care during the housekeeper's absence--two trained nurses were with her night and day; and a miss corcoran, a cousin of the luttrell family, was shortly expected. mr. colquhoun had spoken to him about the necessity of economy, and for that reason he wished to reduce the number of servants as much as possible. he was going away to london, and there would be no need of more than one servant in the house. in fact, the gardener and his wife could do all that would be required. "me leave my mistress to the care o' john robertson and his wife!" ejaculated the housekeeper, indignantly. whereupon hugo had to convince her that mrs. luttrell was perfectly safe in the hands of the two nurses--at any rate for a week. during that week, one or two necessary alterations could be made in the house--there was a water-pipe and a drain that needed attention, in hugo's opinion--and this could be done while the house was comparatively empty--"before brian came home." with this formula he never failed to calm mrs. shairp's wrath and allay her rising fears. for she had fears. she did not know why mr. hugo seemed to want her out of the way. she fancied that he had secret plans which he could not carry out if the house were full of servants. she tried every possible pretext for staying at home, but she felt herself worsted at all points when it came to matters of argument. she did not like to appeal to mr. colquhoun. for she knew, as well as everybody in the county knew, that mrs. luttrell had made hugo the heir to all she had to leave; and that before very long he would probably be the master of netherglen. as a matter of fact, he was even now virtually the master, and she had gone beyond her duty, she thought, in trying to argue with him. she did not know what to do, and so she succumbed to his more persistent will. after all, she had no reason to fear that anything would go wrong. she said that she would go for a week or ten days, but not for a longer time. "well, well," said hugo, in a soothing tone, as if he were making a concession, "come back in a week, if you like, my good mrs. shairp. you will find the house very uncomfortable--that is all. i am going to turn painters and decorators loose in the upper rooms; the servants' quarters are in a most dilapidated condition." "if the penters are coming in, it's just the time that i sud be here, sir," said mrs. shairp, firmly, but respectfully. and hugo smiled an assent. as a matter of fact he had got all he wanted. he wanted mrs. shairp out of the house for a week or ten days. for that space of time he wished to have netherglen to himself. she announced, after some hesitation, that she would leave for aberdeen on the twenty-eighth, and that she should stay a week, or at the most, a day or two longer. "she's safe for a fortnight," said hugo to himself with a triumphant smile. he had other preparations to make, and he set to work to make them steadily. it was a remark made by kitty herself at their last interview that had suggested to his mind the whole mad scheme to which he was devoting his mental powers. it all hinged upon the fact that kitty was going to spend a week with some friends in edinburgh--friends whom hugo knew only by name. she went to them on the twenty-seventh. mrs. shairp left netherglen the twenty-eighth. two hours after mrs. shairp had started on her journey the two remaining servants were dismissed. the plumber, who had been severely inspected and cautioned as to his behaviour that morning by mrs. shairp, was sent about his business. one of the nurses was also discharged. the only persons left in the house beside mrs. luttrell, the solitary nurse, and hugo himself, were two; a young kitchen-maid, generally supposed to be somewhat deficient in intellect, and a man named stevens, whom hugo had employed at various times in various capacities, and characterised (with rather an odd smile) as "a very useful fellow." the nurse who remained, protested vigorously against this state of affairs, but was assured by hugo in the politest manner, that it would last only for a day or two, that he regretted it as much as she did, that he would telegraph to edinburgh for another nurse immediately. what could the poor woman do? she was obliged to submit to circumstances. she could no more withstand hugo's smiling, than she liked to refuse--in despite of all rules--the handsome gratuity that he slid into her hand. meanwhile, kitty was trying to forget her past sorrows in the society of some newly-made friends in edinburgh. here, if anywhere, she might forget that rupert vivian had despised her, and that hugo luttrell accused her of being a heartless coquette. she was not heartless--or, at least, not more so than girls of eighteen usually are--but, perhaps, she was a little bit of a coquette. of course, she had acted foolishly with respect to vivian and hugo luttrell. but her foolishness brought its own punishment. it was on the second day of her visit that a telegram was brought to her. she tore it open in some surprise, exclaiming:-- "they must have had news of percival!" then she read the message and turned pale. "what is it?" said one of her friends, coming to her side. kitty held out the paper for her to read. "elizabeth murray, queen's hotel, muirside, to miss heron, merchiston terrace, edinburgh. your father has met with a serious accident, and is not able to move from muirside. he wishes you to come by the next train, which leaves edinburgh at four-thirty. you shall be met at the muirside station either by hugo or myself." "there is time for me to catch the train, is there not?" said kitty, jumping up, with her eyes full of tears. "oh, yes, dear, yes, plenty of time. but who is to go with you?" said mrs. baxter, rather nervously. "i am so sorry john is not at home; but there is scarcely time to let him know." "i can go perfectly well by myself," said kitty. "you must put me into the train at the station, mrs. baxter, under the care of the guard, if you like, and i shall be met at muirside." "where is muirside?" asked jessie baxter, a girl of kitty's age. "five miles from dunmuir. i suppose papa was sketching or something. oh! i hope it is not a very bad accident!" said kitty, turning great, tearful eyes first on mrs. baxter, and then on the girls. "what shall we do! i must go and get ready instantly." they followed her to her room, and anxiously assisted in the preparations for her journey, but even then mrs. baxter could not refrain from inquiring:-- "who is the person who is to meet you? 'hugo'--do you know him?" "oh, yes, he is elizabeth's cousin, and elizabeth is my cousin. we are connections you see. i know him very well," said kitty, with a blush, which mrs. baxter remembered afterwards. "i would go with you myself," she said, "if it were not for the cold, but i am afraid i should be laid up with bronchitis if i went." "let janet go, mamma," cried one of the girls. "i don't want janet, indeed, i don't want her," said kitty, earnestly. "i am much obliged to you, mrs. baxter, but, indeed, i can manage quite well by myself. it is quite a short journey, only two-hours-and-a-half; and it would be a pity to take her, especially as she could not get back to-night." she carried her point, and was allowed to depart without an attendant. mrs. baxter went with her to the station, and put her under the care of the guard who promised to look after her. "you will write to us, kitty, and tell us how mr. heron is," said mrs. baxter, before the train moved off. "yes, i will telegraph," said kitty, "as soon as i reach muirside." "do, dear. i hope you will find him better. take care of yourself," and then the train moved out of the station, and mrs. baxter went home. kitty's journey was a perfectly uneventful one, and would have been comfortable enough but for the circumstances under which she made it. the telegram lay upon her lap, and she read it over and over again with increasing alarm as she noticed its careful vagueness, which seemed to her the worst sign of all. she was heartily relieved when she found that she was nearing muirside: the journey had never seemed so long to her before. it was, indeed, longer than usual, for the railway line was in some places partly blocked with snow, and eight o'clock was past before kitty reached muirside. she looked anxiously out of the window, and saw hugo luttrell on the platform before the train had stopped. he sprang up to the step, and looked at her for a moment without speaking. kitty had time to think that the expression of his face was odd before he replied to her eager questions about her father. "yes, he is a little better; he wants to see you," said hugo at last. "but how has he hurt himself? is he seriously ill? oh, hugo, do tell me everything. anything is better than suspense." "there is no need for such great anxiety; he is a great deal better, quite out of danger," hugo answered, with a rather strange smile. "i will tell you more as we go up to the house. don't be afraid." and then the guard came up to assure himself of the young lady's safety, and to receive his tip. hugo made it a large one. kitty's luggage was already in the hands of a man whom she thought she recognised: she had seen him once or twice with hugo, and once when she paid a state-call at netherglen. just as she was leaving the station, a thought occurred to her, and she turned back. "i said i would telegraph to mrs. baxter as soon as i reached muirside. is it too late?" "the office is shut, i think." "i am so sorry! she will be anxious." "not if you telegraph first thing in the morning," said hugo, soothingly. "or--stay: i'll tell you what you can do. come with me here, into the waiting-room--now you can write your message on a leaf of my pocket-book, and we will leave it with the station-master, to be sent off as soon as possible." "what shall i say?" said kitty, sitting down at the painted deal table, which was sparsely adorned with a water-bottle and a tract, and chafing her little cold hands. "do write it for me, hugo, please. my fingers are quite numb." "poor little fingers! you will be warmer soon," said hugo, with more of his usual manner. "i will write in your name then. 'arrived safely and found my father much better, but will write in a day or two and give particulars.' that does not tie you down, you see. you may be too busy to write to-morrow." "thank you. it will do very nicely." she was left for a few minutes, whilst he went to the station-master with the message, and she took the opportunity of looking at herself in the glass above the mantelpiece, partly in order to see whether her bonnet was straight, partly in order to escape the stare of the waiting-room woman, who seemed to take a great deal of interest in her movements. kitty was rather vexed when hugo returned, to hear him say, in a very distinct tone:-- "come, dearest. we shall be late if we don't set off at once." "hugo!" she ejaculated, as she met him at the door. "what is it, dear? what is wrong?" it seemed to her that he made his words still more purposely distinct. the woman in the waiting-room came to the door, and gazed after them as they moved away towards the carriage which stood in waiting. they made a handsome pair, and hugo looked particularly lover-like as he gave the girl his arm and bent his head to listen to what she had to say. but kitty's words were not loving; they were only indignant and distressed. "you should not speak to me in that way," she said. but hugo laughed and pressed her arm as he helped her into the carriage. the man stevens was already on the box. hugo entered with her, closed the door and drew up the window. the carriage drove away into the darkness of an unlighted road, and disappeared from the sight of a knot of gazers collected round the station door. "it's like a wedding," said the woman of the waiting-room, as she turned back to the deal table with the water bottle and the tract. "just like a wedding." mrs. baxter received her telegram next morning, and was comforted by it. she noticed that the message was dated from muirside station, and that she must, therefore, wait until kitty sent the promised letter before she wrote to kitty, as she did not know where mr. heron might be staying. but as the days passed on and nothing more was heard, she addressed a letter of inquiry to kitty at strathleckie. to her amaze it was sent back to merchiston terrace, as if the herons thought that kitty was still with her, and a batch of letters with the dunmuir postmark began to accumulate on the baxters' table. finally there came a postcard from elizabeth, which mrs. baxter took the liberty of reading. "dear kitty," it ran, "why do you not write to us? when are you coming back? we shall expect you on saturday, if we hear nothing to the contrary from you. uncle alfred will meet you at dunmuir." "there is something wrong here," gasped poor mrs. baxter. "what has become of that child if she is not with her friends? what does it mean?" chapter xliii. trapped. no sooner had the carriage door closed, than kitty began to question her companion about the accident to her father. hugo replied with evident reluctance--a reluctance which only increased her alarm. she began, to shed tears at last, and implored him to tell her the whole story, repeating that "anything would be better than suspense." "i cannot say more than i have done," said hugo, in a muffled voice. "you will know soon--and, besides, as i have told you, there is nothing for you to be alarmed at; indeed there is not. do you think i would deceive you in that?" "i hope not," faltered kitty. "you are very kind." "don't call it kindness. you know that i would do anything for you." then, noticing that the vehemence of his tone made her shrink away from him, he added more calmly, "you will soon understand why i am acting in this way. wait for a little while and you will see." she was silent for a few minutes, and then said in a subdued tone:-- "you frighten me, hugo, by telling me that i shall know--soon; that i shall see--soon. what are you hiding from me? you make me fancy terrible things. my father is not--not-dying--dead? hugo, tell me the truth." "i solemnly assure you, kitty, that your father is not even in danger." "then someone else is ill?" "no, indeed. be patient for a little time, and you shall see them all." kitty clasped her hands together with a sigh, and resigned herself to her position. she leaned back in the comfortably-cushioned seat for a time, and then roused herself to look out of the window. the night was a dark one: she could see little but vague forms of tall trees on either hand, but she felt by the motion of the carriage that they were going uphill. "we have not much further to go, have we?" she asked. "some distance, i am sorry to say. your father was removed to a farmhouse four miles from the station--the house nearest the scene of the accident." "four miles!" faltered kitty. "i thought that it was close to the station." "is it disagreeable to you to drive so far with me?" said hugo. "i will get out and sit on the box if you do not want me." "oh, no, i should not like you to do that," said kitty. but in her heart, she wished that she had brought mrs. baxter's janet. her next question showed some uneasiness, though of what kind hugo could not exactly discover. "whose brougham is this?" "mrs. luttrell's. i borrowed it for the occasion." "you are very good. i could easily have come in a fly." "don't say you would rather have done so," said hugo, allowing his voice to fall into a caressing murmur. but either kitty did not hear, or was displeased by this recurrence to his old habit of saying lover-like things; for she gazed blankly out of the window, and made no reply. after an hour's drive, the carriage turned in at some white gates, and stopped in a paved courtyard surrounded by high walls. kitty gazed round her, thinking that she had seen the place before, but she was not allowed to linger. hugo hurried her through a door into a stone hall, and down some dark passages, cautioning her from time to time to make no noise. once kitty tried to draw back. "where is elizabeth?" she said. "is not isabel here? why is everything so still?" hugo pointed to the end of the corridor in which they stood. a nurse, in white cap and apron, was going from one room to another. she did not look round, but kitty was reassured by her appearance. "is papa there?" she said in a whisper. "is this the farmhouse?" "come this way," said hugo, pointing with his finger to a narrow wooden staircase before them. kitty obeyed him without a word. her limbs trembled beneath her with fatigue, and cold, and fear. it seemed to her that hugo was agitated, too. his face was averted, but his voice had an unnatural sound. they mounted two flights of stairs and came out upon a narrow landing, where there were three doors: one of them a thick baize door, the others narrow wooden ones. hugo opened one of the wooden doors and showed a small sitting-room, where a meal was laid, and a fire spread a pleasant glow over the scene. the other door opened upon another narrow flight of stairs, leading, as kitty afterwards ascertained, to a small bed-room. "where is papa?" said kitty, glancing hurriedly around her. "he cannot be on this floor surely? please take me to him at once, mr. luttrell." "what have i done that i should be called mr. luttrell?" said hugo, who was pulling off his fur gloves and standing with his back to the door. there was a look of triumph upon his face, which kitty thought very insolent, and could not understand. "we are cousins after a fashion, are we not? you must eat and drink after your journey before you undergo any agitation. there is a room prepared for you upstairs, i believe. this meal seems to have been made ready for me as well as for you, however. let me give you a glass of wine." he walked slowly towards the table as he spoke. "i do not want anything," said kitty, impatiently. "i want to see my father. where are the people of the house?" "the people of the house? you saw the nurse just now. i will go and ascertain, if you like, whether the patient can be seen or not." "let me come with you." "i think not," said hugo, slowly. "no, i will not trouble you to do that. i will be back in a moment or two. excuse me." he made his exit very rapidly. from the sound that followed, it seemed that he had gone through the baize door. after a moment's hesitation kitty followed and laid her hand on the brass handle. but she pushed in vain. there was no latch and no key to be seen, but the door resisted her efforts; and, as she stood hesitating, a man came up the narrow stair which she had mounted on her way from the courtyard, and forced her to retreat a step or two. he was carrying her box and hand-bag. "this door is difficult to open," said kitty. "will you please open it for me?" the man, hugo's factotum, stevens, gave her an odd glance as he set down his burden. "the door won't open from this side unless you have the key, miss," he said. "not open from this side? then i must have the key," said kitty, decidedly. "yes, miss." steven's tone was perfectly respectful, and yet kitty felt that he was laughing at her in his sleeve. "mr. luttrell, perhaps, can get you the key, miss." "yes, i suppose so. put the box down, please. no, it need not be uncorded until i know whether i shall stay the night." the man obeyed her somewhat imperiously-uttered commands with an air of careful submission. he then went down the dark stairs. kitty heard his footsteps for some little distance. then, came the sound of a closing door, and the click of a key in the lock. then silence. was she locked in? she wished that the baize door had not been closed, and she chid herself for nervousness. hugo had shut it accidentally--it would be all right when he came back. excited and fearful as she was, she chose to fortify herself against the unknown, by swallowing a biscuit and a draught of black coffee. when this was done she felt stronger in every way--morally as well as physically. she had been faint for want of food. would hugo never come back? he was absent a quarter-of-an-hour, she verified that fact by reference to a little enamelled watch which elizabeth had given her on her last birthday. she had taken off her hat and cloak, and smoothed her rebellious locks into something like order before he returned. "why have you been so long?" she said, rather plaintively, when the door moved at last. "and, oh, please, if i am to stop here at all, will you find out whether i can have the key of that door? the man who brought up my boxes says it will not open from this side, and i cannot bear to feel that i am shut in. may i go to papa, now?" "you do not like being a prisoner, do you?" said hugo, totally ignoring, her last question. "so much the better for you--so much the better for me." kitty recoiled a little. she did not know what had happened to him, but she saw that his face expressed some mood which she had never seen it express before. it was flushed, and his eyes glittered with an unnatural light. and surely there was a faint odour of brandy in the room which had not been there before his entrance! she recoiled from him, but she was brave enough to show no other sign of fear. "i don't know what you mean," she said, "but i know that i want to go to my father. please put an end to this mystery and take me to him at once." "yes, i will put an end to the mystery," said hugo, drawing nearer to her, and putting out his hands as if he wished to take hers. "there is more of a mystery than you can guess, but there shall be one no longer. ah, kitty, won't you forgive me when i tell you what i have done? it was for your sake that i have sunk to these depths--or risen to these heights, i hardly know which to call them--for your sake, because i love you, love you as no other woman in the world, kitty, was ever loved before!" he threw himself down on his knees before her, in passionate self-abasement, and lifted his ardent eyes pleadingly to her face. "kitty, forgive me," he said. "tell me that you forgive me before i tell you what i have done." kitty had turned very pale. "what have you done?" she asked. "how can i forgive you if i do not know what to forgive? pray get up, hugo; i cannot bear to see you acting in this way." "how can i rise till i have confessed?" said hugo, seizing one of her hands and pressing it to his lips. "ah, kitty, remember that it was all because i loved you! you will not be too hard upon me, darling? tell me that you love me a little, and then i shall not despair." "but, i do not love you; i told you so before," said kitty, trying hard to draw away her hand. "and it is wicked of you to say these things to me here and now. where is my father? take me to him at once." "oh, my dearest, be kind and good to me," entreated hugo. "can you not guess?--then how can i tell you?--your father is well--as well as ever he was in his life." "well?" cried kitty. "then was it a mistake? was it some one else who was hurt? who sent the telegram?" "i sent the telegram. i wanted you here." "then it was a trick--a hoax--a lie? how dare you, sir! and why have you brought me here? what is this place?" "this place, kitty, is netherglen." "netherglen!" said kitty, in a relieved tone of voice. "oh, it is not so very far from home." then she turned sharply upon him with a flash in her eye that he had never seen before. "you must let me go home at once; and you will please understand, mr. luttrell, that i wish to have no further intercourse with you of any sort. after the cruel and unkind and useless trick that you have played upon me, you must see that you have put an end to all friendship between yourself and my family. my father will call you to account for it." kitty spoke strongly and proudly. her eyes met his undauntedly: her head was held high, her step was firm as she moved towards the door. if she trembled internally, she showed at least no sign of fear. "ah, i knew that you would be angry at first," said hugo; "but you will listen to me, and you will understand----" "i will not listen. i do not want to understand," cried kitty, with a slight stamp of her little foot. "angry at first! do you think i shall ever forgive you? i shall never see you nor speak to you again. let me pass." hugo had still been kneeling, but he now rose to his feet and confronted her. the flush was dying out of his face, but his eyes retained their unnatural brightness still. "you cannot pass that door just yet," he said, with sudden, dangerous calmness. "you must wait until i let you go. you ask if i think you will ever forgive me? yes, i do. you say you will never see me or speak to me again? i say that you will see me many times, and speak to me in a very different tone before you leave netherglen." "be kind enough to stand out of the way and open the door for me," said kitty, with supreme contempt. "i do not want to hear any more of this nonsense." "nonsense, do you call it? you will give it a very different name before long, my fair kitty. do you think i am in play? do you think i should risk--what i have risked, if i meant to gain nothing by it? i am in sober, solemn earnest, and know very well what i am doing, and what i want to gain." "what can you gain," said kitty, boldly facing him, "except disgrace and punishment? what do you think my father will say to you for bringing me away from edinburgh on false pretences? what will you tell my brother when he comes home?" "as for your brother," said hugo, with a sneer, "he is not very likely to come home again at all. his ship has been wrecked, and all lives lost. as for your father----" he was interrupted by a passionate cry from the girl's pale lips. "wrecked! percival's ship lost! oh, it cannot be true!" "it is true enough--at least report says so. it may be a false report!" "it must be a false report! you would not have the heart to tell me the news so cruelly if it were true! but no, i forgot. you made me believe that my father was dying; you do not mind being cruel. still, i don't believe you. i shall never again believe a word you say. oh! percival, percival!" and then, to prove how little she believed him, kitty burst into tears, and pressed her handkerchief to her face. hugo stood and watched her earnestly, and she, on looking up, found his eyes fixed upon her. the gaze brought back all her ire. "order the carriage for me at once, and let me go out of your sight," she said. "i cannot bear to look at you!" kitty was not dignified in her wrath, but she was so pretty that hugo's lips curled with a smile of enjoyment. at the same time he felt that he must bring her to a sense of her position. she had not as yet the least notion of what he meant to require of her. and it would be better that she should understand. he folded his arms and leant against the door as he spoke. "you are not going away just yet," he said. "i have got my pretty bird caged at last, and she may beat her wings against the bars as much as she pleases, but she will not leave her cage until she is a little tamer than she is now. when she can sing to the tune i will teach her, i will let her go." "what do you mean?" said kitty. "stand away from the door, mr. luttrell. i want to pass." "i will stand aside presently and let you go--as far as the doors will let you. but just now you must listen to me." "i will not listen. i will call the servants," she said, pulling a bell-handle which she had found beside the mantelpiece. "ring as much as you please. nobody will come. the bell-wire has been cut." "then i will call. somebody must hear." "my man, stevens, may hear, perhaps. but he will not come unless i summon him." "but the other servants----" "there are no other servants in this part of the house. the kitchen-maid and the nurse sleep close to mrs. luttrell's room--so far away that not your loudest scream would reach their ears. you are in my power, kitty. i could kill you if i liked, and nobody could interfere." what strange light was that within his eyes? was it the light of madness or of love? for the first time kitty was seized with positive fear of him. she listened, the colour dying out of her face, and her eyes slowly dilating with terror as she heard what he had to say. "i will tell you now what i have done," he said, "and then i will ask you, once more, to forgive me. it is your own fault if i love you madly, wildly, as i do. you led me on. you let me tell you that i loved you; you seemed to care for me too, sometimes. by the time that you had made up your mind, to throw me over, kitty, my love had grown into a passion that must be satisfied. there are two ways in which, it can end, and two only. i might kill you--other men of my race have killed the women who trifled with them and deceived them. i could forgive you for what you have made me suffer, if i saw you lying dead at my feet, child; that is the first way. and the second--be mine--be my wife; that is the better way." "never!" said kitty, firmly, although her white lips quivered with an unspoken fear. "kill me, if you like. i would rather be killed than be your wife now." "ah, but i do not want to kill you!" cried hugo, his dark face lighting up with a sudden glow, which made it hatefully brilliant and beautiful, even in kitty's frightened eyes. he left the door and came towards her, holding out his hands and gesticulating as he spoke. "i want you to be my wife, my own sweet flower, my exquisite bird, for whom no cage can be half too fine! i want you to be mine; my own darling----. i would give heaven and earth for that; i have already risked all that makes life worth living. men love selfishly; but you shall be loved as no other woman was ever loved. you shall be my queen, my angel, my wife!" "i will die first," said kitty. before he could interpose, she snatched a knife from the table, and held it with the point turned towards him. "come a step nearer," she cried, "and i shall know how to defend myself." hugo stopped short. "you little fool!" he said, angrily. "put the knife down." she thought that he was afraid; and, still holding her weapon, she made a rush for the door; but hugo caught her skilfully by the wrists, disarmed her, and threw the knife to the other end of the room. then he made her sit down in an arm-chair near the fire, and without relaxing his hold upon her arm, addressed her in cool but forcible tones. "i don't want to hurt you," he said. "you need not be so frightened or so foolish. i won't come near you, unless you give me leave. i am going to have your full and free consent, my little lady, before i make you my wife. but, this i want you to understand. i have you here--a prisoner; and a prisoner you will remain until you do consent. nobody knows where you are--nobody will look for you here. you cannot escape; and if you could escape, nobody would believe your story. do you hear?" he took away his hand from her arm. but she did not try to move. she was trembling from head to foot. he looked at her silently for a little time, and then withdrew to the door. "i will leave you now until to-morrow," he said, quietly. "there is a girl--a kitchen-maid--who will bring you your breakfast in the morning. you have this little wing of the house entirely to yourself, but i don't think that you will find any means of getting out of it. good-night, my darling. you will forgive me yet." chapter xliv. hugo's victory. kitty remained for some time in the state in which hugo left her. she was only faintly conscious of his departure. the shutting of the baize door, and of another door beyond it, scarcely penetrated to her brain. she fancied that hugo was still standing over her with a wild light in his eyes and the sinister smile upon his lips; and she dared not look up to see if the fancy were true. a sick, faint feeling came over her, and made her all the more disinclined to move. the fire, which had been burning hollow and red, fell in at last with a great crash; and the noise startled her into full consciousness. she sat erect in her chair, and looked about her fearfully. no, hugo was not there. he had left the door of the room a little way open. with a shuddering desire to protect herself, she staggered to the door, closed it, looked for a key or a bolt, and found none; then sank down again upon a chair, and tried seriously to consider the position in which she found herself. there was not much comfort to be gained out of the reflections which occurred to her. if she was as much in hugo's power as he represented her to be, she was in evil case, indeed. she thought over the arrangements which he seemed to have planned so carefully, and she saw that they were all devised so as to make it appear that she had been in the secret, that she had met him and gone away with him willingly. and her disappearance might not be made known for days. mrs. baxter would suppose that she was with her relations; her relations would think that she was still in edinburgh. inquiries might be made in the course of three or four days; but even if they were made so soon, they would probably be fruitless. the woman at the waiting-room, whose stare kitty had resented, would perhaps give evidence that the gentleman had called her his "dearest," and taken her away with him in his carriage. she thought it all too likely that hugo had planned matters so as to make everybody, believe that she had eloped with him of her own free-will. if escape were only possible! surely there was some window, some door, by which she could leave the house! she would not mind a little danger. better a broken bone or two than the fate which would await her as hugo's wife--or as hugo's prisoner. she turned to the window with a resolute step, drew aside the curtains, unbarred the shutters, and looked out. disappointment awaited her. there was a long space of wall, and then the pointed roofs of some outhouses, which hid the courtyard and the road entirely from her sight. beyond the roofs she could see the tops of trees, which, it was plain, would entirely conceal any view of her window from passers-by. it would be quite impossible to climb down to those sharp-gabled roofs; and, as if to make assurance doubly sure, the window was protected by strong iron bars, between which nobody could have squeezed more than an arm or foot. moreover, the sash was nailed down. kitty dropped the curtain with a despairing sigh. after a little hesitation, she took a candle and opened the sitting-room door. all was dark in the passage outside; but from the top of the flight of stairs leading to a higher storey, she could distinguish a glimmer of light which seemed to come from a window in the roof. she went up the stairs and found two tiny rooms; one a lumber-room, the other a bed-room. these were just underneath the roof, and had tiny triangular windows, which were decidedly too small to allow of anyone's escaping through them. kitty peered through them both, and got a good view of the loch, glimmering whitely in the starlight between its black, wooded shores. she retraced her steps, and explored an empty room on the floor with her sitting-room, the window of which was also barred and nailed down. then she went down the lower flight of steps until she came to a closed door, which had been securely fastened from the outside by the man who brought up her box. she shook it and beat it with her little fists; but all in vain. nobody seemed to hear her knocks; or, if heard, they were disregarded. she tried the baize door with like ill-success. hugo had said the truth; she was a prisoner. at last, tired and disheartened, she crept back to her sitting-room. the fire was nearly out, and the night was a cold one. she muffled herself in her cloak and crouched down upon the sofa, crying bitterly. she thought herself too nervous, too excited, to sleep at all; and she certainly did not sleep for two or three hours. but exhaustion came at last, and, although she still started at the slightest sound, she fell into a doze, and thence into a tolerably sound slumber, which lasted until daylight looked in at the unshuttered window, and the baize door moved upon its hinges to admit the girl who was to act as miss heron's maid. the very sight of a girl--a woman like herself--brought hope to kitty's mind. she started up, pressing her hands to her brow and pushing back the disordered hair. then she addressed the girl with eager, persuasive words. but the kitchen-maid only shook her head. "dinna ye ken that i'm stane-deef?" she said, pointing to her ears with a grin. for a moment kitty in despair desisted from her efforts. then she thought of another argument. she produced her purse, and showed the girl some sovereigns, then led her to the door, intimating by signs that she would give her the money if she would but open it. the girl seemed to understand, but laughed again and shook her head. "na, na," she said. "i daurna lat ye oot sae lang's the maister's here." hugo's coadjutors were apparently incorruptible. the kitchen-maid proved herself equal to all the work required of her. she relighted the fire, cleared away the uneaten supper, and brought breakfast and hot water. kitty discovered that everything she required was handed to the girl through a sliding panel in the door at the bottom of the stairs. there was no chance of escape through any chance opening of the door. she had no appetite, but she knew that she ought to eat in order to keep up her strength and courage. she therefore drank some coffee, and ate the scones which the maid brought her. the girl then took away the breakfast-things, put fresh fuel on the fire, and departed by the lower door. kitty would have kept her if she could. even a deaf kitchen-maid was better than no company at all. the view from the windows was no more encouraging by day than night. there seemed to be no way of communicating with the outer world. a letter flung from either storey would only reach the slanting roofs below, and lie on the slates until destroyed by snow and rain. kitty doubted whether her voice would reach the courtyard, even if she raised it to its highest pitch. she tried it from the attic window, but it seemed to die away in the heights, and she could hardly hope that it had been heard by anyone either inside or outside the house. she was left alone for some time. about noon, as she was standing by her window, straining her eyes to discover some trace of a human being in the distance, whose attention she perhaps might catch if one could only be seen, she heard the door open and close again. she knew the footstep: it was neither that of the deaf girl nor of the man stevens. it was hugo luttrell coming once more to plead his cause or lay his commands upon her. she turned round unwillingly and glanced at him with a faint hope that the night might have brought him to some change of purpose. but although the excitement of the previous evening had disappeared, there was no sign of relenting in his face. he came up to her and tried to take her hand. "_nuit porte conseil_," he began. "have you thought better of last night's diversions? have you arrived at any decision yet?" "oh, hugo," she burst out, clasping her hands, "don't speak to me in that sneering, terrible way. have a little pity upon me. let me go home!" "you shall go home to-morrow, if you will go as my wife, kitty." "but you know that can never be," she expostulated. "how can you expect me to be your wife after all that you have made me suffer? do you think i could ever love you as a wife should do? you would be miserable; and i--i--should break my heart." she burst into tears as she concluded, and wrung her hands together. "why did you make me suffer if you want me to pity you now?" said hugo, in a low, merciless tone. "you used me shamefully: you know you did. i swore then to have my revenge; and i have it now. for every one of the tears you shed now, i have shed drops of my heart's blood. it is nothing to me if you suffer: your pain is nothing to what mine was when you cast me off like an old glove because your fancy had settled on rupert vivian. you shall feel your master now: you shall be mine and mine only; not his, nor any other's. i will have my revenge." "my fancy had settled on rupert vivian!" repeated kitty, with a sudden rush of colour to her face. "ah, how little you know about it! rupert vivian is far above me: he does not care for me. you have no business to speak of him." "he does not care for you, but you are in love with him," said hugo, looking at her from between his narrowed eyelids with a long penetrating gaze. "i understand." kitty shrank away from him. "no, no!" she cried. "i am not in love with anyone." "i know better," said hugo. "i have seen it a long time: seen it in a thousand ways. you made no secret of it, you know. you threw yourself in his way: you did all that you could to attract him; but you failed. he had to tell you to be more careful, had he not?" "how dare you! how dare you!" cried the girl, starting up with her face aflame. "never, never!" then she threw herself down on the sofa and hid her face. some memory came over her that made her writhe with shame. hugo smiled to himself. "everybody saw what was going on," he continued. "everybody pitied you. people wondered at your friends for allowing you to manifest an unrequited attachment in that shameless manner. they supposed that you knew no better; but they wondered that mrs. heron and elizabeth murray did not caution you. perhaps they did. you were never very good at taking a caution, were you, kitty?" the only answer was a moan. he had found the way to torture her now; and he meant to use his power. "vivian was a good deal chaffed about it. he used to be a great flirt when he was younger, but not so much of late years, you know. i'll confess now, kitty, i taxed him one day with his conduct to you. he said he was sorry; he knew that you were head and ears in love with him----" "it is false," said kitty, lifting a very pale face from the cushions amongst which she had laid it. "mr. vivian never said anything of the kind. he is too much of a gentleman to say a thing like that." "what do you know of the things that men say to each other when they are alone?" said hugo, confident in her ignorance of the world, and professedly contemptuous. "he said what i have told you. and he said, too, that marriage was out of the question for him, on account of an unfortunate entanglement in his youth--a private marriage, or something of the kind; his wife is separated from him, but she is living still. he asked me to let you know this as soon and as gently as i could." "is it true?" she asked, in a low voice. her face seemed to have grown ten years older in the last ten minutes: it was perfectly colourless, and the eyes had a dull, strained look, which was not softened even by the bright drops that still hung on her long lashes. "perfectly true," said hugo. "perhaps this paper will bring you conviction, if my word does not." he handed her a small slip cut from a newspaper, which had the air of having been in his possession for some time. kitty took it and read:-- "on the th of october, at st. botolph's church, manchester, rupert, eldest son of the late gerald vivian, esq., of vivian court, devonshire, to selina mary smithson. no cards." just a commonplace announcement of marriage like any other. kitty's eyes travelled to the top of the paper where the date was printed: . "it is a long while ago," she said, pointing to the figures. "his wife may be dead." her voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, even in her own ears. "perhaps so," said hugo, carelessly. "if he said that she were, i should not be much inclined to believe him. after all these years of secrecy a man will say anything. but he told me last year that she was living." kitty laid down the paper with a sort of gasp and shiver. she murmured something to herself--it sounded like a prayer--"god help me!" or words to that effect--but she was quite unconscious of having spoken. hugo took up the paper, and replaced it carefully in his pocket-book. he had held it in reserve for some time now; but he was not quite sure that it had done all its work. "and now," he went on, "you see a part--not the whole--of my motives, kitty. i had been raging in my heart against this fellow's insolence for long enough; i wanted to stop the slanderous tongues of the people who were talking about you; and i hoped--when you were so kind and gracious to me--that you meant to be my wife. therefore, when i asked you and you refused me, i grew desperate. believe me, kitty, or not, as you choose, but my love for you has nearly maddened me. i could not leave you to lay yourself open to the world's contempt and scorn: i was afraid--afraid--lest vivian should do you harm in the world's eyes, and so i tried to save you, dear, to save you from yourself and him--even against your own will, when i brought you here." his eyes grew moist, and lost some of their wildness: he drew nearer, and ventured almost timidly to take her hand. she did not repulse him, and from her silence and motionlessness he gathered courage. "i thought to myself," he said, "that here, at least, was a refuge: here was a man who loved you, and was ready to give you his home and his name, and show the world that he loved you in spite of all. here was a chance for you, i thought, to show that you had not given your heart where it was not wanted; that you were not that pitiable object, a woman scorned. but you refused me. so then i took the law into my own hands. was i so very wrong?" he paused, and she suddenly burst out into wild hysterical sobs and tears. "let me go home," she said, between her sobs. "i will give you my answer then.... i will not forget! i will not be thoughtless and foolish any more.... but let me go home first: i must go home. i cannot stay here alone!" "you cannot go home, kitty," said hugo, modulating his voice to one of extreme softness and sweetness. he knelt before her, and took both her hands in his. "you left mrs. baxter's yesterday afternoon--to meet me, you said. where have you been since then?--that will be the first question. you cannot go home without me now: what would the world say? don't you understand?" "what does it matter what the world says? my father would know that it was all right," said kitty, helplessly. "would your father take you in?" hugo whispered. "would he not rather say that you must have planned it all, that you were not to be trusted, that you had better have married me when i asked you? for, if you leave this house before you are my wife, kitty, i shall not ask you again to marry me. are you so simple as not to know why? you would be compromised: that is all. you need not have obliged me to tell you so." she wrenched her hands away from him and put them before her eyes. "oh, i see it all now," she moaned. "i am trapped--trapped. but i will not marry you. i will die rather. oh, rupert, rupert! why do you not come?" and then she fell into a fit of hysterical shrieking, succeeded by a swoon, from which hugo found some difficulty in recovering her. he was obliged to call the nurse to his aid, and the nurse and the kitchen-maid between them carried the girl upstairs and placed her on the bed. here kitty came to herself by degrees, but it was thought well to leave the kitchen-maid, elsie, beside her for some time, for as soon as she was left alone the hysterical symptoms reappeared. she saw hugo no more that day, but on the following morning, when she sat pale and listless over the fire in her sitting-room, he reappeared. he spoke to her gently, but she gave him no answer. she looked at him with blank, languid eyes, and said not a word. he was almost frightened at her passivity. he thought that he had perhaps over-strained matters: that he had sent her out of her mind. but he did not lose hope. kitty, with weakened powers of body and mind, would still be to him the woman that he loved, and that he had set his heart upon winning for his wife. that day passed, and the next, with no change in her condition. hugo began to grow impatient. he resolved to try stronger measures. but stronger measures were not necessary. on the fifth day, he came to her at eleven o'clock in the morning, with a curious smile upon his lips. he had an opera-glass in his hand. "i have something to show you, kitty," he said to her. he led her to the window, and directed her attention to a distant point in the view where a few yards of the highroad could be discerned. "you see the road," he said. "now look through the glass for a few minutes." languidly enough she did as he desired. the strong glass brought into her sight in a few moments two gentlemen on horseback. kitty uttered a faint cry. it was her father and mr. colquhoun. "i thought that we should see them in a minute or two," said hugo, calmly. "they were here a quarter-of-an-hour ago." "here! in this house?" "yes; making inquiries after you. i think i quite convinced them that i knew nothing about you. they apologised for the trouble they had given me, and went away." "oh, father, father!" cried kitty, stretching out her arms and sobbing wildly, as if she could make him hear: "oh, father, come back! come back! am i to die here and never see you again--never again?" hugo said nothing more. he had no need. she wept herself into quietness, and then remained silent for a long time, with her head buried in her hands. he left her in this position, and did not return until the evening. and then she spoke to him in a voice which showed that her strength had deserted her, her will had been bent at last. "do as you please," she said. "i will be your wife. i see no other way. but i hate you--i hate you--and i will never forgive you for what you have done as long as ever i live." chapter xlv. too late! rupert vivian went to london with a fixed determination not to return to strathleckie. he told himself that he had been thinking far too much of the whims and vagaries of a silly, pretty girl; and that it would be for his good to put such memories of her bright eyes, and vain, coquettish ways as remained to him, completely out of his mind. he did his best to carry out this resolution, but he was not very successful. he had some troubles of his own, and a good deal of business to transact; but the weeks did not pass very rapidly, although his time was so fully occupied. he began to be anxious to hear something of his friend, percival heron; he searched the newspapers for tidings of the _arizona_, he called at lloyd's to inquire after her; but a mystery seemed to hang over her fate. she had never reached pernambuco--so much was certain! had she gone to the bottom, carrying with her passengers and crew? and the _falcon_, in which brian had sailed--also reported missing--what had become of her? rupert knew enough of elizabeth murray's story to think of her with anxiety--almost with tenderness--at this juncture. he knew of no reason why the marriage with percival should not take place, for he had not heard a word about her special interest in brian luttrell; but he had been told of brian's reappearance, and of the doubt cast upon his claim to the property. he was anxious, for percival's sake as well as for hers, that the matter should be satisfactorily adjusted; and he felt a pang of dismay when he first learnt the doubt that hung over the fate of the _arizona_. his anxiety led him one day to stroll with a friend into the office of a shipowner who had some connection with the _arizona_. here he found an old sailor telling a story to which the clerks and the chief himself were listening with evident interest. vivian inquired who he was. the answer made him start. john mason, of the good ship _arizona_, which i saw with my own eyes go down in eight fathoms o' water off rocas reef. me and the mate got off in the boat, by a miracle, as you may say. all lost but us. and forthwith he told the story of the wreck--as far as he knew it. vivian listened with painful eagerness, and sat for some little time in silence when the story was finished, with his hand shading his eyes. then he rose up and addressed the man. "i want you to go with me to scotland," he said, abruptly. "i want you to tell this story to a lady. she was to have been married to the mr. heron of whom you speak as soon as he returned. poor girl! if anything can make it easier for her, it will be to hear of poor heron's courage in the hour of death." he set out that night, taking john mason with him, and gleaning from him many details concerning percival's popularity on board ship, details which he knew would be precious to the ears of his family by-and-bye. mason was an honest fellow, and did not exaggerate, even when he saw that exaggeration would be welcome: but percival had made himself remarked, as he generally did wherever he went, by his ready tongue and flow of animal spirits. mason had many stories to tell of mr. heron's exploits, and he told them well. vivian was anxious to see the herons before any newspaper report should reach them; and he therefore hurried the seaman up to strathleckie after a hasty breakfast at the hotel. but at strathleckie, disappointment awaited him. everybody was out--except the baby and the servants. the whole party had gone to spend a long day at the house of a friend: they would not be back till evening. rupert was forced to resign himself to the delay. the man, mason, was regaled in the servants' hall, and was there regarded as a kind of hero; but vivian had no such distraction of mind. he had nothing to do: he had reasons of his own for neither walking out nor trying to read. he leaned back in an arm-chair, with his back to the light, and closed his eyes. from time to time he sighed heavily. he felt himself quite sufficiently at home to ask for anything that he wanted; and the glass of wine and biscuit which formed his luncheon were brought to him in the study, the room that seemed to him best fitted for the communication that he would have to make. he had been there for two or three hours, and the short winter day was already beginning to grow dim, when the door opened, and a footstep made itself heard upon the threshold. it was a woman's step. it paused, advanced, then paused again as if in doubt. vivian rose from his chair, and held out both hands. "kitty," he said. "kitty, is it you?" "yes, it is i," she said. her voice had lost its ring; there was a tonelessness about it which convinced rupert that she had already heard what he had come to tell. "i thought you had gone with the others," he said, "but i am glad to find you here. i can tell you first--alone. i have sad news, kitty. why don't you come and shake hands with me, dear, as you always do? i want to have your little hand in mine while i tell you the story." he was standing near the arm-chair, from which he had risen, with his hand extended still. there was a look of appeal, almost a look of helplessness, about him, which kitty did not altogether understand. she came forward and touched his hand very lightly, and then would have withdrawn it had his fingers not closed upon it with a firm, yet gentle grasp. "i think i know what you have come to say," she answered, not struggling to draw her hand away, but surrendering it as if it were not worth while to consider such a trifle. "i read it all in the newspapers this morning. the others do not know." "you did not tell them?" said rupert, a little surprised. "i came to tell them now." "you have been away? ah, yes, i heard you talking about a visit to edinburgh some time ago: you have been there, perhaps? i came to see your father--to see you all, so that you should not learn the story first from the newspapers, but i was too late to shield you, kitty." "yes," she said, with a weary sigh; "too late." "i have brought the man mason with me. he will tell you a great deal more than you can read in the newspapers. would you like to see him now? or will you wait until your father comes?" "i will wait, i think," said kitty, very gently. "they will not be long now. sit down, mr. vivian. i hope you have had all that you want." "what is the matter, kitty?" asked vivian, with (for him) extraordinary abruptness. "why have you taken away your hand, child? what have i done?" she made no answer. "you are in trouble, kitty. can i not comfort you a little? i would give a great deal to be able to do it. but the day for that is gone by." "yes, it is gone by," echoed kitty once more in the tones that never used to be so sad. "it is selfish to talk about myself when you have this great loss to bear," he pursued; "and yet i must tell you what has happened to me lately, so that you may understand what perhaps seems strange to you. am i altered, kitty? do i look changed to your eyes in any way?" "no," she answered, hesitatingly; "i think not. but people do not change very easily in appearance, do they? whatever happens, they are the same. i am not at all altered, they tell me, since--since you were here." "why should you be?" said rupert, vaguely touched, he knew not why, by the pathetic quality that had crept into her voice. "even a great sorrow, like this one, does not change us in a single day. but i have had some weeks in which to think of my loss; small and personal though it may seem to you." "what loss?" said kitty. "is it no loss to think that i shall never see your face again, kitty? i am blind." "blind!" she said the word again, with a strange thrill in her voice. "blind!" "not quite, just yet," said rupert, quietly, but with a resolute cheerfulness. "i know that you are standing there, and i can still grope my way amongst the tables and chairs in a room, without making many mistakes: but i cannot see your sweet eyes and mouth, kitty, and i shall never look upon the purple hills again. do you remember that we planned to climb craig vohr next summer for the sake of the fine view? not much use my attempting it now, i am afraid--unless you went with me, and told me what you saw." she did not say a word. he waited a moment, but none came; and he could not see the tears that were in her eyes. perhaps he divined that they were there. "it has been coming on for some time," he said, still in the cheerful tone which he had made himself adopt. "i was nearly certain of it when i was here in january; and since then i have seen some famous oculists, and spent a good deal of time in a dark room--with no very good result. nothing can be done." "nothing? absolutely nothing?" "nothing at all. i must bear it as other men have done. i am rather old to frame my life anew, and i shall never equal mr. fawcett in energy and power, though i think i shall take him as my model," said rupert, with a rather sad smile, "but i must do my best, and i dare say i shall get used to it in time. kitty, i thought--somehow--that i should like to hear you say that you were sorry.... and you have not said it yet." "i am sorry," said kitty, in a low voice. the tears were falling over her pale cheeks, but she did not turn away her head--why should she? he could not see. "i have been a fool," said vivian, with the unusual energy of utterance which struck her as something new in him. "i am thirty-eight--twenty years older than you, kitty--and i have missed half the happiness that i might have got out of my life, and squandered the other half. i will tell you what happened when i was a lad of one-and-twenty--before you were a year old, kitty: think of that!--i fell in love with a woman some years older than myself. she was a barmaid. can you fancy me now in love with a barmaid? i find it hard to imagine, myself. i married her, kitty. before we had been married six weeks i discovered that she drank. i was tied to a drunken, brawling, foul-mouthed woman of the lower class--for life. at least i thought it was for life." he paused, and asked with peculiar gentleness:-- "am i telling you this at a wrong time? shall i leave my story for another day? you are thinking of him, perhaps: i am not without thoughts of him, too, even in the story that i tell. shall i stop, or shall i go on?" "go on, please. i want to hear. yes, as well now as any other time. you married. what then?" could it be kitty who was speaking? rupert scarcely recognised those broken, uneven tones. he went on slowly. "she left me at last. we agreed to separate. i saw her from time to time, and made her an allowance. she lived in one place: i in another. she died last year." "last year?" "yes, in the autumn. you heard that i had gone into wales to see a relation who was dying: that was my wife." "did percival know?" asked kitty, in a low voice. "no. i think very few persons knew. i wonder whether i ought to have told the world in general! i did not want to blazon forth my shame." for a little time they both were silent. then rupert said, softly:-- "when she was dead, i remembered the little girl whom i used to know in gower-street; and i said to myself that i would find her out." "you found her changed," said kitty, with a sob. "very much changed outwardly; but with the same loving heart at the core. kitty, i was unjust to you: i have come back to offer reparation." "for what?" "for that injustice, dear. when i went away from strathleckie in january, i was angry and vexed with you. i thought that you were throwing yourself away in promising to marry hugo luttrell--" then, as kitty made a sudden gesture--"oh, i know i had no right to interfere. i was wrong, quite wrong. i must confess to you now, kitty, that i thought you a vain, frivolous, little creature; and it was not until i began to think over what i had said to you and what you had said to me, that i saw clearly, as i lay in my darkened room, how unjust i had been to you." "you were not unjust," said kitty, hurriedly; "and i was wrong. i did not tell you the truth; i let you suppose that i was engaged to hugo when i was not. but----" "you were not engaged to him?" "no." "then i may say what i should have said weeks ago if i had not thought that you had promised to marry him?" "it cannot make much difference what you say now," said kitty, heavily. "it is too late." "i suppose it is. i cannot ask any woman--especially any girl of your age--to share the burden of my infirmity." "it is not that. anyone would be proud to share such a burden--to be of the least help to you--but i mean--you have not heard----" she could not go on. if he had seen her face, he might have guessed more quickly what she meant. but he could not see; and her voice, broken as it was, told him only that she was agitated by some strong emotion--he knew not of what kind. he rose and stood beside her, as if he did not like to sit while she was standing. even at that moment she was struck by the absence of his old airs of superiority; his blindness seemed to have given him back the dependence and simplicity of much earlier days. "i suppose you mean that you are not free," he said. "and even if you had been free, my dear, it is not at all likely that i should have had a chance. there are certain to be many wooers of a girl possessed of your fresh sweetness and innocent gaiety. i wished only to say to you that i have been punished for any harsh words of mine, by finding out that i could not forget your face for a day, for an hour. i will not say that i cannot live without you; but i will say that life would have the charm that it had in the days of my youth, if i could have hoped that you, kitty, would have been my wife." there was a faint melancholy in the last few words that went to kitty's heart. rupert heard her sob, and immediately put out his hand with the uncertain action of a man who cannot see. "kitty!" he said, ruefully, "i did not mean to make you cry, dear. don't grieve. there are obstacles on both sides now. i am a blind, helpless old fellow; and you are going to be married. child, what does this mean?" unable to speak, she had seized his hand and guided it to the finger on which she wore a plain gold ring. he felt it: he felt her hand, and then he asked a question. "are you married already, kitty?" "yes." "to whom?" "to hugo luttrell." and then she sank down almost at his feet, sobbing, and her hot tears fell upon the hand which she pressed impulsively to her lips. "oh, forgive me! forgive me!" she cried. "indeed, i did not know what to do. i was very wicked and foolish. and now i am miserable. i shall be miserable all my life." these vague self-accusations conveyed no very clear idea to vivian's mind; but he was conscious of a sharp sting of pain at the thought that she was not happy in her marriage. "i did not know. i would not have spoken as i did if i had known," he said. "no, i know you would not; and yet i could not tell you. you will hear all about it from the others. i cannot bear to tell you. and yet--yet--don't think me quite so foolish, quite so wrong as they will say that i have been. they do not know all. i cannot tell them all. i was driven into it--and now i have to bear the punishment. my whole life is a punishment. i am miserable." "life can never be a mere punishment, if it is rightly led," said vivian, in a low tone. "it is, at any rate, full of duties and they will bring happiness." "to some, perhaps; not to me," said kitty, raising herself from her kneeling posture and drying her eyes. "i have no duties but to look nice and make myself agreeable." "you will find duties if you look for them. there is your husband's happiness, to begin with----" "my husband," exclaimed kitty, in a tone of passionate contempt that startled him. but they could say no more, for at that moment the carriage came up to the door, and, from the voices in the hall, it was plain that the family had returned. a great hush fell upon those merry voices when mr. vivian's errand was made known. mrs. heron, who was really fond of percival, was inconsolable, and retired to her own room with the little boys and the baby to weep for him in peace. mr. heron, kitty, and elizabeth remained with rupert in the study, listening to the short account which he gave of the wreck of the _arizona_, as he had learnt it from mason's lips. and then it was proposed that mason should be summoned to tell his own story. mason's eyes rested at once upon elizabeth with a look of respectful admiration. he told his story with a rough, plain eloquence which more than once brought tears to the listeners' eyes; and he dwelt at some length on the presence of mind and cheery courage which mr. heron had shown during the few minutes between the striking of the ship and her going down. "just as bold as a lion, ladies and gentlemen; helping every poor soul along, and never thinking of himself. they told fine tales of one of the men we took aboard from the _falcon_; but mr. heron beat him and all of us, i'm sure." "you took on board someone from the _falcon_?" said elizabeth, suddenly. "yes, ma'am, three men that were picked up in an open boat, where they had been for five days and nights; the _falcon_ having been burnt to the water's edge, and very few of the crew saved." elizabeth's hands clasped themselves a little more tightly, but she suffered no sign of emotion to escape her. "do you remember the names of the men saved from the _falcon_?" she said. "there was jackson," said the sailor, slowly; "and there was fall; and there was a steerage passenger--seems to me his name was smith, but i can't rec'llect exackly." "it was not stretton?" "no, it warn't no name like that, ma'am." "then they are both lost," said elizabeth, rising up with a deadly calm in her fixed eyes and white face; "both lost in the great, wild sea. we shall see them no more--no more." she paused, and then added in a much lower voice, as if speaking to herself: "i shall go to them, but they will not return to me." her strength seemed to give way. she walked a few steps unsteadily, threw up her hands as if to save herself, and without a word and without a cry, fell in a dead faint to the ground. chapter xlvi. a mere chance. vivian went back to london on the following morning, taking mason with him. he had heard what made him anxious to leave strathleckie before any accidental meeting with hugo luttrell should take place. the story told of kitty's marriage was that she had eloped with hugo; and mr. heron, in talking the matter over with his son's friend, declared that an elopement had been not only disgraceful, but utterly unnecessary, since he should never have thought of opposing the marriage. he had been exceedingly angry at first; and now, although he received kitty at strathleckie, he treated her with great coldness, and absolutely refused to speak to hugo at all. in a man of mr. heron's easy temperament, these manifestations of anger were very strong; and vivian felt even a little surprised that he took the matter so much to heart. he himself was not convinced that the whole truth of the story had been told: he was certain, at any rate, that hugo luttrell had dragged kitty's name through the mire in a most unjustifiable way, and he felt a strong desire to wreak vengeance upon him. for kitty's sake, therefore, it was better that he should keep out of the way: he did not want to quarrel with her husband, and he knew that hugo would not be sorry to find a cause of dispute with him. he could not abandon the hope of some further news of the _arizona_ and the _falcon_. he questioned mason repeatedly concerning the shipwrecked men who had been taken on board but he obtained little information. and yet he could not be content. it became a regular thing for vivian to be seen, day after day, in the shipowners' offices, at lloyd's, at the docks, asking eagerly for news, or, more frequently, turning his sightless eyes and anxious face from one desk to another, as the careless comments of the clerks upon his errand fell upon his ear. sometimes his secretary came with him: sometimes, but, more seldom, a lady. for angela was living with him now, and she was as anxious about brian as he was concerning percival. he had been making these inquiries one day, and had turned away with his hand upon angela's arm, when a burly, red-faced man, with a short, brown beard, whom angela had seen once or twice before in the office, followed, and addressed himself to rupert. "beg pardon: should like to speak to you for a moment, sir, if agreeable to the lady," he said, touching his cap. "you were asking about the _arizona_, wrecked off the rocas reef, were you not?" "yes, i was," said vivian, quickly. "have you any news? have any survivors of the crew returned?" "can't say i know of any, save john mason and terry, the mate," said the man, shaking his head. he had a bluff, good-natured manner, which angela did not dislike; but it seemed somewhat to repel her brother. "if you have no news," he began in a rather distant tone; but the man interrupted him with a genial laugh. "i've got no news, sir, but i've got a suggestion, if you'll allow me to make it. no concern of mine, of course, but i heard that you had friends aboard the _arizona_, and i took an interest in that vessel because she came to grief at a place which has been the destruction of many a fine ship, and where i was once wrecked myself." "you! and how did you escape?" said angela, eagerly. "swam ashore, ma'am," said the man, touching his cap. then, with a shy sort of smile, he added:--"what i did, others may have done, for certain." "you swam to the reef?" asked vivian. "first to the reef and then to the island, sir. there's two islands inside the reef forming the breakwater. more than once the same thing has happened. men had been there before me, and had been fetched away by passing ships, and men may be there now for aught we know." "oh, rupert!" said angela, softly. "how long were you on the island then?" asked rupert. "about three weeks, sir. but i have heard of the crew of a ship being there for as many months--and more. you have to take your chance. i was lucky. i'm always pretty lucky, for the matter of that." "would it be easy to land on the island?" "there's an opening big enough for boats in the reef. it ain't a very easy matter to swim the distance. i was only thinking, when i heard you asking questions, that it was just possible that some of the crew and passengers might have got ashore, after all, as i did, and turn up when you're least expecting it. it's a chance, anyway. good morning, sir." "excuse me," said vivian; "would you mind giving me your name and address?" the man's name was somers: he was the captain of a small trading vessel, and was likely to be in london for some weeks. "but if you have anything more to ask me, sir," he said, "i shall be pleased to come and answer any of your inquiries at your own house, if you wish. it's a long tramp for you to come my way." "thank you," said vivian. "if it is not troubling you too much, i think i had better come to you. your time is valuable, no doubt, and mine is not." "you'll find me in between three and five almost any time," said captain somers, and with these words they parted. rupert fell into a brown study as soon as the captain had left them, and angela did not interrupt the current of his thoughts. presently he said:-- "what sort of face had that man, angela?" "a very honest face, i think," she said. "he seemed honest. but one can tell so much from a man's face that does not come out in his manner. this is the sort of interview that makes me feel what a useless log i am." "you must not think that, rupert." "but i do think it. i wish i could find something to do--something that would take me out of myself and these purely personal troubles of mine. at my age a man certainly ought to have a career. but what am i talking about? no career is open to me now." and then he sighed; and she knew without being told that he was thinking of his dead wife and of kitty heron, as well as of his blindness. little by little he had told her the whole story; or rather she had pieced it together from fragments--stray words and sentences that he let fall; for rupert was never very ready to make confidences. but at present he was glad of her quiet sympathy; and during the past few weeks she had learnt more about her brother than he had ever allowed her to learn before. but she never alluded to what he called his "purely personal troubles" unless he first made a remark about them of his own accord; and he very seldom indulged himself by referring to them. he had not informed the herons of a fact that was of some importance to him at this time. he had never been without fair means of his own; but it had recently happened that a distant relative died and left him a large fortune. he talked at first to angela about purchasing the old house in devonshire, which had been sold in the later years of his father's life; but during the last few weeks he had not mentioned this project, and she almost thought that he had given it up. one result of this accession of wealth was that he took a pleasant house in kensington, where he and his sister spent their days together. he had a young man to act as his secretary and as a companion in expeditions which would have been beyond angela's strength; and on his return from the docks, where he met captain somers, he seemed to have a good deal to say to this young fellow. he sent him out on an errand which took up a good deal of time. angela guessed that he was making inquiries about captain somers. and she was right. vivian went next day to the address which the sea-captain had given him; and he took with him his secretary, mr. fane. they found captain somers at home, in a neat little room for which he looked too big; a room furnished like the cabin of a ship, and decorated with the various things usually seen in a seaman's dwelling--some emu's eggs, a lump of brain coral, baskets of tamarind seeds, and bunches of blackened seaweed. there were maps and charts on the table, and to one of these captain somers directed his guest's attention. "there, sir," he said. "there's the rocas reef; off pernambuco, as you see. that's the point where the _arizona_ struck, i'm pretty sure of that." "show it to my friend, mr. fane," said vivian, gently pushing the chart away from him. "i can't see. i'm blind." "lord!" ejaculated the captain. then, after an instant of astonished silence, "one would never have guessed it. i'm sure i beg your pardon, sir." "what for?" said vivian, smiling. "i am glad to hear that i don't look like a blind man. and now tell me about your shipwreck on the rocas reef." captain somers launched at once into his story. he gave a very graphic description of the island, and of the days that he had spent upon it; and he wound up by saying that he had known of two parties of shipwrecked mariners who had made their way to the place, and that, in his opinion, there was no reason why there should not be a third. "but, mind you, sir," he said, "it's only a strong man and a good swimmer that would have any chance. there wasn't one of us that escaped but could swim like a fish. was your friend a good swimmer, do you happen to know?" "remarkably good." "ah, then, he had a chance; you know, after all, the chance is very small." "but you think," said vivian, deliberately, "that possibly there are now men on that island, waiting for a ship to come and take them off?" "well, sir," said the captain, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his pea-jacket, and settling himself deep into his wooden arm-chair, "it's just a possibility." "do ships ever call at the island?" "they give it as wide a berth as they can, sir. still, if it was a fine, clear day, and a vessel passed within reasonable distance, the castaways, if there were any, might make a signal. the smoke from a fire can be seen a good way off. unfortunately, the reef lies low. that's what makes it dangerous." vivian sat brooding over this information for some minutes. the captain watched him curiously, and said:-- "it's only fair to remind you, sir, that even if some of the men did get safe to the island, there's no certainty that your friend would be amongst them. in fact, it's ten to one that any of them got to land; and it's a hundred to one that your friend is there. it would need a good deal of pluck, and strength, and skill, too, to save himself in that way, or else a deal of lack. i had the luck," said captain somers, modestly, "but i own it's unusual." "i don't know about the luck," said vivian, "but if pluck, and strength, and skill could save a man under those circumstances, i think my friend heron had a good chance." they had some more conversation, and then vivian took his leave. he did not talk much when he reached the street, and throughout the rest of the day he was decidedly absent-minded and thoughtful. angela forebore to question him, but she saw that something lay upon his mind, and she became anxious to hear what it was. mr. fane preserved a discreet silence. it was not until after dinner that rupert seemed to awake to a consciousness of his unwonted silence and abstraction. the servants had withdrawn. a shaded lamp threw a circle of brilliance upon the table, and brought out its distinctive features with singular distinctness against a background of olive-green wall and velvet curtain. its covering of glossy white damask, its ornaments of venetian glass, the delicate yet vivid colours of the hothouse flowers and fruit in the dishes, the gem-like tints of the wines, the very texture and the hues of the bulgarian embroidery upon the d'oyleys, formed a study in colour which an artist would have loved to paint. the faces and figures of the persons present harmonised well enough with the artistic surroundings. angela's pale, spiritual loveliness was not impaired by the sombreness of her garments; she almost always wore black now, but it was black velvet, and she had a knot of violets in her bosom. rupert's musing face, with its high-bred look of distinction, was turned thoughtfully to the fire. arthur fane had the sleek, fair head, straight features, and good-humouredly intelligent expression, characteristic of a very pleasant type of young englishman. the beautiful deerhound which sat with its long nose on rupert's knee, and its melancholy eyes lifted affectionately from time to time to rupert's face, was a not unworthy addition to the group. vivian spoke at last with a smile. "i am very unsociable to-night," he said, tuning his face to the place where he knew angela sat. "i have been making a decision." fane looked up sharply; angela said "yes?" in an inquiring tone. but rupert did not at once mention the nature of his decision. he began to repeat captain somer's story; he told her what kind of a place the rocas reef was like; he even begged fane to fetch an atlas from the study and show her the spot where the _arizona_ had been wrecked. "you must please not mention this matter to the herons when you are writing, you know, angela," he continued, "or to miss murray. it is a mere chance--the smallest chance in the world--and it would not be fair to excite their hopes." "but it is a chance, is it not, rupert?" "yes, dear, it is a chance." "then can nothing be done?" "i think something must be done," said he, quietly. there was a purpose in his tone, a hopeful light in his face, which she could not but remark. "what will you do, rupert?" "i think, dear," he said, smiling, "that the easiest plan would be for me to go out to the rocas reef myself." "you, rupert!" "yes, i, myself. that is if fane will go with me." "i shall be delighted," said fane, whose grey eyes danced with pleasure at the idea. "you must take me, too," said angela. it was rupert's turn now to ejaculate. "you, angela! my dear child, you are joking." "i'm not joking at all. you would be much more comfortable if i went, too. and i think that aunt alice would go with us, if we asked her. why not? you want to travel, and i have nothing to keep me in england. let us go together." rupert smiled. "i want to lose no time," he said. "i must travel fast." "i am fond of travelling. and i shall be so lonely while you are away." that argument was a strong one. rupert conceded the point. angela should go with him on condition that aunt alice--usually known as mrs. norman--should go too. they would travel with all reasonable swiftness, and if--as was to be feared--their expedition should prove unsuccessful, they could loiter a little as they came back, and make themselves acquainted with various pleasant and interesting places on their way. they spent the rest of the evening in discussing their route. rupert was rich enough to carry out his whim--if whim it could be called--in the pleasantest and speediest way. before long he was the temporary owner of a fine little schooner, in which he proposed to scour the seas in search of his missing friend. to his great satisfaction, captain somers consented to act as his skipper: a crew of picked men was obtained; and the world in general received the information that mr. vivian and his sister were going on a yachting expedition for the good of their health, and would probably not return to england for many months. rupert's spirits rose perceptibly at the prospect of the voyage. he was tired of inaction, and welcomed the opportunity of a complete change. he had not much hope of finding percival, but he was resolved, at any rate, to explore the rocas reef, and discover any existing traces of the _arizona_. "and who knows but what there may be some other poor fellows on that desolate reef?" he said to his secretary, fane, who was wild with impatience to set off. "we can but go and see. if we are unsuccessful we will go round cape horn and up to fiji. i always had a hankering after those lovely pacific islands. if you are going down pall mall, fane, you might step into harrison's and order those books by miss bird and miss gordon cumming--you know the ones i mean. they will make capital reading on board." angela had been making some purchases in kensington one afternoon, and was thinking that it was time to return home, when she came unexpectedly face to face with an acquaintance. it was elizabeth murray. angela knew her slightly, but had always liked her. a great wave of sympathy rose in her heart as her eyes rested upon the face of a woman who had, perhaps, lost her lover, even as angela had lost hers. elizabeth's face had parted with its beautiful bloom; it was pale and worn, and the eyelids looked red and heavy, as though from sleepless nights and many tears. the two clasped hands warmly. angela's lips quivered, and her eyes filled with tears, but elizabeth's face was rigidly set in an enforced quietude. "i am glad i have met you," she said. "i was wondering where to find you. i did not know your address." "come and see me now," said angela, by a sudden impulse. "thank you. i will." a few minutes' walking brought them to the old house which rupert had lately taken. it was in a state of some confusion: boxes stood in the passages, parcels were lying about the floor. angela coloured a little as she saw elizabeth's eye fall on some of these. "we are going away," she said, hurriedly, "on a sea-voyage. the doctors have been recommending it to rupert for some time." this was strictly true. "i knew you were going away," said elizabeth, in a low tone. she was standing beside a table in the drawing-room: her left hand rested upon it, her eyes were fixed absently upon the muff which she carried in her right hand. angela asked her to sit down. but elizabeth did not seem to hear. she began to speak with a nervous tremor in her voice which made angela feel nervous, too. "i have heard a strange thing," she said. "i have heard it rumoured that you are going to cross the atlantic--that you mean to visit the rocas reef. tell me, please, if it is true or not." angela did not know what to say. "we are going to south america," she murmured, with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "we may pass the rocas reef." "ah, speak to me frankly," said elizabeth, putting down her muff and moving forward with a slight gesture of supplication. "mr. vivian was percival's friend. does he really mean to go and look for him? do they think that some of the crew and passengers may be living upon the island still?" "there is just a chance," said angela, quoting her brother. "he means to go and see. we did not tell you: we were afraid you might be too--too--hopeful." "i will not be too hopeful. i will be prudent and calm. but you must tell me all about it. do you really think there is any chance? oh, you are happy: you can go and see for yourself, and i can do nothing--nothing--nothing! and it was my doing that he went!" her voice sank into a low moan. she clasped her hands together and wrung them a little beneath her cloak. angela, looking at her with wet, sympathetic eyes, had a sudden inspiration. she held out her hand. "come with us," she said, gently. "why should you not? we will take care of you. what would i not have given to do something for the man i loved! if mr. heron is living, you shall help us to find him." elizabeth's face turned white. "i cannot go with you under false pretences," she said. "you will think me base--wicked; you cannot think too ill of me--but----it was not percival heron whom i loved. and he knew it--and loved me still. you--you--have been true in your heart to your promised husband; but i--in my heart--was false." she covered her face and burst into passionate weeping as she spoke. but angela did not hesitate. "if that is the case," she said, very softly and sweetly, "if you are anxious to repair any wrong that you have done to him, help us to find him now. you have nothing to keep you in england! my brother will say what i say--come with us." chapter xlvii. found. "as far as i can calculate," said percival, "this is the end of march. confound it! i wish i had some tobacco." "don't begin to wish," remarked brian, lazily, "or you will never end." "i haven't your philosophy. i am wishing all day long--and for nothing so much as the sight of a sail on yonder horizon." in justice to percival, it must be observed that he never spoke in this way except when alone with brian, and very seldom even then. there had been a marked change in their relations to each other since the night when heron had made what he called "his confession." they had never again mentioned the subject then discussed, but there had been a steady growth of friendship and confidence between them. if it was ever interrupted, it was only when percival had now and then a moody fit, during which he would keep a sort of sullen silence. brian respected these moods, and thought that he understood them. but he found in the end that he had been as much mistaken about their origin as percival had once been mistaken in attributing motives of a mercenary kind to him. and when the cloud passed, percival would be friendlier and more genial than ever. "of course," said heron, presently, "if a vessel saw our signal--and hove to, we should have to send out one of our ingeniously constructed small boats and state our case. jackson and i would be the best men for the purpose, i suppose. then they would send for the rest of you. a good opportunity for leaving you behind, brian, eh?" "a hermit's life would not suit me badly," said brian, who was lying on his back on a patch of sand in the shade, with a hat of cocoa-nut fibre tilted over his eyes. "i think i could easily let you go back without me." "i shall not do that, you know." "it is foolish, perhaps, to let our minds dwell on the future," said brian, after a moment's pause; "but the more i think of it the more i wonder that your mind is so set upon dragging me back to england. you know that i don't want to go. you know that that business could be settled just as well without me as with me; better, in fact. i shall have to stultify myself; to repudiate my own actions; to write myself down an ass." "good for you," said percival, with an ironical smile. "possibly; but i don't see what you gain by it." "love of dominion, my dear fellow. i want to drag you as a captive at my chariot-wheels, of course. we will have a military band at the dunmuir station, and it shall play 'see the conquering hero comes.'" "very well. i don't mind assisting at your triumph." "hum! my triumph? wait till that day arrives, and we shall see. what's that fellow making frantic signs about from that biggest palm-tree? it looks as if----good heavens, brian, it's a sail!" he dashed the net that he had been making to the ground, and rushed off at the top of his speed to the place where a pile of wood and seaweed had been heaped to make a bonfire. brian followed with almost equal swiftness. the others had already collected at the spot, and in a few minutes a thin, wavering line of smoke rose up into the air, and flashes of fire began to creep amongst the carefully-dried fuel. for a time they all watched the sail in silence. others had been seen before; others had faded away into the blue distance, and left their hearts sick and sore. would this one vanish like the others? was their column of smoke, now rising thick and black towards the cloudless sky, big enough to be seen by the man on the look-out? and, if it was seen--what then? why, even then, they might choose to avoid that perilous reef, and pass it by. "it's coming nearer," said jackson, at last, in a loud whisper. brian looked at percival, then turned away and fixed his eyes once more upon the distant sail. there was something in percival's face which he hardly cared to see. the veins on his forehead were swollen, his lips were nearly bitten through, his eyes were strained with that passionate longing for deliverance to which he seldom gave vent in words. if this vessel brought no succour, brian trembled to think of the force of the reaction from that intense desire. for himself, brian had little care: he was astonished to find how slightly the suspense of waiting told upon him, except for others' sake. he had no prospects: no future. but percival had everything in the world that heart could wish for: home, happiness, success. it was natural that his impatience should have something in it that was fierce and bitter. if this ship failed them, the disappointment would almost break his heart. "they've seen us," jackson repeated, hoarsely. "they're making for the island. thank god!" "don't be too sure," said percival, in a harsh voice. then, in a few minutes, he added:--"the boats had better be seen to. i think you are right." fenwick and the boy went off immediately to the place where the two little boats were moored--boats which they had all laboured to manufacture out of driftwood and rusty iron nails. jackson remained to throw fuel on the fire, and percival, suddenly laying a hand on brian's arm, led him apart and turned his back upon the glittering expanse of sea. "i'm as bad as a woman," he said, tightening his grasp till it seemed like one of steel on brian's arm. "it turns me sick to look. do you think it is coming or not!" "of course it is coming. don't break down at the last moment, heron." "i'm not such a fool," said percival, gruffly. "but--good god! think of the months we have gone through. i say," with a sudden and complete change of tone, "you're not going to back out of our arrangements, are you? you're coming to england with me?" "if you wish it." "i do wish it." "very well. i will come." they clasped hands for a moment in silence and then separated. brian went to the hut to collect the scanty belongings of the party: percival made his way down to the boats. there was no mistake about the vessel now. she was making steadily for the rocas reef. about a mile-and-a-half from it she hove to; and a boat was lowered. by this time heron and jackson had rowed to the one gap in the barrier reef that surrounded the island; they met the ship's boat half-way between the reef and the ship itself. a young, fair, pleasant-looking man in the ship's boat attracted percival's attention at once: he seemed to be in some position of authority, although it was evident that he was not one of the ship's officers. as soon as they were within speaking distance of each other, questions and answers were exchanged. percival was struck by the brightness of the young man's face as he gave the information required. after a little parley, the boat went its way to the schooner; the officer in charge declaring with an odd smile that the castaways had better make known their condition to the captain, before returning for the others on the island. percival was in no mood to demur: he and jackson stepped into the ship's boat, and their own tiny craft was towed behind it as a curiosity in boatbuilding. there was a good deal of crowding at the ship's sides to look at the new-comers: and, as percival sprang on board, with a sense of almost overpowering relief and joy at the sight of his country-men, a broad, red-faced man with a black beard, came up, and, as soon as he learnt his name, shook him heartily by the hand. "so you're mr. heron," he said, giving him an oddly interested and approving look. "well, sir, we've come a good way for you, and i hope you're glad to see us. you'll find some acquaintances of yours below." "acquaintances?" said heron, staring. "there's one, at any rate," said the captain, pushing forward a seaman who was standing at his elbow, with a broad grin upon his face. "remember mason of the _arizona_, mr. heron? ah, well! if you go into the cabin, you'll find someone you remember better." and then the captain laughed, and heron saw a smile on the faces round him, which confused him a little, and made him fancy that something was going wrong. but he had not much time for reflection. he was half-led, half-pushed, down the companion ladder, but in such a good-humoured, friendly way that he did not know how to resist; and then the fair-haired young man opened a door and said, "he's here, sir!" in a tone of triumph, which was certainly not ill bestowed. and then there arose some sort of confusion, and percival heard familiar voices, and felt that his hand was half-shaken off, and that somebody had kissed his cheek. but for the moment he saw no one but elizabeth. they had known for some little time that their quest had been successful, that percival was safe. they had seen him as he rowed from the island, as he entered the other boat, as he set his foot upon the schooner; and then they had withdrawn into the cabin, so that they might not meet him under the inquisitive, if friendly, eyes of the captain and his crew. perhaps they had hardly made enough allowance for the shock of surprise and joy which their appearance was certain to cause percival. his illness and long residence on the island had weakened his physical force. in almost the first time in his life he felt a sensation of faintness, which made him turn pale and stagger, as he recognised the faces of the two persons whom he loved better than any other in the world--his friend and his betrothed. a thought of brian, too, embittered this his first meeting with elizabeth. only one person noticed that momentary paleness and unsteadiness of step; it was natural that angela, a sympathetic spectator in the background, should see more than even elizabeth, whose eyes were dim with emotions which she could not have defined. explanations were hurriedly given, or deferred till a future time. it was proposed that the whole party should go on shore, as everyone was anxious to see the place where percival had spent so long a time. even rupert talked gleefully of "seeing" it. percival had never seen his friend so exultant, so triumphant. and then, without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself for a moment alone with elizabeth, with whom he had hitherto exchanged only a hurried, word or two of greeting. but her hand was still in his when he turned to speak to her alone. "how beautiful you look!" he said. "if you knew what it is to me to see you again, elizabeth!" but it was not pure joy that sparkled in his eyes. "dear percival! i am glad to see you, so glad to know that you are safe." "you were sorry when you heard----" "oh," she said, "sorry is not the word. i could not forgive myself! i can never thank god enough that we have found you." "yes," said he, in a low tone. "i think you are glad that i am safe. i don't deserve that you should be, but----well, never mind all that. won't you give me one kiss, elizabeth, my darling?" then, in a more cheerful voice, "come and see this wretched hole in which we have passed the last four months. it is an interesting place." "oh, percival, it is just like yourself to say so!" said elizabeth, smiling, but with tearful eyes. "and how pale and thin you are." "you should have seen me a couple of months ago. i was a skeleton then," said percival, as he opened the door for her. "a shell-fish diet is not one which i should recommend to an invalid." he was conscious of a question in her eyes which he did not mean to answer: he even found time to whisper a word to jackson before they got into the boat. "not a word about luttrell," he whispered. "say it was a steerage passenger who gave his name as mackay. and don't say anything unless they ask you point blank." jackson stared, but nodded an assent. he had a good deal of faith in mr. heron's wisdom. pale and gaunt as percival undoubtedly was, elizabeth thought that he looked very like his old self, as he stood frowning and biting his moustache in the bows, and looking shorewards as though he were afraid of something that he might see. this familiar expression--something between anxiety and annoyance--made elizabeth smile to herself in spite of her agitation. percival was not much changed. she was sitting near him, and she longed to ask the question which was uppermost in her mind; but it was a difficult question to ask, seeing that he did not mention brian luttrell of his own accord. with an effort that made her turn pale, she bent forward at last, and said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him:-- "what news of the _falcon_?" he looked at her and hesitated, "don't ask me now," he said, averting his face. she was silent. he heard a little sigh, and glancing at her again, saw a look of heart-sick resignation in her white face which told him that she thought brian must be dead. he felt a pang of compunction, and a desire to tell her all, then he restrained himself. "she will not have to wait long," he thought, with a rather bitter smile. when they landed, he quietly took her hand in his, and led her a little apart from the others. angela and rupert, mrs. norman and mr. fane, were, however, close behind. they followed percival's footsteps as he showed the way to one of the huts which the men had occupied during their stay on the island. when they were near it, he turned and spoke to rupert and angela. "i am obliged to be very rude," he said. "let me go into the hut with miss murray first of all. there is something i want her to see--something i must say. i will come back directly." they saw that he was agitated, although he tried to speak as if nothing were the matter; and they drew back, respecting his emotion. as for elizabeth, she waited: she could do nothing else. a little while ago she had said to herself that percival was not changed: she thought differently now. he was changed; and yet she did not know how or why. he stopped at the door, and turned to her. he still held her hand in a close, warm grasp. "don't be startled," he said, gently. "i am going to surprise you very much. there is a friend of mine here: remember, i say, a friend of mine. he was saved from the wreck of the _falcon_--do you understand whom i mean?" and then he opened the door. "brian," he said, in a voice that seemed strange to elizabeth, because of its measured quietness, "come here." elizabeth was trembling from head to foot. "don't be afraid, child," he said, with more of an approach to his old tones and looks than she had yet heard or seen; "nobody will hurt you. here he is--and i think i may fairly say that i have kept my word." brian luttrell had been collecting the possessions which he thought that his comrades might wish to take with them as mementoes of their stay upon the island. he sprang up quickly at the first sound of percival's voice, and then stood, as if turned to stone, looking at elizabeth. the healthy colour faded from his face, leaving it nearly as pale as hers; he set his lips, and percival could see that he clenched his hands. elizabeth did not look up at all. "is this all the thanks i get," said percival, in an ironical tone, "for introducing one cousin to another? i have taken a good deal of trouble for you both; i think that now you have met you might be civil to each other." there was a perceptible pause. elizabeth was the first to recover herself. she made a step forward and put out her hand, which brian instantly took in his. but neither of them spoke. percival, with his back against the door, and his arms folded, observed them with a slightly humorous smile. "you are surprised," he said to elizabeth, "and i don't wonder. the last thing you expected was to find me on good terms with brian luttrell, was it not? and we have been on fairly good terms, have we not, luttrell?" "he saved my life twice," said brian. "and he nursed me through a fever," interposed percival, with a huge laugh, "so we are quits. oh, we have both played our parts in a highly creditable manner as long as we were on a desert island; but the island is inhabited now, and i think it's time that we returned to the habits of civilised life. as a matter of fact, i consider brian luttrell my deadliest enemy." "you do nothing of the kind," said brian, unable to repress a smile, although it hardly altered the look of pain that had come into his eyes. "don't believe him, miss murray: i am glad to say that we are good friends." "idyllic simplicity! don't you know that i did but dissemble, like the man in the play? how can we be friends when we both----" he stopped short, looked at elizabeth, and then back at brian, and finished his sentence--"both want to marry the same woman?" "heron, you are going too far. don't make these allusions; they are unsuitable," said brian. elizabeth had winced as if she had received a blow. percival laughed in their faces. "out of taste, isn't it?" he said. "i ought to ignore the circumstances under which we meet, and talk as if we were in a drawing-room. i'm not such a fool. look here, you two: let us talk sensibly. i have surely a right to demand something of you both, have i not?" "yes, yes, indeed," they answered. "then, for heaven's sake, speak the truth! here have i been chasing brian half over the world, getting myself shipwrecked and thrown on desert islands, and what not, all because i wanted you, elizabeth, to acknowledge that i was not such a mean and selfish wretch as you concluded me to be. have i cleared myself? or, perhaps i should say, have i expiated the crime that i did commit?" "it was no crime," said brian, warmly. "no one who knows you could think you capable of meanness." "i was not speaking to you, mr. luttrell," said percival. "you're not in it at all. i am having a little conversation with my cousin. well, elizabeth, what do you say?" "i think you have been most kind and generous," she said. "then i may retire with a good character? and, to come back to what i said before, as we both wish----" "you are not generous now, heron," said brian, quickly. "no! but i will be--sometime. you seem very anxious to repudiate all desire to marry my cousin. have you changed your mind?" "percival, i will not listen. have you brought me here only to insult me?" cried elizabeth, passionately. percival smiled. "i am waiting for brian luttrell's answer," he replied, looking at him steadily. "i do not know what answer you expect," said brian, "unless you want me to say the truth--that i loved elizabeth murray with all my heart and soul, before i knew that she had promised to be your wife; and that as i loved her then, i love her still. it is my misfortune--or my privilege--to do so; i scarcely know which. and for that reason, as you know, i have earnestly wished never to cross her path again, lest i should trouble her or distress her in any way." "fate has been against you," said percival, grimly. "you seem destined to cross her path in one way or another--and mine, too. it is time all this came to an end. you think i am saying disagreeable things for the mere pleasure of saying them; but it is not so. i will beg your pardon afterwards if i hurt you. what i want to say is this: i withdraw all my claims, if i had any, to miss murray's hand. i release her from any promise that she ever made to me. she is as free to choose as--as you are yourself, or as i am. we have both offered ourselves to miss murray at different times. it is for her to say which of us she prefers." there was a silence. elizabeth's face changed from white to red, from red to white again. at last she looked up, and looked at brian. he came to her side at once, as if he saw that she wanted help. "percival," he said, "you are very generous in act: be generous in word as well. let the matter rest. it is cruel to ask her to decide." "it seems to me that she has decided," said percival, with a sharp, short laugh, "seeing that she lets you speak for her." "oh, percival, forgive me," murmured elizabeth. a spasm of pain seemed to pass over his face as he turned towards her: then it grew strangely gentle. "my dear," he said, "i never pretended to be anything but a very selfish fellow; but if i can secure your happiness, i shall feel that i have accomplished one, at least, of the ends of my life. there!"--with a laugh: "i think that's well said. haven't i known for months that i should be obliged to give you up to luttrell in the long run? and the worst is, that i haven't the satisfaction of hating him through it all, because we have managed--i don't know how--to fight our way to a sort of friendship. eh, brian? and now i'll leave you to yourself for a few minutes, and you can settle the matter while you have the opportunity." he walked out of the hut before they could protest. but the smile died away from his lips when he had left them, and was succeeded for a few minutes by an expression of intense pain. he stood and looked at the sea; perhaps it was the dazzling reflection of the sun upon the waters which made his eyes so dim. after five minutes' reflection, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away. "there's one great consolation in returning to civilised life," he said, strolling up to the group of friends as they returned from a walk round the island. "that is--tobacco! fate can't do much harm to the man who smokes." and he accepted a cigarette from mr. fane. "now," he continued, "fortune may buffet me as she pleases; i do not care. i have not smoked for four months. consequently i am as happy as a king." he smoked with evident satisfaction; but angela thought that she discerned a look of trouble upon his face. chapter xlviii. angela. "so it was not you after all, sir," said captain somers, surveying heron with some surprise, and then glancing towards a secluded corner, where brian and elizabeth were absorbed in an apparently very interesting conversation. "well, i must have made a mistake. i didn't know anything about the other gentleman." "oh, we kept him dark," returned percival, lightly. "my cousin didn't want her affairs talked about. they make a nice couple, don't they?" "ay, sir, they do. mr. vivian made a mistake, too, perhaps," said captain somers, with some curiosity. "we're all liable to make mistakes at times," replied percival, smiling. "i don't think they've made one now, at any rate." and then he left captain somers, and seated himself on a chair, which happened to be close to the one occupied by angela vivian. brian and elizabeth were still within the range of his vision: although he was not watching them he was perfectly conscious of their movements. he saw brian take elizabeth's hand in his and raise it gently to his lips. the two did not know that they could be seen. percival stifled a sigh, and twisted his chair round a little, so as to turn his back to them. this manoeuvre brought him face to face with angela. "they look very happy and comfortable over there, don't they?" he said. "i think they will be very happy," she answered. "i shouldn't wonder." he moved restlessly in his chair, and looked towards the sea. "you know the story," he said. "i suppose you mean she will be happier with him than with me?" "she loves him," said angela scarcely above her breath. "i suppose so," he answered, dryly. then, after a pause--"love is a mighty queer matter, it seems to me. here have i been trying to win her heart for the last five years, and, just when i think i am succeeding, in steps a fellow whom she has never seen before, who does in a month or two what i failed to do in years." "they have a great deal to thank you for," said angela. percival shook his head. "that's a mere delusion of their generous hearts," he said. "i've been a selfish brute: that's all." it seemed easier to him, after this, to discuss the matter with angela from every possible point of view. he told her more than he had told anyone in the world of the secret workings of his mind; she alone had any true idea of what it had cost him to give elizabeth up. he took a great deal of pleasure in dissecting his own character, and it soothed and flattered him that she should listen with so much interest. he was always in a better temper when he had been talking to angela. he did most of the talking--it must be owned that he liked to hear himself talk--and she made a perfect listener. he, in turn, amused and interested her very much. she had never come across a man of his type before. his trenchant criticisms of literature, his keen delight in politics, his lively argumentativeness, were charming to her. he had always had the knack of quarrelling with elizabeth, even when he was most devoted to her; but he did not quarrel with angela. she quieted him; he hardly knew how to be irritable in her presence. the story of kitty's marriage excited his deepest ire. he was indignant with his sister, disgusted with hugo luttrell. he himself told it, with some rather strong expressions of anger, to brian, who listened in perfect silence. "what can you say for your cousin?" said percival, turning upon him fiercely. "what sort of a fellow is he? do you consider him fit to marry my sister?" "no, i don't," brian answered. "i am sorry to say so, but i don't think hugo is in the least to be relied on. i have been fond of him, but----" "a screw loose somewhere, is there? i thought as much." "he may do better now that he is married," said brian. but he felt that it was poor comfort. they went straight back to england, and it was curious to observe how naturally and continuously a certain division of the party was always taking place. brian and elizabeth were, of course, a great deal together; it seemed equally inevitable that percival should pair off with angela, and that mrs. norman, rupert vivian, and mr. fane should be left to entertain each other. it was on the last day of the voyage that brian sought out percival and took him by the arm. "look here, heron," he said. "i have never thanked you for what you have done for me." percival was smoking. he took his pipe out of his mouth, and said, "don't," very curtly, and then replaced the meerschaum, and puffed at it energetically. "but i must." "stop," said heron. "don't go on till you've heard me speak." he took his pipe in his hand and knocked it meditatively against the bulwarks. "there's a great deal that might be said on both sides. do you think that any of us have acted wisely or rightly throughout this business?" "i don't think i have. i think elizabeth has." "oh, elizabeth. well, she's a woman. women have a strange sort of pleasure in acting properly. but i don't think that even your elizabeth was quite perfect. now, don't knock me down; she's my cousin, and i knew her years before you did. she's your cousin, too, by the way; but that does not signify. what i wanted to say was this:--we have all been more or less idiotic. i made a confounded fool of myself once or twice, and, begging your pardon, brian, i think you did, too." "i think i did," said brian, reflectively. "elizabeth will take care of you now, and see that you have your due complement of commonsense," said percival. "well, look here. i've been wrong and i've been right at times; so have you. i have something to thank you for, and perhaps you feel the same sort of thing towards me. i think it is a pity to make a sort of profit and loss calculation as to which of the two has been the more wronged, or has the more need to be grateful. let bygones be bygones. i want you and elizabeth to promise me not to speak or think of those old days again. we can't be friends if you do. i was very hard on you both sometimes: and--well, you know the rest. if you forgive, you must also forget." brian looked at him for a moment. "upon my word, percival," he said, warmly, "i can't imagine why she did not prefer you to me. you're quite the most large-hearted man i ever knew." "oh, come, that's too strong," said heron, carelessly. "you're a cut above me, you know, in every way. you will suit her admirably. as for me, i'm a rough, coarse sort of a fellow--a newspaper correspondent, a useful literary hack--that's all. i never quite understood until--until lately--what my position was in the eyes of the world." "why, i thought you considered your profession a very high one," said brian. "so i do. only i'm at the bottom of the tree, and i want to be at the top." there was a pause. a little doubt was visible upon brian's face: percival saw it and understood. "there's one thing you needn't do," he said, with a sort of haughty abruptness. "don't offer me help of any kind. i won't stand it. i don't want charity. if i could be glad that i was not going to marry elizabeth, it would be because she is a rich woman. i wonder, by-the-bye, what dino vasari is going to do." they had not heard of dino's death when percival left england. "if i were you," percival went on, "i should not stand on ceremony. i should get a special licence in london and marry her at once. you'll have a bother about settlements and provisions and compromises without end, if you don't." brian smiled, and even coloured a little at the proposition. "i could not ask her to do it," he said. "then i'll ask her," said percival with his inimitable _sang-froid_. "in the very nick of time, here she comes. mademoiselle, i was talking about you." elizabeth smiled. the colour had come back to her cheeks, the brightness to her eyes. she was the incarnation of splendid health and happiness. percival looked from her to brian, remarking silently the gravity and nobleness of his expression and the singular refinement of his features, which could be seen so much more plainly, now that he had returned to his old fashion of wearing a moustache and small pointed beard, instead of the disfiguring mass of hair with which he had once striven to disguise his face. percival was clean shaven, except for the heavy, black moustache, which he fingered as he spoke. "you are my children by adoption," he said, cheerfully, "and i am going to speak to you as a grandfather might. elizabeth, my opinion is, that if you want to avoid vexatious delays, you had better get married to this gentleman here before you present yourself in scotland at all. you have no idea how much it would simplify matters. brian won't suggest such a thing; he is afraid you will think that he wants to make ducks and drakes of your money----" "his money," said elizabeth. "well, his or yours, or that italian fellow's--i don't see that it matters much. why don't you stop in london, get a special licence, and be married from vivian's house? i know he would be delighted." "it is easy to make the suggestion," said brian, "but perhaps elizabeth would not like such haste." "i will do what you like," said elizabeth. "let me congratulate you," remarked percival to brian; "you are about to marry that treasure amongst wives--a woman who tries to please you and not herself. well, i have broken the ice, settle the matter as you please." "no, percival, don't go," said elizabeth. but he laughed, shook his head, and left them to themselves. as usual he went to angela, and allowed himself to look as gloomy as he chose. she asked him what was the matter. "i have been playing the heavy father, and giving away the bride," he said. and then he told her what he had advised. "you want to have it over," she said, looking at him with her soft, serious eyes. "to tell the truth, i believe i do." "it is hard on you, now." "not a bit," said percival, taking a seat beside her. "i ought not to mind. if i were luttrell, i probably should glory in self-sacrifice, and say i didn't mind. unfortunately i do. but nothing will drive me to say that it is hard. all's fair in love and war. brian has proved himself the better man." "not the stronger man," said angela, almost involuntarily. "you think not? i don't think i have been strong! i have been wretchedly weak sometimes. ah, there they come; they have settled it between them. they look bright, don't they?" angela made no answer, she felt a little indignant with brian and elizabeth for looking bright. it was decidedly inconsiderate towards percival. but percival made no show of his wound to anybody except angela. he seemed heartily glad when he heard that elizabeth had consented to the speedy marriage in london, he was as cheerful in manner as usual, he held his head high, and ate and drank and laughed in his accustomed way. even elizabeth was deceived, and thought he was cured of his love for her. but the restless gleam of his eye and the dark fold between his brow, in spite of his merriment, told a different tale to the two who understood him best--brian and angela. the marriage took place from rupert's house, according to percival's suggestion. it was a quiet wedding, and the guests were very various in quality. mr. heron came from scotland for the occasion, rupert and his sister, mrs. norman, captain somers and the two seamen--jackson and mason, were all present. percival alone did not come. he had said nothing about his intention of staying away, but sent a note of excuse at the last moment. he had resumed his newspaper work, and a sudden call upon him required instant attention. elizabeth was deeply disappointed. she had looked upon his presence at her wedding as the last assurance of his forgiveness, and she and brian both felt that something was lacking from their felicity when percival did not come. they started for scotland as soon as the wedding was over, and it was not until the following week that brian received a bulky letter which had been waiting for him at the place where he had directed dino vasari to address his letters. he opened it eagerly, expecting to find a long letter from dino himself. he took out only the announcement of his death. there was, however, a very lengthy document from padre cristoforo, which brian and elizabeth read with burning hearts and tearful or indignant eyes. in this letter, padre cristoforo set forth, calmly and dispassionately, what he knew of poor dino's story, and there were many things in it which brian learnt now for the first time. but the prior said nothing about elizabeth. when brian had read the letter, he leaned over the table, and took his wife's hand as he spoke. "did you ever see him?" he asked. "i saw a young man with mr. colquhoun on the day when he came to netherglen. but i hardly remember his face." "you would have loved him?" "yes," she said, "for your sake." "and now, what shall we do? now we are on our guard against hugo. to think that any man should be so vile!" "our poor little kitty!" murmured elizabeth. "surely she has found out her mistake. i could never understand that marriage. she looked very unhappy afterwards. but we were all unhappy then." "i had forgotten what happiness was like until i saw your face again," said brian. "but about hugo, love?" she said, replying to his glance with a smile, which showed that for her at least the fullest earthly bliss had been attained. "can we not go to netherglen and send him away? i do not like to think that he is with your mother." "nor i," said brian. "let us go and see." that very evening they set out for netherglen. * * * * * meanwhile, percival heron was calling at the vivians' house in kensington. angela, who had hitherto seen him in very rough and ready costume, was a little surprised when he appeared one afternoon attired in clothes of the most faultless cut, and looking as handsome and idle as if he had never done anything in his life but pay morning calls. he had come, perhaps by accident, perhaps by design, on the day when she was at home to visitors from three to six; and, although she had not been very long in london, her drawing-room was crowded with visitors. the story of the expedition to the rocas reef had made a sensation in london society; everybody was anxious to see the heroes and heroines of the story, and percival soon found himself as much a centre of attraction as angela herself. she watched him keenly, wondering whether he would be annoyed by the attention he was receiving; but his face wore a tranquil smile of amusement which reassured her. once he made a movement as if to go, but she managed to say to him in passing:-- "do not go yet unless you are obliged. rupert is out with mr. fane." "i did not come to see rupert," said percival, with a laugh in his brilliant eyes. "i have something to say to you, too," she went on seriously. "really? then i will wait." he had to wait some time before the room was cleared of guests. when at last they found themselves alone, the day was closing in, and the wood fire cast strange flickering lights and shadows over the walls. the room was full of the scent of violets and white hyacinths. percival leaned back in an easy chair, with an air of luxurious enjoyment. and yet he was not quite as much at his ease as he looked. "you had something to say to me," he began, boldly. "i know perfectly well what it is. you think i ought to have come to the wedding, and you want to tell me so." "your conscience seems to say more than i should venture to," said angela, smiling. "i had an engagement, as i wrote in my letter." "one that could not be broken?" "to tell the truth, i was not in an amiable mood. if i had come i should probably have hurt their feelings more than by staying away. i should have said something savage. well,"--as he saw her lips move--"what were you going to say?" "something very severe." "say it by all means." "that you are trying to excuse your own selfishness by the plea of want of self-control. the excuse is worse than the action itself." "i am very selfish, i know," said percival, complacently. "i'm not at all ashamed of it. why should i not consult my own comfort?" "why should you add one drop to the bitterness of brian's cup?" "i like that," said percival, in an ironical tone. "it shows the extent of a woman's sense of justice. i beg your pardon, miss vivian, for saying so. but in my opinion brian is a lucky fellow." "you forget----" "what do i forget? this business about his identity is all happily over, and he is married to the woman of his choice. i wish i had half his luck!" "you have forgotten, mr. heron," said angela, in a tone that showed how deeply she was moved, "that brian has had a great sorrow--a great loss. i do not think life can ever be the same to him again--as it can never be the same to me--since--richard--died." her voice sank and faltered. for an instant there was a silence, in which percival felt shocked and embarrassed at his own want of thought. he had forgotten. he had been thinking solely of brian's relations with elizabeth. it had not occurred to him for a long time that angela had once been on the point of marriage with the man--the brother--whom brian luttrell had shot dead at netherglen. he said, "i beg your pardon," in a constrained, reluctant voice, and sat in silence, feeling that he ought to go, yet not liking to tear himself away. for the first time he was struck by the beauty of angela's patience. how she must have suffered! he thought to himself, as he remembered her sisterly care of brian, her silence about her own great loss, her quiet acceptance of the inevitable. and he had prosed by the hour to this woman about his own griefs and love-troubles! what an egotist she must think him! what a fool! percival felt hot about the ears with self-contempt. he rose to go, feeling that he should not venture to present himself to her again very easily. he did not even like to say that he was ashamed of his lapse of memory. angela rose, too. she would have spoken sooner, but she had been swallowing down the rising tears. she very seldom mentioned richard luttrell now. they were standing, still silent, in this attitude of expectancy--each thinking that the other would speak first--when the door opened, and mr. vivian came in. percival hailed his arrival with a feeling between impatience and relief. rupert wanted him to stay, but he said that he must go at once; business called him away. "there is a letter for you, angela," said vivian. "it was on the hall-table. fane gave it me. i hope my sister has been scolding you for not coming to the wedding, heron. it went off very well, but we wanted you. have you heard the latest news from egypt?" and then they launched into a discussion of politics, from which they were presently diverted by a remark made by angela as she laid her hand gently on rupert's arm. "excuse me," she said. "i think i had better show both you and mr. heron this letter. it is from mrs. hugo luttrell." "from kitty!" said the brother. rupert's face changed a little, but he did not speak. angela handed the letter first to percival. "dear miss vivian," kitty's letter began, "i am sorry to trouble you, but i want to know whether you will give a message for me to mr. brian luttrell. mrs. luttrell is a little better, and is able to say one or two words. she calls for 'brian' almost incessantly. i should be so glad if he would come, and elizabeth too. if you know where they are, will you tell them so? but they must not say that i have written to you. and please do not answer this letter. if they cannot come, could not you? it is asking a great deal, i know; but mrs. luttrell would be happier if you were with her, and i should be so glad, too. i have nobody here whom i can trust, and i do not know what to do. i think you would help me if you knew all.--yours very truly, "catherine luttrell." percival read it through aloud, then laid it down in silence. "what does she mean?" he said, perplexedly. "it means that there is something wrong," answered rupert. "are your people at strathleckie now, percival?" "no, they are in london." "why don't you go down? you have not seen her since her marriage?" "hum. i haven't time." "then i will go." "and i with you," said angela, quickly. but rupert shook his head. "no, dear, not you. we will write for brian and elizabeth. and, excuse me, percival, but if your sister is in any difficulty, i think it would be only kind if you went to her assistance." "yes, mr. heron," said angela. "do go. do help her if you can." and this time percival did not refuse. chapter xlix. kitty's warning. "it's an odd thing," said percival, with a puzzled look, "that kitty won't see me." "won't see you?" ejaculated rupert. they had arrived at dunmuir the previous day, and located themselves at the hotel. arthur fane had come with them, but he was at present in the smoking-room, and the two friends had their parlour to themselves. "exactly. sent word she was ill." "through whom?" "a servant. a man whom i have seen with luttrell several times. stevens, they call him." "did you see hugo luttrell?" "no. i heard his voice." "he was in the house then?" "yes. i suppose he did not care to see me." "you are curiously unsuspicious for a man of your experience," said vivian, resting his head on one hand with a sort of sigh. percival started to his feet. "you think that it was a blind?" he cried. "no doubt of it. he does not want you to see your sister." "what for? good heavens! you don't mean to insinuate that he does not treat her well?" "no. i don't mean to insinuate anything." "then tell me in plain english what you do mean." "i can't, percival. i have vague suspicions, that is all." "it was a love-match," said percival, after a moment's pause. "they ought to be happy together." rupert was silent a moment; then he said, in a low voice-- "i doubt whether it was a love-match exactly." "what in heaven or earth do you mean?" said percival, staring. "what else could it be?" but before vivian could make any response, young fane entered the room with the air of one who has had good news. "mr. colquhoun asks me to tell you that he has just had a letter from mr. brian luttrell, sir. he is to meet mr. and mrs. luttrell at the station at nine o'clock, but their arrival is not to be made generally known. only hearing that you were here, he thought it better to let you know." "they could not have got angela's letter," said rupert. "i wonder why they are coming. it is very opportune." "if you don't mind," remarked percival, "i'll go and see mr. colquhoun. i want to know what he thinks of our adventures. and he may tell me something about affairs at netherglen." he departed on his errand, whistling as he went; but the whistle died on his lips as soon as he was out of rupert's hearing. he resumed his geniality of bearing, however, when he stood in mr. colquhoun's office. "well, mr. colquhoun," he said, "i think we have all taken you by surprise now." the old man looked at him keenly over his spectacles. "i won't say but what you have," he said, with an emphasis on the pronoun. percival laughed cheerily. "thanks. that's a compliment." "it's just the truth. you've done a very right thing, and a generous one, mr. heron; and i shall esteem it an honour to shake hands with you." and mr. colquhoun got up from his office-chair, and held out his hand with a look of congratulation. percival gave it a good grip, and resumed, in an airier tone than ever. "you do me proud, as a yankee would say, mr. colquhoun. i'm sure i don't see what i've done to merit this mark of approval. popular report says that i jilted miss murray in the most atrocious manner; but then you always wanted me to do that, i remember." "lad, lad," said the old man, reprovingly, "what is all this bluster and swagger about? take the credit of having made a sacrifice for once in your life, and don't be too ready to say it cost you nothing. man, didn't i see you on the street just now, with your hands in your pockets and your face as black as my shoe? you hadn't those wrinkles in your brow when you started for pernambuco six months ago. it's pure childishness to pretend that you feel nothing and care for nothing, when we all know that you've had a sore trouble and a hard fight of it. but you've conquered, mr. heron, as i thought you would." percival sat perfectly still. his face wore at first an expression of great surprise. then it relaxed, and became intently grave and even sad, but the defiant bitterness disappeared. "i think you're right," he said, after a long pause. "of course, i've--i've been hit pretty hard. but i don't want people to know. i don't want her to know. and i don't mean either to snivel or to sulk. but i see what you mean; and i think you may be right." mr. colquhoun made some figures on his blotting-pad, and did not look up for a few minutes. he was glad that his visitor had dropped his sneering tone. and, indeed, percival dropped it for the remainder of his visit, and, although he talked of scarcely anything but trivial topics, he went away feeling as if mr. colquhoun was no longer an enemy, but a confidential friend. on his return to the hotel, he found that vivian had gone out with arthur fane. he occupied himself with strolling idly about dunmuir till they came back. vivian had ordered a dog-cart, and got fane to drive him up to netherglen. he thought it possible that he might gain admittance, although percival had not done so. but he was mistaken. he was assured by the impassive stevens that mrs. hugo luttrell was too unwell to see visitors, and that mr. luttrell was not at home. vivian was forced to drive away, baffled and impatient. "drive me round by the loch," he said to fane. "there is a road running close to the water. i should like to go that way. what does the loch look like to-day, fane? is it bright?" "yes, very bright." "and the sky is clear?" "clear in the south and east. there are clouds coming up from the north-west; we shall have rain to-night." they drove on silently, until at last fane said, in rather a hesitating tone:-- "there is a lady making signs to us to turn round to wait, sir. she is a little way behind us." "a lady? stop then; stop at once. is she near? what is she like? is she young?" "very young, very slight. she is close to us now," said fane, as he checked his horse. rupert bent forward with a look of eager expectation. he heard a footstep on the road; surely he knew it? he knew the voice well enough as it spoke his name. "mr. vivian!" "kitty!" he said, eagerly. then, in a soberer tone: "i beg your pardon, mrs. luttrell, i have just been calling at netherglen and heard that you were ill." "i am not ill, but i do not see visitors," said kitty, in a constrained voice. "i wanted to speak to you; i saw you from the garden. i thought i should never make you hear." "will you wait one moment until i get down from my high perch? fane will help me; i feel rather helpless at present." "can you turn back with me for a few minutes?" "certainly." they walked for a few steps side by side, he with his hand resting on her arm for the sake of guidance. the soft spring breezes played upon their faces; the scent of wild flowers came to their nostrils, the song of building birds to their ears. but they noted none of these things. vivian stopped short at last, and spoke authoritatively. "now, kitty, what does this mean? why can you not see your brother and me when we call upon you?" "my husband does not wish it," she said, faintly. "why not?" "i don't know." then, in a more decided tone: "he likes to thwart my wishes, that is all." "that was why you warned angela not to answer your letter?" "yes." then, under her breath:--"i was afraid." "but, my child, what are you afraid of?" she uttered a short, stifled sob. "i can't tell you," she said. "surely," said rupert, "he would not hurt you?" "no," she said, "perhaps not. i do not know." there was a dreariness in her tone which went to rupert's heart. "take courage," he said. "brian and elizabeth will be in dunmuir to-night. shall they come to see you?" "oh, yes, yes, yes!" cried kitty. "let them come at once--at once, tell them. you will see them, will you not?" she had forgotten rupert's blindness. "if they come, i shall be prevented from meeting them, perhaps; i know i shall not be allowed to talk to them alone. tell mr. luttrell to come and live at netherglen. tell him to turn us out. i shall be thankful to him all my life if he turns us out. i want to go!" "you want to leave netherglen?" "yes, yes, as quick as possible. tell him that mrs. luttrell wants him--that she is sorry for having been so harsh to him. i know it. i can see it in her eyes. i tell her everything that i hear about him, and i know she likes it. she is pleased that he has married elizabeth. tell him to come to-night." "to-night?" said rupert. he began to fear that her troubles had affected her brain. "yes, to-night. remember to tell him so. to-morrow may be too late. now, go, go. he may come home at any moment; and if he saw you"--she caught her breath with a sob--"if he saw you here, i think that he would kill me." "kitty, kitty! it cannot be so bad as this." "indeed, it is--and worse than you know," she said, bitterly. "now let me lead you back. thank you for coming. and tell brian--be sure you tell brian to come home to-night. it is his right, nobody can keep him out. but not alone. tell him not to come alone." it was with these words ringing in his ears that rupert was driven back to dunmuir. brian and his wife arrived about nine o'clock in the evening, as they had said in the letter which mr. colquhoun had received. vivian, wrought up by this time to a high pitch of excitement, did not wait five minutes before pouring the whole of his story into brian's ear. brian's eyes flashed, his face looked stern as he listened to kitty's message. "the hound!" he said. "the cur! i expected almost as much. i know now what i never dreamt of before. he is a cowardly villain, and i will expose him this very night." "remember poor kitty," said elizabeth. "i will spare her as much as possible, but i will not spare him. do you know, vivian, that he tried to murder dino vasari? there is not a blacker villain on the face of the earth. and to think that all this time my mother has been at his mercy!" "his mother!" ejaculated mr. colquhoun in percival's ear, with a chuckle of extreme satisfaction, "i'm glad he's come back to that nomenclature. blood's thicker than water; and i'll stand to it, as i always have done, that this brian's the right one after all." "it's the only one there is, now," said percival, "vasari is dead." "poor laddie! well, he was just too good for this wicked world," said the lawyer, with great cheerfulness, "and it would be a pity to grudge him to another. and what are you after now, brian?" "i'm going up to netherglen." "without your dinner?" "what do i care for dinner when my mother's life may be in danger?" said brian. "tut, tut! why should it be in danger to-night of all nights in the year?" said mr. colquhoun, testily. "why? can you ask? have you not told me yourself that my mother made a will before her illness, leaving all that she possessed to hugo? depend upon it, he is anxious to get netherglen. when he hears that i have come back he will be afraid. he knows that i can expose him most thoroughly. he is quite capable of trying to put an end to my mother's life to-night. and that is what your sister meant." "don't forget her warning. don't go alone," said vivian. "you'll come with me, percival," said brian. "and you, fane." "if fane and percival go, you must let me go, too," remarked vivian, but brian shook his head, and elizabeth interposed. "will you stay with us, mr. vivian? do not leave mr. colquhoun and me alone." "i'll not be left behind," said mr. colquhoun, smartly; "you may depend upon that, mrs. brian. you and mr. vivian must take care of my wife; but i shall go, because it strikes me that i shall be needed. four of us, that'll fill the brougham. and we'll put the constable, macpherson, on the box." "i must resign myself to be useless," said vivian, with a smile which had some pain in it. "useless, my dear fellow? we should never have been warned but for you," answered brian, giving him a warm grasp of the hand before he hurried off. in a very short time the carriage was ready. the gentlemen had hastily swallowed some refreshment, and were eager to start. brian turned back for a moment to bid his wife farewell, and received a whispered caution with the kiss that she pressed upon his face. "spare kitty as much as you can, love. and take care of your dear self" then they set out for netherglen. the drive was almost a silent one. each member of the party was more or less absorbed in his own thoughts, and brian's face wore a look of stern determination which seemed to impose quietude upon the others. it was he who took command of the expedition, as naturally as percival had taken command of the sailors upon the rocas reef. "we will not drive up to the house," he said, as they came in sight of the white gates of netherglen. "we should only be refused admittance. i have told the driver where to stop." "it's a blustering night," said mr. colquhoun. "all the better for us," replied brian. "we are not so likely to be overheard." "why, you don't think that they would keep us out, do you, brian, my lad? hugo hasn't the right to do that, you know. he's never said me nay to my face as yet." "depend upon it, he won't show," said percival, contemptuously. "he'll pretend to be asleep, or away from home, or something of the sort." "i am sure that he will try to keep us out, if he can," said brian, "and, therefore, i am not going to give him the chance. i think i can get into the house by a side door." the carriage had drawn up in the shade of some overhanging beech trees whilst they were speaking. the four men got out, and stood for a moment in the road. the night was a rough one, as mr. colquhoun had said; the wind blew in fierce but fitful gusts; the sky was covered with heavy, scurrying clouds. every now and then the wind sent a great dash of rain into their faces, it seemed as if a tempest were preparing, and the elements were about to be let loose. "we are like thieves," said heron, shrugging his shoulders. "i don't care for this style of work. i should walk boldly up to the door and give a thundering peal with the knocker." "you don't know hugo as well as i do," responded brian. "thank heaven, no. are you armed, fane?" "i've got a stick," said fane, with gusto. "and i've got a revolver. now for the fray." "we shall not want arms of that kind," said brian. "if you are ready, please follow me." he led the way through the gates and down the drive, then turned off at right angles and pursued his way along a narrow path, across which the wet laurels almost touched, and had to be pushed back. they reached at last the side entrance of which brian had spoken. he tried the handle, and gently shook the door; but it did not move. he tried it a second time--with no result. "locked!" said percival, significantly. "that does not matter," responded brian. "look here; but do not speak." he felt in the darkness for one of the panels of the door. evidently he knew that there was some hidden spring. the panel suddenly flew back, leaving a space of two feet square, through which it was easy for brian to insert his hand and arm, draw back a bolt, and turn the key which had been left in the lock. it was a door which he and richard had known of old. they had kept the secret, however, to themselves; and it was possible that hugo had never learned it. even mr. colquhoun uttered a faint inarticulate murmur of surprise. the door was open before them, but they were still standing outside in the wet shrubbery, their feet on the damp grass, the evergreens trickling water in their faces, when an unexpected sound fell upon their ears. somewhere, in another part of the building--probably in the front of the house--one of the upper windows was thrown violently open. then a woman's voice, raised in shrill tones of fear or pain, rang out between the fitful gusts of wind and rain. "help! help! help!" there was no time to lose. the four men threw caution to the winds, and dashed headlong into the winding passages of the dark old house. * * * * * when rupert vivian drove away from netherglen, kitty stood for some time in the lane where they had been walking, and gazed after him with painful, anxious interest. the dog-cart was well out of sight before she turned, with a heavy sigh, preparing herself to walk back to the house. and then, for the first time, she became aware that her husband was standing at some little distance from her, and was coolly watching her, with folded arms and an evil smile upon his face. "i have been wondering how long you meant to stand there, watching vivian drive away," he said, advancing slowly to meet her. "did you ask him about his wife?" kitty thought of her conversation with rupert at strathleckie--a conversation of which she had kept hugo in ignorance--and coloured vividly. "his wife is dead," she said, in a smothered tone. "oh, then, you did ask him?" said hugo, looking at her. "is that what he came to tell you?" kitty did not reply. she had thrown a shawl over her head before coming out, and she stood drawing the edges of it closer across her bosom with nervous, twitching fingers and averted face. "why did you come out in that way?" queried her husband. "you look like a madwoman in that shawl. you looked more like one than ever when you ran after that dog-cart, waving your hands for vivian to stop. he did not want to see you or to be forced into an interview." "then you have been watching me?" "i always watch you. women are such fools that they require watching. what did you want to speak to vivian about?" "i will not tell you," said kitty, suddenly growing pale. "then it is something that you ought not to have said. i understand your ways by this time. come here, close to me." she came like a frightened child. "look at me, kiss me." she obeyed, after some faint show of reluctance. he put his arm round her and kissed her several times, on cheek and brow and lips. "you don't like that," he said, releasing her at last with a smile. "that is why i do it. you are mine now, remember, not vivian's. now tell me what you said to him." "never!" said kitty, with a gasp. a change passed over hugo's face. "who is with vivian and your brother?" he demanded "has brian luttrell come back?" but he could not make her answer him. his hand was no longer on her arm, and with a desperate effort of will, she fled with sudden swiftness from him towards the house. he stood and watched her, with a look of sullen anger darkening his face. "she is not to be trusted," he muttered to himself. "i must finish my work to-night." chapter l. mrs. luttrell's room. kitty made her way to her own room, and was not surprised to find that in a few moments hugo followed her thither. she was sitting in a low chair, striving to command her agitated thoughts, and school herself into some semblance of tranquility, when he entered. she fully expected that he would try again to force from her the history of her interview with vivian, but he did nothing of the kind. he threw himself into a chair opposite to her, and looked at her in silence, while she tried her best not to see his face at all. those long, lustrous eyes, that low brow and perfectly-modelled mouth and chin, had grown hideous in her sight. but when he spoke he took her completely by surprise. "you had better begin to pack up your things," he said. "we shall go to the south of france either this week or next." "and leave mrs. luttrell?" breathed kitty. his lips stretched themselves into something meant for a smile, but it was a very joyless smile. "and leave mrs. luttrell," he repeated. "but, hugo, what will people say?" "they won't find fault," he answered. "the matter will be simple enough when the time comes. pack your boxes, and leave the rest to me." "she is much better, certainly," hesitated kitty, "but i do not like leaving her to servants." "she is no better," said hugo, rising, and turning a malevolent look upon her. "she is worse. don't let me hear you say again that she is better. she is dying." with these words he left the room. kitty leaned back in her chair, for she was seized with a fit of trembling that made her unable to rise or speak. something in the tone of hugo's speech had frightened her. she was unreasonably suspicious, perhaps, but she had developed a great fear of hugo's evil designs. he had shown her plainly enough that he had no principle, no conscience, no sense of shame. and she feared for mrs. luttrell. her fears did not go very far. she thought that hugo was capable of sending away the nurse, or of depriving mrs. luttrell of care and comfort to such an extent as to shorten her life. she could not suspect hugo of an intention to commit actual, flagrant crime. yet some undefined terror of him had made her beg vivian to tell brian and his wife to come home as soon as possible. she did not know what might happen. she was afraid; and at any rate she wanted to secure her husband against temptation. he might thank her for it afterwards, perhaps, though kitty did not think that he ever would. she went upstairs after dinner to sit with mrs. luttrell, as she usually did at that hour. the poor woman was perceptibly better. the look of recognition in her eyes was not so painfully beseeching as it had been hitherto; the hand which kitty took in hers gently returned her pressure. she muttered the only word that her lips seemed able to speak:--"brian! brian!" "he is coming," said kitty, bending her head so that her lips almost touched the withered cheek. "he is coming--coming soon." a wonderful light of satisfaction stole into the melancholy eyes. again she pressed kitty's hand. she was content. the nurse generally returned to mrs. luttrell's room after her supper; and kitty waited for some time, wondering why she was so long in coming. she rang the bell at last and enquired for her. the maid replied that mrs. samson, the nurse, had been taken ill and had gone to bed. kitty then asked for the housekeeper, and the maid went away to summon her. again kitty waited; but no housekeeper came. she was about to ring the bell a second time, when her husband entered the room. "what do you want with the housekeeper at this time of night?" he asked, carelessly. kitty explained. hugo raised his eyebrows. "oh, is that all?" he said. "really, kitty, you make too much fuss about my aunt. she will do well enough. i won't have poor old shairp called up from her bed to sit here till morning." "but somebody must stay," said kitty, whom her husband had drawn into the little dressing-room. "mrs. luttrell must not be left alone." "she shall not be left alone, my dear; i'll take care of that. i have seen samson, hearing that she was ill, and find that it is only a fit of sickness, which is passing off. she will be here in half-an-hour; or, if not, shairp can be called." "then i will stay here until one of them comes," said kitty. "you will do nothing of the kind. you will go to bed at once. it is ten o'clock, and i don't want you to spoil that charming complexion of yours by late hours." he spoke with a sort of sneer, but immediately passed his finger down her delicate cheek with a tenderly caressing gesture, as if to make up for the previous hardness of his tone. kitty shrank away from him, but he only smiled and continued softly: "those pretty eyes must not be dimmed by want of sleep. go to bed, _ma belle_, and dream of me." "let me stay for a little while," entreated kitty. "if mrs. samson comes in half-an-hour i shall not be tired. just till then, hugo." "not at all, my little darling." his tone was growing quite playful, and he even imprinted a light kiss upon her cheek as he went on. "i will wait here myself until samson comes, and if she is not better i will summon mrs. shairp. will that not satisfy you?" "why should you stay?" said kitty, in a whisper. a look of dread had come into her eyes. "why should i not?" smiled hugo. "aunt margaret likes to have me with her, and she is not likely to want anything just now. run away, my fair kitty. i will call you if i really need help." what did kitty suspect? she turned white and suddenly put her arms round her husband's neck, bringing his beautiful dark face down to her own. "let me stay," she murmured in his ear. "i am afraid. i don't know exactly what i am afraid of; but i want to stay. i can't leave her to-night." he put her away from him almost roughly. a sinister look crossed his face. "you are a little fool: you always were," he said; fiercely. then he tried to regain the old smoothness of tongue which so seldom failed him; but this time he found it difficult. "you are nervous," he said. "you have been sitting in a sick-room too long: i must not let you over-tire yourself. you will be better when we leave netherglen. go and dream of blue skies and sunny shores: we will see my native land together, kitty, and forget this desert of a place. there, go now. i will take care of aunt margaret." he put her out at the door, still with the silky, caressing manner that she distrusted, still with the false smile stereotyped upon his face. then he went back into the dressing-room and closed the door. kitty went to her own room, and changed her evening dress for a dressing-gown of soft, dark red cashmere which did not rustle as she moved. she was resolved against going to bed, at any rate until hugo had left mrs. luttrell's room. she sat down and waited. the clock struck eleven. she could bear the suspense no longer. she went out into the passage and listened at the door of mrs. luttrell's room. not a sound: not a movement to be heard. she stole away to the room which the nurse occupied. mrs. samson was lying on her bed, breathing heavily: she seemed to be in a sound sleep. kitty shook her by the arm; but the woman only moaned and moved uneasily, then snored more stertorously than before. the thought crossed kitty's mind that, perhaps, hugo had not wanted mrs. samson to be awake. she made up her mind to go to the housekeeper's room. it was situated in that wing of the house which kitty had once learnt to know only too well. for some reason or other hugo had insisted lately upon the servants taking up their sleeping quarters in this wing; and although mrs. shairp, who had returned to netherglen upon his marriage, protested that it was very inconvenient--"because no sound from the other side of the house could reach their ears"--(how well kitty remembered her saying this!) yet even she had been obliged to give way to hugo's will. kitty went to the door that communicated with the wing. she turned the handle: it would not open. she shook it, and even knocked, but she dared not make much noise. it was not a door that could be fastened or unfastened from inside. someone in the main part of the house, therefore, must necessarily have turned the key and taken it away. one thing was evident: the servants had been locked into their own rooms, and it was quite impossible for mrs. shairp to come to her mistress's room, unless the person who fastened the door came and unfastened it again. "i wonder that he did not lock me in," said kitty to herself, wringing her little hands as she came hopelessly down the great staircase into the hall, and then up again to her own room. she had no doubt but that it was hugo who had done this thing for some end of his own. "what does he mean? what is it that he does not want us to know?" she reached her own room as she asked this question of herself. the door resisted her hand as the door of the servants' wing had done. it was locked, too. hugo--or someone else--had turned the key, thinking that she was safe in her own room, and wishing to keep her a prisoner until morning. kitty's blood ran cold. something was wrong: some dark intention must be in hugo's mind, or he would not have planned so carefully to keep the household out of mrs. luttrell's room. she remembered that she had seen a light in a bed-room near hugo's own--the room where stevens usually slept. should she rouse him and ask for his assistance? no: she knew that this man was a mere tool of hugo's; she could not trust him to help her against her husband's will. there was nothing for it but to do what she could, without help from anyone. she would be brave for mrs. luttrell's sake, although she had not been brave for her own. oh, why had she not made her warning to vivian a little stronger? why had brian luttrell not come home that night to netherglen? it was too late to expect him now. her heart beat fast and her hands trembled, but she went resolutely enough to the dressing-room from which hugo had done his best to exclude her. the door was slightly ajar: oh wonderful good fortune! and the fire was out. the room was in darkness; and the door leading into mrs. luttrell's apartment stood open--she had a full view of its warmly lighted space. she remained motionless for a few minutes: then seeing her opportunity, she glided behind the thick curtain that screened the window. here she could see the great white bed with its heavy hangings of crimson damask, and the head of the sick woman in its frilled cap lying on the pillows: she could see also her husband's face and figure, as he stood beside the little table on which mrs. luttrell's medicine bottles were usually kept, and she shivered at the sight. his face wore its craftiest and most sinister expression. his eyes were narrowed like those of a cat about to spring: the lines of his face were set in a look of cruel malice, which kitty had learned to know. what was he doing? he had a tumbler in one hand, and a tiny phial in the other: he was measuring out some drops of a fluid into the glass. he set down the little bottle on the table, and held up the tumbler to the light. then he took a carafe and poured a tea-spoonful of water on the liquid. kitty could see the phial on the table very distinctly. it bore in red letters the inscription: "poison." and again she asked herself: what was hugo going to do? breathlessly she watched. he smiled a little to himself, smelt the liquid, and held it once more towards the light, as if to judge with his narrowed eyes of the quantity required. then, with a noiseless foot and watchful eye, he moved towards the bed, still holding the tumbler in his hand. he looked down for a moment at the pale and wrinkled face upon the pillow; then he spoke in a peculiarly smooth and ingratiating tone of voice. "aunt margaret," he said, "i have brought you something to make you sleep." he had placed the glass to her lips, when a movement in the next room made him start and lift his eyes. in another moment his wife's hands were on his arm, and her eyes were blazing into his own. the liquor in the glass was spilt upon the bed. hugo turned deadly pale. "what do you mean? what do you want?" he said, with a look of mingled rage and terror. "what are you doing here?" "i have come to save her--from you." she was not afraid, now that the words were said, now that she had seen the guilty look upon his face. she confronted him steadily; she placed herself between him and the bed. hugo uttered a low but emphatic malediction on her "meddlesome folly." "why are you not in your room?" he said. "i locked you in." "i was not there. thank god that i was not." "and why should you thank god?" said hugo, who stood looking at her with an ugly expression of baffled cunning on his face. "i was doing no harm. i was giving her a sleeping-draught." "would she ever have waked?" asked kitty, in a whisper. she looked into her husband's eyes as she spoke, and she knew from that moment that the accusation was based on no idle fancy of her own. in heart, at least, he was a murderer. but the question called forth his worst passions. he cursed her again--bitterly, blasphemously--then raised his hand and struck her with his closed fist between the eyes. he knew what he was doing: she fell to the ground, stunned and bleeding. he thrust her out of his way; she lay on the floor between the bed and the window, moaning a little, but for a time utterly unconscious of all that went on around her. hugo's preparations had been spoilt. he was obliged to begin them over again. but this time his nerve was shaken: he blundered a little once or twice. kitty's low moan was in his ears: the paralysed woman upon the bed was regarding him with a look of frozen horror in her wide-open eyes. she could not move: she could not speak, but she could understand. he turned his back upon the two, and measured out the drops once more into the glass. his hand shook as he did so. he was longer about his work than he had been before. so long that kitty came to herself a little, and watched him with a horrible fascination. first the drops: then the water; then the sleeping-draught, from which the sleeper was not to awake, would be ready. kitty did not know how she found strength or courage to do at that moment what she did. it seemed to her that fear, sickness, pain, all passed away, and left her only the determination to make one desperate effort to defeat her husband's ends. she knew that the window by which she lay was unshuttered. she rose from the ground, she reached the window-sill and threw up the sash, almost before hugo knew what she was doing. then she sent forth that terrible, agonised cry for help, which reached the ears of the four men who were even at that moment waiting and listening at the garden door. hugo dropped the glass. it was shivered to pieces on the floor, and its contents stained the rug on which it fell. he strode to the window and stopped his wife's mouth with his hands, then dragged her away from it, and spoke some bitter furious words. "do you want to hang me?" he said. "keep quiet, or i'll make you repent your night's work----" and then he paused. he had heard the sound of opening doors, of heavy steps and strange voices upon the stairs. he turned hastily to the dressing-room, and he was confronted on the threshold by the determined face and flashing eyes of his cousin, brian luttrell. he cast a hurried glance beyond and around him; but he saw no help at hand. kitty had sunk fainting to the ground: there were other faces--severe and menacing enough--behind brian's: he felt that he was caught like a wild beast in a trap. his only course was to brazen out the matter as best he could; and this, in the face of brian luttrell, of percival heron, of old mr. colquhoun, it was hard to do. in spite of himself his face turned pale, and his knees shook as he spoke in a hoarse and grating tone. "what does this disturbance mean?" he said. "why do you come rushing into mrs. luttrell's room at this hour of the night?" "because," said brian, taking him by the shoulder, "your wife has called for help, and we believe that she needs it. because we know that you are one of the greatest scoundrels that ever trod the face of the earth. because we are going to bring you to justice. that is why!" "these are very fine accusations," said hugo, with a pale sneer, "but i think you will find a difficulty in proving them, mr.--vasari." "i shall have at least no difficulty in proving that you stole money and forged my brother's name three years ago," said brian, in a voice that was terrible in its icy scorn. "i shall have no difficulty in proving to the world's satisfaction that you shamefully cheated dino vasari, and that you twice--yes, twice--tried to murder him, in order to gain your own ends. hugo luttrell, you are a coward, a thief, a would-be murderer; and unless you can prove that you were in my mother's room with no evil intent (which i believe to be impossible) you shall be branded with all these names in the world's face." "there is no proof--there is no legal proof," cried hugo, boldly. but his lips were white. "but there is plenty of moral proof, young man," said mr. colquhoun's dry voice. "quite enough to blast your reputation. and what does this empty bottle mean and this broken glass? perhaps your wife can tell us that." there was a momentary silence. mr. colquhoun held up the little bottle, and pointed with raised eyebrows to the label upon it. heron was supporting his sister in his arms and trying to revive her: fane and the impassive constable barred the way between hugo and the door. in that pause, a strange, choked sound came from the bed. for the first time for many months mrs. luttrell had slightly raised her hand. she said the name that had been upon her lips so many times during the last few weeks, and her eyes were fixed upon the man whom for a lifetime she had called her son. "brian!" she said, "brian!" and he, suddenly turning pale, relaxed his hold upon hugo's arm and walked to the bed-side. "mother," he said, leaning over her, "did you call me? did you speak to me?" she looked at him with wistful eyes: her nerveless fingers tried to press his hand. "brian," she murmured. then, with a great spasmodic effort: "my son!" the attention of the others had been concentrated upon this little scene; and for the moment both fane and mr. colquhoun drew nearer to the bed, leaving the door of mrs. luttrell's bed-room unguarded. the constable was standing in the dressing-room. it was then that hugo saw his chance, although it was one which a sane man would scarcely have thought of taking. he made a rush for the bed-room door. whither should he go? the front door was bolted and barred; but he supposed that the back door would be open. he never thought of the entrance to the garden by which brian luttrell had got into the house. he dashed down the staircase; he was nimbler and lighter-footed than fane, who was immediately behind him, and he knew the tortuous ways and winding passages of the house, as fane did not. he gained on his pursuer. down the dark stone passages he fled: the door into the back premises stood wide open. there was a flight of steep stone steps, which led straight to a kitchen and thence into the yard. he would have time to unbolt the kitchen door, even if it were not already open, for fane was far, far behind. but there was no light, and there was a sudden turn in the steps which he had forgotten. fane reached the head of the staircase in time to hear a cry, a heavy crashing fall, a groan. then all was still. chapter li. a last confession. they carried him upstairs again, handling him gently, and trying to discover the extent of his injuries; but they did not guess--until, in the earliest hours of the day, a doctor came from dunmuir to netherglen--that hugo luttrell's hours on earth were numbered. he had broken his back, and although he might linger in agony for a short time, the inevitable end was near. as the dawn came creeping into the room in which he lay, he opened his eyes, and the watchers saw that he shuddered as he looked round. "why have they brought me here?" he said. no one knew why. it was the nearest and most convenient room for the purpose. brian had not been by to interpose, or he might have chosen another place. for it was the room to which richard luttrell had been carried when they brought him back to netherglen. kitty was beside him, and, with her, elizabeth, who had come from dunmuir on hearing of the accident. these two women, knowing as they did the many evil deeds which he had committed, did not refuse him their gentle ministry. when they saw the pain that he suffered, their hearts bled for him. they could, not love him: they could not forgive him for all that he had done; but they pitied him. and most of all they pitied him when they knew that the fiat had gone forth that he must die. he knew it, too. he knew it from their faces: he had no need to ask. the hopelessness upon his face, the pathetic look of suffering in his eyes, touched even kitty's heart. she asked him once if she could do anything to help him. they were alone together, and the answer was as unexpected as it was brief: "i want angela." they telegraphed for her, although they hardly thought that she would reach the house before he died. but the fact that she was coming seemed to buoy him up: he lingered throughout the day, turning his eyes from time to time to the clock upon the mantelpiece, or towards the opening door. at night he grew restless and uneasy: he murmured piteously that she would not come, or that he should die before she came. brian, although in the house, held aloof from the injured man's room. merciful as he was by nature, hugo's offences had transcended the bounds even of his tolerance; and his anger was more implacable than that of a harsher man. although he had been told that hugo was dying, he found it hard to be pitiful. he knew more than hugo imagined. mrs. luttrell had recovered speech sufficiently to tell her son the history of the previous night, and brian was certain that kitty's cry for help had come only just in time. it was early in the evening when hugo spoke, almost for the first time of his own accord, to his wife. "kitty," he said, imperiously, "come here." she came, trembling a little, and stood beside him, scarcely bearing to meet the gaze of those darkly-burning eyes. "kitty," he said, looking at her strangely, "i suppose you hate me." "no," she answered. "no, indeed, hugo." "is that mark on your forehead from the blow i gave you?" "yes." "i did not mean to hurt you," he said, "but i think i was mad just then. however, it doesn't matter; i am going to die, and you can be happy in your own way. i suppose you will marry vivian?" "don't talk so, hugo," she said, laying her hand upon his brow. "why not? i do not care. better to die than lie here--here, where richard luttrell lay. kitty, they say i cannot be moved while i live; but if--if you believe that i ever loved you, see that they carry me out of this room as soon as i am dead. promise me that." "i promise." "that is all i want. marry vivian, and forget me as soon as you please. he will never love you as much as i did, kitty. if i had lived, you would have loved me, too, in time. but it's no use now." the voice was faint, but sullen. kitty's heart yearned over him. "oh, hugo," she said, "won't you think of other things? ask god to forgive you for what you have done: he will forgive you if you repent: he will, indeed." "don't talk to me of forgiveness," said hugo, closing his eyes. "no one forgives: god least of all." "we forgive you, hugo," said kitty, with brimming eyes, "and is god less merciful than ourselves?" "i will wait till angela comes," he answered. "i will listen to her. to nobody but her." and then he relapsed into a half-conscious state, from which she dared not arouse him. angela came at night; and she was led almost instantly to the room in which he lay. he opened his eyes as soon as she entered, and fixed them eagerly upon her. "so you have come," he said. there was a touch of satisfaction in his tone. she knelt down beside him and took his hand. "talk to me," he murmured. kitty and brian, who had entered with angela, marvelled at the request. they marvelled more when she complied with it in a curiously undoubting way. it seemed as if she understood his needs, his peculiarities, even his sins, exactly. she spoke of the holiest things in a simple, direct way, which evidently appealed to something within him; for, though he did not respond, he lay with his eyes fixed upon her face, and gave no sign of discontent. at last he sighed, and bade her stop. "it's all wrong," he said, wearily. "i had forgotten. i ought to have a priest." "there is one waiting downstairs," said brian. hugo started at the voice. "so you are there?" he said. "oh, it's no use. no priest would absolve me until--until----" "yes: until what?" said angela. but he made no answer. presently, however, he pressed her hand, and murmured:-- "you were always good to me." "dear hugo!" "and i loved you--a little--not in the way i loved kitty--but as a saint--an angel. do you think you could forgive me if i had wronged you!" "yes, dear, i believe so." "if you forgive me, i shall think that there is some hope. but i don't know. brian is there still, is he not? i have something to say to him." brian came forward, a little reluctantly. hugo looked at him with those melancholy, sunken eyes, in which a sort of fire seemed to smoulder still. "brian will never forgive me," he said. "yes, hugo, he will," said angela. brian gave an inarticulate murmur, whether of assent or dissent they could not tell. but he did not look at hugo's face. "i know," said hugo. "it doesn't matter. i don't care. i was justified in what i did." "you hear," said brian to angela, in a very low voice. but hugo went on without noticing. "justified--except in one thing. and i want to tell you about that." "you need not," said brian, quietly. "if it is anything fresh, i do not wish to hear." "brian," said angela, "you are hard." "no, he is not too hard," hugo interposed, in a dreamy voice, more as if he were talking to himself than to them. "he was always good to me: he did more for me than anybody else. more than richard. i always hated richard. i wished that he was dead." he stopped, and then resumed, with a firmer intonation. "is mr. colquhoun in the house? fetch him here, and vivian too, if he is at hand. i have something to say to them." they did his bidding, and presently the persons for whom he asked stood at his bed-side. "are they all here? my eyes are getting dim; it is time i spoke," said hugo, feebly. "mr. colquhoun, i shall want you to take down what i say. you may make it as public as you like. angela----" he felt for her hand. she gave it to him, and let him lean upon her shoulder as he spoke. he looked up in her eyes with a sort of smile. "kiss me, angela," he said, "for the last time. you will never do it again.... are you all listening? i wish you and everyone to know that it was i--i--who shot richard luttrell in the wood; not brian. we fired at the same moment. it was not brian; do you hear?" there was a dead silence. then brian staggered as if he would have fallen, and caught at percival's arm. but the weakness was only for a moment. he said, simply, "i thank god," and stood erect again. mr. colquhoun put on his spectacles and stared at him. angela, pale to the lips, did not move; hugo's head was still resting against her shoulder. it was brian's voice that broke the silence, and there was pity and kindliness in its tone. "never mind, hugo," he said, bending over him. "it was an accident; it might have been done by either of us. god knows i sorrowed bitterly when i thought my hand had done it; perhaps you have sorrowed, too. at any rate, you are trying to make amends, and if i have anything personally to forgive----" "wait," said hugo, in his feeble yet imperious voice, with long pauses between the brief, broken sentences. "you do not understand. i did it on purpose. i meant to kill him. he had struck me, and i meant to be revenged. i thought i should suffer for it--and i did not care.... i did not mean brian to be blamed; but i dared not tell the truth.... put me down, angela; i killed him, do you hear?" but she did not move. "did you wish me to write this statement?" said mr. colquhoun, in his dryest manner. "if so, i have done it." "give me the pen," said hugo, when he had heard what had been written. he took it between his feeble fingers. he could scarcely write; but he managed to scrawl his name at the bottom of the paper on which his confession was recorded, and two of the persons present signed their names as witnesses. "tell mrs. luttrell," said hugo, very faintly, when this was over. then he lay back, closed his eyes, and remained for some time without speaking. "i have something else to tell," he said, at last. "kitty--you know, she married me ... but it was against her own will. she did not elope with me. i carried her off.... she will explain it all now. do you hear, kitty? tell anything you like. it will not hurt me. you never loved me, and you never would have done. but nobody will ever love you as i did; remember that. and i think that's all." "have you nothing to say," asked mr. colquhoun in very solemn tones, "about your conduct to dino vasari and mrs. luttrell?" "nothing to you." "but everything to god," murmured angela. he raised his eyes to her face and did not speak. "pray for his forgiveness, hugo, and he will grant it. even if your sins are as scarlet they shall be as white as snow." "i want your forgiveness," he whispered, "and nothing more." "i will give you mine," she said, and the tears fell from her eyes as she spoke; "and brian will give you his: yes, brian, yes. as we hope ourselves to be forgiven, hugo, we forgive you; and we will pray with you for god's forgiveness, too." she had taken brian's hand and laid it upon hugo's, and for a moment the three hands rested together in one strangely loving clasp. and then hugo whispered, "pray for me if you like: i--i dare not pray." and, forgetful of any human presence but that of this sick, sinful soul about to come before its maker, angela prayed aloud. * * * * * he died in the early dawn, with his hand still clasped in hers. the short madness of his love for kitty seemed to have faded from his memory. perhaps all earthly things had grown rather faint to him: certain it was that his attempt on the lives of dino and of mrs. luttrell did not seem to weigh very heavily on his conscience. it was the thought of richard luttrell that haunted him more than all beside. it was with a long, shuddering moan of fear--and, as angela hoped (but only faintly hoped), of penitence--that his soul went out into the darkness of eternity. * * * * * with hugo luttrell's death, the troubles of the family at netherglen seemed to disappear. old mrs. luttrell's powers of speech remained with her, although she could not use her limbs; and the hardness and stubbornness of her character had undergone a marvellous change. she wept when she heard of dino's death; but her affection for brian, and also for elizabeth, proved to be strong and unwavering. her great desire--that the properties of netherglen and strathleckie should be united--was realised in a way of which she had never dreamt. brian himself believed firmly that he was of italian parentage and that dino vasari was the veritable heir of the luttrells; but the notion was now so painful to mrs. luttrell, that he never spoke of it, and agreed, as he said to elizabeth, to be recognised as the master of netherglen and strathleckie under false pretences. "for the whole estate, to tell the truth, is yours, not mine," he said. and she: "what does that matter, since we are man and wife! there is no 'mine and thine' in the case. it is all yours and all mine; for we are one." in fact, no words were more applicable to brian and elizabeth than the quaint lines of the old poet: "they were so one, it never could be said which of them ruled and which of them obeyed. he ruled because she would obey; and she, by her obeying, ruled as well as he. there ne'er was known between them a dispute save which the other's will should execute." the herons returned to london shortly after elizabeth's marriage, and with them kitty returned, too. but it was a very different kitty from the one who had frolicked at strathleckie, or pined at netherglen. the widowed mrs. hugo luttrell was a gentler, perhaps a sadder, woman than kitty heron had promised to be: but she was a sweeter woman, and one who formed the chief support and comfort to her father's large and irregular household, as it passed from its home in scotland to a more permanent abode in kensington. for the house in gower-street, dear as it was to kitty's heart, was not the one which mr. and mrs. heron preferred to any other. little jack, now slowly recovering from his affection of the spine, found in kitty the motherliness which he had sorely missed when elizabeth first went away. his affection was very sweet to kitty. she had never hitherto been more than a playmate to her step-brothers: she was destined henceforward to be their chief counsellor and friend. and the little baby-sister was almost as a child of her own to kitty's heart. it was not until more than a year of quiet life in her father's home had passed away that she saw much of rupert vivian. she was very shy and silent with him when he began to seek her out again. he thought her a little cold, and fancied that a blind man could find no favour in her eyes. it was angela--that universal peacemaker--who at last set matters straight between the two. "kitty," she said, one day when kitty was calling upon her, "why are you so distant and unfriendly to my brother?" "i did not mean to be," said kitty, with rising colour. "but, indeed, you are. and he thinks--he thinks--that he has offended you." "oh, no! how could he!" ejaculated kitty. whereat angela smiled. "you must tell him not to think any such thing, angela, please." "you must tell him yourself. he might not believe me," said angela. kitty was very simple in some things still. she took angela's advice literally. "shall i tell him now--to-day?" she said, seriously. "yes, now, to-day," said angela. "you will find him in the library." "but he will think it so strange if i go to him there." "not at all. i would not send you to him if i did not know what he would feel. kitty, he is not happy. can you not make him a little happier?" and then angela, who had meanwhile led her guest to the library door, opened it and made her enter, almost against her will. she stood for a moment inside the door, doubting whether to go or stay. then she looked at rupert, and decided that she would stay. he was alone. he was leaning his head on one hand in an attitude of listlessness, which showed that he was out of spirits. "is that you, angela?" he said. "no," said kitty, softly. "it's not angela: it's me." she was very ungrammatical, but her tone was sweet, and rupert smiled. his face looked as if the sunshine had fallen on it. "me, is it?" he said, half-rising. then, more gravely--"i am very glad to see you--no, not to see you: that's not it, is it?--to have you here." "are you?" said kitty. there were tears in her voice. "am i not?" he was holding her hand now, and she did not draw it away even when he raised it, somewhat hesitatingly, to his lips. he went on in a very low voice:--"it would make the happiness of my life to have you always with me. but i must not hope for that." "why not?" said kitty, giving him both hands instead of one; "when it would make mine, too." and after that there was no more to be said. "tell me," she whispered, a little later, "am i at all now like the little girl in gower-street that you used to know?" "not a bit," he answered, kissing her. "you are dearer, sweeter, lovelier than any little girl in gower-street or anywhere else in the whole wide world." "and you forgive me for my foolishness?" "my darling," he said, "your foolishness was nothing to my own. and if you can bear to tie yourself to a blind man, so many years older than yourself, who has proved himself the most arrogant and conceited fool alive----" "hush!" said kitty. "i shall not allow you to speak in that way--of the man i love." "kiss me, then, for the first time in your life, kitty, and i will say no more." and so they married and went down to vivian court in devonshire, where they live and flourish still, the happiest of the happy. never more happy than when brian and elizabeth came to spend a week with them, bringing a pair of sturdy boys--bernard and richard they are called--to play with kitty's little girl upon the velvet lawns and stately terraces of vivian court. kitty is already making plans for the future union of bernard luttrell and her own little angela; but her husband shakes his head, and laughingly tells her that planned marriages never come to good. "i thought all marriages had to be planned," says kitty, innocently. "mine was not." "what do you mean?" "i mean that i was led into it--quite against my will, madam--by a tricksy, wilful sprite, who would have her own way----" "say that you have not repented it, rupert," she whispers, looking up at him with the fond, sorrowful eyes that he cannot see. "my own love," he answers, taking her in his arms and kissing her, "you make the sunshine of my life; and as long as you are near me i am thoroughly and unspeakably content." kitty knows that it is true, although she weeps sometimes in secret at the thought that he will never look upon his little daughter's face. but everyone says that the tiny angela is the image of kitty herself as a child; and, therefore, when the mother wishes to describe the winning face and dancing eyes, she tells rupert that he has only to picture to himself once more--"the little girl that he used to know in gower street." chapter lii. "the end crowns all, and that is yet to come." and what of angela vivian, the elder? angela, whose heart was said to be buried in a grave? after hugo luttrell's death, she remained for some time at netherglen, sitting a great deal in mrs. luttrell's room and trying to resume the daughter-like ways which had grown so natural to her. but she was driven slowly to perceive that she was by no means necessary to mrs. luttrell's happiness. mrs. luttrell loved her still, but her heart had gone out vehemently to brian and elizabeth; and when either of them was within call she wanted nothing else. brian and elizabeth would gladly have kept angela with them for evermore, but it seemed to her that her duty lay now rather with her brother than with those who were, after all, of no kith or kin to her. she returned, therefore, to rupert's house in kensington, and lived there until his marriage took place. she was sorry for one thing--that the friendship between herself and percival heron seemed to be broken. the words which she had spoken to him before hugo's death had evidently made a very strong impression upon percival's mind. he looked guilty and uncomfortable when he spoke to her; his manner became unusually abrupt, and at last she noticed that, if she happened to come into a room which he occupied, he immediately made an excuse for leaving it. she had very few opportunities of seeing him at all; but every time she met him, his avoidance of her became so marked that she was hurt and grieved by it. but she could not do anything to mend matters; and so she waited and was silent. she heard, on her return to kensington, that he had been a great deal to her brother's house, and had done much for rupert's comfort. but as soon as he knew that she intended to stay in london he began to discontinue his visits. it was very evident that he had determined to see as little of her as possible. and, by-and-bye, he never came at all. for full three months before kitty's engagement to rupert percival did not appear at the pleasant house in kensington. angela was sitting alone, however, one day when he was announced. he came in, glanced round with a vexed and irritated air, and made some sort of apology. "i came to see rupert. i thought that you were away," he said. "and, therefore, you came?" she said, with a little smile. "it was very good of you to come when you thought he would be lonely." "i did not mean that exactly." "no? i wish you would come to see him a little oftener, mr. heron; he misses your visits very much." "he won't miss them long, he will soon get used to doing without me." "but why should he?" "because i am going away." "where are you going?" said angela, turning to look at him. "to california," he answered grimly. she paused for a moment, and then said in a tranquil tone, "oh, no." "no? why not?" said percival, smiling a little in spite of himself. "i think that if you go you will be back again in six months." "ah? you think i have no constancy in me; no resolution; no manliness." "indeed, i think nothing so dreadful. but california is not the place where i can imagine a man of your tastes being happy. were you so very happy on the rocas reef?" "that has nothing to do with it. i should have been happy if i had had enough to do. i want some active work." "can you not find that in england?" "i daresay i might. i hate england. i have nothing to keep me in england." "but what has happened?" asked angela. "you did not talk in this way when you came from the rocas reef." "because i did not know what a fool i could make of myself." she glanced at him with a faint, sweet smile. "you alarm me, mr. heron," she said, very tranquilly. "what have you been doing?" percival started up from the low seat in which he had placed himself, walked to the window, and then came back to her side and looked at her. he was standing in one of his most defiant attitudes, with his hands thrust into his pockets, and a deep dent on his brow. "i will tell you what i have been doing," he said, in a curiously dogged tone. "i'll give you my history for the last year or two. it isn't a creditable one. will you listen to it or not?" "i will listen to it," said angela. she looked at him with serene, meditative eyes, which calmed him almost against his will as he proceeded. "i'll tell you, then," he said. "i nearly wrecked three lives through my own selfish obstinacy. i almost broke a woman's heart and sacrificed my honour----" "almost? nearly?" said angela, gently. "that is possible, but you saw your mistake in time. you drew back; you did not do these things." "i'll tell you what i did do!" he exclaimed. "i whined to you, until i loathe myself, about a woman who never cared a straw for me. do you call that manly?" "i call it very natural," said angela. "and after all----" "yes, after all?" he hesitated so long that she looked up into his face and gently repeated the words "after all?" "after all," he went on at last, with a sort of groan, "i love--someone else." they were both silent. he threw himself into a chair, and looked at her expectantly. "don't you despise me?" he said, presently. "why should i, mr. heron?" "why? because you are so constant, so changeless, that you cannot be expected to sympathise with a man who loves a second time," cried percival, in an exasperated tone. "and yet this love is as sunlight to candlelight, as wine to water! but you will never understand that, you, with your heart given to one man--buried in a grave." he stopped short; she had half-risen, and made a gesture as if she would have bidden him be silent. "there!" he said, vehemently. "i am doing it again. i am hurting you, grieving you, as i did once before, when i forgot your great sorrow; and you did right to reprove me then. i know you have hated me ever since. i know you cannot forgive me for the pain i inflicted. it's, of course, of no use to say i am sorry; that is an utterly futile thing to do; but as far as any such feeble reparation is in my power, i am quite prepared to offer it to you. sorry? i have cursed myself and my own folly ever since." "you are making a mistake, mr. heron," said angela. she felt as if she could say nothing more. "how am i making a mistake?" he asked. "at the time you refer to," she said, in a hurried yet stumbling sort of way, "when you said what you did, i thought it careless, inconsiderate of you; but i have not remembered it in the way that you seem to think; i have not been angry. i have not hated you. there is no need for you to tell me that you are sorry." "i think there is every need," he said. "do you suppose that i am going away into the western wilds without even an apology?" "it is needless," she murmured. there was a pause, and then he leaned forward and said in a deeper tone:-- "you would not say that it was needless if you felt now as you did just then." she looked at him helplessly, but did not speak. "it is three years since he died. i don't ask you to forget him, only i ask whether you could not love someone else--as well?" "oh, mr. heron, don't ask me," she said, tremblingly. and then she covered her face with her hands; her cheeks were crimson. "i will ask nothing," said percival. "i will only tell you what my feelings have been, and then i will go away. it's a selfish indulgence, i know; but i beg of you to grant it. when i had spoken those inconsiderate words of mine i was ashamed of myself. i saw how much i had grieved you, and i vowed that i would never come into your presence again. i went away, and i kept away. you have seen for yourself how i have tried to avoid you, have you not?" "yes," she said, gently. "i have seen it." "you know the reason now. i could not bear to see you and feel what you must be thinking of me. and then--then--i found that it was misery to be without you. i found that i missed you inexpressibly. i did not know till then how dear you had grown to me." she did not move, she did not speak, she only sat and listened, with her eyes fixed upon her folded hands. but there was nothing forbidding in her silence. he felt that he might go on. "it comes to this with me," he said, "that i cannot bear to meet you as i meet an ordinary friend or acquaintance. i would rather know that i shall never see you again. either you must be all to me--or nothing. i know that it must be nothing, and so--i am going to california." "do not go," she said, without looking up. she spoke coldly, he thought, but sweetly, too. "i must," he answered. "i must--in spite of the joy that it is to me to be even in your presence, and to hear your voice--i must go. i cannot bear it. i love you too well. it is a greater pain than i can bear, to look at you and to know that i can bring you no comfort, no solace; that your heart is buried with richard luttrell in a grave." "you are mistaken," she said again. then, in a faltering voice, "you can bring me comfort. i shall be sorry if you are away." he caught his breath. "do you mean it, angela?" he cried, eagerly. "think what you are saying, do not tell me to stay unless--unless--you can give me a little hope. is it possible that you do not forbid me to love you? do you think that in time--in time--i might win your love?" "not in time," she murmured, "but now--now." he could hardly believe his ears. he knelt down beside her, and took her hands in his. "now, angela?" he said. "can you love me now? oh, my love, my love! tell me the truth! have you forgiven me?" her eyes were swimming in tears, but she gave him a glance of so much tenderness and trust, that he never again doubted her entire forgiveness. she might never forget richard luttrell, but her heart, with all its wealth of love, was given to the man who knelt before her, not buried in a grave. * * * * * of course he did not go to california. the project was an utterly unsuitable one, and nobody scouted it more disdainfully than did he as soon as the mood of discontent was past. if a crowning touch were needed to the happiness of brian and elizabeth, it was given by this marriage. the sting of remorse which had troubled them at times when they looked at percival's gloomy face was quite withdrawn. percival's face was seldom gloomy now. angela seemed to have found the secret of soothing his irritable nerves, of calming his impatience. her sweet serenity was never ruffled by his violence; and for her sake he learned to subdue his temper, and to smooth his tongue as well as his brow. she led the lion in a leash of silk, and he was actually proud to be so led. they took a house in the unfashionable precincts of russell-square, where percival could be near his work. they were not rich, by any manner of means; but they were able to live in a very comfortable fashion, and soon found themselves surrounded by a circle of friends, who were quite as much attracted by angela's tranquil grace and tenderness as by percival's fitful brilliancy. percival would never be very popular; but it was soon admitted on every hand that his intellect had seldom been so clear, his insight so great, nor his wit so free from bitterness, as in the days that succeeded his marriage with angela. there is every reason to suppose that he will yet be a thoroughly prosperous and successful man. the one drop of bitterness in their cup is the absence of children. no little feet have come to patter up and down the wide staircase of that roomy house in russell-square, no little voices re-echo along the passages and in the lofty rooms. but angela's heart is perhaps only the more ready to bestow its tenderness upon the many who come to her for help--the weak, the sickly, the sinful and the weary, for whom she spends herself and is not spent in vain. * * * * * little more than two years after brian's marriage, mrs. luttrell died. she died with her hand fast clasped in that of the man who had been indeed a son to her, she died with his name upon her lips. and when she was laid to rest beside her husband and her eldest son, brian and elizabeth were free to carry out a project which had been for some time very near their hearts. they went together to san stefano. it was then that elizabeth first heard the whole story of her husband's sojourn at the monastery. she had never known more than the bare facts before; and she listened with a new comprehension of his character, as he told her of the days of listless anguish spent after his illness at san stefano, and of the hopelessness from which her own words and looks aroused him. he spoke much, also, of dino and of padre cristoforo and the kindly monks: and in the sunny stillness of an early italian morning they went to the churchyard to look for dino's grave. they would not have found it but for the help of a monk who chanced to be in the neighbourhood. he led them courteously to the spot. it was unmarked by any stone, but a wreath of flowers had been laid upon it that morning, and the grassy mound showed signs of constant care. brian and elizabeth stood silently beside it; they did not move until the monk addressed them. and then brian saw that father cristoforo was standing at their side. "he sleeps well," he said. "you need not mourn for him." "yes, he sleeps," answered brian, a little bitterly. "but we have lost him." "do i not know that as well as you? do i not grieve for him?" said the old man, with a deep sigh. "i have more reason to grieve than you. i have never yet told you how he died. come with me and i will let you hear." they followed him to the guest-room of the monastery, and there, whilst they waited for him to speak, he threw back his cowl and fixed his eyes on elizabeth's fair face. "it was for your sake," he said, "for your sake, in part, that dino left his duty to the church undone. it was your face, signora, that came, as he told me, between him and his prayers. i am glad that i have seen you before i die." he spoke mournfully, yet meditatively--more as if he was talking to himself than to her. elizabeth shrank back a little, and brian uttered a quick exclamation. "her face?" he said. "father, what does this mean?" the monk gave a start, and seemed to rouse himself from a dream. "pardon me," he said, gently; "i am growing an old man, and i have had much to bear. i spoke without thought. let me tell you the story of dino's death." as far as he knew it, as far as he guessed it, he told the story. and when brian uttered some strong ejaculation of anger and grief at its details, father cristoforo bowed his head upon his breast, folded his hands, and sighed. "i was wrong," he said. "you do well to rebuke me, my son; for i was wrong." "you were hard, you were cruel," said brian, vehemently. "yes, i was hard; i was cruel. but i am punished. the light of my eyes has been taken from me. i have lost the son that i loved." "you will see him again," said elizabeth, softly. "you will go to him some day." "the saints grant it. i fear that i may not be worthy. to him the high places will be given; to me--to me----but he will pray for me." elizabeth's eyes filled with tears as she looked at him. the old man's form was bent; his face was shrunken, his eyes were dim. as she rightly guessed, it was the sorrow of dino's death that had aged him in this way. brian spoke next. "tell me," he said, "tell me for the last time, father, what you believe to have been the truth of the story. did vincenza change the children, or did she not?" "my son," said the old monk, "a few months--nay, a few weeks ago, i said to myself that i would never answer that question. but life is slipping away from me; and i cannot leave the world with even the shadow of a lie upon my lips. when i sent dino to england, i believed that vincenza had done this thing. when dino returned to us, i still believed that he was mrs. luttrell's son. but since our dino's death, i have had a message--a solemn message--from the persons who saw vincenza die. she had charged them with her last breath to tell me that the story was false--that the children were never changed at all. it was mrs. luttrell's delusion that suggested the plan to her. she hoped that she might make money by declaring that you were her son, and dino, mrs. luttrell's. she swore on her death-bed that dino was her child, and that it was lippo vasari who was buried in the churchyard of san stefano." "which story are we to believe?" said brian, almost doubtingly. "the evidence is pretty evenly balanced," replied the prior. "believe the one that suits you best." brian did not answer; he stood for a moment with his head bent and his eyes fixed on the ground. "to think," he said at last, "of the misery that we have suffered through--a lie!" then he looked up, and met elizabeth's eyes. "you are right," he said, as if answering some unspoken comment, "i have no reason to complain. i found dino--and i found you; a friend and a wife--i thank god for them both." he took her hand in his, and his face was lit up with the look of love that was henceforth, as hitherto, to make the happiness of his life and hers. and when they went forth from the monastery doors it seemed to them a good omen that the last words echoing in their ears were those of the old monk's farewell salutation:-- "go in peace!" the end. books to read. canadian copyright series. . little lord fauntleroy. by frances h. burnett . the frozen pirate. by w. clark russell . jo's boys, and how they turned out. by louisa m. alcott . saddle and sabre. by hawley smart . a prince of the blood. by james payn . an algonquin maiden. by g. mercer adam and a. ethelwyn wetherald . one traveller returns. by david christie murray and h. hermann . stained pages; the story of anthony grace. by g. manville fenn . lieutenant barnabas. by frank barrett . the nun's curse. by mrs. j. h. riddell . the twin soul. by charles mackay . one maid's mischief. by g. m. fenn . a modern magician. by j. f. molloy . a house of tears. by e. downey . sara crewe and editha's burglar. by frances h. burnett . the abbey murder. by joseph hatton . the argonauts of north liberty. by bret harte . cradled in a storm. by t. a. sharp . a woman's face. by florence warden . miracle gold. by richard dowling . molloy's story. by frank merryfield . the fortunes of philippa fairfax. by frances h. burnett . the silent shore, or the mystery of st james' park. by john bloundelle-burton . eve. by s. baring gould . doctor glennie's daughter. by b. l. farjeon . the case of doctor plemen. by rene de pont-jest . bewitching iza. by alexis bouvier . a wily widow. by alexis bouvier . diana barrington. by mrs. john croker . the ironmaster, or love and pride. by georges ohnet . a mere child. by l. b. walford . black blood. by geo. m. fenn . the dream. by emile zola . a strange message. by dora russell * * * * * transcriber's note: the original book does not have a table of contents. one was added for the reader's convenience. captain dieppe by anthony hope author of "the prisoner of zenda," "rupert of hentzau," etc., etc. doubleday, page & co. new york copyright, , by anthony hope hawkins. copyright, , by curtis publishing co. copyright, , by anthony hope hawkins. contents chapter i. the house on the bluff ii. the man by the stream iii. the lady in the garden iv. the inn in the village v. the rendezvous by the cross vi. the hut in the hollow vii. the flood on the river viii. the carriage at the ford ix. the straw in the corner x. the journey to rome xi. the luck of the captain captain dieppe chapter i the house on the bluff to the eye of an onlooker captain dieppe's circumstances afforded high spirits no opportunity, and made ordinary cheerfulness a virtue which a stoic would not have disdained to own. fresh from the failure of important plans; if not exactly a fugitive, still a man to whom recognition would be inconvenient and perhaps dangerous; with fifty francs in his pocket, and his spare wardrobe in a knapsack on his back; without immediate prospect of future employment or a replenishment of his purse; yet by no means in his first youth or of an age when men love to begin the world utterly afresh; in few words, with none of those inner comforts of the mind which make external hardships no more than a pleasurable contrast, he marched up a long steep hill in the growing dusk of a stormy evening, his best hope to find, before he was soaked to the skin, some poor inn or poorer cottage where he might get food and beg shelter from the severity of the wind and rain that swept across the high ground and swooped down on the deep valleys, seeming to assail with a peculiar, conscious malice the human figure which faced them with unflinching front and the buoyant step of strength and confidence. but the captain was an alchemist, and the dross of outer events turned to gold in the marvellous crucible of his mind. fortune should have known this and abandoned the vain attempt to torment him. he had failed, but no other man could have come so near success. he was alone, therefore free: poor, therefore independent; desirous of hiding, therefore of importance: in a foreign land, therefore well placed for novel and pleasing accidents. the rain was a drop and the wind a puff: if he were wet, it would be delightful to get dry; since he was hungry, no inn could be too humble and no fare too rough. fortune should indeed have set him on high, and turned her wasted malice on folk more penetrable by its stings. the captain whistled and sang. what a fright he had given the ministers, how nearly he had brought back the prince, what an uncommon and intimate satisfaction of soul came from carrying, under his wet coat, lists of names, letters, and what not--all capable of causing tremors in high quarters, and of revealing in spheres of activity hitherto unsuspected gentlemen--aye, and ladies--of the loftiest position; all of whom (the captain was piling up his causes of self-congratulation) owed their present safety, and directed their present anxieties, to him, jean dieppe, and to nobody else in the world. he broke off his whistling to observe aloud: "mark this, it is to very few that there comes a life so interesting as mine"; and his tune began again with an almost rollicking vigour. what he said was perhaps true enough, if interest consists (as many hold) in uncertainty; in his case uncertainty both of life and of all that life gives, except that one best thing which he had pursued--activity. of fame he had gained little, peace he had never tasted; of wealth he had never thought, of love--ah, of love now? his smile and the roguish shake of his head and pull at his long black moustache betrayed no dissatisfaction on that score. and as a fact (a thing which must at the very beginning be distinguished from an impression of the captain's), people were in the habit of loving him: he never expected exactly this, although he had much self-confidence. admiration was what he readily enough conceived himself to inspire; love was a greater thing. on the whole, a fine life--why, yes, a very fine life indeed; and plenty of it left, for he was but thirty-nine. "it really rains," he remarked at last, with an air of amiable surprise. "i am actually getting wet. i should be pleased to come to a village." fortune may be imagined as petulantly flinging this trifling favour at his head, in the hope, maybe, of making him realise the general undesirability of his lot. at any rate, on rounding the next corner of the ascending road, he saw a small village lying beneath him in the valley. immediately below him, at the foot of what was almost a precipice, approached only by a rough zigzag path, lay a little river; the village was directly opposite across the stream, but the road, despairing of such a dip, swerved sharp off to his left, and, descending gradually, circled one end of the valley till it came to a bridge and thence made its way round to the cluster of houses. there were no more than a dozen cottages, a tiny church, and an inn--certainly an inn, thought dieppe, as he prepared to follow the road and pictured his supper already on the fire. but before he set out, he turned to his right; and there he stood looking at a scene of some beauty and of undeniable interest. a moment later he began to walk slowly up-hill in the opposite direction to that which the road pursued; he was minded to see a little more of the big house perched so boldly on that bluff above the stream, looking down so scornfully at the humble village on the other bank. but habitations are made for men, and to captain dieppe beauties of position or architecture were subordinate to any indications he might discover or imagine of the characters of the folk who dwelt in a house and of their manner of living. thus, not so much the position of the castle (it could and did claim that title), or its handsome front, or the high wall that enclosed it and its demesne on every side save where it faced the river, caught his attention as the apparently trifling fact that, whereas one half of the facade was brilliant with lights in every window, the other half was entirely dark and, to all seeming, uninhabited. "they are poor, they live in half the rooms only," he said to himself. but somehow this explanation sounded inadequate. he drew nearer, till he was close under the wall of the gardens. then he noticed a small gate in the wall, sheltered by a little projecting porch. the captain edged under the porch, took out a cigar, contrived to light it, and stood there puffing pensively. he was protected from the rain, which now fell very heavily, and he was asking himself again why only half the house was lighted up. this was the kind of trivial, yet whimsical, puzzle on which he enjoyed trying his wits. he had stood where he was for a few minutes when he heard steps on the other side of the wall; a moment later a key turned in the lock and the gate opened. dieppe turned to find himself confronted by a young man of tall stature; the dim light showed only the vague outline of a rather long and melancholy, but certainly handsome, face; the stranger's air was eminently distinguished. dieppe raised his hat and bowed. "you 'll excuse the liberty," he said, smiling. "i 'm on my way to the village yonder to find quarters for the night. your porch offered me a short rest and shelter from the rain while i smoked a cigar. i presume that i have the honour of addressing the owner of this fine house?" "you 're right, sir. i am the count of fieramondi," said the young man, "and this is my house. do me the favour to enter it and refresh yourself." "oh, but you entertain company, and look at me!" with a smile dieppe indicated his humble and travel-worn appearance. "company? none, i assure you." "but the lights?" suggested the captain, with a wave of his hand. "you will find me quite alone," the count assured him, as he turned into the garden and motioned his guest to follow. crossing a path and a stretch of grass, they entered a room opening immediately on the garden; it was large and high. situated at the corner of the house, it had two windows facing on the garden and two towards the river. it was richly and soberly furnished, and hung with family portraits. a blazing fire revealed these features to dieppe, and at the same time imparted a welcome glow to his body. the next minute a man-servant entered with a pair of candlesticks, which he set on the table. "i am about to dine," said the count. "will you honour me with your company?" "your kindness to a complete stranger--" dieppe began. "the kindness will be yours. company is a favour to one who lives alone." and the count proceeded to give the necessary orders to his servant. then, turning again to dieppe, he said, "in return, pray let me know the name of the gentleman who honours my house." "i can refuse nothing to my host--to anybody else my name is the only thing i should refuse. i am called captain dieppe." "of the french service? though you speak italian excellently." "ah, that accent of mine! no, not of the french service--in fact, not of any service. i have been in many services, but i can show you no commission as captain." for the first time the count smiled. "it is, perhaps, a sobriquet?" he asked, but with no offensive air or insinuation. "the spontaneous tribute of my comrades all over the world," answered dieppe, proudly--"is it for me to refuse it?" "by no means," agreed his host, smiling still; "i don't doubt that you have amply earned it." dieppe's bow confirmed the supposition while it acknowledged the compliment. civilities such as these, when aided by dinner and a few glasses of red wine, soon passed into confidences--on the captain's side at least. accustomed to keep other people's secrets, he burdened himself with few of his own. "i have always had something of a passion for politics," he confessed, after giving his host an account of some stirring events in south america in which he had borne a part. "you surprise me," was the count's comment. "perhaps i should say," dieppe explained, "for handling those forces which lie behind politics. that has been my profession." the count looked up. "oh, i 'm no sentimentalist," dieppe went on. "i ask for my pay--i receive it--and sometimes i contrive to keep it." "you interest me," said his host, in whose manner dieppe recognised an attractive simplicity. "but in my last enterprise--well, there are accidents in every trade." his shrug was very good-natured. "the enterprise failed?" asked the count, sympathetically. "certainly, or i should not be enjoying your hospitality. moreover i failed too, for i had to skip out of the country in such haste that i left behind me fifty thousand francs, and the police have laid hands on it. it was my--what shall i call it? my little _pourboire_." he sighed lightly, and then smiled again. "so i am a homeless wanderer, content if i can escape the traps of police agents." "you anticipate being annoyed in that way?" "they are on my track, depend upon it." he touched the outside of his breast pocket. "i carry--but no matter. the pursuit only adds a spice to my walks, and so long as i don't need to sell my revolver for bread--." he checked himself abruptly, a frown of shame or vexation on his face. "i beg your pardon," he went on, "i beg your pardon. but you won't take me for a beggar?" "i regret what you have said only because you said it before i had begged a favour of you--a favour i had resolved to venture on asking. but come, though i don't think you a beggar, you shall be sure that i am one." he rose and laid his hand on dieppe's shoulder. "stay with me for to-night at least--and for as much longer as you will. nobody will trouble you. i live in solitude, and your society will lighten it. let me ring and give orders for your entertainment?" dieppe looked up at him; the next moment he caught his hand, crying, "with all my heart, dear host! your only difficulty shall be to get rid of me." the count rang, and directed his servant to prepare the cardinal's room. dieppe noticed that the order was received with a glance of surprise, but the master of the house repeated it, and, as the servant withdrew, added, "it is called after an old member of our family, but i can answer for its comfort myself, for i have occupied it until--" "i 'm turning you out?" exclaimed dieppe. "i left it yesterday." the count frowned as he sipped his wine. "i left it owing to--er--circumstances," he murmured, with some appearance of embarrassment in his manner. "his eminence is restless?" asked the captain, laughing. "i beg pardon?" "i mean--a ghost?" "no, a cat," was the count's quiet but somewhat surprising answer. "i don't mind cats, i am very fond of them," dieppe declared with the readiness of good breeding, but he glanced at his host with a curiosity that would not be stifled. the count lived in solitude. half his house--and that the other half--was brilliantly lighted, and he left his bedroom because of a cat. here were circumstances that might set the least inquisitive of men thinking. it crossed dieppe's mind that his host was (he used a mild word) eccentric, but the count's manner gave little warrant for the supposition; and dieppe could not believe that so courteous a gentleman would amuse himself by making fun of a guest. he listened eagerly when the count, after a long silence, went on to say: "the reason i put forward must, no doubt, sound ludicrous, but the fact is that the animal, in itself a harmless beast, became the occasion, or was made the means, of forcing on me encounters with a person whom i particularly wish to avoid. you, however, will not be annoyed in that way." there he stopped, and turned the conversation to general topics. never had dieppe's politeness been subjected to such a strain. no relief was granted to him. the count talked freely and well on a variety of questions till eleven o'clock, and then proposed to show his guest to his bedroom. dieppe accepted the offer in despair, but he would have sat up all night had there seemed any chance of the count's becoming more explicit. the cardinal's room was a large apartment situated on the upper floor (there were but two), about the middle of the house; its windows looked across the river, which rippled pleasantly in the quiet of the night when dieppe flung up the sash and put his head out. he turned first to the left. save his own room, all was dark: the count, no doubt, slept at the back. then, craning his neck, he tried to survey the right wing. the illumination was quenched; light showed in one window only, a window on the same level with his and distant from it perhaps forty feet. with a deep sigh the captain drew his head back and shut out the chilly air. ah, there was an inner door on the right hand side of the room; that the captain had not noticed before. walking up to it, he perceived that it was bolted at top and bottom; but the key was in the lock. he stood and looked at this door; it seemed that it must lead, either directly or by way of another apartment between, to the room whose lights he had just seen. he pulled his moustache thoughtfully; and he remembered that there was a person whom the count particularly wished to avoid and, owing (in some way) to a cat, could not rely on being able to avoid if he slept in the cardinal's room. "well, then--" began dieppe with a thoughtful frown. "oh, i can't stand it much longer!" he ended, with a smile and a shrug. and then there came--the captain was really not surprised, he had been almost expecting it--a mew, a peevish, plaintive mew. "i won't open that door," said the captain. the complaint was repeated. "poor beast!" murmured the captain. "shut up in that--in that--deuce take it, in that what?" his hand shot up to the top bolt and pressed it softly back. "no, no," said he. another mew defeated his struggling conscience. pushing back the lower bolt in its turn, he softly unlocked the door and opened it cautiously. there in the passage--for a narrow passage some twelve or fifteen feet long was revealed--near his door, visible in the light from his room, was a large, sleek, yellow cat from whose mouth was proceeding energetic lamentation. but on sight of dieppe the creature ceased its cries, and in apparent alarm ran half-way along the passage and sat down beside a small hole in the wall. from this position it regarded the intruder with solemn, apprehensive eyes. dieppe, holding his door wide open, returned the animal's stare. this must be the cat which had ejected the count. but why--? in a moment the half-formed question found its answer, though the answer seemed rather to ask a new riddle than to answer the old one. a door at the other end of the passage opened a little way, and a melodious voice called softly, "papa, papa!" the cat ran towards the speaker, the door was opened wide, and for an instant dieppe had the vision of a beautiful young woman, clad in a white dressing-gown and with hair about her shoulders. as he saw her she saw him, and gave a startled shriek. the cat, apparently bewildered, raced back to the aperture in the wall and disappeared with an agitated whisk of its tail. the lady's door and the captain's closed with a double simultaneous reverberating bang, and the captain drove his bolts home with guilty haste. his first act was to smoke a cigarette. that done, he began to undress slowly and almost unconsciously. during the process he repeated to himself more than once the count's measured but emphatic words: "a person whom i particularly wish to avoid." the words died away as dieppe climbed into the big four-poster with a wrinkle of annoyance on his brow. for the lady at the other end of the passage did not, to the captain's mind, look the sort of person whom a handsome and lonely young man would particularly wish to avoid. in spite of the shortness of his vision, in spite of her obvious alarm and confusion, she had, in fact, seemed, to him very much indeed the opposite. chapter ii the man by the stream apart from personal hopes or designs, the presence, or even the proximity, of a beautiful woman is a cheerful thing: it gives a man the sense of happiness, like sunshine or sparkling water; these are not his either, but he can look at and enjoy them; he smiles back at the world in thanks for its bountiful favours. never had life seemed better to dieppe than when he awoke the next morning; yet there was guilt on his conscience--he ought not to have opened that door. but the guilt became parent to a new pleasure and gave him the one thing needful to perfection of existence--a pretty little secret of his own, and this time one that he was minded to keep. "to think," he exclaimed, pointing a scornful finger at the village across the river, "that but for my luck i might be at the inn! heaven above us, i might even have been leaving this enchanting spot!" he looked down at the stream. a man was fishing there, a tall, well-made fellow in knickerbockers and a soft felt hat of the sort sometimes called tyrolean. "good luck to you, my boy!" nodded the happy and therefore charitable captain. going down to the count's pleasant room at the corner of the left wing, he found his host taking his coffee. compliments passed, and soon dieppe was promising to spend a week at least with his new friend. "i am a student," observed the count, "and you must amuse yourself. there are fine walks, a little rough shooting perhaps--" "fishing?" asked dieppe, thinking of the man in the soft hat. "the fishing is worth nothing at all," answered the count, decisively. he paused for a moment and then went on: "there is, however, one request that i am obliged to make to you." "any wish of yours is a command to me, my dear host." "it is that during your visit you will hold no communication whatever with the right wing of the house." the count was now lighting a cigar; he completed the operation carefully, and then added: "the countess's establishment and mine are entirely separate--entirely." "the countess!" exclaimed dieppe, not unnaturally surprised. "i regret to trouble you with family matters. my wife and i are not in agreement; we have n't met for three months. she lives in the right wing with two servants; i live in the left with three. we hold no communication, and our servants are forbidden to hold any among themselves; obedience is easier to insure as we have kept only those we can trust, and, since entertaining is out of the question, have dismissed the rest." "you have--er--had a difference?" the captain ventured to suggest, for the count seemed rather embarrassed. "a final and insuperable difference, a final and permanent separation." the count's tone was sad but very firm. "i am truly grieved. but--forgive me--does n't the arrangement you indicate entail some inconvenience?" "endless inconvenience," assented the count. "to live under the same roof, and yet--" "my dear sir, during the negotiations which followed on the countess's refusal to--to well, to meet my wishes, i represented that to her with all the emphasis at my command. i am bound to add that she represented it no less urgently to me." "on the other hand, of course, the scandal--" dieppe began. "we fieramondi do not much mind scandal. that was n't the difficulty. the fact is that i thought it the countess's plain duty to relieve me of her presence. she took what i may call the exactly converse view. you follow me?" "perfectly," said dieppe, repressing an inclination to smile. "and declared that nothing--nothing on earth--should induce her to quit the castle even for a day; she would regard such an act as a surrender. i said i should regard my own departure in the same light. so we stay here under the extremely inconvenient arrangement i have referred to. to make sure of my noticing her presence, my wife indulges in something approaching to an illumination every night." the count rose and began to walk up and down as he went on with a marked access of warmth. "but even the understanding we arrived at," he pursued, "i regret to say that my wife did n't see fit to adhere to in good faith. she treated it with what i must call levity." he faced round on his guest suddenly. "i mentioned a cat to you," he said. "you did," dieppe admitted, eyeing him rather apprehensively. "i don't know," pursued the count, "whether you noticed a door in your room?" dieppe nodded. "it was bolted?" dieppe nodded again. "if you had opened that door--pardon the supposition--you would have seen a passage. at the other end is another door, leading to the countess's apartments. see, i will show you. this fork is the door from your room, this knife is--" "i follow your description perfectly," interposed dieppe, assailed now with a keener sense of guilt. "the countess possesses a cat--a thing to which in itself i have no objection. to give this creature, which she likes to have with her constantly, the opportunity of exercise, she has caused an opening to be made from the passage on to the roof. this piece of bread will represent--" "i understand, i assure you," murmured dieppe. "every evening she lets the cat into the passage, whence it escapes on to the roof. on its return it would naturally betake itself to her room again." "naturally," assented the captain. are not cats most reasonable animals? "but," said the count, beginning to walk about again, "she shuts her door: the animal mews at it; my wife ignores the appeal. what then? the cat, in despair, turns to my door. i take no heed. it mews persistently. at last, wearied of the noise, i open my door. always--by design, as i believe--at that very moment my wife flings her door open. you see the position?" "i can imagine it," said dieppe, discreetly. "we are face to face! nothing between us except the passage--and the cat! and then the countess, with what i am compelled to term a singular offensiveness, not to say insolence, of manner, slams the door in my face, leaving me to deal with the cat as i best can! my friend, it became intolerable. i sent a message begging the countess to do me the favour of changing her apartment. "she declined point-blank. i determined then to change mine, and sent word of my intention to the countess." he flung himself into a chair. "her reply was to send back to me her marriage contract and her wedding-ring, and to beg to be informed whether my present stay at the castle was likely to be prolonged." "and you replied--?" "i made no reply," answered the count, crossing his legs. a combination of feelings prevented dieppe from disclosing the incident of the previous night. he loved a touch of mystery and a possibility of romance. again, it is not the right thing for a guest to open bolted doors. a man does not readily confess to such a breach of etiquette, and his inclination to make a clean breast of it is not increased when it turns out that the door in question leads to the apartments of his host's wife. finally, the moment for candour had slipped by: you cannot allow a man to explain a locality by means of forks and knives and pieces of bread and then inform him that you were all the while acquainted with its features. dieppe was silent, and the count, who was obviously upset by the recital of his grievances, presently withdrew to his study, a room on the upper floor which looked out on the gardens at the back of the house. "what did they quarrel about?" dieppe asked himself; the count had thrown no light on that. "i 'll be hanged if i 'd quarrel with her," smiled the captain, remembering the face he had seen at the other end of the passage. "but," he declared to himself, virtuously, "the cat may mew till it's hoarse--i won't open that door again." with this resolve strong in his heart, he took his hat and strolled out into the garden. he had no sooner reached the front of the house than he gave an exclamation of surprise. the expanse of rather rough grass sprinkled with flower-beds, which stretched from the castle to the point where the ground dipped steeply towards the river, was divided across by a remarkable structure--a tall, new, bare wooden fence, constituting a very substantial barrier. it stood a few paces to the right of the window which the captain identified as his own, and ran some yards down the hill. here was plain and strong evidence of the state of war which existed between the two wings. neither the count nor the countess would risk so much as a sight of the other while they took their respective promenades. the captain approached the obstacle and examined it with a humorous interest; then he glanced up at the wall above, drawing a couple of feet back to get a better view. "ah," said he, "just half-way between my window and--hers! they are very punctilious, these combatants!" natural curiosity must, so far as it can, excuse captain dieppe for spending the rest of the morning in what he termed a reconnaissance of the premises, or that part of them which was open to his inspection. he found little. there was no sign of anybody entering or leaving the other wing, although (as he discovered on strolling round by the road) a gate in the wall on the right of the gardens, and a carriage-drive running up to it, gave independent egress from that side of the castle. breakfast with the count was no more fruitful of information; the count discussed (apropos of a book at which he had been glancing) the question of the temporal power of the papacy with learning and some heat: he was, it appeared, strongly opposed to these ecclesiastical claims, and spoke of them with marked bitterness. dieppe, very little interested, escaped for a walk early in the afternoon. it was five o'clock when he regained the garden and stood for a few moments looking down towards the river. it was just growing dusk, and the lights of the inn were visible in the village across the valley. fishermen are a persevering race, the young man in the soft hat was still at his post. but no, he was not fishing! he was walking up and down in a moody, purposeless way, and it seemed to the captain that he turned his head very often towards the castle. the captain sat down on a garden-seat close under the barricade and watched; an idea was stirring in his brain--an idea that made him pat his breast-pocket, twirl his moustache, and smile contentedly. "not much of a fisherman, i think," he murmured. "ah, my friend, i know the cut of your jib, i fancy. after poor old jean dieppe, are n't you, my boy? a police-spy; i could tell him among a thousand!" equally pleased with the discovery and with his own acuteness in making it, the captain laughed aloud; then in an instant he sat bolt upright, stiff and still, listening intently. for through the barricade had come two sounds--a sweet, low, startled voice, that cried half in a whisper, "heavens, he 's there!" and then the rustle of skirts in hasty flight. without an instant's thought--without remembering his promise to the count--dieppe sprang up, ran down the hill, turned the corner of the barricade, and found himself in the countess's territory. he was too late. the lady had made good her escape. there was nobody to be seen except the large yellow cat: it sat on the path and blinked gravely at the chagrined captain. "animal, you annoy me!" he said with a stamp of his foot. the cat rose, turned, and walked away with its tail in the air. "i 'm making a fool of myself," muttered dieppe. "or," he amended with a dawning smile, "she 's making a fool of me." his smile broadened a little. "why not?" he asked. then he drew himself up and slowly returned to his own side of the barricade, shaking his head and murmuring, "no, no, jean, my boy, no, no! he 's your host--your host, jean," as he again seated himself on the bench under the barricade. evening was now falling fast; the fisherman was no longer to be seen; perfect peace reigned over the landscape. dieppe yawned; perfect peace was with him a synonym for intolerable dulness. "permit me, my dear friend," said a voice behind him, "to read you a little poem which i have beguiled my leisure by composing." he turned to find the count behind him, holding a sheet of paper. probably the poet had his composition by heart, for the light seemed now too dim to read by. however this may be, a rich and tender voice recited to dieppe's sympathetic ears as pretty a little appeal (so the captain thought) as had ever been addressed by lover to an obdurate or capricious lady. the captain's eyes filled with tears as he listened--tears for the charm of the verse, for the sad beauty of the sentiment, also, alas, for the unhappy gentleman from whose heart came verse and sentiment. "my friend, you love!" cried the captain, holding out his hand as the count ended his poem and folded up the paper. "and you are unhappy," he added. the count smiled in a sad but friendly fashion. "is n't it the same thing?" he asked. "and at any rate as to me you are right." dieppe wrung his hand. the count, apparently much moved, turned and walked slowly away, leaving dieppe to his meditations. "he loves her." that was the form they took. whatever the meaning of the quarrel, the count loved his wife; it was to her the poem was written, hers was the heart which it sought to soften. yet she had not looked hard-hearted. no, she had looked adorable, frankly adorable; a lady for whose sake any man, even so wise and experienced a man as captain dieppe, might well commit many a folly, and have many a heartache; a lady for whom-- "rascal that i am!" cried the captain, interrupting himself and springing up. he raised his hand in the air and declared aloud with emphasis: "on my honour, i will think no more of her. i will think, i say, no more of her." on the last word came a low laugh from the other side of the barricade. the captain started, looked round, listened, smiled, frowned, pulled his moustache. then, with extraordinary suddenness, resolution, and fierceness, he turned and walked quickly away. "honour, honour!" he was saying to himself; and the path of honour seemed to lie in flight. unhappily, though, the captain was more accustomed to advance. chapter iii the lady in the garden it is possible that captain dieppe, full of contentment with the quarters to which fortune had guided him, under-rated the merits and attractions of the inn in the village across the river. fare and accommodation indeed were plain and rough at the aquila nera, but the company round its fireside would have raised his interest. on one side of the hearth sat the young fisherman, he in whom dieppe had discovered a police-spy on the track of the secrets in that breast-pocket of the captain's. oh, these discoveries of the captain's! for m. paul de roustache was not a police-spy, and, moreover, had never seen the gallant captain in his life, and took no interest in him--a state of things most unlikely to occur to the captain's mind. had paul, then, fished for fishing's sake? it by no means followed, if only the captain could have remembered that there were other people in the world besides himself--and one or two others even in the count of fieramondi's house. "i 'll get at her if i can; but if she 's obstinate, i 'll go to the count--in the last resort i 'll go to the count, for i mean to have the money." reflections such as these (and they were m. de roustache's at this moment) would have shown even captain dieppe--not, perhaps, that he had done the fisherman an injustice, for the police may be very respectable--but at least that he had mistaken his errand and his character. but however much it might be abashed momentarily, the captain's acumen would not have been without a refuge. who was the elderly man with stooping shoulders and small keen eyes, who sat on the other side of the fire, and had been engaged in persuading paul that he too was a fisherman, that he too loved beautiful scenery, that he too travelled for pleasure, and, finally, that his true, rightful, and only name was monsieur guillaume? to which paul had responded in kind, save that he had not volunteered his name. and now each was wondering what the other wanted, and each was wishing very much that the other would seek his bed, so that the inn might be sunk in quiet and a gentleman be at liberty to go about his private business unobserved. the landlord came in, bringing a couple of candles, and remarking that it was hard on ten o'clock; but let not the gentlemen hurry themselves. the guests sat a little while longer, exchanged a remark or two on the prospects of the weather, and then, each despairing of outstaying the other, went their respective ways to bed. almost at the same moment, up at the castle, dieppe was saying to his host, "good night, my friend, good night. i 'm not for bed yet. the night is fine, and i 'll take a stroll in the garden." a keen observer might have noticed that the captain did not meet his friend's eye as he spoke. there was a touch of guilt in his air, which the count's abstraction did not allow him to notice. conscience was having a hard battle of it; would the captain keep on the proper side of the barricade? monsieur guillaume, owing to his profession or his temperament, was a man who, if the paradox may be allowed, was not surprised at surprises. accordingly when he himself emerged from the bedroom to which he had retired, took the path across the meadow from the inn towards the river, and directed his course to the stepping-stones which he had marked as he strolled about before dinner, he was merely interested and in no way astonished to perceive his companion of the fireside in front of him, the moon, nearly full, revealed paul's tyrolean headpiece mounting the hill on the far side of the stream. guillaume followed it, crossed the river at the cost of wet boots, ascended the slope, and crouched down behind a bush a few yards from the top. he had gained on paul, and arrived at his hiding-place in time to hear the exclamation wrung from his precursor by the sudden sight of the barricade: from the valley below the erection had been so hidden by bushes as to escape notice. "what the devil's that for?" exclaimed paul de roustache in a low voice. he was not left without an answer. the watcher had cause for the smile that spread over his face, as, peeping out, he saw a man's figure rise from a seat and come forward. the next moment paul was addressed in smooth and suave tones, and in his native language, which he had hurriedly employed in his surprised ejaculation. "that, sir," said dieppe, waving his hand towards the barricade, "is erected in order to prevent intrusion. but it does n't seem to be very successful." "who are you?" demanded paul, angrily. "i should, i think, be the one to ask that question," dieppe answered with a smile. "it is not, i believe, your garden?" his emphasis on "your" came very near to an assertion of proprietorship in himself. "pray, sir, to what am i indebted for the honour of this meeting?" the captain was enjoying this unexpected encounter with his supposed pursuer. apparently the pursuer did not know him. very well; he would take advantage of that bit of stupidity on the part of the pursuer's superior officers. it was like them to send a man who did n't know him! "you wish to see some one in the house?" he asked, looking at paul's angry and puzzled face. but paul began to recover his coolness. "i am indeed to blame for my intrusion," he said. "i 'm passing the night at the inn, and tempted by the mildness of the air--" "it is certainly very mild," agreed dieppe. "i strolled across the stepping-stones and up the hill. i admire the appearance of a river by night." "certainly, certainly. but, sir, the river does not run in this garden." "of course not, m. le comte," said paul, forcing a smile. "at least i presume that i address--?" dieppe took off his hat, bowed, and replaced it. he had, however, much ado not to chuckle. "but i was led on by the sight of this remarkable structure." he indicated the barricade again. "there was nothing else you wished to see?" "on my honour, nothing. and i must offer you my apologies." "as for the structure--" added dieppe, shrugging his shoulders. "yes?" cried paul, with renewed interest. "its purpose is to divide the garden into two portions. no more and no less, i assure you." paul's face took on an ugly expression. "i am at such a disadvantage," he observed, "that i cannot complain of m. le comte's making me the subject of pleasantry. under other circumstances i might raise different emotions in him. perhaps i shall have my opportunity." "when you find me, sir, prowling about other people's gardens by night--" "prowling!" interrupted paul, fiercely. "well, then," said dieppe, with an air of courteous apology, "shall we say skulking?" "you shall pay for that!" "with pleasure, if you convince me that it is a gentleman who asks satisfaction." paul de roustache smiled. "at my convenience," he said, "i will give you a reference which shall satisfy you most abundantly." he drew back, lifted his hat, and bowed. "i shall await it with interest," said dieppe, returning the salutation, and then folding his arms and watching paul's retreat down the hill. "the fellow brazened it out well," he reflected; "but i shall hear no more of him, i fancy. after all, police-agents don't fight duels with--why, with counts, you know!" and his laugh rang out in hearty enjoyment through the night air. "ha, ha--it 's not so easy to put salt on old dieppe's tail!" with a sigh of satisfaction he turned round, as though to go back to the house. but his eye was caught by a light in the window next to his own; and the window was open. the captain stood and looked up, and monsieur guillaume, who had overheard his little soliloquy and discovered from it a fact of great interest to himself, seized the opportunity of rising from behind his bush and stealing off down the hill after paul de roustache. "ah," thought the captain, as he gazed at the window, "if there were no such thing as honour or loyalty, as friendship--" "sir," said a timid voice at his elbow. dieppe shot round, and then and there lost his heart. one sight of her a man might endure and be heart-whole, not two. there, looking up at him with the most bewitching mouth, the most destructive eyes, was the lady whom he had seen at the end of the passage. certainly she was the most irresistible creature he had ever met; so he declared to himself, not, indeed, for the first time in his life, but none the less with unimpeachable sincerity. for a man could do nothing but look at her, and the man who looked at her had to smile at her; then if she smiled, the man had to laugh; and what happened afterwards would depend on the inclinations of the lady: at least it would not be very safe to rely on the principles of the gentleman. but now she was not laughing. genuine and deep distress was visible on her face. "madame la comtesse--" stammered the dazzled captain. for an instant she looked at him, seeming, he thought, to ask if she could trust him. then she said impatiently: "yes, yes; but never mind that. who are you? oh, why did you tell him you were the count? oh, you 've ruined everything!" "ruined--?" "yes, yes; because now he 'll write to the count. oh, i heard your quarrel. i listened from the window. oh, i did n't think anybody could be as stupid as you!" "madame!" pleaded the unhappy captain. "i thought the fellow was a police-agent on my track, and--" "on your track? oh, who are you?" "my name is dieppe, madame--captain dieppe, at your service." it was small wonder that a little stiffness had crept into the captain's tones. this was not, so far, just the sort of interview which had filled his dreams. for the first time the glimmer of a smile appeared on the lady's lips, the ghost of a sparkle in her eyes. "what a funny name!" she observed reflectively. "i fail to see the drollery of it." "oh, don't be silly and starchy. you 've got us into terrible trouble." "you?" "yes; all of us. because now--" she broke off abruptly. "how do you come to be here?" she asked in a rather imperious tone. dieppe gave a brief account of himself, concluding with the hope that his presence did not annoy the countess. the lady shook her head and glanced at him with a curious air of inquiry or examination. in spite of the severity, or even rudeness, of her reproaches, dieppe fell more and more in love with her every moment. at last he could not resist a sly reference to their previous encounter. she raised innocent eyes to his. "i saw the door was open, but i did n't notice anybody there," she said with irreproachable demureness. the captain looked at her for a moment, then he began to laugh. "i myself saw nothing but a cat," said he. the lady began to laugh. "you must let me atone for my stupidity," cried dieppe, catching her hand. "i wonder if you could!" "i will, or die in the attempt. tell me how!" and the captain kissed the hand that he had captured. "there are conditions." "not too hard?" "first, you must n't breathe a word to the count of having seen me or--or anybody else." "i should n't have done that, anyhow," remarked dieppe, with a sudden twinge of conscience. "secondly, you must never try to see me, except when i give you leave." "i won't try, i will only long," said the captain. "thirdly, you must ask no questions." "it is too soon to ask the only one which i would n't pledge myself at your bidding never to ask." "to whom," inquired the lady, "do you conceive yourself to be speaking, captain dieppe?" but the look that accompanied the rebuke was not very severe. "tell me what i must do," implored the captain. she looked at him very kindly, partly because he was a handsome fellow, partly because it was her way; and she said with the prettiest, simplest air, as though she were making the most ordinary request and never thought of a refusal: "will you give me fifty thousand francs?" "i would give you a million thousand--but i have only fifty." "it would be your all, then! oh, i should n't like to--" "you misunderstand me, madame. i have fifty francs, not fifty thousand." "oh!" said she, frowning. then she laughed a little; then, to dieppe's indescribable agony, her eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. she put her hand up to her eyes; dieppe heard a sob. "for god's sake--" he whispered. "oh, i can't help it," she said, and she sobbed again; but now she did not try to hide her face. she looked up in the captain's, conquering her sobs, but unable to restrain her tears. "it's not my fault, and it is so hard on me," she wailed. then she suddenly jumped back, crying, "oh, what were you going to do?" and regarding the captain with reproachful alarm. "i don't know," said dieppe in some confusion, as he straightened himself again. "i could n't help it; you aroused my sympathy," he explained--for what the explanation might be worth. "you won't be able to help me," she murmured, "unless--unless--" "what?" "well, unless you 're able to help it, you know." "i will think," promised dieppe, "of my friend the count." "of the--? oh yes, of course." there never was such a face for changes--she was smiling now. "yes, think of your friend the count, that will be capital. oh, but we 're wasting time!" "on the contrary, madame," the captain assured her with overwhelming sincerity. "yes, we are. and we 're not safe here. suppose the count saw us!" "why, yes, that would be--" "that would be fatal," said she decisively, and the captain did not feel himself in a position to contradict her. he contented himself with taking her hand again and pressing it softly. certainly she made a man feel very sympathetic. "but i must see you again--" "indeed i trust so, madame." "on business." "call it what you will, so that--" "not here. do you know the village? no? well, listen. if you go through the village, past the inn and up the hill, you will come to a cross by the roadside. strike off from that across the grass, again uphill. when you reach the top you will find a hollow, and in it a shepherd's hut--deserted. meet me there at dusk to-morrow, about six, and i will tell you how to help me." "i will be there," said the captain. the lady held out both her hands--small, white, ungloved, and unringed. the captain's eyes rested a moment on the finger that should have worn the golden band which united her to his friend the count. it was not there; she had sent it back--with the marriage contract. with a sigh, strangely blended of pain and pleasure, he bent and kissed her hands. she drew them away quickly, gave a nervous little laugh, and ran off. the captain watched her till she disappeared round the corner of the barricade, and then with another deep sigh betook himself to his own quarters. the cat did not mew in the passage that night. none the less captain dieppe's slumbers were broken and disturbed. chapter iv the inn in the village while confessing that her want of insight into paul de roustache's true character was inconceivably stupid, the countess of fieramondi maintained that her other mistakes (that was the word she chose--indiscretions she rejected as too severe) were extremely venial, and indeed, under all the circumstances, quite natural. it was true that she had promised to hold no communication with paul after that affair of the baroness von englebaden's diamond necklace, in which his part was certainly peculiar, though hardly so damnatory as andrea chose to assume. it was true that, when one is supposed to be at mentone for one's health one should not leave one's courier there (in order to receive letters) and reside instead with one's maid at monte carlo; true, further, that it is unwise to gamble heavily, to lose largely, to confide the misfortune to a man of paul's equivocal position and reputation, to borrow twenty thousand francs of him, to lose or spend all, save what served to return home with, and finally to acknowledge the transaction and the obligation both very cordially by word of mouth and (much worse) in letters which were--well, rather effusively grateful. there was nothing absolutely criminal in all this, unless the broken promise must be stigmatised as such; and of that andrea had heard: he was aware that she had renewed acquaintance with m. de roustache. the rest of the circumstances were so fatal in that they made it impossible for her to atone for this first lapse. in fine, count andrea, not content now to rely on her dishonoured honour, but willing to trust to her strong religious feelings, had demanded of her an oath that she would hold no further communication of any sort, kind, or nature with paul de roustache. the oath was a terrible oath--to be sworn on a relic which had belonged to the cardinal and was most sacred in the eyes of the fieramondi. and with paul in possession of those letters and not in possession of his twenty thousand francs, the countess felt herself hardly a free agent. for if she did not communicate with paul, to a certainty paul would communicate with andrea. if that happened she would die; while if she broke the oath she would never dare to die. in this dilemma the countess could do nothing but declare--first, that she had met paul accidentally (which so far as the first meeting went was true enough), secondly, that she would not live with a man who did not trust her; and, thirdly, that to ask an oath of her was a cruel and wicked mockery from a man whose views on the question of the temporal power proclaimed him to be little, it at all, better than an infidel. the count was very icy and very polite. the countess withdrew to the right wing; receiving the count's assurance that the erection of the barricade would not be disagreeable to him, she had it built--and sat down behind it (so to speak) awaiting in sorrow, dread, and loneliness the terrible moment of paul de roustache's summons. and (to make one more confession on her behalf) her secret and real reason for ordering that nightly illumination, which annoyed the count so sorely, lay in the hope of making the same gentleman think, when he did arrive, that she entertained a houseful of guests, and was therefore well protected by her friends. otherwise he would try to force an interview under cover of night. these briefly indicated facts of the case, so appalling to the unhappy countess, were on the other hand eminently satisfactory to m. paul de roustache. to be plain, they meant money, either from the countess or from the count. to paul's mind they seemed to mean--well, say, fifty thousand francs--that twenty of his returned, and thirty as a solatium for the trifling with his affections of which he proposed to maintain that the countess had been guilty. the baroness von englebaden's diamonds had gone the way and served the purposes to which family diamonds seem at some time or other to be predestined: and paul was very hard up. the countess must be very frightened, the count was very proud. the situation was certainly worth fifty thousand francs to paul de roustache. sitting outside the inn, smoking his cigar, on the morning after his encounter in the garden, he thought over all this; and he was glad that he had not let his anger at the count's insolence run away with his discretion, the insolence would make his revenge all the sweeter when he put his hand, either directly or indirectly, into the count's pocket and exacted compensation to the tune of fifty thousand francs. buried in these thoughts--in the course of which it is interesting to observe that he did not realise his own iniquity--he failed to notice that monsieur guillaume had sat down beside him and, like himself, was gazing across the valley towards the castle. he started to find the old fellow at his elbow; he started still more when he was addressed by his name. "you know my name?" he exclaimed, with more perturbation than a stranger's knowledge of that fact about him should excite in an honest man. "it's my business to know people." "i don't know you." "that also is my business," smiled m. guillaume. "but in this case we will not be too business-like. i will waive my advantage, m. de roustache." "you called yourself guillaume," said paul with a suspicious glance. "i was inviting you to intimacy. my name is guillaume--guillaume sévier, at your service." "sévier? the--?" "precisely. don't be uneasy. my business is not with you." he touched his arm. "your reasons for a midnight walk are nothing to me; young men take these fancies, and--well, the innkeeper says the countess is handsome. but i am bound to admit that his description of the count by no means tallies with the appearance of the gentleman who talked with you last night." "who talked with me! you were--?" "i was there--behind a bush a little way down the hill." "upon my word, sir--" "oh, i had my business too. but for the moment listen to something that concerns you. the count is not yet thirty, his eyes are large and dreamy, his hair long, he wears no moustache, his manner is melancholy, there is no air of bravado about him. do i occasion you surprise?" paul de roustache swore heartily. "then," he ended, "all i can say is that i should like ten minutes alone with the fellow who made a fool of me last night, whoever he is." again guillaume--as he wished to be called--touched his companion's arm. "i too have a matter to discuss with that gentleman," he said. paul looked surprised. "m. de roustache," guillaume continued with an insinuating smile, "is not ignorant of recent events; he moves in the world of affairs. i think we might help one another. and there is no harm in being popular with the--with--er--my department, instead of being--well, rather unpopular, eh, my dear m. de roustache?" paul did not contest this insinuation nor show any indignation at it; the wink which accompanied it he had the self-respect to ignore. "what do you want from him?" he asked, discerning guillaume's point, and making straight for it. "merely some papers he has." "what do you want the papers for?" "to enable us to know whom we ought to watch." "is the affair political or--?" "oh, political--not in your line." paul frowned. "forgive my little joke," apologised m. guillaume. "and he 's got them?" "oh, yes--at least, we have very little doubt of it." "perhaps he 's destroyed them." guillaume laughed softly. "ah, my dear sir," said he, "he would n't do that. while he keeps them he is safe, he is important, he might become--well, richer than he is." paul shot a quick glance at his companion. "how do you mean to get the papers?" "i 'm instructed to buy. but if he 's honest, he won't sell. still i must have them." "tell me his name." "oh, by all means--captain dieppe." "ah, i 've heard of him. he was in brazil, was n't he?" "yes, and in bulgaria." "spain too, i fancy?" "dear me, i was n't aware of that," said guillaume, with some vexation. "but it's neither here nor there. can i count on your assistance?" "but what the devil does he pretend to be the count for?" "forgive the supposition, but perhaps he imagined that your business was what mine is. then he would like to throw you off the scent by concealing his identity." "by heaven, and i nearly--!" "nearly did what, dear m. de roustache?" said old guillaume very softly. "nearly dragged in the name of madame la comtesse, were you going to say?" "how do you know anything--?" began paul. "a guess--on my honour a guess! you affect the ladies, eh? oh, we 're not such strangers as you think." he spoke in a more imperious tone: it was almost threatening. "i think you must help me, monsieur paul," said he. his familiarity, which was certainly no accident, pointed more precisely the vague menace of his demand. but paul was not too easily frightened. "all right," said he, "but i must get something out of it, you know." "on the day i get the papers--by whatever means--you shall receive ten thousand francs. and i will not interfere with your business. come, my proposal is handsome, you must allow." "well, tell me what to do." "you shall write a note, addressed to the count, telling him you must see him on a matter which deeply touches his interest and his honour." "how much do you know?" paul broke in suspiciously. "i knew nothing till last night; now i am beginning to know. but listen. the innkeeper is my friend; he will manage that this note shall be delivered--not to the count, but to dieppe; if any question arises, he 'll say you described the gentleman beyond mistake, and in the note you will refer to last night's interview. he won't suspect that i have undeceived you. well then, in the note you will make a rendezvous with him. he will come, either for fun or because he thinks he can serve his friend--the count or the countess, whichever it may be. if i don't offend your susceptibilities, i should say it was the countess. oh, i am judging only by general probability." "supposing he comes--what then?" "why, when he comes, i shall be there--visible. and you will be there invisible--unless cause arises for you also to become visible. but the details can be settled later. come, will you write the letter?" paul de roustache thought a moment, nodded, rose, and was about to follow guillaume into the inn. but he stopped again and laid a hand on his new friend's shoulder. "if your innkeeper is so intelligent and so faithful--" "the first comes from heaven," shrugged guillaume. "the second is, all the world over, a matter of money, my friend." "of course. well then, he might take another note." "to the other count?" "why, no." "not yet, eh?" paul forced a rather wry smile. "you have experience, monsieur guillaume," he confessed. "to the countess, is n't it? i see no harm in that. i ask you to help in my business; i observe my promise not to interfere with yours. he is intelligent; we will make him faithful: he shall take two notes by all means, my friend." with the advice and assistance of guillaume the two notes were soon written: the first was couched much in the terms suggested by that ingenious old schemer, the second was more characteristic of paul himself and of the trade which paul had joined. "it would grieve me profoundly," the precious missive ran, "to do anything to distress you. but i have suffered very seriously, and not in my purse only. unless you will act fairly by me, i must act for myself. if i do not receive fifty thousand francs in twenty-four hours, i turn to the only other quarter open to me. i am to be found at the inn. there is no need of a signature; you will remember your--friend." guillaume put on his spectacles and read it through twice. "excellent, monsieur paul!" said he. "it is easy to detect a practised hand." and when paul swore at him, he laughed the more, finding much entertainment in mocking the rascal whom he used. yet in this conduct there was a rashness little befitting guillaume's age and guillaume's profession. paul was not a safe man to laugh at. if from time to time, in the way of business, he was obliged to throw a light brighter than he would have preferred on his own character, he did not therefore choose to be made the subject of raillery. and if it was not safe to mock him, neither was it very safe to talk of money to him. the thought of money--of thousands of francs, easily convertible into pounds, marks, dollars, florins, or whatever chanced to be the denomination of the country to which free and golden-winged steps might lead him--had a very inflaming effect on m. paul de roustache's imagination. the baron von englebaden had started the whole of that troublesome affair by boasting of the number of thousands of marks which had gone to the making of the baroness's necklace. and now m. guillaume--rash m. guillaume--talked of bribing captain dieppe. bribery means money; if the object is important it means a large amount of money: and presumably the object is important and the scale of expenditure correspondingly liberal, when such a comfortable little _douceur_ as ten thousand francs is readily promised as the reward of incidental assistance. following this train of thought, paul's mind fixed itself with some persistency on two points. the first was modest, reasonable, definite; he would see the colour of guillaume's money before the affair went further; he would have his ten thousand francs, or at least a half of them, before he lent any further aid by word or deed. but the second idea was larger; it was also vaguer, and, although it hardly seemed less reasonable or natural to the brain which conceived it, it could scarcely be said to be as justifiable; at any rate it did not admit of being avowed as frankly to guillaume himself. in fact paul was wondering how much money guillaume proposed to pay for captain dieppe's honour (in case that article proved to be in the market), and, further, where and in what material form that money was. would it be gold? why, hardly; when it comes to thousands of anything, the coins are not handy to carry about. would it be a draft? that is a safe mode of conveying large sums, but it has its disadvantages in affairs where secrecy is desired and ready money indispensable. would it be notes? there were risks here--but also conveniences. and guillaume seemed bold as well as wary. moreover guillaume's coat was remarkably shabby, his air very unassuming, and his manner of life at the hotel frugality itself; such a playing of the _vacuus viator_ might be meant to deceive not only the landlord of the aquila nera, but also any other predatory persons whom guillaume should encounter in the course of his travels. yes, some of it would be in notes. paul de roustache bade the serving-maid bring him a bottle of wine, and passed an hour in consuming it very thoughtfully. guillaume returned from his conversation with the innkeeper just as the last glass was poured out. to paul's annoyance he snatched it up and drained it--an act of familiarity that reached insolence. "to the success of our enterprise!" said he, grinning at his discomfited companion. "all goes well. the innkeeper knows the countess's maid, and the note will reach the countess by midday; i have described dieppe to him most accurately, and he will hang about till he gets a chance of delivering the second note to him, or seeing it delivered." "and what are we to do?" asked paul, still sour and still thoughtful. "as regards the countess, nothing. if the money comes, good for you. if not, i presume you will, at your own time, open communications with the count?" "it is possible," paul admitted. "very," said m. guillaume dryly. "and as regards dieppe our course is very plain. i am at the rendezvous, waiting for him, by half-past six. you will also be at, or near, the rendezvous. we will settle more particularly how it is best to conduct matters when we see the lie of the ground. no general can arrange his tactics without inspecting the battlefield, eh? and moreover we can't tell what the enemy's dispositions--or disposition--may turn out to be." "and meanwhile there is nothing to do?" "nothing? on the contrary--breakfast, a smoke, and a nap," corrected guillaume in a contented tone. "then, my friend, we shall be ready for anything that may occur--for anything in the world we shall be ready." "i wonder if you will," thought paul de roustache, resentfully eyeing the glass which m. guillaume had emptied. it remains to add only that, on the advice and information of the innkeeper, the cross on the roadside up the hill behind the village had been suggested as the rendezvous, and that seven in the evening had seemed a convenient hour to propose for the meeting. for guillaume had no reason to suppose that a prior engagement would take the captain to the same neighbourhood at six. chapter v the rendezvous by the cross beneath the reserved and somewhat melancholy front which he generally presented to the world, the count of fieramondi was of an ardent and affectionate disposition. rather lacking, perhaps, in resolution and strength of character, he was the more dependent on the regard and help of others, and his fortitude was often unequal to the sacrifices which his dignity and his pride demanded. yet the very pride which led him into positions that he could not endure made it well-nigh impossible for him to retreat. this disposition, an honourable but not altogether a happy one, serves to explain both the uncompromising attitude which he had assumed in his dispute with his wife, and the misery of heart which had betrayed itself in the poem he read to captain dieppe, with its indirect but touching appeal to his friend's sympathy. now his resolve was growing weaker as the state of hostilities, his loneliness, the sight of that detestable barricade, became more and more odious to him. he began to make excuses for the countess--not indeed for all that she had done (for her graver offences were unknown to him), but for what he knew of, for the broken promise and the renewal of acquaintance with paul de roustache. he imputed to her a picturesque penitence and imagined her, on her side of the barricade, longing for a pardon she dared not ask and a reconciliation for which she could hardly venture to hope; he went so far as to embody these supposed feelings of hers in a graceful little poem addressed to himself and entitled, "to my cruel andrea." in fine the count was ready to go on his knees if he received proper encouragement. here his pride had its turn: this encouragement he must have; he would not risk an interview, a second rebuff, a repetition of that insolence of manner with which he had felt himself obliged to charge the countess or another slamming of the door in his face, such as had offended him so justly and so grievously in those involuntary interviews which had caused him to change his apartments. but now--the thought came to him as the happiest of inspirations--he need expose himself to none of these humiliations. fortune had provided a better way. shunning direct approaches with all their dangers, he would use an intermediary. by heaven's kindness the ideal ambassador was ready to his hand--a man of affairs, accustomed to delicate negotiations, yet (the count added) honourable, true, faithful, and tender-hearted. "my friend dieppe will rejoice to serve me," he said to himself with more cheerfulness than he had felt since first the barricade had reared its hated front. he sent his servant to beg the favour of dieppe's company. at the moment--which, to be precise, was four o'clock in the afternoon--no invitation could have been more unwelcome to captain dieppe. he had received his note from the hands of a ragged urchin as he strolled by the river an hour before: its purport rather excited than alarmed him; but the rendezvous mentioned was so ill-chosen, from his point of view, that it caused him dismay. and he had in vain tried to catch sight of the countess or find means of communicating with her without arousing suspicion. he had other motives too for shrinking from such expressions of friendliness as he had reason to anticipate from his host. but he did not expect anything so disconcerting as the proposal which the count actually laid before him when he unwillingly entered his presence. "go to her--go to her on your behalf?" he exclaimed in a consternation which luckily passed for a modest distrust of his qualifications for the task. "but, my dear friend, what am i to say?" "say that i love her," said the count in his low, musical tones. "say that beneath all differences, all estrangements, lies my deep, abiding, unchanging love." statements of this sort the captain preferred to make, when occasion arose, on his own behalf. "say that i know i have been hard to her, that i recede from my demand, that i will be content with her simple word that she will not, without my knowledge, hold any communication with the person she knows of." the captain now guessed--or at least very shrewdly suspected--the position of affairs. but he showed no signs of understanding. "tell her," pursued the count, laying his hand on dieppe's shoulder and speaking almost as ardently as though he were addressing his wife herself, "that i never suspected her of more than a little levity, and that i never will or could." dieppe found himself speculating how much the count's love and trust might induce him to include in the phrase "a little levity." "that she should listen--i will not say to love-making--but even to gallantry, to a hint of admiration, to the least attempt at flirtation, has never entered my head about my emilia." the captain, amid all his distress, marked the name. "i trust her--i trust her!" cried the count, raising his hands in an obvious stress of emotion, "as i trust myself, as i would trust my brother, my bosom friend. yes, my dear friend, as i now trust you yourself. go to her and say, 'i am andrea's friend, his trusted friend. i am the messenger of love. give me your love--'" "what?" cried the captain. the words sounded wonderfully attractive. "'give me your love to carry back to him.'" "oh, exactly," murmured the captain, relapsing into altruistic gloom. "then all will be forgiven between us. only our love will be remembered. and you, my friend, will have the happiness of seeing us reunited, and of knowing that two grateful hearts thank you. i can imagine no greater joy." "it would certainly be--er--intensely gratifying," murmured dieppe. "you would remember it all your life. it is not a thing a man gets the chance of doing often." "no," agreed the captain; but he thought to himself, "deuce take it, he talks as if he were doing me a favour!" "my friend, you look sad; you don't seem--" "oh, yes, i do--yes, i am," interrupted the captain, hastily assuming, or trying to assume, a cheerful expression. "but--" "i understand--i understand. you doubt yourself?" "that's it," assented the captain very truthfully. "your tact, your discretion, your knowledge of women?" (dieppe had never in his life doubted any of these things; but he let the accusation pass.) "don't be afraid. emilia will like you. i know that emilia will like you. and you will like her. i know it." "you think so?" no intonation could have expressed greater doubt. "i am certain of it; and when two people like one another, all goes easily." "well, not always," said the captain, whose position made him less optimistic. the count felt in his waistcoat-pocket. dieppe sat looking down towards the floor with a frown on his face. he raised his eyes to find the count holding out his hand towards him; in the open palm of it lay a wedding-ring. "take it back to her," said the count. "really had n't you better do that yourself?" expostulated the captain, who felt himself hard driven by fate. "no," said the count, firmly. "i leave it all to you. put it on her finger and say, 'this is the pledge of love--of love renewed--of andrea's undying love for you.'" he thrust the symbol of bliss into captain dieppe's most reluctant hand. the captain sat and looked at it in a horrified fascination. "you will do it for me?" urged the count. "you can't refuse! ah, my friend, if my sorrow does n't move you, think of hers. she is alone there in that wing of the house--even her cousin, who was with her, was obliged to leave her three days ago. there she sits, thinking of her faults, poor child, in solitude! alas, it is only too likely in tears! i can't bear to think of her in tears." the captain quite understood that feeling; he had seen her in them. "you will help us? your noble nature will force you to it!" after a moment's hesitation, pardonable surely in weak humanity, dieppe put the countess's wedding-ring in his pocket, rose to his feet, and with a firm unfaltering face held out his hand to his friend and host. "i can refuse you nothing," he said, in most genuine emotion. "i will do what you ask. may it bring happiness to--to--to all of us!" he wrung the count's hand with a grip that spoke of settled purpose. "you shall hear how i fare very soon," he said, as he made for the door. the count nodded hopefully, and, when he was left alone, set to work on a little lyric of joy, with which to welcome the return of his forgiven and forgiving spouse. but it was hard on captain dieppe; the strictest moralist may admit that without endangering his principles. say the captain had been blameworthy; still his punishment was heavy--heavy and most woefully prompt. his better nature, his finer feelings, his instincts of honour and loyalty, might indeed respond to the demand made on them by the mission with which his friend entrusted him. but the demand was heavy, the call grievous. where he had pictured joy, there remained now only renunciation; he had dreamed of conquest; there could be none, save the hardest and least grateful, the conquest of himself. firm the captain might be, but sad he must be. he could still serve the countess (was not paul de roustache still dangerous?), but he could look for no reward. small wonder that the meeting, whose risks and difficulty had made it seem before only the sweeter, now lost all its delight, and became the hardest of ordeals, the most severe and grim of duties. if this was the captain's mood, that of the lady whom he was to meet could be hardly more cheerful. if conscience seemed to trouble her less, and unhappy love not to occupy her mind as it governed his, the external difficulties of her position occasioned her greater distress and brought her near despair. paul de roustache's letter had been handed to her by her servant, with a smile half reproachful, half mocking, she had seized it, torn it open, and read it. she understood its meaning; she saw that the dreaded crisis had indeed come; and she was powerless to deal with it, or to avert the catastrophe it threatened. she sat before it now, very near to doing just what count andrea hated to think of and captain dieppe could not endure to see; and as she read and re-read the hateful thing she moaned softly to herself: "oh, how could i be so silly! how could i put myself in such a position? how could i consent to anything of the sort? i don't know what 'll happen. i have n't got fifty thousand francs! oh, emilia, how could you do it? i don't know what to do! and i 'm all alone--alone to face this fearful trouble!" indeed the count, led no doubt by the penetrating sympathy of love, seemed to have divined her feelings with a wonderful accuracy. she glanced up at the clock, it was nearly five. the smile that came on her face was sad and timid; yet it was a smile of hope. "perhaps he 'll be able to help me," she thought. "he has no money, no--only fifty francs, poor man! but he seems to be brave--oh, yes, he 's brave. and i think he's clever. i 'll go to the meeting-place and take the note. he 's the only chance." she rose and walked to a mirror. she certainly looked a little less woe-begone now, and she examined her appearance with an earnest criticism. the smile grew more hopeful, a little more assured, as she murmured to herself, "i think he 'll help me, if he can, you know; because--well, because--" for an instant she even laughed. "and i rather like him too, you know," she ended by confiding to the mirror. these latter actions and words were not in such complete harmony with count andrea's mental picture of the lady on the other side of the barricade. betaking herself to the room from which she had first beheld captain dieppe's face--not, as the count would have supposed, as a consequence of any design, but by the purest and most unexpected chance--she arrayed herself in a short skirt and thick boots, and wrapped a cloak round her, for a close, misty rain was already falling, and the moaning of the wind in the trees promised a stormy evening. then she stole out and made for the gate in the right wall of the gardens. the same old servant who had brought the note was there to let her out. "you will be gone long, contessa?" she asked. "no, maria, not long. if i am asked for, say i am lying down." "who should ask for you? the count?" "not very likely," she replied with a laugh, in which the servant joined. "but if he does, i am absolutely not to be seen, maria." and with another little laugh she began to skirt the back of the gardens so as to reach the main road, and thus make her way by the village to the cross on the hill, and the little hut in the hollow behind it. almost at the same moment captain dieppe, cursing his fortune, his folly, and the weather, with the collar of his coat turned up, his hat crashed hard on his head, and (just in case of accidents) his revolver in his pocket, came out into the garden and began to descend the hill towards where the stepping-stones gave him passage across the river. thus he also would reach the village, pass through it, and mount the hill to the cross. his way was shorter and his pace quicker. to be there before the lady would be only polite; it would also give him a few minutes in which to arrange his thoughts and settle what might be the best way to open to her the new--the very new--things that he had to say. in the preoccupation of these he thought little of his later appointment at seven o'clock--although it was in view of this that he had slipped the revolver into his pocket. finally, just about the same time also, guillaume was rehearsing to paul de roustache exactly what they were to do and where their respective parts began and terminated. paul was listening with deep attention, with a curious smile on his face, and with the inner reflection that things in the end might turn out quite differently from what his astute companion supposed would be the case. moreover--also just in case of accidents--both of these gentlemen, it may be mentioned, had slipped revolvers into their pockets. such things may be useful when one carries large sums of money to a rendezvous, equally so in case one hopes to carry them back from it. the former was m. guillaume's condition, the latter that of paul de roustache. on the whole there seemed a possibility of interesting incidents occurring by or in the neighbourhood of the cross on the hillside above the village. what recked the count of fieramondi of that? he was busy composing his lyric in honour of the return of his forgiven and forgiving countess. of what was happening he had no thought. and not less ignorant of these possible incidents was a lady who this same evening stood in the courtyard of the only inn of the little town of sasellano, where the railway ended, and whence the traveller to the count of fieramondi's castle must take a carriage and post-horses. the lady demanded horses, protested, raged; most urgent business called her to pursue her journey, she said. but the landlord hesitated and shook his head. "it 's good twelve miles and against collar almost all the way," he urged. "i will pay what you like," she cried. "but see, the rain falls--it has fallen for two hours. the water will be down from the hills, and the stream will be in flood before you reach the ford. your excellency had best sleep here to-night. indeed your excellency must." "i won't," said her excellency flatly. and at that point--which may be called the direct issue--the dispute must now be left. chapter vi the hut in the hollow geography, in itself a tiresome thing, concerned with such soulless matters as lengths, depths, heights, breadths, and the like, gains interest so soon as it establishes a connection with the history of kingdoms, and the ambitions, passions, or fortunes of mankind; so that men may pore over a map with more eagerness than the greatest of romances can excite, or scan a countryside with a keenness that the beauty of no picture could evoke. to captain dieppe, a soldier, even so much apology was not necessary for the careful scrutiny of topographical features which was his first act on reaching the cross on the hillside. his examination, hindered by increasing darkness and mist, yet yielded him a general impression correct enough. standing with his back to the cross, he had on his right hand the slope down to the village which he had just ascended; on his left the road fell still more precipitately in zigzag curves. he could not see it where it reached the valley and came to the river; had he been able, he would have perceived that it ran down to and crossed the ford to which the landlord of the inn at sasellano had referred. but immediately facing him he could discern the river in its bottom, and could look down over the steep grassy declivity which descended to it from the point at which he stood; there was no more than room for the road, and on the road hardly room for a vehicle to pass another, or itself to turn. on all three sides the ground fell, and he would have seemed to stand on a watch-tower had it not been that behind him, at the back of the cross, the upward slope of grass showed that the road did not surmount the hill, but hung on to and skirted its side some fifty paces from the top. yet even where he was he found himself exposed to the full stress of the weather, which had now increased to a storm of wind and rain. the time of his earlier appointment was not quite due; but the lady knew her way. with a shiver the captain turned and began to scramble up towards the summit. the sooner he found the shepherd's hut the better: if it were open, he would enter; it not, he could at least get some shelter under the lee of it. but he trusted that the countess would keep her tryst punctually: she must be come and gone before seven o'clock, or she would risk an encounter with her enemy, paul de roustache. "however i could probably smuggle her away; and at least he should n't speak to her," he reflected, and was somewhat comforted. at the top of the hill the formation was rather peculiar. the crown once reached, the ground dipped very suddenly from all sides, forming a round depression in shape like a basin and at the lowest point some twenty feet beneath the top of its enclosing walls. in this circular hollow--not in the centre, but no more than six feet from the base of the slope by which the captain approached--stood the shepherd's hut. its door was open, swinging to and fro as the gusts of wind rose and tell. the captain ran down and entered. there was nothing inside but a rough stool, a big and heavy block, something like those one may see in butcher's shops (probably it had served the shepherds for seat or table, as need arose), and five or six large trusses of dry maize-straw flung down in a corner. the place was small, rude, and comfortless enough, but if the hanging door, past which the rain drove in fiercely, could be closed, the four walls of sawn logs would afford decent shelter from the storm during the brief period of the conference which the captain awaited. dieppe looked at his watch; he could just see the figures--it was ten minutes to six. mounting again to the summit, he looked round. yes, there she was, making her way up the hill, painfully struggling with refractory cloak and skirt. a moment later she joined him and gave him her hand, panting out: "oh, i 'm so glad you 're here! there 's the most fearful trouble." there was, of more than one kind; none knew it better than dieppe. "one need not, all the same, get any wetter," he remarked. "come into the hut, madame." she paid no heed to his words, but stood there looking forlornly round. but the next instant the captain enforced his invitation by catching hold of her arm and dragging her a pace or two down the hill, while he threw himself on the ground, his head just over the top of the eminence. "hush," he whispered. his keen ear had caught a footstep on the road, although darkness and mist prevented him from seeing who approached. it was barely six. was paul de roustache an hour too early? "what is it?" she asked in a low, anxious voice. "is anybody coming? oh, if it should be andrea!" "it's not the count, but-- come down into the hut, madame. you must n't be seen." now she obeyed his request. dieppe stood in the doorway a moment, listening. then he pushed the door shut--it opened inwards--and with some effort set the wooden block against it. "that will keep out the rain," said he, "and--and anything else, you know." they were in dense darkness. the captain took a candle and a cardboard box of matches from an inner pocket. striking a match after one or two efforts (for matches and box were both damp), he melted the end of the candle and pressed it on the block till it adhered. then he lit the wick. the lady watched him admiringly. "you seem ready for anything," she said. but the captain shook his head sorrowfully, as he laid his match-box down on a dry spot on the block. "we have no time to lose--" he began. "no," she agreed, and opening her cloak she searched for something. finding the object she sought, she held it out to him. "i got that this afternoon. read it," she said. "it's from the man you met last night--paul de roustache. the 'other quarter' means andrea. and that means ruin." captain dieppe gently waved the letter aside. "no, you must read it," she urged. he took it, and bending down to the candle read it. "just what it would be," he said. "i can't explain anything, you know," she added hastily, with a smile half rueful, half amused. "to me, at least, there 's no need you should." he paused a moment in hesitation or emotion. then he put his hand in his waistcoat-pocket, drew forth a small object, and held it out towards his companion between his finger and thumb. in the dim light she did not perceive its nature. "this," said the captain, conscientiously and even textually delivering the message with which he was charged, "is the pledge of love." "captain dieppe!" she cried, leaping back and blushing vividly. "really i--! at such a time--under the circ-- and what is it! i can't see." "the pledge of love renewed"--the captain went on in a loyal hastiness, but not without the sharpest pang--"of andrea's undying love for you." "of andrea's--!" she stopped, presumably from excess of emotion. her lips were parted in a wondering smile, her eyes danced merrily even while they questioned. "what in the world is it?" she asked again. "your wedding-ring," said the captain with sad and impressive solemnity, and, on the pretext of snuffing the candle which flickered and guttered in the draught, he turned away. thus he did not perceive the uncontrollable bewilderment which appeared on his companion's face. "wedding-ring!" she murmured. "he sends it back again to you," explained the captain, still busy with the candle. a long-drawn "o--oh!" came from her lips, its lengthened intonation seeming to express the dawning of comprehension. "yes, of course," she added very hastily. "he loves you," said the captain, facing her--and his task--again. "he can't bear his own sorrow, nor to think of yours. he withdraws his demand; your mere word to hold no communication with the person you know of, without his knowledge, contents him. i am his messenger. give me your love to--to carry back to him." "did he tell you to say all that?" she asked. "ah, madame, should i say it otherwise? should i who--" with a mighty effort he checked himself, and resumed in constrained tones. "my dear friend the count bade me put this ring on your finger, madame, in token of your--your reunion with him." her expression now was decidedly puzzling; certainly she was struggling with some emotion, but it was not quite clear with what. "pray do it then," she said, and, drawing off the stout little gauntlet she wore, she presented her hand to the captain. bowing low, he took it lightly, and placed the holy symbol on the appropriate finger. but he could not make up his mind to part from the hand without one lingering look; and he observed with some surprise that the ring was considerably too large for the finger. "it 's very loose," he murmured, taking perhaps a sad, whimsical pleasure in the conceit of seeing something symbolical in the fact to which he called attention; in truth the ring fitted so ill as to be in great danger of dropping off. "yes--or--it is rather loose. i--i hate tight rings, don't you?" she smiled with vigour (if the expression be allowable) and added, "i 've grown thinner too, i suppose." "from grief?" asked he, and he could not keep a touch of bitterness out of his voice. "well, anxiety," she amended. "i think i 'd better carry the ring in my pocket. it would be a pity to lose it." she took off the symbol and dropped it, somewhat carelessly it must be confessed, into a side-pocket of her coat. then she seated herself on the stool, and looked up at the captain. her smile became rather mocking, as she observed to captain dieppe: "andrea has charged you with this commission since--since last night, i suppose?" the words acted--whether by the intention of their utterer or not--as a spark to the captain's ardour. loyal he would be to his friend and to his embassy, but that she should suspect him of insincerity, that she should not know his love, was more than he could bear. "ah," he said, seizing her ungloved hand again, "since last night indeed! last night it was my dream--my mad dream-- ah, don't be angry! don't draw your hand away." the lady's conduct indicated that she proposed to assent to both these requests; she smiled still and she did not withdraw her hand from dieppe's eager grasp. "my honour is pledged," he went on, "but suffer me once to kiss this hand now that it wears no ring, to dream that it need wear none, that you are free. ah, countess, ah, emilia--for once let me call you emilia!" "for once, if you like. don't get into the habit of it," she advised. "no, i 'll only think of you by that name." "i should n't even do as much as that. it would be a-- i mean you might forget and call me it, you know." "never was man so unhappy as i am," he cried in a low but intense voice. "but i am wrong. i must remember my trust. and you--you love the count?" "i am very fond of andrea," said she, almost in a whisper. she seemed to suffer sorely from embarrassment, for she added hastily, "don't--don't press me about that any more." yet she was smiling. the captain knelt on one knee and kissed her hand very respectfully. the mockery passed out of her smile, and she said in a voice that for a moment was grave and tender: "thank you. i shall like to remember that. because i think you 're a brave man and a true friend, captain dieppe." "i thank god for helping me to remain a gentleman," said he; and, although his manner was (according to his custom) a little pronounced and theatrical, he spoke with a very genuine feeling. she pressed her hand on his before she drew it away. "you 'll be my friend?" he asked. she paused before she replied, looking at him intently; then she answered in a low voice, speaking slowly and deliberately: "i will be all to you that i can and that you ask me to be." "i have your word, dear friend?" "you have my word. if you ask me, i will redeem it." she looked at him still as though she had said a great thing--as though a pledge had passed between them, and a solemn promise from her to him. what seemed her feeling found an answer in dieppe. he pressed her for no more promises, he urged her to no more demonstration of affection towards him. but their eyes met, their glances conquered the dimness of the candle's light and spoke to one another. rain beat and wind howled outside. dieppe heard nothing but an outspoken confession that left honour safe and inviolate, and yet told him the sweetest thing that he could hear--a thing so sweet that for the instant its sadness was forgotten. he had triumphed, though he could have no reward of victory. he was loved, though he might hear no words of love. but he could serve her still--serve her and save her from the danger and humiliation which, notwithstanding count andrea's softened mood, still threatened her. that he even owed her; for he did not doubt that the danger, and the solitude in which, but for him, it had to be faced, had done much to ripen and to quicken her regard for him. as for himself, with such a woman as the countess in the case, he was not prepared to own the need of any external or accidental stimulus. yet beauty distressed is beauty doubled; that is true all the world over, and, no doubt, it held good even for captain dieppe. he had been loyal--under the circumstances wonderfully loyal--to the count; but he felt quite justified, if he proved equal to the task, in robbing his friend of the privilege of forgiveness--aye, and of the pleasure of paying fifty thousand francs. he resolved that the count of fieramondi should never know of paul de roustache's threats against the countess or of his demand for that exorbitant sum of money. with most people in moments of exaltation to resolve that a result is desirable is but a preliminary to undertaking its realisation. dieppe had more than his share of this temper. he bent down towards his new and dear friend, and said confidently: "don't distress yourself about this fellow--i 'll manage the whole affair without trouble or publicity." yet he had no notion how his words were to be made good. "you will?" she asked, with a confidence in the captain apparently as great as his own. "certainly," said he, with a twirl of his moustache. "then i 'd better leave it to you and go home at once." the inference was not quite what the captain had desired. but he accepted it with a tolerably good grace. when a man has once resisted temptation there is little to be gained, and something perhaps to be risked, by prolonging the interview. "i suppose so," said he. "i 'll escort you as far as the village. but what's the time?" he took out his watch and held it down to the flame of the candle; the lady rose and looked, not over his shoulder, but just round his elbow. "ah, that's curious," observed the captain, regarding the hands of his watch. "how quickly the time has gone!" "very. but why is it curious?" she asked. he glanced down at her face, mischievously turned up to his. "well, it's not curious," he admitted, "but it is awkward." "it's only just seven." "precisely the hour of my appointment with paul de roustache." "with paul de roustache?" "don't trouble yourself. all will be well." "what appointment? where are you to meet him?" "by the cross, on the road outside there." "heavens! if i were to meet him! he must n't see me!" "certainly not," agreed the captain with cheerful confidence. "but how are we to avoid--?" "ah, you put no real trust in me," murmured he in gentle reproach, and, it must be added, purely for the sake of gaining a moment's reflection. "could n't we walk boldly by him?" she suggested. "he would recognise you to a certainty, even if he didn't me." "recognise me? oh, i don't know. he does n't know me very well." "what?" said the captain, really a little astonished this time. "and there 's the rain and--and the night and--and all that," she murmured in some confusion. "no man who has ever seen you--" began the captain. "hush! what's that?" whispered she, grasping his arm nervously. the captain, recalled to the needs of the situation, abandoned his compliment, or argument, whichever it was, and listened intently. there were voices outside the hut, some little way off, seeming to come from above, as though the speakers were on the crest of the hill. they were audible intermittently, but connectedly enough, as though their owners waited from time to time for a lull in the gusty wind before they spoke. "hold the lantern here. why, it's past seven! he ought to be here by now." "we 've searched every inch of the ground." "that's paul de roustache," whispered the captain. "perhaps he 's lying down out of the storm somewhere. shall we shout?" "oh, if you like--but you risk being overheard. i 'm tired of the job." "the ground dips here. come, we must search the hollow. you must earn your reward, m. de roustache." the lady pressed dieppe's arm. "i can't go now," she whispered. "i 'm willing to earn it, but i 'd like to see it." "what's that down there?" "you don't attend to my suggestion, m. sévier." "sévier!" muttered the captain, and a smile spread over his face. "call me guillaume," came sharply from the voice he had first heard. "exactly," murmured dieppe. "call him anything except his name. oh, exactly!" "it looks like--like a building--a shed or something. come, he may be in there." "oh!" murmured the lady. "you won't let them in?" "they sha'n't see you," dieppe reassured her. "but listen, my dear friend, listen." "who 's the other? sévier?" "a gentleman who takes an interest in me. but silence, pray, silence, if you--if you 'll be guided by me." "let's go down and try the door. if he 's not there, anyhow we can shelter ourselves till he turns up." there was a pause. feet could be heard climbing and slithering down the slippery grass slope. "what if you find it locked?" "then i shall think some one is inside, and some one who has discovered reasons for not wishing to be met." "and what will you do?" the voices were very near now, and paul's discontented sneer made the captain smile; but his hand sought the pocket where his revolver lay. "i shall break it open--with your help, my friend." "i give no more help, friend sévier--or guillaume, or what you like--till i see my money. deuce take it, the fellow may be armed!" "i did n't engage you for a picnic, monsieur paul." "it's the pay, not the work, that's in dispute, my friend. come, you have the money, i suppose? out with it!" "not a sou till i have the papers!" the captain nodded his head. "i was right, as usual," he was thinking to himself, as he felt his breast-pocket caressingly. the wind rose to a gust and howled. the voices became inaudible. the captain bent down and whispered. "if they force the door open," he said, "or if i have to open it and go out, you 'd do well to get behind that straw there till you see what happens. they expect nobody but me, and when they 've seen me they won't search any more." he saw, with approval and admiration, that she was calm and cool. "is there danger?" she asked. "no," said he. "but one of them wants some papers i have, and has apparently engaged the other to assist him. m. de roustache feels equal to two jobs, it seems. i wonder if he knows whom he's after, though." "would they take the papers by force?" her voice was very anxious, but still not terrified. "very likely--if i won't part with them. don't be uneasy. i sha'n't forget your affair." she pressed his arm gratefully, and drew back till she stood close to the trusses of straw, ready to seek a hiding-place in case of need. she was not much too soon. a man hurled himself violently against the door. the upper part gave and gaped an inch or two; the lower stood firm, thanks to the block of wood that barred its opening. even as the assault was delivered against the door, dieppe had blown out the candle. in darkness he and she stood waiting and listening. "lend a hand. we shall do it together," cried the voice of m. guillaume. "i 'll be hanged it i move without five thousand francs!" dieppe put up both hands and leant with all his weight against the upper part of the door. he smiled at his prescience when guillaume flung himself against it once more. now there was no yielding, no opening--not a chink. guillaume was convinced. "curse you, you shall have the money," they heard him say. "come, hold the lantern here." chapter vii the flood on the river that paul de roustache came to the rendezvous, where he had agreed to meet the count, in the company and apparently in the service of m. guillaume, who was not at all concerned with the count but very much interested in the man who had borrowed his name, afforded tolerably conclusive evidence that paul had been undeceived, and that if either party had been duped in regard to the meeting it was captain dieppe. never very ready to adopt such a conclusion as this, dieppe was none the less forced to it by the pressure of facts. moreover he did not perceive any safe, far less any glorious, issue from the situation either for his companion or for himself. his honour was doubly involved; the countess's reputation and the contents of his breast-pocket alike were in his sole care; and just outside the hut were two rascals, plainly resolute, no less plainly unscrupulous, the one threatening the lady, the other with nefarious designs against the breast-pocket. they had joined hands, and now delivered a united attack against both of the captain's treasured trusts. "in point of fact," he reflected with some chagrin, "i have for this once failed to control events." he brightened up almost immediately. "never mind," he thought, "it may still be possible to take advantage of them." and he waited, all on the alert for his chance. his companion observed, with a little vexation, with more admiration, that he seemed to have become unconscious of her presence, or, at best, to consider her only as a responsibility. the besiegers spoke no more in tones audible within the hut. putting eye and ear alternately to the crevice between door and door-post, dieppe saw the lantern's light and heard the crackle of paper. then he just caught, or seemed to catch, the one word, said in a tone of finality, "five!" then came more crackling. next a strange, sudden circle of light revolved before the captain's eye; and then there was light no more. the lantern had been lifted, swung round in the air, and flung away. swift to draw the only inference, dieppe turned his head. as he did so there rang out a loud oath in guillaume's voice; it was followed by an odd, dull thud. "quick, behind the trusses!" whispered dieppe. "i 'm going out." without a word she obeyed him, and in a moment was well hidden. for an instant more dieppe listened. then he hurled the wooden block away, its weight, so great before, seemed nothing to him now in his excitement. the crack of a shot came from outside. pulling the door violently back, dieppe rushed out. two or three paces up the slope stood guillaume, his back to the hut, his arm still levelled at a figure which had just topped the summit of the eminence, and an instant later disappeared. hearing dieppe's rush, guillaume turned, crying in uncontrollable agitation, "he 's robbed me, robbed me, robbed me!" then he suddenly put both his hands up to his brow, clutching it tight as though he were in great pain, and, reeling and stumbling, at last fell and rolled down to the bottom of the hollow. for an instant the captain hesitated. but guillaume lay very still; and guillaume had no quarrel with the countess. his indecision soon ended, dieppe ran, as if for his life, up the slope to the top of the hill. he disappeared; all was left dark and quiet at the hut; guillaume did not stir, the lady did not stir; only the door, released from its confinement, began to flap idly to and fro again. the captain gained the summit, hardly conscious that one of those sudden changes of weather so common in hilly countries had passed over the landscape. the mist was gone, rain fell no more, a sharp, clean breeze blew, the stars began to shine, and the moon rose bright. it was as though a curtain had been lifted. dieppe's topographical observations stood him in good stead now and saved him some moments' consideration. the fugitive had choice of two routes. but he would not return to the village: he might have to answer awkward questions about m. guillaume, his late companion, there. he would make in another direction--presumably towards the nearest inhabited spot, where he could look to get more rapid means of escape than his own legs afforded. he would follow the road to the left then, down the zigzags that must lead to the river, and to some means of crossing it. but he had gained a good start and had the figure of an active fellow. dieppe risked a short cut, darted past the cross and straight over the road, heading down towards the river, but taking a diagonal course to the left. his intent was to hit the road where the road hit the river, and thus to cut off the man he pursued. his way would be shorter, but it would be rougher too; success or failure depended on whether the advantage or disadvantage proved the greater. as he ran, he felt for his revolver; but he did not take it out nor did he mean to use it save in the last resort. captain dieppe did not take life or maim limb without the utmost need; though a man of war, he did not suffer from blood fever. besides he was a stranger in the country, with none to answer for him; and the credentials in his breast-pocket were not of the sort that he desired to produce for the satisfaction and information of the local custodians of the peace. the grassy slope was both uneven and slippery. moreover dieppe had not allowed enough for the courage of the natives in the matter of gradients. the road, in fact, belied its cautious appearance. after three or four plausible zig-zags, it turned to rash courses and ran headlong down to the ford--true, it had excuse in the necessity of striking this spot--on a slope hardly less steep than that down which the captain himself was painfully leaping with heels stuck deep in and body thrown well back. in the result paul de roustache comfortably maintained his lead, and when he came into his pursuer's view was no more than twenty yards from the river, the captain being still a good fifty from the point at which he had hoped to be stationed before paul came up. "i 'm done," panted the captain, referring both to his chances of success and to his physical condition; and he saw with despair that across the ford the road rose as boldly and as steeply as it had descended on the near side of the stream. paul ran on and came to the edge of the ford. negotiations might be feasible since conquest was out of the question: dieppe raised his voice and shouted. paul turned and looked. "i 'm a pretty long shot," thought the captain, and he thought it prudent to slacken his pace till he saw in what spirit his overtures were met. their reception was not encouraging. paul took his revolver from his pocket--the captain saw the glint of the barrel--and waved it menacingly. then he replaced it, lifted his hat jauntily in a mocking farewell, and turned to the ford again. "shall i go on?" asked the captain, "or shall i give it up?" the desperate thought at last occurred: "shall i get as near as i can and try to wing him?" he stood still for an instant, engaged in these considerations. suddenly a sound struck his ear and caught his attention. it was the heavy, swishing noise of a deep body of water in rapid movement. his eyes flew down to the river. "by god!" he muttered under his breath; and from the river his glance darted to paul de roustache. the landlord of the inn at sasellano had not spoken without warrant. the stream ran high in flood, and paul de roustache stood motionless in fear and doubt on the threshold of the ford. "i 've got him," remarked the captain simply, and he began to pace leisurely and warily down the hill. he was ready for a shot now--ready to give one too, if necessary. but his luck was again in the ascendant; he smiled and twirled his moustache as he walked along. if it be pardonable--or even praise-worthy, as some moralists assert--to pity the criminal, while righteously hating the crime, a trifle of compassion may be spared for paul de roustache. in fact that gentleman had a few hours before arrived at a resolution which must be considered (for as a man hath, so shall it be demanded of him, in talents and presumably in virtues also) distinctly commendable. he had made up his mind to molest the countess of fieramondi no more--provided he got the fifty thousand francs from m. guillaume. up to this moment fortune--or, in recognition of the morality of the idea, may we not say heaven?--had favoured his design. obliged, in view of paul's urgently expressed preference for a payment on account, to disburse five thousand francs, guillaume had taken from his pocket a leather case of venerable age and opulent appearance. paul was no more averse than dieppe from taking a good chance. the production of the portfolio was the signal for a rapid series of decisive actions; for was not dieppe inside the hut, and might not dieppe share or even engross the contents of the portfolio? with the promptness of a man who has thoroughly thought out his plans, paul had flung away the lantern, hit guillaume on the forehead with the butt of his revolver, snatched the portfolio from his hand, and bolted up the slope that led from the hut to the summit; thence he ran down the road, not enjoying leisure to examine his prize, but sure that it contained more than the bare ten thousand francs for which he had modestly bargained. a humane man, he reflected, would stay by guillaume, bathe his brow, and nurse him back to health; for with a humane man life is more than property; and meanwhile the property, with paul as its protector, would be far away. but now--well, in the first place, dieppe was evidently not a humane man, and in the second, here was this pestilent river flooded to the edge of its banks, and presenting the most doubtful passage which had ever by the mockery of language been misnamed a ford. he was indeed between the devil and the deep sea--that devil of a dieppe and the deep sea of the ford on the road from sasellano. what was to be done? the days of chivalry are gone; and the days of hanging or beheading for unnecessary or unjustified homicide are with us, to the great detriment of romance. paul, like the captain, did not desire a duel, although, like the captain, he proposed to keep his revolver handy. and, after all, what was called a ford must be at least comparatively shallow. give it a foot of depth in ordinary times. let it be three or four now. still he could get across. with one last look at the captain, who advanced steadily, although very slowly, paul de roustache essayed the passage. the precious portfolio was in an inner pocket, the hardly less precious revolver he grasped in one hand; and both his hands he held half outstretched on either side of him. the captain watched his progress with the keenest interest and a generous admiration, and quickened his own pace so as to be in a position to follow the daring pioneer as rapidly as possible. as far as depth was concerned, paul's calculation was not far out. he travelled a third of his way and felt the ground level under him. he had reached the bottom of the river-bed, and the water was not up to his armpits. he took out the portfolio and thrust it in between his neck and his collar: it gave him a confined and choky feeling, but it was well out of water; and his right hand held the revolver well out of water too. thus prepared, yet hoping that the worst was over, he took another forward step. breaking into a run, the captain was by the edge of the stream the next moment, whipped out his revolver, pointed it at paul, and cried, "stop!" for although one does not mean to fire, it is often useful to create the impression that one does. the action had its effect now, although not exactly as dieppe had anticipated. flurried by his double difficulty, paul stopped again and glanced over his shoulder. he saw the barrel aimed at him; he could not risk disregarding the command, but he might forestall his pursuer's apparent intention. he tried to turn round, and effected half the revolution; thus he faced down-stream, and had his back to the full force of the current. although no deeper than he had feared, the river was stronger; and in this attitude he offered a less firm resistance. in an instant he was swept off his feet, and carried headlong down-stream, dropping his revolver and struggling to swim to the opposite bank. "i can't afford to have this happen!" cried dieppe, and, seeing how the current bore his enemy away, he ran swiftly some fifty yards down the bank, got ahead of paul, and plunged in, again with the idea of cutting him off, but by water this time, since his plan had failed on land. here it is likely enough that the two gentlemen's difficulties and activities alike would have ended. paul went under and came up again, a tangled, helpless heap of legs and arms; the captain kept his head above water for the time, but could do nothing save follow the current which carried him straight down-stream. but by good luck the river took a sharp bend a hundred yards below the ford, and dieppe perceived that by drifting he would come very near to the projecting curve of the bank. paul was past noticing this chance or trying to avail himself of it. the captain was swept down; at the right instant he made the one effort for which he had husbanded his strength. he gathered his legs up under him, and he stood. the water was only half-way up his thigh, and he stood. "now for you, my friend!" he cried. paul came by, quite inanimate now to all appearance, floating broadside to the current. leaning forward, the captain caught him by the leg, throwing his own body back in an intense strain of exertion. he lost his footing and fell. "i must let him go," he thought, "or we shall both be done for." but the next moment he felt himself flung on the bank, and the tension on his arms relaxed. the current had thrown the two on the bank and pursued its own race round the promontory, bereft of its playthings. drenched, huddled, hatless, they lay there. "a very near thing indeed," said the captain, panting hard and regarding paul's motionless body with a grave and critical air of inquiry. the next moment he fell on his knees by his companion. "perhaps he carries a flask--i 've none," he thought, and began to search paul's pockets. he found what he sought and proceeded to unscrew the top. paul gasped and grunted. "he 's all right then," said the captain. paul's hand groped its way up to his collar, and made convulsive clutches. "i 'd better give him a little more room," mused dieppe, and laid the flask down for a minute. "ah, this is a queer cravat! no wonder he feels like choking. a portfolio! ah, ah!" he took it out and pocketed it. then he forced some brandy down paul's throat, and undid his collar and his waistcoat. "a pocket inside the waistcoat! very useful, very useful--and more papers, yes! take a drop, my friend, it will do you good." thus alternately ministering to paul's bodily comfort and rifling his person of what valuables he carried, dieppe offered to the philosophic mind a singular resemblance to a finance minister who takes a farthing off the duty on beer and puts a penny on the income tax. the moon was high, but not bright enough to read a small and delicate handwriting by. the captain found himself in a tantalising position. he gave paul some more brandy, laid down the packet of letters, and turned to the portfolio. it was large and official in appearance, and it had an ingenious clasp which baffled dieppe. with a sigh he cut the leather top and bottom, and examined the prize. "ah, my dear banque de france, even in this light i can recognise your charming, allegorical figures," he said with a smile. there were thirty notes--he counted them twice, for they were moist and very sticky. there was another paper. "this must be--" he rose to his feet and held the paper up towards the moon. "i can't read the writing," he murmured, "but i can see the figures-- , . ah, and that is 'genoa'! now to whom is it payable, i wonder!" "what the devil are you doing?" growled paul, sitting up with a shiver. "my friend, i have saved your life," observed the captain, impressively. "that's no reason for robbing me," was paul's ungrateful but logically sound reply. the captain stooped and picked up the bundle of letters. separating them one from another, he tore them into small fragments and scattered them over the stream. paul watched him, sullen but without resistance. dieppe turned to him. "you have no possible claim against the countess," he remarked; "no possible hold on her, monsieur de roustache." paul finished the flask for himself this time, shivered again, and swore pitifully. he was half-crying and cowed. "curse the whole business!" he said. "but she had twenty thousand francs of my money." the captain addressed to him a question somewhat odd under the circumstances. "on your honour as a gentleman, is that true?" he asked. "yes, it's true," said paul, with a glare of suspicion. he was not in the mood to appreciate satire or banter; but the captain appeared quite grave and his manner was courteous. "it's beastly cold," paul continued with a groan. "in a moment you shall take a run," the captain promised. and he pursued, "the countess must not be in your debt. permit me to discharge the obligation." he counted twenty of the thirty notes and held them out to paul. after another stare paul laughed feebly. "i am doing our friend m. guillaume no wrong," the captain explained. "his employers have in their possession fifty thousand francs of mine. i avail myself of this opportunity to reduce the balance to their debit. as between m. guillaume and me, that is all. as between you and me, sir, i act for the countess. i pay your claim at your own figures, and since i discharge the claim i have made free to destroy the evidence. i have thrown the letters into the river. i do not wish to threaten, but if you 're not out of sight in ten minutes, i 'll throw you after them." "if i told you all the story--" began paul with a sneer. "i 'm not accustomed to listen to stories against ladies, sir," thundered the captain. "she 's had my money for a year--" "the countess would wish to be most liberal, but she did not understand that you regarded the transaction as a commercial one." he counted five more notes and handed them to paul with an air of careless liberality. paul broke into a grudging laugh. "what are you going to tell old guillaume?" he asked. "i'm going to tell him that my claim against his employers is reduced by the amount that i have had the honour to hand you, m. de roustache. pardon me, but you seem to forget the remark i permitted myself to make just now." and the captain pointed to the river. paul rose and stamped his feet on the ground; he looked at his companion, and his surprise burst out in the question, "you really mean to let me go with five and twenty thousand francs!" "i act as i am sure the lady whose name has been unavoidably mentioned would wish to act." paul stared again, then sniggered again, and pocketed his spoil. "only you must understand that--that the mine is worked out, my friend. i think your way lies there." he pointed towards the road that led up from the ford to sasellano. still paul lingered, seeming to wish to say something that he found difficult to phrase. "i was devilish hard up," he muttered at last. "that is always a temptation," said the captain, gravely. "a fellow does things that--that look queer. i say, would n't that odd five thousand come in handy for yourself?" the captain looked at him; almost he refused the unexpected offer scornfully; but something in paul's manner made him cry, quite suddenly, almost unconsciously, "why, my dear fellow, if you put it that way--yes! as a loan from you to me, eh?" "a loan? no--i--i--" "be at ease. loan is the term we use between gentlemen--eh?" the captain tried to curl his moist, uncurlable moustache. and paul de roustache handed him back five thousand francs. "my dear fellow!" murmured the captain, as he stowed the notes in safety. he held out his hand; paul de roustache shook it and turned away. dieppe stood watching him as he went, making not direct for the sasellano road, but shaping a course straight up the hill, walking as though he hardly knew where he was going. so he passed out of the captain's sight--and out of the list of the countess of fieramondi's creditors. a little smile dwelt for a moment on dieppe's face. "i myself am very nearly a rascal sometimes," said he. crack! crack! the sound of a whip rang clear; the clatter of hoofs and the grind of a wheel on the skid followed. a carriage dashed down the hill from sasellano. paul de roustache had seen it, and stooped low for a moment in instinctive fear of being seen. captain dieppe, on the other hand, cried "bravo!" and began to walk briskly towards the ford. "how very lucky!" he reflected. "i will beg a passage; i have no fancy for another bath to-night." chapter viii the carriage at the ford the direct issue between her excellency and the innkeeper at sasellano had ended as all such differences (save, of course, on points of morality) should--in a compromise. the lady would not resign herself to staying at sasellano; the landlord would not engage to risk passenger, carriage, and horses in the flood. but he found and she accepted the services of a robust, stout-built fellow who engaged with the lady to drive her as far as the river and across it if possible, and promised the landlord to bring her and the equipage back in case the crossing were too dangerous. neither party was pleased, but both consented, hoping to retrieve a temporary concession by ultimate victory. moreover the lady paid the whole fare beforehand--not, the landlord precisely stipulated, to be returned in any event. so off her excellency rattled in the wind and rain; and great was her triumph when the rain ceased, the wind fell, and the night cleared. she put her head out of the rackety old landau, whose dilapidated hood had formed a shelter by no means water-tight, and cried, "who was right, driver?" but the driver turned his black cigar between his teeth, answering, "the mischief is done already. well, we shall see!" they covered eight miles in good time. they passed paul de roustache, who had no thought but to avoid them, and, once they were passed, took to the road and made off straight for sasellano; they reached the descent and trotted gaily down it; they came within ten yards of the ford, and drew up sharply. the lady put her head out; the driver dismounted and took a look at the river. shaking his head, he came to the window. "your excellency can't cross to-night," said he. "i will," cried the lady, no less resolute now than she had been at the inn. the direct issue again! and if the driver were as obstinate as he looked, the chances of that ultimate victory inclined to the innkeeper's side. "the water would be inside the carriage," he urged. "i 'll ride on the box by you," she rejoined. "it 'll be up to the horses' shoulders." "the horses don't mind getting wet, i suppose." "they 'd be carried off their feet." "nonsense," said she, sharply, denying the fact since she could no longer pooh-pooh its significance. "are you a coward?" she exclaimed indignantly. "i 've got some sense in my head," said he with a grin. at this moment captain dieppe, wishing that he were dry, that he had a hat, that his moustache would curl, yet rising victorious over all disadvantages by virtue of his temperament and breeding, concealing also any personal interest that he had in the settlement of the question, approached the carriage, bowed to its occupant, and inquired, with the utmost courtesy, whether he could be of any service. "it 's of great importance to me to cross," said she, returning his salutation. "it's impossible to cross," interposed the driver. "nonsense; i have crossed myself," remarked captain dieppe. both of them looked at him; he anticipated their questions or objections. "crossing on foot one naturally gets a little wet," said he, smiling. "i won't let my horses cross," declared the driver. the captain eyed him with a slightly threatening expression, but he did not like to quarrel before a lady. "you 're afraid for your own skin," he said contemptuously. "stay this side. i 'll bring the carriage back to you." he felt in his pocket and discovered two louis and two five-franc pieces. he handed the former coins to the driver. "i take all the responsibility to your master," he ended, and opening the carriage door he invited the lady to alight. she was dark, tall, handsome, a woman of presence and of dignity. she took his hand and descended with much grace. "i am greatly in your debt, sir," she said. "ladies, madame," he replied with a tentative advance of his hand toward his moustache, checked in time by a remembrance of the circumstances, "confer obligations often, but can contract none." "i wish everybody thought as you do," said she with a deep sigh. "shall i mount the box?" "if you please." he mounted after her, and took the reins. cracking the whip, he urged on the horses. "body of the saints," cried the driver, stirred to emulation, "i 'll come with you!" and he leaped up on to the top of a travelling-trunk that was strapped behind the carriage. "there is more good in human nature than one is apt to think," observed the captain. "if only one knows how to appeal to it," added the lady, sighing again very pathetically. somehow, the captain received the idea that she was in trouble. he felt drawn to her, and not only by the sympathy which her courage and her apparent distress excited; he was conscious of some appeal, something in her which seemed to touch him directly and with a sort of familiarity, although he had certainly never seen her in his life before. he was pondering on this when one of the horses, frightened by the noise and rush of the water, reared up, while the other made a violent effort to turn itself, its comrade, and the carriage round, and head back again for sasellano. the captain sprang up, shouted, plied the whip; the driver stood on the trunk and yelled yet more vigorously; her excellency clutched the rail with her hand. and in they went. "the peculiarity of this stream," began the captain, "lies not so much in its depth as in--" "the strength of the current," interposed his companion, nodding. "you know it?" he cried. "very well," she answered, and she might have said more had not the horses at this moment chosen to follow the easiest route, and headed directly downstream. a shriek from the driver awoke dieppe to the peril of the position. he plied his whip again, and did his best to turn the animals' heads towards the opposite bank. the driver showed his opinion of the situation by climbing on to the top of the landau. this step was perhaps a natural, but it was not a wise one. the roof was not adapted to carrying heavy weights. it gave way on one side, and in an instant the driver rolled over to the right and fell with a mighty splash into the water just above the carriage. at the same moment dieppe contrived to turn the horses in the direction he aimed at, and the carriage moved a few paces. "ah, we move!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "the driver 's fallen off!" cried the lady in alarm. "i thought we seemed lighter, somehow," said dieppe, paying no heed to the driver's terrified shouts, but still urging on his horses. he showed at this moment something of a soldier's recognition that, if necessary, life must be sacrificed for victory: he had taken the same view when he left m. guillaume in order to pursue paul de roustache. the driver, finding cries useless, saw that he must shift for himself. the wheel helped him to rise to his feet; he found he could stand. in a quick turn of feeling, he called, "courage!" dieppe looked over at him with a rather contemptuous smile. "what, have you found some down at the bottom of the river? like truth in the well?" he asked. "catch hold of one of the horses, then!" he turned to the lady. "you drive, madame?" "yes." "then do me the favour." he gave her the reins, with a gesture of apology stepped in front of her, and lowered himself into the water on the left-hand side. "now, my friend, one of us at each of their heads, and we do it! the whip, madame with all your might, the whip!" the horses made a bound; the driver dashed forward and caught one by the bridle; the lady lashed. on his side dieppe, clinging to a trace, made his way forward. both he and the driver now shouted furiously, their voices echoing in the hills that rose from the river on either side, and rising at last in a shout of triumph as the wheels turned, the horses gained firm footing, and with a last spring forward landed the carriage in safety. the driver swore softly and crossed himself devoutly before he fell to a rueful study of the roof of the landau. "monsieur, i am eternally indebted to you," cried the lady to dieppe. "it is a reciprocal service, madame," said he. "to tell the truth, i also had special reasons for wishing to gain this side of the river." she appeared a trifle embarrassed, but civility, or rather gratitude, impelled her to the suggestion. "you are travelling my way?" she asked. "a thousand thanks, but i have some business to transact first." she seemed relieved, but she was puzzled, too. "business? here?" she murmured. dieppe nodded. "it will not keep me long," he added gravely. the driver had succeeded in restoring the top of the landau to a precarious stability. dieppe handed the lady down from the box-seat and into the interior. the driver mounted his perch; the lady leant out of the window to take farewell of her ally. "every hour was of value to me," she said, with a plain touch of emotion in her voice, "and but for you i should have been taken back to sasellano. we shall meet again, i hope." "i shall live in the hope," said he, with a somewhat excessive gallantry--a trick of which he could not cure himself. the driver whipped up--he did not intend that either he or his horses, having escaped drowning, should die of cold. the equipage lumbered up the hill, its inmate still leaning out and waving her hand. dieppe watched until the party reached the zigzags and was hidden from view, though he still heard the crack of the whip. "very interesting, very interesting!" he murmured to himself. "but now to business! now for friend guillaume and the countess!" his face fell as he spoke. with the disappearance of excitement, and the cessation of exertion, he realised again the great sorrow that faced him and admitted of no evasion. he sighed deeply and sought his cigarette-case. vain hope of comfort! his cigarettes were no more than a distasteful pulp. he felt forlorn, very cold, very hungry, also; for it was now between nine and ten o'clock. his heart was heavy as he prepared to mount the hill and finish his evening's work. he must see guillaume; he must see the countess; and then-- "ah!" he cried, and stooped suddenly to the ground. a bright object lay plain and conspicuous on the road which had grown white again as it dried in the sharp wind. it was an oval locket of gold, dropped there, a few yards from the ford. it lay open--no doubt the jar of the fall accounted for that--face downwards. the captain picked it up and examined it. he said nothing; his usual habit of soliloquy failed him for the moment; he looked at it, then round at the landscape. for the moonlight showed him a picture in the locket, and enabled him to make out a written inscription under it. "what?" breathed he at last. "oh, i can't believe it!" he looked again. "oh, if that 's the lie of the land, my friend!" he smiled; then, in an apparent revulsion of feeling, he frowned angrily, and even shook his fist downstream, perhaps intending the gesture for some one in the village. lastly, he shook his head sadly, and set off up the hill in the wake of the now vanished carriage; as he went, he whistled in a soft and meditative way. but before he started, he had assured himself that he in his turn had not dropped anything, and that m. guillaume's partially depleted portfolio was still safe in his pocket, side by side with his own precious papers. and he deposited the locket he had found with these other valued possessions. a few minutes' walking brought him to the cross. the exercise had warmed him, the threatened stiffness of cold had passed; he ran lightly up the hill and down into the basin. there was no sign of m. guillaume. the captain, rather vexed, for he had business with that gentleman,--an explanation of a matter which touched his own honour to make, and an account which intimately concerned m. guillaume to adjust,--entered the hut. in an instant his hand was grasped in an appealing grip, and the voice he loved best in the world (there was no blinking the fact, whatever might be thought of the propriety), cried, "ah, you 're safe?" "how touching that is!" thought the captain. "she has a hundred causes for anxiety, but her first question is, 'you're safe?'" this was she whom he renounced, and this was she whom the count of fieramondi deceived. what were her trifling indiscretions beside her husband's infamy--the infamy betrayed and proved by the picture and inscription in the locket? "i am safe, and you are safe," said he, returning the pressure of her hand. "and where is our friend outside?" "i don't know--i lay hidden till i heard him go. i don't know where he went. what do you mean by saying i'm safe?" "i have got rid of paul de roustache. he 'll trouble you no more." "what?" wonder and admiration sparkled in her eyes. because he was enabled to see them, dieppe was grateful to her for having replaced and relighted his candle. "yes, i was afraid in the dark," she said, noticing his glance at it. "but it 's almost burnt out. we must be quick. is the trouble with m. de roustache really over?" "absolutely." "and we owe it to you? but you--why, you 're wet!" "it's not surprising," said he, smiling. "there 's a flood in the river, and i have crossed it twice." "what did you cross the river for?" "i had to escort m. de roustache across, and he 's a bad swimmer. he jumped in, and--" "you saved his life?" "don't reproach me, my friend. it is an instinct; and--er--he carried the pocket-book of our friend outside; and the pocket-book had my money in it, you know." "your money? i thought you had only fifty francs?" "the money due to me, i should say. fifty thousand francs." the captain unconsciously assumed an air of some importance as he mentioned this sum. "so i was bound to pursue friend paul," he ended. "it was dangerous?" "oh, no, no," he murmured. "coming back, though, was rather difficult," he continued. "the carriage was very heavy, and we had some ado to--" "the carriage! what carriage?" she cried with eagerness. "oddly enough, i found a lady travelling--from sasellano, i understood; and i had the privilege of aiding her to cross the ford." dieppe spoke with a calculated lightness. "a lady--a lady from sasellano? what sort of a lady? what was she like?" the captain was watching her closely. her agitation was unmistakable. did she know, did she suspect, anything? "she was tall, dark, and dignified in appearance. she spoke slowly, with a slight drawl--" "yes, yes!" "and she was very eager to pursue her journey. she must have come by here. did n't you hear the wheels?" "no--i--i--was n't thinking." but she was thinking now. the next instant she cried, "i must go, i must go at once." "but where?" "why, back home, of course! where else should i go? oh, i may be too late!" unquestionably she knew something--how much the captain could not tell. his feelings may be imagined. his voice was low, and very compassionate as he asked: "you 'll go home? when she 's there? at least, if i conclude rightly--" "yes, i must go. i must get there before she sees andrea, otherwise, all will be lost." for the instant her agitation seemed to make her forget dieppe's presence, or what he might think of her manner. now she recovered herself. "i mean--i mean--i want to speak to her. i must tell her--" "tell her nothing. confront her with that." and the captain produced the gold locket with an air of much solemnity. his action did not miss its effect. she gazed at the locket in apparent bewilderment. "no, don't open it," he added hastily. "where did you get it?" "she dropped it by the river. it was open when i picked it up." "why, it 's the locket-- how does it open?" she was busy looking for the spring. "i implore you not to open it!" he cried, catching her hand and restraining her. "why?" she asked, pausing and looking up at him. the question and the look that accompanied it proved too great a strain for dieppe's self-control. now he caught both her hands in his as he said: "because i can't bear that you should suffer. because i love you too much." without a doubt it was delight that lit up her, eyes now, but she whispered reprovingly, "oh, you! you the ambassador." "i had n't seen that locket when i became his ambassador." "let go my hands." "indeed i can't," urged the captain. but she drew them away with a sharp motion that he could not resist, and before he could say or do more to stop her she had opened the locket. "as i thought," she cried, hurriedly reclasping it and turning to him in eager excitement; "i must go, indeed i must go at once!" "alone?" asked captain dieppe, with a simple, but effective eloquence. at least it appeared very effective. she came nearer to him and, of her own accord now, laid her hands in his. shyness and pleasure struggled in her eyes as she fixed them on his face. "i shall see you again," she murmured. "how?" he asked. "why, you 're coming back--back to the castle?" she cried eagerly. the doubt of his returning thither seemed to fill her with dismay. the captain's scruples gave way. perhaps it was the locket that undermined them, perhaps that look to her eyes, and the touch of her hands as they rested in his. "i will do anything you bid me," he whispered. "then come once again." she paused. "because i--i don't want to say good-bye just now." "if i come, will it be to say good-bye?" "that shall be as you wish," she said. it seemed to dieppe that no confession could have been more ample, yet none more delicately reserved in the manner of its utterance. his answer was to clasp her in his arms and kiss her lips. but in an instant he released her, in obedience to the faint, yet sufficient, protest of her hands pressing him away. "come in an hour," she whispered, and, turning, left him and passed from the hut. for a moment or two he stood where he was, devoured by many conflicting feelings. but his love, once obedient to the dictates of friendship and the unyielding limits of honour, would not be denied now. how had the count of fieramondi now any right to invoke his honour, or to appeal to his friendship? gladly, as a man will, the captain seized on another's fault to excuse his own. "i will go again--in an hour--and i will not say good-bye," he declared, as he flung himself down on one of the trusses of straw and prepared to wait till it should be time for him to set out. the evening had been so full of surprises, so prolific of turns of fortune good and evil, so bountiful of emotions and changeful feelings, that he had little store of surprise left wherewith to meet any new revolution of the wheel. nevertheless it was with something of a start that he raised his head again from the straw on which he had for a moment reclined, and listened intently. there had been a rustle in the straw; he turned his head sharply to the left. but he had misjudged the position whence the noise came. from behind the truss of straw to his right there rose the figure of a man. monsieur guillaume stood beside him, his head tied round with a handkerchief, but his revolver in his hand. the captain's hand flew towards his breast-pocket. "you 'll particularly oblige me by not moving," said monsieur guillaume, with a smile. of a certainty a man should not mingle love and business, especially, perhaps, when neither the love nor the business can be said properly to belong to him. chapter ix the straw in the corner there was nothing odd in m. guillaume's presence, however little the lady or the captain had suspected it. the surprise he gave was a reprisal for that which he had suffered when, after the captain's exit, he had recovered his full faculties and heard a furtive movement within the hut. it was the inspiration and the work of a moment to raise himself with an exaggerated effort and a purposed noise, and to take his departure with a tread heavy enough to force itself on the ears of the unknown person inside. but he did not go far. to what purpose should he, since it was vain to hope to overtake the captain or paul de roustache? some one was left behind; then, successful or unsuccessful, the captain would return--unless paul murdered him, a catastrophe which would be irremediable, but was exceedingly unlikely. guillaume mounted to the top of the eminence and flung himself down in the grass; thence he crawled round the summit, descended again with a stealthiness in striking contrast to his obtrusive ascent, and lay down in the dark shadow of the hut itself. in about twenty minutes his patience was rewarded: the lady came out,--she had forgotten to mention this little excursion to the captain,--mounted the rise, looked round, and walked down towards the cross. presumably she was looking for a sight of dieppe. in a few minutes she returned. guillaume was no longer lying by the hut, but was safe inside it under the straw. she found dieppe's matches, relighted the candle, and sat down in the doorway with her back to the straw. thus each had kept a silent vigil until the captain returned to the rendezvous. guillaume felt that he had turned a rather unpromising situation to very good account. he was greatly and naturally angered with paul de roustache: the loss of his portfolio was grievous. but the captain was his real quarry; the captain's papers would more than console him for his money; and he had a very pretty plan for dealing with the captain. nothing was to be gained by sitting upright. in a moment dieppe realised this, and sank back on his truss of straw. he glanced at guillaume's menacing weapon, and thence at guillaume himself. "your play, my friend," he seemed to say. he knew the game too well not to recognise and accept its chances. but guillaume was silent. "the hurt to your head is not serious or painful, i hope?" dieppe inquired politely. still guillaume maintained a grim and ominous silence. the captain tried again. "i trust, my dear friend," said he persuasively, "that your weapon is intended for strictly defensive purposes?" the candle had burnt almost down to the block on which it rested (the fact did not escape dieppe), but it served to show guillaume's acid smile. "what quarrel have we?" pursued the captain, in a conciliatory tone. "i 've actually been engaged on your business, and got confoundedly wet over it too." "you 've been across the river then?" asked guillaume, breaking his silence. "it 's not my fault--the river was in my way," dieppe answered a little impatiently. "as for you, why do you listen to my conversation?" "with the countess of fieramondi? ah, you soldiers! you were a little indiscreet there, my good captain. but that's not my business." "your remark is very just," agreed dieppe. "i 'll give that candle just a quarter of an hour," he was thinking. "except so far as i may be able to turn it to my purposes. come, we know one another, captain dieppe." "we have certainly met in the course of business," the captain conceded with a touch of hauteur, as he shifted the truss a little further under his right shoulder. "i want something that you have," said guillaume, fixing his eyes on his companion. dieppe's were on the candle. "listen to me," commanded guillaume, imperiously. "i have really no alternative," shrugged the captain. "but don't make impossible propositions. and be brief. it 's late; i 'm hungry, cold, and wet." guillaume smiled contemptuously at this useless bravado, for such it seemed to him. it did not occur to his mind that dieppe had anything to gain--or even a bare chance of gaining anything--by protracting the conversation. but in fact the captain was making observations--first of the candle, secondly of the number and position of the trusses of straw. "are you in a position to call any proposition impossible?" guillaume asked. "it's quite true that i can't make use of my revolver," agreed the captain. "but on the other hand you don't, i presume, intend to murder me? would n't that be exceeding your instructions!" "i don't know as to that--i might be forgiven. but of course i entertain no such desire. captain, i 've an idea that you 're in possession of my portfolio." "what puts that into your head?" inquired the captain in a rather satirical tone. "from what you said to the countess i--" "ah, i find it so hard to realise that you actually committed that breach of etiquette," murmured dieppe, reproachfully. "and that perhaps--i say only perhaps--you have made free with the contents. for it seems you 've got rid of paul de roustache. well, i will not complain--" "ah?" said the captain with a movement of interest. "but if i lose my money, i must have my money's worth." "that 's certainly what one prefers when it's possible," smiled the captain, indulgently. "to put it briefly--" "as briefly as you can, pray," cried dieppe; but the candle burnt steadily still, and brevity was the last thing that he desired. "give me your papers and you may keep the portfolio." the captain's indignation at this proposal was extreme; indeed, it led him to sit upright again, to fix his eyes on the candle, and to talk right on end for hard on five minutes--in fact as long as he could find words--on the subject of his honour as a gentleman, as a soldier, as a frenchman, as a friend, as a confidential agent, and as a loyal servant. guillaume did not interrupt him, but listened with a smile of genuine amusement. "excellent!" he observed, as the captain sank back exhausted. "a most excellent preamble for your explanation of the loss, my dear captain. and you will add at the end that, seeing all this, it cannot be doubted that you surrendered these papers only under absolute compulsion, and not the least in the world for reasons connected with my portfolio." "my words were meant to appeal to your own better feelings," sighed the captain in a tone of despairing reproach. "you betray the count of fieramondi, your friend; why not betray your employers also?" for a moment there was a look in the captain's eye which seemed to indicate annoyance, but the next instant he smiled. "as if there were any parallel!" said he. "matters of love are absolutely different, my good friend." then he went on very carelessly, "the candle 's low. why don't you light your lantern?" "that rascal paul threw it away, and i had n't time to get it." no expression, save a mild concern, appeared on captain dieppe's face, although he had discovered a fact of peculiar interest to him. "the candle will last as long as we shall want it," pursued guillaume. "very probably," agreed the captain, with a languid yawn; again he shifted his straw till the bulk of it was under his right shoulder, and he lay on an incline that sloped down to the left. "and you 'll kill me and take my papers, eh?" he inquired, turning and looking up at guillaume. he could barely see his enemy's face now, for the candle guttered and sputtered, while the moon, high in heaven, threw light on the dip of the hill outside, but did little or nothing to relieve the darkness within the hut. "no, i shall not murder you. you 'll give them to me, i 'm sure." "and if i refuse, dear m. guillaume?" "i shall invite you to accompany me to the village--or, more strictly, to precede me." "what should we do together in the village?" cried dieppe. "i shall beg of you to walk a few paces in front of me,--just a few,--to go at just the pace i go, and to remember that i carry a revolver in my hand." "my memory would be excellent on such a point," the captain assured him. "but, again, why to the village?" "we should go together to the office of the police. i am on good terms with the police." "doubtless. but what have they to do with me? come, come, my matter is purely political, they would n't mix themselves up in it." "i should charge you with the unlawful possession of my portfolio. you would admit it, or you would deny it. in either case your person would be searched, the papers would be found, and i, who am on such friendly terms with the police, should certainly enjoy an excellent opportunity of inspecting them. you perceive, my dear captain, that i have thought it out." "it's neat, certainly," agreed the captain, who was not a little dismayed at this plan of guillaume's. "but i should not submit to the search." "ah! now how would you prevent it?" "i should send for my friend the count. he has influence; he would answer for me." "what, when he hears my account of your interview with his wife?" old guillaume played this card with a smile of triumph. "i told you that the little affair might perhaps be turned to my purposes," he reminded dieppe, maliciously. the captain reflected, taking as long as he decently could over the task. indeed he was in trouble. guillaume's scheme was sagacious, guillaume's position very strong. and at last guillaume grew impatient. but still the persistent candle burnt. "i give you one minute to make up your mind," said guillaume, dropping his tone of sarcastic pleasantry, and speaking in a hard, sharp voice. "after that, either you give me the papers, or you get up and march before me to the village." "if i refuse to do either?" "you can't refuse," said guillaume. "you mean--?" "i should order you to hold your hands behind your back while i took the papers. if you moved--" "thank you. i see," said the captain, with a nod of understanding. "awkward for you, though, if it came to that." "oh, i think not very, in view of your dealings with my portfolio." "i 'm in a devil of a hole," admitted the captain, candidly. "time's up," announced m. guillaume, slowly raising the barrel of his revolver, and taking aim at the captain. for the candle still burnt, although dimly and fitfully, and still there was light to guide the bullet on its way. "it's all up!" said the captain. "but, deuce take it, it's hardly the way to treat a gentleman!" even as he spoke the light of the candle towered for a second in a last shoot of flame, and then went out. at the same moment the captain rolled down the incline of straw on which he had been resting, rose on his knees an instant, seized the truss and flung it at guillaume, rolled under the next truss, seized that in like manner and propelled it against the enemy, and darted again to shelter. "stop, or i fire," cried guillaume; he was as good as his word the next minute, but the third truss caught him just as he aimed, and his bullet flew against and was buried in the planking of the roof. by now, the captain was escaping from under the fourth truss, and making for the fifth. guillaume, dimly seeing the fourth truss not thrown, but left in its place, discharged another shot at it. the fifth truss caught him in the side and drove him against the wooden block. he turned swiftly in the direction whence the missile came, and fired again. he was half dazed, his eyes and ears seemed full of the dust of the straw. he fired once again at random, swearing savagely; and before he could recover aim his arm was seized from behind, his neck was caught in a vigorous garotte, and he fell on the floor of the hut with captain dieppe on the top of him--dieppe, dusty, dirty, panting, bleeding freely from a bullet graze on the top of the left ear, and with one leg of his trousers slit from ankle to knee by a rusty nail, that had also ploughed a nasty furrow up his leg. but now he seized guillaume's revolver, and dragged the old fellow out of the hut. then he sat down on his chest, pinning his arms together on the ground above his head. "you enjoyed playing your mouse just a trifle too long, old cat," said he. guillaume lay very still, exhausted, beaten, and defenceless. dieppe released his hands, and, rising, stood looking down at him. a smile came on his face. "we are now in a better position to adjust our accounts fairly," he observed, as he took from his pocket m. guillaume's portfolio. "listen," he commanded; and guillaume turned weary but spiteful eyes to him. "here is your portfolio. take it. look at it." guillaume sat up and obeyed the command. "well?" asked dieppe, when the examination was ended. "you have robbed me of twenty-five thousand francs." the captain looked at him for a moment with a frown. but the next instant he smiled. "i must make allowances for the state of your temper," he remarked. "but i wish you would carry all your money in notes. that draft, now, is no use to me. hence"--he shrugged his shoulders regretfully--"i am obliged to leave your government still no less than twenty-five thousand francs in debt to me." "what!" cried guillaume, with a savage stare. "oh, yes, you know that well. they have fifty thousand which certainly don't belong to them, and certainly do to me." "that money 's forfeited," growled guillaume. "if you like, then, i forfeit twenty-five thousand of theirs. but i allow it in account with them. the debt now stands reduced by half." "i 'll get it back from you somehow," threatened guillaume, who was helpless, but not cowed. "that will be difficult. i gave it to paul de roustache to discharge a claim he had on me." "to paul de roustache?" "yes. it 's true he lent me five thousand again; but that 's purely between him and me. and i shall have spent it long before you can even begin to take steps to recover it." he paused a moment and then added, "if you still hanker after your notes, i should recommend you to find your friend and accomplice, m. paul." "where is he?" "who can tell? i saw him last on the road across the river--it leads to sasellano, i believe." dieppe kept his eye on his vanquished opponent, but guillaume threatened no movement. the captain dropped the revolver into his pocket, stooped to pull up a tuft of grass with moist earth adhering to it, and, with the help of his handkerchief, made a primitive plaster to stanch the bleeding of his ear. as he was so engaged, the sound of wheels slowly climbing the hill became audible from the direction of the village. "you see," he went on, "you can't return to the village--you are on too good terms with the police. let me advise you to go to sasellano; the flood will be falling by now, and i should n't wonder if we could find you a means of conveyance." he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the road behind him. "i can't go back to the village?" demanded guillaume, sullenly. "in my turn i must beg you to remember that i now carry a revolver. come, m. guillaume, we 've played a close hand, but the odd trick 's mine. go back and tell your employers not to waste their time on me. no, nor their money. they have won the big stake; let them be content. and again let me remind you that paul de roustache has your twenty thousand francs. i don't think you 'll get them from him, but you might. from me you 'll get nothing; and if you try the law--oh, think, my friend, how very silly you and your government will look!" as he spoke he went up to guillaume and took him by the arm, exerting a friendly and persuasive pressure, under which guillaume presently found himself mounting the eminence. the wheels sounded nearer now, and dieppe's ears were awake to their movements. the pair began to walk down the other side of the slope towards the cross, and the carriage came into their view. it was easy of identification: its broken-down, lopsided top marked it beyond mistake. an instant later dieppe recognised the burly figure of the driver, who was walking by his horses' heads. "wonderfully convenient!" he exclaimed. "this fellow will carry you to sasellano without delay." guillaume did not--indeed could not--refuse to obey the prompting of the captain's arm, but he grumbled as he went. "i made sure of getting your papers," he said. "unlooked-for difficulties will arise, my dear m. guillaume." "i thought the reward was as good as in my pocket." "the reward?" the captain stopped and looked in his companion's face with some amusement and a decided air of gratification. "there was a reward? oh, i am important, it seems!" "five thousand francs," said guillaume, sullenly. "they rate me rather cheap," exclaimed the captain, his face falling. "i should have hoped for five-and-twenty." "would you? if it had been that, i should have brought three men with me." "hum!" said the captain. "and you gave me a stiff job by yourself, eh?" he turned and signalled to the driver, who had now reached the cross: "wait a moment there, my friend." then he turned back again to guillaume. "get into the carriage--go to sasellano; catch paul if you can, but leave me in peace," he said, and, diving into his pocket, he produced the five notes of a thousand francs which paul de roustache, in some strange impulse of repentance, or gratitude, had handed to him. "what you tell your employers," he added, "i don't care. this is a gift from me to you. the deuce, i reward effort as well as success--i am more liberal than your government." the gesture with which he held out the notes was magnificent. guillaume stared at him in amazement, but his hand went out towards the notes. "i am free to do what i can at sasellano?" "yes, free to do anything except bother me. but i think your bird will have flown." guillaume took the notes and hid them in his pocket; then he walked straight up to the driver, crying, "how much to take me with you to sasellano?" the driver looked at him, at dieppe, and then down towards the river. "come, the flood will be less by now; the river will be falling," said dieppe. "fifty francs," said the driver, and guillaume got in. "good!" said the captain to himself. "a pretty device! and that scoundrel's money did n't lie comfortably in the pocket of a gentleman." he waved his hand to guillaume and was about to turn away, when the driver came up to him and spoke in a cautious whisper, first looking over his shoulder to see whether his new fare were listening; but guillaume was sucking at a flask. "i have a message for you," he said. "from the lady you carried--?" "to the count of fieramondi's." "ah, you took her there?" the captain frowned heavily. "yes, and left her there. but it's not from her; it's from another lady whom i had n't seen before. she met me just as i was returning from the count's, and bade me look out for you by the cross--" "yes, yes?" cried dieppe, eagerly. "give me the message." for his thoughts flew back to the countess at the first summons. the driver produced a scrap of paper, carelessly folded, and gave it to him. dieppe ran to the carriage and read the message by the light of its dim and smoky lamp: "i think i am in time. come; i wait for you. whatever you see, keep andrea in the dark. if you are discreet, all will be well, and i--i shall be very grateful." the driver mounted the box, the carriage rolled off down the hill, dieppe was left by the cross, with the message in his hand. he did not understand the situation. chapter x the journey to rome it was about ten o'clock--or, it may be, nearer half-past ten--the same night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise. the first was the parish priest. he was returning from a visit to the bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and grimy handkerchief. he wore no hat; his face was disfigured with blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a limp, and shivered in the cold night air. this unpromising-looking person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut. "reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty i take, but may i beg of your reverence's great kindness--" "it 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he was rather alarmed. "in the first place, i have nothing; in the second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune." the wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and then burst into a laugh. "begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "then the poor must need voluntary aid!" he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two french five-franc pieces. "for the poor, father," he said, pressing them into the priest's hand. "for myself, i was merely about to ask you the time of night." and before the astonished priest could make any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and sentimental tune. "he was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day. "i wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of me, their baggage is worth no more than half what they 've cost me, and i 'll lay odds i never clap eyes on them again." and in this suspicion the innkeeper proved, in the issue, to be absolutely right, about the value of the luggage there is, however, more room for doubt. the second person who suffered a surprise was no less a man than the count of fieramondi himself. but how this came about needs a little more explanation. in that very room through whose doorway captain dieppe had first beheld the lady whom he now worshipped with a devotion as ardent as it was unhappy, there were now two ladies engaged in conversation. one sat in an arm-chair, nursing the yellow cat of which mention has been made earlier in this history; the other walked up and down with every appearance of weariness, trouble, and distress on her handsome face. "oh, the bishop was just as bad as the banker," she cried fretfully, "and the banker was just as silly as the bishop. the bishop said that, although he might have considered the question of giving me absolution from a vow which i had been practically compelled to take, he could hold out no prospect of my getting it beforehand for taking a vow which i took with no other intention than that of breaking it." "i told you he 'd say that before you went," observed the lady in the arm-chair, who seemed to be treating the situation with a coolness in strong contrast to her companion's agitation. "and the banker said that although, if i had actually spent fifty thousand lire more than i possessed, he would have done his best to see how he could extricate me from the trouble, he certainly would not help me to get fifty thousand for the express purpose of throwing them away." "i thought the banker would say that," remarked the other lady, caressing the cat. "and they both advised me to take my husband's opinion on the matter. my husband's opinion!" her tone was bitter and tragic indeed. "i suppose they 're right," she said, flinging herself dejectedly into a chair. "i must tell andrea everything. oh, and he 'll forgive me!" "well, i should think it's rather nice being forgiven." "oh, no, not by andrea!" the faintest smile flitted for an instant across her face. "oh, no, andrea does n't forgive like that. his forgiveness is very--well, horribly biblical, you know. oh, i 'd better not have gone to rome at all!" "i never saw any good in your going to rome, you know." "yes, i must tell him everything. because paul de roustache is sure to come and--" "he 's come already," observed the second lady, calmly. "what? come?" the other lady set down the cat, rose to her feet, took out of her pocket a gold ring and a gold locket, walked over to her companion, and held them out to her. "these are yours, are n't they?" she inquired, and broke into a merry laugh. the sight brought nothing but an astonished stare and a breathless ejaculation-- "lucia!" the two ladies drew their chairs close together, and a long conversation ensued, lucia being the chief narrator, while her companion, whom she addressed from time to time as emilia, did little more than listen and throw in exclamations of wonder, surprise, or delight. "how splendidly you kept the secret!" she cried once. and again, "how lucky that he should be here!" and again, "i thought he looked quite charming." and once again, "but, goodness, what a state the poor man must be in! how could you help telling him, lucia?" "i had promised," said lucia, solemnly, "and i keep my promises, emilia." "and that man has positively gone?" sighed emilia, taking no notice of a rather challenging emphasis which lucia had laid on her last remark. "yes, gone for good--i 'm sure of it. and you need n't tell andrea anything. just take all the vows he asks you to! but he won't now; you see he wants a reconciliation as much as you do." "i shall insist on taking at least one vow," said emilia, with a virtuous air. she stopped and started. "but what in the world am i to say about you, my dear?" she asked. "say i 've just come back from rome, of course," responded lucia. "if he should find out--" "it 's very unlikely, and at the worst you must take another vow, emilia. but andrea 'll never suspect the truth unless--" "unless what?" "unless captain dieppe lets it out, you know." "it would be better if captain dieppe did n't come back, i think," observed emilia, thoughtfully. "well, of all the ungrateful women!" cried lucia, indignantly. but emilia sprang up and kissed her, and began pressing her with all sorts of questions, or rather with all sorts of ways of putting one question, which made her blush very much, and to which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to give any definite reply. at last emilia abandoned the attempt to extract an admission, and observed with a sigh of satisfaction: "i think i 'd better see andrea and forgive him." "you 'll change your frock first, won't you, dear?" cried lucia. it was certainly not desirable that emilia should present herself to the count in the garments she was then wearing. "yes, of course. will you come with me to andrea?" "no. send for me, presently--as soon as it occurs to you that i 've just come back from rome, you know, and should be so happy to hear of your reconciliation." half an hour later,--for the change of costume had to be radical, since there is all the difference in the world between a travelling-dress and an easy, negligent, yet elegant, toilette suggestive of home and the fireside, and certainly not of wanderings,--the count of fieramondi got his shock of surprise in the shape of an inquiry whether he were at leisure to receive a visit from the countess. yet his surprise, great as it was at a result at once so prosperous and so speedy, did not prevent him from drawing the obvious inference. his thoughts had already been occupied with captain dieppe. it was now half-past ten; he had waited an hour for dinner, and then eaten it alone in some disquietude; as time went on he became seriously uneasy, and had considered the despatch of a search expedition. if his friend did not return in half an hour, he had declared, he himself would go and look for him; and he had requested that he should be informed the moment the captain put in an appearance. but, alas! what is friendship--even friendship reinforced by gratitude--beside love? as the poets have often remarked, in language not here to be attained, its power is insignificant, and its claims go to the wall. on fire with the emotions excited by the countess's message, the count forgot both dieppe and all that he owed to dieppe's intercession; the matter went clean out of his head for the moment. he leapt up, pushed away the poem on which he had been trying to concentrate his mind, and cried eagerly: "i 'm at the countess's disposal. i 'll wait on her at once." "the countess is already on her way here," was the servant's answer. the first transports of joy are perhaps better left in a sacred privacy. indeed the count was not for much explanation, or for many words. what need was there? the countess acquiesced in his view with remarkable alacrity; the fewer words there were, and especially, perhaps, the fewer explanations, the easier and more gracious was her part. she had thought the matter over, there in the solitude to which her andrea's cruelty had condemned her: and, yes, she would take the oath--in fact any number of oaths--to hold no further communication whatever with paul de roustache. "ah, your very offer is a reproach to me," said the count, softly. "i told you that now i ask no oath, that your promise was enough, that--" "you told me?" exclaimed the countess, with some appearance of surprise. "why, yes. at least i begged dieppe to tell you in my name. did n't he?" for a moment the countess paused, engaged in rapid calculations, then she said sweetly: "oh, yes, of course! but it's not the same as hearing it from your own lips, andrea." "where did you see him?" asked the count. "did he pass the barricade? ah, we 'll soon have that down, won't we?" "oh, yes, andrea; do let 's have it down, because--" "but where did you and dieppe have your talk?" "oh--oh--down by the river, andrea." "he found you there?" "yes, he found me there, and--and talked to me." "and gave you back the ring?" inquired the count, tenderly. the countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "i 'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said. the count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. it fitted very well, indeed. there could be no doubt that it was made for the hand on which it now rested. the count kissed it as he set it there. at last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was under to his friend. "but where can our dear dieppe be?" he cried. "we owe so much to him." "yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the countess. "but, andrea--" "indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. i must--" "no, we must n't forget him. oh, no, we won't. but, andrea, i--i 've got another piece of news for you." the countess spoke with a little timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite sure of her footing. "more news? what an eventful night!" he took his wife's hand. away went all thoughts of poor dieppe again. "yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. lucia has come back! an hour ago!" "lucia come back!" exclaimed the count, gladly. "that's good news, indeed." "it 'll delight her so much to find us--to find us like this again, andrea." "yes, yes, we must send for her. is she in her room? and where has she come from?" "rome," answered the countess, again in a rather nervous way. "rome!" cried the count in surprise. "what took her to rome?" "she does n't like to be asked much about it," began the countess, with a prudent air. "i 'm sure i don't want to pry into her affairs, but--" "no, i knew you would n't want to do that, andrea." "still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. she left only four days ago. now she 's back, and--" the count broke off, looking rather distressed. such proceedings, accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper thing for a young and unmarried lady. "i won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but i suppose she 's told you, emilia?" "oh, yes, she 's told me," said the countess, hastily. "and am i to be excluded from your confidence?" the countess put her arms round his neck. "well, you know, andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at religion--well, i mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know." "oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?" "yes," the countess answered in a more confident tone. "she particularly wanted to consult the bishop of mesopotamia. she believes in him very much. oh, so do i. i do believe, andrea, that if you knew the bishop of--" "my dear, i don't want to know the bishop of mesopotamia; but lucia is perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. i don't see any need for mystery." "no, neither do i," murmured the countess. "but dear lucia is--is so sensitive, you know." "i remember seeing him about rome very well. i must ask lucia whether he still wears that--" "really, the less you question lucia about her journey the better, dear andrea," said the countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but also marked by much decision. and there can be no doubt she spoke the truth, from her own point of view, at least. "would n't it be kind to send for her now?" she added. in fact the countess found this interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather difficult in certain minor ways, and lucia would be a convenient ally. it was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one another's presence. that is always more straightforward; and, in this case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the future. for instance, if lucia showed ignorance about the bishop of mesopotamia--! "do let's send for lucia," the countess said again, coaxingly; and the count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end their tête-à-tête, at last consented. but here was another difficulty--lucia could not be found. the right wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. on the chance, unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new state of things, they searched the left wing too--with an equal absence of result. lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. the count was very much surprised. "can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried. the countess was not much surprised. she well understood how lucia might have gone out a little way--far enough, say, to look for captain dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. but she did not suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided when they themselves require too much explaining. "it's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "perhaps she's just gone for a turn on the road." "what for?" asked the count, spreading out his hands in some bewilderment. the countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the bishop of mesopotamia. "perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over--to reflect in quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." and she added, as an artistic touch, "to think it over under the stars, dear andrea." the count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant. "run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the countess lucia is anywhere about." he returned to his wife's side. "one good thing about it is that we can have our talk out," said he. "yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future," urged the countess, with affection--and no doubt with wisdom also. the servant, who in obedience to the count's order ran down the road towards the village, did not see the countess lucia. that lady, mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade, straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the stepping-stones. there lay the shortest way for the captain to return--and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest way. she did not, however, allow for the captain's pardonable reluctance to get wet a third time that night. he did not know the habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. after his experience he was all for a bridge. moreover he did not hurry back to the castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured him home on the wings of hope. what hope was there? what hope of happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? if he yielded to his love, he wronged her--her and his own honour. if he resisted, he must renounce her--aye, and leave her, not to a loving husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the captain's partial, pitying eyes. in the distress of these thoughts he forgot his victories: how he had disposed of paul de roustache, how he had defeated m. guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how the countess was freed from all her fears. it was her misery he thought of now, not her fears. for she loved him. and in his inmost heart he knew that he must leave her. yes; in the recesses of his heart he knew what true love for her and a true regard for his own honour alike demanded. but he did not mean that, because he saw this and was resolved to act on it, the count should escape castigation. before he went, before he left behind him what was dearest in life, and again took his way alone, unfriended, solitary (penniless too, if he had happened to remember this), he would speak his mind to the count, first in stinging reproaches, later in the appeal that friendship may make to honour; and at the last he would demand from the count, as the recompense for his own services, an utter renunciation and abandonment of the lady who had dropped the locket by the ford, of her whom the driver had carried to the door of the house which the countess of fieramondi honoured with her gracious presence. in drawing a contrast between the countess and this shameless woman the last remembrance of the countess's peccadilloes faded from his indignant mind. he quickened his pace a little, as a man does when he has reached a final decision. he crossed the bridge, ascended the hill on which the castle stood, and came opposite to the little gate which the count himself had opened to him on that first happy--or unhappy--night on which he had become an inmate of the house. even as he came to it, it opened, and the count's servant ran out. in a moment he saw dieppe and called to him loudly and gladly. "sir, sir, my master is most anxious about you. he feared for your safety." "i 'm safe enough," answered dieppe, in a gloomy tone. "he begs your immediate presence, sir. he is in the dining-room." dieppe braced himself to the task before him. "i will follow you," he said; and passing the gate he allowed the servant to precede him into the house. "now for what i must say!" he thought, as he was conducted towards the dining-room. the servant had been ordered to let the count know the moment that captain dieppe returned. how obey these orders more to the letter than by ushering the captain himself directly into the count's presence? he threw open the door, announcing-- "captain dieppe!" and then withdrawing with dexterous quickness. captain dieppe had expected nothing good. the reality was worse than his imagining the count sat on a sofa, and by him, with her arms round his neck, was the lady whom dieppe had escorted across the ford on the road from sasellano. the captain stood still just within the doorway, frowning heavily. sadly he remembered the countess's letter. alas, it was plain enough that she had not come in time! just at this moment the servant, having seen nothing of countess lucia on the road, decided, as a last resort, to search the garden for her ladyship. chapter xi the luck of the captain it is easy to say that the captain should not have been so shocked, and that it would have been becoming in him to remember his own transgression committed in the little hut in the hollow of the hill. but human nature is not, as a rule at least, so constituted that the immediate or chief effect of the sight of another's wrong-doing is to recall our own. the scene before him outraged all the captain's ideas of how his neighbours ought to conduct themselves, and (perhaps a more serious thing) swept away all memory of the caution contained in the countess's letter. the count rose with a smile, still holding the countess by the hand. "my dear friend," he cried, "we 're delighted to see you. but what? you 've been in the wars!" dieppe made no answer. his stare attracted his host's attention. "ah," he pursued, with a laugh, "you wonder to see us like this? we are treating you too much _en famille_! but indeed you ought to be glad to see it. we owe it almost all to you. no, she would n't be here but for you, my friend. would you, dear?" "no, i--i don't suppose i should." did they refer to dieppe's assisting her across the ford? if he had but known-- "come," urged the count, "give me your hand, and let my wife and me--" "what?" cried the captain, loudly, in unmistakable surprise. the count looked from him to the countess. the countess began to laugh. her husband seemed as bewildered as dieppe. "oh, dear," laughed the countess, "i believe captain dieppe did n't know me!"' "did n't know you?" "he 's only seen me once, and then in the dark, you know. oh, what did you suspect? but you recognise me now? you will believe that i really am andrea's wife?" the captain could not catch the cue. it meant to him so complete a reversal of what he had so unhesitatingly believed, such an utter upsetting of all his notions. for if this were in truth the countess of fieramondi, why, who was the other lady? his want of quickness threatened at last to ruin the scheme which he had, although unconsciously, done so much to help; for the count was growing puzzled. "i--i--of course i know the countess of fieramondi," stammered dieppe. the countess held out her hand gracefully. there could, at least, be little harm in kissing it. dieppe walked across the room and paid his homage. as he rose from this social observance he heard a voice from the doorway saying: "are n't you glad to see me, andrea?" the captain shot round in time to see the count paying the courtesy which he had himself just paid--and paying it to a lady whom he did know very well. the next instant the count turned to him, saying: "captain, let me present you to my wife's cousin, the countess lucia bonavia d'orano. she has arrived to-night from rome. how did you leave the bishop of mesopotamia, lucia?" but the countess interposed very quickly. "now, andrea, you promised me not to bother lucia about her journey, and especially not about the bishop. you don't want to talk about it, do you, lucia?" "not at all," said lucia, and the count laughed rather mockingly. "and you need n't introduce me to captain dieppe, either," she went on. "we 've met before." "met before?" the count turned to dieppe. "why, where was that?" "at the ford over the river." it was lucia now who interposed. "he helped me across. oh, i 'll tell you all about it." she began her narrative, which she related with particular fulness. for a while dieppe watched her. then he happened to glance towards the countess. he found that lady's eyes set on him with an intentness full of meaning. the count's attention was engrossed by lucia. emilia gave a slight but emphatic nod. a slow smile dawned on captain dieppe's face. "indeed," ended lucia, "i 'm not at all sure that i don't owe my life to captain dieppe." and she bestowed on the captain a very kindly glance. the count turned to speak to his wife. lucia nodded sharply at the captain. "you were--er--returning from rome?" he asked. "from visiting the bishop of mesopotamia," called the countess. "yes," said lucia. "i should never have got across but for you." "but tell me about yourself, dieppe," said the count. "you 're really in a sad state, my dear fellow." the captain felt that the telling of his story was ticklish work. the count sat down on the sofa; the two ladies stood behind it, their eyes were fixed on the captain in warning glances. "well, i got a message from a fellow to-night to meet him on the hill outside the village--by the cross there, you know. i fancied i knew what he wanted, so i went." "that was after you parted from me, i suppose?" asked emilia. "yes," said the captain, boldly. "it was as i supposed. he was after my papers. there was another fellow with him. i--i don't know who--" "well, i daresay he did n't mention his name," suggested lucia. "no, no, he did n't," agreed the captain, hastily. "i knew only guillaume--and that name 's an alias of a certain m. sévier, a police spy, who had his reasons for being interested in me. well, my dear friend, guillaume tried to bribe me. then with the aid of--" just in time the captain checked himself--"of the other rascal he--er--attacked me--" "all this was before you met me, i suppose?" inquired lucia. "certainly, certainly," assented the captain. "i had been pursuing the second fellow. i chased him across the river--" "you caught him!" cried the count. "no. he escaped me and made off in the direction of sasellano." "and the first one--this guillaume?" "when i got back he was gone," said the captain. "but i bear marks of a scratch which he gave me, you perceive." he looked at the count. the count appeared excellently well satisfied with the story. he looked at the ladies; they were smiling and nodding approval. "deuce take it," thought the captain, "i seem to have hit on the right lies by chance!" "all ends most happily," cried the count. "happily for you, my dear friend, and most happily for me. and here is lucia with us again too! in truth it 's a most auspicious evening. i propose that we allow lucia time to change her travelling-dress, and dieppe a few moments to wash off the stains of battle, and then we 'll celebrate the joyous occasion with a little supper." the count's proposal met with no opposition--least of all from dieppe, who suddenly remembered that he was famished. the next morning, the garden of the castle presented a pleasing sight. workmen were busily engaged in pulling down the barricade, while the count and countess sat on a seat hard by. sometimes they watched the operations, sometimes the count read in a confidential and tender voice from a little sheaf of papers which he held in his hand. when he ceased reading, the countess would murmur, "beautiful!" and the count shake his head in a poet's affectation of dissatisfaction with his verse. then they would fall to watching the work of demolition again. at last the count remarked: "but where are lucia and our friend dieppe?" "walking together down there by the stream," answered the countess. and, after a pause, she turned to him, and, in a very demure fashion, hazarded a suggestion. "do you know, andrea, i think lucia and captain dieppe are inclined to take to one another very much?" "it 's an uncommonly sudden attachment," laughed the count. "yes," agreed his wife, biting her lip. "it 's certainly sudden. but consider in what an interesting way their acquaintance began! do you know anything about him?" "i know he 's a gentleman, and a clever fellow," returned the count. "and from time to time he makes some money, i believe." "lucia's got some money," mused the countess. down by the stream they walked, side by side, showing indeed (as the countess remarked) every sign of taking to one another very much. "you really think we shall hear no more of paul de roustache?" asked lucia. "i 'm sure of it; and i think m. guillaume will let me alone too. indeed there remains only one question." "what's that?" asked lucia. "how you are going to treat me," said the captain. "think what i have suffered already!" "i could n't help that," she cried. "my word was absolutely pledged to emilia. 'whatever happens,' i said to her, 'i promise i won't tell anybody that i 'm not the countess.' if i had n't promised that, she could n't have gone to rome at all, you know. she 'd have died sooner than let andrea think she had left the castle." "you remember what you said to her. do you remember what you said to me?" "when?" "when we talked in the hut in the hollow of the hill. you said you would be all that you could be to me." "did i say as much as that? and when i was countess of fieramondi! oh!" "yes, and you let me do something--even when you were countess of fieramondi, too!" "that was not playing the part well." the captain looked just a little doubtful, and lucia laughed. "anyhow," said he, "you 're not countess of fieramondi now." she looked up at him. "you 're a very devout young lady," he continued, "who goes all the way to rome to consult the bishop of mesopotamia. now, that"--the captain took both her hands in his--"is exactly the sort of wife for me." "monsieur le capitaine, i have always thought you a courageous man, and now i am sure of it. you have seen--and aided--all my deceit; and now you want to marry me!" "a man can't know his wife too well," observed the captain. "come, let me go and communicate my wishes to count andrea." "what? why, you only met me for the first time last night!" "oh, but i can explain--" "that you had previously fallen in love with the countess of fieramondi? for your own sake and ours too--" "that's very true," admitted the captain. "i must wait a little, i suppose." "you must wait to tell andrea that you love me, but--" "precisely!" cried the captain. "there is no reason in the world why i should wait to tell you." and then and there he told her again in happiness the story which had seemed so tragic when it was wrung from him in the shepherd's hut. "undoubtedly, i am a very fortunate fellow," he cried, with his arm round lucia's waist. "i come to this village by chance. by chance i am welcomed here instead of having to go to the inn. by chance i am the means of rescuing a charming lady from a sad embarrassment. i am enabled to send a rascal to the right-about. i succeed in preserving my papers. i inflict a most complete and ludicrous defeat on that crafty old fellow, guillaume sévier! and, by heaven! when i do what seems the unluckiest thing of all, when, against my will, i fall in love with my dear friend's wife, when my honour is opposed to my happiness, when i am reduced to the saddest plight--why, i say, by heaven, she turns out not to be his wife at all! lucia, am i not born under a lucky star?" "i think i should be very foolish not to--to do my best to share your luck," said she. "i am the happiest fellow in the world," he declared. "and that," he added, as though it were a rare and precious coincidence, "with my conscience quite at peace." perhaps it is rare, and perhaps the captain's conscience had no right to be quite at peace. for certainly he had not told all the truth to his dear friend, the count of fieramondi. yet since no more was heard of paul de roustache, and the countess's journey remained an unbroken secret, these questions of casuistry need not be raised. after all, is it for a man to ruin the tranquillity of a home for the selfish pleasure of a conscience quite at peace? but as to the consciences of those two very ingenious young ladies, the countess of fieramondi, and her cousin, countess lucia, the problem is more difficult. the countess never confessed, and lucia never betrayed, the secret. yet they were both devout! indeed, the problem seems insoluble. stay, though! perhaps the counsel and aid of the bishop of mesopotamia (_in partibus_) were invoked again. his lordship's position, that you must commit your sin before you can be absolved from the guilt of it, not only appears most logical in itself, but was, in the circumstances of the case, not discouraging. none ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (# ) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ ******************************************************************* ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (# ) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ ******************************************************************* ******************************************************************* this ebook was one of project gutenberg's early files produced at a time when proofing methods and tools were not well developed. there is an improved edition of this title which may be viewed as ebook (# ) at https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/ ******************************************************************* none transcribed from the text of the first edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk incognita: or, love and duty reconcil'd a novel by william congreve to the honoured and worthily esteem'd mrs. _katharine leveson_. _madam_, a clear wit, sound judgment and a merciful disposition, are things so rarely united, that it is almost inexcusable to entertain them with any thing less excellent in its kind. my knowledge of you were a sufficient caution to me, to avoid your censure of this trifle, had i not as intire a knowledge of your goodness. since i have drawn my pen for a rencounter, i think it better to engage where, though there be skill enough to disarm me, there is too much generosity to wound; for so shall i have the saving reputation of an unsuccessful courage, if i cannot make it a drawn battle. but methinks the comparison intimates something of a defiance, and savours of arrogance; wherefore since i am conscious to my self of a fear which i cannot put off, let me use the policy of cowards and lay this novel unarm'd, naked and shivering at your feet, so that if it should want merit to challenge protection, yet, as an object of charity, it may move compassion. it has been some diversion to me to write it, i wish it may prove such to you when you have an hour to throw away in reading of it: but this satisfaction i have at least beforehand, that in its greatest failings it may fly for pardon to that indulgence which you owe to the weakness of your friend; a title which i am proud you have thought me worthy of, and which i think can alone be superior to that _your most humble and_ _obliged servant_ cleophil. the preface to the reader. reader, some authors are so fond of a preface, that they will write one tho' there be nothing more in it than an apology for its self. but to show thee that i am not one of those, i will make no apology for this, but do tell thee that i think it necessary to be prefix'd to this trifle, to prevent thy overlooking some little pains which i have taken in the composition of the following story. romances are generally composed of the constant loves and invincible courages of hero's, heroins, kings and queens, mortals of the first rank, and so forth; where lofty language, miraculous contingencies and impossible performances, elevate and surprize the reader into a giddy delight, which leaves him flat upon the ground whenever he gives of, and vexes him to think how he has suffer'd himself to be pleased and transported, concern'd and afflicted at the several passages which he has read, viz. these knights success to their damosels misfortunes, and such like, when he is forced to be very well convinced that 'tis all a lye. novels are of a more familiar nature; come near us, and represent to us intrigues in practice, delight us with accidents and odd events, but not such as are wholly unusual or unpresidented, such which not being so distant from our belief bring also the pleasure nearer us. romances give more of wonder, novels more delight. and with reverence be it spoken, and the parallel kept at due distance, there is something of equality in the proportion which they bear in reference to one another, with that betwen comedy and tragedy; but the drama is the long extracted from romance and history: 'tis the midwife to industry, and brings forth alive the conceptions of the brain. minerva walks upon the stage before us, and we are more assured of the real presence of wit when it is delivered viva voce-- segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, quam quae sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, & quae ipse sibi tradit spectator.--horace. since all traditions must indisputably give place to the drama, and since there is no possibility of giving that life to the writing or repetition of a story which it has in the action, i resolved in another beauty to imitate dramatick writing, namely, in the design, contexture and result of the plot. i have not observed it before in a novel. some i have seen begin with an unexpected accident, which has been the only surprizing part of the story, cause enough to make the sequel look flat, tedious and insipid; for 'tis but reasonable the reader should expect it not to rise, at least to keep upon a level in the entertainment; for so he may be kept on in hopes that at some time or other it may mend; but the 'tother is such a balk to a man, 'tis carrying him up stairs to show him the dining- room, and after forcing him to make a meal in the kitchin. this i have not only endeavoured to avoid, but also have used a method for the contrary purpose. the design of the novel is obvious, after the first meeting of aurelian and hippolito with incognita and leonora, and the difficulty is in bringing it to pass, maugre all apparent obstacles, within the compass of two days. how many probable casualties intervene in opposition to the main design, viz. of marrying two couple so oddly engaged in an intricate amour, i leave the reader at his leisure to consider: as also whether every obstacle does not in the progress of the story act as subservient to that purpose, which at first it seems to oppose. in a comedy this would be called the unity of action; here it may pretend to no more than an unity of contrivance. the scene is continued in florence from the commencement of the amour; and the time from first to last is but three days. if there be any thing more in particular resembling the copy which i imitate (as the curious reader will soon perceive) i leave it to show it self, being very well satisfy'd how much more proper it had been for him to have found out this himself, than for me to prepossess him with an opinion of something extraordinary in an essay began and finished in the idler hours of a fortnight's time: for i can only esteem it a laborious idleness, which is parent to so inconsiderable a birth. i have gratified the bookseller in pretending an occasion for a preface; the other two persons concern'd are the reader and my self, and if he be but pleased with what was produced for that end, my satisfaction follows of course, since it will be proportion'd to his approbation or dislike. incognita: or, love & duty reconcil'd aurelian was the only son to a principal gentleman of florence. the indulgence of his father prompted, and his wealth enabled him, to bestow a generous education upon him, whom, he now began to look upon as the type of himself; an impression he had made in the gayety and vigour of his youth, before the rust of age had debilitated and obscur'd the splendour of the original: he was sensible, that he ought not to be sparing in the adornment of him, if he had resolution to beautifie his own memory. indeed don fabio (for so was the old gentleman call'd) has been observ'd to have fix'd his eyes upon aurelian, when much company has been at table, and have wept through earnestness of intention, if nothing hapned to divert the object; whether it were for regret, at the recollection of his former self, or for the joy he conceiv'd in being, as it were, reviv'd in the person of his son, i never took upon me to enquire, but suppos'd it might be sometimes one, and sometimes both together. aurelian, at the age of eighteen years, wanted nothing (but a beard) that the most accomplished cavalier in florence could pretend to: he had been educated from twelve years old at siena, where it seems his father kept a receiver, having a large income from the rents of several houses in that town. don fabio gave his servant orders, that aurelian should not be stinted in his expences, when he came up to years of discretion. by which means he was enabled, not only to keep company with, but also to confer many obligations upon strangers of quality, and gentlemen who travelled from other countries into italy, of which siena never wanted store, being a town most delightfully situate, upon a noble hill, and very well suiting with strangers at first, by reason of the agreeableness and purity of the air: there also is the quaintness and delicacy of the italian tongue most likely to be learned, there being many publick professors of it in that place; and indeed the very vulgar of siena do express themselves with an easiness and sweetness surprizing, and even grateful to their ears who understand not the language. here aurelian contracted an acquaintance with persons of worth of several countries, but among the rest an intimacy with a gentleman of quality of spain, and nephew to the archbishop of toledo, who had so wrought himself into the affections of aurelian, through a conformity of temper, an equality in years, and something of resemblance in feature and proportion, that he look'd upon him as his second self. hippolito, on the other hand, was not ungrateful in return of friendship, but thought himself either alone or in ill company, if aurelian were absent: but his uncle having sent him to travel, under the conduct of a governour, and the two years which limited his stay at siena being expired, he was put in mind of his departure. his friend grew melancholy at the news, but considering that hippolito had never seen florence, he easily prevailed with him to make his first journey thither, whither he would accompany him, and perhaps prevail with his father to do the like throughout his travels. they accordingly set out, but not being able easily to reach florence the same night, they rested a league or two short, at a villa of the great duke's called poggio imperiale, where they were informed by some of his highness's servants, that the nuptials of donna catharina (near kinswoman to the great duke) and don ferdinand de rovori, were to be solemnized the next day, and that extraordinary preparations had been making for some time past, to illustrate the solemnity with balls and masques, and other divertisements; that a tilting had been proclaimed, and to that purpose scaffolds erected around the spacious court, before the church di santa croce, where were usually seen all cavalcades and shews, performed by assemblies of the young nobility: that all mechanicks and tradesmen were forbidden to work or expose any goods to sale for the space of three days; during which time all persons should be entertain'd at the great duke's cost; and publick provision was to be made for the setting forth and furnishing a multitude of tables, with entertainment for all comers and goers, and several houses appointed for that use in all streets. this account alarm'd the spirits of our young travellers, and they were overjoy'd at the prospect of pleasures they foresaw. aurelian could not contain the satisfaction he conceiv'd in the welcome fortune had prepar'd for his dear hippolito. in short, they both remembred so much of the pleasing relation had been made them, that they forgot to sleep, and were up as soon as it was light, pounding at poor signior claudio's door (so was hippolito's governour call'd) to rouse him, that no time might be lost till they were arriv'd at florence, where they would furnish themselves with disguises and other accoutrements necessary for the prosecution of their design of sharing in the publick merriment; the rather were they for going so early because aurelian did not think fit to publish his being in town for a time, least his father knowing of it, might give some restraint to that loose they designed themselves. before sun rise they entred florence at porta romana, attended only by two servants, the rest being left behind to avoid notice; but, alas! they needed not to have used half that caution; for early as it was, the streets were crowded with all sorts of people passing to and fro, and every man employ'd in something relating to the diversions to come; so that no notice was taken of any body; a marquess and his train might have pass'd by as unregarded as a single fachin or cobler. not a window in the streets but echoed the tuning of a lute or thrumming of a gitarr: for, by the way, the inhabitants of florence are strangely addicted to the love of musick, insomuch that scarce their children can go, before they can scratch some instrument or other. it was no unpleasing spectacle to our cavaliers (who, seeing they were not observ'd, resolved to make observations) to behold the diversity of figures and postures of many of these musicians. here you should have an affected vallet, who mimick'd the behaviour of his master, leaning carelessly against the window, with his head on one side, in a languishing posture, whining, in a low, mournful voice, some dismal complaint; while, from his sympathizing theorbo, issued a base no less doleful to the hearers. in opposition to him was set up perhaps a cobler, with the wretched skeleton of a gitarr, battered and waxed together by his own industry, and who with three strings out of tune, and his own tearing hoarse voice, would rack attention from the neighbourhood, to the great affliction of many more moderate practitioners, who, no doubt, were full as desirous to be heard. by this time aurelian's servant had taken a lodging and was returned, to give his master an account of it. the cavaliers grown weary of that ridiculous entertainment, which was diverting at first sight, retired whither the lacquey conducted them; who, according to their directions, had sought out one of the most obscure streets in the city. all that day, to the evening, was spent in sending from one brokers shop to another, to furnish them with habits, since they had not time to make any new. there was, it happened, but one to be got rich enough to please our young gentlemen, so many were taken up upon this occasion. while they were in dispute and complementing one another, (aurelian protesting that hippolito should wear it, and he, on 'tother hand, forswearing it as bitterly) a servant of hippolito's came up and ended the controversie; telling them, that he had met below with the vallet de chambre of a gentleman, who was one of the greatest gallants about the town, but was at this time in such a condition he could not possibly be at the entertainment; whereupon the vallet had designed to dress himself up in his master's apparel, and try his talent at court; which he hearing, told him he would inform him how he might bestow the habit for some time much more to his profit if not to his pleasure, so acquainted him with the occasion his master had for it. hippolito sent for the fellow up, who was not so fond of his design as not to be bought off it, but upon having his own demand granted for the use of it, brought it; it was very rich, and upon tryal, as fit for hippolito as if it had been made for him. the ceremony was performed in the morning, in the great dome, with all magnificence correspondent to the wealth of the great duke, and the esteem he had for the noble pair. the next morning was to be a tilting, and the same night a masquing ball at court. to omit the description of the universal joy, (that had diffus'd it self through all the conduits of wine, which convey'd it in large measures to the people) and only relate those effects of it which concern our present adventurers. you must know, that about the fall of the evening, and at that time when the _aequilibrium_ of day and night, for some time, holds the air in a gloomy suspence between an unwillingness to leave the light, and a natural impulse into the dominion of darkness, about this time our hero's, shall i say, sally'd or slunk out of their lodgings, and steer'd toward the great palace, whither, before they were arrived, such a prodigious number of torches were on fire, that the day, by help of these auxiliary forces, seem'd to continue its dominion; the owls and bats apprehending their mistake, in counting the hours, retir'd again to a convenient darkness; for madam night was no more to be seen than she was to be heard; and the chymists were of opinion, that her fuliginous damps, rarefy'd by the abundance of flame, were evaporated. now the reader i suppose to be upon thorns at this and the like impertinent digressions, but let him alone and he'll come to himself; at which time i think fit to acquaint him, that when i digress, i am at that time writing to please my self, when i continue the thread of the story, i write to please him; supposing him a reasonable man, i conclude him satisfied to allow me this liberty, and so i proceed. if our cavaliers were dazled at the splendour they beheld without doors, what surprize, think you, must they be in, when entering the palace they found even the lights there to be but so many foils to the bright eyes that flash'd upon 'em at every turn. a more glorious troop no occasion ever assembled; all the fair of florence, with the most accomplished cavaliers, were present; and however nature had been partial in bestowing on some better faces than others, art was alike indulgent to all, and industriously supplyed those defects she had left, giving some addition also to her greatest excellencies. every body appear'd well shap'd, as it is to be suppos'd, none who were conscious to themselves of any visible deformity would presume to come thither. their apparel was equally glorious, though each differing in fancy. in short, our strangers were so well bred, as to conclude from these apparent perfections, that there was not a masque which did not at least hide the face of a cherubim. perhaps the ladies were not behind hand in return of a favourable opinion of them: for they were both well dress'd, and had something inexpressibly pleasing in their air and mien, different from other people, and indeed differing from one another. they fansy'd that while they stood together they were more particularly taken notice of than any in the room, and being unwilling to be taken for strangers, which they thought they were, by reason of some whispering they observed near them, they agreed upon an hour of meeting after the company should be broke up, and so separately mingled with the thickest of the assembly. aurelian had fixed his eye upon a lady whom he had observ'd to have been a considerable time in close whisper with another woman; he expected with great impatience the result of that private conference, that he might have an opportunity of engaging the lady whose person was so agreeable to him. at last he perceived they were broke off, and the 'tother lady seem'd to have taken her leave. he had taken no small pains in the mean time to put himself in a posture to accost the lady, which, no doubt, he had happily performed had he not been interrupted; but scarce had he acquitted himself of a preliminary bow (and which, i have heard him say, was the lowest that ever he made) and had just opened his lips to deliver himself of a small complement, which, nevertheless he was very big with, when he unluckily miscarried, by the interposal of the same lady, whose departure, not long before, he had so zealously pray'd for: but, as providence would have it, there was only some very small matter forgot, which was recovered in a short whisper. the coast being again cleared, he took heart and bore up, and, striking sail, repeated his ceremony to the lady; who, having obligingly returned it, he accosted her in these or the like words: 'if i do not usurp a priviledge reserved for some one more happy in your acquaintance, may i presume, madam, to entreat (for a while) the favour of your conversation, at least till the arrival of whom you expect, provided you are not tired of me before; for then upon the least intimation of uneasiness, i will not fail of doing my self the violence to withdraw for your release. the lady made him answer, she did not expect any body; by which he might imagine her conversation not of value to be bespoke, and to afford it him, were but farther to convince him to her own cost. he reply'd, 'she had already said enough to convince him of something he heartily wished might not be to his cost in the end. she pretended not to understand him; but told him, 'if he already found himself grieved with her conversation, he would have sufficient reason to repent the rashness of his first demand before they had ended: for that now she intended to hold discourse with him, on purpose to punish his unadvisedness, in presuming upon a person whose dress and mien might not (may be) be disagreeable to have wit. 'i must confess (reply'd aurelian) my self guilty of a presumption, and willingly submit to the punishment you intend: and though it be an aggravation of a crime to persevere in its justification, yet i cannot help defending an opinion in which now i am more confirm'd, that probable conjectures may be made of the ingenious disposition of the mind, from the fancy and choice of apparel. the humour i grant ye (said the lady) or constitution of the person whether melancholick or brisk; but i should hardly pass my censure upon so slight an indication of wit: for there is your brisk fool as well as your brisk man of sense, and so of the melancholick. i confess 'tis possible a fool may reveal himself by his dress, in wearing something extravagantly singular and ridiculous, or in preposterous suiting of colours; but a decency of habit (which is all that men of best sense pretend to) may be acquired by custom and example, without putting the person to a superfluous expence of wit for the contrivance; and though there should be occasion for it, few are so unfortunate in their relations and acquaintance not to have some friend capable of giving them advice, if they are not too ignorantly conceited to ask it. aurelian was so pleased with the easiness and smartness of her expostulation, that he forgot to make a reply, when she seem'd to expect it; but being a woman of a quick apprehension, and justly sensible of her own perfections, she soon perceived he did not grudge his attention. however she had a mind to put it upon him to turn the discourse, so went on upon the same subject. 'signior (said she) i have been looking round me, and by your maxim i cannot discover one fool in the company; for they are all well drest. this was spoken with an air of rallery that awakened the cavalier, who immediately made answer: 'tis true, madam, we see there may be as much variety of good fancies as of faces, yet there may be many of both kinds borrowed and adulterate if inquired into; and as you were pleased to observe, the invention may be foreign to the person who puts it in practice; and as good an opinion as i have of an agreeable dress, i should be loth to answer for the wit of all about us. i believe you (says the lady) and hope you are convinced of your error, since you must allow it impossible to tell who of all this assembly did or did not make choice of their own apparel. not all (said aurelian) there is an ungainness in some which betrays them. 'look ye there (says he) pointing to a lady who stood playing with the tassels of her girdle, i dare answer for that lady, though she be very well dress'd, 'tis more than she knows. his fair unknown could not forbear laughing at his particular distinction, and freely told him, he had indeed light upon one who knew as little as any body in the room, her self excepted. ah! madam, (reply'd aurelian) you know every thing in the world but your own perfections, and you only know not those because 'tis the top of perfection not to know them. how? (reply'd the lady) i thought it had been the extremity of knowledge to know ones self. aurelian had a little over-strain'd himself in that complement, and i am of opinion would have been puzzl'd to have brought himself off readily: but by good fortune the musick came into the room and gave him an opportunity to seem to decline an answer, because the company prepared to dance: he only told her he was too mean a conquest for her wit who was already a slave to the charms of her person. she thanked him for his complement, and briskly told him she ought to have made him a return in praise of his wit, but she hoped he was a man more happy than to be dissatisfy'd with any of his own endowments; and if it were so, that he had not a just opinion of himself, she knew her self incapable of saying any thing to beget one. aurelian did not know well what to make of this last reply; for he always abhor'd any thing that was conceited, with which this seem'd to reproach him. but however modest he had been heretofore in his own thoughts, yet never was he so distrustful of his good behaviour as now, being rally'd so by a person whom he took to be of judgment: yet he resolved to take no notice, but with an air unconcerned and full of good humour entreated her to dance with him: she promised him to dance with no body else, nor i believe had she inclination; for notwithstanding her tartness, she was upon equal terms with him as to the liking of each others person and humour, and only gave those little hints to try his temper; there being certainly no greater sign of folly and ill breeding, than to grow serious and concerned at any thing spoken in rallery: for his part, he was strangely and insensibly fallen in love with her shape, wit and air; which, together with a white hand, he had seen (perhaps not accidentally) were enough to have subdued a more stubborn heart than ever he was master of; and for her face, which he had not seen, he bestowed upon her the best his imagination could furnish him with. i should by right now describe her dress, which was extreamly agreeable and rich, but 'tis possible i might err in some material pin or other, in the sticking of which may be the whole grace of the drapery depended. well, they danced several times together, and no less to the satisfaction of the whole company, than of themselves; for at the end of each dance, some publick note of applause or other was given to the graceful couple. aurelian was amaz'd, that among all that danced or stood in view he could not see hippolito; but concluding that he had met with some pleasing conversation, and was withdrawn to some retired part of the room, he forbore his search till the mirth of that night should be over, and the company ready to break up, where we will leave him for a while, to see what became of his adventurous friend. hippolito, a little after he had parted with aurelian, was got among a knot of ladies and cavaliers, who were looking upon a large gold cup set with jewels, in which his royal highness had drank to the prosperity of the new married couple at dinner, and which afterward he presented to his cousin donna catharina. he among the rest was very intent, admiring the richness, workmanship and beauty of the cup, when a lady came behind him and pulling him by the elbow, made a sign she would speak with him; hippolito, who knew himself an utter stranger to florence and every body in it, immediately guessed she had mistaken him for her acquaintance, as indeed it happened; however he resolved not to discover himself till he should be assured of it; having followed her into a set window remote from company, she address'd her self to him in this manner: 'signior don lorenzo (said she) i am overjoy'd to see you are so speedily recovered of your wounds, which by report were much more dangerous than to have suffered your coming abroad so soon; but i must accuse you of great indiscretion, in appearing in a habit which so many must needs remember you to have worn upon the like occasion not long ago, i mean at the marriage of don cynthio with your sister atalanta; i do assure you, you were known by it, both to juliana and my self, who was so far concerned for you, as to desire me to tell you, that her brother don fabritio (who saw you when you came in with another gentleman) had eyed you very narrowly, and is since gone out of the room, she knows not upon what design; however she would have you, for your own sake, be advised and circumspect when you depart this place, lest you should be set upon unawares; you know the hatred don fabritio has born you ever since you had the fortune to kill his kinsman in a duel: here she paused as if expecting his reply; but hippolito was so confounded, that he stood mute, and contemplating the hazard he had ignorantly brought himself into, forgot his design of informing the lady of her mistake. she finding he made her no answer, went on. 'i perceive (continued she) you are in some surprize at what i have related, and may be, are doubtful of the truth; but i thought you had been better acquainted with your cousin leonora's voice, than to have forgot it so soon: yet in complaisance to your ill memory, i will put you past doubt, by shewing you my face; with that she pulled off her mask, and discovered to hippolito (now more amaz'd than ever) the most angelick face that he had ever beheld. he was just about to have made her some answer, when, clapping on her mask again without giving him time, she happily for him pursu'd her discourse. (for 'tis odds but he had made some discovery of himself in the surprize he was in.) having taken him familiarly by the hand, now she had made her self known to him, 'cousin lorenzo (added she) you may perhaps have taken it unkindly, that, during the time of your indisposition by reason of your wounds, i have not been to visit you; i do assure you it was not for want of any inclination i had both to see and serve you to my power; but you are well acquainted with the severity of my father, whom you know how lately you have disobliged. i am mighty glad that i have met with you here, where i have had an opportunity to tell you what so much concerns your safety, which i am afraid you will not find in florence; considering the great power don fabritio and his father, the marquess of viterbo, have in this city. i have another thing to inform you of, that whereas don fabio had interested himself in your cause, in opposition to the marquess of viterbo, by reason of the long animosity between them, all hopes of his countenance and assistance are defeated: for there has been a proposal of reconciliation made to both houses, and it is said it will be confirm'd (as most such ancient quarrels are at last) by the marriage of juliana the marquess's daughter, with aurelian, son to don fabio: to which effect the old gentleman sent 'tother day to siena, where aurelian has been educated, to hasten his coming to town; but the messenger returning this morning, brought word, that the same day he arriv'd at siena, aurelian had set out for florence, in company with a young spanish nobleman, his intimate friend; so it is believ'd, they are both in town, and not unlikely in this room in masquerade. hippolito could not forbear smiling to himself, at these last words. for ever since the naming of don fabio he had been very attentive; but before, his thoughts were wholly taken up with the beauty of the face he had seen, and from the time she had taken him by the hand, a successive warmth and chillness had play'd about his heart, and surpriz'd him with an unusual transport. he was in a hundred minds, whether he should make her sensible of her error or no; but considering he could expect no farther conference with her after he should discover himself, and that as yet he knew not of her place of abode, he resolv'd to humour the mistake a little further. having her still by the hand, which he squeez'd somewhat more eagerly than is usual for cousins to do, in a low and undistinguishable voice, he let her know how much he held himself obliged to her, and avoiding as many words as handsomely he could, at the same time, entreated her to give him her advice, toward the management of himself in this affair. leonora, who never from the beginning had entertain'd the least scruple of distrust, imagined he spoke faintly, as not being yet perfectly recovered in his strength; and withal considering that the heat of the room, by reason of the crowd, might be uneasie to a person in his condition; she kindly told him, that if he were as inclinable to dispense with the remainder of that nights diversion as she was, and had no other engagement upon him, by her consent they should both steal out of the assembly, and go to her house, where they might with more freedom discourse about a business of that importance, and where he might take something to refresh himself if he were (as she conceiv'd him to be) indisposed with his long standing. judge you whether the proposal were acceptable to hippolito or no; he had been ruminating with himself how to bring something like this about, and had almost despair'd of it; when of a suddain he found the success of his design had prevented his own endeavours. he told his cousin in the same key as before, that he was unwilling to be the occasion of her divorce from so much good company; but for his own part, he was afraid he had presumed too much upon his recovery in coming abroad so soon, and that he found himself so unwell, he feared he should be quickly forc'd to retire. leonora stay'd not to make him any other reply, only tipp'd him upon the arm, and bid him follow her at a convenient distance to avoid observation. whoever had seen the joy that was in hippolito's countenance, and the sprightliness with which he follow'd his beautiful conductress, would scarce have taken him for a person griev'd with uncured wounds. she led him down a back pair of stairs, into one of the palace gardens which had a door opening into the piazza, not far from where don mario her father lived. they had little discourse by the way, which gave hippolito time to consider of the best way of discovering himself. a thousand things came into his head in a minute, yet nothing that pleased him: and after so many contrivances as he had formed for the discovery of himself, he found it more rational for him not to reveal himself at all that night, since he could not foresee what effect the surprize would have, she must needs be in, at the appearance of a stranger, whom she had never seen before, yet whom she had treated so familiarly. he knew women were apt to shriek or swoon upon such occasions, and should she happen to do either, he might be at a loss how to bring himself off. he thought he might easily pretend to be indisposed somewhat more than ordinary, and so make an excuse to go to his own lodging. it came into his head too, that under pretence of giving her an account of his health, he might enquire of her the means how a letter might be convey'd to her the next morning, wherein he might inform her gently of her mistake, and insinuate something of that passion he had conceiv'd, which he was sure he could not have opportunity to speak of if he bluntly revealed himself. he had just resolv'd upon this method, as they were come to the great gates of the court, when leonora stopping to let him go in before her, he of a suddain fetch'd his breath violently as if some stitch or twinging smart had just then assaulted him. she enquired the matter of him, and advised him to make haste into the house that he might sit down and rest him. he told her he found himself so ill, that he judged it more convenient for him to go home while he was in a condition to move, for he fear'd if he should once settle himself to rest he might not be able to stir. she was much troubled, and would have had a chair made ready and servants to carry him home; but he made answer, he would not have any of her fathers servants know of his being abroad, and that just now he had an interval of ease, which he hop'd would continue till he made a shift to reach his own lodgings. yet if she pleased to inform him how he might give an account of himself the next morning, in a line or two, he would not fail to give her the thanks due to her great kindness; and withal, would let her know something which would not a little surprize her, though now he had not time to acquaint her with it. she show'd him a little window at the corner of the house, where one should wait to receive his letter, and was just taking her leave of him, when seeing him search hastily in his pocket, she ask'd him if he miss'd any thing; he told her he thought a wound which was not throughly heal'd bled a little, and that he had lost his handkerchief. his design took; for she immediately gave him hers: which indeed accordingly he apply'd to the only wound he was then griev'd with; which though it went quite through his heart, yet thank god was not mortal. he was not a little rejoyc'd at his good fortune in getting so early a favour from his mistress, and notwithstanding the violence he did himself to personate a sick man, he could not forbear giving some symptoms of an extraordinary content; and telling her that he did not doubt to receive a considerable proportion of ease from the application of what had so often kiss'd her fair hand. leonora who did not suspect the compliment, told him she should be heartily glad if that or any thing in her power might contribute to his recovery; and wishing him well home, went into her house, as much troubled for her cousin as he was joyful for his mistress. hippolito as soon as she was gone in, began to make his remarks about the house, walking round the great court, viewing the gardens and all the passages leading to that side of the piazza. having sufficiently informed himself, with a heart full of love, and a head full of stratagem, he walked toward his lodging, impatient till the arrival of aurelian that he might give himself vent. in which interim, let me take the liberty to digress a little, and tell the reader something which i do not doubt he has apprehended himself long ago, if he be not the dullest reader in the world; yet only for orders sake, let me tell him i say, that a young gentleman (cousin to the aforesaid don fabritio) happened one night to have some words at a gameing house with one lorenzo, which created a quarrel of fatal consequence to the former, who was killed upon the spot, and likely to be so to the latter, who was very desperately wounded. fabritio being much concerned for his kinsman, vow'd revenge (according to the ancient and laudable custom of italy) upon lorenzo if he surviv'd, or in case of his death (if it should happen to anticipate that, much more swinging death which he had in store for him) upon his next of kin, and so to descend lineally like an english estate, to all the heirs males of this family. this same fabritio had indeed (as leonora told hippolito) taken particular notice of him from his first entrance into the room, and was so far doubtful as to go out immediately himself, and make enquiry concerning lorenzo, but was quickly inform'd of the greatness of his error, in believing a man to be abroad, who was so ill of his wounds, that they now despair'd of his recovery; and thereupon return'd to the ball very well satisfied, but not before leonora and hippolito were departed. so, reader, having now discharg'd my conscience of a small discovery which i thought my self obliged to make to thee, i proceed to tell thee, that our friend aurelian had by this time danced himself into a net which he neither could, nor which is worse desired to untangle. his soul was charm'd to the movement of her body: an air so graceful, so sweet, so easie and so great, he had never seen. she had something of majesty in her, which appear'd to be born with her; and though it struck an awe into the beholders, yet was it sweetned with a familiarity of behaviour, which rendred it agreeable to every body. the grandeur of her mien was not stiff, but unstudied and unforced, mixed with a simplicity; free, yet not loose nor affected. if the former seem'd to condescend, the latter seem'd to aspire; and both to unite in the centre of perfection. every turn she gave in dancing snatcht aurelian into a rapture, and he had like to have been out two or three times with following his eyes, which she led about as slaves to her heels. as soon as they had done dancing, he began to complain of his want of breath and lungs, to speak sufficiently in her commendation; she smilingly told him, he did ill to dance so much then: yet in consideration of the pains he had taken more than ordinary upon her account she would bate him a great deal of complement, but with this proviso, that he was to discover to her who he was. aurelian was unwilling for the present to own himself to be really the man he was; when a suddain thought came into his head to take upon him the name and character of hippolito, who he was sure was not known in florence. he thereupon, after a little pause, pretended to recal himself in this manner: 'madam, it is no small demonstration of the entire resignation which i have made of my heart to your chains, since the secrets of it are no longer in my power. i confess i only took florence in my way, not designing any longer residence, than should be requisite to inform the curiosity of a traveller, of the rareties of the place. whether happiness or misery will be the consequence of that curiosity, i am yet in fear, and submit to your determination; but sure i am, not to depart florence till you have made me the most miserable man in it, and refuse me the fatal kindness of dying at your feet. i am by birth a spaniard, of the city of toledo; my name hippolito di saviolina: i was yesterday a man free, as nature made the first; to day i am fallen into a captivity, which must continue with my life, and which, it is in your power, to make much dearer to me. thus in obedience to your commands, and contrary to my resolution of remaining unknown in this place, i have inform'd you, madam, what i am; what i shall be, i desire to know from you; at least, i hope, the free discovery i have made of my self, will encourage you to trust me with the knowledge of your person. here a low bow, and a deep sigh, put an end to his discourse, and signified his expectation of her reply, which was to this purpose--(but i had forgot to tell you, that aurelian kept off his mask from the time that he told her he was of spain, till the period of his relation.) had i thought (said she) that my curiosity would have brought me in debt, i should certainly have forborn it; or at least have agreed with you before hand about the rate of your discovery, then i had not brought my self to the inconveniency of being censur'd, either of too much easiness or reservedness; but to avoid, as much as i can, the extreamity of either, i am resolv'd but to discover my self in part, and will endeavour to give you as little occasion as i can, either to boast of, or ridicule the behaviour of the women of florence in your travels. aurelian interrupted her, and swore very solemnly (and the more heartily, i believe, because he then indeed spoke truth) that he would make florence the place of his abode, whatever concerns he had elsewhere. she advised him to be cautious how he swore to his expressions of gallantry; and farther told him she now hoped she should make him a return to all the fine things he had said, since she gave him his choice whether he would know who she was, or see her face. aurelian who was really in love, and in whom consideration would have been a crime, greedily embrac'd the latter, since she assured him at that time he should not know both. well, what follow'd? why, she pull'd off her mask, and appear'd to him at once in the glory of beauty. but who can tell the astonishment aurelian felt? he was for a time senseless; admiration had suppress'd his speech, and his eyes were entangled in light. i short, to be made sensible of his condition, we must conceive some idea of what he beheld, which is not to imagined till seen, nor then to be express'd. now see the impertinence and conceitedness of an author, who will have a fling at a description, which he has prefaced with an impossibility. one might have seen something in her composition resembling the formation of epicurus his world, as if every atome of beauty had concurr'd to unite an excellency. had that curious painter lived in her days, he might have avoided his painful search, when he collected from the choicest pieces the most choice features, and by a due disposition and judicious symmetry of those exquisite parts, made one whole and perfect venus. nature seem'd here to have play'd the plagiary, and to have molded into substance the most refined thoughts of inspired poets. her eyes diffus'd rays comfortable as warmth, and piercing as the light; they would have worked a passage through the straightest pores, and with a delicious heat, have play'd about the most obdurate frozen heart, untill 'twere melted down to love. such majesty and affability were in her looks; so alluring, yet commanding was her presence, that it minged awe with love; kindling a flame which trembled to aspire. she had danced much, which, together with her being close masked, gave her a tincture of carnation more than ordinary. but aurelian (from whom i had every tittle of her description) fancy'd he saw a little nest of cupids break from the tresses of her hair, and every one officiously betake himself to his task. some fann'd with their downy wings, her glowing cheeks; while others brush'd the balmy dew from off her face, leaving alone a heavenly moisture blubbing on her lips, on which they drank and revell'd for their pains; nay, so particular were their allotments in her service, that aurelian was very positive a young cupid who was but just pen-feather'd, employ'd his naked quills to pick her teeth. and a thousand other things his transport represented to him, which none but lovers who have experience of such visions will believe. as soon as he awaked and found his speech come to him, he employ'd it to this effect: ''tis enough that i have seen a divinity--nothing but mercy can inhabit these perfections--their utmost rigour brings a death preferable to any life, but what they give--use me, madam, as you please; for by your fair self, i cannot think a bliss beyond what now i feel--you wound with pleasure, and if you kill it must be with transport--ah! yet methinks to live--o heaven! to have life pronounced by those bless'd lips--did they not inspire where they command, it were an immediate death of joy. aurelian was growing a little too loud with his admiration, had she not just then interrupted him, by clapping on her masque, and telling him they should be observed, if he proceeded in his extravagance; and withal, that his passion was too suddain to be real, and too violent to be lasting. he replied, indeed it might not be very lasting, (with a submissive mournful voice) but it would continue during his life. that it was suddain, he denied, for she had raised it by degrees from his first sight of her, by a continued discovery of charms, in her mien and conversation, till she thought fit to set fire to the train she had laid, by the lightning of her face; and then he could not help it, if he were blown up. he begg'd her to believe the sincerity of his passion, at least to enjoin him something, which might tend to the convincing of her incredulity. she said, she should find a time to make some trials of him; but for the first, she charged him not to follow or observe her, after the dissolution of the assembly. he promised to obey, and entreated her to tell him but her name, that he might have recourse to that in his affliction for her absence, if he were able to survive it. she desired him to live by all means; and if he must have a name to play with, to call her incognita, till he were better informed. the company breaking up, she took her leave, and at his earnest entreaty, gave him a short vision of her face which, then dress'd in an obliging smile, caused another fit of transport, which lasted till she was gone out of sight. aurelian gathered up his spirits, and walked slowly towards his lodging, never remembring that he had lost hippolito, till upon turning the corner of a street, he heard a noise of fighting; and coming near, saw a man make a vigorous defence against two, who pressed violently upon him. he then thought of hippolito, and fancying he saw the glimmering of diamond buttons, such as hippolito had upon the sleeves of his habit, immediately drew to his assistance; and with that eagerness and resolution, that the assailants, finding their unmanly odds defeated, took to their heels. the person rescued by the generous help of aurelian, came toward him; but as he would have stoop'd to have saluted him, dropp'd, fainting at his feet. aurelian, now he was so near him, perceiv'd plainly hippolito's habit, and step'd hastily to take him up. just as some of the guards (who were going the rounds, apprehensive of such disorders in an universal merriment) came up to him with lights, and had taken prisoners the two men, whom they met with their sword's drawn; when looking in the face of the wounded man, he found it was not hippolito, but his governour claudio, in the habit he had worn at the ball. he was extreamly surpriz'd, as were the prisoners, who confess'd their design to have been upon lorenzo; grounding their mistake upon the habit which was known to have been his. they were two men who formerly had been servants to him, whom lorenzo had unfortunately slain. they made a shift to bring claudio to himself; and part of the guard carrying off the prisoners, whom aurelian desired they would secure, the rest accompanied him bearing claudio in their arms to his lodging. he had not patience to forbear asking for hippolito by the way; whom claudio assured him, he had left safe in his chamber, above two hours since. that his coming home so long before the divertisements were ended, and undressing himself, had given him the unhappy curiosity, to put on his habit, and go to the pallace; in his return from whence, he was set upon in the manner he found him, which if he recovered, he must own his life indebted to his timely assistance. being come to the house, they carried him to his bed, and having sent for surgeons aurelian rewarded and dismissed the guard. he stay'd the dressing of claudio's wounds, which were many, though they hop'd none mortal: and leaving him to his rest, went to give hippolito an account of what had happened, whom he found with a table before him, leaning upon both his elbows, his face covered with his hands, and so motionless, that aurelian concluded he was asleep; seeing several papers lie before him, half written and blotted out again, he thought to steal softly to the table, and discover what he had been employed about. just as he reach'd forth his hand to take up one of the papers, hippolito started up so on the suddain, as surpriz'd aurelian and made him leap back; hippolito, on the other hand, not supposing that any body had been near him, was so disordered with the appearance of a man at his elbow, (whom his amazement did not permit him to distinguish) that he leap'd hastily to his sword, and in turning him about, overthrew the stand and candles. here were they both left in the dark, hippolito groping about with his sword, and thrusting at every chair that he felt oppose him. aurelian was scarce come to himself, when thinking to step back toward the door that he might inform his friend of his mistake, without exposing himself to his blind fury; hippolito heard him stir, and made a full thrust with such violence, that the hilt of the sword meeting with aurelian's breast beat him down, and hippolito a top of him, as a servant alarm'd with the noise, came into the chamber with a light. the fellow trembled, and thought they were both dead, till hippolito raising himself, to see whom he had got under him, swoon'd away upon the discovery of his friend. but such was the extraordinary care of providence in directing the sword, that it only past under his arm, giving no wound to aurelia, but a little bruise between his shoulder and breast with the hilt. he got up, scarce recovered of his fright, and by the help of the servant; laid hippolito upon the bed; who when he was come to himself could hardly be perswaded, that his friend was before him and alive, till he shew'd him his breast, where was nothing of a wound. hippolito begg'd his pardon a thousand times, and curs'd himself as often, who was so near to committing the most execrable act of amicide. they dismiss'd the fellow, and with many embraces, congratulated their fortunate delivery from the mischief which came so near them, each blaming himself as the occasion: aurelian accusing his own unadvisedness in stealing upon hippolito; hippolito blaming his own temerity and weakness, in being so easily frighted to disorder; and last of all, his blindness, in not knowing his dearest friend. but there he gave a sigh, and passionately taking aurelian by the hand, cry'd, ah! my friend, love is indeed blind, when it would not suffer me to see you--there arose another sigh; a sympathy seiz'd aurelian immediately: (for, by the way, sighing is as catching among lovers, as yawning among the vulgar.) beside hearing the name of love, made him fetch such a sigh, that hippolito's were but fly-blows in comparison, that was answered with all the might hippolito had, aurelian ply'd him close till they were both out of breath. thus not a word pass'd, though each wondred why the t'other sigh'd, at last concluded it to be only complaisance to one another. aurelian broke the silence, by telling him the misfortune of his governour. hippolito rejoic'd as at the luckiest accident which could have befall'n him. aurelian wondred at his unseasonable mirth, and demanded the cause of it; he answer'd, it would necessitate his longer stay in florence, and for ought he knew be the means of bringing a happy period to his amour. his friend thought him to be little better than a madman, when he perceiv'd him of a suddain snatch out of his bosom a handkerchief, which having kiss'd with a great deal of ardour, he took aurelian by the hand, and smiling at the surprize he saw him in; 'your florentine cupid is certainly (said he) 'the most expert in the world. i have since i saw you beheld the most beautiful of women. i am faln desperately in love with her, and those papers which you see so blotted and scattered, are but so many essays which i have made to the declaration of my passion. and this handkerchief which i so zealously caress, is the inestimable token which i have to make my self known to her. 'o leonora! (continued he) 'how hast thou stamp'd thine image on my soul! how much dearer am i to my self, since i have had thy heavenly form in keeping! now, my aurelian, i am worthy thee; my exalted love has dignified me, and rais'd me far above thy poor former despicable hippolito. aurelian seeing the rapture he was in, thought it in vain to expect a settled relation of the adventure, so was reaching to the table for some of the papers, but hippolito told him, if he would have a little patience he would acquaint him with the whole matter; and thereupon told him word for word how he was mistaken for lorenzo, and his management of himself. aurelian commended his prudence, in not discovering himself; and told him, if he could spare so much time from the contemplation of his mistress, he would inform him of an adventure, though not so accidental, yet of as great concern to his own future happiness. so related all that had happened to him with his beautiful incognita. having ended the story, they began to consider of the means they were to use toward a review of their mistresses. aurelian was confounded at the difficulty he conceived on his part. he understood from hippolito's adventure, that his father knew of his being in town, whom he must unavoidably disoblige if he yet concealed himself, and disobey if he came into his sight; for he had already entertain'd an aversion for juliana, in apprehension of her being imposed on him. his incognita was rooted in his heart, yet could he not comfort himself with any hopes when he should see her: he knew not where she lived, and she had made him no promise of a second conference. then did he repent his inconsiderate choice, in preferring the momentary vision of her face, to a certain intelligence of her person. every thought that succeeded distracted him, and all the hopes he could presume upon, were within compass of the two days merriment yet to come; for which space he hop'd he might excuse his remaining conceal'd to his father. hippolito on the other side (though aurelian thought him in a much better way) was no less afflicted for himself. the difficulties which he saw in his friend's circumstances, put him upon finding out a great many more in his own, than really there were. but what terrified him most of all, was his being an utter stranger to leonora; she had not the least knowledge of him but through mistake, and consequently could form no idea of him to his advantage. he look'd upon it as an unlucky thought in aurelian to take upon him his name, since possibly the two ladies were acquainted, and should they communicate to each other their adventures; they might both reasonably suffer in their opinions, and be thought guilty of falshood, since it would appear to them as one person pretending to two. aurelian told him, there was but one remedy for that, which was for hippolito, in the same manner that he had done, to make use of his name, when he writ to leonora, and use what arguments he could to perswade her to secrecy, least his father should know of the reason which kept him concealed in town. and it was likely, though perhaps she might not immediately entertain his passion; yet she would out of generosity conceal, what was hidden only for her sake. well this was concluded on, after a great many other reasons used on either side, in favour of the contrivance; they at last argued themselves into a belief, that fortune had befriended them with a better plot, than their regular thinking could have contriv'd. so soon had they convinc'd themselves, in what they were willing to believe. aurelian laid himself down to rest, that is, upon the bed; for he was a better lover than to pretend to sleep that night, while hippolito set himself again to frame his letter design'd for leonora. he writ several, at last pitched upon one, and very probably the worst, as you may guess when you read it in its proper place. it was break of day when the servant, who had been employed all the foregoing day in procuring accoutrements for the two cavaliers, to appear in at the tilting, came into the room, and told them all the young gentlemen in the town were trying their equipage, and preparing to be early in the lists. they made themselves ready with all expedition at the alarm: and hippolito having made a visit to his governour, dispatch'd a messenger with the letter and directions to leonora. at the signal agreed upon the casement was opened and a string let down, to which the bearer having fastned the letter, saw it drawn up, and returned. it were a vain attempt to describe leonora's surprize, when she read the superscription.--the unfortunate aurelian, to the beautiful leonora--after she was a little recovered from her amaze, she recollected to her self all the passages between her and her supposed cousin, and immediately concluded him to be aurelian. then several little circumstances which she thought might have been sufficient to have convinced her, represented themselves to her; and she was in a strange uneasiness to think of her free carriage to a stranger. she was once in a mind to have burn'd the letter, or to have stay'd for an opportunity to send it again. but she was a woman, and her curiosity opposed it self to all thoughts of that nature: at length with a firm resolution, she opened it, and found word for word, what is underwritten. the letter. madam, if your fair eyes, upon the breaking up of this, meet with somewhat too quick a surprize, make thence, i beseech you, some reflection upon the condition i must needs have been in, at the suddain appearance of that sun of beauty, which at once shone so full upon my soul. i could not immediately disengage my self from that maze of charms, to let you know how unworthy a captive your eyes had made through mistake. sure, madam, you cannot but remember my disorder, of which your innocent (innocent, though perhaps to me fatal) error made a charitable (but wide) construction. your tongue pursued the victory of your eyes, and you did not give me time to rally my poor disordered senses, so as to make a tolerable retreat. pardon, madam, the continuation of the deceipt, and call it not so, that i appear'd to be other than my self; for heaven knows i was not then my self, nor am i now my own. you told me something that concern'd me nearly, as to a marriage my father design'd me, and much more nearly in being told by you. for heaven's sake, disclose not to any body your knowledge of me, that i may not be forced to an immediate act of disobedience; for if my future services and inviolate love, cannot recommend me to your favour, i shall find more comfort in the cold embraces of a grave, than in the arms of the never so much admired (but by me dreaded) juliana. think, madam, of those severe circumstances i lie under; and withal i beg you, think it is in your power, and only in your power, to make them happy as my wishes, or much more miserable than i am able to imagine. that dear, inestimable (though undesign'd) favour which i receiv'd from you, shall this day distinguish me from the crowd of your admirers; that which i really applied to my inward bleeding wound, the welcom wound which you have made, and which, unless from you, does wish no cure; then pardon and have pity on, o adored leonora, him, who is your's by creation as he is heaven's, though never so unworthy. have pity on your aurelian. she read the letter over and over, then flung it by, then read it again; the novelty of the adventure made her repeat her curiosity, and take more than ordinary pains to understand it. at last her familiarity with the expressions grew to an intimacy, and what she at first permitted she now began to like. she thought there was something in it a little more serious, than to be barely gallantry. she wondred at her own blindness, and fancy'd she could remember something of a more becoming air in the stranger than was usual to lorenzo. this thought was parent to another of the same kind, till a long chain successively had birth, and every one somewhat more than other, in favour of the supposed aurelian. she reflected upon his discretion, in deferring the discovery of himself, till a little time had, as it were, weaned her from her perswasion, and by removing her farther from her mistake, had prepared her for a full and determinate convincement. she thought his behaviour, in personating a sick man so readily, upon the first hint was not amiss, and smil'd to think of his excuse to procure her handkerchief; and last of all, his sifting out the means to write to her, which he had done with that modesty and respect, she could not tell how to find fault with it. she had proceeded thus far in a maze of thought, when she started to find her self so lost to her reason, and would have trod back again that path of deluding fancy; accusing her self of fondness, and inconsiderate easiness, in giving credit to the letter of a person whose face she never saw, and whose first acquaintance with her was a treachery, and he who could so readily deliver his tongue of a lye upon a surprize, was scarce to be trusted when he had sufficient time allow'd him to beget a fiction, and means to perfect the birth. how did she know this to be aurelian, if he were? nay farther, put it to the extremity, what if she should upon farther conversation with him proceed to love him? what hopes were there for her? or how could she consent to marry a man already destined for another woman? nay, a woman that was her friend, whose marrying with him was to compleat the happy reconciliation of two noble families, and which might prevent the effusion of much blood likely to be shed in that quarrel: besides, she should incurr share of the guilt, which he would draw upon him by disobedience to his father, whom she was sure would not be consenting to it. 'tis strange now, but all accounts agree, that just here leonora, who had run like a violent stream against aurelian hitherto, now retorted with as much precipitation in his favour. i could never get any body to give me a satisfactory reason, for her suddain and dextrous change of opinion just at that stop, which made me conclude she could not help it; and that nature boil'd over in her at that time when it had so fair an opportunity to show it self: for leonora it seems was a woman beautiful, and otherwise of an excellent disposition; but in the bottom a very woman. this last objection, this opportunity of perswading man to disobedience, determined the matter in favour of aurelian, more than all his excellencies and qualifications, take him as aurelian, or hippolito, or both together. well, the spirit of contradiction and of eve was strong in her; and she was in a fair way to love aurelian, for she lik'd him already; that it was aurelian she no longer doubted, for had it been a villain, who had only taken his name upon him for any ill designs, he would never have slip'd so favourable an opportunity as when they were alone and in the night coming through the garden and broad space before the piazza. in short, thus much she resolv'd, at least to conceal the knowledge she had of him, as he had entreated her in his letter, and to make particular remarks of his behaviour that day in the lists, which should it happen to charm her with an absolute liking of his person, she resolv'd to dress her self to the best advantage, and mustering up all her graces, out of pure revenge to kill him down right. i would not have the reader now be impertinent, and look upon this to be force, or a whim of the author's, that a woman should proceed so far in her approbation of a man whom she never saw, that it is impossible, therefore ridiculous to suppose it. let me tell such a critick, that he knows nothing of the sex, if he does not know that woman may be taken with the character and description of a man, when general and extraordinary, that she may be prepossess'd with an agreeable idea of his person and conversation; and though she cannot imagine his real features, or manner of wit, yet she has a general notion of what is call'd a fine gentleman, and is prepar'd to like such a one who does not disagree with that character. aurelian, as he bore a very fair character, so was he extreamly deserving to make it good, which otherways might have been to his prejudice; for oftentimes, through an imprudent indulgence to our friends merit, we give so large a description of his excellencies, that people make more room in their expectation, than the intrinsick worth of the man will fill, which renders him so much the more despicable as there is emptyness to spare. 'tis certain, though the women seldom find that out; for though they do not see so much in a man as was promised, yet they will be so kind to imagine he has some hidden excellencies; which time may discover to them, so are content to allow, him a considerable share of their esteem, and take him into favour upon tick. aurelian as he had good credit, so he had a good stock to support it, and his person was a good promising security for the payment of any obligation he could lie under to the fair sex. hippolito, who at this time was our aurelian, did not at all lessen him in appearing for him: so that although leonora was indeed mistaken, she could not be said to be much in the wrong. i could find in my heart to beg the reader's pardon for this digression, if i thought he would be sensible of the civility; for i promise him, i do not intend to do it again throughout the story, though i make never so many, and though he take them never so ill. but because i began this upon a bare supposition of his impertinence, which might be somewhat impertinent in me to suppose, i do, and hope to make him amends by telling him, that by the time leonora was dress'd, several ladies of her acquaintance came to accompany her to the place designed for the tilting, where we will leave them drinking chocholate till 'tis time for them to go. our cavaliers had by good fortune provided themselves of two curious suits of light armour, finely enammelled and gilt. hippolito had sent to poggio imperiale for a couple of fine led horses which he had left there with the rest of his train at his entrance into florence. mounted on these and every way well equipt, they took their way, attended only by two lacqueys, toward the church di santa croce, before which they were to perform their exercises of chivalry. hippolito wore upon his helm a large plume of crimson feathers, in the midst of which was artificially placed leonora's handkerchief. his armour was gilt, and enammell'd with green and crimson. aurelian was not so happy as to wear any token to recommend him to the notice of his mistress, so had only a plume of sky- colour and white feathers, suitable to his armour, which was silver enammelled with azure. i shall not describe the habits of any other cavaliers, or of the ladies; let it suffice to tell the reader they were all very fine and very glorious, and let him dress them in what is most agreeable to his own fancy. our gallants entred the lists, and having made their obeysance to his highness, turned round to salute and view the company. the scaffold was circular, so that there was no end of the delightful prospect. it seem'd a glory of beauty which shone around the admiring beholders. our lovers soon perceived the stars which were to rule their destiny, which sparkled a lustre beyond all the inferiour constellations, and seem'd like two suns to distribute light to all the planets in that heavenly sphere. leonora knew her slave by his badge and blushed till the lilies and roses in her cheeks had resemblance to the plume of crimson and white handkerchief in hippolito's crest. he made her a low bow, and reined his horse back with an extraordinary grace, into a respectful retreat. aurelian saw his angel, his beautiful incognita, and had no other way to make himself known to her, but by saluting and bowing to her after the spanish mode; she guess'd him by it to be her new servant hippolito, and signified her apprehension, by making him a more particular and obliging return, than to any of the cavaliers who had saluted her before. the exercise that was to be perform'd was in general a running at the ring; and afterwards two cavaliers undertook to defend the beauty of donna catharina, against all who would not allow her preheminence of their mistresses. this thing was only designed for show and form, none presuming that any body would put so great an affront upon the bride and duke's kinswoman, as to dispute her pretentions to the first place in the court of venus. but here our cavaliers were under a mistake; for seeing a large shield carry'd before two knights, with a lady painted upon it; not knowing who, but reading the inscription which was (in large gold letters) above the insolence of competition. they thought themselves obliged, especially in the presence of their mistresses, to vindicate their beauty; and were just spurring on to engage the champions, when a gentleman stopping them, told them their mistake, that it was the picture of donna catharina, and a particular honour done to her by his highness's commands, and not to be disputed. upon this they would have returned to their post, much concerned for their mistake; but notice being taken by don ferdinand of some show of opposition that was made, he would have begged leave of the duke, to have maintained his lady's honour against the insolence of those cavaliers; but the duke would by no means permit it. they were arguing about it when one of them came up, before whom the shield was born, and demanded his highness's permission, to inform those gentlemen better of their mistake, by giving them the foyl. by the intercession of don ferdinand, leave was given them; whereupon a civil challenge was sent to the two strangers, informing them of their error, and withal telling them they must either maintain it by force of arms, or make a publick acknowledgment by riding bare headed before the picture once round the lists. the stranger-cavaliers remonstrated to the duke how sensible they were of their error, and though they would not justifie it, yet they could not decline the combate, being pressed to it beyond an honourable refusal. to the bride they sent a complement, wherein, having first begg'd her pardon for not knowing her picture, they gave her to understand, that now they were not about to dispute her undoubted right to the crown of beauty, but the honour of being her champions was the prize they fought for, which they thought themselves as able to maintain as any other pretenders. wherefore they pray'd her, that if fortune so far befriended their endeavours as to make them victors, that they might receive no other reward, but to be crown'd with the titles of their adversaries, and be ever after esteem'd as her most humble servants. the excuse was so handsomely designed, and much better express'd than it is here, that it took effect. the duke, don ferdinand and his lady were so well satisfied with it as to grant their request. while the running at the ring lasted, our cavaliers alternately bore away great share of the honour. that sport ended, marshals were appointed for the field, and every thing in great form settled for the combat. the cavaliers were all in good earnest, but orders were given to bring 'em blunted lances, and to forbid the drawing of a sword upon pain of his highness's displeasure. the trumpets sounded and they began their course: the ladies' hearts, particularly the incognita and leonora's beat time to the horses hoofs, and hope and fear made a mock fight within their tender breasts, each wishing and doubting success where she lik'd: but as the generality of their prayers were for the graceful strangers, they accordingly succeeded. aurelian's adversary was unhorsed in the first encounter, and hippolito's lost both stirrups and dropt his lance to save himself. the honour of the field was immediately granted to them, and don catharina sent them both favours, which she pray'd them to wear as her knights. the crowd breaking up, our cavaliers made a shift to steal off unmarked, save by the watchful leonora and incognita, whose eyes were never off from their respective servants. there was enquiry made for them, but to no purpose; for they to prevent their being discovered had prepared another house, distant from their lodging, where a servant attended to disarm them, and another carried back their horses to the villa, while they walked unsuspected to their lodging; but incognita had given command to a page to dog 'em till the evening, at a distance, and bring her word where they were latest housed. while several conjectures pass'd among the company, who were all gone to dinner at the palace, who those cavaliers should be, don fabio thought himself the only man able to guess; for he knew for certain that his son and hippolito were both in town, and was well enough pleased with his humour of remaining incognito till the diversions should be over, believing then that the surprize of his discovery would add much to the gallantry he had shown in masquerade; but hearing the extraordinary liking that every body express'd, and in a particular manner, the great duke himself, to the persons and behaviour of the unknown cavaliers, the old gentleman could not forbear the vanity to tell his highness, that he believed he had an interest in one of the gentlemen, whom he was pleased to honour with so favourable a character; and told him what reason he had to believe the one to be his son, and the other a spanish nobleman, his friend. this discovery having thus got vent, was diffused like air; every body suck'd it in, and let it out again with their breath to the next they met withal; and in half an hours time it was talked of in the house where our adventurers were lodged. aurelian was stark mad at the news, and knew what search would be immediately made for him. hippolito, had he not been desperately in love, would certainly have taken horse and rid out of town just then, for he could make no longer doubt of being discovered, and he was afraid of the just exceptions leonora might make to a person who had now deceived her twice. well, we will leave them both fretting and contriving to no purpose, to look about and see what was done at the palace, where their doom was determined much quicker than they imagined. dinner ended, the duke retired with some chosen friends to a glass of wine; among whom were the marquess of viterbo and don fabio. his highness was no stranger to the long fewd that had been between the two families, and also understood what overtures of reconciliation had been lately made, with the proposals of marriage between aurelian and the marquess's daughter. having waited till the wine had taken the effect proposed, and the company were raised to an uncommon pitch of chearfulness, which he also encouraged by an example of freedom and good humour, he took an opportunity of rallying the two grave signiors into an accommodation: that was seconded with the praises of the young couple, and the whole company joined in a large encomium upon the graces of aurelian and the beauties of juliana. the old fellows were tickled with delight to hear their darlings so admired, which the duke perceiving, out of a principle of generosity and friendship, urged the present consummation of the marriage; telling them there was yet one day of publick rejoycing to come, and how glad he should be to have it improved by so acceptable an alliance; and what an honour it would be to have his cousin's marriage attended by the conjunction of so extraordinary a pair, the performance of which ceremony would crown the joy that was then in agitation, and make the last day vie for equal glory and happiness with the first. in short, by the complaisant and perswasive authority of the duke, the dons were wrought into a compliance, and accordingly embraced and shook hands upon the matter. this news was dispersed like the former, and don fabio gave orders for the enquiring out his son's lodging, that the marquess and he might make him a visit, as soon as he had acquainted juliana with his purpose, that she might prepare her self. he found her very chearful with donna catharina and several other ladies; whereupon the old gentleman, pretty well warmed with the duke's goodfellowship, told her aloud he was come to crown their mirth with another wedding; that his highness had been pleased to provide a husband for his daughter, and he would have her provide her self to receive him to-morrow. all the company at first, as well as juliana her self, thought he had rally'd, till the duke coming in confirmed the serious part of his discourse. juliana was confounded at the haste that was imposed on her, and desired a little time to consider what she was about. but the marquess told her, she should have all the rest of her life to consider in; that aurelian should come and consider with her in the morning, if she pleased; but in the mean time, he advised her to go home and call her maids to counsel. juliana took her leave of the company very gravely, as if not much delighted with her father's rallery. leonora happened to be by, and heard all that passed; she was ready to swoon, and found her self seized with a more violent passion than ever for aurelian: now upon her apprehensions of losing him, her active fancy had brought him before her with all the advantages imaginable, and though she had before found great tenderness in her inclination toward him, yet was she somewhat surprized to find she really lov'd him. she was so uneasie at what she had heard, that she thought it convenient to steal out of the presence and retire to her closet, to bemoan her unhappy helpless condition. our two cavalier-lovers had rack'd their invention till it was quite disabled, and could not make discovery of one contrivance more for their relief. both sat silent, each depending upon his friend, and still expecting when t'other should speak. night came upon them while they sate thus thoughtless, or rather drowned in thought; but a servant bringing lights into the room awakened them: and hippolito's speech, usher'd by a profound sigh, broke silence. 'well! (said he) what must we do, aurelian? we must suffer, replied aurelian faintly. when immediately raising his voice, he cry'd out, 'oh ye unequal powers, why do ye urge us to desire what ye doom us to forbear; give us a will to chuse, then curb us with a duty to restrain that choice! cruel father, will nothing else suffice! am i to be the sacrifice to expiate your offences past; past ere i was born? were i to lose my life, i'd gladly seal your reconcilement with my blood. 'but oh my soul is free, you have no title to my immortal being, that has existence independent of your power; and must i lose my love, the extract of that being, the joy, light, life, and darling of my soul? no, i'll own my flame, and plead my title too.--but hold, wretched aurelian, hold, whither does thy passion hurry thee? alas! the cruel fair incognita loves thee not! she knows not of thy love! if she did, what merit hast thou to pretend?--only love.--excess of love. and all the world has that. all that have seen her. yet i had only seen her once, and in that once i lov'd above the world; nay, lov'd beyond my self, such vigorous flame, so strong, so quick she darted at my breast; it must rebound, and by reflection, warm her self. ah! welcome thought, lovely deluding fancy, hang still upon my soul, let me but think, that once she loves and perish my despair. here a suddain stop gave a period also to hippolito's expectation, and he hoped now that his friend had given his passion so free a vent, he might recollect and bethink himself of what was convenient to be done; but aurelia, as if he had mustered up all his spirits purely to acquit himself of that passionate harangue, stood mute and insensible like an alarum clock, that had spent all its force in one violent emotion. hippolito shook him by the arm to rouze him from his lethargy, when his lacquey coming into the room, out of breath, told him there was a coach just stopp'd at the door, but he did not take time to who came in it. aurelian concluded immediately it was his father in quest of him; and without saying any more to hippolito, than that he was ruined if discovered, took his sword and slipp'd down a back pair of stairs into the garden, from whence he conveyed himself into the street. hippolito had not bethought himself what to do, before he perceiv'd a lady come into the chamber close veil'd, and make toward him. at the first appearance of a woman, his imagination flattered him with a thought of leonora; but that was quickly over upon nearer approach to the lady, who had much the advantage in stature of his mistress. he very civilly accosted her, and asked if he were the person to whom the honour of that visit was intended. she said, her business was with don hippolito di saviolina, to whom she had matter of concern to import, and which required haste. he had like to have told her, that he was the man, but by good chance reflecting upon his friend's adventure, who had taken his name, he made answer, that he believed don hippolito not far off, and if she had a moments patience he would enquire for him. he went out, leaving the lady in the room, and made search all round the house and garden for aurelian, but to no purpose. the lady impatient of his long stay took a pen and ink and some paper which she found upon the table, and had just made an end of her letter, when hearing a noise of more than one coming up stairs, she concluded his friend had found him, and that her letter would be to no purpose, so tore it in pieces, which she repented; when turning about, she found her mistake, and beheld don fabio and the marquess of viterbo just entring at the door. she gave a shriek at the surprize of their appearance, which much troubled the old gentlemen, and made them retire in confusion for putting a gentlewoman into such a fright. the marquess thinking they had been misinformed, or had mistaken the lodgings, came forward again, and made an apology to the lady for their errour; but she making no reply, walk'd directly by him down stairs and went into her coach, which hurried her away as speedily as the horses were able to draw. the dons were at a loss what to think, when, hippolito coming into the room to give the lady an account of his errant, was no less astonished to find she was departed, and had left two old signiors in her stead. he knew don fabio's face, for aurelian had shewn him his father at the tilting; but being confident he was not known to him, he ventur'd to ask him concerning a lady whom just now he had left in that chamber. don fabio told him, she was just gone down, and doubted they had been guilty of a mistake, in coming to enquire for a couple of gentlemen whom they were informed were lodged in that house; he begg'd his pardon if he had any relation to that lady, and desired to know if he could give them any account of the persons they sought for. hippolito made answer, he was a stranger in the place, and only a servant to that lady whom they had disturb'd, and whom he must go and seek out. and in this perplexity he left them, going again in search of aurelian, to inform him of what had passed. the old gentlemen at last meeting with a servant of the house, were directed to signior claudio's chamber, where they were no sooner entered but aurelian came into the house. a servant who had skulk'd for him by hippolito's order, followed him up into the chamber, and told him who was with claudio then making enquiry for him. he thought that to be no place for him, since claudio must needs discover all the truth to his father; wherefore he left directions with the servant, where hippolito should meet him in the morning. as he was going out of the room he espied the torn paper, which the lady had thrown upon the floor: the first piece he took up had incognita written upon it; the sight of which so alarum'd him, he scarce knew what he was about; but hearing a noise of a door opening over head, with as much care as was consistent with the haste he was then in, he gathered up scattered pieces of paper, and betook himself to a ramble. coming by a light which hung at the corner of a street, he join'd the torn papers and collected thus much, that incognita had written the note, and earnestly desired (if there were any reality in what he pretended to her) to meet her at twelve a clock that night at a convent gate; but unluckily the bit of paper which should have mentioned what convent, was broken off and lost. here was a large subject for aurelian's passion, which he did not spare to pour forth in abundance of curses on his stars. so earnest was he in the contemplation of his misfortunes, that he walk'd on unwittingly; till at length silence (and such as was only to be found in that part the town, whither his unguided steps had carried him) surpriz'd his attention. i say, a profound silence rouzed him from his thought; and a clap of thunder could have done no more. now because it is possible this at some time or other may happen to be read by some malicious or ignorant person, (no reflection upon the present reader) who will not admit, or does not understand that silence should make a man start; and have the same effect, in provoking his attention, with its opposite noise; i will illustrate this matter, to such a diminutive critick, by a parallel instance of light; which though it does chiefly entertain the eyes, and is indeed the prime object of the sight, yet should it immediately cease, to have a man left in the dark by a suddain deficiency of it, would make him stare with his eyes, and though he could not see, endeavour to look about him. why just thus did it fare with our adventurer; who seeming to have wandred both into the dominions of silence and of night, began to have some tender for his own safety, and would willingly have groped his way back again; when he heard a voice, as from a person whose breath had been stopp'd by some forcible oppression, and just then, by a violent effort, was broke through the restraint.--'yet--yet--(again reply'd the voice, still struggling for air,) 'forbear--and i'll forgive what's past--i have done nothing yet that needs a pardon, (says another) and what is to come, will admit of none. here the person who seemed to be the oppressed, made several attempts to speak, but they were only inarticulate sounds, being all interrupted and choaked in their passage. aurelian was sufficiently astonish'd, and would have crept nearer to the place whence he guessed the voice to come; but he was got among the runes of an old monastery, and could not stir so silently, but some loose stones he met with made a rumbling. the noise alarm'd both parties; and as it gave comfort to the one, it so terrified the t'other, that he could not hinder the oppressed from calling for help. aurelian fancy'd it was a woman's voice, and immediately drawing his sword, demanded what was the matter; he was answered with the appearance of a man, who had opened a dark lanthorn which he had by him, and came toward him with a pistol in his hand ready cock'd. aurelian seeing the irresistable advantage his adversary had over him, would fain have retired; and, by the greatest providence in the world, going backwards fell down over some loose stones that lay in his way, just in that instant of time when the villain fired his pistol, who seeing him fall, concluded he had shot him. the crys of the afflicted person were redoubled at the tragical sight, which made the murderer, drawing a poniard, to threaten him, that the next murmur should be his last. aurelian, who was scarce assured that he was unhurt, got softly up; and coming near enough to perceive the violence that was used to stop the injured man's mouth; (for now he saw plainly it was a man) cry'd out,--turn, villain, and look upon thy death.--the fellow amazed at the voice, turn'd about to have snatch'd up the lanthorn from the ground; either to have given light only to himself, or to have put out the candle, that he might have made his escape; but which of the two he designed, no body could tell but himself: and if the reader have a curiosity to know, he must blame aurelian; who thinking there could be no foul play offered to such a villain, ran him immediately through the heart, so that he drop'd down dead at his feet, without speaking a word. he would have seen who the person was he had thus happily delivered, but the dead body had fallen upon the lanthorn, which put out the candle: however coming up toward him, he ask'd him how he did, and bid him be of good heart; he was answered with nothing but prayers, blessings and thanks, called a thousand deliverers, good genius's and guardian angels. and the rescued would certainly have gone upon his knees to have worshipped him, had he not been bound hand and foot; which aurelian understanding, groped for the knots, and either untied them or cut them asunder; but 'tis more probable the latter, because more expeditious. they took little heed what became of the body which they left behind them, and aurelian was conducted from out the ruins by the hand of him he had delivered. by a faint light issuing from the just rising moon, he could discern that it was a youth; but coming into a more frequented part of the town, where several lights were hung out, he was amaz'd at the extream beauty which appeared in his face, though a little pale and disordered with his late fright. aurelian longed to hear the story of so odd an adventure, and entreated his charge to tell it him by the way; but he desired him to forbear till they were come into some house or other, where he might rest and recover his tired spirits, for yet he was so faint he was unable to look up. aurelian thought these last words were delivered in a voice, whose accent was not new to him. that thought made him look earnestly in the youth's face, which he now was sure he had somewhere seen before, and thereupon asked him if he had never been at siena? that question made the young gentleman look up, and something of a joy appeared in his countenance, which yet he endeavoured to smother; so praying aurelian to conduct him to his lodging, he promised him that as soon as they should come thither, he would acquaint him with any thing he desired to know. aurelian would rather have gone any where else than to his own lodging; but being so very late he was at a loss, and so forced to be contented. as soon as they were come into his chamber, and that lights were brought them and the servant dismissed, the paleness which so visibly before had usurped the sweet countenance of the afflicted youth vanished, and gave place to a more lively flood of crimson, which with a modest heat glow'd freshly on his cheeks. aurelian waited with a pleasing admiration the discovery promised him, when the youth still struggling with his resolution, with a timorous haste, pulled off a peruke which had concealed the most beautiful abundance of hair that ever graced one female head; those dishevelled spreading tresses, as at first they made a discovery of, so at last they served for a veil to the modest lovely blushes of the fair incognita; for she it was and none other. but oh! the inexpressible, inconceivable joy and amazement of aurelian! as soon as he durst venture to think, he concluded it to be all vision, and never doubted so much of any thing in his life as of his being then awake. but she taking him by the hand, and desiring him to sit down by her, partly convinced him of the reality of her presence. 'this is the second time, don hippolito, (said she to him) 'that i have been here this night. what the occasion was of my seeking you out, and how by miracle you preserved me, would add too much to the surprize i perceive you to be already in should i tell you: nor will i make any further discovery, till i know what censure you pass upon the confidence which i have put in you, and the strange circumstances in which you find me at this time. i am sensible they are such, that i shall not blame your severest conjectures; but i hope to convince you, when you shall hear what i have to say in justification of my vertue. 'justification! (cry'd aurelian) what infidel dares doubt it! then kneeling down, and taking her hand, 'ah madam (says he) would heaven would no other ways look upon, than i behold your perfections--wrong not your creature with a thought, he can be guilty of that horrid impiety as once to doubt your vertue--heavens! (cry'd he, starting up) 'am i so really blessed to see you once again! may i trust my sight?--or does my fancy now only more strongly work?--for still i did preserve your image in my heart, and you were ever present to my dearest thoughts.-- 'enough hippolito, enough of rapture (said she) you cannot much accuse me of ingratitude; for you see i have not been unmindful of you; but moderate your joy till i have told you my condition, and if for my sake you are raised to this delight, it is not of a long continuance. at that (as aurelian tells the story) a sigh diffused a mournful sweetness through the air, and liquid grief fell gently from her eyes, triumphant sadness sat upon her brow, and even sorrow seem'd delighted with the conquest he had made. see what a change aurelian felt! his heart bled tears, and trembled in his breast; sighs struggling for a vent had choaked each others passage up: his floods of joys were all supprest; cold doubts and fears had chill'd 'em with a sudden frost, and he was troubled to excess; yet knew not why. well, the learned say it was sympathy; and i am always of the opinion with the learned, if they speak first. after a world of condoleance had passed between them, he prevailed with her to tell him her story. so having put all her sighs into one great sigh, she discharged her self of 'em all at once, and formed the relation you are just about to read. 'having been in my infancy contracted to a man i could never endure, and now by my parents being likely to be forced to marry him, is in short, the great occasion of my grief. i fansy'd (continued she) something so generous in your countenance, and uncommon in your behaviour, while you were diverting your self, and rallying me with expressions of gallantry, at the ball, as induced me to hold conference with you. i now freely confess to you, out of design, that if things should happen as i then feared, and as now they are come to pass, i might rely upon your assistance in a matter of concern; and in which i would sooner chuse to depend upon a generous stranger, than any acquaintance i have. what mirth and freedom i then put on, were, i can assure you, far distant from my heart; but i did violence to my self out of complaisance to your temper.--i knew you at the tilting, and wished you might come off as you did; though i do not doubt, but you would have had as good success had it been opposite to my inclinations.--not to detain you by too tedious a relation, every day my friends urged me to the match they had agreed upon for me, before i was capable of consenting; at last their importunities grew to that degree, that i found i must either consent, which would make me miserable, or be miserable by perpetually enduring to be baited by my father, brother and other relations. i resolved yesterday, on a suddain to give firm faith to the opinion i had conceived of you; and accordingly came in the evening to request your assistance, in delivering me from my tormentors, by a safe and private conveyance of me to a monastery about four leagues hence, where i have an aunt who would receive me, and is the only relation i have averse to the match. i was surprized at the appearance of some company i did not expect at your lodgings; which made me in haste tear a paper which i had written to you with directions where to find me, and get speedily away in my coach to an old servant's house, whom i acquainted with my purpose: by my order she provided me of this habit which i now wear; i ventured to trust my self with her brother, and resolved to go under his conduct to the monastery; he proved to be a villain, and pretending to take me a short and private way to the place where he was to take up a hackney coach (for that which i came in was broke some where or other with the haste it made to carry me from your lodging) led me into an old ruined monastery, where it pleased heaven, by what accident i know not, to direct you. i need not tell you how you saved my life and my honour, by revenging me with the death of my perfidious guide. this is the summ of my present condition, bating the apprehensions i am in of being taken by some of my relations, and forced to a thing so quite contrary to my inclinations. aurelian was confounded at the relation she had made, and began to fear his own estate to be more desperate than ever he had imagined. he made her a very passionate and eloquent speech in behalf of himself (much better than i intend to insert here) and expressed a mighty concern that she should look upon his ardent affection to be only rallery or gallantry. he was very free of his oaths to confirm the truth of what he pretended, nor i believe did she doubt it, or at least was unwilling so to do: for i would caution the reader by the bye, not to believe every word which she told him, nor that admirable sorrow which she counterfeited to be accurately true. it was indeed truth so cunningly intermingled with fiction, that it required no less wit and presence of mind than she was endowed with so to acquit her self on the suddain. she had entrusted her self indeed with a fellow who proved a villain, to conduct her to a monastery; but one which was in the town, and where she intended only to lie concealed for his sake; as the reader shall understand ere long: for we have another discovery to make to him, if he have not found it out of himself already. after aurelian had said what he was able upon the subject in hand, with a mournful tone and dejected look, he demanded his doom. she asked him if he would endeavour to convey her to the monastery she had told him of? 'your commands, madam, (replied he) 'are sacred to me; and were they to lay down my life i would obey them. with that he would have gone out of the room, to have given order for his horses to be got ready immediately; but with a countenance so full of sorrow as moved compassion in the tender hearted incognita. 'stay a little don hippolito (said she) i fear i shall not be able to undergo the fatigue of a journey this night.--stay and give me your advice how i shall conceal my self if i continue to morrow in this town. aurelian could have satisfied her she was not then in a place to avoid discovery: but he must also have told her then the reason of it, viz. whom he was, and who were in quest of him, which he did not think convenient to declare till necessity should urge him; for he feared least her knowledge of those designs which were in agitation between him and juliana, might deter her more from giving her consent. at last he resolved to try his utmost perswasions to gain her, and told her accordingly, he was afraid she would be disturbed there in the morning, and he knew no other way (if she had not as great an aversion for him as the man whom she now endeavour'd to avoid) than by making him happy to make her self secure. he demonstrated to her,--that the disobligation to her parents would be greater by going to a monastery, since it was only to avoid a choice which they had made for her, and which she could not have so just a pretence to do till she had made one for her self. a world of other arguments he used, which she contradicted as long as she was able, or at least willing. at last she told him, she would consult her pillow, and in the morning conclude what was fit to be done. he thought it convenient to leave her to her rest, and having lock'd her up in his room, went himself to repose upon a pallat by signior claudio. in the mean time, it may be convenient to enquire what became of hippolito. he had wandered much in pursuit of aurelian, though leonora equally took up his thoughts; he was reflecting upon the oddness and extravagance of his circumstances, the continuation of which had doubtless created in him a great uneasiness, when it was interrupted with the noise of opening the gates of the convent of st. lawrence, whither he was arrived sooner than he thought for, being the place aurelian had appointed by the lacquey to meet him in. he wondered to see the gates opened at so unseasonable an hour, and went to enquire the reason of it from them who were employ'd; but they proved to be novices, and made him signs to go in, where he might meet with some body allow'd to answer him. he found the religious men all up, and tapers lighting every where: at last he follow'd a friar who was going into the garden, and asking him the cause of these preparations, he was answered, that they were entreated to pray for the soul of a cavalier, who was just departing or departed this life, and whom upon farther talk with him, he found to be the same lorenzo so often mentioned. don mario, it seems uncle to lorenzo and father to leonora, had a private door out of the garden belonging to his house into that of the convent, which door this father was now a going to open, that he and his family might come and offer up their oraisons for the soul of their kinsman. hippolito having informed himself of as much as he could ask without suspicion, took his leave of the friar, not a little joyful at the hopes he had by such unexpected means, of seeing his beautiful leonora: as soon as he was got at convenient distance from the friar, (who 'tis like thought he had return'd into the convent to his devotion) he turned back through a close walk which led him with a little compass, to the same private door, where just before he had left the friar, who now he saw was gone, and the door open. he went into don mario's garden, and walk'd round with much caution and circumspection; for the moon was then about to rise, and had already diffused a glimmering light, sufficient to distinguish a man from a tree. by computation now (which is a very remarkable circumstance) hippolito entred this garden near upon the same instant, when aurelian wandred into the old monastery and found his incognita in distress. he was pretty well acquainted with the platform, and sight of the garden; for he had formerly surveyed the outside, and knew what part to make to if he should be surpriz'd and driven to a precipitate escape. he took his stand behind a well grown bush of myrtle, which, should the moon shine brighter than was required, had the advantage to be shaded by the indulgent boughs of an ancient bay-tree. he was delighted with the choice he had made, for he found a hollow in the myrtle, as if purposely contriv'd for the reception of one person, who might undiscovered perceive all about him. he looked upon it as a good omen, that the tree consecrated to venus was so propitious to him in his amorous distress. the consideration of that, together with the obligation he lay under to the muses, for sheltering him also with so large a crown of bays, had like to have set him a rhyming. he was, to tell the truth, naturally addicted to madrigal, and we should undoubtedly have had a small desert of numbers to have pick'd and criticiz'd upon, had he not been interrupted just upon his delivery; nay, after the preliminary sigh had made way for his utterance. but so was his fortune, don mario was coming towards the door at that very nick of time, where he met with a priest just out of breath, who told him that lorenzo was just breathing his last, and desired to know if he would come and take his final leave before they were to administer the extream unction. don mario, who had been at some difference with his nephew, now thought it his duty to be reconciled to him; so calling to leonora, who was coming after him, he bid her go to her devotions in the chappel, and told her where he was going. he went on with the priest, while hippolito saw leonora come forward, only accompanied by her woman. she was in an undress, and by reason of a melancholy visible in her face, more careless than usual in her attire, which he thought added as much as was possible to the abundance of her charms. he had not much time to contemplate this beauteous vision, for she soon passed into the garden of the convent, leaving him confounded with love, admiration, joy, hope, fear, and all the train of passions, which seize upon men in his condition, all at once. he was so teazed with this variety of torment, that he never missed the two hours that had slipped away during his automachy and intestine conflict. leonora's return settled his spirits, at least united them, and he had now no other thought but how he should present himself before her. when she calling her woman, bid her bolt the garden door on the inside, that she might not be surpriz'd by her father, if he returned through the convent, which done, she ordered her to bring down her lute, and leave her to her self in the garden. all this hippolito saw and heard to his inexpressible content, yet had he much to do to smother his joy, and hinder it from taking a vent, which would have ruined the only opportunity of his life. leonora withdrew into an arbour so near him, that he could distinctly hear her if she played or sung: having tuned her lute, with a voice soft as the breath of angels, she flung to it this following air: i. ah! whither, whither shall i fly, a poor unhappy maid; to hopeless love and misery by my own heart betray'd? not by alexis eyes undone, nor by his charming faithless tongue, or any practis'd art; such real ills may hope a cure, but the sad pains which i endure proceed from fansied smart. ii. 'twas fancy gave alexis charms, ere i beheld his face: kind fancy (then) could fold our arms, and form a soft embrace. but since i've seen the real swain, and try'd to fancy him again, i'm by my fancy taught, though 'tis a bliss no tongue can tell, to have alexis, yet 'tis hell to have him but in thought. the song ended grieved hippolito that it was so soon ended; and in the ecstacy he was then rapt, i believe he would have been satisfied to have expired with it. he could not help flattering himself, (though at the same time he checked his own vanity) that he was the person meant in the song. while he was indulging which thought, to his happy astonishment, he heard it encouraged by these words: 'unhappy leonora (said she) how is thy poor unwary heart misled? whither am i come? the false deluding lights of an imaginary flame, have led me, a poor benighted victim, to a real fire. i burn and am consumed with hopeless love; those beams in whose soft temperate warmth i wanton'd heretofore, now flash destruction to my soul, my treacherous greedy eyes have suck'd the glaring light, they have united all its rays, and, like a burning-glass, convey'd the pointed meteor to my heart--ah! aurelian, how quickly hast thou conquer'd, and how quickly must thou forsake. oh happy (to me unfortunately happy) juliana! i am to be the subject of thy triumph--to thee aurelian comes laden with the tribute of my heart and glories in the oblation of his broken vows.--what then, is aurelian false! false! alass, i know not what i say; how can he be false, or true, or any thing to me? what promises did he ere make or i receive? sure i dream, or i am mad, and fansie it to be love; foolish girl, recal thy banish'd reason.--ah! would it were no more, would i could rave, sure that would give me ease, and rob me of the sense of pain; at least, among my wandring thoughts, i should at sometime light upon aurelian, and fansie him to be mine; kind madness would flatter my poor feeble wishes, and sometimes tell me aurelian is not lost--not irrecoverably--not for ever lost. hippolito could hear no more, he had not room for half his transport. when leonora perceived a man coming toward her, she fell a trembling, and could not speak. hippolito approached with reverence, as to a sacred shrine; when coming near enough to see her consternation, he fell upon his knees. 'behold, o adored leonora (said he) 'your ravished aurelian, behold at your feet the happiest of men, be not disturb'd at my appearance, but think that heaven conducted me to hear my bliss pronounced by that dear mouth alone, whose breath could fill me with new life. here he would have come nearer, but leonora (scarce come to her self) was getting up in haste to have gone away: he catch'd her hand, and with all the endearments of love and transport pressed her stay; she was a long time in great confusion, at last, with many blushes, she entreated him to let her go where she might hide her guilty head, and not expose her shame before his eyes, since his ears had been sufficient witnesses of her crime. he begg'd pardon for his treachery in over-hearing, and confessed it to be a crime he had now repeated. with a thousand submissions, entreaties, prayers, praises, blessings, and passionate expressions he wrought upon her to stay and hear him. here hippolito made use of his rhetorick, and it proved prevailing: 'twere tedious to tell the many ingenious arguments he used, with all her nice distinctions and objections. in short, he convinced her of his passion, represented to her the necessity they were under, of being speedy in their resolves: that his father (for still he was aurelian) would undoubtedly find him in the morning, and then it would be too late to repent. she on the other hand, knew it was in vain to deny a passion, which he had heard her so frankly own; (and no doubt was very glad it was past and done;) besides apprehending the danger of delay, and having some little jealousies and fears of what effect might be produced between the commands of his father and the beauties of juliana; after some decent denials, she consented to be conducted by him through the garden into the convent, where she would prevail with her confessor to marry them. he was a scrupulous old father whom they had to deal withal, insomuch that ere they had perswaded him, don mario was returned by the way of his own house, where missing his daughter, and her woman not being able to give any farther account of her, than that she left her in the garden; he concluded she was gone again to her devotions, and indeed he found her in the chappel upon her knees with hippolito in her hand, receiving the father's benediction upon conclusion of the ceremony. it would have asked a very skilful hand, to have depicted to the life the faces of those three persons, at don mario's appearance. he that has seen some admirable piece of transmutation by a gorgon's head, may form to himself the most probable idea of the prototype. the old gentleman was himself in a sort of a wood, to find his daughter with a young fellow and a priest, but as yet he did not know the worst, till hippolito and leonora came, and kneeling at his feet, begg'd his forgiveness and blessing as his son and daughter. don mario, instead of that, fell into a most violent passion, and would undoubtedly have committed some extravagant action, had he not been restrained, more by the sanctity of the place, than the perswasions of all the religious, who were now come about him. leonora stirr'd not off her knees all this time, but continued begging of him that he would hear her. 'ah! ungrateful and undutiful wretch (cry'd he) 'how hast thou requited all my care and tenderness of thee? now when i might have expected some return of comfort, to throw thy self away upon an unknown person, and, for ought i know, a villain; to me i'm sure he is a villain, who has robb'd me of my treasure, my darling joy, and all the future happiness of my life prevented. go--go, thou now-to-be-forgotten leonora, go and enjoy thy unprosperous choice; you who wanted not a father's counsel, cannot need, or else will slight his blessing. these last words were spoken with so much passion and feeling concern, that leonora, moved with excess of grief, fainted at his feet, just as she had caught hold to embrace his knees. the old man would have shook her off, but compassion and fatherly affection came upon him in the midst of his resolve, and melted him into tears, he embraced his daughter in his arms, and wept over her, while they endeavoured to restore her senses. hippolito was in such concern he could not speak, but was busily employed in rubbing and chafing her temples; when she opening her eyes laid hold of his arm, and cry'd out--oh my aurelian--how unhappy have you made me! with that she had again like to have fainted away, but he took her in his arms, and begg'd don mario to have some pity on his daughter, since by his severity she was reduced to that condition. the old man hearing his daughter name aurelian, was a little revived, and began to hope things were in a pretty good condition; he was perswaded to comfort her, and having brought her wholly to her self, was content to hear her excuse, and in a little time was so far wrought upon as to beg hippolito's pardon for the ill opinion he had conceived of him, and not long after gave his consent. the night was spent in this conflict, and it was now clear day, when don mario conducting his new son and daughter through the garden, was met by some servants of the marquess of viterbo, who had been enquiring for donna leonora, to know if juliana had lately been with her; for that she was missing from her father's house, and no conjectures could be made of what might become of her. don mario and leonora were surprized at the news, for he knew well enough of the match that was design'd for juliana; and having enquired where the marquess was, it was told him, that he was gone with don fabio and fabritio toward aurelian's lodgings. don mario having assured the servants that juliana had not been there, dismissed them, and advised with his son and daughter how they should undeceive the marquess and don fabio in their expectations of aurelian. hippolito could oftentimes scarce forbear smiling at the old man's contrivances who was most deceived himself; he at length advised them to go all down together to his lodging, where he would present himself before his father, and ingenuously confess to him the truth, and he did not question his approving of his choice. this was agreed to, and the coach made ready. while they were upon their way, hippolito pray'd heartily that his friend aurelian might be at the lodging, to satisfie don mario and leonora of his circumstances and quality, when he should be obliged to discover himself. his petitions were granted; for don fabio had beset the house long before his son was up or incognita awake. upon the arrival of don mario and hippolito, they heard a great noise and hubbub above stairs, which don mario concluded was occasioned by their not finding aurelian, whom he thought he could give the best account of: so that it was not in hippolito's power to disswade him from going up before to prepare his father to receive and forgive him. while hippolito and leonora were left in the coach at the door, he made himself known to her, and begg'd her pardon a thousand times for continuing the deceit. she was under some concern at first to find she was still mistaken; but his behaviour, and the reasons he gave, soon reconciled him to her; his person was altogether as agreeable, his estate and quality not at all inferiour to aurelian's; in the mean time, the true aurelian who had seen his father, begg'd leave of him to withdraw for a moment; in which time he went into the chamber where his incognita was dressing her self, by his design, in woman's apparel, while he was consulting with her how they should break the matter to his father; it happened that don mario came up stairs where the marquess and don fabio were; they undoubtedly concluded him mad, to hear him making apologies and excuses for aurelian, whom he told them if they would promise to forgive he would present before them immediately. the marquess asked him if his daughter had lain with leonora that night; he answered him with another question in behalf of aurelian. in short, they could not understand one another, but each thought 'tother beside himself. don mario was so concern'd that they would not believe him, that he ran down stairs and came to the door out of breath, desiring hippolito that he would come into the house quickly, for that he could not perswade his father but that he had already seen and spoke to him. hippolito by that understood that aurelian was in the house; so taking leonora by the hand, he followed don mario, who led him up into the dining-room, where they found aurelian upon his knees, begging his father to forgive him, that he could not agree to the choice he had made for him, since he had already disposed of himself, and that before he understood the designs he had for him, which was the reason that he had hitherto concealed himself. don fabio knew not how to answer him, but look'd upon the marquess, and the marquess upon him, as if the cement had been cool'd which was to have united their families. all was silent, and don mario for his part took it to be all conjuration; he was coming forward to present hippolito to them, when aurelian spying his friend, started from his knees and ran to embrace him--my dear hippolito (said he) what happy chance has brought you hither, just at my necessity? hippolito pointed to don mario and leonora, and told him upon what terms he came. don mario was ready to run mad, hearing him called hippolito, and went again to examine his daughter. while she was informing him of the truth, the marquess's servants returned with the melancholy news that his daughter was no where to be found. while the marquess and don fabritio were wondering at, and lamenting the misfortune of her loss, hippolito came towards don fabio and interceded for his son, since the lady perhaps had withdrawn her self out of an aversion to the match. don fabio, though very much incens'd, yet forgot not the respect due to hippolito's quality; and by his perswasion spoke to aurelian, though with a stern look and angry voice, and asked him where he had disposed the cause of his disobedience, if he were worthy to see her or no; aurelian made answer, that he desired no more than for him to see her; and he did not doubt a consequence of his approbation and forgiveness--well (said don fabio) you are very conceited of your own discretion, let us see this rarety. while aurelian was gone in for incognita, the marquess of viterbo and don fabritio were taking their leaves in great disorder for their loss and disappointment; but don fabio entreated their stay a moment longer till the return of his son. aurelian led incognita into the room veil'd, who seeing some company there which he had not told her of, would have gone back again. but don fabio came bluntly forwards, and ere she was aware, lifted up her veil and beheld the fair incognita, differing nothing from juliana, but in her name. this discovery was so extreamly surprizing and welcome, that either joy or amazement had tied up the tongues of the whole company. aurelian here was most at a loss, for he knew not of his happiness; and that which all along prevented juliana's confessing her self to him, was her knowing hippolito (for whom she took him) to be aurelian's friend, and she feared if he had known her, that he would never have consented to have deprived him of her. juliana was the first that spoke, falling upon her knees to her father, who was not enough himself to take her up. don fabio ran to her, and awakened the marquess, who then embraced her, but could not yet speak. fabritio and leonora strove who should first take her in their arms; for aurelian he was out of his wits for joy, and juliana was not much behind him, to see how happily their loves and duties were reconciled. don fabio embraced his son and forgave him. the marquess and fabritio gave juliana into his hands, he received the blessing upon his knees; all were over-joy'd, and don mario not a little proud at the discovery of his son-in-law, whom aurelian did not fail to set forth with all the ardent zeal and eloquence of friendship. juliana and leonora had pleasant discourse about their unknown and mistaken rivalship, and it was the subject of a great deal of mirth to hear juliana relate the several contrivances which she had to avoid aurelian for the sake of hippolito. having diverted themselves with many remarks upon the pleasing surprize, they all thought it proper to attend upon the great duke that morning at the palace, and to acquaint him with the novelty of what had pass'd; while, by the way, the two young couple entertained the company with the relation of several particulars of their three days adventures. none none proofreading team buried alive a tale of these days by arnold bennett to john frederick farrar m.r.c.s., l.r.c.p. my collaborator in this and many other books a grateful expression of old-established regard contents i. the puce dressing-gown ii. a pail iii. the photograph iv. a scoop v. alice on hotels vi. a putney morning vii. the confession viii. an invasion ix. a glossy male x. the secret xi. an escape xii. alice's performances chapter i _the puce dressing-gown_ the peculiar angle of the earth's axis to the plane of the ecliptic-- that angle which is chiefly responsible for our geography and therefore for our history--had caused the phenomenon known in london as summer. the whizzing globe happened to have turned its most civilized face away from the sun, thus producing night in selwood terrace, south kensington. in no. selwood terrace two lights, on the ground-floor and on the first-floor, were silently proving that man's ingenuity can outwit nature's. no. was one of about ten thousand similar houses between south kensington station and north end road. with its grimy stucco front, its cellar kitchen, its hundred stairs and steps, its perfect inconvenience, and its conscience heavy with the doing to death of sundry general servants, it uplifted tin chimney-cowls to heaven and gloomily awaited the day of judgment for london houses, sublimely ignoring the axial and orbital velocities of the earth and even the reckless flight of the whole solar system through space. you felt that no. was unhappy, and that it could only be rendered happy by a 'to let' standard in its front patch and a 'no bottles' card in its cellar-windows. it possessed neither of these specifics. though of late generally empty, it was never untenanted. in the entire course of its genteel and commodious career it had never once been to let. go inside, and breathe its atmosphere of a bored house that is generally empty yet never untenanted. all its twelve rooms dark and forlorn, save two; its cellar kitchen dark and forlorn; just these two rooms, one on the top of the other like boxes, pitifully struggling against the inveterate gloom of the remaining ten! stand in the dark hall and get this atmosphere into your lungs. the principal, the startling thing in the illuminated room on the ground-floor was a dressing-gown, of the colour, between heliotrope and purple, known to a previous generation as puce; a quilted garment stuffed with swansdown, light as hydrogen--nearly, and warm as the smile of a kind heart; old, perhaps, possibly worn in its outlying regions and allowing fluffs of feathery white to escape through its satin pores; but a dressing-gown to dream of. it dominated the unkempt, naked apartment, its voluptuous folds glittering crudely under the sun-replacing oil lamp which was set on a cigar-box on the stained deal table. the oil lamp had a glass reservoir, a chipped chimney, and a cardboard shade, and had probably cost less than a florin; five florins would have purchased the table; and all the rest of the furniture, including the arm-chair in which the dressing-gown reclined, a stool, an easel, three packets of cigarettes and a trouser-stretcher, might have been replaced for another ten florins. up in the corners of the ceiling, obscure in the eclipse of the cardboard shade, was a complicated system of cobwebs to match the dust on the bare floor. within the dressing-gown there was a man. this man had reached the interesting age. i mean the age when you think you have shed all the illusions of infancy, when you think you understand life, and when you are often occupied in speculating upon the delicious surprises which existence may hold for you; the age, in sum, that is the most romantic and tender of all ages--for a male. i mean the age of fifty. an age absurdly misunderstood by all those who have not reached it! a thrilling age! appearances are tragically deceptive. the inhabitant of the puce dressing-gown had a short greying beard and moustache; his plenteous hair was passing from pepper into salt; there were many minute wrinkles in the hollows between his eyes and the fresh crimson of his cheeks; and the eyes were sad; they were very sad. had he stood erect and looked perpendicularly down, he would have perceived, not his slippers, but a protuberant button of the dressing-gown. understand me: i conceal nothing; i admit the figures written in the measurement-book of his tailor. he was fifty. yet, like most men of fifty, he was still very young, and, like most bachelors of fifty, he was rather helpless. he was quite sure that he had not had the best of luck. if he had excavated his soul he would have discovered somewhere in its deeps a wistful, appealing desire to be taken care of, to be sheltered from the inconveniences and harshness of the world. but he would not have admitted the discovery. a bachelor of fifty cannot be expected to admit that he resembles a girl of nineteen. nevertheless it is a strange fact that the resemblance between the heart of an experienced, adventurous bachelor of fifty and the simple heart of a girl of nineteen is stronger than girls of nineteen imagine; especially when the bachelor of fifty is sitting solitary and unfriended at two o'clock in the night, in the forlorn atmosphere of a house that has outlived its hopes. bachelors of fifty alone will comprehend me. it has never been decided what young girls do meditate upon when they meditate; young girls themselves cannot decide. as a rule the lonely fancies of middle-aged bachelors are scarcely less amenable to definition. but the case of the inhabitant of the puce dressing-gown was an exception to the rule. he knew, and he could have said, precisely what he was thinking about. in that sad hour and place, his melancholy thoughts were centred upon the resplendent, unique success in life of a gifted and glorious being known to nations and newspapers as priam farll. _riches and renown_ in the days when the new gallery was new, a picture, signed by the unknown name of priam farll, was exhibited there, and aroused such terrific interest that for several months no conversation among cultured persons was regarded as complete without some reference to it. that the artist was a very great painter indeed was admitted by every one; the only question which cultured persons felt it their duty to settle was whether he was the greatest painter that ever lived or merely the greatest painter since velasquez. cultured persons might have continued to discuss that nice point to the present hour, had it not leaked out that the picture had been refused by the royal academy. the culture of london then at once healed up its strife and combined to fall on the royal academy as an institution which had no right to exist. the affair even got into parliament and occupied three minutes of the imperial legislature. useless for the royal academy to argue that it had overlooked the canvas, for its dimensions were seven feet by five; it represented a policeman, a simple policeman, life-size, and it was not merely the most striking portrait imaginable, but the first appearance of the policeman in great art; criminals, one heard, instinctively fled before it. no! the royal academy really could not argue that the work had been overlooked. and in truth the royal academy did not argue accidental negligence. it did not argue about its own right to exist. it did not argue at all. it blandly went on existing, and taking about a hundred and fifty pounds a day in shillings at its polished turnstiles. no details were obtainable concerning priam farll, whose address was poste restante, st. martin's-le-grand. various collectors, animated by deep faith in their own judgment and a sincere desire to encourage british art, were anxious to purchase the picture for a few pounds, and these enthusiasts were astonished and pained to learn that priam farll had marked a figure of £ , --the price of a rare postage stamp. in consequence the picture was not sold; and after an enterprising journal had unsuccessfully offered a reward for the identification of the portrayed policeman, the matter went gently to sleep while the public employed its annual holiday as usual in discussing the big gooseberry of matrimonial relations. every one naturally expected that in the following year the mysterious priam farll would, in accordance with the universal rule for a successful career in british art, contribute another portrait of another policeman to the new gallery--and so on for about twenty years, at the end of which period england would have learnt to recognize him as its favourite painter of policemen. but priam farll contributed nothing to the new gallery. he had apparently forgotten the new gallery: which was considered to be ungracious, if not ungrateful, on his part. instead, he adorned the paris salon with a large seascape showing penguins in the foreground. now these penguins became the penguins of the continental year; they made penguins the fashionable bird in paris, and also (twelve months later) in london. the french government offered to buy the picture on behalf of the republic at its customary price of five hundred francs, but priam farll sold it to the american connoisseur whitney c. whitt for five thousand dollars. shortly afterwards he sold the policeman, whom he had kept by him, to the same connoisseur for ten thousand dollars. whitney c. whitt was the expert who had paid two hundred thousand dollars for a madonna and st. joseph, with donor, of raphael. the enterprising journal before mentioned calculated that, counting the space actually occupied on the canvas by the policeman, the daring connoisseur had expended two guineas per square inch on the policeman. at which stage the vast newspaper public suddenly woke up and demanded with one voice: "who is this priam farll?" though the query remained unanswered, priam farll's reputation was henceforward absolutely assured, and this in spite of the fact that he omitted to comply with the regulations ordained by english society for the conduct of successful painters. he ought, first, to have taken the elementary precaution of being born in the united states. he ought, after having refused all interviews for months, to have ultimately granted a special one to a newspaper with the largest circulation. he ought to have returned to england, grown a mane and a tufted tail, and become the king of beasts; or at least to have made a speech at a banquet about the noble and purifying mission of art. assuredly he ought to have painted the portrait of his father or grandfather as an artisan, to prove that he was not a snob. but no! not content with making each of his pictures utterly different from all the others, he neglected all the above formalities--and yet managed to pile triumph on triumph. there are some men of whom it may be said that, like a punter on a good day, they can't do wrong. priam farll was one such. in a few years he had become a legend, a standing side-dish of a riddle. no one knew him; no one saw him; no one married him. constantly abroad, he was ever the subject of conflicting rumours. parfitts themselves, his london agents, knew naught of him but his handwriting--on the backs of cheques in four figures. they sold an average of five large and five small pictures for him every year. these pictures arrived out of the unknown and the cheques went into the unknown. young artists, mute in admiration before the masterpieces from his brush which enriched all the national galleries of europe (save, of course, that in trafalgar square), dreamt of him, worshipped him, and quarrelled fiercely about him, as the very symbol of glory, luxury and flawless accomplishment, never conceiving him as a man like themselves, with boots to lace up, a palette to clean, a beating heart, and an instinctive fear of solitude. finally there came to him the paramount distinction, the last proof that he was appreciated. the press actually fell into the habit of mentioning his name without explanatory comment. exactly as it does not write "mr. a.j. balfour, the eminent statesman," or "sarah bernhardt, the renowned actress," or "charles peace, the historic murderer," but simply "mr. a.j. balfour," "sarah bernhardt" or "charles peace"; so it wrote simply "mr. priam farll." and no occupant of a smoker in a morning train ever took his pipe out of his mouth to ask, "what is the johnny?" greater honour in england hath no man. priam farll was the first english painter to enjoy this supreme social reward. and now he was inhabiting the puce dressing-gown. _the dreadful secret_ a bell startled the forlorn house; its loud old-fashioned jangle came echoingly up the basement stairs and struck the ear of priam farll, who half rose and then sat down again. he knew that it was an urgent summons to the front door, and that none but he could answer it; and yet he hesitated. leaving priam farll, the great and wealthy artist, we return to that far more interesting person, priam farll the private human creature; and come at once to the dreadful secret of his character, the trait in him which explained the peculiar circumstances of his life. as a private human creature, he happened to be shy. he was quite different from you or me. we never feel secret qualms at the prospect of meeting strangers, or of taking quarters at a grand hotel, or of entering a large house for the first time, or of walking across a room full of seated people, or of dismissing a servant, or of arguing with a haughty female aristocrat behind a post-office counter, or of passing a shop where we owe money. as for blushing or hanging back, or even looking awkward, when faced with any such simple, everyday acts, the idea of conduct so childish would not occur to us. we behave naturally under all circumstances--for why should a sane man behave otherwise? priam farll was different. to call the world's attention visually to the fact of his own existence was anguish to him. but in a letter he could be absolutely brazen. give him a pen and he was fearless. now he knew that he would have to go and open the front door. both humanity and self-interest urged him to go instantly. for the visitant was assuredly the doctor, come at last to see the sick man lying upstairs. the sick man was henry leek, and henry leek was priam farll's bad habit. while somewhat of a rascal (as his master guessed), leek was a very perfect valet. like you and me, he was never shy. he always did the natural thing naturally. he had become, little by little, indispensable to priam farll, the sole means of living communication between priam farll and the universe of men. the master's shyness, resembling a deer's, kept the pair almost entirely out of england, and, on their continuous travels, the servant invariably stood between that sensitive diffidence and the world. leek saw every one who had to be seen, and did everything that involved personal contacts. and, being a bad habit, he had, of course, grown on priam farll, and thus, year after year, for a quarter of a century, farll's shyness, with his riches and his glory, had increased. happily leek was never ill. that is to say, he never had been ill, until this day of their sudden incognito arrival in london for a brief sojourn. he could hardly have chosen a more inconvenient moment; for in london of all places, in that inherited house in selwood terrace which he so seldom used, priam farll could not carry on daily life without him. it really was unpleasant and disturbing in the highest degree, this illness of leek's. the fellow had apparently caught cold on the night-boat. he had fought the approaches of insidious disease for several hours, going forth to make purchases and incidentally consulting a doctor; and then, without warning, in the very act of making up farll's couch, he had abandoned the struggle, and, since his own bed was not ready, he had taken to his master's. he always did the natural thing naturally. and farll had been forced to help him to undress! from this point onwards priam farll, opulent though he was and illustrious, had sunk to a tragic impotence. he could do nothing for himself; and he could do nothing for leek, because leek refused both brandy and sandwiches, and the larder consisted solely of brandy and sandwiches. the man lay upstairs there, comatose, still, silent, waiting for the doctor who had promised to pay an evening visit. and the summer day had darkened into the summer night. the notion of issuing out into the world and personally obtaining food for himself or aid for leek, did genuinely seem to priam farll an impossible notion; he had never done such things. for him a shop was an impregnable fort garrisoned by ogres. besides, it would have been necessary to 'ask,' and 'asking' was the torture of tortures. so he had wandered, solicitous and helpless, up and down the stairs, until at length leek, ceasing to be a valet and deteriorating into a mere human organism, had feebly yet curtly requested to be just let alone, asserting that he was right enough. whereupon the envied of all painters, the symbol of artistic glory and triumph, had assumed the valet's notorious puce dressing-gown and established himself in a hard chair for a night of discomfort. the bell rang once more, and there was a sharp impressive knock that reverberated through the forlorn house in a most portentous and terrifying manner. it might have been death knocking. it engendered the horrible suspicion, "suppose he's _seriously_ ill?" priam farll sprang up nervously, braced to meet ringers and knockers. _cure for shyness_ on the other side of the door, dressed in frock coat and silk hat, there stood hesitating a tall, thin, weary man who had been afoot for exactly twenty hours, in pursuit of his usual business of curing imaginary ailments by means of medicine and suggestion, and leaving real ailments to nature aided by coloured water. his attitude towards the medical profession was somewhat sardonic, partly because he was convinced that only the gluttony of south kensington provided him with a livelihood, but more because his wife and two fully-developed daughters spent too much on their frocks. for years, losing sight of the fact that he was an immortal soul, they had been treating him as a breakfast-in-the-slot machine: they put a breakfast in the slot, pushed a button of his waistcoat, and drew out banknotes. for this, he had neither partner, nor assistant, nor carriage, nor holiday: his wife and daughters could not afford him these luxuries. he was able, conscientious, chronically tired, bald and fifty. he was also, strange as it may seem, shy; though indeed he had grown used to it, as a man gets used to a hollow tooth or an eel to skinning. no qualities of the young girl's heart about the heart of dr. cashmore! he really did know human nature, and he never dreamt of anything more paradisaical than a sunday pullman escapade to brighton. priam farll opened the door which divided these two hesitating men, and they saw each other by the light of the gas lamp (for the hall was in darkness). "this mr. farll's?" asked dr. cashmore, with the unintentional asperity of shyness. as for priam, the revelation of his name by leek shocked him almost into a sweat. surely the number of the house should have sufficed. "yes," he admitted, half shy and half vexed. "are you the doctor?" "yes." dr. cashmore stepped into the obscurity of the hall. "how's the invalid going on?" "i can scarcely tell you," said priam. "he's in bed, very quiet." "that's right," said the doctor. "when he came to my surgery this morning i advised him to go to bed." then followed a brief awkward pause, during which priam farll coughed and the doctor rubbed his hands and hummed a fragment of melody. "by jove!" the thought flashed through the mind of farll. "this chap's shy, i do believe!" and through the mind of the doctor, "here's another of 'em, all nerves!" they both instantly, from sheer good-natured condescension the one to the other, became at ease. it was as if a spring had been loosed. priam shut the door and shut out the ray of the street lamp. "i'm afraid there's no light here," said he. "i'll strike a match," said the doctor. "thanks very much," said priam. the flare of a wax vesta illumined the splendours of the puce dressing-gown. but dr. cashmore did not blench. he could flatter himself that in the matter of dressing-gowns he had nothing to learn. "by the way, what's wrong with him, do you think?" priam farll inquired in his most boyish voice. "don't know. chill! he had a loud cardiac murmur. might be anything. that's why i said i'd call anyhow to-night. couldn't come any sooner. been on my feet since six o'clock this morning. you know what it is--g.p.'s day." he smiled grimly in his fatigue. "it's very good of you to come," said priam farll with warm, vivacious sympathy. he had an astonishing gift for imaginatively putting himself in the place of other people. "not at all!" the doctor muttered. he was quite touched. to hide the fact that he was touched he struck a second match. "shall we go upstairs?" in the bedroom a candle was burning on a dusty and empty dressing-table. dr. cashmore moved it to the vicinity of the bed, which was like an oasis of decent arrangement in the desert of comfortless chamber; then he stooped to examine the sick valet. "he's shivering!" exclaimed the doctor softly. henry leek's skin was indeed bluish, though, besides blankets, there was a considerable apparatus of rugs on the bed, and the night was warm. his ageing face (for he was the third man of fifty in that room) had an anxious look. but he made no movement, uttered no word, at sight of the doctor; just stared, dully. his own difficult breathing alone seemed to interest him. "any women up?" the doctor turned suddenly and fiercely on priam farll, who started. "there's only ourselves in the house," he replied. a person less experienced than dr. cashmore in the secret strangenesses of genteel life in london might have been astonished by this information. but dr. cashmore no more blenched now than he had blenched at the puce garment. "well, hurry up and get some hot water," said he, in a tone dictatorial and savage. "quick, now! and brandy! and more blankets! now don't stand there, please! here! i'll go with you to the kitchen. show me!" he snatched up the candle, and the expression of his features said, "i can see you're no good in a crisis." "it's all up with me, doctor," came a faint whisper from the bed. "so it is, my boy!" said the doctor under his breath as he tumbled downstairs in the wake of priam farll. "unless i get something hot into you!" _master and servant_ "will there have to be an inquest?" priam farll asked at a.m. he had collapsed in the hard chair on the ground-floor. the indispensable henry leek was lost to him for ever. he could not imagine what would happen to his existence in the future. he could not conceive himself without leek. and, still worse, the immediate prospect of unknown horrors of publicity in connection with the death of leek overwhelmed him. "no!" said the doctor, cheerfully. "oh no! i was present. acute double pneumonia! sometimes happens like that! i can give a certificate. but of course you will have to go to the registrar's and register the death." even without an inquest, he saw that the affair would be unthinkably distressing. he felt that it would kill him, and he put his hand to his face. "where are mr. farll's relatives to be found?" the doctor asked. "mr. farll's relatives?" priam farll repeated without comprehending. then he understood. dr. cashmore thought that henry leek's name was farll! and all the sensitive timidity in priam farll's character seized swiftly at the mad chance of escape from any kind of public appearance as priam farll. why should he not let it be supposed that he, and not henry leek, had expired suddenly in selwood terrace at a.m. he would be free, utterly free! "yes," said the doctor. "they must be informed, naturally." priam's mind ran rapidly over the catalogue of his family. he could think of no one nearer than a certain duncan farll, a second cousin. "i don't think he had any," he replied in a voice that trembled with excitement at the capricious rashness of what he was doing. "perhaps there were distant cousins. but mr. farll never talked of them." which was true. he could scarcely articulate the words 'mr farll.' but when they were out of his mouth he felt that the deed was somehow definitely done. the doctor gazed at priam's hands, the rough, coarsened hands of a painter who is always messing in oils and dust. "pardon me," said the doctor. "i presume you are his valet--or--" "yes," said priam farll. that set the seal. "what was your master's full name?" the doctor demanded. and priam farll shivered. "priam farll," said he weakly. "not _the_--?" loudly exclaimed the doctor, whom the hazards of life in london had at last staggered. priam nodded. "well, well!" the doctor gave vent to his feelings. the truth was that this particular hazard of life in london pleased him, flattered him, made him feel important in the world, and caused him to forget his fatigue and his wrongs. he saw that the puce dressing-gown contained a man who was at the end of his tether, and with that good nature of his which no hardships had been able to destroy, he offered to attend to the preliminary formalities. then he went. _a month's wages_ priam farll had no intention of falling asleep; his desire was to consider the position which he had so rashly created for himself; but he did fall asleep--and in the hard chair! he was awakened by a tremendous clatter, as if the house was being bombarded and there were bricks falling about his ears. when he regained all his senses this bombardment resolved itself into nothing but a loud and continued assault on the front door. he rose, and saw a frowsy, dishevelled, puce-coloured figure in the dirty mirror over the fireplace. and then, with stiff limbs, he directed his sleepy feet towards the door. dr. cashmore was at the door, and still another man of fifty, a stern-set, blue-chinned, stoutish person in deep and perfect mourning, including black gloves. this person gazed coldly at priam farll. "ah!" ejaculated the mourner. and stepped in, followed by dr. cashmore. in achieving the inner mat the mourner perceived a white square on the floor. he picked it up and carefully examined it, and then handed it to priam farll. "i suppose this is for you," said he. priam, accepting the envelope, saw that it was addressed to "henry leek, esq., selwood terrace, s.w.," in a woman's hand. "it _is_ for you, isn't it?" pursued the mourner in an inflexible voice. "yes," said priam. "i am mr. duncan farll, a solicitor, a cousin of your late employer," the metallic voice continued, coming through a set of large, fine, white teeth. "what arrangements have you made during the day?" priam stammered: "none. i've been asleep." "you aren't very respectful," said duncan farll. so this was his second cousin, whom he had met, once only, as a boy! never would he have recognized duncan. evidently it did not occur to duncan to recognize him. people are apt to grow unrecognizable in the course of forty years. duncan farll strode about the ground-floor of the house, and on the threshold of each room ejaculated "ah!" or "ha!" then he and the doctor went upstairs. priam remained inert, and excessively disturbed, in the hall. at length duncan farll descended. "come in here, leek," said duncan. and priam meekly stepped after him into the room where the hard chair was. duncan farll took the hard chair. "what are your wages?" priam sought to remember how much he had paid henry leek. "a hundred a year," said he. "ah! a good wage. when were you last paid?" priam remembered that he had paid leek two days ago. "the day before yesterday," said he. "i must say again you are not very respectful," duncan observed, drawing forth his pocket-book. "however, here is £ _s_., a month's wages in lieu of notice. put your things together, and go. i shall have no further use for you. i will make no observations of any kind. but be good enough to _dress_--it is three o'clock--and leave the house at once. let me see your box or boxes before you go." when, an hour later, in the gloaming, priam farll stood on the wrong side of his own door, with henry leek's heavy kit-bag and henry leek's tin trunk flanking him on either hand, he saw that events in his career were moving with immense rapidity. he had wanted to be free, and free he was. quite free! but it appeared to him very remarkable that so much could happen, in so short a time, as the result of a mere momentary impulsive prevarication. * * * * * chapter ii _a pail_ sticking out of the pocket of leek's light overcoat was a folded copy of the _daily telegraph_. priam farll was something of a dandy, and like all right-thinking dandies and all tailors, he objected to the suave line of a garment being spoilt by a free utilization of pockets. the overcoat itself, and the suit beneath, were quite good; for, though they were the property of the late henry leek, they perfectly fitted priam farll and had recently belonged to him, leek having been accustomed to clothe himself entirely from his master's wardrobe. the dandy absently drew forth the _telegraph_, and the first thing that caught his eye was this: "a beautiful private hotel of the highest class. luxuriously furnished. visitor's comfort studied. finest position in london. cuisine a speciality. quiet. suitable for persons of superior rank. bathroom. electric light. separate tables. no irritating extras. single rooms from - / guineas, double from guineas weekly. queen's gate." and below this he saw another piece of news: "not a boarding-house. a magnificent mansion. forty bedrooms by waring. superb public saloons by maple. parisian chef. separate tables. four bathrooms. card-room, billiard-room, vast lounge. young, cheerful, musical society. bridge (small). special sanitation. finest position in london. no irritating extras. single rooms from - / guineas, double from guineas weekly. phone , western. trefusis mansion, w." at that moment a hansom cab came ambling down selwood terrace. impulsively he hailed it. "'ere, guv'nor," said the cabman, seeing with an expert eye that priam farll was unaccustomed to the manipulation of luggage. "give this 'ere hackenschmidt a copper to lend ye a hand. you're only a light weight." a small and emaciated boy, with the historic remains of a cigarette in his mouth, sprang like a monkey up the steps, and, not waiting to be asked, snatched the trunk from priam's hands. priam gave him one of leek's sixpences for his feats of strength, and the boy spat generously on the coin, at the same time, by a strange skill, clinging to the cigarette with his lower lip. then the driver lifted the reins with a noble gesture, and priam had to be decisive and get into the cab. " queen's gate," said he. as, keeping his head to one side to avoid the reins, he gave the direction across the roof of the cab to the attentive cocked ear of the cabman, he felt suddenly that he had regained his nationality, that he was utterly english, in an atmosphere utterly english. the hansom was like home after the wilderness. he had chosen queen's gate because it appeared the abode of tranquillity and discretion. he felt that he might sink into queen's gate as into a feather bed. the other palace intimidated him. it recalled the terrors of a continental hotel. in his wanderings he had suffered much from the young, cheerful and musical society of bright hotels, and bridge (small) had no attraction for him. as the cab tinkled through canyons of familiar stucco, he looked further at the _telegraph_. he was rather surprised to find more than a column of enticing palaces, each in the finest position in london; london, in fact, seemed to be one unique, glorious position. and it was so welcome, so receptive, so wishful to make a speciality of your comfort, your food, your bath, your sanitation! he remembered the old boarding-houses of the eighties. now all was changed, for the better. the _telegraph_ was full of the better, crammed and packed with tight columns of it. the better burst aspiringly from the tops of columns on the first page and outsoared the very title of the paper. he saw there, for instance, to the left of the title, a new, refined tea-house in piccadilly circus, owned and managed by gentlewomen, where you had real tea and real bread-and butter and real cakes in a real drawing-room. it was astounding. the cab stopped. "is this it?" he asked the driver. "this is , sir." and it was. but it did not resemble even a private hotel. it exactly resembled a private house, narrow and tall and squeezed in between its sister and its brother. priam farll was puzzled, till the solution occurred to him. "of course," he said to himself. "this is the quietude, the discretion. i shall like this." he jumped down. "i'll keep you," he threw to the cabman, in the proper phrase (which he was proud to recall from his youth), as though the cabman had been something which he had ordered on approval. there were two bell-knobs. he pulled one, and waited for the portals to open on discreet vistas of luxurious furniture. no response! just as he was consulting the _telegraph_ to make sure of the number, the door silently swung back, and disclosed the figure of a middle-aged woman in black silk, who regarded him with a stern astonishment. "is this----?" he began, nervous and abashed by her formidable stare. "were you wanting rooms?" she asked. "yes," said he. "i was. if i could just see----" "will you come in?" she said. and her morose face, under stringent commands from her brain, began an imitation of a smile which, as an imitation, was wonderful. it made you wonder how she had ever taught her face to do it. priam farll found himself blushing on a turkey carpet, and a sort of cathedral gloom around him. he was disconcerted, but the turkey carpet assured him somewhat. as his eyes grew habituated to the light he saw that the cathedral was very narrow, and that instead of the choir was a staircase, also clothed in turkey carpet. on the lowest step reposed an object whose nature he could not at first determine. "would it be for long?" the lips opposite him muttered cautiously. his reply--the reply of an impulsive, shy nature--was to rush out of the palace. he had identified the object on the stairs. it was a slop-pail with a wrung cloth on its head. he felt profoundly discouraged and pessimistic. all his energy had left him. london had become hard, hostile, cruel, impossible. he longed for leek with a great longing. _tea_ an hour later, having at the kind suggestion of the cabman deposited leek's goods at the cloak-room of south kensington station, he was wandering on foot out of old london into the central ring of new london, where people never do anything except take the air in parks, lounge in club-windows, roll to and fro in peculiar vehicles that have ventured out without horses and are making the best of it, buy flowers and egyptian cigarettes, look at pictures, and eat and drink. nearly all the buildings were higher than they used to be, and the street wider; and at intervals of a hundred yards or so cranes that rent the clouds and defied the law of gravity were continually swinging bricks and marble into the upper layers of the air. violets were on sale at every corner, and the atmosphere was impregnated with an intoxicating perfume of methylated spirits. presently he arrived at an immense arched façade bearing principally the legend 'tea,' and he saw within hundreds of persons sipping tea; and next to that was another arched façade bearing principally the word 'tea,' and he saw within more hundreds sipping tea; and then another; and then another; and then suddenly he came to an open circular place that seemed vaguely familiar. "by jove!" he said. "this is piccadilly circus!" and just at that moment, over a narrow doorway, he perceived the image of a green tree, and the words, 'the elm tree.' it was the entrance to the elm tree tea rooms, so well spoken of in the _telegraph_. in certain ways he was a man of advanced and humane ideas, and the thought of delicately nurtured needy gentlewomen bravely battling with the world instead of starving as they used to starve in the past, appealed to his chivalry. he determined to assist them by taking tea in the advertised drawing-room. gathering together his courage, he penetrated into a corridor lighted by pink electricity, and then up pink stairs. a pink door stopped him at last. it might have hid mysterious and questionable things, but it said laconically 'push,' and he courageously pushed... he was in a kind of boudoir thickly populated with tables and chairs. the swift transmigration from the blatant street to a drawing-room had a startling effect on him: it caused him to whip off his hat as though his hat had been red hot. except for two tall elegant creatures who stood together at the other end of the boudoir, the chairs and tables had the place to themselves. he was about to stammer an excuse and fly, when one of the gentlewomen turned her eye on him for a moment, and so he sat down. the gentlewomen then resumed their conversation. he glanced cautiously about him. elm-trees, firmly rooted in a border of indian matting, grew round all the walls in exotic profusion, and their topmost branches splashed over on to the ceiling. a card on the trunk of a tree, announcing curtly, "dogs not allowed," seemed to enhearten him. after a pause one of the gentlewomen swam haughtily towards him and looked him between the eyes. she spoke no word, but her firm, austere glance said: "now, out with it, and see you behave yourself!" he had been ready to smile chivalrously. but the smile was put to sudden death. "some tea, please," he said faintly, and his intimidated tone said, "if it isn't troubling you too much." "what do you want with it?" asked the gentlewoman abruptly, and as he was plainly at a loss she added, "crumpets or tea-cake?" "tea-cake," he replied, though he hated tea-cake. but he was afraid. "you've escaped this time," said the drapery of her muslins as she swam from his sight. "but no nonsense while i'm away!" when she sternly and mutely thrust the refection before him, he found that everything on the table except the tea-cakes and the spoon was growing elm-trees. after one cup and one slice, when the tea had become stewed and undrinkable, and the tea-cake a material suitable for the manufacture of shooting boots, he resumed, at any rate partially, his presence of mind, and remembered that he had done nothing positively criminal in entering the boudoir or drawing-room and requesting food in return for money. besides, the gentlewomen were now pretending to each other that he did not exist, and no other rash persons had been driven by hunger into the virgin forest of elm-trees. he began to meditate, and his meditations taking--for him--an unusual turn, caused him surreptitiously to examine henry leek's pocket-book (previously only known to him by sight). he had not for many years troubled himself concerning money, but the discovery that, when he had paid for the deposit of luggage at the cloak-room, a solitary sovereign rested in the pocket of leek's trousers, had suggested to him that it would be advisable sooner or later to consider the financial aspect of existence. there were two banknotes for ten pounds each in leek's pocket-book; also five french banknotes of a thousand francs each, and a number of italian banknotes of small denominations: the equivalent of two hundred and thirty pounds altogether, not counting a folded inch-rule, some postage stamps, and a photograph of a pleasant-faced woman of forty or so. this sum seemed neither vast nor insignificant to priam farll. it seemed to him merely a tangible something which would enable him to banish the fiscal question from his mind for an indefinite period. he scarcely even troubled to wonder what leek was doing with over two years of leek's income in his pocket-book. he knew, or at least he with certainty guessed, that leek had been a rascal. still, he had had a sort of grim, cynical affection for leek. and the thought that leek would never again shave him, nor tell him in accents that brooked no delay that his hair must be cut, nor register his luggage and secure his seat on long-distance expresses, filled him with very real melancholy. he did not feel sorry for leek, nor say to himself "poor leek!" nobody who had had the advantage of leek's acquaintance would have said "poor leek!" for leek's greatest speciality had always been the speciality of looking after leek, and wherever leek might be it was a surety that leek's interests would not suffer. therefore priam farll's pity was mainly self-centred. and though his dignity had been considerably damaged during the final moments at selwood terrace, there was matter for congratulation. the doctor, for instance, had shaken hands with him at parting; had shaken hands openly, in the presence of duncan farll: a flattering tribute to his personality. but the chief of priam farll's satisfactions in that desolate hour was that he had suppressed himself, that for the world he existed no more. i shall admit frankly that this satisfaction nearly outweighed his grief. he sighed--and it was a sigh of tremendous relief. for now, by a miracle, he would be free from the menace of lady sophia entwistle. looking back in calmness at the still recent entwistle episode in paris--the real originating cause of his sudden flight to london--he was staggered by his latent capacity for downright, impulsive foolishness. like all shy people he had fits of amazing audacity--and his recklessness usually took the form of making himself agreeable to women whom he encountered in travel (he was much less shy with women than with men). but to propose marriage to a weather-beaten haunter of hotels like lady sophia entwistle, and to reveal his identity to her, and to allow her to accept his proposal--the thing had been unimaginably inept! and now he was free, for he was dead. he was conscious of a chill in the spine as he dwelt on the awful fate which he had escaped. he, a man of fifty, a man of set habits, a man habituated to the liberty of the wild stag, to bow his proud neck under the solid footwear of lady sophia entwistle! yes, there was most decidedly a silver lining to the dark cloud of leek's translation to another sphere of activity. in replacing the pocket-book his hand encountered the letter which had arrived for leek in the morning. arguing with himself whether he ought to open it, he opened it. it ran: "dear mr. leek, i am so glad to have your letter, and i think the photograph is most gentlemanly. but i do wish you would not write with a typewriter. you don't know how this affects a woman, or you wouldn't do it. however, i shall be so glad to meet you now, as you suggest. suppose we go to maskelyne and cook's together to-morrow afternoon (saturday). you know it isn't the egyptian hall any more. it is in st. george's hall, i think. but you will see it in the _telegraph_; also the time. i will be there when the doors open. you will recognize me from my photograph; but i shall wear red roses in my hat. so _au revoir_ for the present. yours sincerely, alice challice. p.s.--there are always a lot of dark parts at maskelyne and cook's. i must ask you to behave as a gentleman should. excuse me. i merely mention it in case.--a. c." infamous leek! here was at any rate one explanation of a mysterious little typewriter which the valet had always carried, but which priam had left at selwood terrace. priam glanced at the photograph in the pocket-book; and also, strange to say, at the _telegraph_. a lady with three children burst into the drawing-room, and instantly occupied the whole of it; the children cried "mathaw!" "mathah!" "mathaw!" in shrill tones of varied joy. as one of the gentlewomen passed near him, he asked modestly-- "how much, please?" she dropped a flake of paper on to his table without arresting her course, and said warningly: "you pay at the desk." when he hit on the desk, which was hidden behind a screen of elm-trees, he had to face a true aristocrat--and not in muslins, either. if the others were the daughters of earls, this was the authentic countess in a tea-gown. he put down leek's sovereign. "haven't you anything smaller?" snapped the countess. "i'm sorry i haven't," he replied. she picked up the sovereign scornfully, and turned it over. "it's very awkward," she muttered. then she unlocked two drawers, and unwillingly gave him eighteen and sixpence in silver and copper, without another word and without looking at him. "thank you," said he, pocketing it nervously. and, amid reiterated cries of "mathah!" "mathaw!" "mathah!" he hurried away, unregarded, unregretted, splendidly repudiated by these delicate refined creatures who were struggling for a livelihood in a great city. _alice challice_ "i suppose you are mr. leek, aren't you?" a woman greeted him as he stood vaguely hesitant outside st. george's hall, watching the afternoon audience emerge. he started back, as though the woman with her trace of cockney accent had presented a revolver at his head. he was very much afraid. it may reasonably be asked what he was doing up at st. george's hall. the answer to this most natural question touches the deepest springs of human conduct. there were two men in priam farll. one was the shy man, who had long ago persuaded himself that he actually preferred not to mix with his kind, and had made a virtue of his cowardice. the other was a doggish, devil-may-care fellow who loved dashing adventures and had a perfect passion for free intercourse with the entire human race. no. would often lead no. unsuspectingly forward to a difficult situation from which no. , though angry and uncomfortable, could not retire. thus it was no. who with the most casual air had wandered up regent street, drawn by the slender chance of meeting a woman with red roses in her hat; and it was no. who had to pay the penalty. nobody could have been more astonished than no. at the fulfillment of no. 's secret yearning for novelty. but the innocent sincerity of no. 's astonishment gave no aid to no. . farll raised his hat, and at the same moment perceived the roses. he might have denied the name of leek and fled, but he did not. though his left leg was ready to run, his right leg would not stir. then he was shaking hands with her. but how had she identified him? "i didn't really expect you," said the lady, always with a slight cockney accent. "but i thought how silly it would be for me to miss the vanishing trick just because you couldn't come. so in i went, by myself." "why didn't you expect me?" he asked diffidently. "well," she said, "mr. farll being dead, i knew you'd have a lot to do, besides being upset like." "oh yes," he said quickly, feeling that he must be more careful; for he had quite forgotten that mr. farll was dead. "how did you know?" "how did i know!" she cried. "well, i like that! look anywhere! it's all over london, has been these six hours." she pointed to a ragged man who was wearing an orange-coloured placard by way of apron. on the placard was printed in large black letters: "sudden death of priam farll in london. special memoir." other ragged men, also wearing aprons, but of different colours, similarly proclaimed by their attire that priam farll was dead. and people crowding out of st. george's hall were continually buying newspapers from these middlemen of tidings. he blushed. it was singular that he could have walked even half-an-hour in central london without noticing that his own name flew in the summer breeze of every street. but so it had been. he was that sort of man. now he understood how duncan farll had descended upon selwood terrace. "you don't mean to say you didn't _see_ those posters?" she demanded. "i didn't," he said simply. "that shows how you must have been thinking!" said she. "was he a good master?" "yes, very good," said priam farll with conviction. "i see you're not in mourning." "no. that is----" "i don't hold with mourning myself," she proceeded. "they say it's to show respect. but it seems to me that if you can't show your respect without a pair of black gloves that the dye's always coming off... i don't know what you think, but i never did hold with mourning. it's grumbling against providence, too! not but what i think there's a good deal too much talk about providence. i don't know what you think, but----" "i quite agree with you," he said, with a warm generous smile which sometimes rushed up and transformed his face before he was aware of the occurrence. and she smiled also, gazing at him half confidentially. she was a little woman, stoutish--indeed, stout; puffy red cheeks; a too remarkable white cotton blouse; and a crimson skirt that hung unevenly; grey cotton gloves; a green sunshade; on the top of all this the black hat with red roses. the photograph in leek's pocket-book must have been taken in the past. she looked quite forty-five, whereas the photograph indicated thirty-nine and a fraction. he gazed down at her protectively, with a good-natured appreciative condescension. "i suppose you'll have to be going back again soon, to arrange things like," she said. it was always she who kept the conversation afloat. "no," he said. "i've finished there. they've dismissed me." "who have?" "the relatives." "why?" he shook his head. "i hope you made them pay you your month," said she firmly. he was glad to be able to give a satisfactory answer. after a pause she resumed bravely: "so mr. farll was one of these artists? at least so i see according to the paper." he nodded. "it's a very funny business," she said. "but i suppose there's some of them make quite a nice income out of it. _you_ ought to know about that, being in it, as it were." never in his life had he conversed on such terms with such a person as mrs. alice challice. she was in every way a novelty for him--in clothes, manners, accent, deportment, outlook on the world and on paint. he had heard and read of such beings as mrs. alice challice, and now he was in direct contact with one of them. the whole affair struck him as excessively odd, as a mad escapade on his part. wisdom in him deemed it ridiculous to prolong the encounter, but shy folly could not break loose. moreover she possessed the charm of her novelty; and there was that in her which challenged the male in him. "well," she said, "i suppose we can't stand here for ever!" the crowd had frittered itself away, and an attendant was closing and locking the doors of st. george's hall. he coughed. "it's a pity it's saturday and all the shops closed. but anyhow suppose we walk along oxford street all the same? shall we?" this from her. "by all means." "now there's one thing i should like to say," she murmured with a calm smile as they moved off. "you've no occasion to be shy with me. there's no call for it. i'm just as you see me." "shy!" he exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "do i seem shy to you?" he thought he had been magnificently doggish. "oh, well," she said. "that's all right, then, if you _aren't._ i should take it as a poor compliment, being shy with me. where do you think we can have a good talk? i'm free for the evening. i don't know about you." her eyes questioned his. _no gratuities_ at a late hour, they were entering, side by side, a glittering establishment whose interior seemed to be walled chiefly in bevelled glass, so that everywhere the curious observer saw himself and twisted fractions of himself. the glass was relieved at frequent intervals by elaborate enamelled signs which repeated, 'no gratuities.' it seemed that the directors of the establishment wished to make perfectly clear to visitors that, whatever else they might find, they must on no account expect gratuities. "i've always wanted to come here," said mrs. alice challice vivaciously, glancing up at priam farll's modest, middle-aged face. then, after they had successfully passed through a preliminary pair of bevelled portals, a huge man dressed like a policeman, and achieving a very successful imitation of a policeman, stretched out his hand, and stopped them. "in line, please," he said. "i thought it was a restaurant, not a theatre," priam whispered to mrs. challice. "so it is a restaurant," said his companion. "but i hear they're obliged to do like this because there's always such a crowd. it's very 'andsome, isn't it?" he agreed that it was. he felt that london had got a long way in front of him and that he would have to hurry a great deal before he could catch it up. at length another imitation of a policeman opened more doors and, with other sinners, they were released from purgatory into a clattering paradise, which again offered everything save gratuities. they were conducted to a small table full of dirty plates and empty glasses in a corner of the vast and lofty saloon. a man in evening dress whose eye said, "now mind, no insulting gratuities!" rushed past the table and in one deft amazing gesture swept off the whole of its contents and was gone with them. it was an astounding feat, and when priam recovered from his amazement he fell into another amazement on discovering that by some magic means the man in evening dress had insinuated a gold-charactered menu into his hands. this menu was exceedingly long--it comprised everything except gratuities--and, evidently knowing from experience that it was not a document to be perused and exhausted in five minutes, the man in evening dress took care not to interrupt the studies of priam farll and alice challice during a full quarter of an hour. then he returned like a bolt, put them through an examination in the menu, and fled, and when he was gone they saw that the table was set with a clean cloth and instruments and empty glasses. a band thereupon burst into gay strains, like the band at a music-hall after something very difficult on the horizontal bar. and it played louder and louder; and as it played louder, so the people talked louder. and the crash of cymbals mingled with the crash of plates, and the altercations of knives and forks with the shrill accents of chatterers determined to be heard. and men in evening dress (a costume which seemed to be forbidden to sitters at tables) flitted to and fro with inconceivable rapidity, austere, preoccupied conjurers. and from every marble wall, bevelled mirror, and doric column, there spoke silently but insistently the haunting legend, 'no gratuities.' thus priam farll began his first public meal in modern london. he knew the hotels; he knew the restaurants, of half-a-dozen countries, but he had never been so overwhelmed as he was here. remembering london as a city of wooden chop-houses, he could scarcely eat for the thoughts that surged through his brain. "isn't it amusing?" said mrs. challice benignantly, over a glass of lager. "i'm so glad you brought me here. i've always wanted to come." and then, a few minutes afterwards, she was saying, against the immense din-- "you know, i've been thinking for years of getting married again. and if you really _are_ thinking of getting married, what are you to do? you may sit in a chair and wait till eggs are sixpence a dozen, and you'll be no nearer. you must do something. and what is there except a matrimonial agency? i say--what's the matter with a matrimonial agency, anyhow? if you want to get married, you want to get married, and it's no use pretending you don't. i do hate pretending, i do. no shame in wanting to get married, is there? i think a matrimonial agency is a very good, useful thing. they say you're swindled. well, those that are deserve to be. you can be swindled without a matrimonial agency, seems to me. not that i've ever been. plain common-sense people never are. no, if you ask me, matrimonial agencies are the most sensible things--after dress-shields--that's ever been invented. and i'm sure if anything comes of this, i shall pay the fees with the greatest pleasure. now don't you agree with me?" the whole mystery stood explained. "absolutely!" he said. and felt the skin creeping in the small of his back. * * * * * chapter iii _the photograph_ from the moment of mrs. challice's remarks in favour of matrimonial agencies priam farll's existence became a torture to him. she was what he had always been accustomed to think of as "a very decent woman"; but really...! the sentence is not finished because priam never finished it in his own mind. fifty times he conducted the sentence as far as 'really,' and there it dissolved into an uncomfortable cloud. "i suppose we shall have to be going," said she, when her ice had been eaten and his had melted. "yes," said he, and added to himself, "but where?" however, it would be a relief to get out of the restaurant, and he called for the bill. while they were waiting for the bill the situation grew more strained. priam was aware of a desire to fling down sovereigns on the table and rush wildly away. even mrs. challice, vaguely feeling this, had a difficulty in conversing. "you _are_ like your photograph!" she remarked, glancing at his face which--it should be said--had very much changed within half-an-hour. he had a face capable of a hundred expressions per day. his present expression was one of his anxious expressions, medium in degree. it can be figured in the mask of a person who is locked up in an iron strongroom, and, feeling ill at ease, notices that the walls are getting red-hot at the corners. "like my photograph?" he exclaimed, astonished that he should resemble leek's photograph. "yes," she asseverated stoutly. "i knew you at once. especially by the nose." "have you got it here?" he asked, interested to see what portrait of leek had a nose like his own. and she pulled out of her handbag a photograph, not of leek, but of priam farll. it was an unmounted print of a negative which he and leek had taken together for the purposes of a pose in a picture, and it had decidedly a distinguished appearance. but why should leek dispatch photographs of his master to strange ladies introduced through a matrimonial agency? priam farll could not imagine--unless it was from sheer unscrupulous, careless bounce. she gazed at the portrait with obvious joy. "now, candidly, don't _you_ think it's very, very good?" she demanded. "i suppose it is," he agreed. he would probably have given two hundred pounds for the courage to explain to her in a few well-chosen words that there had been a vast mistake, a huge impulsive indiscretion. but two hundred thousand pounds would not have bought that courage. "i love it," she ejaculated fervently--with heat, and yet so nicely! and she returned the photograph to her little bag. she lowered her voice. "you haven't told me whether you were ever married. i've been waiting for that." he blushed. she was disconcertingly personal. "no," he said. "and you've always lived like that, alone like; no home; travelling about; no one to look after you, properly?" there was distress in her voice. he nodded. "one gets accustomed to it." "oh yes," she said. "i can understand that." "no responsibilities," he added. "no. i can understand all that." then she hesitated. "but i do feel so sorry for you... all these years!" and her eyes were moist, and her tone was so sincere that priam farll found it quite remarkably affecting. of course she was talking about henry leek, the humble valet, and not about leek's illustrious master. but priam saw no difference between his lot and that of leek. he felt that there was no essential difference, and that, despite leek's multiple perfections as a valet, he never had been looked after--properly. her voice made him feel just as sorry for himself as she was sorry for him; it made him feel that she had a kind heart, and that a kind heart was the only thing on earth that really mattered. ah! if lady sophia entwistle had spoken to him in such accents...! the bill came. it was so small that he was ashamed to pay it. the suppression of gratuities enabled the monarch of this bevelled palace to offer a complete dinner for about the same price as a thimbleful of tea and ten drachms of cake a few yards away. happily the monarch, foreseeing his shame, had arranged a peculiar method of payment through a little hole, where the receiver could see nothing but his blushing hands. as for the conjurers in evening dress, they apparently never soiled themselves by contact with specie. outside on the pavement, he was at a loss what to do. you see, he was entirely unfamiliar with mrs. challice's code of etiquette. "would you care to go to the alhambra or somewhere?" he suggested, having a notion that this was the correct thing to say to a lady whose presence near you was directly due to her desire for marriage. "it's very good of you," said she. "but i'm sure you only say it out of kindness--because you're a gentleman. it wouldn't be quite nice for you to go to a music-hall to-night. i know i said i was free for the evening, but i wasn't thinking. it wasn't a hint--no, truly! i think i shall go home--and perhaps some other----" "i shall see you home," said he quickly. impulsive, again! "would you really like to? can you?" in the bluish glare of an electricity that made the street whiter than day, she blushed. yes, she blushed like a girl. she led him up a side-street where was a kind of railway station unfamiliar to priam farll's experience, tiled like a butcher's shop and as clean as holland. under her direction he took tickets for a station whose name he had never heard of, and then they passed through steel railings which clacked behind them into a sort of safe deposit, from which the only emergence was a long dim tunnel. painted hands, pointing to the mysterious word 'lifts,' waved you onwards down this tunnel. "hurry up, please," came a voice out of the spectral gloom. mrs. challice thereupon ran. now up the tunnel, opposing all human progress there blew a steady trade-wind of tremendous force. immediately priam began to run the trade-wind removed his hat, which sailed buoyantly back towards the street. he was after it like a youth of twenty, and he recaptured it. but when he reached the extremity of the tunnel his amazed eyes saw nothing but a great cage of human animals pressed tightly together behind bars. there was a click, and the whole cage sank from his sight into the earth. he felt that there was more than he had dreamt of in the city of miracles. in a couple of minutes another cage rose into the tunnel at a different point, vomited its captives and descended swiftly again with priam and many others, and threw him and the rest out into a white mine consisting of numberless galleries. he ran about these interminable galleries underneath london, at the bidding of painted hands, for a considerable time, and occasionally magic trains without engines swept across his vision. but he could not find even the spirit of mrs. alice challice in this nether world. _the nest_ on letter-paper headed "grand babylon hotel, london," he was writing in a disguised backward hand a note to the following effect: "duncan farll, esq. sir,--if any letters or telegrams arrive for me at selwood terrace, be good enough to have them forwarded to me at once to the above address.--yours truly, h. leek." it cost him something to sign the name of the dead man; but he instinctively guessed that duncan farll might be a sieve which (owing to its legal-mindedness) would easily get clogged up even by a slight suspicion. hence, in order to be sure of receiving a possible letter or telegram from mrs. challice, he must openly label himself as henry leek. he had lost mrs. challice; there was no address on her letter; he only knew that she lived at or near putney, and the sole hope of finding her again lay in the fact that she had the selwood terrace address. he wanted to find her again; he desired that ardently, if merely to explain to her that their separation was due to a sudden caprice of his hat, and that he had searched for her everywhere in the mine, anxiously, desperately. she would surely not imagine that he had slipped away from her on purpose? no! and yet, if incapable of such an enormity, why had she not waited for him on one of the platforms? however, he hoped for the best. the best was a telegram; the second-best a letter. on receipt of which he would fly to her to explain.... and besides, he wanted to see her--simply. her answer to his suggestion of a music-hall, and the tone of it, had impressed him. and her remark, "i do feel so sorry for you all these years," had--well, somewhat changed his whole outlook on life. yes, he wanted to see her in order to satisfy himself that he had her respect. a woman impossible socially, a woman with strange habits and tricks of manner (no doubt there were millions such); but a woman whose respect one would not forfeit without a struggle! he had been pushed to an extremity, forced to act with swiftness, upon losing her. and he had done the thing that comes most naturally to a life-long traveller. he had driven to the best hotel in the town. (he had seen in a flash that the idea of inhabiting any private hotel whatever was a silly idea.) and now he was in a large bedroom over-looking the thames--a chamber with a writing-desk, a sofa, five electric lights, two easy-chairs, a telephone, electric bells, and a massive oak door with a lock and a key in the lock; in short, his castle! an enterprise of some daring to storm the castle: but he had stormed it. he had registered under the name of leek, a name sufficiently common not to excite remark, and the floor-valet had proved to be an admirable young man. he trusted to the floor-valet and to the telephone for avoiding any rough contact with the world. he felt comparatively safe now; the entire enormous hotel was a nest for his shyness, a conspiracy to keep him in cotton-wool. he was an autocratic number, absolute ruler over room , and with the right to command the almost limitless resources of the grand babylon for his own private ends. as he sealed the envelope he touched a bell. the valet entered. "you've got the evening papers?" asked priam farll. "yes, sir." the valet put a pile of papers respectfully on the desk. "all of them?" "yes, sir." "thanks. well, it's not too late to have a messenger, is it?" "oh _no_, sir." ("'too late' in the grand babylon, oh czar!" said the valet's shocked tone.) "then please get a messenger to take this letter, at once." "in a cab, sir?" "yes, in a cab. i don't know whether there will be an answer. he will see. then let him call at the cloak-room at south kensington station and get my luggage. here's the ticket." "thank you, sir." "i can rely on you to see that he goes at once?" "you can, sir," said the valet, in such accents as carry absolute conviction. "thank you. that will do, i think." the man retired, and the door was closed by an expert in closing doors, one who had devoted his life to the perfection of detail in valetry. _fame_ he lay on the sofa at the foot of the bed, with all illumination extinguished save one crimson-shaded light immediately above him. the evening papers--white, green, rose, cream, and yellow--shared his couch. he was about to glance at the obituaries; to glance at them in a careless, condescending way, just to see the _sort_ of thing that journalists had written of him. he knew the value of obituaries; he had often smiled at them. he knew also the exceeding fatuity of art criticism, which did not cause him even to smile, being simply a bore. he recollected, further, that he was not the first man to read his own obituary; the adventure had happened to others; and he could recall how, on his having heard that owing to an error it had happened to the great so-and-so, he, in his quality of philosopher, had instantly decided what frame of mind the great so-and-so ought to have assumed for the perusal of his biography. he carefully and deliberately adopted that frame of mind now. he thought of marcus aurelius on the futility of fame; he remembered his life-long attitude of gentle, tired scorn for the press; he reflected with wise modesty that in art nothing counts but the work itself, and that no quantity of inept chatter could possibly affect, for good or evil, his value, such as it might be, to the world. then he began to open the papers. the first glimpse of their contents made him jump. in fact, the physical result of it was quite extraordinary. his temperature increased. his heart became audible. his pulse quickened. and there was a tingling as far off as his toes. he had felt, in a dim, unacknowledged way, that he must be a pretty great painter. of course his prices were notorious. and he had guessed, though vaguely, that he was the object of widespread curiosity. but he had never compared himself with titanic figures on the planet. it had always seemed to him that _his_ renown was different from other renowns, less--somehow unreal and make-believe. he had never imaginatively grasped, despite prices and public inquisitiveness, that he too was one of the titanic figures. he grasped it now. the aspect of the papers brought it home to him with tremendous force. special large type! titles stretching across two columns! black borders round the pages! "death of england's greatest painter." "sudden death of priam farll." "sad death of a great genius." "puzzling career prematurely closed." "europe in mourning." "irreparable loss to the world's art." "it is with the most profound regret." "our readers will be shocked." "the news will come as a personal blow to every lover of great painting." so the papers went on, outvying each other in enthusiastic grief. he ceased to be careless and condescending to them. the skin crept along his spine. there he lay, solitary, under the crimson glow, locked in his castle, human, with the outward semblance of a man like other men, and yet the cities of europe were weeping for him. he heard them weeping. every lover of great painting was under a sense of personal bereavement. the very voice of the world was hushed. after all, it was something to have done your best; after all, good stuff _was_ appreciated by the mass of the race. the phenomena presented by the evening papers was certainly prodigious, and prodigiously affecting. mankind was unpleasantly stunned by the report of his decease. he forgot that mrs. challice, for instance, had perfectly succeeded in hiding her grief for the irreparable loss, and that her questions about priam farll had been almost perfunctory. he forgot that he had witnessed absolutely no sign of overwhelming sorrow, or of any degree of sorrow, in the thoroughfares of the teeming capital, and that the hotels did not resound to sobbing. he knew only that all europe was in mourning! "i suppose i was rather wonderful--_am_, i mean"--he said to himself, dazed and happy. yes, happy. "the fact is, i've got so used to my own work that perhaps i don't think enough of it." he said this as modestly as he could. there was no question now of casually glancing at the obituaries. he could not miss a single line, a single word. he even regretted that the details of his life were so few and unimportant. it seemed to him that it was the business of the journalists to have known more, to have displayed more enterprise in acquiring information. still, the tone was right. the fellows meant well, at any rate. his eyes encountered nothing but praise. indeed the press of london had yielded itself up to an encomiastic orgy. his modesty tried to say that this was slightly overdone; but his impartiality asked, "really, what _could_ they say against me?" as a rule unmitigated praise was nauseous but here they were undoubtedly genuine, the fellows; their sentences rang true! never in his life had he been so satisfied with the scheme of the universe! he was nearly consoled for the dissolution of leek. when, after continued reading, he came across a phrase which discreetly insinuated, apropos of the policeman and the penguins, that capriciousness in the choice of subject was perhaps a pose with him, the accusation hurt. "pose!" he inwardly exclaimed. "what a lie! the man's an ass!" and he resented the following remark which concluded a 'special memoir' extremely laudatory in matter and manner, by an expert whose books he had always respected: "however, contemporary judgments are in the large majority of cases notoriously wrong, and it behooves us to remember this in choosing a niche for our idol. time alone can settle the ultimate position of priam farll." useless for his modesty to whisper to him that contemporary judgments _were_ notoriously wrong. he did not like it. it disturbed him. there were exceptions to every rule. and if the connoisseur meant anything at all, he was simply stultifying the rest of the article. time be d----d! he had come nearly to the last line of the last obituary before he was finally ruffled. most of the sheets, in excusing the paucity of biographical detail, had remarked that priam farll was utterly unknown to london society, of a retiring disposition, hating publicity, a recluse, etc. the word "recluse" grated on his sensitiveness a little; but when the least important of the evening papers roundly asserted it to be notorious that he was of extremely eccentric habits, he grew secretly furious. neither his modesty nor his philosophy was influential enough to restore him to complete calm. eccentric! he! what next? eccentric, indeed! now, what conceivable justification------? _the ruling classes_ between a quarter-past and half-past eleven he was seated alone at a small table in the restaurant of the grand babylon. he had had no news of mrs. challice; she had not instantly telegraphed to selwood terrace, as he had wildly hoped. but in the boxes of henry leek, safely retrieved by the messenger from south kensington station, he had discovered one of his old dress-suits, not too old, and this dress-suit he had donned. the desire to move about unknown in the well-clad world, the world of the frequenters of costly hotels, the world to which he was accustomed, had overtaken him. moreover, he felt hungry. hence he had descended to the famous restaurant, whose wide windows were flung open to the illuminated majesty of the thames embankment. the pale cream room was nearly full of expensive women, and expending men, and silver-chained waiters whose skilled, noiseless, inhuman attentions were remunerated at the rate of about four-pence a minute. music, the midnight food of love, floated scarce heard through the tinted atmosphere. it was the best imitation of roman luxury that london could offer, and after selwood terrace and the rackety palace of no gratuities, priam farll enjoyed it as one enjoys home after strange climes. next to his table was an empty table, set for two, to which were presently conducted, with due state, a young man, and a magnificent woman whose youth was slipping off her polished shoulders like a cloak. priam farll then overheard the following conversation:-- _man_: well, what are you going to have? _woman_: but look here, little charlie, you can't possibly afford to pay for this! _man_: never said i could. it's the paper that pays. so go ahead. _woman_: is lord nasing so keen as all that? _man_: it isn't lord nasing. it's our brand new editor specially imported from chicago. _woman_: will he last? _man_: he'll last a hundred nights, say as long as the run of your piece. then he'll get six months' screw and the boot. _woman_: how much is six months' screw? _man_: three thousand. _woman_: well, i can hardly earn that myself. _man_: neither can i. but then you see we weren't born in chicago. _woman_: i've been offered a thousand dollars a week to go there, anyhow. _man_: why didn't you tell me that for the interview? i've spent two entire entr'actes in trying to get something interesting out of you, and there you go and keep a thing like that up your sleeve. it's not fair to an old and faithful admirer. i shall stick it in. poulet chasseur? _woman_: oh no! couldn't dream of it. didn't you know i was dieting? nothing saucy. no sugar. no bread. no tea. thanks to that i've lost nearly a stone in six months. you know i _was_ getting enormous. _man_: let me put _that_ in, eh? _woman_: just try, and see what happens to you! _man_: well, shall we say a lettuce salad, and a perrier and soda? i'm dieting, too. _waiter_: lettuce salad, and a perrier and soda? yes, sir. _woman_: you aren't very gay. _man_: gay! you don't know all the yearnings of my soul. don't imagine that because i'm a special of the _record_ i haven't got a soul. _woman_: i suppose you've been reading that book, omar khayyam, that every one's talking about. isn't that what it's called? _man_: has omar khayyam reached the theatrical world? well, there's no doubt the earth does move, after all. _woman_: a little more soda, please. and just a trifle less impudence. what book ought one to be reading, then? _man_: socialism's the thing just now. read wells on socialism. it'll be all over the theatrical world in a few years' time. _woman_: no fear! i can't bear wells. he's always stirring up the dregs. i don't mind froth, but i do draw the line at dregs. what's the band playing? what have you been doing to-day? _is_ this lettuce? no, no! no bread. didn't you hear me tell you? _man_: i've been busy with the priam farll affair. _woman_: priam farll? _man_: yes. painter. _you_ know. _woman_: oh yes. _him_! i saw it on the posters. he's dead, it seems. anything mysterious? _man_: you bet! very odd! frightfully rich, you know! yet he died in a wretched hovel of a place down off the fulham road. and his valet's disappeared. we had the first news of the death, through our arrangement with all the registrars' clerks in london. by the bye, don't give that away--it's our speciality. nasing sent me off at once to write up the story. _woman_: story? _man_: the particulars. we always call it a story in fleet street. _woman_: what a good name! well, did you find out anything interesting? _man_: not very much. i saw his cousin, duncan farll, a money-lending lawyer in clement's lane--he only heard of it because we telephoned to him. but the fellow would scarcely tell me anything at all. _woman_: really! i do hope there's something terrible. _man_: why? _woman_: so that i can go to the inquest or the police court or whatever it is. that's why i always keep friendly with magistrates. it's so frightfully thrilling, sitting on the bench with them. _man_: there won't be any inquest. but there's something queer in it. you see, priam farll was never in england. always abroad; at those foreign hotels, wandering up and down. _woman (after a pause)_: i know. _man_: what do you know? _woman_: will you promise not to chatter? _man_: yes. _woman_: i met him once at an hotel at ostend. he--well, he wanted most tremendously to paint my portrait. but i wouldn't let him. _man_: why not? _woman_: if you knew what sort of man he was you wouldn't ask. _man_: oh! but look here, i say! you must let me use that in my story. tell me all about it. _woman_: not for worlds. _man_: he--he made up to you? _woman_: rather! _priam farll (to himself)_: what a barefaced lie! never was at ostend in my life. _man_: can't i use it if i don't print your name--just say a distinguished actress. _woman_: oh yes, you can do _that_. you might say, of the musical comedy stage. _man_: i will. i'll run something together. trust me. thanks awfully. at this point a young and emaciated priest passed up the room. _woman_: oh! father luke, is that you? do come and sit here and be nice. this is father luke widgery--mr. docksey, of the _record_. _man_: delighted. _priest_: delighted. _woman_: now, father luke, i've just _got_ to come to your sermon to-morrow. what's it about? _priest_: modern vice. _woman_: how charming! i read the last one--it was lovely. _priest_: unless you have a ticket you'll never be able to get in. _woman_: but i must get in. i'll come to the vestry door, if there is a vestry door at st. bede's. _priest_: it's impossible. you've no idea of the crush. and i've no favourites. _woman_: oh yes, you have! you have me. _priest_: in my church, fashionable women must take their chance with the rest. _woman_: how horrid you are. _priest_: perhaps. i may tell you, miss cohenson, that i've seen two duchesses standing at the back of the aisle of st. bede's, and glad to be. _woman_: but _i_ shan't flatter you by standing at the back of your aisle, and you needn't think it. haven't i given you a box before now? _priest_: i only accepted the box as a matter of duty; it is part of my duty to go everywhere. _man_: come with me, miss cohenson. i've got two tickets for the _record_. _woman_: oh, so you do send seats to the press? _priest_: the press is different. waiter, bring me half a bottle of heidsieck. _waiter_: half a bottle of heidsieck? yes, sir. _woman_: heidsieck. well, i like that. _we're_ dieting. _priest: i_ don't like heidsieck. but i'm dieting too. it's my doctor's orders. every night before retiring. it appears that my system needs it. maria lady rowndell insists on giving me a hundred a year to pay for it. it is her own beautiful way of helping the good cause. ice, please, waiter. i've just been seeing her to-night. she's staying here for the season. saves her a lot of trouble. she's very much cut up about the death of priam farll, poor thing! so artistic, you know! the late lord rowndell had what is supposed to be the finest lot of farlls in england. _man_: did you ever meet priam farll, father luke? _priest_: never. i understand he was most eccentric. i hate eccentricity. i once wrote to him to ask him if he would paint a holy family for st. bede's. _man_: and what did he reply? _priest_: he didn't reply. considering that he wasn't even an r.a., i don't think that it was quite nice of him. however, maria lady rowndell insists that he must be buried in westminster abbey. she asked me what i could do. _woman_: buried in westminster abbey! i'd no idea he was so big as all that! gracious! _priest_: i have the greatest confidence in maria lady rowndell's taste, and certainly i bear no grudge. i may be able to arrange something. my uncle the dean---- _man_: pardon me. i always understood that since you left the church---- _priest_: since i joined the church, you mean. there is but one. _man_: church of england, i meant. _priest_: ah! _man_: since you left the church of england, there had been a breach between the dean and yourself. _priest_: merely religious. besides my sister is the dean's favourite niece. and i am her favourite brother. my sister takes much interest in art. she has just painted a really exquisite tea-cosy for me. of course the dean ultimately settles these questions of national funerals, hence... at this point the invisible orchestra began to play "god save the king." _woman_: oh! what a bore! then nearly all the lights were extinguished. _waiter_: please, gentlemen! gentlemen, please! _priest_: you quite understand, mr. docksey, that i merely gave these family details in order to substantiate my statement that i may be able to arrange something. by the way, if you would care to have a typescript of my sermon to-morrow for the _record_, you can have one by applying at the vestry. _waiter_: please, gentlemen! _man_: so good of you. as regards the burial in westminster abbey, i think that the _record_ will support the project. i say i _think_. _priest_: maria lady rowndell will be grateful. five-sixths of the remaining lights went out, and the entire company followed them. in the foyer there was a prodigious crush of opera cloaks, silk hats, and cigars, all jostling together. news arrived from the strand that the weather had turned to rain, and all the intellect of the grand babylon was centred upon the british climate, exactly as if the british climate had been the latest discovery of science. as the doors swung to and fro, the stridency of whistles, the throbbing of motor-cars, and the hoarse cries of inhabitants of box seats mingled strangely with the delicate babble of the interior. then, lo! as by magic, the foyer was empty save for the denizens of the hotel who could produce evidence of identity. it had been proved to demonstration, for the sixth time that week, that in the metropolis of the greatest of empires there is not one law for the rich and another for the poor. deeply affected by what he had overheard, priam farll rose in a lift and sought his bed. he perceived clearly that he had been among the governing classes of the realm. * * * * * chapter iv _a scoop_ within less than twelve hours after that conversation between members of the governing classes at the grand babylon hotel, priam farll heard the first deep-throated echoes of the voice of england on the question of his funeral. the voice of england issued on this occasion through the mouth of the _sunday news_, a newspaper which belonged to lord nasing, the proprietor of the _daily record_. there was a column in the _sunday news_, partly concerning the meeting of priam farll and a celebrated star of the musical comedy stage at ostend. there was also a leading article, in which it was made perfectly clear that england would stand ashamed among the nations, if she did not inter her greatest painter in westminster abbey. only the article, instead of saying westminster abbey, said national valhalla. it seemed to make a point of not mentioning westminster abbey by name, as though westminster abbey had been something not quite mentionable, such as a pair of trousers. the article ended with the word 'basilica,' and by the time you had reached this majestic substantive, you felt indeed, with the _sunday news_, that a national valhalla without the remains of a priam farll inside it, would be shocking, if not inconceivable. priam farll was extremely disturbed. on monday morning the _daily record_ came nobly to the support of the _sunday news_. it had evidently spent its sunday in collecting the opinions of a number of famous men--including three m.p.'s, a banker, a colonial premier, a k.c., a cricketer, and the president of the royal academy--as to whether the national valhalla was or was not a suitable place for the repose of the remains of priam farll; and the unanimous reply was in the affirmative. other newspapers expressed the same view. but there were opponents of the scheme. some organs coldly inquired what priam farll had _done_ for england, and particularly for the higher life of england. he had not been a moral painter like hogarth or sir noel paton, nor a worshipper of classic legend and beauty like the unique leighton. he had openly scorned england. he had never lived in england. he had avoided the royal academy, honouring every country save his own. and was he such a great painter, after all? was he anything but a clever dauber whose work had been forced into general admiration by the efforts of a small clique of eccentric admirers? far be it from them, the organs, to decry a dead man, but the national valhalla was the national valhalla.... and so on. the penny evening papers were pro-farll, one of them furiously so. you gathered that if priam farll was not buried in westminster abbey the penny evening papers would, from mere disgust, wipe their boots on dover cliffs and quit england eternally for some land where art was understood. you gathered, by nightfall, that fleet street must be a scene of carnage, full of enthusiasts cutting each other's throats for the sake of the honour of art. however, no abnormal phenomenon was superficially observable in fleet street; nor was martial law proclaimed at the arts club in dover street. london was impassioned by the question of farll's funeral; a few hours would decide if england was to be shamed among the nations: and yet the town seemed to pursue its jog-trot way exactly as usual. the gaiety theatre performed its celebrated nightly musical comedy, "house full"; and at queen's hall quite a large audience was collected to listen to a violinist aged twelve, who played like a man, though a little one, and whose services had been bought for seven years by a limited company. the next morning the controversy was settled by one of the _daily record's_ characteristic 'scoops.' in the nature of the case, such controversies, if they are not settled quickly, settle themselves quickly; they cannot be prolonged. but it was the _daily record_ that settled this one. the _daily record_ came out with a copy of the will of priam farll, in which, after leaving a pound a week for life to his valet, henry leek, priam farll bequeathed the remainder of his fortune to the nation for the building and up-keep of a gallery of great masters. priam farll's own collection of great masters, gradually made by him in that inexpensive manner which is possible only to the finest connoisseurs, was to form the nucleus of the gallery. it comprised, said the _record_, several rembrandts, a velasquez, six vermeers, a giorgione, a turner, a charles, two cromes, a holbein. (after charles the _record_ put a note of interrogation, itself being uncertain of the name.) the pictures were in paris--had been for many years. the leading idea of the gallery was that nothing not absolutely first-class should be admitted to it. the testator attached two conditions to the bequest. one was that his own name should be inscribed nowhere in the building, and the other was that none of his own pictures should be admitted to the gallery. was not this sublime? was not this true british pride? was not this magnificently unlike the ordinary benefactor of his country? the _record_ was in a position to assert that priam farll's estate would amount to about a hundred and forty thousand pounds, in addition to the value of the pictures. after that, was anybody going to argue that he ought not to be buried in the national valhalla, a philanthropist so royal and so proudly meek? the opposition gave up. priam farll grew more and more disturbed in his fortress at the grand babylon hotel. he perfectly remembered making the will. he had made it about seventeen years before, after some champagne in venice, in an hour of anger against some english criticisms of his work. yes, english criticisms! it was his vanity that had prompted him to reply in that manner. moreover, he was quite young then. he remembered the youthful glee with which he had appointed his next-of-kin, whoever they might be, executors and trustees of the will. he remembered his cruel joy in picturing their disgust at being compelled to carry out the terms of such a will. often, since, he had meant to destroy the will; but carelessly he had always omitted to do so. and his collection and his fortune had continued to increase regularly and mightily, and now--well, there the thing was! duncan farll had found the will. and duncan farll would be the executor and trustee of that melodramatic testament. he could not help smiling, serious as the situation was. during that day the thing was settled; the authorities spoke; the word went forth. priam farll was to be buried in westminster abbey on the thursday. the dignity of england among artistic nations had been saved, partly by the heroic efforts of the _daily record_, and partly by the will, which proved that after all priam farll had had the highest interests of his country at heart. _cowardice_ on the night between tuesday and wednesday priam farll had not a moment of sleep. whether it was the deep-throated voice of england that had spoken, or merely the voice of the dean's favourite niece--so skilled in painting tea-cosies--the affair was excessively serious. for the nation was preparing to inter in the national valhalla the remains of just henry leek! priam's mind had often a sardonic turn; he was assuredly capable of strange caprices: but even he could not permit an error so gigantic to continue. the matter must be rectified, and instantly! and he alone could rectify it. the strain on his shyness would be awful, would be scarcely endurable. nevertheless he must act. quite apart from other considerations, there was the consideration of that hundred and forty thousand pounds, which was his, and which he had not the slightest desire to leave to the british nation. and as for giving his beloved pictures to the race which adored landseer, edwin long, and leighton-- the idea nauseated him. he must go and see duncan farll! and explain! yes, explain that he was not dead. then he had a vision of duncan farll's hard, stupid face, and impenetrable steel head; and of himself being kicked out of the house, or delivered over to a policeman, or in some subtler way unimaginably insulted. could he confront duncan farll? was a hundred and forty thousand pounds and the dignity of the british nation worth the bearding of duncan farll? no! his distaste for duncan farll amounted to more than a hundred and forty millions of pounds and the dignity of whole planets. he felt that he could never bring himself to meet duncan farll. why, duncan might shove him into a lunatic asylum, might...! still he must act. then it was that occurred to him the brilliant notion of making a clean breast of it to the dean. he had not the pleasure of the dean's personal acquaintance. the dean was an abstraction; certainly much more abstract than priam farll. he thought he could meet the dean. a terrific enterprise, but he must accomplish it! after all, a dean--what was it? nothing but a man with a funny hat! and was not he himself priam farll, the authentic priam farll, vastly greater than any dean? he told the valet to buy black gloves, and a silk hat, sized seven and a quarter, and to bring up a copy of _who's who_. he hoped the valet would be dilatory in executing these commands. but the valet seemed to fulfill them by magic. time flew so fast that (in a way of speaking) you could hardly see the fingers as they whirled round the clock. and almost before he knew where he was, two commissionaires were helping him into an auto-cab, and the terrific enterprise had begun. the auto-cab would easily have won the race for the gordon bennett cup. it was of about two hundred h.p., and it arrived in dean's yard in less time than a fluent speaker would take to say jack robinson. the rapidity of the flight was simply incredible. "i'll keep you," priam farll was going to say, as he descended, but he thought it would be more final to dismiss the machine; so he dismissed it. he rang the bell with frantic haste, lest he should run away ere he had rung it. and then his heart went thumping, and the perspiration damped the lovely lining of his new hat; and his legs trembled, literally! he was in hell on the dean's doorstep. the door was opened by a man in livery of prelatical black, who eyed him inimically. "er----" stammered priam farll, utterly flustered and craven. "is this mr. parker's?" now parker was not the dean's name, and priam knew that it was not. parker was merely the first name that had come into priam's cowardly head. "no, it isn't," said the flunkey with censorious lips. "it's the dean's." "oh, i beg pardon," said priam farll. "i thought it was mr. parker's." and he departed. between the ringing of the bell and the flunkey's appearance, he had clearly seen what he was capable, and what he was incapable, of doing. and the correction of england's error was among his incapacities. he could not face the dean. he could not face any one. he was a poltroon in all these things; a poltroon. no use arguing! he could not do it. "i thought it was mr. parker's!" good heavens! to what depths can a great artist fall. that evening he received a cold letter from duncan farll, with a nave-ticket for the funeral. duncan farll did not venture to be sure that mr. henry leek would think proper to attend his master's interment; but he enclosed a ticket. he also stated that the pound a week would be paid to him in due course. lastly he stated that several newspaper representatives had demanded mr. henry leek's address, but he had not thought fit to gratify this curiosity. priam was glad of that. "well, i'm dashed!" he reflected, handling the ticket for the nave. there it was, large, glossy, real as life. _in the valhalla_ in the vast nave there were relatively few people--that is to say, a few hundred, who had sufficient room to move easily to and fro under the eyes of officials. priam farll had been admitted through the cloisters, according to the direction printed on the ticket. in his nervous fancy, he imagined that everybody must be gazing at him suspiciously, but the fact was that he occupied the attention of no one at all. he was with the unprivileged, on the wrong side of the massive screen which separated the nave from the packed choir and transepts, and the unprivileged are never interested in themselves; it is the privileged who interest them. the organ was wafting a melody of purcell to the furthest limits of the abbey. round a roped space a few ecclesiastical uniforms kept watch over the ground that would be the tomb. the sunlight of noon beat and quivered in long lances through crimson and blue windows. then the functionaries began to form an aisle among the spectators, and emotion grew tenser. the organ was silent for a moment, and when it recommenced its song the song was the supreme expression of human grief, the dirge of chopin, wrapping the whole cathedral in heavy folds of sorrow. and as that appeal expired in the pulsating air, the fresh voices of little boys, sweeter even than grief, rose in the distance. it was at this point that priam farll descried lady sophia entwistle, a tall, veiled figure, in full mourning. she had come among the comparatively unprivileged to his funeral. doubtless influence such as hers could have obtained her a seat in the transept, but she had preferred the secluded humility of the nave. she had come from paris for his funeral. she was weeping for her affianced. she stood there, actually within ten yards of him. she had not caught sight of him, but she might do so at any moment, and she was slowly approaching the spot where he trembled. he fled, with nothing in his heart but resentment against her. she had not proposed to him; he had proposed to her. she had not thrown him aside; he had thrown her aside. he was not one of her mistakes; she was one of his mistakes. not she, but he, had been capricious, impulsive, hasty. yet he hated her. he genuinely thought she had sinned against him, and that she ought to be exterminated. he condemned her for all manner of things as to which she had had no choice: for instance, the irregularity of her teeth, and the hollow under her chin, and the little tricks of deportment which are always developed by a spinster as she reaches forty. he fled in terror of her. if she should have a glimpse of him, and should recognize him, the consequence would be absolutely disastrous--disastrous in every way; and a period of publicity would dawn for him such as he could not possibly contemplate either in cold blood or warm. he fled blindly, insinuating himself through the crowd, until he reached a grille in which was a gate, ajar. his strange stare must have affrighted the guardian of the gate, for the robed fellow stood away, and priam passed within the grille, where were winding steps, which he mounted. up the steps ran coils of fire-hose. he heard the click of the gate as the attendant shut it, and he was thankful for an escape. the steps led to the organ-loft, perched on the top of the massive screen. the organist was seated behind a half-drawn curtain, under shaded electric lights, and on the ample platform whose parapet overlooked the choir were two young men who whispered with the organist. none of the three even glanced at priam. priam sat down on a windsor chair fearfully, like an intruder, his face towards the choir. the whispers ceased; the organist's fingers began to move over five rows of notes, and over scores of stops, while his feet groped beneath, and priam heard music, afar off. and close behind him he heard rumblings, steamy vibrations, and, as it were, sudden escapes of gas; and comprehended that these were the hoarse responses of the and foot pipes, laid horizontally along the roof of the screen, to the summoning fingers of the organist. it was all uncanny, weird, supernatural, demoniacal if you will--it was part of the secret and unsuspected mechanism of a vast emotional pageant and spectacle. it unnerved priam, especially when the organist, a handsome youngish man with lustrous eyes, half turned and winked at one of his companions. the thrilling voices of the choristers grew louder, and as they grew louder priam farll was conscious of unaccustomed phenomena in his throat, which shut and opened of itself convulsively. to divert his attention from his throat, he partially rose from the windsor chair, and peeped over the parapet of the screen into the choir, whose depths were candlelit and whose altitudes were capriciously bathed by the intermittent splendours of the sun. high, high up, in front of him, at the summit of a precipice of stone, a little window, out of the sunshine, burned sullenly in a gloom of complicated perspectives. and far below, stretched round the pulpit and disappearing among the forest of statuary in the transept, was a floor consisting of the heads of the privileged--famous, renowned, notorious, by heredity, talent, enterprise, or hazard; he had read many of their names in the _daily telegraph_. the voices of the choristers had become piercing in their beauty. priam frankly stood up, and leaned over the parapet. every gaze was turned to a point under him which he could not see. and then something swayed from beneath into the field of his vision. it was a tall cross borne by a beadle. in the wake of the cross there came to view gorgeous ecclesiastics in pairs, and then a robed man walking backwards and gesticulating in the manner of some important, excited official of the salvation army; and after this violet robe arrived the scarlet choristers, singing to the beat of his gesture. and then swung into view the coffin, covered with a heavy purple pall, and on the pall a single white cross; and the pall-bearers--great european names that had hurried out of the corners of europe as at a peremptory mandate-- with duncan farll to complete the tale! was it the coffin, or the richness of its pall, or the solitary whiteness of its cross of flowers, or the august authority of the bearers, that affected priam farll like a blow on the heart? who knows? but the fact was that he could look no more; the scene was too much for him. had he continued to look he would have burst uncontrollably into tears. it mattered not that the corpse of a common rascally valet lay under that pall; it mattered not that a grotesque error was being enacted; it mattered not whether the actuating spring of the immense affair was the dean's water-colouring niece or the solemn deliberations of the chapter; it mattered not that newspapers had ignobly misused the name and honour of art for their own advancement--the instant effect was overwhelmingly impressive. all that had been honest and sincere in the heart of england for a thousand years leapt mystically up and made it impossible that the effect should be other than overwhelmingly impressive. it was an effect beyond argument and reason; it was the magic flowering of centuries in a single moment, the silent awful sigh of a nation's saecular soul. it took majesty and loveliness from the walls around it, and rendered them again tenfold. it left nothing common, neither the motives nor the littleness of men. in priam's mind it gave dignity to lady sophia entwistle, and profound tragedy to the death of leek; it transformed even the gestures of the choir-leader into grave commands. and all that was for him! he had brushed pigments on to cloth in a way of his own, nothing more, and the nation to which he had always denied artistic perceptions, the nation which he had always fiercely accused of sentimentality, was thus solemnizing his committal to the earth! divine mystery of art! the large magnificence of england smote him! he had not suspected his own greatness, nor england's. the music ceased. he chanced to look up at the little glooming window, perched out of reach of mankind. and the thought that the window had burned there, patiently and unexpectantly, for hundreds of years, like an anchorite above the river and town, somehow disturbed him so that he could not continue to look at it. ineffable sadness of a mere window! and his eye fell--fell on the coffin of henry leek with its white cross, and the representative of england's majesty standing beside it. and there was the end of priam farll's self-control. a pang like a pang of parturition itself seized him, and an issuing sob nearly ripped him in two. it was a loud sob, undisguised, unashamed, reverberating. other sobs succeeded it. priam farll was in torture. _a new hat_ the organist vaulted over his seat, shocked by the outrage. "you really mustn't make that noise," whispered the organist. priam farll shook him off. the organist was apparently at a loss what to do. "who is it?" whispered one of the young men. "don't know him from adam!" said the organist with conviction, and then to priam farll: "who are you? you've no right to be here. who gave you permission to come up here?" and the rending sobs continued to issue from the full-bodied ridiculous man of fifty, utterly careless of decorum. "it's perfectly absurd!" whispered the youngster who had whispered before. there had been a silence in the choir. "here! they're waiting for you!" whispered the other young man excitedly to the organist. "by----!" whispered the alarmed organist, not stopping to say by what, but leaping like an acrobat back to his seat. his fingers and boots were at work instantly, and as he played he turned his head and whispered-- "better fetch some one." one of the young men crept quickly and creakingly down the stairs. fortunately the organ and choristers were now combined to overcome the sobbing, and they succeeded. presently a powerful arm, hidden under a black cassock, was laid on priam's shoulder. he hysterically tried to free himself, but he could not. the cassock and the two young men thrust him downwards. they all descended together, partly walking and partly falling. and then a door was opened, and priam discovered himself in the unroofed air of the cloisters, without his hat, and breathing in gasps. his executioners were also breathing in gasps. they glared at him in triumphant menace, as though they had done something, which indeed they had, and as though they meant to do something more but could not quite decide what. "where's your ticket of admission?" demanded the cassock. priam fumbled for it, and could not find it. "i must have lost it," he said weakly. "what's your name, anyhow?" "priam farll," said priam farll, without thinking. "off his nut, evidently!" murmured one of the young men contemptuously. "come on, stan. don't let's miss that anthem, for this cuss." and off they both went. then a youthful policeman appeared, putting on his helmet as he quitted the fane. "what's all this?" asked the policeman, in the assured tone of one who had the forces of the empire behind him. "he's been making a disturbance in the horgan loft," said the cassock, "and now he says his name's priam farll." "oh!" said the policeman. "ho! and how did he get into the organ loft?" "don't arsk me," answered the cassock. "he ain't got no ticket." "now then, out of it!" said the policeman, taking zealously hold of priam. "i'll thank you to leave me alone," said priam, rebelling with all the pride of his nature against this clutch of the law. "oh, you will, will you?" said the policeman. "we'll see about that. we shall just see about that." and the policeman dragged priam along the cloister to the muffled music of "he will swallow up death in victory." they had not thus proceeded very far when they met another policeman, an older policeman. "what's all this?" demanded the older policeman. "drunk and disorderly in the abbey!" said the younger. "will you come quietly?" the older policeman asked priam, with a touch of commiseration. "i'm not drunk," said priam fiercely; he was unversed in london, and unaware of the foolishness of reasoning with the watch-dogs of justice. "will you come quietly?" the older policeman repeated, this time without any touch of commiseration. "yes," said priam. and he went quietly. experience may teach with the rapidity of lightning. "but where's my hat?" he added after a moment, instinctively stopping. "now then!" said the older policeman. "come _on_." he walked between them, striding. just as they emerged into dean's yard, his left hand nervously exploring one of his pockets, on a sudden encountered a piece of cardboard. "here's my ticket," he said. "i thought i'd lost it. i've had nothing at all to drink, and you'd better let me go. the whole affair's a mistake." the procession halted, while the older policeman gazed fascinated at the official document. "henry leek," he read, deciphering the name. "he's been a-telling every one as he's priam farll," grumbled the younger policeman, looking over the other's shoulder. "i've done no such thing," said priam promptly. the elder carefully inspected the prisoner, and two little boys arrived and formed a crowd, which was immediately dispersed by a frown. "he don't look as if he'd had 'ardly as much drink as 'ud wash a bus, does he?" murmured the elder critically. the younger, afraid of his senior, said nothing. "look here, mr. henry leek," the elder proceeded, "do you know what i should do if i was you? i should go and buy myself a new hat, if i was you, and quick too!" priam hastened away, and heard the senior say to the junior, "he's a toff, that's what he is, and you're a fool. have you forgotten as you're on point duty?" and such is the effect of a suggestion given under certain circumstances by a man of authority, that priam farll went straight along victoria street and at sowter's famous one-price hat-shop did in fact buy himself a new hat. he then hailed a taximeter from the stand opposite the army and navy stores, and curtly gave the address of the grand babylon hotel. and when the cab was fairly at speed, and not before, he abandoned himself to a fit of candid, unrestrained cursing. he cursed largely and variously and shamelessly both in english and in french. and he did not cease cursing. it was a reaction which i do not care to characterize; but i will not conceal that it occurred. the fit spent itself before he reached the hotel, for most of parliament street was blocked for the spectacular purposes of his funeral, and his driver had to seek devious ways. the cursing over, he began to smooth his plumes in detail. at the hotel, out of sheer nervousness, he gave the cabman half-a-crown, which was preposterous. another cab drove up nearly at the exact instant of his arrival. and, as a capping to the day, mrs. alice challice stepped out of it. * * * * * chapter v _alice on hotels_ she was wearing the same red roses. "oh!" she said, very quickly, pouring out the words generously from the inexhaustible mine of her good heart. "i'm so sorry i missed you saturday night. i can't tell you how sorry i am. of course it was all my fault. i oughtn't to have got into the lift without you. i ought to have waited. when i was in the lift i wanted to get out, but the lift-man was too quick for me. and then on the platforms--well, there was such a crowd it was useless! i knew it was useless. and you not having my address either! i wondered whatever you would think of me." "my dear lady!" he protested. "i can assure you i blamed only myself. my hat blew off, and----" "did it now!" she took him up breathlessly. "well, all i want you to understand really is that i'm not one of those silly sort of women that go losing themselves. no. such a thing's never happened to me before, and i shall take good care----" she glanced round. he had paid both the cabmen, who were departing, and he and mrs. alice challice stood under the immense glass portico of the grand babylon, exposed to the raking stare of two commissionaires. "so you _are_ staying here!" she said, as if laying hold of a fact which she had hitherto hesitated to touch. "yes," he said. "won't you come in?" he took her into the rich gloom of the grand babylon dashingly, fighting against the demon of shyness and beating it off with great loss. they sat down in a corner of the principal foyer, where a few electric lights drew attention to empty fauteuils and the blossoms on the aubusson carpet. the world was at lunch. "and a fine time i had getting your address!" said she. "of course i wrote at once to selwood terrace, as soon as i got home, but i had the wrong number, somehow, and i kept waiting and waiting for an answer, and the only answer i received was the returned letter. i knew i'd got the street right, and i said, 'i'll find that house if i have to ring every bell in selwood terrace, yes', and knock every knocker!' well, i did find it, and then they wouldn't _give_ me your address. they said 'letters would be forwarded,' if you please. but i wasn't going to have any more letter business, no thank you! so i said i wouldn't go without the address. it was mr. duncan farll's clerk that i saw. he's living there for the time being. a very nice young man. we got quite friendly. it seems mr. duncan farll _was_ in a state when he found the will. the young man did say that he broke a typewriter all to pieces. but the funeral being in westminster abbey consoled him. it wouldn't have consoled me--no, not it! however, he's very rich himself, so that doesn't matter. the young man said if i'd call again he'd ask his master if he might give me your address. a rare fuss over an address, thought i to myself. but there! lawyers! so i called again, and he gave it me. i could have come yesterday. i very nearly wrote last night. but i thought on the whole i'd better wait till the funeral was over. i thought it would be nicer. it's over now, i suppose?" "yes," said priam farll. she smiled at him with grave sympathy, comfortably and sensibly. "and right down relieved you must be!" she murmured. "it must have been very trying for you." "in a way," he answered hesitatingly, "it was." taking off her gloves, she glanced round about her, as a thief must glance before opening the door, and then, leaning suddenly towards him, she put her hands to his neck and touched his collar. "no, no!" she said. "let me do it. i can do it. there's no one looking. it's unbuttoned; the necktie was holding it in place, but it's got quite loose now. there! i can do it. i see you've got two funny moles on your neck, close together. how lucky! that's it!" a final pat! now, no woman had ever patted priam farll's necktie before, much less buttoned his collar, and still much less referred to the two little moles, one hirsute, the other hairless, which the collar hid--when it was properly buttoned! the experience was startling for him in the extreme. it might have made him very angry, had the hands of mrs. challice not been--well, nurse's hands, soft hands, persuasive hands, hands that could practise impossible audacities with impunity. imagine a woman, uninvited and unpermitted, arranging his collar and necktie for him in the largest public room of the grand babylon, and then talking about his little moles! it would have been unimaginable! yet it happened. and moreover, he had not disliked it. she sat back in her chair as though she had done nothing in the least degree unusual. "i can see you must have been very upset," she said gently, "though he _has_ only left you a pound a week. still, that's better than a bat in the eye with a burnt stick." a bat in the eye with a burnt stick reminded him vaguely of encounters with the police; otherwise it conveyed no meaning to his mind. "i hope you haven't got to go on duty at once," she said after a pause. "because you really do look as if you needed a rest, and a cup of tea or something of that, i'm quite ashamed to have come bothering you so soon." "duty?" he questioned. "what duty?" "why," she exclaimed, "haven't you got a new place?" "new place!" he repeated after. "what do you mean?" "why, as valet." there was certainly danger in his tendency to forget that he was a valet. he collected himself. "no," he said, "i haven't got a new place." "then why are you staying here?" she cried. "i thought you were simply here with a new master, why are you staying here alone?" "oh," he replied, abashed, "it seemed a convenient place. it was just by chance that i came here." "convenient place indeed!" she said stoutly. "i never heard of such a thing!" he perceived that he had shocked her, pained her. he saw that some ingenious defence of himself was required; but he could find none. so he said, in his confusion-- "suppose we go and have something to eat? i do want a bit of lunch, as you say, now i come to think of it. will you?" "what? here?" she demanded apprehensively. "yes," he said. "why not?" "well--!" "come along!" he said, with fine casualness, and conducted her to the eight swinging glass doors that led to the _salle à manger_ of the grand babylon. at each pair of doors was a living statue of dignity in cloth of gold. she passed these statues without a sign of fear, but when she saw the room itself, steeped in a supra-genteel calm, full of gowns and hats and everything that you read about in the _lady's pictorial,_ and the pennoned mast of a barge crossing the windows at the other end, she stopped suddenly. and one of the lord mayors of the grand babylon, wearing a mayoral chain, who had started out to meet them, stopped also. "no!" she said. "i don't feel as if i could eat here. i really couldn't." "but why?" "well," she said, "i couldn't fancy it somehow. can't we go somewhere else?" "certainly we can," he agreed with an eagerness that was more than polite. she thanked him with another of her comfortable, sensible smiles--a smile that took all embarrassment out of the dilemma, as balm will take irritation from a wound. and gently she removed her hat and gown, and her gestures and speech, and her comfortableness, from those august precincts. and they descended to the grill-room, which was relatively noisy, and where her roses were less conspicuous than the helmet of navarre, and her frock found its sisters and cousins from far lands. "i'm not much for these restaurants," she said, over grilled kidneys. "no?" he responded tentatively. "i'm sorry. i thought the other night----" "oh yes," she broke in, "i was very glad to go, the other night, to that place, very glad. but, you see, i'd never been in a restaurant before." "really?" "no," she said, "and i felt as if i should like to try one. and the young lady at the post office had told me that _that_ one was a splendid one. so it is. it's beautiful. but of course they ought to be ashamed to offer you such food. now do you remember that sole? sole! it was no more sole than this glove's sole. and if it had been cooked a minute, it had been cooked an hour, and waiting. and then look at the prices. oh yes, i couldn't help seeing the bill." "i thought it was awfully cheap," said he. "well, _i_ didn't!" said she. "when you think that a good housekeeper can keep everything going on ten shillings a head a _week_.... why, it's simply scandalous! and i suppose this place is even dearer?" he avoided the question. "this is a better place altogether," he said. "in fact, i don't know many places in europe where one can eat better than one does here." "don't you?" she said indulgently, as if saying, "well, i know one, at any rate." "they say," he continued, "that there is no butter used in this place that costs less than three shillings a pound." "_no_ butter costs them three shillings a pound," said she. "not in london," said he. "they have it from paris." "and do you believe that?" she asked. "yes," he said. "well, i don't. any one that pays more than one-and-nine a pound for butter, _at the most_, is a fool, if you'll excuse me saying the word. not but what this is good butter. i couldn't get as good in putney for less than eighteen pence." she made him feel like a child who has a great deal to pick up from a kindly but firm sister. "no, thank you," she said, a little dryly, to the waiter who proffered a further supply of chip potatoes. "now don't say they're cold," priam laughed. and she laughed also. "shall i tell you one thing that puts me against these restaurants?" she went on. "it's the feeling you have that you don't know where the food's _been_. when you've got your kitchen close to your dining-room and you can keep an eye on the stuff from the moment the cart brings it, well, then, you do know a bit where you are. and you can have your dishes served hot. it stands to reason," she said. "where is the kitchen here?" "somewhere down below," he replied apologetically. "a cellar kitchen!" she exclaimed. "why, in putney they simply can't let houses with cellar kitchens. no! no restaurants and hotels for me--not for _choice_--that is, regularly." "still," he said, with a judicial air, "hotels are very convenient." "are they?" she said, meaning, "prove it." "for instance, here, there's a telephone in every room." "you don't mean in the bedrooms?" "yes, in every bedroom." "well," she said, "you wouldn't catch me having a telephone in my bedroom. i should never sleep if i knew there was a telephone in the room! fancy being forced to telephone every time you want--well! i and how is one to know who there is at the other end of the telephone? no, i don't like that. all that's all very well for gentlemen that haven't been used to what i call _com_fort in a way of speaking. but----" he saw that if he persisted, nothing soon would be left of that noble pile, the grand babylon hotel, save a heap of ruins. and, further, she genuinely did cause him to feel that throughout his career he had always missed the very best things of life, through being an uncherished, ingenuous, easily satisfied man. a new sensation for him! for if any male in europe believed in his own capacity to make others make him comfortable priam farll was that male. "i've never been in putney," he ventured, on a new track. _difficulty of truth-telling_ as she informed him, with an ungrudging particularity, about putney, and her life at putney, there gradually arose in his brain a vision of a kind of existence such as he had never encountered. putney had clearly the advantages of a residential town in a magnificent situation. it lay on the slope of a hill whose foot was washed by a glorious stream entitled the thames, its breast covered with picturesque barges and ornamental rowing boats; an arched bridge spanned this stream, and you went over the bridge in milk-white omnibuses to london. putney had a street of handsome shops, a purely business street; no one slept there now because of the noise of motors; at eventide the street glittered in its own splendours. there were theatre, music-hall, assembly-rooms, concert hall, market, brewery, library, and an afternoon tea shop exactly like regent street (not that mrs. challice cared for their alleged china tea); also churches and chapels; and barnes common if you walked one way, and wimbledon common if you walked another. mrs. challice lived in werter road, werter road starting conveniently at the corner of the high street where the fish-shop was--an establishment where authentic sole was always obtainable, though it was advisable not to buy it on monday mornings, of course. putney was a place where you lived unvexed, untroubled. you had your little house, and your furniture, and your ability to look after yourself at all ends, and your knowledge of the prices of everything, and your deep knowledge of human nature, and your experienced forgivingness towards human frailties. you did not keep a servant, because servants were so complicated, and because they could do nothing whatever as well as you could do it yourself. you had a charwoman when you felt idle or when you chose to put the house into the back-yard for an airing. with the charwoman, a pair of gloves for coarser work, and gas stoves, you 'made naught' of domestic labour. you were never worried by ambitions, or by envy, or by the desire to know precisely what the wealthy did and to do likewise. you read when you were not more amusingly occupied, preferring illustrated papers and magazines. you did not traffic with art to any appreciable extent, and you never dreamed of letting it keep you awake at night. you were rich, for the reason that you spent less than you received. you never speculated about the ultimate causes of things, or puzzled yourself concerning the possible developments of society in the next hundred years. when you saw a poor old creature in the street you bought a box of matches off the poor old creature. the social phenomenon which chiefly roused you to just anger was the spectacle of wealthy people making money and so taking the bread out of the mouths of people who needed it. the only apparent blots on existence at putney were the noise and danger of the high street, the dearth of reliable laundries, the manners of a middle-aged lady engaged at the post office (mrs. challice liked the other ladies in the post office), and the absence of a suitable man in the house. existence at putney seemed to priam farll to approach the utopian. it seemed to breathe of romance--the romance of common sense and kindliness and simplicity. it made his own existence to that day appear a futile and unhappy striving after the impossible. art? what was it? what did it lead to? he was sick of art, and sick of all the forms of activity to which he had hitherto been accustomed and which he had mistaken for life itself. one little home, fixed and stable, rendered foolish the whole concourse of european hotels. "i suppose you won't be staying here long," demanded mrs. challice. "oh no!" he said. "i shall decide something." "shall you take another place?" she inquired. "another place?" "yes." her smile was excessively persuasive and inviting. "i don't know," he said diffidently. "you must have put a good bit by," she said, still with the same smile. "or perhaps you haven't. saving's a matter of chance. that's what i always do say. it just depends how you begin. it's a habit. i'd never really blame anybody for not saving. and men----!" she seemed to wish to indicate that men were specially to be excused if they did not save. she had a large mind: that was sure. she understood--things, and human nature in particular. she was not one of those creatures that a man meets with sometimes--creatures who are for ever on the watch to pounce, and who are incapable of making allowances for any male frailty--smooth, smiling creatures, with thin lips, hair a little scanty at the front, and a quietly omniscient 'don't-tell-_me_' tone. mrs. alice challice had a mouth as wide as her ideas, and a full underlip. she was a woman who, as it were, ran out to meet you when you started to cross the dangerous roadway which separates the two sexes. she comprehended because she wanted to comprehend. and when she could not comprehend she would deceive herself that she did: which amounts to the equivalent. she was a living proof that in her sex social distinctions do not effectively count. nothing counted where she was concerned, except a distinction far more profound than any social distinction--the historic distinction between adam and eve. she was balm to priam farll. she might have been equally balm to king david, uriah the hittite, socrates, rousseau, lord byron, heine, or charlie peace. she would have understood them all. they would all have been ready to cushion themselves on her comfortableness. was she a lady? pish! she was a woman. her temperament drew priam farll like an electrified magnet. to wander about freely in that roomy sympathy of hers seemed to him to be the supreme reward of experience. it seemed like the good inn after the bleak high-road, the oasis after the sandstorm, shade after glare, the dressing after the wound, sleep after insomnia, surcease from unspeakable torture. he wanted, in a word, to tell her everything, because she would not demand any difficult explanations. she had given him an opening, in her mention of savings. in reply to her suggestion, "you must have put a good bit by," he could casually answer: "yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds." and that would lead by natural stages to a complete revealing of the fix in which he was. in five minutes he would have confided to her the principal details, and she would have understood, and then he could describe his agonizing and humiliating half-hour in the abbey, and she would pour her magic oil on that dreadful abrasion of his sensitiveness. and he would be healed of his hurts, and they would settle between them what he ought to do. he regarded her as his refuge, as fate's generous compensation to him for the loss of henry leek (whose remains now rested in the national valhalla). only, it would be necessary to begin the explanation, so that one thing might by natural stages lead to another. on reflection, it appeared rather abrupt to say: "yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds." the sum was too absurdly high (though correct). the mischief was that, unless the sum did strike her as absurdly high, it could not possibly lead by a natural stage to the remainder of the explanation. he must contrive another path. for instance-- "there's been a mistake about the so-called death of priam farll." "a mistake!" she would exclaim, all ears and eyes. then he would say-- "yes. priam farll isn't really dead. it's his valet that's dead." whereupon she would burst out-- "but _you_ were his valet!" whereupon he would simply shake his head, and she would steam forwards-- "then who are you?" whereupon he would say, as calmly as he could-- "i'm priam farll. i'll tell you precisely how it all happened." thus the talk might happen. thus it would happen, immediately he began. but, as at the dean's door in dean's yard, so now, he could not begin. he could not utter the necessary words aloud. spoken aloud, they would sound ridiculous, incredible, insane--and not even mrs. challice could reasonably be expected to grasp their import, much less believe them. "_there's been a mistake about the so-called death of priam farll._" "_yes, a hundred and forty thousand pounds._" no, he could enunciate neither the one sentence nor the other. there are some truths so bizarre that they make you feel self-conscious and guilty before you have begun to state them; you state them apologetically; you blush; you stammer; you have all the air of one who does not expect belief; you look a fool; you feel a fool; and you bring disaster on yourself. he perceived with the most painful clearness that he could never, never impart to her the terrific secret, the awful truth. great as she was, the truth was greater, and she would never be able to swallow it. "what time is it?" she asked suddenly. "oh, you mustn't think about time," he said, with hasty concern. _results of rain_ when the lunch was completely finished and the grill-room had so far emptied that it was inhabited by no one except themselves and several waiters who were trying to force them to depart by means of thought transference and uneasy, hovering round their table, priam farll began to worry his brains in order to find some sane way of spending the afternoon in her society. he wanted to keep her, but he did not know how to keep her. he was quite at a loss. strange that a man great enough and brilliant enough to get buried in westminster abbey had not sufficient of the small change of cleverness to retain the company of a mrs. alice challice! yet so it was. happily he was buoyed up by the thought that she understood. "i must be moving off home," she said, putting her gloves on slowly; and sighed. "let me see," he stammered. "i think you said werter road, putney?" "yes. no. ." "perhaps you'll let me call on you," he ventured. "oh, do!" she encouraged him. nothing could have been more correct, and nothing more banal, than this part of their conversation. he certainly would call. he would travel down to the idyllic putney to-morrow. he could not lose such a friend, such a balm, such a soft cushion, such a comprehending intelligence. he would bit by bit become intimate with her, and perhaps ultimately he might arrive at the stage of being able to tell her who he was with some chance of being believed. anyhow, when he did call--and he insisted to himself that it should be extremely soon--he would try another plan with her; he would carefully decide beforehand just what to say and how to say it. this decision reconciled him somewhat to a temporary parting from her. so he paid the bill, under her sagacious, protesting eyes, and he managed to conceal from those eyes the precise amount of the tip; and then, at the cloak-room, he furtively gave sixpence to a fat and wealthy man who had been watching over his hat and stick. (highly curious, how those common-sense orbs of hers made all such operations seem excessively silly!) and at last they wandered, in silence, through the corridors and antechambers that led to the courtyard entrance. and through the glass portals priam farll had a momentary glimpse of the reflection of light on a cabman's wet macintosh. it was raining. it was raining very heavily indeed. all was dry under the glass-roofed colonnades of the courtyard, but the rain rattled like kettledrums on that glass, and the centre of the courtyard was a pond in which a few hansoms were splashing about. everything--the horses' coats, the cabmen's hats and capes, and the cabmen's red faces, shone and streamed in the torrential summer rain. it is said that geography makes history. in england, and especially in london, weather makes a good deal of history. impossible to brave that rain, except under the severest pressure of necessity! they were in shelter, and in shelter they must remain. he was glad, absurdly and splendidly glad. "it can't last long," she said, looking up at the black sky, which showed an edge towards the east. "suppose we go in again and have some tea?" he said. now they had barely concluded coffee. but she did not seem to mind. "well," she said, "it's always tea-time for _me_." he saw a clock. "it's nearly four," he said. thus justified of the clock, in they went, and sat down in the same seats which they had occupied at the commencement of the adventure in the main lounge. priam discovered a bell-push, and commanded china tea and muffins. he felt that he now, as it were, had an opportunity of making a fresh start in life. he grew almost gay. he could be gay without sinning against decorum, for mrs. challice's singular tact had avoided all reference to deaths and funerals. and in the pause, while he was preparing to be gay, attractive, and in fact his true self, she, calmly stirring china tea, shot a bolt which made him see stars. "it seems to me," she observed, "that we might go farther and fare worse--both of us." he genuinely did not catch the significance of it in the first instant, and she saw that he did not. "oh," she proceeded, benevolently and reassuringly, "i mean it. i'm not gallivanting about. i mean that if you want my opinion i fancy we could make a match of it." it was at this point that he saw stars. he also saw a faint and delicious blush on her face, whose complexion was extraordinarily fresh and tender. she sipped china tea, holding each finger wide apart from the others. he had forgotten the origin of their acquaintance, forgotten that each of them was supposed to have a definite aim in view, forgotten that it was with a purpose that they had exchanged photographs. it had not occurred to him that marriage hung over him like a sword. he perceived the sword now, heavy and sharp, and suspended by a thread of appalling fragility. he dodged. he did not want to lose her, never to see her again; but he dodged. "i couldn't think----" he began, and stopped. "of course it's a very awkward situation for a man," she went on, toying with muffin. "i can quite understand how you feel. and with most folks you'd be right. there's very few women that can judge character, and if you started to try and settle something at once they'd just set you down as a wrong 'un. but i'm not like that. i don't expect any fiddle-faddle. what i like is plain sense and plain dealing. we both want to get married, so it would be silly to pretend we didn't, wouldn't it? and it would be ridiculous of me to look for courting and a proposal, and all that sort of thing, just as if i'd never seen a man in his shirt-sleeves. the only question is: shall we suit each other? i've told you what i think. what do you think?" she smiled honestly, kindly, but piercingly. what could he say? what would you have said, you being a man? it is easy, sitting there in your chair, with no mrs. alice challice in front of you, to invent diplomatic replies; but conceive yourself in priam's place! besides, he did think she would suit him. and most positively he could not bear the prospect of seeing her pass out of his life. he had been through that experience once, when his hat blew off in the tube; and he did not wish to repeat it. "of course you've got no _home_!" she said reflectively, with such compassion. "suppose you come down and just have a little peep at mine?" so that evening, a suitably paired couple chanced into the fishmonger's at the corner of werter road, and bought a bit of sole. at the newspaper shop next door but one, placards said: "impressive scenes at westminster abbey," "farll funeral, stately pageant," "great painter laid to rest," etc. * * * * * chapter vi _a putney morning_ except that there was marrying and giving in marriage, it was just as though he had died and gone to heaven. heaven is the absence of worry and of ambition. heaven is where you want nothing you haven't got. heaven is finality. and this was finality. on the september morning, after the honeymoon and the settling down, he arose leisurely, long after his wife, and, putting on the puce dressing-gown (which alice much admired), he opened the window wider and surveyed that part of the universe which was comprised in werter road and the sky above. a sturdy old woman was coming down the street with a great basket of assorted flowers; he took an immense pleasure in the sight of the old woman; the sight of the old woman thrilled him. why? well, there was no reason, except that she was vigorously alive, a part of the magnificent earth. all life gave him joy; all life was beautiful to him. he had his warm bath; the bath-room was not of the latest convenience, but alice could have made a four-wheeler convenient. as he passed to and fro on the first-floor he heard the calm, efficient activities below stairs. she was busy in the mornings; her eyes would seem to say to him, "now, between my uprising and lunch-time please don't depend on me for intellectual or moral support. i am on the spot, but i am also at the wheel and must not be disturbed." then he descended, fresh as a boy, although the promontory which prevented a direct vision of his toes showed accretions. the front-room was a shrine for his breakfast. she served it herself, in her-white apron, promptly on his arrival! eggs! toast! coffee! it was nothing, that breakfast; and yet it was everything. no breakfast could have been better. he had probably eaten about fifteen thousand hotel breakfasts before alice taught him what a real breakfast was. after serving it she lingered for a moment, and then handed him the _daily telegraph_, which had been lying on a chair. "here's your _telegraph_," she said cheerfully, tacitly disowning any property or interest in the _telegraph_. for her, newspapers were men's toys. she never opened a paper, never wanted to know what was going on in the world. she was always intent upon her own affairs. politics--and all that business of the mere machinery of living: she perfectly ignored it! she lived. she did nothing but live. she lived every hour. priam felt truly that he had at last got down to the bed-rock of life. there were twenty pages of the _telegraph_, far more matter than a man could read in a day even if he read and read and neither ate nor slept. and all of it so soothing in its rich variety! it gently lulled you; it was the ideal companion for a poached egg; upstanding against the coffee-pot, it stood for the solidity of england in the seas. priam folded it large; he read all the articles down to the fold; then turned the thing over, and finished all of them. after communing with the _telegraph_, he communed with his own secret nature, and wandered about, rolling a cigarette. ah! the first cigarette! his wanderings led him to the kitchen, or at least as far as the threshold thereof. his wife was at work there. upon every handle or article that might soil she put soft brown paper, and in addition she often wore house-gloves; so that her hands remained immaculate; thus during the earlier hours of the day the house, especially in the region of fireplaces, had the air of being in curl-papers. "i'm going out now, alice," he said, after he had drawn on his finely polished boots. "very well, love," she replied, preoccupied with her work. "lunch as usual." she never demanded luxuriousness from him. she had got him. she was sure of him. that satisfied her. sometimes, like a simple woman who has come into a set of pearls, she would, as it were, take him out of his drawer and look at him, and put him back. at the gate he hesitated whether to turn to the left, towards high street, or to the right, towards oxford road. he chose the right, but he would have enjoyed himself equally had he chosen the left. the streets through which he passed were populated by domestic servants and tradesmen's boys. he saw white-capped girls cleaning door-knobs or windows, or running along the streets, like escaped nuns, or staring in soft meditation from bedroom windows. and the tradesmen's boys were continually leaping in and out of carts, or off and on tricycles, busily distributing food and drink, as though putney had been a beleaguered city. it was extremely interesting and mysterious--and what made it the most mysterious was that the oligarchy of superior persons for whom these boys and girls so assiduously worked, remained invisible. he passed a newspaper shop and found his customary delight in the placards. this morning the _daily illustrated_ announced nothing but: "portrait of a boy aged who weighs stone." and the _record_ whispered in scarlet: "what the german said to the king. special." the _journal_ cried: "surrey's glorious finish." and the _courier_ shouted: "the unwritten law in the united states. another scandal." not for gold would he have gone behind these placards to the organs themselves; he preferred to gather from the placards alone what wonders of yesterday the excellent staid _telegraph_ had unaccountably missed. but in the _financial times_ he saw: "cohoon's annual meeting. stormy scenes." and he bought the _financial times_ and put it into his pocket for his wife, because she had an interest in cohoon's brewery, and he conceived the possibility of her caring to glance at the report. _the simple joy of life_ after crossing the south-western railway he got into the upper richmond road, a thoroughfare which always diverted and amused him. it was such a street of contrasts. any one could see that, not many years before, it had been a sacred street, trod only by feet genteel, and made up of houses each christened with its own name and each standing in its own garden. and now energetic persons had put churches into it, vast red things with gigantic bells, and large drapery shops, with blouses at six-and-eleven, and court photographers, and banks, and cigar-stores, and auctioneers' offices. and all kinds of omnibuses ran along it. and yet somehow it remained meditative and superior. in every available space gigantic posters were exhibited. they all had to do with food or pleasure. there were york hams eight feet high, that a regiment could not have eaten in a month; shaggy and ferocious oxen peeping out of monstrous teacups in their anxiety to be consumed; spouting bottles of ale whose froth alone would have floated the mail steamers pictured on an adjoining sheet; and forty different decoctions for imparting strength. then after a few score yards of invitation to debauch there came, with characteristic admirable english common sense, a cure for indigestion, so large that it would have given ease to a mastodon who had by inadvertence swallowed an elephant. and then there were the calls to pleasure. astonishing, the quantity of palaces that offered you exactly the same entertainment twice over on the same night! astonishing, the reliance on number in this matter of amusement! authenticated statements that a certain performer had done a certain thing in a certain way a thousand and one times without interruption were stuck all over the upper richmond road, apparently in the sure hope that you would rush to see the thousand and second performance. these performances were invariably styled original and novel. all the remainder of free wall space was occupied by philanthropists who were ready to give away cigarettes at the nominal price of a penny a packet. priam farll never tired of the phantasmagoria of upper richmond road. the interminable, intermittent vision of food dead and alive, and of performers performing the same performance from everlasting to everlasting, and of millions and millions of cigarettes ascending from the mouths of handsome young men in incense to heaven--this rare vision, of which in all his wanderings he had never seen the like, had the singular effect of lulling his soul into a profound content. not once did he arrive at the end of the vision. no! when he reached barnes station he could see the vision still stretching on and on; but, filled to the brim, he would get into an omnibus and return. the omnibus awoke him to other issues: the omnibus was an antidote. in the omnibus cleanliness was nigh to godliness. on one pane a soap was extolled, and on another the exordium, "for this is a true saying and worthy of all acceptation," was followed by the statement of a religious dogma; while on another pane was an urgent appeal not to do in the omnibus what you would not do in a drawing-room. yes, priam farll had seen the world, but he had never seen a city so incredibly strange, so packed with curious and rare psychological interest as london. and he regretted that he had not discovered london earlier in his life-long search after romance. at the corner of the high street he left the omnibus and stopped a moment to chat with his tobacconist. his tobacconist was a stout man in a white apron, who stood for ever behind a counter and sold tobacco to the most respected residents of putney. all his ideas were connected either with tobacco or with putney. a murder in the strand to that tobacconist was less than the breakdown of a motor bus opposite putney station; and a change of government less than a change of programme at the putney empire. a rather pessimistic tobacconist, not inclined to believe in a first cause, until one day a drunken man smashed salmon and gluckstein's window down the high street, whereupon his opinion of providence went up for several days! priam enjoyed talking to him, though the tobacconist was utterly impervious to ideas and never gave out ideas. this morning the tobacconist was at his door. at the other corner was the sturdy old woman whom priam had observed from his window. she sold flowers. "fine old woman, that!" said priam heartily, after he and the tobacconist had agreed upon the fact that it was a glorious morning. "she used to be at the opposite corner by the station until last may but one, when the police shifted her," said the tobacconist. "why did the police shift her?" asked priam. "i don't know as i can tell you," said the tobacconist. "but i remember her this twelve year." "i only noticed her this morning," said priam. "i saw her from my bedroom window, coming down the werter road. i said to myself, 'she's the finest old woman i ever saw in my life!'" "did you now!" murmured the tobacconist. "she's rare and dirty." "i like her to be dirty," said priam stoutly. "she ought to be dirty. she wouldn't be the same if she were clean." "i don't hold with dirt," said the tobacconist calmly. "she'd be better if she had a bath of a saturday night like other folks." "well," said priam, "i want an ounce of the usual." "thank _you_, sir," said the tobacconist, putting down three-halfpence change out of sixpence as priam thanked him for the packet. nothing whatever in such a dialogue! yet priam left the shop with a distinct feeling that life was good. and he plunged into high street, lost himself in crowds of perambulators and nice womanly women who were bustling honestly about in search of food or raiment. many of them carried little red books full of long lists of things which they and their admirers and the offspring of mutual affection had eaten or would shortly eat. in the high street all was luxury: not a necessary in the street. even the bakers' shops were a mass of sultana and berlin pancakes. illuminated calendars, gramophones, corsets, picture postcards, manilla cigars, bridge-scorers, chocolate, exotic fruit, and commodious mansions--these seemed to be the principal objects offered for sale in high street. priam bought a sixpenny edition of herbert spencer's _essays_ for four-pence-halfpenny, and passed on to putney bridge, whose noble arches divided a first storey of vans and omnibuses from a ground-floor of barges and racing eights. and he gazed at the broad river and its hanging gardens, and dreamed; and was wakened by the roar of an electric train shooting across the stream on a red causeway a few yards below him. and, miles off, he could descry the twin towers of the crystal palace, more marvellous than mosques! "astounding!" he murmured joyously. he had not a care in the world; and putney was all that alice had painted it. in due time, when bells had pealed to right and to left of him, he went home to her. _collapse of the putney system_ now, just at the end of lunch, over the last stage of which they usually sat a long time, alice got up quickly, in the midst of her stilton, and, going to the mantelpiece, took a letter therefrom. "i wish you'd look at that, henry," she said, handing him the letter. "it came this morning, but of course i can't be bothered with that sort of thing in the morning. so i put it aside." he accepted the letter, and unfolded it with the professional all-knowing air which even the biggest male fool will quite successfully put on in the presence of a woman if consulted about business. when he had unfolded the thing--it was typed on stiff, expensive, quarto paper--he read it. in the lives of beings like priam farll and alice a letter such as that letter is a terrible event, unique, earth-arresting; simple recipients are apt, on receiving it, to imagine that the christian era has come to an end. but tens of thousands of similar letters are sent out from the city every day, and the city thinks nothing of them. the letter was about cohoon's brewery company, limited, and it was signed by a firm of solicitors. it referred to the verbatim report, which it said would be found in the financial papers, of the annual meeting of the company held at the cannon street hotel on the previous day, and to the exceedingly unsatisfactory nature of the chairman's statement. it regretted the absence of mrs. alice challice (her change of condition had not yet reached the heart of cohoon's) from the meeting, and asked her whether she would be prepared to support the action of a committee which had been formed to eject the existing board and which had already a following of , votes. it finished by asserting that unless the committee was immediately lifted to absolute power the company would be quite ruined. priam re-read the letter aloud. "what does it all mean?" asked alice quietly. "well," said he, "that's what it means." "does it mean--?" she began. "by jove!" he exclaimed, "i forgot. i saw something on a placard this morning about cohoon's, and i thought it might interest you, so i bought it." so saying, he drew from his pocket the _financial times_, which he had entirely forgotten. there it was: a column and a quarter of the chairman's speech, and nearly two columns of stormy scenes. the chairman was the marquis of drumgaldy, but his rank had apparently not shielded him from the violence of expletives such as "liar!" "humbug!" and even "rogue!" the marquis had merely stated, with every formula of apology, that, owing to the extraordinary depreciation in licensed property, the directors had not felt justified in declaring any dividend at all on the ordinary shares of the company. he had made this quite simple assertion, and instantly a body of shareholders, less reasonable and more avaricious even than shareholders usually are, had begun to turn the historic hall of the cannon street hotel into a bear garden. one might have imagined that the sole aim of brewery companies was to make money, and that the patriotism of old-world brewers, that patriotism which impelled them to supply an honest english beer to the honest english working-man at a purely nominal price, was scorned and forgotten. one was, indeed, forced to imagine this. in vain the marquis pointed out that the shareholders had received a fifteen per cent, dividend for years and years past, and that really, for once in a way, they ought to be prepared to sacrifice a temporary advantage for the sake of future prosperity. the thought of those regular high dividends gave rise to no gratitude in shareholding hearts; it seemed merely to render them the more furious. the baser passions had been let loose in the cannon street hotel. the directors had possibly been expecting the baser passions, for a posse of policemen was handy at the door, and one shareholder, to save him from having the blood of marquises on his soul, was ejected. ultimately, according to the picturesque phrases of the _financial times_ report, the meeting broke up in confusion. "how much have you got in cohoon's?" priam asked alice, after they had looked through the report together. "all i have is in cohoon's," said she, "except this house. father left it like that. he always said there was nothing like a brewery. i've heard him say many and many a time a brewery was better than consols. i think there's £ shares. yes, that's it. but of course they're worth much more than that. they're worth about £ each. all i know is they bring me in £ a year as regular as the clock. what's that there, after 'broke up in confusion'?" she pointed with her finger to a paragraph, and he read in a low voice the fluctuations of cohoon's ordinary shares during the afternoon. they had finished at £ s. mrs. henry leek had lost over £ , in about half-a-day. "they've always brought me in £ a year," she insisted, as though she had been saying: "it's always been christmas day on the th of december, and of course it will be the same this year." "it doesn't look as if they'd bring you in anything this time," said he. "oh, but henry!" she protested. beer had failed! that was the truth of it. beer had failed. who would have guessed that beer could fail in england? the wisest, the most prudent men in lombard street had put their trust in beer, as the last grand bulwark of the nation; and even beer had failed. the foundations of england's greatness were, if not gone, going. insufficient to argue bad management, indiscreet purchases of licences at inflated prices! in the excellent old days a brewery would stand an indefinite amount of bad management! times were changed. the british workman, caught in a wave of temperance, could no longer be relied upon to drink! it was the crown of his sins against society. trade unions were nothing to this latest caprice of his, which spread desolation in a thousand genteel homes. alice wondered what her father would have said, had he lived. on the whole, she was glad that he did not happen to be alive. the shock to him would have been too rude. the floor seemed to be giving way under alice, melting into a sort of bog that would swallow up her and her husband. for years, without any precise information, but merely by instinct, she had felt that england, beneath the surface, was not quite the island it had been--and here was the awful proof. she gazed at her husband, as a wife ought to gaze at her husband in a crisis. his thoughts were much vaguer than hers, his thoughts about money being always extremely vague. "suppose you went up to the city and saw mr. what's-his-name?" she suggested, meaning the signatory of the letter. "_me_!" it was a cry of the soul aghast, a cry drawn out of him sharply, by a most genuine cruel alarm. him to go up to the city to interview a solicitor! why, the poor dear woman must be demented! he could not have done it for a million pounds. the thought of it made him sick, raising the whole of his lunch to his throat, as by some sinister magic. she saw and translated the look on his face. it was a look of horror. and at once she made excuses for him to herself. at once she said to herself that it was no use pretending that her henry was like other men. he was not. he was a dreamer. he was, at times, amazingly peculiar. but he was her henry. in any other man than her henry a hesitation to take charge of his wife's financial affairs would have been ridiculous; it would have been effeminate. but henry was henry. she was gradually learning that truth. he was adorable; but he was henry. with magnificent strength of mind she collected herself. "no," she said cheerfully. "as they're my shares, perhaps i'd better go. unless we _both_ go!" she encountered his eye again, and added quietly: "no, i'll go alone." he sighed his relief. he could not help sighing his relief. and, after meticulously washing-up and straightening, she departed, and priam remained solitary with his ideas about married life and the fiscal question. alice was assuredly the very mirror of discretion. never, since that unanswered query as to savings at the grand babylon, had she subjected him to any inquisition concerning money. never had she talked of her own means, save in casual phrase now and then to assure him that there was enough. she had indeed refused banknotes diffidently offered to her by him, telling him to keep them by him till need of them arose. never had she discoursed of her own past life, nor led him on to discourse of his. she was one of those women for whom neither the past nor the future seems to exist--they are always so occupied with the important present. he and she had both of them relied on their judgment of character as regarded each other's worthiness and trustworthiness. and he was the last man in the world to be a chancellor of the exchequer. to him, money was a quite uninteresting token that had to pass through your hands. he had always had enough of it. he had always had too much of it. even at putney he had had too much of it. the better part of henry leek's two hundred pounds remained in his pockets, and under his own will he had his pound a week, of which he never spent more than a few shillings. his distractions were tobacco (which cost him about twopence a day), walking about and enjoying colour effects and the oddities of the streets (which cost him nearly nought), and reading: there were three shops of putney where all that is greatest in literature could be bought for fourpence-halfpenny a volume. do what he could, he could not read away more than ninepence a week. he was positively accumulating money. you may say that he ought to have compelled alice to accept money. the idea never occurred to him. in his scheme of things money had not been a matter of sufficient urgency to necessitate an argument with one's wife. she was always welcome to all that he had. and now suddenly, money acquired urgency in his eyes. it was most disturbing. he was not frightened: he was merely disturbed. if he had ever known the sensation of wanting money and not being able to obtain it, he would probably have been frightened. but this sensation was unfamiliar to him. not once in his whole career had he hesitated to change gold from fear that the end of gold was at hand. all kinds of problems crowded round him. he went out for a stroll to escape the problems. but they accompanied him. he walked through exactly the same streets as had delighted him in the morning. and they had ceased to delight him. this surely could not be ideal putney that he was in! it must be some other place of the same name. the mismanagement of a brewery a hundred and fifty miles from london; the failure of the british working-man to drink his customary pints in several scattered scores of public-houses, had most unaccountably knocked the bottom out of the putney system of practical philosophy. putney posters were now merely disgusting, putney trade gross and futile, the tobacconist a narrow-minded and stupid bourgeois; and so on. alice and he met on their doorstep, each in the act of pulling out a latchkey. "oh!" she said, when they were inside, "it's done for! there's no mistake--it's done for! we shan't get a penny this year, not one penny! and he doesn't think there'll be anything next year either! and the shares'll go down yet, he says. i never heard of such a thing in all my life! did you?" he admitted sympathetically that he had not. after she had been upstairs and come down again her mood suddenly changed. "well," she smiled, "whether we get anything or not, it's tea-time. so we'll have tea. i've no patience with worrying. i said i should make pastry after tea, and i will too. see if i don't!" the tea was perhaps slightly more elaborate than usual. after tea he heard her singing in the kitchen. and he was moved to go and look at her. there she was, with her sleeves turned back, and a large pinafore apron over her rich bosom, kneading flour. he would have liked to approach her and kiss her. but he never could accomplish feats of that kind at unusual moments. "oh!" she laughed. "you can look! _i'm_ not worrying. i've no patience with worrying." later in the afternoon he went out; rather like a person who has reasons for leaving inconspicuously. he had made a great, a critical resolve. he passed furtively down werter road into the high street, and then stood a moment outside stawley's stationery shop, which is also a library, an emporium of leather-bags, and an artists'-colourman's. he entered stawley's blushing, trembling--he a man of fifty who could not see his own toes--and asked for certain tubes of colour. an energetic young lady who seemed to know all about the graphic arts endeavoured to sell to him a magnificent and complicated box of paints, which opened out into an easel and a stool, and contained a palette of a shape preferred by the late edwin long, r.a., a selection of colours which had been approved by the late lord leighton, p.r.a., and a patent drying-oil which (she said) had been used by whistler. priam farll got away from the shop without this apparatus for the confection of masterpieces, but he did not get away without a sketching-box which he had had no intention of buying. the young lady was too energetic for him. he was afraid of being too curt with her lest she should turn on him and tell him that pretence was useless--she knew he was priam farll. he felt guilty, and he felt that he looked guilty. as he hurried along the high street towards the river with the paint-box it appeared to him that policemen observed him inimically and cocked their helmets at him, as who should say: "see here; this won't do. you're supposed to be in westminster abbey. you'll be locked up if you're too brazen." the tide was out. he sneaked down to the gravelly shore a little above the steamer pier, and hid himself between the piles, glancing around him in a scared fashion. he might have been about to commit a crime. then he opened the sketch-box, and oiled the palette, and tried the elasticity of the brushes on his hand. and he made a sketch of the scene before him. he did it very quickly--in less than half-an-hour. he had made thousands of such colour 'notes' in his life, and he would never part with any of them. he had always hated to part with his notes. doubtless his cousin duncan had them now, if duncan had discovered his address in paris, as duncan probably had. when it was finished, he inspected the sketch, half shutting his eyes and holding it about three feet off. it was good. except for a few pencil scrawls done in sheer absent-mindedness and hastily destroyed, this was the first sketch he had made since the death of henry leek. but it was very good. "no mistake who's done that!" he murmured; and added: "that's the devil of it. any expert would twig it in a minute. there's only one man that could have done it. i shall have to do something worse than that!" he shut up the box and with a bang as an amative couple came into sight. he need not have done so, for the couple vanished instantly in deep disgust at being robbed of their retreat between the piles. alice was nearing the completion of pastry when he returned in the dusk; he smelt the delicious proof. creeping quietly upstairs, he deposited his brushes in an empty attic at the top of the house. then he washed his hands with especial care to remove all odour of paint. and at dinner he endeavoured to put on the mien of innocence. she was cheerful, but it was the cheerfulness of determined effort. they naturally talked of the situation. it appeared that she had a reserve of money in the bank--as much as would suffice her for quite six months. he told her with false buoyancy that there need never be the slightest difficulty as to money; he had money, and he could always earn more. "if you think i'm going to let you go into another situation," she said, "you're mistaken. that's all." and her lips were firm. this staggered him. he never could remember for more than half-an-hour at a time that he was a retired valet. and it was decidedly not her practice to remind him of the fact. the notion of himself in a situation as valet was half ridiculous and half tragical. he could no more be a valet than he could be a stockbroker or a wire-walker. "i wasn't thinking of that," he stammered. "then what were you thinking of?" she asked. "oh! i don't know!" he said vaguely. "because those things they advertise--homework, envelope addressing, or selling gramophones on commission--they're no good, you know!" he shuddered. the next morning he bought a x canvas, and more brushes and tubes, and surreptitiously introduced them into the attic. happily it was the charwoman's day and alice was busy enough to ignore him. with an old table and the tray out of a travelling-trunk, he arranged a substitute for an easel, and began to try to paint a bad picture from his sketch. but in a quarter of an hour he discovered that he was exactly as fitted to paint a bad picture as to be a valet. he could not sentimentalize the tones, nor falsify the values. he simply could not; the attempt to do so annoyed him. all men are capable of stooping beneath their highest selves, and in several directions priam farll could have stooped. but not on canvas! he could only produce his best. he could only render nature as he saw nature. and it was instinct, rather than conscience, that prevented him from stooping. in three days, during which he kept alice out of the attic partly by lies and partly by locking the door, the picture was finished; and he had forgotten all about everything except his profession. he had become a different man, a very excited man. "by jove," he exclaimed, surveying the picture, "i can paint!" artists do occasionally soliloquize in this way. the picture was dazzling! what atmosphere! what poetry! and what profound fidelity to nature's facts! it was precisely such a picture as he was in the habit of selling for £ or a £ , , before his burial in westminster abbey! indeed, the trouble was that it had 'priam farll' written all over it, just as the sketch had! * * * * * chapter vii _the confession_ that evening he was very excited, and he seemed to take no thought to disguise his excitement. the fact was, he could not have disguised it, even if he had tried. the fever of artistic creation was upon him--all the old desires and the old exhausting joys. his genius had been lying idle, like a lion in a thicket, and now it had sprung forth ravening. for months he had not handled a brush; for months his mind had deliberately avoided the question of painting, being content with the observation only of beauty. a week ago, if he had deliberately asked himself whether he would ever paint again, he might have answered, "perhaps not." such is man's ignorance of his own nature! and now the lion of his genius was standing over him, its paw on his breast, and making a great noise. he saw that the last few months had been merely an interlude, that he would be forced to paint--or go mad; and that nothing else mattered. he saw also that he could only paint in one way--priam farll's way. if it was discovered that priam farll was not buried in westminster abbey; if there was a scandal, and legal unpleasantness--well, so much the worse! but he must paint. not for money, mind you! incidentally, of course, he would earn money. but he had already quite forgotten that life has its financial aspect. so in the sitting-room in werter road, he walked uneasily to and fro, squeezing between the table and the sideboard, and then skirting the fireplace where alice sat with a darning apparatus upon her knees, and her spectacles on--she wore spectacles when she had to look fixedly at very dark objects. the room was ugly in a pleasant putneyish way, with a couple of engravings after b.w. leader, r.a., a too realistic wall-paper, hot brown furniture with ribbed legs, a carpet with the characteristics of a retired governess who has taken to drink, and a black cloud on the ceiling over the incandescent burners. happily these surroundings did not annoy him. they did not annoy him because he never saw them. when his eyes were not resting on beautiful things, they were not in this world of reality at all. his sole idea about house-furnishing was an easy-chair. "harry," said his wife, "don't you think you'd better sit down?" the calm voice of common sense stopped him in his circular tour. he glanced at alice, and she, removing her spectacles, glanced at him. the seal on his watch-chain dangled free. he had to talk to some one, and his wife was there--not only the most convenient but the most proper person to talk to. a tremendous impulse seized him to tell her everything; she would understand; she always did understand; and she never allowed herself to be startled. the most singular occurrences, immediately they touched her, were somehow transformed into credible daily, customary events. thus the disaster of the brewery! she had accepted it as though the ruins of breweries were a spectacle to be witnessed at every street-corner. yes, he should tell her. three minutes ago he had no intention of telling her, or any one, anything. he decided in an instant. to tell her his secret would lead up naturally to the picture which he had just finished. "i say, alice," he said, "i want to talk to you." "well," she said, "i wish you'd talk to me sitting down. i don't know what's come over you this last day or two." he sat down. he did not feel really intimate with her at that moment. and their marriage seemed to him, in a way, artificial, scarcely a fact. he did not know that it takes years to accomplish full intimacy between husband and wife. "you know," he said, "henry leek isn't my real name." "oh, isn't it?" she said. "what does that matter?" she was not in the least surprised to hear that henry leek was not his real name. she was a wise woman, and knew the strangeness of the world. and she had married him simply because he was himself, because he existed in a particular manner (whose charm for her she could not have described) from hour to hour. "so long as you haven't committed a murder or anything," she added, with her tranquil smile. "my real name is priam farll," he said gruffly. the gruffness was caused by timidity. "i thought priam farll was your gentleman's name." "to tell you the truth," he said nervously, "there was a mistake. that photograph that was sent to you was my photograph." "yes," she said. "i know it was. and what of it?" "i mean," he blundered on, "it was my valet that died--not me. you see, the doctor, when he came, thought that leek was me, and i didn't tell him differently, because i was afraid of all the bother. i just let it slide--and there were other reasons. you know how i am...." "i don't know what you're talking about," she said. "can't you understand? it's simple enough. i'm priam farll, and i had a valet named henry leek, and he died, and they thought it was me. only it wasn't." he saw her face change and then compose itself. "then it's this henry leek that is buried in westminster abbey, instead of you?" her voice was very soft and soothing. and the astonishing woman resumed her spectacles and her long needle. "yes, of course." here he burst into the whole story, into the middle of it, continuing to the end, and then going back to the commencement. he left out nothing, and nobody, except lady sophia entwistle. "i see," she observed. "and you've never said a word?" "not a word." "if i were you i should still keep perfectly silent about it," she almost whispered persuasively. "it'll be just as well. if i were you, i shouldn't worry myself. i can quite understand how it happened, and i'm glad you've told me. but don't worry. you've been exciting yourself these last two or three days. i thought it was about my money business, but i see it wasn't. at least that may have brought it on, like. now the best thing you can do is to forget it." she did not believe him! she simply discredited the whole story; and, told in werter road, like that, the story did sound fantastic; it did come very near to passing belief. she had always noticed a certain queerness in her husband. his sudden gaieties about a tint in the sky or the gesture of a horse in the street, for example, were most uncanny. and he had peculiar absences of mind that she could never account for. she was sure that he must have been a very bad valet. however, she did not marry him for a valet, but for a husband; and she was satisfied with her bargain. what if he did suffer under a delusion? the exposure of that delusion merely crystallized into a definite shape her vague suspicions concerning his mentality. besides, it was a harmless delusion. and it explained things. it explained, among other things, why he had gone to stay at the grand babylon hotel. that must have been the inception of the delusion. she was glad to know the worst. she adored him more than ever. there was a silence. "no," she repeated, in the most matter-of-fact tone, "i should say nothing, in your place. i should forget it." "you would?" he drummed on the table. "i should! and whatever you do, don't worry." her accents were the coaxing accents of a nurse with a child--or with a lunatic. he perceived now with the utmost clearness that she did not believe a word of what he had said, and that in her magnificent and calm sagacity she was only trying to humour him. he had expected to disturb her soul to its profoundest depths; he had expected that they would sit up half the night discussing the situation. and lo!--"i should forget it," indulgently! and a mild continuance of darning! he had to think, and think hard. _tears_ "henry," she called out the next morning, as he disappeared up the stairs. "what _are_ you doing up there?" she had behaved exactly as if nothing had happened; and she was one of those women whose prudent policy it is to let their men alone even to the furthest limit of patience; but she had nerves, too, and they were being affected. for three days henry had really been too mysterious! he stopped, and put his head over the banisters, and in a queer, moved voice answered: "come and see." sooner or later she must see. sooner or later the already distended situation must get more and more distended until it burst with a loud report. let the moment be sooner, he swiftly decided. so she went and saw. half-way up the attic stairs she began to sniff, and as he turned the knob of the attic door for her she said, "what a smell of paint! i fancied yesterday----" if she had been clever enough she would have said, "what a smell of masterpieces!" but her cleverness lay in other fields. "you surely haven't been aspinalling that bath-room chair?... oh!" this loud exclamation escaped from her as she entered the attic and saw the back of the picture which priam had lodged on the said bath-room chair--filched by him from the bath-room on the previous day. she stepped to the vicinity of the window and obtained a good view of the picture. it was brilliantly shining in the light of morn. it looked glorious; it was a fit companion of many pictures from the same hand distributed among european galleries. it had that priceless quality, at once noble and radiant, which distinguished all priam's work. it transformed the attic; and thousands of amateurs and students, from st. petersburg to san francisco, would have gone into that attic with their hats off and a thrill in the spine, had they known what was there and had they been invited to enter and worship. priam himself was pleased; he was delighted; he was enthusiastic. and he stood near the picture, glancing at it and then glancing at alice, nervously, like a mother whose sister-in-law has come to look at the baby. as for alice, she said nothing. she had first of all to take in the fact that her husband had been ungenerous enough to keep her quite in the dark as to the nature of his secret activities; then she had to take in the fact of the picture. "did you do that?" she said limply. "yes," said he, with all the casualness that he could assume. "how does it strike you?" and to himself: "this'll make her see i'm not a mere lunatic. this'll give her a shaking up." "i'm sure it's beautiful," she said kindly, but without the slightest conviction. "what is it? is that putney bridge?" "yes," he said. "i thought it was. i thought it must be. well, i never knew you could paint. it's beautiful--for an amateur." she said this firmly and yet endearingly, and met his eyes with her eyes. it was her tactful method of politely causing him to see that she had not accepted last night's yarn very seriously. his eyes fell, not hers. "no, no, no!" he expostulated with quick vivacity, as she stepped towards the canvas. "don't come any nearer. you're at just the right distance." "oh! if you don't _want_ me to see it close," she humoured him. "what a pity you haven't put an omnibus on the bridge!" "there is one," said he. "_that's_ one." he pointed. "oh yes! yes, i see. but, you know, i think it looks rather more like a carter paterson van than an omnibus. if you could paint some letters on it--'union jack' or 'vanguard,' then people would be sure. but it's beautiful. i suppose you learnt to to paint from your--" she checked herself. "what's that red streak behind?" "that's the railway bridge," he muttered. "oh, of course it is! how silly of me! now if you were to put a train on that. the worst of trains in pictures is that they never seem to be going along. i've noticed that on the sides of furniture vans, haven't you? but if you put a signal, against it, then people would understand that the train had stopped. i'm not sure whether there _is_ a signal on the bridge, though." he made no remark. "and i see that's the elk public-house there on the right. you've just managed to get it in. i can recognize that quite easily. any one would." he still made no remark. "what are you going to do with it?" she asked gently. "going to sell it, my dear," he replied grimly. "it may surprise you to know that that canvas is worth at the very least £ . there would be a devil of a row and rumpus in bond street and elsewhere if they knew i was painting here instead of rotting in westminster abbey. i don't propose to sign it--i seldom did sign my pictures--and we shall see what we shall see.... i've got fifteen hundred for little things not so good as that. i'll let it go for what it'll fetch. we shall soon be wanting money." the tears rose to alice's eyes. she saw that he was more infinitely more mad than she imagined--with his £ and his £ , for daubs of pictures that conveyed no meaning whatever to the eye! why, you could purchase real, professional pictures, of lakes, and mountains, exquisitely finished, at the frame-makers in high street for three pounds apiece! and here he was rambling in hundreds and thousands! she saw that that extraordinary notion about being able to paint was a natural consequence of the pathetic delusion to which he had given utterance yesterday. and she wondered what would follow next. who could have guessed that the seeds of lunacy were in such a man? yes, harmless lunacy, but lunacy nevertheless! she distinctly remembered the little shock with which she had learned that he was staying at the grand babylon on his own account, as a wealthy visitor. she thought it bizarre, but she certainly had not taken it for a sign of lunacy. and yet it had been a sign of madness. and the worst of harmless lunacy was that it might develop at any moment into harmful lunacy. there was one thing to do, and only one: keep him quiet, shield him from all troubles and alarms. it was disturbance of spirit which induced these mental derangements. his master's death had upset him. and now he had been upset by her disgraceful brewery company. she made a step towards him, and then hesitated. she had to form a plan of campaign all in a moment! she had to keep her wits and to use them! how could she give him confidence about his absurd picture? she noticed that naïve look that sometimes came into his eyes, a boyish expression that gave the he to his greying beard and his generous proportions. he laughed, until, as she came closer, he saw the tears on her eyelids. then he ceased laughing. she fingered the edge of his coat, cajolingly. "it's a beautiful picture!" she repeated again and again. "and if you like i will see if i can sell it for you. but, henry----" "well?" "please, please don't bother about money. we shall have _heaps_. there's no occasion for you to bother, and i won't _have_ you bothering." "what are you crying for?" he asked in a murmur. "it's only--only because i think it's so nice of you trying to earn money like that," she lied. "i'm not really crying." and she ran away, downstairs, really crying. it was excessively comic, but he had better not follow her, lest he might cry too.... _a patron of the arts_ a lull followed this crisis in the affairs of no. werter road. priam went on painting, and there was now no need for secrecy about it. but his painting was not made a subject of conversation. both of them hesitated to touch it, she from tact, and he because her views on the art seemed to him to be lacking in subtlety. in every marriage there is a topic--there are usually several--which the husband will never broach to the wife, out of respect for his respect for her. priam scarcely guessed that alice imagined him to be on the way to lunacy. he thought she merely thought him queer, as artists _are_ queer to non-artists. and he was accustomed to that; henry leek had always thought him queer. as for alice's incredulous attitude towards the revelation of his identity, he did not mentally accuse her of treating him as either a liar or a madman. on reflection he persuaded himself that she regarded the story as a bad joke, as one of his impulsive, capricious essays in the absurd. thus the march of evolution was apparently arrested in werter road during three whole days. and then a singular event happened, and progress was resumed. priam had been out since early morning on the riverside, sketching, and had reached barnes, from which town he returned over barnes common, and so by the upper richmond road to high street. he was on the south side of upper richmond road, whereas his tobacconist's shop was on the north side, near the corner. an unfamiliar peculiarity of the shop caused him to cross the street, for he was not in want of tobacco. it was the look of the window that drew him. he stopped on the refuge in the centre of the street. there was no necessity to go further. his picture of putney bridge was in the middle of the window. he stared at it fixedly. he believed his eyes, for his eyes were the finest part of him and never deceived him; but perhaps if he had been a person with ordinary eyes he would scarce have been able to believe them. the canvas was indubitably there present in the window. it had been put in a cheap frame such as is used for chromographic advertisements of ships, soups, and tobacco. he was almost sure that he had seen that same frame, within the shop, round a pictorial announcement of taddy's snuff. the tobacconist had probably removed the eighteenth-century aristocrat with his fingers to his nose, from the frame, and replaced him with putney bridge. in any event the frame was about half-an-inch too long for the canvas, but the gap was scarcely observable. on the frame was a large notice, 'for sale.' and around it were the cigars of two hemispheres, from syak whiffs at a penny each to precious murias; and cigarettes of every allurement; and the multitudinous fragments of all advertised tobaccos; and meerschaums and briars, and patent pipes and diagrams of their secret machinery; and cigarette-and cigar-holders laid on plush; and pocket receptacles in aluminium and other precious metals. shining there, the picture had a most incongruous appearance. he blushed as he stood on the refuge. it seemed to him that the mere incongruity of the spectacle must inevitably attract crowds, gradually blocking the street, and that when some individual not absolutely a fool in art, had perceived the quality of the picture--well, then the trouble of public curiosity and of journalistic inquisitiveness would begin. he wondered that he could ever have dreamed of concealing his identity on a canvas. the thing simply shouted 'priam farll,' every inch of it. in any exhibition of pictures in london, paris, rome, milan, munich, new york or boston, it would have been the cynosure, the target of ecstatic admirations. it was just such another work as his celebrated 'pont d'austerlitz,' which hung in the luxembourg. and neither a frame of 'chemical gold,' nor the extremely variegated coloration of the other merchandise on sale could kill it. however, there were no signs of a crowd. people passed to and fro, just as though there had not been a masterpiece within ten thousand miles of them. once a servant girl, a loaf of bread in her red arms, stopped to glance at the window, but in an instant she was gone, running. priam's first instinctive movement had been to plunge into the shop, and demand from his tobacconist an explanation of the phenomenon. but of course he checked himself. of course he knew that the presence of his picture in the window could only be due to the enterprise of alice. he went slowly home. the sound of his latchkey in the keyhole brought her into the hall ere he had opened the door. "oh, henry," she said--she was quite excited--"i must tell you. i was passing mr. aylmer's this morning just as he was dressing his window, and the thought struck me that he might put your picture in. so i ran in and asked him. he said he would if he could have it at once. so i came and got it. he found a frame, and wrote out a ticket, and asked after you. no one could have been kinder. you must go and have a look at it. i shouldn't be at all surprised if it gets sold like that." priam answered nothing for a moment. he could not. "what did aylmer say about it?" he asked. "oh!" said his wife quickly, "you can't expect mr. aylmer to understand these things. it's not in his line. but he was glad to oblige us. i saw he arranged it nicely." "well," said priam discreetly, "that's all right. suppose we have lunch?" curious--her relations with mr. aylmer! it was she who had recommended him to go to mr. aylmer's when, on the first morning of his residence in putney, he had demanded, "any decent tobacconists in this happy region?" he suspected that, had it not been for aylmer's beridden and incurable wife, alice's name might have been aylmer. he suspected aylmer of a hopeless passion for alice. he was glad that alice had not been thrown away on aylmer. he could not imagine himself now without alice. in spite of her ideas on the graphic arts, alice was his air, his atmosphere, his oxygen; and also his umbrella to shield him from the hail of untoward circumstances. curious--the process of love! it was the power of love that had put that picture in the tobacconist's window. whatever power had put it there, no power seemed strong enough to get it out again. it lay exposed in the window for weeks and never drew a crowd, nor caused a sensation of any kind! not a word in the newspapers! london, the acknowledged art-centre of the world, calmly went its ways. the sole immediate result was that priam changed his tobacconist, and the direction of his promenades. at last another singular event happened. alice beamingly put five sovereigns into priam's hand one evening. "it's been sold for five guineas," she said, joyous. "mr. aylmer didn't want to keep anything for himself, but i insisted on his having the odd shillings. i think it's splendid, simply splendid! of course i always _did_ think it was a beautiful picture," she added. the fact was that this astounding sale for so large a sum as five pounds, of a picture done in the attic by her henry, had enlarged her ideas of henry's skill. she could no longer regard his painting as the caprice of a gentle lunatic. there was something _in_ it. and now she wanted to persuade herself that she had known from the first there was something in it. the picture had been bought by the eccentric and notorious landlord of the elk hotel, down by the river, on a sunday afternoon when he was--not drunk, but more optimistic than the state of english society warrants. he liked the picture because his public-house was so unmistakably plain in it. he ordered a massive gold frame for it, and hung it in his saloon-bar. his career as a patron of the arts was unfortunately cut short by an order signed by his doctors for his incarceration in a lunatic asylum. all putney had been saying for years that he would end in the asylum, and all putney was right. * * * * * chapter viii _an invasion_ one afternoon, in december, priam and alice were in the sitting-room together, and alice was about to prepare tea. the drawn-thread cloth was laid diagonally on the table (because alice had seen cloths so laid on model tea-tables in model rooms at waring's), the strawberry jam occupied the northern point of the compass, and the marmalade was antarctic, while brittle cakes and spongy cakes represented the occident and the orient respectively. bread-and-butter stood, rightly, for the centre of the universe. silver ornamented the spread, and alice's two tea-pots (for she would never allow even chinese tea to remain on the leaves for more than five minutes) and alice's water-jug with the patent balanced lid, occupied a tray off the cloth. at some distance, but still on the table, a kettle moaned over a spirit-lamp. alice was cutting bread for toast. the fire was of the right redness for toast, and a toasting-fork lay handy. as winter advanced, alice's teas had a tendency to become cosier and cosier, and also more luxurious, more of a ritualistic ceremony. and to avoid the trouble and danger of going through a cold passage to the kitchen, she arranged matters so that the entire operation could be performed with comfort and decency in the sitting-room itself. priam was rolling cigarettes, many of them, and placing them, as he rolled them, in order on the mantelpiece. a happy, mild couple! and a couple, one would judge from the richness of the tea, with no immediate need of money. over two years, however, had passed since the catastrophe to cohoon's, and cohoon's had in no way recovered therefrom. yet money had been regularly found for the household. the manner of its finding was soon to assume importance in the careers of priam and alice. but, ere that moment, an astonishing and vivid experience happened to them. one might have supposed that, in the life of priam farll at least, enough of the astonishing and the vivid had already happened. nevertheless, what had already happened was as customary and unexciting as addressing envelopes, compared to the next event. the next event began at the instant when alice was sticking the long fork into a round of bread. there was a knock at the front door, a knock formidable and reverberating, the knock of fate, perhaps, but fate disguised as a coalheaver. alice answered it. she always answered knocks; priam never. she shielded him from every rough or unexpected contact, just as his valet used to do. the gas in the hall was not lighted, and so she stopped to light it, darkness having fallen. then she opened the door, and saw, in the gloom, a short, thin woman standing on the step, a woman of advanced middle-age, dressed with a kind of shabby neatness. it seemed impossible that so frail and unimportant a creature could have made such a noise on the door. "is this mr. henry leek's?" asked the visitor, in a dissatisfied, rather weary tone. "yes," said alice. which was not quite true. 'this' was assuredly hers, rather than her husband's. "oh!" said the woman, glancing behind her; and entered nervously, without invitation. at the same moment three male figures sprang, or rushed, out of the strip of front garden, and followed the woman into the hall, lunging up against alice, and breathing loudly. one of the trio was a strong, heavy-faced heavy-handed, louring man of some thirty years (it seemed probable that he was the knocker), and the others were curates, with the proper physical attributes of curates; that is to say, they were of ascetic habit and clean-shaven and had ingenuous eyes. the hall now appeared like the antechamber of a may-meeting, and as alice had never seen it so peopled before, she vented a natural exclamation of surprise. "yes," said one of the curates, fiercely. "you may say 'lord,' but we were determined to get in, and in we have got. john, shut the door. mother, don't put yourself about." john, being the heavy-faced and heavy-handed man, shut the door. "where is mr. henry leek?" demanded the other curate. now priam, whose curiosity had been excusably excited by the unusual sounds in the hall, was peeping through a chink of the sitting-room door, and the elderly woman caught the glint of his eyes. she pushed open the door, and, after a few seconds' inspection of him, said: "there you are, henry! after thirty years! to think of it!" priam was utterly at a loss. "i'm his wife, ma'am," the visitor continued sadly to alice. "i'm sorry to have to tell you. i'm his wife. i'm the rightful mrs. henry leek, and these are my sons, come with me to see that i get justice." alice recovered very quickly from the shock of amazement. she was a woman not easily to be startled by the vagaries of human nature. she had often heard of bigamy, and that her husband should prove to be a bigamist did not throw her into a swoon. she at once, in her own mind, began to make excuses for him. she said to herself, as she inspected the real mrs. henry leek, that the real mrs. henry leek had certainly the temperament which manufactures bigamists. she understood how a person may slide into bigamy. and after thirty years!... she never thought of bigamy as a crime, nor did it occur to her to run out and drown herself for shame because she was not properly married to priam! no, it has to be said in favour of alice that she invariably took things as they were. "i think you'd better all come in and sit down quietly," she said. "eh! it's very kind of you," said the mother of the curates, limply. the last thing that the curates wanted to do was to sit down quietly. but they had to sit down. alice made them sit side by side on the sofa. the heavy, elder brother, who had not spoken a word, sat on a chair between the sideboard and the door. their mother sat on a chair near the table. priam fell into his easy-chair between the fireplace and the sideboard. as for alice, she remained standing; she showed no nervousness except in her handling of the toasting-fork. it was a great situation. but unfortunately ordinary people are so unaccustomed to the great situation, that, when it chances to come, they feel themselves incapable of living up to it. a person gazing in at the window, and unacquainted with the facts, might have guessed that the affair was simply a tea party at which the guests had arrived a little too soon and where no one was startlingly proficient in the art of small-talk. still, the curates were apparently bent on doing their best. "now, mother!" one of them urged her. the mother, as if a spring had been touched in her, began: "he married me just thirty years ago, ma'am; and four months after my eldest was born--that's john there"--(pointing to the corner near the door)--"he just walked out of the house and left me. i'm sorry to have to say it. yes, sorry i am! but there it is. and never a word had i ever given him! and eight months after that my twins were born. that's harry and matthew"--(pointing to the sofa)--"harry i called after his father because i thought he was like him, and just to show i bore no ill-feeling, and hoping he'd come back! and there i was with these little children! and not a word of explanation did i ever have. i heard of harry five years later--when johnnie was nearly five--but he was on the continent and i couldn't go traipsing about with three babies. besides, if i _had_ gone!... sorry i am to say it, ma'am; but many's the time he's beaten me, yes, with his hands and his fists! he's knocked me about above a bit. and i never gave him a word back. he was my husband, for better for worse, and i forgave him and i still do. forgive and forget, that's what i say. we only heard of him through matthew being second curate at st. paul's, and in charge of the mission hall. it was your milkman that happened to tell matthew that he had a customer same name as himself. and you know how one thing leads to another. so we're here!" "i never saw this lady in my life," said priam excitedly, "and i'm absolutely certain i never married her. i never married any one; except, of course, you, alice!" "then how do you explain this, sir?" exclaimed matthew, the younger twin, jumping up and taking a blue paper from his pocket. "be so good as to pass this to father," he said, handing the paper to alice. alice inspected the document. it was a certificate of the marriage of henry leek, valet, and sarah featherstone, spinster, at a registry office in paddington. priam also inspected it. this was one of leek's escapades! no revelations as to the past of henry leek would have surprised him. there was nothing to be done except to give a truthful denial of identity and to persist in that denial. useless to say soothingly to the lady visitor that she was the widow of a gentleman who had been laid to rest in westminster abbey! "i know nothing about it," said priam doggedly. "i suppose you'll not deny, sir, that your name is henry leek," said henry, jumping up to stand by matthew. "i deny everything," said priam doggedly. how could he explain? if he had not been able to convince alice that he was not henry leek, could he hope to convince these visitors? "i suppose, madam," henry continued, addressing alice in impressive tones as if she were a crowded congregation, "that at any rate you and my father are--er--living here together under the name of mr. and mrs. henry leek?" alice merely lifted her eyebrows. "it's all a mistake," said priam impatiently. then he had a brilliant inspiration. "as if there was only one henry leek in the world!" "do you really recognize my husband?" alice asked. "your husband, madam!" matthew protested, shocked. "i wouldn't say that i recognized him as he _was_," said the real mrs. henry leek. "no more than he recognizes me. after thirty years!....last time i saw him he was only twenty-two or twenty-three. but he's the same sort of man, and he has the same eyes. and look at henry's eyes. besides, i heard twenty-five years ago that he'd gone into service with a mr. priam farll, a painter or something, him that was buried in westminster abbey. and everybody in putney knows that this gentleman----" "gentleman!" murmured matthew, discontented. "was valet to mr. priam farll. we've heard that everywhere." "i suppose you'll not deny," said henry the younger, "that priam farll wouldn't be likely to have _two_ valets named henry leek?" crushed by this socratic reasoning, priam kept silence, nursing his knees and staring into the fire. alice went to the sideboard where she kept her best china, and took out three extra cups and saucers. "i think we'd all better have some tea," she said tranquilly. and then she got the tea-caddy and put seven teaspoonfuls of tea into one of the tea-pots. "it's very kind of you, i'm sure," whimpered the authentic mrs. henry leek. "now, mother, don't give way!" the curates admonished her. "don't you remember, henry," she went on whimpering to priam, "how you said you wouldn't be married in a church, not for anybody? and how i gave way to you, like i always did? and don't you remember how you wouldn't let poor little johnnie be baptized? well, i do hope your opinions have altered. eh, but it's strange, it's strange, how two of your sons, and just them two that you'd never set eyes on until this day, should have made up their minds to go into the church! and thanks to johnnie there, they've been able to. if i was to tell you all the struggles we've had, you wouldn't believe me. they were clerks, and they might have been clerks to this day, if it hadn't been for johnnie. but johnnie could always earn money. it's that engineering! and now matthew's second curate at st. paul's and getting fifty pounds a year, and henry'll have a curacy next month at bermondsey--it's been promised, and all thanks to johnnie!" she wept. johnnie, in the corner, who had so far done nought but knock at the door, maintained stiffly his policy of non-interference. priam farll, angry, resentful, and quite untouched by the recital, shrugged his shoulders. he was animated by the sole desire to fly from the widow and progeny of his late valet. but he could not fly. the herculean john was too close to the door. so he shrugged his shoulders a second time. "yes, sir," said matthew, "you may shrug your shoulders, but you can't shrug us out of existence. here we are, and you can't get over us. you are our father, and i presume that a kind of respect is due to you. yet how can you hope for our respect? have you earned it? did you earn it when you ill-treated our poor mother? did you earn it when you left her, with the most inhuman cruelty, to fend for herself in the world? did you earn it when you abandoned your children born and unborn? you are a bigamist, sir; a deceiver of women! heaven knows--" "would you mind just toasting this bread?" alice interrupted his impassioned discourse by putting the loaded toasting-fork into his hands, "while i make the tea?" it was a novel way of stopping a mustang in full career, but it succeeded. while somewhat perfunctorily holding the fork to the fire, matthew glared about him, to signify his righteous horror, and other sentiments. "please don't burn it," said alice gently. "suppose you were to sit down on this foot-stool." and then she poured boiling water on the tea, put the lid on the pot, and looked at the clock to note the exact second at which the process of infusion had begun. "of course," burst out henry, the twin of matthew, "i need not say, madam, that you have all our sympathies. you are in a----" "do you mean me?" alice asked. in an undertone priam could be heard obstinately repeating, "never set eyes upon her before! never set eyes on the woman before!" "i do, madam," said henry, not to be cowed nor deflected from his course. "i speak for all of us. you have our sympathies. you could not know the character of the man you married, or rather with whom you went through the ceremony of marriage. however, we have heard, by inquiry, that you made his acquaintance through the medium of a matrimonial agency; and indirectly, when one does that sort of thing, one takes one's chance. your position is an extremely delicate one; but it is not too much to say that you brought it on yourself. in my work, i have encountered many sad instances of the result of lax moral principles; but i little thought to encounter the saddest of all in my own family. the discovery is just as great a blow to us as it is to you. we have suffered; my mother has suffered. and now, i fear, it is your turn to suffer. you are not this man's wife. nothing can make you his wife. you are living in the same house with him--under circumstances--er--without a chaperon. i hesitate to characterize your situation in plain words. it would scarcely become me, or mine, to do so. but really no lady could possibly find herself in a situation more false than--i am afraid there is only one word, open immorality, and--er--to put yourself right with society there is one thing, and only one, left for you to--er--do. i--i speak for the family, and i--" "sugar?" alice questioned the mother of curates. "yes, please." "one lump, or two?" "two, please." "speaking for the family--" henry resumed. "will you kindly pass this cup to your mother?" alice suggested. henry was obliged to take the cup. excited by the fever of eloquence, he unfortunately upset it before it had reached his mother's hands. "oh, henry!" murmured the lady, mournfully aghast. "you always were so clumsy! and a clean cloth, too!" "don't mention it, please," said alice, and then to _her_ henry: "my dear, just run into the kitchen, and bring me something to wipe this up. hanging behind the door--you'll see." priam sprang forward with astonishing celerity. and the occasion brooking no delay, the guardian of the portal could not but let him pass. in another moment the front door banged. priam did not return. and alice staunched the flow of tea with a clean, stiff serviette taken from the sideboard drawer. _a departure_ the family of the late henry leek, each with a cup in hand, experienced a certain difficulty in maintaining the interview at the pitch set by matthew and henry. mrs. leek, their mother, frankly gave way to soft tears, while eating bread-and-butter, jam and zebra-like toast. john took everything that alice offered to him in gloomy and awkward silence. "does he mean to come back?" matthew demanded at length. he had risen from the foot-stool. "who?" asked alice. matthew paused, and then said, savagely and deliberately: "father." alice smiled. "i'm afraid not. i'm afraid he's gone out. you see, he's a rather peculiar man. it's not the slightest use me trying to drive him. he can only be led. he has his good points--i can speak candidly as he isn't here, and i _will_--he has his good points. when mrs. leek, as i suppose she calls herself, spoke about his cruelty to her--well, i understood that. far be it from me to say a word against him; he's often very good to me, but--another cup, mr. john?" john advanced to the table without a word, holding his cup. "you don't mean to say, ma'am," said mrs. leek "that he--?" alice nodded grievously. mrs. leek burst into tears. "when johnnie was barely five weeks old," she said, "he would twist my arm. and he kept me without money. and once he locked me up in the cellar. and one morning when i was ironing he snatched the hot iron out of my hand and--" "don't! don't!" alice soothed her. "i know. i know all you can tell me. i know because i've been through--" "you don't mean to say he threatened _you_ with the flat-iron?" "if threatening was only all!" said alice, like a martyr. "then he's not changed, in all these years!" wept the mother of curates. "if he has, it's for the worse," said alice. "how was i to tell?" she faced the curates. "how could i know? and yet nobody, nobody, could be nicer than he is at times!" "that's true, that's true," responded the authentic mrs. henry leek. "he was always so changeable. so queer." "queer!" alice took up the word. "that's it queer! i don't think he's _quite_ right in his head, not quite right. he has the very strangest fancies. i never take any notice of them, but they're there. i seldom get up in the morning without thinking, 'well, perhaps to-day he'll have to be taken off.'" "taken off?" "yes, to hanwell, or wherever it is. and you must remember," she said gazing firmly at the curates, "you've got his blood in your veins. don't forget that. i suppose you want to make him go back to you, mrs. leek, as he certainly ought." "ye-es," murmured mrs. leek feebly. "well, if you can persuade him to go," said alice, "if you can make him see his duty, you're welcome. but i'm sorry for you. i think i ought to tell you that this is my house, and my furniture. he's got nothing at all. i expect he never could save. many's the blow he's laid on me in anger, but all the same i pity him. i pity him. and i wouldn't like to leave him in the lurch. perhaps these three strong young men'll be able to do something with him. but i'm not sure. he's very strong. and he has a way of leaping out so sudden like." mrs. leek shook her head as memories of the past rose up in her mind. "the fact is," said matthew sternly, "he ought to be prosecuted for bigamy. that's what ought to be done." "most decidedly," henry concurred. "you're quite right! you're quite right!" said alice. "that's only justice. of course he'd deny that he was the same henry leek. he'd deny it like anything. but in the end i dare say you'd be able to prove it. the worst of these law cases is they're so expensive. it means private detectives and all sorts of things, i believe. of course there'd be the scandal. but don't mind me! i'm innocent. everybody knows me in putney, and has done this twenty years. i don't know how it would suit you, mr. henry and mr. matthew, as clergymen, to have your own father in prison. that's as may be. but justice is justice, and there's too many men going about deceiving simple, trusting women. i've often heard such tales. now i know they're all true. it's a mercy my own poor mother hasn't lived to see where i am to-day. as for my father, old as he was, if he'd been alive, there'd have been horsewhipping that i do know." after some rather pointless and disjointed remarks from the curates, a sound came from the corner near the door. it was john's cough. "better clear out of this!" john ejaculated. such was his first and last oral contribution to the scene. _in the bath_ priam farll was wandering about the uncharted groves of wimbledon common, and uttering soliloquies in language that lacked delicacy. he had rushed forth, in his haste, without an overcoat, and the weather was blusterously inclement. but he did not feel the cold; he only felt the keen wind of circumstance. soon after the purchase of his picture by the lunatic landlord of a fully licensed house, he had discovered that the frame-maker in high street knew a man who would not be indisposed to buy such pictures as he could paint, and transactions between him and the frame-maker had developed into a regular trade. the usual price paid for canvases was ten pounds, in cash. by this means he had earned about two hundred a year. no questions were put on either side. the paintings were delivered at intervals, and the money received; and priam knew no more. for many weeks he had lived in daily expectation of an uproar, a scandal in the art-world, visits of police, and other inconveniences, for it was difficult to believe that the pictures would never come beneath the eye of a first-class expert. but nothing had occurred, and he had gradually subsided into a sense of security. he was happy; happy in the untrammelled exercise of his gift, happy in having all the money that his needs and alice's demanded; happier than he had been in the errant days of his glory and his wealth. alice had been amazed at his power of earning; and also, she had seemed little by little to lose her suspicions as to his perfect sanity and truthfulness. in a word, the dog of fate had slept; and he had taken particular care to let it lie. he was in that species of sheltered groove which is absolutely essential to the bliss of a shy and nervous artist, however great he may be. and now this disastrous irruption, this resurrection of the early sins of the real leek! he was hurt; he was startled; he was furious. but he was not surprised. the wonder was that the early sins of henry leek had not troubled him long ago. what could he do? he could do nothing. that was the tragedy: he could do nothing. he could but rely upon alice. alice was amazing. the more he thought of it, the more masterly her handling of these preposterous curates seemed to him. and was he to be robbed of this incomparable woman by ridiculous proceedings connected with a charge of bigamy? he knew that bigamy meant prison, in england. the injustice was monstrous. he saw those curates, and their mute brother, and the aggrieved mother of the three dogging him either to prison or to his deathbed! and how could he explain to alice? impossible to explain to alice!... still, it was conceivable that alice would not desire explanation. alice somehow never did desire an explanation. she always said, "i can quite understand," and set about preparing a meal. she was the comfortablest cushion of a creature that the evolution of the universe had ever produced. then the gusty breeze dropped and it began to rain. he ignored the rain. but december rain has a strange, horrid quality of chilly persistence. it is capable of conquering the most obstinate and serious mental preoccupation, and it conquered priam's. it forced him to admit that his tortured soul had a fleshly garment and that the fleshly garment was soaked to the marrow. and his soul gradually yielded before the attack of the rain, and he went home. he put his latchkey into the door with minute precautions against noise, and crept into his house like a thief, and very gently shut the door. then, in the hall, he intently listened. not a sound! that is to say, not a sound except the drippings of his hat on the linoleum. the sitting-room door was ajar. he timidly pushed it, and entered. alice was darning stockings. "henry!" she exclaimed. "why, you're wet through!" she rose. "have they cleared off?" he demanded. "and you've been out without an overcoat! henry, how could you? well, i must get you into bed at once--instantly, or i shall have you down with pneumonia or something to-morrow!" "have they cleared off?" he repeated. "yes, of course," she said. "when are they coming back?" he asked. "i don't think they'll come back," she replied. "i think they've had enough. i think i've made them see that it's best to leave well alone. did you ever see such toast as that curate made?" "alice, i assure you," he said, later--he was in a boiling bath--"i assure you it's all a mistake, i've never seen the woman before." "of course you haven't," she said calmingly. "of course you haven't. besides, even if you had, it serves her right. every one could see she's a nagging woman. and they seemed quite prosperous. they're hysterical-- that's what's the matter with them, all of them--except the eldest, the one that never spoke. i rather liked him." "but i _haven't!_" he reiterated, splashing his positive statement into the water. "my dear, i know you haven't." but he guessed that she was humouring him. he guessed that she was determined to keep him at all costs. and he had a disconcerting glimpse of the depths of utter unscrupulousness that sometimes disclose themselves in the mind of a good and loving woman. "only i hope there won't be any more of them!" she added dryly. ah! that was the point! he conceived the possibility of the rascal leek having committed scores and scores of sins, all of which might come up against him. his affrighted vision saw whole regions populated by disconsolate widows of henry leek and their offspring, ecclesiastical and otherwise. he knew what leek had been. westminster abbey was a strange goal for leek to have achieved. * * * * * chapter ix _a glossy male_ the machine was one of those electric contrivances that do their work noiselessly and efficiently, like a garrotter or the guillotine. no odour, no teeth-disturbing grind of rack-and-pinion, no trumpeting, with that machine! it arrived before the gate with such absence of sound that alice, though she was dusting in the front-room, did not hear it. she heard nothing till the bell discreetly tinkled. justifiably assuming that the tinkler was the butcher's boy, she went to the door with her apron on, and even with the duster in her hand. a handsome, smooth man stood on the step, and the electric carriage made a background for him. he was a dark man, with curly black hair, and a moustache to match, and black eyes. his silk hat, of an incredible smooth newness, glittered over his glittering hair and eyes. his overcoat was lined with astrakan, and this important fact was casually betrayed at the lapels and at the sleeves. he wore a black silk necktie, with a small pearl pin in the mathematical centre of the perfect rhomboid of the upper part of a sailor's knot. his gloves were of slate colour. the chief characteristic of his faintly striped trousers was the crease, which seemed more than mortal. his boots were of _glacé_ kid and as smooth as his cheeks. the cheeks had a fresh boyish colour, and between them, over admirable snowy teeth, projected the hooked key to this temperament. it _is_ possible that alice, from sheer thoughtlessness, shared the vulgar prejudice against jews; but certainly she did not now feel it. the man's personal charm, his exceeding niceness, had always conquered that prejudice, whenever encountered. moreover, he was only about thirty-five in years, and no such costly and beautiful male had ever yet stood on alice's doorstep. she at once, in her mind, contrasted him with the curates of the previous week, to the disadvantage of the established church. she did not know that this man was more dangerous than a thousand curates. "is this mr. leek's?" he inquired smilingly, and raised his hat. "yes," said alice with a responsive smile. "is he in?" "well," said alice, "he's busy at his work. you see in this weather he can't go out much--not to work--and so he--" "could i see him in his studio?" asked the glossy man, with the air of saying, "can you grant me this supreme favour?" it was the first time that alice had heard the attic called a studio. she paused. "it's about pictures," explained the visitor. "oh!" said alice. "will you come in?" "i've run down specially to see mr. leek," said the visitor with emphasis. alice's opinion as to the seriousness of her husband's gift for painting had of course changed in two years. a man who can make two or three hundred a year by sticking colours anyhow, at any hazard, on canvases-- by producing alleged pictures that in alice's secret view bore only a comic resemblance to anything at all--that man had to be taken seriously in his attic as an artisan. it is true that alice thought the payment he received miraculously high for the quality of work done; but, with this agreeable jew in the hall, and the _coupé_ at the kerb, she suddenly perceived the probability of even greater miracles in the matter of price. she saw the average price of ten pounds rising to fifteen, or even twenty, pounds--provided her husband was given no opportunity to ruin the affair by his absurd, retiring shyness. "will you come this way?" she suggested briskly. and all that elegance followed her up to the attic door: which door she threw open, remarking simply-- "henry, here is a gentleman come to see you about pictures." _a connoisseur_ priam recovered more quickly than might have been expected. his first thought was naturally that women are uncalculated, if not incalculable, creatures, and that the best of them will do impossible things--things inconceivable till actually done! fancy her introducing a stranger, without a word of warning, direct into his attic! however, when he rose he saw the visitor's nose (whose nostrils were delicately expanding and contracting in the fumes of the oil-stove), and he was at once reassured. he knew that he would have to face neither rudeness, nor bluntness, nor lack of imagination, nor lack of quick sympathy. besides, the visitor, with practical assurance, set the tone of the interview instantly. "good-morning, _maître_," he began, right off. "i must apologize for breaking in upon you. but i've come to see if you have any work to sell. my name is oxford, and i'm acting for a collector." he said this with a very agreeable mingling of sincerity, deference, and mercantile directness, also with a bright, admiring smile. he showed no astonishment at the interior of the attic. _maître_! well, of course, it would be idle to pretend that the greatest artists do not enjoy being addressed as _maître_. 'master' is the same word, but entirely different. it was a long time since priam farll had been called _maître_. indeed, owing to his retiring habits, he had very seldom been called _maître_ at all. a just-finished picture stood on an easel near the window; it represented one of the most wonderful scenes in london: putney high street at night; two omnibus horses stepped strongly and willingly out of a dark side street, and under the cold glare of the main road they somehow took on the quality of equestrian sculpture. the altercation of lights was in the highest degree complex. priam understood immediately, from the man's calm glance at the picture, and the position which he instinctively took up to see it, that he was accustomed to looking at pictures. the visitor did not start back, nor rush forward, nor dissolve into hysterics, nor behave as though confronted by the ghost of a murdered victim. he just gazed at the picture, keeping his nerve and holding his tongue. and yet it was not an easy picture to look at. it was a picture of an advanced experimentalism, and would have appealed to nothing but the sense of humour in a person not a connoisseur. "sell!" exclaimed priam. like all shy men he could hide his shyness in an exaggerated familiarity. "what price this?" and he pointed to the picture. there were no other preliminaries. "it is excessively distinguished," murmured mr. oxford, in the accents of expert appreciation. "excessively distinguished. may i ask how much?" "that's what i'm asking you," said priam, fiddling with a paint rag. "hum!" observed mr. oxford, and gazed in silence. then: "two hundred and fifty?" priam had virtually promised to deliver that picture to the picture-framer on the next day, and he had not expected to receive a penny more than twelve pounds for it. but artists are strange organisms. he shook his head. although two hundred and fifty pounds was as much as he had earned in the previous twelve months, he shook his grey head. "no?" said mr. oxford kindly and respectfully, putting his hands behind his back. "by the way," he turned with eagerness to priam, "i presume you have seen the portrait of ariosto by titian that they've bought for the national gallery? what is your opinion of it, _maître_?" he stood expectant, glowing with interest. "except that it isn't ariosto, and it certainly isn't by titian, it's a pretty high-class sort of thing," said priam. mr. oxford smiled with appreciative content, nodding his head. "i hoped you would say so," he remarked. and swiftly he passed on to segantini, then to j.w. morrice, and then to bonnard, demanding the _maître's_ views. in a few moments they were really discussing pictures. and it was years since priam had listened to the voice of informed common sense on the subject of painting. it was years since he had heard anything but exceeding puerility concerning pictures. he had, in fact, accustomed himself not to listen; he had excavated a passage direct from one ear to the other for such remarks. and now he drank up the conversation of mr. oxford, and perceived that he had long been thirsty. and he spoke his mind. he grew warmer, more enthusiastic, more impassioned. and mr. oxford listened with ecstasy. mr. oxford had apparently a natural discretion. he simply accepted priam, as he stood, for a great painter. no reference to the enigma why a great painter should be painting in an attic in werter road, putney! no inconvenient queries about the great painter's previous history and productions. just the frank, full acceptance of his genius! it was odd, but it was comfortable. "so you won't take two hundred and fifty?" asked mr. oxford, hopping back to business. "no," said priam sturdily. "the truth is," he added, "i should rather like to keep that picture for myself." "will you take five hundred, _maître_?" "yes, i suppose i will," and priam sighed. a genuine sigh! for he would really have liked to keep the picture. he knew he had never painted a better. "and may i carry it away with me?" asked mr. oxford. "i expect so," said priam. "i wonder if i might venture to ask you to come back to town with me?" mr. oxford went on, in gentle deference. "i have one or two pictures i should very much like you to see, and i fancy they might give you pleasure. and we could talk over future business. if possibly you could spare an hour or so. if i might request----" a desire rose in priam's breast and fought against his timidity. the tone in which mr. oxford had said "i fancy they might give you pleasure" appeared to indicate something very much out of the common. and priam could scarcely recollect when last his eyes had rested on a picture that was at once unfamiliar and great. _parfitts' galleries_ i have already indicated that the machine was somewhat out of the ordinary. it was, as a fact, exceedingly out of the ordinary. it was much larger than electric carriages usually are. it had what the writers of 'motoring notes' in papers written by the wealthy for the wealthy love to call a 'limousine body.' and outside and in, it was miraculously new and spotless. on the ivory handles of its doors, on its soft yellow leather upholstery, on its cedar woodwork, on its patent blind apparatus, on its silver fittings, on its lamps, on its footstools, on its silken arm-slings--not the minutest trace of usage! mr. oxford's car seemed to show that mr. oxford never used a car twice, purchasing a new car every morning, like stockbrokers their silk hats, or the duke of selsea his trousers. there was a table in the 'body' for writing, and pockets up and down devised to hold documents, also two arm-chairs, and a suspended contrivance which showed the hour, the temperature, and the fluctuations of the barometer; there was also a speaking-tube. one felt that if the machine had been connected by wireless telegraphy with the stock exchange, the leading studios and the houses of parliament, and if a little restaurant had been constructed in the rear, mr. oxford might never have been under the necessity of leaving the car; that he might have passed all his days in it from morn to latest eve. the perfection of the machine and of mr. oxford's attire and complexion caused priam to look rather shabby. indeed, he was rather shabby. shabbiness had slightly overtaken him in putney. once he had been a dandy; but that was in the lamented leek's time. and as the car glided, without smell and without noise, through the encumbered avenues of london towards the centre, now shooting forward like a star, now stopping with gentle suddenness, now swerving in a swift curve round a vehicle earthy and leaden-wheeled, priam grew more and more uncomfortable. he had sunk into a groove at putney. he never left putney, save occasionally to refresh himself at the national gallery, and thither he invariably went by train and tube, because the tube always filled him with wonder and romance, and always threw him up out of the earth at the corner of trafalgar square with such a strange exhilaration in his soul. so that he had not seen the main avenues of london for a long time. he had been forgetting riches and luxury, and the oriental cigarette-shops whose proprietors' names end in 'opoulos,' and the haughtiness of the ruling classes, and the still sterner haughtiness of their footmen. he had now abandoned alice in putney. and a mysterious demon seized him and gripped him, and sought to pull him back in the direction of the simplicity of putney, and struggled with him fiercely, and made him writhe and shrink before the brilliant phenomena of london's centre, and indeed almost pitched him out of the car and set him running as hard as legs would carry to putney. it was the demon which we call habit. he would have given a picture to be in putney, instead of swimming past hyde park corner to the accompaniment of mr. oxford's amiable and deferential and tactful conversation. however, his other demon, shyness, kept him from imperiously stopping the car. the car stopped itself in bond street, in front of a building with a wide archway, and the symbol of empire floating largely over its roof. placards said that admission through the archway was a shilling; but mr. oxford, bearing priam's latest picture as though it had cost fifty thousand instead of five hundred pounds, went straight into the place without paying, and priam accepted his impressive invitation to follow. aged military veterans whose breasts carried a row of medals saluted mr. oxford as he entered, and, within the penetralia, beings in silk hats as faultless as mr. oxford's raised those hats to mr. oxford, who did not raise his in reply. merely nodded, napoleonically! his demeanour had greatly changed. you saw here the man of unbending will, accustomed to use men as pawns in the chess of a complicated career. presently they reached a private office where mr. oxford, with the assistance of a page, removed his gloves, furs, and hat, and sent sharply for a man who at once brought a frame which fitted priam's picture. "do have a cigar," mr. oxford urged priam, with a quick return to his earlier manner, offering a box in which each cigar was separately encased in gold-leaf. the cigar was such as costs a crown in a restaurant, half-a-crown in a shop, and twopence in amsterdam. it was a princely cigar, with the odour of paradise and an ash as white as snow. but priam could not appreciate it. no! he had seen on a beaten copper plate under the archway these words: 'parfitts' galleries.' he was in the celebrated galleries of his former dealers, whom by the way he had never seen. and he was afraid. he was mortally apprehensive, and had a sickly sensation in the stomach. after they had scrupulously inspected the picture, through the clouds of incense, mr. oxford wrote out a cheque for five hundred pounds, and, cigar in mouth, handed it to priam, who tried to take it with a casual air and did not succeed. it was signed 'parfitts'.' "i dare say you have heard that i'm now the sole proprietor of this place," said mr. oxford through his cigar. "really!" said priam, feeling just as nervous as an inexperienced youth. then mr. oxford led priam over thick carpets to a saloon where electric light was thrown by means of reflectors on to a small but incomparable band of pictures. mr. oxford had not exaggerated. they did give pleasure to priam. they were not the pictures one sees every day, nor once a year. there was the finest delacroix of its size that priam had ever met with; also a vermeer that made it unnecessary to visit the ryks museum. and on the more distant wall, to which mr. oxford came last, in a place of marked honour, was an evening landscape of volterra, a hill-town in italy. the bolts of priam's very soul started when he caught sight of that picture. on the lower edge of the rich frame were two words in black lettering: 'priam farll.' how well he remembered painting it! and how masterfully beautiful it was! "now that," said mr. oxford, "is in my humble opinion one of the finest farlls in existence. what do you think, mr. leek?" priam paused. "i agree with you," said he. "farll," said mr. oxford, "is about the only modern painter that can stand the company that that picture has in this room, eh?" priam blushed. "yes," he said. there is a considerable difference, in various matters, between putney and volterra; but the picture of volterra and the picture of putney high street were obviously, strikingly, incontestably, by the same hand; one could not but perceive the same brush-work, the same masses, the same manner of seeing and of grasping, in a word the same dazzling and austere translation of nature. the resemblance jumped at one and shook one by the shoulders. it could not have escaped even an auctioneer. yet mr. oxford did not refer to it. he seemed quite blind to it. all he said was, as they left the room, and priam finished his rather monosyllabic praise-- "yes, that's the little collection i've just got together, and i am very proud to have shown it to you. now i want you to come and lunch with me at my club. please do. i should be desolated if you refused." priam did not care a halfpenny about the desolation of mr. oxford; and he most sincerely objected to lunch at mr. oxford's club. but he said "yes" because it was the easiest thing for his shyness to do, mr. oxford being a determined man. priam was afraid to go. he was disturbed, alarmed, affrighted, by the mystery of mr. oxford's silence. they arrived at the club in the car. _the club_ priam had never been in a club before. the statement may astonish, may even meet with incredulity, but it is true. he had left the land of clubs early in life. as for the english clubs in european towns, he was familiar with their exteriors, and with the amiable babble of their supporters at _tables d'hôte,_ and his desire for further knowledge had not been so hot as to inconvenience him. hence he knew nothing of clubs. mr. oxford's club alarmed and intimidated him; it was so big and so black. externally it resembled a town-hall of some great industrial town. as you stood on the pavement at the bottom of the flight of giant steps that led to the first pair of swinging doors, your head was certainly lower than the feet of a being who examined you sternly from the other side of the glass. your head was also far below the sills of the mighty windows of the ground-floor. there were two storeys above the ground-floor, and above them a projecting eave of carven stone that threatened the uplifted eye like a menace. the tenth part of a slate, the merest chip of a corner, falling from the lofty summit of that pile, would have slain elephants. and all the façade was black, black with ages of carbonic deposit. the notion that the building was a town-hall that had got itself misplaced and perverted gradually left you as you gazed. you perceived its falseness. you perceived that mr. oxford's club was a monument, a relic of the days when there were giants on earth, that it had come down unimpaired to a race of pigmies, who were making the best of it. the sole descendant of the giants was the scout behind the door. as mr. oxford and priam climbed towards it, this unique giant, with a giant's force, pulled open the gigantic door, and mr. oxford and priam walked imperceptibly in, and the door swung to with a large displacement of air. priam found himself in an immense interior, under a distant carved ceiling, far, far upwards, like heaven. he watched mr. oxford write his name in a gigantic folio, under a gigantic clock. this accomplished, mr. oxford led him past enormous vistas to right and left, into a very long chamber, both of whose long walls were studded with thousands upon thousands of massive hooks--and here and there upon a hook a silk hat or an overcoat. mr. oxford chose a couple of hooks in the expanse, and when they had divested themselves sufficiently he led priam forwards into another great chamber evidently meant to recall the baths of carcalla. in gigantic basins chiselled out of solid granite, priam scrubbed his finger-nails with a nail-brush larger than he had previously encountered, even in nightmares, and an attendant brushed his coat with a utensil that resembled a weapon of offence lately the property of anak. "shall we go straight to the dining-room now," asked mr. oxford, "or will you have a gin and angostura first?" priam declined the gin and angostura, and they went up an overwhelming staircase of sombre marble, and through other apartments to the dining-room, which would have made an excellent riding-school. here one had six of the gigantic windows in a row, each with curtains that fell in huge folds from the unseen into the seen. the ceiling probably existed. on every wall were gigantic paintings in thick ornate frames, and between the windows stood heroic busts of marble set upon columns of basalt. the chairs would have been immovable had they not run on castors of weight-resisting rock, yet against the tables they had the air of negligible toys. at one end of the room was a sideboard that would not have groaned under an ox whole, and at the other a fire, over which an ox might have been roasted in its entirety, leaped under a mantelpiece upon which goliath could not have put his elbows. all was silent and grave; the floors were everywhere covered with heavy carpets which hushed all echoes. there was not the faintest sound. sound, indeed, seemed to be deprecated. priam had already passed the wide entrance to one illimitable room whose walls were clothed with warnings in gigantic letters: 'silence.' and he had noticed that all chairs and couches were thickly padded and upholstered in soft leather, and that it was impossible to produce in them the slightest creak. at a casual glance the place seemed unoccupied, but on more careful inspection you saw midgets creeping about, or seated in easy-chairs that had obviously been made to hold two of them; these midgets were the members of the club, dwarfed into dolls by its tremendous dimensions. a strange and sinister race! they looked as though in the final stages of decay, and wherever their heads might rest was stretched a white cloth, so that their heads might not touch the spots sanctified by the heads of the mighty departed. they rarely spoke to one another, but exchanged regards of mutual distrust and scorn; and if by chance they did converse it was in tones of weary, brusque disillusion. they could at best descry each other but indistinctly in the universal pervading gloom--a gloom upon which electric lamps, shining dimly yellow in their vast lustres, produced almost no impression. the whole establishment was buried in the past, dreaming of its titantic yore, when there were doubtless giants who could fill those fauteuils and stick their feet on those mantelpieces. it was in such an environment that mr. oxford gave priam to eat and to drink off little ordinary plates and out of tiny tumblers. no hint of the club's immemorial history in that excessively modern and excellent repast--save in the stilton cheese, which seemed to have descended from the fine fruity days of some homeric age, a cheese that ulysses might have inaugurated. i need hardly say that the total effect on priam's temperament was disastrous. (yet how could the diplomatic mr. oxford have guessed that priam had never been in a club before?) it induced in him a speechless anguish, and he would have paid a sum as gigantic as the club--he would have paid the very cheque in his pocket--never to have met mr. oxford. he was a far too sensitive man for a club, and his moods were incalculable. assuredly mr. oxford had miscalculated the result of his club on priam's humour; he soon saw his error. "suppose we take coffee in the smoking-room?" he said. the populous smoking-room was the one part of the club where talking with a natural loudness was not a crime. mr. oxford found a corner fairly free from midgets, and they established themselves in it, and liqueurs and cigars accompanied the coffee. you could actually see midgets laughing outright in the mist of smoke; the chatter narrowly escaped being a din; and at intervals a diminutive boy entered and bawled the name of a midget at the top of his voice, priam was suddenly electrified, and mr. oxford, very alert, noticed the electrification. mr. oxford drank his coffee somewhat quickly, and then he leaned forward a little over the table, and put his moon-like face nearer to priam's, and arranged his legs in a truly comfortable position beneath the table, and expelled a large quantity of smoke from his cigar. it was clearly the preliminary to a scene of confidence, the approach to the crisis to which he had for several hours been leading up. priam's heart trembled. "what is your opinion, _maître_," he asked, "of the ultimate value of farll's pictures?" priam was in misery. mr. oxford's manner was deferential, amiable and expectant. but priam did not know what to say. he only knew what he would do if he could have found the courage to do it: run away, recklessly, unceremoniously, out of that club. "i--i don't know," said priam, visibly whitening. "because i've bought a goodish few farlls in my time," mr. oxford continued, "and i must say i've sold them well. i've only got that one left that i showed you this morning, and i've been wondering whether i should stick to it and wait for a possible further rise, or sell it at once." "how much can you sell it for?" priam mumbled. "i don't mind telling you," said mr. oxford, "that i fancy i could sell it for a couple of thousand. it's rather small, but it's one of the finest in existence." "i should sell it," said priam, scarcely audible. "you would? well, perhaps you're right. it's a question, in my mind, whether some other painter may not turn up one of these days who would do that sort of thing even better than farll did it. i could imagine the possibility of a really clever man coming along and imitating farll so well that only people like yourself, _maître_, and perhaps me, could tell the difference. it's just the kind of work that might be brilliantly imitated, if the imitator was clever enough, don't you think?" "but what do you mean?" asked priam, perspiring in his back. "well," said mr. oxford vaguely, "one never knows. the style might be imitated, and the market flooded with canvases practically as good as farll's. nobody might find it out for quite a long time, and then there might be confusion in the public mind, followed by a sharp fall in prices. and the beauty of it is that the public wouldn't really be any the worse. because an imitation that no one can distinguish from the original is naturally as good as the original. you take me? there's certainly a tremendous chance for a man who could seize it, and that's why i'm inclined to accept your advice and sell my one remaining farll." he smiled more and more confidentially. his gaze was charged with a secret meaning. he seemed to be suggesting unspeakable matters to priam. that bright face wore an expression which such faces wear on such occasions--an expression cheerfully insinuating that after all there is no right and no wrong--or at least that many things which the ordinary slave of convention would consider to be wrong are really right. so priam read the expression. "the dirty rascal wants me to manufacture imitations of myself for him!" priam thought, full of sudden, hidden anger. "he's known all along that there's no difference between what i sold him and the picture he's already had. he wants to suggest that we should come to terms. he's simply been playing a game with me up to now." and he said aloud, "i don't know that i _advise_ you to do anything. i'm not a dealer, mr. oxford." he said it in a hostile tone that ought to have silenced mr. oxford for ever, but it did not. mr. oxford curved away, like a skater into a new figure, and began to expatiate minutely upon the merits of the volterra picture. he analyzed it in so much detail, and lauded it with as much justice, as though the picture was there before them. priam was astonished at the man's exactitude. "scoundrel! he knows a thing or two!" reflected priam grimly. "you don't think i overpraise it, do you, _cher maître?_ mr. oxford finished, still smiling. "a little," said priam. if only priam could have run away! but he couldn't! mr. oxford had him well in a corner. no chance of freedom! besides, he was over fifty and stout. "ah! now i was expecting you to say that! do you mind telling me at what period you painted it?" mr. oxford inquired, very blandly, though his hands were clasped in a violent tension that forced the blood from the region of the knuckle-joints. this was the crisis which mr. oxford had been leading up to! all the time mr. oxford's teethy smile had concealed a knowledge of priam's identity! * * * * * chapter x _the secret_ "what do you mean?" asked priam farll. but he put the question weakly, and he might just as well have said, "i know what you mean, and i would pay a million pounds or so in order to sink through the floor." a few minutes ago he would only have paid five hundred pounds or so in order to run simply away. now he wanted maskelyne miracles to happen to him. the universe seemed to be caving in about the ears of priam farll. mr. oxford was still smiling; smiling, however, as a man holds his breath for a wager. you felt that he could not keep it up much longer. "you _are_ priam farll, aren't you?" said mr. oxford in a very low voice. "what makes you think i'm priam farll?" "i think you are priam farll because you painted that picture i bought from you this morning, and i am sure that no one but priam farll could have painted it." "then you've been playing a game with me all morning!" "please don't put it like that, _cher maître_," mr. oxford whisperingly pleaded. "i only wished to feel my ground. i know that priam farll is supposed to have been buried in westminster abbey. but for me the existence of that picture of putney high street, obviously just painted, is an absolute proof that he is not buried in westminster abbey, and that he still lives. it is an amazing thing that there should have been a mistake at the funeral, an utterly amazing thing, which involves all sorts of consequences! but that's not my business. of course there must be clear reasons for what occurred. i am not interested in them--i mean not professionally. i merely argue, when i see a certain picture, with the paint still wet on it: 'that picture was painted by a certain painter. i am an expert, and i stake my reputation on it' it's no use telling me that the painter in question died several years ago and was buried with national honours in westminster abbey. i say it couldn't have been so. i'm a connoisseur. and if the facts of his death and burial don't agree with the result of my connoisseurship, i say they aren't facts. i say there's been a--a misunderstanding about--er-- corpses. now, _cher maître_, what do you think of my position?" mr. oxford drummed lightly on the table. "i don't know," said priam. which was another lie. "you _are_ priam farll, aren't you?" mr. oxford persisted. "well, if you will have it," said priam savagely, "i am. and now you know!" mr. oxford let his smile go. he had held it for an incredible time. he let it go, and sighed a gentle and profound relief. he had been skating over the thinnest ice, and had reached the bank amid terrific crackings, and he began to appreciate the extent of the peril braved. he had been perfectly sure of his connoisseurship. but when one says one is perfectly sure, especially if one says it with immense emphasis, one always means 'imperfectly sure.' so it was with mr. oxford. and really, to argue, from the mere existence of a picture, that a tremendous deceit had been successfully practised upon the most formidable of nations, implies rather more than rashness on the part of the arguer. "but i don't want it to get about," said priam, still in a savage whisper. "and i don't want to talk about it." he looked at the nearest midgets resentfully, suspecting them of eavesdropping. "precisely," said mr. oxford, but in a tone that lacked conviction. "it's a matter that only concerns me," said priam. "precisely," mr. oxford repeated. "at least it _ought_ to concern only you. and i can't assure you too positively that i'm the last person in the world to want to pry; but--" "you must kindly remember," said priam, interrupting, "that you bought that picture this morning simply _as_ a picture, on its merits. you have no authority to attach my name to it, and i must ask you not to do so." "certainly," agreed mr. oxford. "i bought it as a masterpiece, and i'm quite content with my bargain. i want no signature." "i haven't signed my pictures for twenty years," said priam. "pardon me," said mr. oxford. "every square inch of every one is unmistakably signed. you could not put a brush on a canvas without signing it. it is the privilege of only the greatest painters not to put letters on the corners of their pictures in order to keep other painters from taking the credit for them afterwards. for me, all your pictures are signed. but there are some people who want more proof than connoisseurship can give, and that's where the trouble is going to be." "trouble?" said priam, with an intensification of his misery. "yes," said mr. oxford. "i must tell you, so that you can understand the situation." he became very solemn, showing that he had at last reached the real point. "some time ago a man, a little dealer, came to me and offered me a picture that i instantly recognized as one of yours. i bought it." "how much did you pay for it?" priam growled. after a pause mr. oxford said, "i don't mind giving you the figure. i paid fifty pounds for it." "did you!" exclaimed priam, perceiving that some person or persons had made four hundred per cent. on his work by the time it had arrived at a big dealer. "who was the fellow?" "oh, a little dealer. nobody. jew, of course." mr. oxford's way of saying 'jew' was ineffably ironic. priam knew that, being a jew, the dealer could not be his frame-maker, who was a pure-bred yorkshireman from ravensthorpe. mr. oxford continued, "i sold that picture and guaranteed it to be a priam farll." "the devil you did!" "yes. i had sufficient confidence in my judgment." "who bought it?" "whitney c. witt, of new york. he's an old man now, of course. i expect you remember him, _cher maître_." mr. oxford's eyes twinkled. "i sold it to him, and of course he accepted my guarantee. soon afterwards i had the offer of other pictures obviously by you, from the same dealer. and i bought them. i kept on buying them. i dare say i've bought forty altogether." "did your little dealer guess whose work they were?" priam demanded suspiciously. "not he! if he had done, do you suppose he'd have parted with them for fifty pounds apiece? mind, at first i thought i was buying pictures painted before your supposed death. i thought, like the rest of the world, that you were--in the abbey. then i began to have doubts. and one day when a bit of paint came off on my thumb, i can tell you i was startled. however, i stuck to my opinion, and i kept on guaranteeing the pictures as farlls." "it never occurred to you to make any inquiries?" "yes, it did," said mr. oxford. "i did my best to find out from the dealer where he got the pictures from, but he wouldn't tell me. well, i sort of scented a mystery. now i've got no professional use for mysteries, and i came to the conclusion that i'd better just let this one alone. so i did." "well, why didn't you keep on leaving it alone?" priam asked. "because circumstances won't let me. i sold practically all those pictures to whitney c. witt. it was all right. anyhow i thought it was all right. i put parfitts' name and reputation on their being yours. and then one day i heard from mr. witt that on the back of the canvas of one of the pictures the name of the canvas-makers, and a date, had been stamped, with a rubber stamp, and that the date was after your supposed burial, and that his london solicitors had made inquiries from the artist's-material people here, and these people were prepared to prove that the canvas was made after priam farll's funeral. you see the fix?" priam did. "my reputation--parfitts'--is at stake. if those pictures aren't by you, i'm a swindler. parfitts' name is gone for ever, and there'll be the greatest scandal that ever was. witt is threatening proceedings. i offered to take the whole lot back at the price he paid me, without any commission. but he won't. he's an old man; a bit of a maniac i expect, and he won't. he's angry. he thinks he's been swindled, and what he says is that he's going to see the thing through. i've got to prove to him that the pictures are yours. i've got to show him what grounds i had for giving my guarantee. well, to cut a long story short, i've found you, i'm glad to say!" he sighed again. "look here," said priam. "how much has witt paid you altogether for my pictures?" after a pause, mr. oxford said, "i don't mind giving you the figure. he's paid me seventy-two thousand pounds odd." he smiled, as if to excuse himself. when priam farll reflected that he had received about four hundred pounds for those pictures--vastly less than one per cent, of what the shiny and prosperous dealer had ultimately disposed of them for, the traditional fury of the artist against the dealer--of the producer against the parasitic middleman--sprang into flame in his heart. up till then he had never had any serious cause of complaint against his dealers. (extremely successful artists seldom have.) now he saw dealers, as the ordinary painters see them, to be the authors of all evil! now he understood by what methods mr. oxford had achieved his splendid car, clothes, club, and minions. these things were earned, not by mr. oxford, but _for_ mr. oxford in dingy studios, even in attics, by shabby industrious painters! mr. oxford was nothing but an opulent thief, a grinder of the face of genius. mr. oxford was, in a word, the spawn of the devil, and priam silently but sincerely consigned him to his proper place. it was excessively unjust of priam. nobody had asked priam to die. nobody had asked him to give up his identity. if he had latterly been receiving tens instead of thousands for his pictures, the fault was his alone. mr. oxford had only bought and only sold; which was his true function. but mr. oxford's sin, in priam's eyes, was the sin of having been right. it would have needed less insight than mr. oxford had at his disposal to see that priam farll was taking the news very badly. "for both our sakes, _cher maître_," said mr. oxford persuasively, "i think it will be advisable for you to put me in a position to prove that my guarantee to witt was justified." "why for both our sakes?" "because, well, i shall be delighted to pay you, say thirty-six thousand pounds in acknowledgment of--er--" he stopped. probably he had instantly perceived that he was committing a disastrous error of tact. either he should have offered nothing, or he should have offered the whole sum he had received less a small commission. to suggest dividing equally with priam was the instinctive impulse, the fatal folly, of a born dealer. and mr. oxford was a born dealer. "i won't accept a penny," said priam. "and i can't help you in any way. i'm afraid i must go now. i'm late as it is." his cold resistless fury drove him forward, and, without the slightest regard for the amenities of clubs, he left the table, mr. oxford, becoming more and more the dealer, rose and followed him, even directed him to the gigantic cloak-room, murmuring the while soft persuasions and pacifications in priam's ear. "there may be an action in the courts," said mr. oxford in the grand entrance hall, "and your testimony would be indispensable to me." "i can have nothing to do with it. good-day!" the giant at the door could scarce open the gigantic portal quickly enough for him. he fled--fled, surrounded by nightmare visions of horrible publicity in a law-court. unthinkable tortures! he damned mr. oxford to the nethermost places, and swore that he would not lift a finger to save mr. oxford from penal servitude for life. _money-getting_ he stood on the kerb of the monument, talking to himself savagely. at any rate he was safely outside the monument, with its pullulating population of midgets creeping over its carpets and lounging insignificant on its couches. he could not remember clearly what had occurred since the moment of his getting up from the table; he could not remember seeing anything or anyone on his way out; but he could remember the persuasive, deferential voice of mr. oxford following him persistently as far as the giant's door. in recollection that club was like an abode of black magic to him; it seemed so hideously alive in its deadness, and its doings were so absurd and mysterious. "silence, silence!" commanded the white papers in one vast chamber, and, in another, babel existed! and then that terrible mute dining-room, with the high, unscalable mantelpieces that no midget could ever reach! he kept uttering the most dreadful judgments on the club and on mr. oxford, in quite audible tones, oblivious of the street. he was aroused by a rather scared man saluting him. it was mr. oxford's chauffeur, waiting patiently till his master should be ready to re-enter the wheeled salon. the chauffeur apparently thought him either demented or inebriated, but his sole duty was to salute, and he did nothing else. quite forgetting that this chauffeur was a fellow-creature, priam immediately turned upon his heel, and hurried down the street. at the corner of the street was a large bank, and priam, acquiring the reckless courage of the soldier in battle, entered the bank. he had never been in a london bank before. at first it reminded him of the club, with the addition of an enormous placard giving the day of the month as a mystical number-- --and other placards displaying solitary letters of the alphabet. then he saw that it was a huge menagerie in which highly trained young men of assorted sizes and years were confined in stout cages of wire and mahogany. he stamped straight to a cage with a hole in it, and threw down the cheque for five hundred pounds--defiantly. "next desk, please," said a mouth over a high collar and a green tie, behind the grating, and a disdainful hand pushed the cheque back towards priam. "next desk!" repeated priam, dashed but furious. "this is the a to m desk," said the mouth. then priam understood the solitary letters, and he rushed, with a new accession of fury, to the adjoining cage, where another disdainful hand picked up the cheque and turned it over, with an air of saying, "fishy, this!" and, "it isn't endorsed!" said another mouth over another high collar and green tie. the second disdainful hand pushed the cheque back again to priam, as though it had been a begging circular. "oh, if that's all!" said priam, almost speechless from anger. "have you got such a thing as a pen?" he was behaving in an extremely unreasonable manner. he had no right to visit his spleen on a perfectly innocent bank that paid twenty-five per cent to its shareholders and a thousand a year each to its directors, and what trifle was left over to its men in rages. but priam was not like you or me. he did not invariably act according to reason. he could not be angry with one man at once, nor even with one building at once. when he was angry he was inclusively and miscellaneously angry; and the sun, moon, and stars did not escape. after he had endorsed the cheque the disdainful hand clawed it up once more, and directed upon its obverse and upon its reverse a battery of suspicions; then a pair of eyes glanced with critical distrust at so much of priam's person as was visible. then the eyes moved back, the mouth opened, in a brief word, and lo! there were four eyes and two mouths over the cheque, and four for an instant on priam. priam expected some one to call for a policeman; in spite of himself he felt guilty--or anyhow dubious. it was the grossest insult to him to throw doubt on the cheque and to examine him in that frigid, shamelessly disillusioned manner. "you _are_ mr. leek?" a mouth moved. "yes" (very slowly). "how would you like this?" "i'll thank you to give it me in notes," answered priam haughtily. when the disdainful hand had counted twice every corner of a pile of notes, and had dropped the notes one by one, with a peculiar snapping sound of paper, in front of priam, priam crushed them together and crammed them without any ceremony and without gratitude to the giver, into the right pocket of his trousers. and he stamped out of the building with curses on his lips. still, he felt better, he felt assuaged. to cultivate and nourish a grievance when you have five hundred pounds in your pocket, in cash, is the most difficult thing in the world. _a visit to the tailors'_ he gradually grew calmer by dint of walking--aimless, fast walking, with a rapt expression of the eyes that on crowded pavements cleared the way for him more effectually than a shouting footman. and then he debouched unexpectedly on to the embankment. dusk was already falling on the noble curve of the thames, and the mighty panorama stretched before him in a manner mysteriously impressive which has made poets of less poetic men than priam farll. grand hotels, offices of millionaires and of governments, grand hotels, swards and mullioned windows of the law, grand hotels, the terrific arches of termini, cathedral domes, houses of parliament, and grand hotels, rose darkly around him on the arc of the river, against the dark violet murk of the sky. huge trams swam past him like glass houses, and hansoms shot past the trams and automobiles past the hansoms; and phantom barges swirled down on the full ebb, threading holes in bridges as cotton threads a needle. it was london, and the roar of london, majestic, imperial, super-roman. and lo! earlier than the earliest municipal light, an unseen hand, the hand of destiny, printed a writing on the wall of vague gloom that was beginning to hide the opposite bank. and the writing said that shipton's tea was the best. and then the hand wiped largely out that message and wrote in another spot that macdonnell's whisky was the best; and so these two doctrines, in their intermittent pyrotechnics, continued to give the lie to each other under the deepening night. quite five minutes passed before priam perceived, between the altercating doctrines, the high scaffold-clad summit of a building which was unfamiliar to him. it looked serenely and immaterially beautiful in the evening twilight, and as he was close to waterloo bridge, his curiosity concerning beauty took him over to the south bank of the thames. after losing himself in the purlieus of waterloo station, he at last discovered the rear of the building. yes, it was a beautiful thing; its tower climbed in several coloured storeys, diminishing till it expired in a winged figure on the sky. and below, the building was broad and massive, with a frontage of pillars over great arched windows. two cranes stuck their arms out from the general mass, and the whole enterprise was guarded in a hedge of hoardings. through the narrow doorway in the hoarding came the flare and the hissing of a wells's light. priam farll glanced timidly within. the interior was immense. in a sort of court of honour a group of muscular, hairy males, silhouetted against an illuminated latticework of scaffolding, were chipping and paring at huge blocks of stone. it was a subject for a rembrandt. a fat untidy man meditatively approached the doorway. he had a roll of tracing papers in his hand, and the end of a long, thick pencil in his mouth. he was the man who interpreted the dreams of the architect to the dreamy british artisan. experience of life had made him somewhat brusque. "look here," he said to priam; "what the devil do you want?" "what the devil do i want?" repeated priam, who had not yet altogether fallen away from his mood of universal defiance. "i only want to know what the h-ll this building is." the fat man was a little startled. he took his pencil from his mouth, and spit. "it's the new picture gallery, built under the will of that there priam farll. i should ha' thought you'd ha' known that." priam's lips trembled on the verge of an exclamation. "see that?" the fat man pursued, pointing to a small board on the hoarding. the board said, "no hands wanted." the fat man coldly scrutinized priam's appearance, from his greenish hat to his baggy creased boots. priam walked away. he was dumbfounded. then he was furious again. he perfectly saw the humour of the situation, but it was not the kind of humour that induced rollicking laughter. he was furious, and employed the language of fury, when it is not overheard. absorbed by his craft of painting, as in the old continental days, he had long since ceased to read the newspapers, and though he had not forgotten his bequest to the nation, he had never thought of it as taking architectural shape. he was not aware of his cousin duncan's activities for the perpetuation of the family name. the thing staggered him. the probabilities of the strange consequences of dead actions swept against him and overwhelmed him. once, years ago and years ago, in a resentful mood, he had written a few lines on a piece of paper, and signed them in the presence of witnesses. then nothing--nothing whatever--for two decades! the paper slept... and now this--this tremendous concrete result in the heart of london! it was incredible. it passed the bounds even of lawful magic. his palace, his museum! the fruit of a captious hour! ah! but he was furious. like every ageing artist of genuine accomplishment, he knew--none better--that there is no satisfaction save the satisfaction of fatigue after honest endeavour. he knew--none better--that wealth and glory and fine clothes are nought, and that striving is all. he had never been happier than during the last two years. yet the finest souls have their reactions, their rebellions against wise reason. and priam's soul was in insurrection then. he wanted wealth and glory and fine clothes once more. it seemed to him that he was out of the world and that he must return to it. the covert insults of mr. oxford rankled and stung. and the fat foreman had mistaken him for a workman cadging for a job. he walked rapidly to the bridge and took a cab to conduit street, where dwelt a firm of tailors with whose paris branch he had had dealings in his dandiacal past. an odd impulse perhaps, but natural. a lighted clock-tower--far to his left as the cab rolled across the bridge--showed that a legislative providence was watching over israel. _alice on the situation_ "i bet the building alone won't cost less than seventy thousand pounds," he said. he was back again with alice in the intimacy of werter road, and relating to her, in part, the adventures of the latter portion of the day. he had reached home long after tea-time; she, with her natural sagacity, had not waited tea for him. now she had prepared a rather special tea for the adventurer, and she was sitting opposite to him at the little table, with nothing to do but listen and refill his cup. "well," she said mildly, and without the least surprise at his figures, "i don't know what he could have been thinking of--your priam farll! i call it just silly. it isn't as if there wasn't enough picture-galleries already. when what there are are so full that you can't get in--then it will be time enough to think about fresh ones. i've been to the national gallery twice, and upon my word i was almost the only person there! and it's free too! people don't _want_ picture-galleries. if they did they'd go. who ever saw a public-house empty, or peter robinson's? and you have to pay there! silly, i call it! why couldn't he have left his money to you, or at any rate to the hospitals or something of that? no, it isn't silly. it's scandalous! it ought to be stopped!" now priam had resolved that evening to make a serious, gallant attempt to convince his wife of his own identity. he was approaching the critical point. this speech of hers intimidated him, rather complicated his difficulties, but he determined to proceed bravely. "have you put sugar in this?" he asked. "yes," she said. "but you've forgotten to stir it. i'll stir it for you." a charming wifely attention! it enheartened him. "i say, alice," he said, as she stirred, "you remember when first i told you i could paint?" "yes," she said. "well, at first you thought i was daft. you thought my mind was wandering, didn't you?" "no," she said, "i only thought you'd got a bee in your bonnet." she smiled demurely. "well, i hadn't, had i?" "seeing the money you've made, i should just say you hadn't," she handsomely admitted. "where we should be without it i don't know." "you were wrong, weren't you? and i was right?" "of course," she beamed. "and do you remember that time i told you i was really priam farll?" she nodded, reluctantly. "you thought i was absolutely mad. oh, you needn't deny it! i could see well enough what your thoughts were." "i thought you weren't quite well," she said frankly. "but i was, my child. now i've got to tell you again that i am priam farll. honestly i wish i wasn't, but i am. the deuce of it is that that fellow that came here this morning has found it out, and there's going to be trouble. at least there has been trouble, and there may be more." she was impressed. she knew not what to say. "but, priam----" "he's paid me five hundred to-day for that picture i've just finished." "five hund----" priam snatched the notes from his pocket, and with a gesture pardonably dramatic he bade her count them. "count them," he repeated, when she hesitated. "is it right?" he asked when she had finished. "oh, it's right enough," she agreed. "but, priam, i don't like having all this money in the house. you ought to have called and put it in the bank." "dash the bank!" he exclaimed. "just keep on listening to me, and try to persuade yourself i'm not mad. i admit i'm a bit shy, and it was all on account of that that i let that d--d valet of mine be buried as me." "you needn't tell me you're shy," she smiled. "all putney knows you're shy." "i'm not so sure about that!" he tossed his head. then he began at the beginning and recounted to her in detail the historic night and morning at selwood terrace, with a psychological description of his feelings. he convinced her, in less than ten minutes, with the powerful aid of five hundred pounds in banknotes, that he in truth was priam farll. and he waited for her to express an exceeding astonishment and satisfaction. "well, of course if you are, you are," she observed simply, regarding him with benevolent, possessive glances across the table. the fact was that she did not deal in names, she dealt in realities. he was her reality, and so long as he did not change visibly or actually--so long as he remained he--she did not much mind who he was. she added, "but i really don't know what you were _dreaming_ of, henry, to do such a thing!" "neither do i," he muttered. then he disclosed to her the whole chicanery of mr. oxford. "it's a good thing you've ordered those new clothes," she said. "why?" "because of the trial." "the trial between oxford and witt. what's that got to do with me?" "they'll make you give evidence." "but i shan't give evidence. i've told oxford i'll have nothing to do with it at all." "suppose they make you? they can, you know, with a sub--sub something, i forget its name. then you'll _have_ to go in the witness-box." "me in the witness-box!" he murmured, undone. "yes," she said. "i expect it'll be very provoking indeed. but you'd want a new suit for it. so i'm glad you ordered one. when are you going to try on?" * * * * * chapter xi _an escape_ one night, in the following june, priam and alice refrained from going to bed. alice dozed for an hour or so on the sofa, and priam read by her side in an easy-chair, and about two o'clock, just before the first beginnings of dawn, they stimulated themselves into a feverish activity beneath the parlour gas. alice prepared tea, bread-and-butter, and eggs, passing briskly from room to room. alice also ran upstairs, cast a few more things into a valise and a bag already partially packed, and, locking both receptacles, carried them downstairs. meantime the whole of priam's energy was employed in having a bath and in shaving. blood was shed, as was but natural at that ineffable hour. while priam consumed the food she had prepared, alice was continually darting to and fro in the house. at one moment, after an absence, she would come into the parlour with a mouthful of hatpins; at another she would rush out to assure herself that the indispensable keys of the valise and bag with her purse were on the umbrella-stand, where they could not be forgotten. between her excursions she would drink thirty drops of tea. "now, priam," she said at length, "the water's hot. haven't you finished? it'll be getting light soon." "water hot?" he queried, at a loss. "yes," she said. "to wash up these things, of course. you don't suppose i'm going to leave a lot of dirty things in the house, do you? while i'm doing that you might stick labels on the luggage." "they won't need to be labelled," he argued. "we shall take them with us in the carriage." "oh, priam," she protested, "how tiresome you are!" "i've travelled more than you have." he tried to laugh. "yes, and fine travelling it must have been, too! however, if you don't mind the luggage being lost, i don't." during this she was collecting the crockery on a tray, with which tray she whizzed out of the room. in ten minutes, hatted, heavily veiled, and gloved, she cautiously opened the front door and peeped forth into the lamplit street she peered to right and to left. then she went as far as the gate and peered again. "is it all right?" whispered priam, who was behind her. "yes, i think so," she whispered. priam came out of the house with the bag in one hand and the valise in the other, a pipe in his mouth, a stick under his arm, and an overcoat on his shoulder. alice ran up the steps, gazed within the house, pulled the door to silently, and locked it. then beneath the summer stars she and priam hastened furtively, as though the luggage had contained swag, up werter road towards oxford road. when they had turned the corner they felt very much relieved. they had escaped. it was their second attempt. the first, made in daylight, had completely failed. their cab had been followed to paddington station by three other cabs containing the representatives and the cameras of three sunday newspapers. a journalist had deliberately accompanied priam to the booking office, had heard him ask for two seconds to weymouth, and had bought a second to weymouth himself. they had gone to weymouth, but as within two hours of their arrival weymouth had become even more impossible than werter road, they had ignominiously but wisely come back. werter road had developed into the most celebrated thoroughfare in london. its photograph had appeared in scores of newspapers, with a cross marking the abode of priam and alice. it was beset and infested by journalists of several nationalities from morn till night. cameras were as common in it as lamp-posts. and a famous descriptive reporter of the _sunday news_ had got lodgings, at a high figure, exactly opposite no. . priam and alice could do nothing without publicity. and if it would be an exaggeration to assert, that evening papers appeared with stop-press news: " . . mrs. leek went out shopping," the exaggeration would not be very extravagant. for a fortnight priam had not been beyond the door during daylight. it was alice who, alarmed by priam's pallid cheeks and tightened nerves, had devised the plan of flight before the early summer dawn. they reached east putney station, of which the gates were closed, the first workman's train being not yet due. and there they stood. not another human being was abroad. only the clock of st. bude's was faithfully awakening every soul within a radius of two hundred yards each quarter of an hour. then a porter came and opened the gate--it was still exceedingly early--and priam booked for waterloo in triumph. "oh," cried alice, as they mounted the stairs, "i quite forgot to draw up the blinds at the front of the house." and she stopped on the stairs. "what did you want to draw up the blinds for?" "if they're down everybody will know instantly that we've gone. whereas if i--" she began to descend the stairs. "alice!" he said sharply, in a strange voice. the muscles of his white face were drawn. "what?" "d--n the blinds. come along, or upon my soul i'll kill you." she realized that his nerves were in active insurrection, and that a mere nothing might bring about the fall of the government. "oh, very well!" she soothed him by her amiable obedience. in a quarter of an hour they were safely lost in the wilderness of waterloo, and the newspaper train bore them off to bournemouth for a few days' respite. _the nation's curiosity_ the interest of the united kingdom in the unique case of witt _v_. parfitts had already reached apparently the highest possible degree of intensity. and there was reason for the kingdom's passionate curiosity. whitney witt, the plaintiff, had come over to england, with his eccentricities, his retinue, his extreme wealth and his failing eyesight, specially to fight parfitts. a half-pathetic figure, this white-haired man, once a connoisseur, who, from mere habit, continued to buy expensive pictures when he could no longer see them! whitney witt was implacably set against parfitts, because he was convinced that mr. oxford had sought to take advantage of his blindness. there he was, conducting his action regardless of his blindness. there he was, conducting his action regardless of expense. his apartments and his regal daily existence at the grand babylon alone cost a fabulous sum which may be precisely ascertained by reference to illustrated articles in the papers. then mr. oxford, the youngish jew who had acquired parfitts, who was parfitts, also cut a picturesque figure on the face of london. he, too, was spending money with both hands; for parfitts itself was at stake. last and most disturbing, was the individual looming mysteriously in the background, the inexplicable man who lived in werter road, and whose identity would be decided by the judgment in the case of witt _v_. parfitts. if witt won his action, then parfitts might retire from business. mr. oxford would probably go to prison for having sold goods on false pretences, and the name of henry leek, valet, would be added to the list of adventurous scoundrels who have pretended to be their masters. but if witt should lose--then what a complication, and what further enigmas to be solved! if witt should lose, the national funeral of priam farll had been a fraudulent farce. a common valet lay under the hallowed stones of the abbey, and europe had mourned in vain! if witt should lose, a gigantic and unprecedented swindle had been practised upon the nation. then the question would arise, why? hence it was not surprising that popular interest, nourished by an indefatigable and excessively enterprising press, should have mounted till no one would have believed that it could mount any more. but the evasion from werter road on that june morning intensified the interest enormously. of course, owing to the drawn blinds, it soon became known, and the bloodhounds of the sunday papers were sniffing along the platforms of all the termini in london. priam's departure greatly prejudiced the cause of mr. oxford, especially when the bloodhounds failed and priam persisted in his invisibility. if a man was an honest man, why should he flee the public gaze, and in the night? there was but a step from the posing of this question to the inevitable inference that mr. oxford's line of defence was really too fantastic for credence. certainly organs of vast circulation, while repeating that, as the action was _sub judice_, they could say nothing about it, had already tried the action several times in their impartial columns, and they now tried it again, with the entire public as jury. and in three days priam had definitely become a criminal in the public eye, a criminal flying from justice. useless to assert that he was simply a witness subpoenaed to give evidence at the trial! he had transgressed the unwritten law of the english constitution that a person prominent in a _cause célèbre_ belongs for the time being, not to himself, but to the nation at large. he had no claim to privacy. in surreptitiously obtaining seclusion he was merely robbing the public and the public's press of their inalienable right. who could deny now the reiterated statement that _he_ was a bigamist? it came to be said that he must be on his way to south america. then the public read avidly articles by specially retained barristers on the extradition treaties with brazil, argentina, ecuador, chili, paraguay and uruguay. the curates matthew and henry preached to crowded congregations at putney and bermondsey, and were reported verbatim in the _christian voice sermon supplement_, and other messengers of light. and gradually the nose of england bent closer and closer to its newspaper of a morning. and coffee went cold, and bacon fat congealed, from the isle of wight to hexham, while the latest rumours were being swallowed. it promised to be stupendous, did the case of witt _v_. parfitts. it promised to be one of those cases that alone make life worth living, that alone compensate for the horrors of climate, in england. and then the day of hearing arrived, and the afternoon papers which appear at nine o'clock in the morning announced that henry leek (or priam farll, according to your wish) and his wife (or his female companion and willing victim) had returned to werter road. and england held its breath; and even scotland paused, expectant; and ireland stirred in its celtic dream. _mention of two moles_ the theatre in which the emotional drama of witt parfitts was to be played, lacked the usual characteristics of a modern place of entertainment. it was far too high for its width and breadth; it was badly illuminated; it was draughty in winter and stuffy in summer, being completely deprived of ventilation. had it been under the control of the county council it would have been instantly condemned as dangerous in case of fire, for its gangways were always encumbered and its exits of a mediaeval complexity. it had no stage, no footlights, and all its seats were of naked wood except one. this unique seat was occupied by the principal player, who wore a humorous wig and a brilliant and expensive scarlet costume. he was a fairly able judge, but he had mistaken his vocation; his rare talent for making third-rate jokes would have brought him a fortune in the world of musical comedy. his salary was a hundred a week; better comedians have earned less. on the present occasion he was in the midst of a double row of fashionable hats, and beneath the hats were the faces of fourteen feminine relatives and acquaintances. these hats performed the function of 'dressing' the house. the principal player endeavoured to behave as though under the illusion that he was alone in his glory, but he failed. there were four other leading actors: mr. pennington, k.c., and mr. vodrey, k.c., engaged by the plaintiff, and mr. cass, k.c., and mr. crepitude, k.c., engaged by the defendant. these artistes were the stars of their profession, nominally less glittering, but really far more glittering than the player in scarlet. their wigs were of inferior quality to his, and their costumes shabby, but they did not mind, for whereas he got a hundred a week, they each got a hundred a day. three junior performers received ten guineas a day apiece: one of them held a watching brief for the dean and chapter of the abbey, who, being members of a christian fraternity, were pained and horrified by the defendants' implication that they had given interment to a valet, and who were determined to resist exhumation at all hazards. the supers in the drama, whose business it was to whisper to each other and to the players, consisted of solicitors, solicitors' clerks, and experts; their combined emoluments worked out at the rate of a hundred and fifty pounds a day. twelve excellent men in the jury-box received between them about as much as would have kept a k.c. alive for five minutes. the total expenses of production thus amounted to something like six or seven hundred pounds a day. the preliminary expenses had run into several thousands. the enterprise could have been made remunerative by hiring for it convent garden theatre and selling stalls as for tettrazzini and caruso, but in the absurd auditorium chosen, crammed though it was to the perilous doors, the loss was necessarily terrific. fortunately the affair was subsidized; not merely by the state, but also by those two wealthy capitalists, whitney c. witt and mr. oxford; and therefore the management were in a position to ignore paltry financial considerations and to practise art for art's sake. in opening the case mr. pennington, k.c., gave instant proof of his astounding histrionic powers. he began calmly, colloquially, treating the jury as friends of his boyhood, and the judge as a gifted uncle, and stated in simple language that whitney c. witt was claiming seventy-two thousand pounds from the defendants, money paid for worthless pictures palmed off upon the myopic and venerable plaintiff as masterpieces. he recounted the life and death of the great painter priam farll, and his solemn burial and the tears of the whole world. he dwelt upon the genius of priam farll, and then upon the confiding nature of the plaintiff. then he inquired who could blame the plaintiff for his confidence in the uprightness of a firm with such a name as parfitts. and then he explained by what accident of a dating-stamp on a canvas it had been discovered that the pictures guaranteed to be by priam farll were painted after priam farll's death. he proceeded with no variation of tone: "the explanation is simplicity itself. priam farll was not really dead. it was his valet who died. quite naturally, quite comprehensibly, the great genius priam farll wished to pass the remainder of his career as a humble valet. he deceived everybody; the doctor, his cousin, mr. duncan farll, the public authorities, the dean and chapter of the abbey, the nation--in fact, the entire world! as henry leek he married, and as henry leek he recommenced the art of painting--in putney; he carried on the vocation several years without arousing the suspicions of a single person; and then--by a curious coincidence immediately after my client threatened an action against the defendant--he displayed himself in his true identity as priam farll. such is the simple explanation," said pennington, k.c., and added, "which you will hear presently from the defendant. doubtless it will commend itself to you as experienced men of the world. you cannot but have perceived that such things are constantly happening in real life, that they are of daily occurrence. i am almost ashamed to stand up before you and endeavour to rebut a story so plausible and so essentially convincing. i feel that my task is well-nigh hopeless. nevertheless, i must do my best." and so on. it was one of his greatest feats in the kind of irony that appeals to a jury. and the audience deemed that the case was already virtually decided. after whitney c. witt and his secretary had been called and had filled the court with the echoing twang of new york (the controlled fury of the aged witt was highly effective), mrs. henry leek was invited to the witness-box. she was supported thither by her two curates, who, however, could not prevent her from weeping at the stern voice of the usher. she related her marriage. "is that your husband?" demanded vodrey, k.c. (who had now assumed the principal _rôle_, pennington, k.c., being engaged in another play in another theatre), pointing with one of his well-conceived dramatic gestures to priam farll. "it is," sobbed mrs. henry leek. the unhappy creature believed what she said, and the curates, though silent, made a deep impression on the jury. in cross-examination, when crepitude, k.c., forced her to admit that on first meeting priam in his house in werter road she had not been quite sure of his identity, she replied-- "it's all come over me since. shouldn't a woman recognize the father of her own children?" "she should," interpolated the judge. there was a difference of opinion as to whether his word was jocular or not. mrs. henry leek was a touching figure, but not amusing. it was mr. duncan farll who, quite unintentionally, supplied the first relief. duncan pooh-poohed the possibility of priam being priam. he detailed all the circumstances that followed the death in selwood terrace, and showed in fifty ways that priam could not have been priam. the man now masquerading as priam was not even a gentleman, whereas priam was duncan's cousin! duncan was an excellent witness, dry, precise, imperturbable. under cross-examination by crepitude he had to describe particularly his boyish meeting with priam. mr. crepitude was not inquisitive. "tell us what occurred," said crepitude. "well, we fought." "oh! you fought! what did you two naughty boys fight about?" (great laughter.) "about a plum-cake, i think." "oh! not a seed-cake, a plum-cake?" (great laughter.) "i think a plum-cake." "and what was the result of this sanguinary encounter?" (great laughter.) "my cousin loosened one of my teeth." (great laughter, in which the court joined.) "and what did you do to him?" "i'm afraid i didn't do much. i remember tearing half his clothes off." (roars of laughter, in which every one joined except priam and duncan farll.) "oh! you are sure you remember that? you are sure that it wasn't he who tore _your_ clothes off?" (lots of hysteric laughter.) "yes," said duncan, coldly dreaming in the past. his eyes had the 'far away' look, as he added, "i remember now that my cousin had two little moles on his neck below the collar. i seem to remember seeing them. i've just thought of it." there is, of course, when it is mentioned in a theatre, something exorbitantly funny about even one mole. two moles together brought the house down. mr. crepitude leaned over to a solicitor in front of him; the solicitor leaned aside to a solicitor's clerk, and the solicitor's clerk whispered to priam farll, who nodded. "er----" mr. crepitude was beginning again, but he stopped and said to duncan farll, "thank you. you can step down." then a witness named justini, a cashier at the hôtel de paris, monte carlo, swore that priam farll, the renowned painter, had spent four days in the hôtel de paris one hot may, seven years ago, and that the person in the court whom the defendant stated to be priam farll was not that man. no cross-examination could shake mr. justini. following him came the manager of the hôtel belvedere at mont pélerin, near vevey, switzerland, who related a similar tale and was equally unshaken. and after that the pictures themselves were brought in, and the experts came after them and technical evidence was begun. scarcely had it begun when a clock struck and the performance ended for the day. the principal actors doffed their costumes, and snatched up the evening papers to make sure that the descriptive reporters had been as eulogistic of them as usual. the judge, who subscribed to a press-cutting agency, was glad to find, the next morning, that none of his jokes had been omitted by any of the nineteen chief london dailies. and the strand and piccadilly were quick with witt _v_. parfitts--on evening posters and in the strident mouths of newsboys. the telegraph wires vibrated to witt _v_. parfitts. in the great betting industrial towns of the provinces wagers were laid at scientific prices. england, in a word, was content, and the principal actors had the right to be content also. very astute people in clubs and saloon bars talked darkly about those two moles, and priam's nod in response to the whispers of the solicitor's clerk: such details do not escape the modern sketch writer at a thousand a year. to very astute people the two moles appeared to promise pretty things. _priam's refusal_ "leek in the box." this legend got itself on to the telegraph wires and the placards within a few minutes of priam's taking the oath. it sent a shiver of anticipation throughout the country. three days had passed since the opening of the case (for actors engaged at a hundred a day for the run of the piece do not crack whips behind experts engaged at ten or twenty a day; the pace had therefore been dignified), and england wanted a fillip. nobody except alice knew what to expect from priam. alice knew. she knew that priam was in an extremely peculiar state which might lead to extremely peculiar results; and she knew also that there was nothing to be done with him! she herself had made one little effort to bathe him in the light of reason; the effort had not succeeded. she saw the danger of renewing it. pennington, k.c., by the way, insisted that she should leave the court during priam's evidence. priam's attitude towards the whole case was one of bitter resentment, a resentment now hot, now cold. he had the strongest possible objection to the entire affair. he hated witt as keenly as he hated oxford. all that he demanded from the world was peace and quietness, and the world would not grant him these inexpensive commodities. he had not asked to be buried in westminster abbey; his interment had been forced upon him. and if he chose to call himself by another name, why should he not do so? if he chose to marry a simple woman, and live in a suburb and paint pictures at ten pounds each, why should he not do so? why should he be dragged out of his tranquillity because two persons in whom he felt no interest whatever, had quarrelled over his pictures? why should his life have been made unbearable in putney by the extravagant curiosity of a mob of journalists? and then, why should he be compelled, by means of a piece of blue paper, to go through the frightful ordeal and flame of publicity in a witness-box? that was the crowning unmerited torture, the unthinkable horror which had broken his sleep for many nights. in the box he certainly had all the appearance of a trapped criminal, with his nervous movements, his restless lowered eyes, and his faint, hard voice that he could scarcely fetch up from his throat. nervousness lined with resentment forms excellent material for the plastic art of a cross-examining counsel, and pennington, k.c., itched to be at work. crepitude, k.c., oxford's counsel, was in less joyous mood. priam was crepitude's own witness, and yet a horrible witness, a witness who had consistently and ferociously declined to open his mouth until he was in the box. assuredly he had nodded, in response to the whispered question of the solicitor's clerk, but he had not confirmed the nod, nor breathed a word of assistance during the three days of the trial. he had merely sat there, blazing in silence. "your name is priam farll?" began crepitude. "it is," said priam sullenly, and with all the external characteristics of a liar. at intervals he glanced surreptitiously at the judge, as though the judge had been a bomb with a lighted fuse. the examination started badly, and it went from worse to worse. the idea that this craven, prevaricating figure in the box could be the illustrious, the world-renowned priam farll, seemed absurd. crepitude had to exercise all his self-control in order not to bully priam. "that is all," said crepitude, after priam had given his preposterous and halting explanations of the strange phenomena of his life after the death of leek. none of these carried conviction. he merely said that the woman leek was mistaken in identifying him as her husband; he inferred that she was hysterical; this inference alienated him from the audience completely. his statement that he had no definite reason for pretending to be leek--that it was an impulse of the moment--was received with mute derision. his explanation, when questioned as to the evidence of the hotel officials, that more than once his valet leek had gone about impersonating his master, seemed grotesquely inadequate. people wondered why crepitude had made no reference to the moles. the fact was, crepitude was afraid to refer to the moles. in mentioning the moles to priam he might be staking all to lose all. however, pennington, k.c., alluded to the moles. but not until he had conclusively proved to the judge, in a cross-questioning of two hours' duration, that priam knew nothing of priam's own youth, nor of painting, nor of the world of painters. he made a sad mess of priam. and priam's voice grew fainter and fainter, and his gestures more and more self-incriminating. pennington, k.c., achieved one or two brilliant little effects. "now you say you went with the defendant to his club, and that he told you of the difficulty he was in!" "yes." "did he make you any offer of money?" "yes." "ah! what did he offer you?" "thirty-six thousand pounds." (sensation in court.) "so! and what was this thirty-six thousand pounds to be for?" "i don't know." "you don't know? come now." "i don't know." "you accepted the offer?" "no, i refused it." (sensation in court.) "why did you refuse it?" "because i didn't care to accept it." "then no money passed between you that day?" "yes. five hundred pounds." "what for?" "a picture." "the same kind of picture that you had been selling at ten pounds?" "yes." "so that on the very day that the defendant wanted you to swear that you were priam farll, the price of your pictures rose from ten pounds to five hundred?" "yes." "doesn't that strike you as odd?" "yes." "you still say--mind, leek, you are on your oath!--you still say that you refused thirty-six thousand pounds in order to accept five hundred." "i sold a picture for five hundred." (on the placards in the strand: "severe cross-examination of leek.") "now about the encounter with mr. duncan farll. of course, if you are really priam farll, you remember all about that?" "yes." "what age were you?" "i don't know. about nine." "oh! you were about nine. a suitable age for cake." (great laughter.) "now, mr. duncan farll says you loosened one of his teeth." "i did." "and that he tore your clothes." "i dare say." "he says he remembers the fact because you had two moles." "yes." "have you two moles?" "yes." (immense sensation.) pennington paused. "where are they?" "on my neck just below my collar." "kindly place your hand at the spot." priam did so. the excitement was terrific. pennington again paused. but, convinced that priam was an impostor, he sarcastically proceeded-- "perhaps, if i am not asking too much, you will take your collar off and show the two moles to the court?" "no," said priam stoutly. and for the first time he looked pennington in the face. "you would prefer to do it, perhaps, in his lordship's room, if his lordship consents." "i won't do it anywhere," said priam. "but surely--" the judge began. "i won't do it anywhere, my lord," priam repeated loudly. all his resentment surged up once more; and particularly his resentment against the little army of experts who had pronounced his pictures to be clever but worthless imitations of himself. if his pictures, admittedly painted after his supposed death, could not prove his identity; if his word was to be flouted by insulting and bewigged beasts of prey; then his moles should not prove his identity. he resolved upon obstinacy. "the witness, gentlemen," said pennington, k.c., in triumph to the jury, "has two moles on his neck, exactly as described by mr. duncan farll, but he will not display them!" eleven legal minds bent nobly to the problem whether the law and justice of england could compel a free man to take his collar off if he refused to take his collar off. in the meantime, of course, the case had to proceed. the six or seven hundred pounds a day must be earned, and there were various other witnesses. the next witness was alice. * * * * * chapter xii _alice's performances_ when alice was called, and when she stood up in the box, and, smiling indulgently at the doddering usher, kissed the book as if it had been a chubby nephew, a change came over the emotional atmosphere of the court, which felt a natural need to smile. alice was in all her best clothes, but it cannot be said that she looked the wife of a super-eminent painter. in answer to a question she stated that before marrying priam she was the widow of a builder in a small way of business, well known in putney and also in wandsworth. this was obviously true. she could have been nothing but the widow of a builder in a small way of business well known in putney and also in wandsworth. she was every inch that. "how did you first meet your present husband, mrs. leek?" asked mr. crepitude. "mrs. farll, if you please," she cheerfully corrected him. "well, mrs. farll, then." "i must say," she remarked conversationally, "it seems queer you should be calling me mrs. leek, when they're paying you to prove that i'm mrs. farll, mr.----, excuse me, i forget your name." this nettled crepitude, k.c. it nettled him, too, merely to see a witness standing in the box just as if she were standing in her kitchen talking to a tradesman at the door. he was not accustomed to such a spectacle. and though alice was his own witness he was angry with her because he was angry with her husband. he blushed. juniors behind him could watch the blush creeping like a tide round the back of his neck over his exceedingly white collar. "if you'll be good enough to reply----" said he. "i met my husband outside st. george's hall, by appointment," said she. "but before that. how did you make his acquaintance?" "through a matrimonial agency," said she. "oh!" observed crepitude, and decided that he would not pursue that avenue. the fact was alice had put him into the wrong humour for making the best of her. she was, moreover, in a very difficult position, for priam had positively forbidden her to have any speech with solicitors' clerks or with solicitors, and thus crepitude knew not what pitfalls for him her evidence might contain. he drew from her an expression of opinion that her husband was the real priam farll, but she could give no reasons in support--did not seem to conceive that reasons in support were necessary. "has your husband any moles?" asked crepitude suddenly. "any what?" demanded alice, leaning forward. vodrey, k.c., sprang up. "i submit to your lordship that my learned friend is putting a leading question," said vodrey, k.c. "mr. crepitude," said the judge, "can you not phrase your questions differently?" "has your husband any birthmarks--er--on his body?" crepitude tried again. "oh! _moles_, you said? you needn't be afraid. yes, he's got two moles, close together on his neck, here." and she pointed amid silence to the exact spot. then, noticing the silence, she added, "that's all that i _know_ of." crepitude resolved to end his examination upon this impressive note, and he sat down. and alice had vodrey, k.c., to face. "you met your husband through a matrimonial agency?" he asked. "yes." "who first had recourse to the agency?" "i did." "and what was your object?" "i wanted to find a husband, of course," she smiled. "what _do_ people go to matrimonial agencies for?" "you aren't here to put questions to me," said vodrey severely. "well," she said, "i should have thought you would have known what people went to matrimonial agencies for. still, you live and learn." she sighed cheerfully. "do you think a matrimonial agency is quite the nicest way of----" "it depends what you mean by 'nice,'" said alice. "womanly." "yes," said alice shortly, "i do. if you're going to stand there and tell me i'm unwomanly, all i have to say is that you're unmanly." "you say you first met your husband outside st george's hall?" "yes." "never seen him before?" "no." "how did you recognize him?" "by his photograph." "oh, he'd sent you his photograph?" "yes." "with a letter?" "yes." "in what name was the letter signed?" "henry leek." "was that before or after the death of the man who was buried in westminster abbey?" "a day or two before." (sensation in court.) "so that your present husband was calling himself henry leek before the death?" "no, he wasn't. that letter was written by the man that died. my husband found my reply to it, and my photograph, in the man's bag afterwards; and happening to be strolling past st. george's hall just at the moment like--" "well, happening to be strolling past st. george's hall just at the moment like--" (titters.) "i caught sight of him and spoke to him. you see, i thought then that he was the man who wrote the letter." "what made you think so?" "i had the photograph." "so that the man who wrote the letter and died didn't send his own photograph. he sent another photograph--the photograph of your husband?" "yes, didn't you know that? i should have thought you'd have known that." "do you really expect the jury to believe that tale?" alice turned smiling to the jury. "no," she said, "i'm not sure as i do. i didn't believe it myself for a long time. but it's true." "then at first you didn't believe your husband was the real priam farll?" "no. you see, he didn't exactly tell me like. he only sort of hinted." "but you didn't believe?" "no." "you thought he was lying?" "no, i thought it was just a kind of an idea he had. you know my husband isn't like other gentlemen." "i imagine not," said vodrey. "now, when did you come to be perfectly sure that, your husband was the real priam farll?" "it was the night of that day when mr. oxford came down to see him. he told me all about it then." "oh! that day when mr. oxford paid him five hundred pounds?" "yes." "immediately mr. oxford paid him five hundred pounds you were ready to believe that your husband was the real priam farll. doesn't that strike you as excessively curious?" "it's just how it happened," said alice blandly. "now about these moles. you pointed to the right side of your neck. are you sure they aren't on the left side?" "let me think now," said alice, frowning. "when he's shaving in a morning--he get up earlier now than he used to--i can see his face in the looking-glass, and in the looking-glass the moles are on the left side. so on _him_ they must be on the right side. yes, the right side. that's it." "have you never seen them except in a mirror, my good woman?" interpolated the judge. for some reason alice flushed. "i suppose you think that's funny," she snapped, slightly tossing her head. the audience expected the roof to fall. but the roof withstood the strain, thanks to a sagacious deafness on the part of the judge. if, indeed, he had not been visited by a sudden deafness, it is difficult to see how he would have handled the situation. "have you any idea," vodrey inquired, "why your husband refuses to submit his neck to the inspection of the court?" "i didn't know he had refused." "but he has." "well," said alice, "if you hadn't turned me out of the court while he was being examined, perhaps i could have told you. but i can't as it is. so it serves you right." thus ended alice's performances. _the public captious_ the court rose, and another six or seven hundred pounds was gone into the pockets of the celebrated artistes engaged. it became at once obvious, from the tone of the evening placards and the contents of evening papers, and the remarks in crowded suburban trains, that for the public the trial had resolved itself into an affair of moles. nothing else now interested the great and intelligent public. if priam had those moles on his neck, then he was the real priam. if he had not, then he was a common cheat. the public had taken the matter into its own hands. the sturdy common sense of the public was being applied to the affair. on the whole it may be said that the sturdy common sense of the public was against priam. for the majority, the entire story was fishily preposterous. it must surely be clear to the feeblest brain that if priam possessed moles he would expose them. the minority, who talked of psychology and the artistic temperament, were regarded as the cousins of little englanders and the direct descendants of pro-boers. still, the thing ought to be proved or disproved. why didn't the judge commit him for contempt of court? he would then be sent to holloway and be compelled to strip--and there you were! or why didn't oxford hire some one to pick a quarrel with him in the street and carry the quarrel to blows, with a view to raiment-tearing? a nice thing, english justice--if it had no machinery to force a man to show his neck to a jury! but then english justice _was_ notoriously comic. and whole trainfuls of people sneered at their country's institution in a manner which, had it been adopted by a foreigner, would have plunged europe into war and finally tested the blue-water theory. undoubtedly the immemorial traditions of english justice came in for very severe handling, simply because priam would not take his collar off. and he would not. the next morning there were consultations in counsel's rooms, and the common law of the realm was ransacked to find a legal method of inspecting priam's moles, without success. priam arrived safely at the courts with his usual high collar, and was photographed thirty times between the kerb and the entrance hall. "he's slept in it!" cried wags. "bet yer two ter one it's a clean 'un!" cried other wags. "his missus gets his linen up." it was subject to such indignities that the man who had defied the supreme court of judicature reached his seat in the theatre. when solicitors and counsel attempted to reason with him, he answered with silence. the rumour ran that in his hip pocket he was carrying a revolver wherewith to protect the modesty of his neck. the celebrated artistes, having perceived the folly of losing six or seven hundred pounds a day because priam happened to be an obstinate idiot, continued with the case. for mr. oxford and another army of experts of european reputation were waiting to prove that the pictures admittedly painted after the burial in the national valhalla, were painted by priam farll, and could have been painted by no other. they demonstrated this by internal evidence. in other words, they proved by deductions from squares of canvas that priam had moles on his neck. it was a phenomenon eminently legal. and priam, in his stiff collar, sat and listened. the experts, however, achieved two feats, both unintentionally. they sent the judge soundly to sleep, and they wearied the public, which considered that the trial was falling short of its early promise. this _expertise_ went on to the extent of two whole days and appreciably more than another thousand pounds. and on the third day priam, somewhat hardened to renown, reappeared with his mysterious neck, and more determined than ever. he had seen in a paper, which was otherwise chiefly occupied with moles and experts, a cautious statement that the police had collected the necessary _primâ facie_ evidence of bigamy, and that his arrest was imminent. however, something stranger than arrest for bigamy happened to him. _new evidence_ the principal king's bench corridor in the law courts, like the other main corridors, is a place of strange meetings and interviews. a man may receive there a bit of news that will change the whole of the rest of his life, or he may receive only an invitation to a mediocre lunch in the restaurant underneath; he never knows beforehand. priam assuredly did not receive an invitation to lunch. he was traversing the crowded thoroughfares--for with the exception of match and toothpick sellers the corridor has the characteristics of a strand pavement in the forenoon-- when he caught sight of mr. oxford talking to a woman. now, he had exchanged no word with mr. oxford since the historic scene in the club, and he was determined to exchange no word; however, they had not gone through the formality of an open breach. the most prudent thing to do, therefore, was to turn and take another corridor. and priam would have fled, being capable of astonishing prudence when prudence meant the avoidance of unpleasant encounters; but, just as he was turning, the woman in conversation with mr. oxford saw him, and stepped towards him with the rapidity of thought, holding forth her hand. she was tall, thin, and stiffly distinguished in the brusque, dutch-doll motions of her limbs. her coat and skirt were quite presentable; but her feet were large (not her fault, of course, though one is apt to treat large feet as a crime), and her feathered hat was even larger. she hid her age behind a veil. "how do you do, mr. farll?" she addressed him firmly, in a voice which nevertheless throbbed. it was lady sophia entwistle. "how do you do?" he said, taking her offered hand. there was nothing else to do, and nothing else to say. then mr. oxford put out his hand. "how do you do, mr. farll?" and, taking mr. oxford's hated hand, priam said again, "how do you do?" it was all just as if there had been no past; the past seemed to have been swallowed up in the ordinariness of the crowded corridor. by all the rules for the guidance of human conduct, lady sophia ought to have denounced priam with outstretched dramatic finger to the contempt of the world as a philanderer with the hearts of trusting women; and he ought to have kicked mr. oxford along the corridor for a scheming hebrew. but they merely shook hands and asked each other how they did, not even expecting an answer. this shows to what extent the ancient qualities of the race have deteriorated. then a silence. "i suppose you know, mr. farll," said lady sophia, rather suddenly, "that i have got to give evidence in this case." "no," he said, "i didn't." "yes, it seems they have scoured all over the continent in vain to find people who knew you under your proper name, and who could identify you with certainty, and they couldn't find one--doubtless owing to your peculiar habits of travel." "really," said priam. he had made love to this woman. he had kissed her. they had promised to marry each other. it was a piece of wild folly on his part; but, in the eyes of an impartial person, folly could not excuse his desertion of her, his flight from her intellectual charms. his gaze pierced her veil. no, she was not quite so old as alice. she was not more plain than alice. she certainly knew more than alice. she could talk about pictures without sticking a knife into his soul and turning it in the wound. she was better dressed than alice. and her behaviour on the present occasion, candid, kind, correct, could not have been surpassed by alice. and yet... her demeanour was without question prodigiously splendid in its ignoring of all that she had gone through. and yet... even in that moment of complicated misery he had enough strength to hate her because he had been fool enough to make love to her. no excuse whatever for him, of course! "i was in india when i first heard of this case," lady sophia continued. "at first i thought it must be a sort of tichborne business over again. then, knowing you as i did, i thought perhaps it wasn't." "and as lady sophia happens to be in london now," put in mr. oxford, "she is good enough to give her invaluable evidence on my behalf." "that is scarcely the way to describe it," said lady sophia coldly. "i am only here because you compel me to be here by subpoena. it is all due to your acquaintanceship with my aunt." "quite so, quite so!" mr. oxford agreed. "it naturally can't be very agreeable to you to have to go into the witness-box and submit to cross-examination. certainly not. and i am the more obliged to you for your kindness, lady sophia." priam comprehended the situation. lady sophia, after his supposed death, had imparted to relatives the fact of his engagement, and the unscrupulous scoundrel, mr. oxford, had got hold of her and was forcing her to give evidence for him. and after the evidence, the joke of every man in the street would be to the effect that priam farll, rather than marry the skinny spinster, had pretended to be dead. "you see," mr. oxford added to him, "the important point about lady sophia's evidence is that in paris she saw both you and your valet--the valet obviously a servant, and you obviously his master. there can, therefore, be no question of her having been deceived by the valet posing as the master. it is a most fortunate thing that by a mere accident i got on the tracks of lady sophia in time. in the nick of time. only yesterday afternoon!" no reference by mr. oxford to priam's obstinacy in the matter of collars. he appeared to regard priam's collar as a phenomenon of nature, such as the weather, or a rock in the sea, as something to be accepted with resignation! no sign of annoyance with priam! he was the prince of diplomatists, was mr. oxford. "can i speak to you a minute?" said lady sophia to priam. mr. oxford stepped away with a bow. and lady sophia looked steadily at priam. he had to admit again that she was stupendous. she was his capital mistake; but she was stupendous. at their last interview he had embraced her. she had attended his funeral in westminster abbey. and she could suppress all that from her eyes! she could stand there calm and urbane in her acceptance of the terrific past. apparently she forgave. said lady sophia simply, "now, mr. farll, shall i have to give evidence or not? you know it depends on you?" the casualness of her tone was sublime; it was heroic; it made her feet small. he had sworn to himself that he would be cut in pieces before he would aid the unscrupulous mr. oxford by removing his collar in presence of those dramatic artistes. he had been grossly insulted, disturbed, maltreated, and exploited. the entire world had meddled with his private business, and he would be cut in pieces before he would display those moles which would decide the issue in an instant. well, she had cut him in pieces. "please don't worry," said he in reply. "i will attend to things." at that moment alice, who had followed him by a later train, appeared. "good-morning, lady sophia," he said, raising his hat, and left her. _thoughts on justice_ "farll takes his collar off." "witt _v_. parfitts. result." these and similar placards flew in the strand breezes. never in the history of empires had the removal of a starched linen collar (size - / ) created one-thousandth part of the sensation caused by the removal of this collar. it was an epoch-making act. it finished the drama of witt _v_. parfitts. the renowned artistes engaged did not, of course, permit the case to collapse at once. no, it had to be concluded slowly and majestically, with due forms and expenses. new witnesses (such as doctors) had to be called, and old ones recalled. duncan farll, for instance, had to be recalled, and if the situation was ignominious for priam it was also ignominious for duncan. duncan's sole advantage in his defeat was that the judge did not skin him alive in the summing up, nor the jury in their verdict. england breathed more freely when the affair was finally over and the renowned artistes engaged had withdrawn enveloped in glory. the truth was that england, so proud of her systems, had had a fright. her judicial methods had very nearly failed to make a man take his collar off in public. they had really failed, but it had all come right in the end, and so england pretended that they had only just missed failing. a grave injustice would have been perpetrated had priam chosen not to take off his collar. people said, naturally, that imprisonment for bigamy would have included the taking-off of collars; but then it was rumoured that prosecution for bigamy had not by any means been a certainty, as since leaving the box mrs. henry leek had wavered in her identification. however, the justice of england had emerged safely. and it was all very astounding and shocking and improper. and everybody was exceedingly wise after the event. and with one voice the press cried that something painful ought to occur at once to priam farll, no matter how great an artist he was. the question was: how could priam be trapped in the net of the law? he had not committed bigamy. he had done nothing. he had only behaved in a negative manner. he had not even given false information to the registrar. and dr. cashmore could throw no light on the episode, for he was dead. his wife and daughters had at last succeeded in killing him. the judge had intimated that the ecclesiastical wrath of the dean and chapter might speedily and terribly overtake priam farll; but that sounded vague and unsatisfactory to the lay ear. in short, the matter was the most curious that ever was. and for the sake of the national peace of mind, the national dignity, and the national conceit, it was allowed to drop into forgetfulness after a few days. and when the papers announced that, by priam's wish, the farll museum was to be carried to completion and formally conveyed to the nation, despite all, the nation decided to accept that honourable amend, and went off to the seaside for its annual holiday. _the will to live_ alice insisted on it, and so, immediately before their final departure from england, they went. priam pretended that the visit was undertaken solely to please her; but the fact is that his own morbid curiosity moved in the same direction. they travelled by an omnibus past the putney empire and the walham green empire as far as walham green, and there changed into another one which carried them past the chelsea empire, the army and navy stores, and the hotel windsor to the doors of westminster abbey. and they vanished out of the october sunshine into the beam-shot gloom of valhalla. it was alice's first view of valhalla, though of course she had heard of it. in old times she had visited madame tussaud's and the tower, but she had not had leisure to get round as far as valhalla. it impressed her deeply. a verger pointed them to the nave; but they dared not demand more minute instructions. they had not the courage to ask for _it_. priam could not speak. there were moments with him when he could not speak lest his soul should come out of his mouth and flit irrecoverably away. and he could not find the tomb. save for the outrageous tomb of mighty newton, the nave seemed to be as naked as when it came into the world. yet he was sure he was buried in the nave--and only three years ago, too! astounding, was it not, what could happen in three years? he knew that the tomb had not been removed, for there had been an article in the _daily record_ on the previous day asking in the name of a scandalized public whether the dean and chapter did not consider that three months was more than long enough for the correction of a fundamental error in the burial department. he was gloomy; he had in truth been somewhat gloomy ever since the trial. perhaps it was the shadow of the wrath of the dean and chapter on him. he had ceased to procure joy in the daily manifestations of life in the streets of the town. and this failure to discover the tomb intensified the calm, amiable sadness which distinguished him. alice, gazing around, chiefly with her mouth, inquired suddenly-- "what's that printing there?" she had detected a legend incised on one of the small stone flags which form the vast floor of the nave. they stooped over it. "priam farll," it said simply, in fine roman letters and then his dates. that was all. near by, on other flags, they deciphered other names of honour. this austere method of marking the repose of the dead commended itself to him, caused him to feel proud of himself and of the ridiculous england that somehow keeps our great love. his gloom faded. and do you know what idea rushed from his heart to his brain? "by jove! i will paint finer pictures than any i've done yet!" and the impulse to recommence the work of creation surged over him. the tears started to his eyes. "i like that!" murmured alice, gazing at the stone. "i do think that's nice." and _he_ said, because he truly felt it, because the will to live raged through him again, tingling and smarting: "i'm glad i'm not there." they smiled at each other, and their instinctive hands fumblingly met. a few days later, the dean and chapter, stung into action by the majestic rebuke of the _daily record_, amended the floor of valhalla and caused the mortal residuum of the immortal organism known as henry leek to be nocturnally transported to a different bed. _on board_ a few days later, also, a north german lloyd steamer quitted southampton for algiers, bearing among its passengers priam and alice. it was a rough starlit night, and from the stern of the vessel the tumbled white water made a pathway straight to receding england. priam had come to love the slopes of putney with the broad river at the foot; but he showed what i think was a nice feeling in leaving england. his sojourn in our land had not crowned him with brilliance. he was not a being created for society, nor for cutting a figure, nor for exhibiting tact and prudence in the crises of existence. he could neither talk well nor read well, nor express himself in exactly suitable actions. he could only express himself at the end of a brush. he could only paint extremely beautiful pictures. that was the major part of his vitality. in minor ways he may have been, upon occasions, a fool. but he was never a fool on canvas. he said everything there, and said it to perfection, for those who could read, for those who can read, and for those who will be able to read five hundred years hence. why expect more from him? why be disappointed in him? one does not expect a wire-walker to play fine billiards. you yourself, mirror of prudence that you are, would have certainly avoided all priam's manifold errors in the conduct of his social career; but, you see, he was divine in another way. as the steamer sped along the lengthening pathway from england, one question kept hopping in and out of his mind: "_i wonder what they'll do with me next time_?" do not imagine that he and alice were staring over the stern at the singular isle. no! there were imperative reasons, which affected both of them, against that. it was only in the moments of the comparative calm which always follows insurrections, that priam had leisure to wonder, and to see his own limitations, and joyfully to meditate upon the prospect of age devoted to the sole doing of that which he could so supremely, in a sweet exile with the enchantress, alice. twelfth night; or, what you will. a comedy. in five acts; by william shakspeare. revised by j. p. kemble. as now performed at the theatre royal, covent-garden. london: printed for longman, hurst, rees, orme, and brown, paternoster-row. edinburgh: printed by james ballantyne and co. dramatis personÆ. duke orsino _mr barrymore_. valentine _mr claremont_. curio _mr treby_. sir toby belch _mr emery_. sir andrew ague-cheek _mr munden_. sebastian _mr hamerton_. antonio _mr cresswell_. roberto _mr jefferies_. friar _mr atkins_. malvolio _mr liston_. clown _mr fawcett_. fabian _mr farley_. first officer _mr king_. second officer _mr lambert_. olivia _mrs c. kemble_. viola _miss s. booth_. maria _mrs gibbs_. _gentlemen.--musicians.--sailors.--servants._ scene--_a city in illyria, and the sea-coast near it._ twelfth night; or, what you will. act the first. scene i. _the sea-coast._ _enter_ viola, roberto, _and two sailors, carrying a trunk_. _vio._ what country, friends, is this? _rob._ this is illyria, lady. _vio._ and what should i do in illyria? my brother he is in elysium. perchance, he is not drown'd:--what think you, sailors? _rob._ it is perchance, that you yourself were saved. _vio._ o my poor brother! and so, perchance may he be. _rob._ true, madam; and, to comfort you with chance, assure yourself, after our ship did split, when you, and that poor number saved with you, hung on our driving boat, i saw your brother, most provident in peril, bind himself (courage and hope both teaching him the practice) to a strong mast, that lived upon the sea; where, like arion on the dolphin's back, i saw him hold acquaintance with the waves, so long as i could see. _vio._ mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, whereto thy speech serves for authority, the like of him. know'st thou this country? _rob._ ay, madam, well; for i was bred and born, not three hours travel from this very place. _vio._ who governs here? _rob._ a noble duke, in nature, as in his name. _vio._ what is his name? _rob._ orsino. _vio._ orsino!--i have heard my father name him: he was a bachelor then. _rob._ and so is now, or was so very late: for but a month ago i went from hence; and then 'twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, what great ones do, the less will prattle of,) that he did seek the love of fair olivia. _vio._ what is she? _rob._ a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count that died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her in the protection of his son, her brother, who shortly also died: for whose dear love, they say, she hath abjured the company and sight of men. _vio._ oh, that i served that lady! and might not be deliver'd to the world, till i had made mine own occasion mellow, what my estate is! _rob._ that were hard to compass; because she will admit no kind of suit, no, not the duke's. _vio._ there is a fair behaviour in thee, captain; and, i believe, thou hast a mind that suits with this thy fair and outward character. i pray thee, and i'll pay thee bounteously, conceal me what i am; and be my aid for such disguise as, haply, shall become the form of my intent. i'll serve this duke; thou shalt present me as a page unto him, of gentle breeding, and my name, cesario:-- that trunk, the reliques of my sea-drown'd brother, will furnish man's apparel to my need:-- it may be worth thy pains: for i can sing, and speak to him in many sorts of music, that will allow me very worth his service. what else may hap, to time i will commit; only shape thou thy silence to my wit. _rob._ be you his page, and i your mute will be; when my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see! _vio._ i thank thee:--lead me on. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _a room in_ duke orsino's _palace_. _the duke discovered, seated, and attended by_ curio, _and gentlemen_. _duke._ [_music._] if music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.---- [_music._] that strain again;--it had a dying fall: o, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing, and giving odours.-- [_music._] enough; no more; [_he rises._ 'tis not so sweet now, as it was before. _cur._ will you go hunt, my lord? _duke._ what, curio? _cur._ the hart. _duke._ why, so i do, the noblest that i have: o, when mine eyes did see olivia first, methought, she purged the air of pestilence; that instant was i turn'd into a hart; and my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, e'er since pursue me. _enter_ valentine. how now? what news from my olivia?--speak. _val._ so please my lord, i might not be admitted; but from her handmaid do return this answer; the element itself, till seven years heat, shall not behold her face at ample view; but, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, and water once a day her chamber round with eye-offending brine: all this, to season a brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh, and lasting, in her sad remembrance. _duke._ o, she, that hath a heart of that fine frame, to pay this debt of love but to a brother, how will she love, when the rich golden shaft hath kill'd the flock of all affections else that live in her!-- away before me to sweet beds of flowers; love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ maria _and_ sir toby belch. _sir to._ what a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother thus? i am sure, care's an enemy to life. _mar._ by my troth, sir toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your niece, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. _sir to._ why, let her except before excepted. _mar._ ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. _sir to._ confine? i'll confine myself no finer than i am: these clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. _mar._ that quaffing and drinking will undo you; i heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight, that you have brought in here, to be her wooer. _sir to._ who? sir andrew ague-cheek? _mar._ ay, he. _sir to._ he's as tall a man as any's in illyria. _mar._ what's that to the purpose? _sir to._ why, he has three thousand ducats a-year. _mar._ ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very fool, and a prodigal. _sir to._ fye, that you'll say so! he plays o' the viol-de-gambo, and hath all the good gifts of nature. _mar._ he hath, indeed, all, most natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent, he would quickly have the gift of a grave. _sir to._ by this band, they are scoundrels, and substractors, that say so of him. who are they? _mar._ they that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company. _sir to._ with drinking healths to my niece; i'll drink to her, as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in illyria: he's a coward, and a coystril, that will not drink to my niece, till his brains turn o' the toe like a parish-top--see, here comes sir andrew ague-face. [sir andrew ague-cheek, _without_. _sir and._ sir toby belch! how now, sir toby belch? _sir to._ sweet sir andrew! _enter_ sir andrew. _sir and._ bless you, fair shrew. _mar._ and you too, sir. _sir to._ accost, sir andrew, accost. _sir and._ what's that? _sir to._ my niece's chamber-maid. _sir and._ good mistress accost, i desire better acquaintance. _mar._ my name is mary, sir. _sir and._ good mistress mary accost,---- _sir to._ you mistake, knight; accost, is, front her, board her, woo her, assail her. _sir and._ by my troth, i would not undertake her in this company. is that the meaning of accost? _mar._ fare you well, gentlemen. _sir to._ an thou let part so, sir andrew, 'would thou might'st never draw sword again. _sir and._ an you part so, mistress, i would i might never draw sword again. fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? _mar._ sir, i have not you by the hand. _sir and._ marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand. _mar._ [_takes his hand._] now, sir, thought is free: i pray you, bring your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. _sir and._ wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor? _mar._ it's dry, sir. _sir and._ why, i think so; i am not such an ass, but i can keep my hand dry. but what's your jest? _mar._ a dry jest, sir. _sir and._ are you full of them? _mar._ ay, sir; i have them at my fingers' ends: marry, [_lets go his hand._] now i let go your hand, i am barren. [_exit_ maria. _sir to._ o knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary: when did i see thee so put down? _sir and._ never in your life, i think; unless you see canary put me down: methinks, sometimes i have no more wit than a christian, or an ordinary man has; but i am a great eater of beef, and, i believe, that does harm to my wit. _sir to._ no question. _sir and._ an i thought that, i'd forswear it. i'll ride home to-morrow, sir toby. _sir to._ _pourquoy_, my dear knight? _sir and._ what is _pourquoy_? do, or not do? i would i had bestow'd that time in the tongues, that i have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting: o, had i but follow'd the arts! _sir to._ then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. _sir and._ why, would that have mended my hair? _sir to._ past question; for, thou seest, it will not curl by nature. _sir and._ but it becomes me well enough, does't not? _sir to._ excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff; and i hope to see a housewife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. _sir and._ 'faith, i'll home to-morrow, sir toby: your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the duke himself, here hard by, wooes her. _sir to._ she'll none o' the duke; she'll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; i have heard her swear it. tut, there's life in't, man. _sir and._ i'll stay a month longer. i am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; i delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. _sir to._ art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight? _sir and._ as any man in illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet i'll not compare with an old man. _sir to._ what is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? _sir and._ 'faith, i can cut a caper. _sir to._ and i can cut the mutton to't. _sir and._ and, i think, i have the back-trick, simply as strong as any man in illyria. _sir to._ wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? my very walk should be a jig. what dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in?--i did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star of a galliard. _sir and._ ay, 'tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a flame-colour'd stock. shall we set about some revels? _sir to._ what shall we do else? were we not born under taurus? _sir and._ taurus? that's sides and heart. _sir to._ no, sir; it is legs and thighs. let me see thee caper:--ha! higher:--ha, ha!--excellent! [_exeunt._ scene iv. _a room in_ duke orsino's _palace_. _enter_ valentine, _and_ viola _in man's attire_. _val._ if the duke continue these favors towards you, cesario, you are like to be much advanced. _vio._ you either fear his humour, or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love: is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? _val._ no, believe me. _vio._ i thank you.--here comes the duke. _enter_ duke, curio, _and gentlemen_. _duke._ who saw cesario, ho? _vio._ on your attendance, my lord; here. _duke._ stand you awhile aloof.--cesario, thou know'st no less but all; i have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul: therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her; be not denied access, stand at her doors, and tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow, till thou have audience. _vio._ sure, my noble lord, if she be so abandon'd to her sorrow as it is spoke, she never will admit me. _duke._ be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds, rather than make unprofited return. _vio._ say, i do speak with her, my lord. what then? _duke._ o, then unfold the passion of my love. surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: it shall become thee well to act my woes; she will attend it better in thy youth, than in a nuncio of more grave aspéct. _vio._ i think not so, my lord. _duke._ dear lad, believe it; for they shall yet belie thy happy years, that say, thou art a man: diana's lip is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound: i know, thy constellation is right apt for this affair:--go:--prosper well in this, and thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, to call his fortunes thine. [_exeunt_ duke, curio, valentine, _and gentlemen_. _vio._ i'll do my best, to woo his lady: yet,--a barful strife!-- whoe'er i woo, myself would be his wife. [_exit._ scene v. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ clown _and_ maria. _mar._ nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or i will not open my lips, so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence. _clo._ let her hang me: he, that is well hang'd in this world, needs to fear no colours. _mar._ make that good. _clo._ he shall see none to fear. _mar._ a good lenten answer: yet you will be hang'd, for being so long absent; or, to be turn'd away; is not that as good as a hanging to you? _clo._ many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning away, let summer bear it out. _mar._ here comes my lady; make your excuse wisely, you were best. [_exit_ maria. _clo._ wit, and't be thy will, put me into good fooling! those wits, that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and i, that am sure i lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says quinapalus? better a witty fool, than a foolish wit. _enter_ olivia, malvolio, _and two servants_. bless thee, lady! _oli._ take the fool away. _clo._ do you not hear, fellows? take away the lady. _oli._ go to, you're a dry fool: i'll no more of you; besides, you grow dishonest. _clo._ two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend; for, give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him.--the lady bade take away the fool; therefore, i say again, take her away. _oli._ sir, i bade them take away you. _clo._ misprision in the highest degree!--lady, _cucullus non facit monachum_; that's as much as to say, i wear not motley in my brain. good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. _oli._ can you do it? _clo._ dexterously, good madonna. _oli._ make your proof. _clo._ i must catechize you for it, madonna: good my mouse of virtue, answer me. _oli._ well, sir, for want of other idleness, i'll 'bide your proof. _clo._ good madonna, why mourn'st thou? _oli._ good fool, for my brother's death. _clo._ i think, his soul is in hell, madonna. _oli._ i know, his soul is in heaven, fool. _clo._ the more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.--take away the fool, gentlemen. _oli._ what think you of this fool, malvolio? doth he not mend? _mal._ yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. _clo._ heaven send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! sir toby will be sworn, that i am no fox; but he will not pass his word for two-pence that you are no fool. _oli._ how say you to that, malvolio? _mal._ i marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; i saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone.--look you now, he's out of his guard already: unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagg'd.--i protest, i take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies. _oli._ o, you are sick of self-love, malvolio, and taste with a distemper'd appetite. to be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets: there is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. _clo._ now mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well of fools! _enter_ maria. _mar._ madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman, much desires to speak with you. _oli._ from the duke orsino, is it? _mar._ i know not, madam. _oli._ who of my people hold him in delay? _mar._ sir toby, madam, your kinsman. _oli._ fetch him off, i pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fye on him! [_exit_ maria. go you, malvolio:--if it be a suit from the duke, i am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [_exeunt_ malvolio, _and two servants_. now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. _clo._ thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool. _sir to._ [_without._] where is she? where is she? _clo._ whose skull jove cram with brains!--for here he comes, one of thy kin, has a most weak _pia mater_. _enter_ sir toby. _oli._ by mine honour, half drunk.--what is he at the gate, uncle? _sir to._ a gentleman. _oli._ a gentleman? what gentleman? _sir to._ 'tis a gentleman here,--how now, sot? _clo._ good sir toby,---- _oli._ uncle, uncle, how have you come so early by this lethargy? _sir to._ lechery! i defy lechery.--there's one at the gate. _oli._ ay, marry; what is he? _sir to._ let him be the devil, an he will, i care not: give me faith, say i. well, it's all one.--a plague o' these pickle-herrings. [_exit_ sir toby. _oli._ what's a drunken man like, fool? _clo._ like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman; one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him. _oli._ go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o' my uncle; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go, look after him. _clo._ he is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [_exit_ clown. _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. i told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you: i told him you were asleep; he seems to have a fore-knowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. what is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified against any denial. _oli._ tell him, he shall not speak with me. _mal._ he has been told so; and, he says, he'll stand at your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he'll speak with you. _oli._ what kind of man is he? _mal._ why, of man-kind. _oli._ what manner of man? _mal._ of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you, or no. _oli._ of what personage, and years, is he? _mal._ not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before 'tis a peascod, or a coddling when 'tis almost an apple: 'tis with him e'en standing water, between boy and man. he is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one would think, his mother's milk were scarce out of him. _oli._ let him approach: call in my gentlewoman. _mal._ gentlewoman, my lady calls. [_exit_ malvolio. [illustration] _enter_ maria. _oli._ give me my veil. [_exit_ maria. what means his message to me? i have denied his access o'er and o'er: then what means this? _enter_ maria, _with a veil_. come, throw it o'er my face; we'll once more hear orsino's embassy. _enter_ viola. _vio._ the honourable lady of the house, which is she? _oli._ speak to me, i shall answer for her:--your will? _vio._ most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,--i pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the house, for i never saw her: i would be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penn'd, i have taken great pains to con it. _oli._ whence came you, sir? _vio._ i can say little more than i have studied, and that question's out of my part.--good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house. _oli._ if i do not usurp myself, i am. _vio._ most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow, is not yours to reserve. _oli._ i heard you were saucy at my gates; and allow'd your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. if you be not mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: 'tis not that time of moon with me, to make one in so skipping a dialogue.--what are you? what would you? _vio._ what i am, and what i would, are to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation. _oli._ give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [_exit_ maria. now, sir, what is your text? _vio._ most sweet lady,---- _oli._ a comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. where lies your text? _vio._ in orsino's bosom. _oli._ in his bosom? in what chapter of his bosom? _vio._ to answer by the method, in the first of his heart. _oli._ o, i have read it; it is heresy. have you no more to say? _vio._ good madam, let me see your face. _oli._ have you any commission from your lord to negociate with my face? you are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the picture. look you, sir, such a one as i, does this present. [_unveiling._ _vio._ 'tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, if you will lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy. _oli._ o, sir, i will not be so hard-hearted. _vio._ my lord and master loves you; o, such love could be but recompensed, though you were crown'd the nonpareil of beauty! _oli._ how does he love me? _vio._ with adorations, with fertile tears, with groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. _oli._ your lord does know my mind, i cannot love him: he might have took his answer long ago. _vio._ if i did love you in my master's flame, with such a suffering, such a deadly life, in your denial i would find no sense, i would not understand it. _oli._ why, what would you? _vio._ make me a willow cabin at your gate, and call upon my soul within the house; write loyal cantons of contemned love, and sing them loud even in the dead of night; holla your name to the reverberate hills, and make the babbling gossip of the air cry out, olivia! o, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth, but you should pity me. _oli._ you might do much:--what is your parentage? _vio._ above my fortunes, yet my state is well: i am a gentleman. _oli._ get you to your lord; i cannot love him: let him send no more; unless, perchance, you come to me again, to tell me how he takes it. fare you well: i thank you for your pains:--spend this for me. _vio._ i am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse; my master, not myself, lacks recompense. love make his heart of flint, that you shall love; and let your fervour, like my master's, be placed in contempt! farewell, fair cruelty. [_exit_ viola. _oli._ what is your parentage? _above my fortunes, yet my state is well: i am a gentleman._----i'll be sworn thou art; thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, do give thee five-fold blazon:--not too fast:--soft! soft! unless the master were the man.--how now? even so quickly may one catch the plague? methinks, i feel this youth's perfections, with an invisible and subtle stealth, to creep in at mine eyes. well, let it be.-- what ho, malvolio!-- _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ here, madam, at your service. _oli._ run after that same peevish messenger, orsino's man: he left this ring behind him, would i, or not; tell him, i'll none of it. desire him not to flatter with his lord, nor hold him up with hopes; i am not for him: if that the youth will come this way to-morrow, i'll give him reasons for't. hie thee, malvolio. _mal._ madam, i will. [_exit_ malvolio. _oli._ i do i know not what; and fear to find mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe; what is decreed, must be; and be this so! [_exit._ scene vi. _a street before_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ viola, _and_ malvolio _following_. _mal._ sir, sir,--young gentleman: were not you even now with the countess olivia? _vio._ even now, sir. _mal._ she returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. she adds moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him: and one thing more; that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking of this. receive it so. _vio._ she took the ring of me!--i'll none of it. _mal._ come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it should be so returned.--[_throws the ring on the ground._] if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [_exit_ malvolio. _vio._ [_takes up the ring._] i left no ring with her: what means this lady? fortune forbid, my outside have not charm'd her! she made good view of me; indeed, so much, that, sure, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue, for she did speak in starts distractedly. she loves me, sure; the cunning of her passion invites me in this churlish messenger. none of my lord's ring!--why, he sent her none. i am the man;--if it be so, (as 'tis,) poor lady! she were better love a dream. what will become of this? as i am man, my state is desperate for my master's love; as i am woman,--now alas the day!-- what thriftless sighs shall poor olivia breathe! o time, thou must entangle this, not i; it is too hard a knot for me to untie. [_exit._ act the second. scene i. _a sea-port._ _enter_ sebastian _and_ antonio. _ant._ will you stay no longer? nor will you not, that i go with you? _seb._ by your patience, no: my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore i shall crave of you your leave, that i may bear my evils alone: it were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. _ant._ pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. _seb._ o, good antonio, pardon me your trouble. _ant._ let me yet know of you, whither you are bound. _seb._ no, 'sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy.--but i perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what i am willing to keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself.--you must know of me then, antonio, my name is sebastian, which i called rodorigo; my father was that sebastian of messaline, whom i know you have heard of: he left behind him, myself, and a sister, both born in an hour. if the heavens had been pleased, 'would we had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for, some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea, was my sister drowned. _ant._ alas, the day! _seb._ a lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but, though i could not overfar believe that, yet thus far i will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. [_he weeps._] _ant._ if you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. _seb._ if you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness; and i am yet so near the manners of my mother, that, upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. i am bound to the duke orsino's court, farewell. _ant._ the gentleness of all the gods go with thee! _seb._ fare ye well. [_exeunt._ scene ii. _a dining-room in_ olivia's _house_. sir toby _and_ sir andrew _discovered, drinking and smoking_. _sir to._ come, sir andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know'st,---- _sir and._ nay, by my troth, i know not: but i know, to be up late, is to be up late. _sir to._ a false conclusion; i hate it as an unfill'd can: to be up after midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go to bed betimes. do not our lives consist of the four elements? _sir and._ 'faith, so they say; but, i think, it rather consists of eating and drinking. _sir to._ thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.--maria, i say!----a stoop of wine! [_the_ clown _sings without_. [sir andrew _and_ sir toby _rise_. _sir and._ here comes the fool, i'faith. _enter_ clown. _clo._ how now, my hearts? did you never see the picture of we three? _sir to._ welcome, ass. _sir and._ i had rather than forty shillings i had such a leg; and so sweet a voice to sing, as the fool has.--in sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of pigrogromitus, of the vapians passing the equinoctial of queubus; 'twas very good, i'faith. i sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it? _clo._ i did impeticos thy gratillity; for malvolio's nose is no whipstock: my lady has a white hand, and the myrmidons are no bottle ale-houses. _sir and._ excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. now, a song. _sir to._ come on: shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that? _sir and._ an you love me, let's do 't: i am dog at a catch. _clo._ by'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. _sir and._ begin, fool: it begins,--[_sings._] _hold thy peace._ _clo._ hold my peace!--i shall never begin, if i hold my peace. _sir and._ good, i'faith!--come, begin:--that, or something else,--or what you will. [_they all three sing._ _christmas comes but once a year, and therefore we'll be merry._ _enter_ maria. _mar._ what a catterwauling do you keep here! if my lady have not called up her steward, malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. _sir to._ my lady's a cataian; we are politicians. malvolio's a peg-a-ramsay:--[_sings._]--_and three merry men be we._ _sir and._ [_sings._] _and three merry men be we._ _sir to._ am i not consanguineous? am i not of her blood? tilly-valley, lady!--[_sings._]--_there dwelt a man in babylon, lady, lady!_ _sir and._ [_sings_] _lady_,---- _clo._ beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. _sir and._ ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do i too; he does it with a better grace, but i do it more natural. [_sings_.] _lady_,-- _sir to._ let us have another. [_they all three sing and dance._ _which is the properest day to drink? saturday,--sunday,--monday_,-- _mar._ for the love of heaven, peace. _enter_ malvolio, _in a gown and cap, with a light_. _mal._ my masters, are you mad? or what are you? _sir and._ [_sings._] _monday_,-- _mal._ have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? _sir to._ [_sings._] _saturday_,-- _mal._ is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? _sir to._ we did keep time, sir, in our catches. sneck up! _mal._ sir toby, i must be round with you. my lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. if you can separate yourself and your misdemeanors, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. _sir to._ [_sings._] _farewell, dear heart, since i must needs be gone._ _mar._ nay, good sir toby. _clo._ [_sings._] _his eyes do show his days are almost done._ _mal._ is't even so? _sir to._ [_sings._] _but i will never die._ [_falls on the floor._ _clo._ [_sings._] _sir toby,--o, sir toby,--there you lie._ _mal._ this is much credit to you. [clown _raises_ sir toby. _sir to._ [_sings._] _you lie._--art any more than a steward? dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? _clo._ yes, by saint anne; and ginger shall be hot i' the mouth too. _sir to._ thou'rt i' the right.--go, sir, rub your chain with crums:--a stoop of wine, maria! _mal._ mistress mary, if you prized my lady's favour at any thing more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by this hand. [_exit_ malvolio, _followed by the_ clown, _mocking him_. _mar._ go shake your ears. _sir and._ 'twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's a hungry, to challenge him to the field; and then to break promise with him, and make a fool of him. _sir to._ do't, knight; i'll write thee a challenge: or i'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. _mar._ sweet sir toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the duke's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. for monsieur malvolio, let me alone with him: if i do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think i have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: i know, i can do it. _sir to._ possess us, possess us; tell us something of him. _mar._ marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan. _sir and._ o, if i thought that, i'd beat him like a dog. _sir to._ what, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight? _sir and._ i have no exquisite reason for't, but i have reason good enough. _mar._ the devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his ground of faith, that all, that look on him, love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. _sir to._ what wilt thou do? _mar._ i will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, he shall find himself most feelingly personated: i can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. _sir to._ excellent! i smell a device. _sir and._ i have't in my nose too. _sir to._ he shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him? _sir and._ o, 'twill be admirable. _mar._ sport royal, i warrant you. i will plant you two, and let fabian make a third, where he shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. for this night, to bed, and dream on the event. farewell. [_exit_ maria. _sir to._ good night, penthesilea. _sir and._ before me, she's a good wench. _sir to._ she's a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me; what o' that? _sir and._ i was adored once too. _sir to._ let's to bed, knight.--thou hadst need send for more money. _sir and._ if i cannot recover your niece, i am a foul way out. _sir to._ send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' the end, call me cut. _sir and._ if i do not, never trust me, take it how you will. _sir to._ come, come; i'll go burn some sack, 'tis too late to go to bed now. _sir and._ i'll call you cut. _sir to._ come, knight,--come, knight. _sir and._ i'll call you cut. [_exeunt._ scene iii. _a hall in_ duke orsino's _palace_. _enter_ duke, _and_ viola. _duke._ come hither, boy:--if ever thou shalt love, in the sweet pangs of it, remember me: for, such as i am, all true lovers are.-- my life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves; hath it not, boy? _vio._ a little, by your favour. _duke._ what kind of woman is't? _vio._ of your complexion. _duke._ she is not worth thee then. what years, i' faith? _vio._ about your years, my lord. _duke._ too old, by heaven.--once more, cesario, get thee to yon same sovereign cruelty: tell her, my love, more noble than the world, prizes not quantity of dirty lands; the parts that fortune hath bestowed upon her, tell her, i hold as giddily as fortune; but 'tis that miracle, and queen of gems, that nature pranks her in, attracts my soul. _vio._ but, if she cannot love you, sir? _duke._ i cannot be so answered. _vio._ sooth, but you must. say, that some lady, as, perhaps, there is, hath for your love as great a pang of heart as you have for olivia: you cannot love her; you tell her so: must she not then be answered? _duke._ there is no woman's sides, can bide the beating of so strong a passion as love doth give my heart:--make no compare between that love a woman can bear me, and that i owe olivia. _vio._ ay, but i know,-- _duke._ what dost thou know? _vio._ too well what love women to men may owe: in faith, they are as true of heart as we. my father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be, perhaps, were i a woman, i should your lordship. _duke._ and what's her history? _vio._ a blank, my lord: she never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief. was not this love, indeed? we men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, our shows are more than will, for still we prove much in our vows, but little in our love. _duke._ but died thy sister of her love, my boy? _vio._ i am all the daughters of my father's house, and all the brothers too.-- sir, shall i to this lady? _duke._ ay, that's the theme. to her in haste; give her this jewel; say, my love can give no place, bide no denay. [_exeunt._ act the third. scene i. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ sir toby, sir andrew, _and_ fabian. _sir to._ come thy ways, signior fabian. _fab._ nay, i'll come; if i lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. _sir to._ would'st thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? _fab._ i would exult, man: you know, he brought me out of favour with my lady, about a bear-baiting here. _sir to._ to anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him black and blue:--shall we not, sir andrew? _sir and._ an we do not, it is pity of our lives. _enter_ maria, _with a letter_. _sir to._ here comes the little villain:--how now, my nettle of india? _mar._ get ye all three behind yon clump: malvolio's coming down this walk; he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own shadow, this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for, i know, this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.--close, in the name of jesting! [_the men hide themselves._]--lie thou there; [_throws down a letter._] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [_exit_ maria. _enter_ malvolio. _mal._ 'tis but fortune; all is fortune. maria once told me, she did affect me: and i have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect, than any one else that follows her. what should i think on't? _sir to._ here's an over-weening rogue! _fab._ contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! _sir and._ 'slight, i could so beat the rogue:-- _mal._ to be count malvolio;-- _sir to._ ah, rogue! _sir and._ pistol him, pistol him. _sir to._ peace, peace! _mal._ there is example for't; the lady of the strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. _sir and._ fie on him, jezebel! _fab._ now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him. _mal._ having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,-- _sir to._ o, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye! _mal._ calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown;--having come from a day-bed, where i left olivia sleeping;-- _sir to._ fire and brimstone! _fab._ o peace, peace! _mal._ and then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel of regard,--telling them, i know my place, as i would they should do theirs,--to ask for my kinsman toby:-- _sir to._ bolts and shackles! _fab._ o, peace, peace, peace! now, now. _mal._ seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: i frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. toby approaches: courtsies there to me:-- _sir to._ shall this fellow live? _fab._ though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace. _mal._ i extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control-- _sir to._ and does not toby take you a blow o' the lips then? _mal._ saying, _cousin toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech_:-- _sir to._ what, what? _mal._ _you must amend your drunkenness._ _sir to._ out, scab! _fab._ nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. _mal._ _besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight_;-- _sir and._ that's me, i warrant you. _mal._ _one sir andrew_:-- _sir and._ i knew, 'twas i; for many do call me fool. _mal._ what employment have we here? [_taking up the letter._ _fab._ now is the woodcock near the gin. _sir to._ o peace! an the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him,-- _mal._ by my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very _c's_, her _u's_, and her _t's_; and thus makes she her great _p's_. it is, in contempt of question, her hand. _sir and._ her _c's_, her _u's_, and her _t's_: why that? _mal._ [_reads._] _to the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes_: her very phrases!--by your leave, wax.--soft!--and the impressure her lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 'tis my lady: to whom should this be? [_opens the letter._] _fab._ this wins him, liver and all. _mal._ [_reads._] _jove knows, i love: but who? lips do not move, no man must know. no man must know._--if this should be thee, malvolio? _sir to._ marry, hang thee, brock! _mal._ [_reads._] _i may command, where i adore: but silence, like a lucrece knife, with bloodless stroke my heart doth gore_; m,o,a,i, _doth sway my life_. _fab._ a fustian riddle! _sir to._ excellent wench, say i. _mal._ m,o,a,i, _doth sway my life_.--nay, but first, let me see,--let me see,--let me see. _fab._ what a dish of poison has she dressed him! _sir to._ and with what wing the stanniel checks at it! _mal._ _i may command where i adore._ why, she may command me; i serve her, she is my lady. why, this is evident to any formal capacity. there is no obstruction in this:--and the end,--what should that alphabetical position portend? if i could make that resemble something in me.--softly!--m,o,a,i. _sir to._ o, ay! make up that:--he is now at a cold scent. _mal._ _m_,--malvolio;--_m_,--why, that begins my name. _fab._ i thought he would work it out: the cur is excellent at faults. _mal._ _m_,--but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: _a_ should follow, but _o_ does. _fab._ and _o_ shall end, i hope. _sir to._ ay, or i'll cudgel him, and make him cry, _o_. _mal._ and then _i_ comes behind. _fab._ ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes before you. _mal._ _m_,_o_,_a_,_i_;--this simulation is not as the former:--and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. soft; here follows prose.--[_reads. if this fall into thy hand, revolve. in my stars i am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. to enure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough, and appear fresh. be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. she thus advises thee, that sighs for thee. remember who commended thy yellow stockings; and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: i say, remember. go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's fingers. farewell. she that would alter services with thee._ _the fortunate-unhappy._ day-light and champian discovers not more: this is open. i will be proud, i will baffle sir toby, i will wash off gross acquaintance, i will be point-de-vice, the very man. i do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. she did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered:--i thank my stars, i am happy. i will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. jove, and my stars be praised!--here is yet a postscript--[_reads._] _thou canst not choose but know who i am. if thou entertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well: therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, i pr'ythee._ jove, i thank thee. i will smile; i will do every thing that thou wilt have me. [_exit_ malvolio. [_they advance from behind the trees._] _omnes._ ha! ha! ha! _fab._ i will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the sophy. _sir to._ i could marry this wench for this device. _sir and._ so could i too. _sir to._ and ask no other dowry with her, but such another jest. _sir and._ nor i neither. _fab._ here comes my noble gull-catcher. _enter_ maria. _sir to._ wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck? _sir and._ or o' mine either? _sir to._ shall i become thy bond-slave? _sir and._ or i either? _sir to._ why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him, he must run mad. _mar._ nay, but say true; does it work upon him? _sir to._ like aqua-vitæ with a midwife. _mar._ if you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt: if you will see it, follow me. [_exit_ maria. _sir to._ to the gates of tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit. _sir and._ i'll make one too. _fab._ and i. _omnes._ huzza! huzza! huzza! [_exeunt._ scene ii. _a public square._ _enter_ sebastian _and_ antonio. _seb._ i would not, by my will, have troubled you; but, since you make your pleasure of your pains, i will no further chide you. _ant._ i could not stay behind you; my desire, more sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; i fear'd besides what might befall your travel, being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, unguided, and unfriended, often prove rough and unhospitable: my willing love, the rather by these arguments of doubt, set forth in your pursuit. _seb._ my kind antonio, i can no other answer make, but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.--what is to do? shall we go see the reliques of this town? _ant._ to-morrow, sir; best, first, go see your lodging. _seb._ i am not weary, and 'tis long to night; i pray you, let us satisfy our eyes with the memorials, and the things of fame, that do renown this city. _ant._ 'would, you'd pardon me; i do not without danger walk these streets: once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst orsino's gallies, i did some service; of such note indeed, that were i ta'en here, it would scarce be answered. _seb._ do not then walk too open. _ant._ it doth not fit me.--hold, sir, here's my purse; in the south suburbs, at the elephant, is best to lodge: i will bespeak our diet, whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge, with viewing of the town; there shall you have me. _seb._ why i your purse? _ant._ haply, your eye shall light upon some toy you have desire to purchase; and your store, i think, is not for idle markets, sir. _seb._ i'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour. _ant._ to the elephant. _seb._ i do remember. [_exeunt._ scene iii. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ clown, _playing on a tabor, and_ viola. _vio._ save thee, friend, and thy music: dost thou live by thy tabor? _clo._ no, sir, i live by the church. _vio._ art thou a churchman? _clo._ no such matter, sir: i do live by the church; for i do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. _vio._ art not thou the lady olivia's fool? _clo._ no, indeed, sir; the lady olivia has no folly: she will keep no fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands, as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger; i am, indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words. _vio._ i saw thee late at the duke orsino's. _clo._ foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the sun; it shines every where. i would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master, as with my mistress: i think, i saw your wisdom there. _vio._ nay, an thou pass upon me, i'll no more with thee. hold, there's expences for thee. [_gives him money._ _clo._ now, jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! _vio._ by my troth, i'll tell thee; i am almost sick for one.--is thy lady within? _clo._ would not a pair of these have bred, sir? _vio._ yes, being kept together, and put to use. _clo._ i would play lord pandarus of phrygia, sir, to bring a cressida to this troilus. _vio._ i understand you, sir: [_gives him more money._] 'tis well begged. _clo._ my lady is within, sir. i will construe to them whence you came: who you are, and what you would, are out of my welkin: i might say, element; but the word is over-worn. [_exit_ clown. _vio._ this fellow's wise enough to play the fool; and to do that well, craves a kind of wit: he must observe their mood on whom he jests, the quality of persons, and the time; and, like the haggard, check at every feather that comes before his eye. this is a practice, as full of labour as a wise man's art. _enter_ sir toby, _and_ sir andrew. _sir to._ save you, gentleman. _vio._ and you, sir. _sir to._ my niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. _vio._ i am bound to your niece, sir: i mean, she is the list of my voyage. _sir to._ taste your legs, sir, put them to motion. _vio._ my legs do better understand me, sir, than i understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. _sir to._ i mean,--to go, sir, to enter. _vio._ i will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented. _enter_ olivia. most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! _sir and._ that youth's a rare courtier!--_rain odours!_--well. _vio._ my matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. _sir and._ _odours_, _pregnant_, and _vouchsafed_!--i'll get 'em all three ready. _oli._ leave me to my hearing. _sir and._ _odours--pregnant--vouchsafed._ [_exeunt_ sir toby _and_ sir andrew. _oli._ give me your hand, sir. _vio._ my duty, madam, and most humble service. _oli._ what is your name? _vio._ cesario is your servant's name, fair princess. _oli._ my servant, sir! 'twas never merry world, since lowly feigning was called compliment: you are servant to the duke orsino, youth. _vio._ and he is yours, and his must needs be yours; your servant's servant is your servant, madam. _oli._ for him, i think not on him: for his thoughts, 'would they were blanks, rather than filled with me! _vio._ madam, i come to whet your gentle thoughts on his behalf:-- _oli._ o, by your leave, i pray you; i bade you never speak again of him: but, would you undertake another suit, i had rather hear you to solicit that, than music from the spheres. _vio._ dear lady,---- _oli._ give me leave, i beseech you: i did send, after the last enchantment you did here, a ring in chase of you; so did i abuse myself, my servant, and, i fear me, you: under your hard construction must i sit, to force that on you, in a shameful cunning, which you knew none of yours: what might you think? have you not set mine honour at the stake, and baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts that tyrannous heart can think? to one of your receiving enough is shown; a cyprus, not a bosom, hides my poor heart: so let me hear you speak. _vio._ i pity you. _oli._ that's a degree to love. _vio._ no, not a grise; for 'tis a vulgar proof, that very oft we pity enemies. _oli._ why, then, methinks, 'tis time to smile again: o world, how apt the poor are to be proud! [_clock strikes._ the clock upbraids me with the waste of time.-- be not afraid, good youth, i will not have you: and yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, your wife is like to reap a proper man: there lies your way, due west. _vio._ then westward-hoe: grace, and good disposition 'tend your ladyship! you'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? _oli._ stay: i pr'ythee, tell me, what thou think'st of me. _vio._ that you do think, you are not what you are. _oli._ if i think so, i think the same of you. _vio._ then think you right; i am not what i am. _oli._ i would, you were as i would have you be! _vio._ would it be better, madam, than i am, i wish it might; for now i am your fool. _oli._ o, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip! cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing, i love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide. _vio._ by innocence, i swear, and by my youth. i have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, and that no woman has; nor never none shall mistress be of it, save i alone. and so adieu, good madam; never more will i my master's tears to you deplore. _oli._ yet come again: for thou, perhaps, may'st move that heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_exeunt._ scene iv. _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ sir andrew, fabian, _and_ sir toby. _sir and._ no, faith, i'll not stay a jot longer. _sir to._ thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. _fab._ you must needs yield your reason, sir andrew. _sir and._ marry, i saw your niece do more favours to the count's serving man, than ever she bestowed upon me; i saw't this moment in the garden. _sir to._ did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that. _sir and._ as plain as i see you now. _fab._ this was a great argument of love in her toward you. _sir and._ 'slight! will you make an ass o' me? _fab._ i will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. _sir to._ and they have been grand jury-men, since before noah was a sailor. _fab._ she did show favour to the youth in your sight, only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart, and brimstone in your liver: you should then have accosted her; and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have bang'd the youth into dumbness. this was look'd for at your hand, and this was baulk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady's opinion: where you will hang like an icicle on a dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. _sir and._ an it be any way, it must be with valour; for policy i hate. _sir to._ why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it: and assure thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman, than report of valour. _fab._ there is no way but this, sir andrew. _sir and._ will either of you bear me a challenge to him? _sir to._ go write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent, and full of invention: taunt him with the license of ink: if thou _thou'st_ him some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many _lies_ as will lie in thy sheet of paper; although the sheet were big enough for the bed of ware in england, set 'em down; go, about it. let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter: about it. _sir and._ where shall i find you? _sir to._ we'll call thee at the _cubiculo:_ go. [_exit_ sir andrew. _fab._ this is a dear manakin to you, sir toby. _sir to._ i have been dear to him, lad; some two thousand strong, or so. _fab._ we shall have a rare letter from him: but you'll not deliver it? _sir to._ never trust me then; and by all means stir on the youth to an answer. i think, oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. for andrew, if he were opened, and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, i'll eat the rest of the anatomy. _fab._ and his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. _sir to._ look, where the youngest wren of nine comes. _enter_ maria. _mar._ if you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me: yon gull malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. he's in yellow stockings. _sir to._ and cross-gartered? _mar._ most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' the church.--i have dogg'd him, like his murderer: he does obey every point of the letter that i dropped to betray him. he does smile his face into more lines, than are in a map: you have not seen such a thing as 'tis. _sir to._ come, bring us, bring us where he is. [_exeunt._ act the fourth. scene . _a room in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ olivia _and_ maria. _oli._ i have sent after him:--he says, he'll come. how shall i feast him? what bestow on him? i speak too loud.---- where is malvolio? _mar._ he's coming, madam; but in strange manner. he is sure possessed. _oli._ why, what's the matter? does he rave? _mar._ no, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best have guard about you, if he come; for, sure, the man is tainted in his wits. _oli._ go call him hither. [_exit_ maria. i'm as mad as he, if sad and merry madness equal be.-- _enter_ malvolio, _in yellow stockings, cross-garter'd, and_ maria. how now, malvolio? _mal._ sweet lady, ho, ho. [_smiles fantastically._ _oli._ smilest thou? i sent for thee upon a sad occasion. _mal._ sad, lady? i could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering: but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: _please one, and please all_. _oli._ why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee? _mal._ not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs.--it did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. i think, we do know the sweet roman hand. _oli._ wilt thou go to bed, malvolio? _mal._ to bed!--ay, sweet-heart; and i'll come to thee. _oli._ heaven comfort thee! why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? _mar._ how do you, malvolio? _mal._ at your request? yes; nightingales answer daws. _mar._ why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? _mal._ _be not afraid of greatness_:--'twas well writ. _oli._ what mean'st thou by that, malvolio? _mal._ _some are born great_,-- _oli._ ha? _mal._ _some achieve greatness_,-- _oli._ what say'st thou? _mal._ _ and some have greatness thrust upon them._ _oli._ heaven restore thee! _mal._ _remember who commended thy yellow stockings_;-- _oli._ thy yellow stockings? _mal_ _and wished to see thee cross-garter'd._ _oli._ cross-garter'd? _mal._ _go to: thou art made, if thou desirest to be so_;-- _oli._ am i made? _mal._ _if not, let me see thee a servant still._ _oli._ why, this is very midsummer madness. _enter_ fabian. _fab._ madam, the young gentleman of the duke orsino's is returned; i could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's pleasure. _oli._ i'll come to him. good maria, let this fellow be look'd to.--call my uncle toby. [_exit_ fabian. let some of my people have a special care of him; i would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_exeunt_ olivia _and_ maria. _mal._ oh, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than sir toby to look to me? she sends him on purpose, that i may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. i have limed her.--and, when she went away now, _let this fellow be looked to_:--fellow! not malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. why, every thing adheres together.--well, jove, not i, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. _sir to._ [_without_] which way is he, in the name of sanctity? if all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and legion himself possessed him, yet i'll speak to him. _enter_ fabian, sir toby, _and_ maria. _fab._ here he is, here he is:--how is't with you, sir? how is't with you, man? _mal._ go off, i discard you; let me enjoy my private; go off. _mar._ lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not i tell you?--sir toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. _mal._ ah, ha! does she so? _sir to._ go to, go to; we must deal gently with him. how do you, malvolio? how is't with you? what, man! defy the devil: consider, he's an enemy to mankind. _mal._ do you know what you say? _mar._ la you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! pray, heaven, he be not bewitch'd. _fab._ carry his water to the wise woman. _sir to._ pr'ythee, hold thy peace; do you not see, you move him? let me alone with him. _fab._ no way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. _sir to._ why, how now, my bawcock? how dost thou, chuck? _mal._ sir? _sir to._ ay, biddy, come with me.--what, man! 'tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with satan: hang him, foul collier! _mar._ get him to say his prayers, sir toby. _mal._ my prayers, minx? _mar._ no, i warrant you, he'll not hear of godliness. _mal._ go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things: i am not of your element; you shall know more hereafter. begone. ha! ha! ha! [_exit_ malvolio. _omnes._ ha! ha! ha! _sir to._ is't possible? _fab._ if this were played upon a stage now, i could condemn it as an improbable fiction. _sir to._ his very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. _mar._ nay, pursue him now; lest the device take air, and taint. _fab._ why, we shall make him mad, indeed. _mar._ the house will be the quieter. _sir to._ come, we'll have him in a dark room, and bound.--follow him, and let him not from thy sight. [_exit_ maria. but see, but see. _fab._ more matter for a may morning. _enter_ sir andrew, _with a letter_. _sir and._ here's the challenge, read it; i warrant, there's vinegar and pepper in't. _fab._ is't so saucy? _sir and._ ay, is it, i warrant him: do but read. _sir to._ give me.--[_reads._] _youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ _fab._ good and valiant. _sir to._ _wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why i do call thee so, for i will show thee no reason for't._ _fab._ a good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law. _sir to._ _thou comest to the lady olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat, that is not the matter i challenge thee for._ _fab._ very brief, and exceeding good sense-less. _sir to._ _i will way-lay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me_,-- _fab._ good. _sir to._ _thou killest me like a rogue and a villain._ _fab._ still you keep o' the windy side of the law: good. _sir to._ _fare thee well; and heaven have mercy upon one of our souls! he may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy_, andrew aguecheek.--if this letter move him not, his legs cannot: i'll give't him. _fab._ you may have very fit occasion for't; he is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. _sir to._ go, sir andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the garden, like a bum-bailiff; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and, as thou draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. away. _sir and._ nay, let me alone for swearing. [_exit_ sir andrew. _sir to._ now will not i deliver his letter: for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth, he will find it comes from a clodpole. but, sir, i will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon ague-cheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, (as, i know, his youth will aptly receive it,) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. this will so fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. _fab._ here he comes with your niece: give them way, till he take leave, and presently after him. _sir to._ i will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_exeunt_ sir toby _and_ fabian. _enter_ viola _and_ olivia. _oli._ i have said too much unto a heart of stone, and laid mine honour too unchary out: there's something in me, that reproves my fault; but such a headstrong potent fault it is, that it but mocks reproof. _vio._ with the same 'haviour that your passion bears, go on my master's griefs. _oli._ here, wear this jewel for me, 'tis my picture; refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you: and, i beseech you, come again to-morrow. what shall you ask of me, that i'll deny; that honour, saved, may upon asking give? _vio._ nothing but this, your true love for my master. _oli._ how with mine honour may i give him that which i have given to you? _vio._ i will acquit you. _oli._ well, come again to-morrow: fare thee well! [_exit_ olivia. _enter_ sir toby _and_ fabian. _sir to._ gentleman, heaven save thee. _vio._ and you, sir. _sir to._ that defence thou hast, betake thee to't: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, i know not; but thy intercepter, full of despight, bloody as the hunter, attends thee: dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. _vio._ you mistake, sir; i am sure, no man hath any quarrel to me; my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. _sir to._ you'll find it otherwise, i assure you: therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. _vio._ i pray you, sir, what is he? _sir to._ he is knight, dubb'd with unhack'd rapier, and on carpet consideration: but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and bodies hath he divorced three; and his incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre: hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't. _vio._ i will return, and desire some conduct of the lady. i am no fighter. _sir to._ back you shall not, unless you undertake that with me, which with as much safety you might answer him: therefore, on; or strip your sword stark naked, (for meddle you must, that's certain,) or forswear to wear iron about you. _vio._ this is as uncivil, as strange. i beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. _sir to._ i will do so. signior fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_exit_ sir toby. _vio._ 'pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? _fab._ i know, the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more. _vio._ i beseech you, what manner of man is he? _fab._ nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. he is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of illyria: will you walk towards him? i will make your peace with him, if i can. _vio._ i shall be much bound to you for't: i am one, that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight: i care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_exeunt._ scene ii. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ sir toby, _with_ sir andrew, _in a great fright_. _sir to._ why, man, he's a very devil;-- _sir and._ oh! _sir to._ i have not seen such a virago. i had a pass with him,--rapier, scabbard, and all,--and he gives me the stuck-in,---- _sir and._ oh! _sir to._ with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable: they say, he has been fencer to the sophy. _sir and._ plague on't, i'll not meddle with him. _sir to._ ay, but he will not now be pacified: fabian can scarce hold him yonder. _sir and._ plague on't; an i thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, i'd have seen him damn'd ere i had challenged him. let him let the matter slip, and i'll give him my horse, grey capilet. _sir to._ i'll make the motion: stand here, make a good show on't.--[_aside._] marry, i'll ride your horse as well as i ride you. _enter_ fabian _and_ viola. i have his horse [_to_ fabian.] to take up the quarrel; i have persuaded him, the youth's a devil. _fab._ [_to_ sir toby.] he is as horribly conceited of him; and pants, as if a bear were at his heels. _sir to._ [_to_ viola.] there's no remedy, sir; he will fight with you for his oath sake: marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests, he will not hurt you. _vio._ [_draws her sword._] pray heaven defend me!--[_aside._] a little thing would make me tell them how much i lack of a man. _fab._ [_to_ viola.] give ground, if you see him furious. _sir to._ come, sir andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake, have one bout with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it: but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. come on; to 't. _sir and._ [_draws._] pray heaven, he keep his oath! _vio._ i do assure you, 'tis against my will. [_they fight._--sir toby _and_ fabian _urge on_ sir andrew _and_ viola. _enter_ antonio, _who runs between_ sir andrew _and_ viola. _ant._ put up your sword;--if this young gentleman have done offence, i take the fault on me; if you offend him, i for him defy you. _sir to._ you, sir? why, what are you? _ant._ [_draws._] one, sir, that for his love dares yet do more than you have heard him brag to you he will. _sir to._ [_draws._] nay, if you be an undertaker, i am for you. [sir toby _and_ antonio _fight_.] [sir andrew _hides himself behind the trees_.--viola _retires a little_.] _fab._ [_parts them._] o good sir toby, hold; here come the officers. _sir to._ [_to_ antonio.] i'll be with you anon. [antonio _shows great alarm_--sir toby _sheathes his sword_.]--sir knight,--sir andrew,-- _sir and._ here i am. _sir to._ what, man!--come on. [_brings_ sir andrew _forward_.] _vio._ [_advances._] 'pray, sir, [_to_ sir andrew.] put up your sword, if you please. _sir and._ marry, will i, sir;--and, for that i promised you, i'll be as good as my word: he will bear you easily, and reins well. _enter two officers of justice._ _ off._ this is the man; do thy office. _ off._ antonio, i arrest thee at the suit of duke orsino. _ant._ you do mistake me, sir. _ off._ no, sir, no jot; i know your favour well.-- take him away; he knows, i know him well. _ant._ i must obey.--this comes with seeking you; but there's no remedy. now my necessity makes me to ask you for my purse: it grieves me much more, for what i cannot do for you, than what befalls myself. you stand amazed; but be of comfort. _ off._ come, sir, away. _ant._ i must entreat of you some of that money. _vio._ what money, sir? for the fair kindness you have showed me here, and, part, being prompted by your present trouble, out of my lean and low ability i'll lend you something: my having is not much; i'll make division of my present with you; hold, there is half my coffer. _ant._ will you deny me now? is't possible, that my deserts to you can lack persuasion? do not tempt my misery; lest that it make me so unsound a man, as to upbraid you with those kindnesses that i have done for you. _vio._ i know of none; nor know i you by voice, or any feature. _ant._ o heavens themselves! _ off._ come, sir, i pray you, go. _ant._ let me speak a little. this youth that you see here, i snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death; and to his image, which, methought, did promise most venerable worth, did i devotion. but, o, how vile an idol proves this god!-- thou hast, sebastian, done good feature shame.-- in nature there's no blemish, but the mind; none can be call'd deform'd, but the unkind: virtue is beauty; but the beauteous-evil are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil. [_exeunt_ antonio _and officers_. _sir to._ come hither, knight; come hither, fabian. [_they retire together._ _vio._ he named sebastian; i my brother know yet living in my glass; even such, and so, in favour was my brother; and he went still in this fashion, colour, ornament; for him i imitate: o, if it prove, tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_exit_ viola. [_they advance._] _sir to._ a very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare; his dishonesty appears, in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask fabian. _fab._ a coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. _sir and._ 'slid, i'll after him again, and beat him. _sir to._ do, cuff him soundly;--but never draw thy sword. _sir and._ an i do not!-- [_exeunt._ scene iii. _the street before_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ sebastian _and_ clown. _clo._ will you make me believe, that i am not sent for you? _seb._ go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow; let me be clear of thee. _clo._ well held out, i' faith! no, i do not know you; nor i am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not cesario; nor this is not my nose neither:--nothing, that is so, is so. _seb._ i pr'ythee, vent thy folly somewhere else;--thou know'st not me. _clo._ vent my folly! he has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool.--i pr'ythee, tell me what i shall vent to my lady; shall i vent to her, that thou art coming? _seb._ i pr'ythee, foolish greek, depart from me; there's money for thee; if you tarry longer, i shall give worse payment. _clo._ by my troth, thou hast an open hand:--these wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a good report after fourteen years' purchase. _enter_ sir andrew. _sir and._ now, sir, have i met you again? there's for you. [_striking_ sebastian. _seb._ [_draws his sword._] why, there's for thee, and there, and there:--are all the people mad? [_beating_ sir andrew. _enter_ sir toby _and_ fabian. _sir to._ hold, sir, or i'll throw your dagger o'er the house. _clo._ this will i tell my lady straight--i would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. [_exit_ clown. _sir to._ come on, sir; hold. [_holding_ sebastian. _sir and._ nay, let him alone. i'll go another way to work with him; i'll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in illyria: though i struck him first, yet it's no matter for that. _seb._ let go thy hand. _sir to._ come, sir, i will not let you go. come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on. _seb._ [_disengages himself._] i will be free from thee. --what would'st thou now? if thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword. _sir to._ what, what?--[_draws._]--nay, then i must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_they fight._ _enter_ olivia, _and two servants_. _fab._ hold, good sir toby, hold:--my lady here! [_exit_ fabian. _oli._ hold, toby; on thy life, i charge thee, hold. _sir to._ madam? _oli._ will it be ever thus? ungracious wretch, fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preach'd! out of my sight! be not offended, dear cesario:---- rudesby, be gone!-- _sir to._ come along, knight. [_exit_ sir toby. _oli._ and you, sir, follow him. _sir and._ oh, oh!--sir toby,-- [_exit_ sir andrew. _oli._ i pr'ythee, gentle friend, let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway in this uncivil and unjust extent against thy peace. go with me to my house; and hear thou there how many fruitless pranks this ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby may'st smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go; do not deny. _seb._ what relish is in this? how runs the stream? or i am mad, or else this is a dream:-- let fancy still my sense in lethe steep; if it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! _oli._ nay, come, i pr'ythee: 'would thou'dst be ruled by me! _seb._ madam, i will. _oli._ o, say so, and so be! [_exeunt._ scene iv. _a gallery in_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ maria, _with a black gown and hood, and_ clown. _mar._ nay, i pr'ythee, put on this gown and hood; make him believe, thou art sir topas the curate; do it quickly: i'll call sir toby the whilst. [_exit_ maria. _clo._ well, i'll put it on, and i will dissemble myself in't; and i would i were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. _enter_ sir toby _and_ maria. _sir to._ jove bless thee, master parson. _clo._ _bonos dies_, sir toby: for as the old hermit of prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of king gorboduc, _that, that is, is_; so i, being master parson, am master parson: for what is that, but that? and is, but is? _sir to._ to him, sir topas. _clo._ [_opens the door of an inner room_] what, hoa, i say,--peace in this prison! _sir to._ the knave counterfeits well; a good knave. _mal._ [_in the inner room._] who calls there? _clo._ sir topas, the curate, who comes to visit malvolio the lunatic. _mal._ sir topas, sir topas, good sir topas, go to my lady. _clo._ out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of ladies? _sir to._ well said, master parson. _mal._ sir topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good sir topas, do not think i am mad; they have bound me, hand and foot, and laid me here in hideous darkness. _clo._ say'st thou, that house is dark? _mal._ as hell, sir topas. _clo._ madman, thou errest: i say, there is no darkness, but ignorance; in which thou art more puzzled, than the egyptians in their fog. _mal._ i say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and i say, there was never man thus abused: i am no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant question. _clo._ what is the opinion of pythagoras concerning wild-fowl? _mal._ that the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. _clo._ what thinkest thou of his opinion? _mal._ i think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. _clo._ fare thee well: remain thou still in darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of pythagoras, ere i will allow of thy wits; and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. fare thee well. _mal._ sir topas, sir topas,-- _sir to._ my most exquisite sir topas,-- _clo._ nay, i am for all waters. [_takes off the gown and hood, and gives them to_ maria.] _mar._ thou might'st have done this without thy hood and gown; he sees thee not. _sir to._ to him in thine own voice, and bring us word how thou find'st him: come by and by to my chamber. [_exeunt_ sir toby _and_ maria. _clo._ [_sings._] _hey robin, jolly robin, tell me how thy lady does._ _mal._ fool,--fool,--good fool,-- _clo._ who calls, ha? _mal._ as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as i am a gentleman, i will live to be thankful to thee for't. _clo._ master malvolio! _mal_. ay, good fool. _clo._ alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? _mal._ fool, there was never man so notoriously abused: i am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. _clo._ but as well! then you are mad, indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. _mal._ good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what i will set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. _clo._ i will help you to't. but tell me true, are you not mad, indeed? or do you but counterfeit? _mal._ believe me, i am not: i tell thee true. _clo._ nay, i'll ne'er believe a madman, till i see his brains. i will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. _mal._ fool, i'll requite it in the highest degree. i pr'ythee, be gone. _clo._ [_shuts the door of the inner room, and sings._] _i am gone, sir, and anon, sir, i'll be with you again, &c._ [_exit._ scene v. olivia's _garden_. _enter_ sebastian. _seb._ this is the air; that is the glorious sun; this pearl she gave me, i do feel't, and see't: and though 'tis wonder that enwraps me thus, yet 'tis not madness. where's antonio then? i could not find him at the elephant; his counsel now might do me golden service: for though my soul disputes well with my sense, that this may be some error, but no madness, yet doth this accident and flood of fortune so far exceed all instance, all discourse, that i am ready to distrust mine eyes, and wrangle with my reason, that persuades me to any other trust, but that i am mad, or else the lady's mad.--but here she comes. _enter_ olivia, _and a_ friar. _oli._ blame not this haste of mine:--if you mean well, now go with me, and with this holy man, into the chantry by: there, before him, and underneath that consecrated roof, plight me the full assurance of your faith; that my most jealous and too doubtful soul may live at peace: he shall conceal it, whiles you are willing it shall come to note; what time we will our celebration keep according to my birth.--what do you say? _seb._ i'll follow this good man, and go with you; and, having sworn truth, ever will be true. _oli._ then lead the way, good father: [_exit_ friar. and heavens so shine, that they may fairly note this act of mine! [_exeunt._ act the fifth. scene i. _the street before_ olivia's _house_. _enter_ clown _and_ fabian. _fab._ now, as thou lovest me, let me see his letter. _clo._ good master fabian, grant me another request. _fab._ any thing. _clo._ do not desire to see this letter. _fab._ that is, to give a dog, and, in recompense, desire my dog again.--the duke orsino. [_exit_ fabian. _enter_ duke, viola, _and two gentlemen_. _duke._ belong you to the lady olivia, friend?--i know thee well: how dost thou, my good fellow? _clo._ truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends. _duke._ just the contrary; the better for thy friends. _clo._ no, sir, the worse. _duke._ how can that be? _clo._ marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me; now my foes tell me plainly, i am an ass; so that by my foes, sir, i profit in the knowledge of myself; and by my friends i am abused: so that, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why, then the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes. _duke._ why, this is excellent. _clo._ by my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends. _duke._ thou shalt not be the worse for me; there's gold. _clo._ but that it would be double-dealing, sir, i would you could make it another. _duke._ o, you give me ill counsel. _clo._ put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. _duke._ well, i will be so much a sinner to be a double dealer; there's another. _clo._ _primo_, _secundo_,--_tertio_, is a good play; and the old saying is, the third pays for all. _duke._ you can fool no more money out of me at this throw: if you will let your lady know, i am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further. _clo._ marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty, till i come again: as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, i will awake it anon. [_exit_ clown. _vio._ here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. _duke._ that face of his i do remember well; yet, when i saw it last, it was besmear'd as black as vulcan, in the smoke of war: a bawbling vessel was he captain of, for shallow draught, and bulk, unprizable: with which such scathful grapple did he make with the most noble bottom of our fleet, that very envy, and the tongue of loss, cried fame and honour on him.-- _enter_ antonio _and officers_. what's the matter? _ off._ this, please you, sir, is that antonio, that took the phoenix, and her fraught, from candy; and this is he, that did the tiger board, when your young nephew titus lost his leg: here in the streets, desperate of shame, and state, in private brabble did we apprehend him. _vio._ he did me kindness, sir; drew on my side; but, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me, i know not what 'twas, but distraction. _duke._ notable pirate! thou salt-water thief! what foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so dear, hast made thine enemies? _ant._ orsino, noble sir, be pleased that i shake off these names you give me; antonio never yet was thief, or pirate, though, i confess, on base and ground enough, orsino's enemy. a witchcraft drew me hither: that most ingrateful boy there, by your side, from the rude sea's enraged and foamy mouth did i redeem; a wreck past hope he was: his life i gave him, and for his sake too, did i expose myself into the danger of this adverse town: drew to defend him, when he was beset; where being apprehended, his false cunning, (not meaning to partake with me in danger,) taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, and grew a twenty-years removed thing, while one would wink; denied me mine own purse, which i had recommended to his use not half an hour before. _vio._ how can this be? _duke._ when came he to this town? _ant._ to-day, my lord; and for three months before, (no interim, not a minute's vacancy,) both day and night did we keep company. _duke._ here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.---- but for thee; fellow, fellow, thy words are madness: but more of that anon.----take him aside. [antonio _and officers retire a little_. _enter_ olivia _and two servants_. _oli._ what would my lord, but that he may not have, wherein olivia may seem serviceable?-- cesario, you do not keep promise with me. _vio._ madam? _duke._ gracious olivia,---- _oli._ what do you say, cesario? _vio._ my lord would speak; my duty hushes me. _oli._ if it be aught to the old tune, my lord, it is as harsh and fulsome to mine ear, as howling after music. _duke._ still so cruel? _oli._ still so constant, lord. _duke._ what! to perverseness? you uncivil lady, to whose ingrate and unauspicious altars my soul the faithfull'st offerings hath breathed out, that e'er devotion tender'd! what shall i do? _oli._ even what it please my lord, that shall become him. _duke._ why should i not, had i the heart to do it, like to the egyptian thief, at point of death, kill what i love? but hear me this: live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still; but this your minion, whom, i see, you love, and whom, by heaven i swear, i tender dearly, him will i tear out of that cruel eye, where he sits crowned in his master's spite.-- come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief. i'll sacrifice the lamb that i do love, to spite a raven's heart within a dove. [_exeunt_ duke _and gentlemen_. _vio._ and i, most jocund, apt, and willingly, to do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. [_going._ _oli._ where goes cesario? _vio._ after him i love, more than i love these eyes, more than my life; if i do feign, you witnesses above, punish my life, for tainting of my love! _oli._ ah me, forsaken! how am i beguiled! _vio._ who does beguile you? who does do you wrong? _oli._ hast thou forgot thyself? is it so long?-- call forth the holy father. [_exeunt two servants._ _enter_ duke. _duke._ [_to_ viola.] come away. _oli._ whither, my lord?--cesario, husband, stay. _duke._ husband? _oli._ ay, husband: can he that deny? _duke._ her husband, sirrah? _vio._ no, my lord, not i. _oli._ fear not, cesario, take thy fortunes up; be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st. _enter_ friar _and two servants_. o, welcome, father!-- father, i charge thee, by thy reverence, here to unfold (though lately we intended to keep in darkness, what occasion now reveals before 'tis ripe,) what thou dost know, hath newly past between this youth and me. _friar._ a contract of eternal bond of love, confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings; and all the ceremony seal'd in my function, by my testimony: since when, toward my grave i have travell'd but two hours. _duke._ o, thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be, when time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case? farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet, where thou and i henceforth may never meet. _vio._ my lord, i do protest,-- _oli._ o, do not swear; hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear. [olivia _sends away the friar_. _enter_ sir andrew, _crying, with his head broke_. _sir and._ o, o,--for the love of heaven, a surgeon; send one presently to sir toby. _oli._ what's the matter? _sir and._ he has broke my head across, and has given sir toby a bloody coxcomb too: for the love of heaven, your help: i had rather than forty pound i were at home. _oli._ who has done this, sir andrew? _sir and._ the count's gentleman, one cesario: we took him for a coward, but he's the very devil incardinate. _duke._ my gentleman, cesario? _sir and._ od's lifelings, here he is:--you broke my head for nothing; and that that i did, i was set on to do't by sir toby. _vio._ why do you speak to me? i never hurt you: you drew your sword upon me, without cause; but i bespake you fair, and hurt you not. _sir and._ if a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me: i think, you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. _sir to._ [_without._] holla, sir andrew,--where are you? _sir and._ here comes sir toby halting, you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled your toby for you. _enter_ sir toby, _drunk, with his forehead bleeding_. _duke._ how now, gentleman? how is't with you? _sir to._ that's all one; he has hurt me, and there's the end on't.--sot, did'st see dick surgeon, sot? _sir and._ o, he's drunk, sir toby, an hour agone. _sir to._ then he's a rogue, a drunken rogue,--and i hate a drunken rogue. [_enter_ sebastian _behind_. _oli._ away with him: who hath made this havock with them? _sir and._ i'll help you, sir toby, because we'll be dress'd together. _sir to._ will you help an ass head, and a coxcomb, and a knave? a thin-faced knave, a gull! _oli._ get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to. [_exeunt_ sir andrew, sir toby, _and servants_. _seb._ [_advances_] i am sorry, madam, i have hurt your kinsman; but, had it been the brother of my blood, i must have done no less, with wit, and safety. [antonio, _seeing_ sebastian, _comes forward_. you throw a strange regard upon me, and by that i do perceive it hath offended you; pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows we made each other but so late ago. _duke._ one face, one voice, one habit, and two persons; a natural perspective, that is, and is not. _seb._ antonio, o my dear antonio! how have the hours rack'd and tortured me. since i have lost thee. _ant._ sebastian are you? _seb._ fear'st thou that, antonio? _ant._ how have you made division of yourself?-- an apple, cleft in two, is not more twin than these two creatures. which is sebastian? _seb._ [_sees_ viola.] do i stand there? i never had a brother: i had a sister, whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd:-- of charity, [_to_ viola.] what kin are you to me? what countryman? what name? what parentage? _vio._ of messaline: sebastian was my father; such a sebastian was my brother too, so went he suited to his watery tomb: if spirits can assume both form and suit, you come to fright us. _seb._ were you a woman, as the rest goes even, i should my tears let fall upon your cheek, and say--thrice welcome, drowned viola! _vio._ if nothing lets to make us happy both, but this my masculine usurp'd attire, away with doubt:--each other circumstance of place, time, fortune, doth cohere, and jump, that i am viola,--your sister viola. [_they embrace._ _seb._ [_to_ olivia.] so comes it, lady, you have been mistook. _duke._ if this be so, as yet the glass seems true, i shall have share in this most happy wreck:-- boy, [_to_ viola.] thou hast said to me a thousand times, thou never should'st love woman like to me. _vio._ and all those sayings will i over-swear; and all those swearings keep as true in soul, as doth that orbed continent the fire that severs day from night. _duke._ give me thy hand; and let me see thee in thy woman's weeds. _vio._ the captain, that did bring me first on shore, hath my maid's garments: he, upon some action, is now in durance; at malvolio's suit, a gentleman, and follower of my lady's. _oli._ he shall enlarge him:--fetch malvolio hither:-- and yet, alas, now i remember me, they say, poor gentleman, he's much distract. _enter_ clown, _with a letter, and_ fabian. how does malvolio, sirrah? _clo._ truly, madam, he holds belzebub at the stave's end, as well as a man in his case may do: he has here writ a letter to you: i should have given it you to-day morning; but as a madman's epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much, when they are deliver'd. _oli._ open it, and read it. _clo._ look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman: [_reads._] _by the lord, madam_,-- _oli._ how now! art thou mad? _clo._ no, madam, i do but read madness. _oli._ [_to_ fabian.] read it you, sirrah. _fab._ [reads.] _by the lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it: though you have put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have i the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. i have your own letter that induced me to the semblance i put on; with the which i doubt not but to do myself much right, or you much shame. think of me as you please. i leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury._ _the madly-used_ malvolio. _oli._ did he write this? _clo._ ay, madam. _duke._ this savours not much of distraction. _oli._ see him deliver'd, fabian; bring him hither. [_exit_ fabian. my lord, so please you, these things further thought on, to think me as well a sister as a wife, one day shall crown the alliance on't, so please you, here at my house. _duke._ madam, i am most apt to embrace your offer.-- your master quits you; [_to_ viola.] and, for your service done him, here is my hand; you shall from this time be your master's mistress. _enter_ malvolio, _with a letter, and_ fabian. _duke._ is this the madman? _oli._ ay, my lord, this same: how now, malvolio? _mal._ madam, you have done me wrong, notorious wrong. _oli._ have i, malvolio? no. _mal._ lady, you have. pray you peruse that letter: [_gives_ olivia _the letter_. you must not now deny it is your hand;-- (write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase;)-- or, say, 'tis not your seal, nor your invention. _oli._ alas, malvolio, this is not my writing; though, i confess, much like the character: but, out of question, 'tis maria's hand:-- and now i do bethink me, it was she first told me, thou wast mad:-- pr'ythee, be content: this practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee: but, when we know the grounds and authors of it, thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause. _fab._ good madam, hear me speak: i do confess, sir toby, and myself, set this device against malvolio here, upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts we had conceived against him: maria writ the letter, at sir toby's great importance; in recompense whereof, he hath married her: how with a sportful malice it was follow'd, may rather pluck on laughter than revenge; if that the injuries be justly weigh'd, that have on both sides pass'd. _oli._ alas, poor fool! how have they baffled thee! _fab._ malvolio!-- _clo._ why,--_some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them_--i was one, sir, in this interlude; one sir topas, sir:--_by the lord fool, i am not mad_:--but do you remember? _madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile not, he's gagg'd_:--and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.--ha, ha, ha! _fab._ ha, ha, ha!-- _mal._ i'll be revenged on the whole pack of you. [_exit_ malvolio. _oli._ he hath been most notoriously abused. pursue him, and entreat him to a peace. [_exit_ fabian. _duke._ he hath not told us of the captain yet; when that is known, and golden time convents, a solemn combination shall be made of our dear souls:--meantime, sweet sister, we will not part from hence--go, officers; we do discharge you of your prisoner. [_exeunt officers._ antonio, thou hast well deserved our thanks: thy kind protection of cesario's person, (although thou knew'st not then for whom thou fought'st,) merits our favour: henceforth, be forgotten all cause of anger: thou hast a noble spirit, and as sebastian's friend be ever near him.-- cesario, come; for so you shall be, while you are a man; but, when in other habits you are seen, orsino's mistress, and his fancy's queen. _the clown sings._ _when that i was and a little tiny boy, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, a foolish thing was but a toy; for the rain it raineth every day._ _but when i came to man's estate, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, 'gainst knave and thief men shut their gate; for the rain it raineth every day._ _but when i came, alas! to wive, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, by swaggering could i never thrive; for the rain it raineth every day._ _but when i came unto my bed, with hey, ho, the wind, and the rain, with toss pots still had drunken head; for the rain it raineth every day._ _a great while ago the world begun, with hey, ho, the wind and the rain, but that's all one, our play is done, and we'll strive to please you every day._ [exeunt. the end. transcriber notes: passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. small caps were replaced with all caps. throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe". the character tags were italizied, even when before italizied text. throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors and inconsistencies in punctuations and spelling were not corrected unless otherwise noted. on page , a comma after vio was replaced with a period. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id= dcpaaaaqaaj _the datchet diamonds_ [illustration: "shall i shoot all three of you?" page . _frontispiece_.] the datchet diamonds by richard marsh author of "the crime and the criminal," "philip bennion's death," "the beetle," etc., etc. _illustrated by stanley l. wood_ london ward, lock & co., limited warwick house, salisbury square, e.c. new york and melbourne unwin brothers, the gresham press, woking and london. contents chapter i. two men and a maid. chapter ii. overheard in the train. chapter iii. the diamonds. chapter iv. miss wentworth's rudeness. chapter v. in the bodega. chapter vi. the adventures of a night. chapter vii. the datchet diamonds are placed in safe custody. chapter viii. in the moment of his success. chapter ix. a proposal of marriage. chapter x. cyril's friend. chapter xi. john ireland's warrant. chapter xii. a woman roused. chapter xiii. the detective and the lady. chapter xiv. among thieves. chapter xv. put to the question. chapter xvi. a modern instance of an ancient practice. chapter xvii. the most dangerous foe of all. chapter xviii. the last of the datchet diamonds. chapter xix. a woman's logic. chapter i two men and a maid the band struck up a waltz. it chanced to be the one which they had last danced together at the dome. how well he had danced, and how guilty she had felt! conscious of what almost amounted to a sense of impropriety! charlie had taken her; it was charlie who had made her go--but then, in some eyes, miss wentworth might not have been regarded as the most unimpeachable of chaperons. that cyril, for instance, would have had strong opinions of his own upon that point, miss strong was well aware. while miss strong listened, thinking of the last time she had heard that waltz, the man with whom she had danced it stood, all at once, in front of her. she had half expected that it would be so--half had feared it. it was not the first time they had encountered each other on the pier; miss strong had already begun to more than suspect that the chance of encountering her was the magnet which drew mr. lawrence through the turnstiles. she did not wish to meet him; she assured herself that she did not wish to meet him. but, on the other hand, she did not wish to go out of her way so as to seem to run away from him. the acquaintance had begun on the top of the devil's dyke in the middle of a shower of rain. miss strong, feeling in want of occupation, and, to speak the truth, a little in the blues, had gone, on an unpromising afternoon in april, on the spur of the moment, and in something like a temper, on a solitary excursion to the devil's dyke. on the downs the wind blew great guns. she could hardly stand against it. yet it did her good, for it suited her mood. she struggled on over the slopes, past poynings, when, suddenly--she, in her abstraction, having paid no heed to the weather, and expecting nothing of the kind--it came down a perfect deluge of rain. she had a walking-stick, but neither mackintosh nor umbrella. there seemed every likelihood of her having to return like a drowned rat to brighton, when, with the appropriateness of a fairy tale, some one came rushing to her with an umbrella in his hand. she could hardly refuse the proffered shelter, and the consequence was that the owner of the umbrella escorted her first to the hotel, then to the station, and afterwards to brighton. nor, after such services had been rendered, when they parted at the station did she think it necessary to inform him that, not under any circumstances, was he to notice her again; besides, from what she had seen of him, she rather liked the man. so, when, two days afterwards, he stopped her on the pier to ask if she had suffered any ill-effects from her exposure, it took her some five-and-twenty minutes to explain that she had not. there were other meetings, mostly on the pier; and then, as a climax, that masonic ball at the dome. she danced with him five times! she felt all the time that she ought not; she knew that she would not have done it if cyril had been there. miss wentworth, introduced by miss strong, danced with him twice, and when asked by miss strong if she thought that she--miss strong--ought to have three dances with him miss wentworth declared that she did not see why, if she liked, she should not have thirty. so miss strong had five--which shows that miss wentworth's notions of the duties of a chaperon were vague. and now the band was striking up that identical waltz; and there was mr. lawrence standing in front of the lady with whom he had danced it. "i believe that that was ours, miss strong," he said. "i think it was." he was holding her hand in his, and looking at her with something in his eyes which there and then she told herself would never do. they threaded their way through the crowd of people towards the head of the pier, saying little, which was worse than saying much. although charlie had been working, miss strong wished she had stayed at home with her; it would have been better than this. a sense of pending peril made her positively nervous; she wanted to get away from her companion, and yet for the moment she did not see her way to do it. beyond doubt mr. lawrence was not a man in whose favour nothing could be said. he was of medium height, had a good figure, and held himself well. he was very fair, with a slight moustache, and a mouth which was firm and resolute. his eyes were blue--a light, bright blue--beautiful eyes they were, but scarcely of the kind which could correctly be described as sympathetic. his complexion was almost like a girl's, it was so pink and white; he seemed the picture of health. his manners were peculiarly gentle. he moved noiselessly, without any appearance of exertion. his voice, though soft, was of so penetrating a quality and so completely under control that, without betraying by any movement of his lips the fact that he was speaking, he could make his faintest whisper audible in a way which was quite uncanny. whatever his dress might be, on him it always seemed unobtrusive; indeed, the strangest thing about the man was that, while he always seemed to be the most retiring of human beings, in reality he was one of the most difficult to be rid of, as miss strong was finding now. more than once, just as she was about to give him his dismissal, he managed to prevent her doing so in a manner which, while she found it impossible to resent it, was not by any means to her taste. finally, finding it difficult to be rid of him in any other way, and being, for some reason which she would herself have found it difficult to put into words, unusually anxious to be freed from his companionship, she resolved, in desperation, to leave the pier. she acquainted him with her determination to be off, and then, immediately afterwards, not a little to her surprise and a good deal to her disgust, she found herself walking towards the pier-gates with him at her side. miss strong's wish had been to part from him there and then; but again he had managed to prevent the actual expression of her wish, and it seemed plain that she was still to be saddled with his society, at any rate, as far as the gates. before they had gone half-way down the pier miss strong had cause to regret that she had not shown a trifle more firmness, for she saw advancing towards her a figure which, at the instant, she almost felt that she knew too well. it was cyril paxton. the worst of it was that she was not clear in her own mind as to what it would be best for her to do--the relations between herself and mr. paxton were of so curious a character. she saw that mr. paxton's recognition of her had not been so rapid as hers had been of him; at first she thought that she was going to pass him unperceived. in that case she would go a few steps farther with mr. lawrence, dismiss him, return, and discover herself to cyril at her leisure. but it was not to be. mr. paxton, glancing about him from side to side of the pier, observed her on a sudden--and he observed mr. lawrence too; on which trivial accident hinges the whole of this strange history. miss strong knew that she was seen. she saw that mr. paxton was coming to her. her heart began to beat. in another second or two he was standing in front of her with uplifted hat, wearing a not very promising expression of countenance. "where's charlie?" was his greeting. the lady was aware that the question in itself conveyed a reproach, though she endeavoured to feign innocence. "charlie's at home; i couldn't induce her to come out. her 'copy' for _fashion_ has to be ready by the morning; she says she's behind, so she stayed at home to finish it." "oh!" that was all that mr. paxton said, but the look with which he favoured mr. lawrence conveyed a very vivid note of interrogation. "cyril," explained miss strong, "this is mr. lawrence. mr. lawrence, this is mr. paxton; and i am afraid you must excuse me." mr. lawrence did excuse her. she and mr paxton returned together up the pier; he, directly mr. lawrence was out of hearing, putting to her the question which, though she dreaded, she knew was inevitable. "who's that?" "that is mr. lawrence." "yes, you told me so much already; who is mr. lawrence?" as she walked miss strong, looking down, tapped with the ferrule of her umbrella on the boards. "oh! he's a sort of acquaintance." "you have not been long in brighton, then, without making acquaintance?" "cyril! i have been here more than a month. surely a girl can make an acquaintance in that time?" "it depends, i fancy, on the girl, and on the circumstances in which she is placed. what is mr. lawrence?" "i have not the faintest notion. i have a sort of general idea that, like yourself, he is something in the city. it seems to me that nowadays most men are." "who introduced him?" "a shower of rain." "an excellent guarantor of the man's eligibility, though, even for the average girl, one would scarcely have supposed that that would have been a sufficient introduction." miss strong flushed. "you have no right to talk to me like that. i did not know that you were coming to brighton, or i would have met you at the station." "i knew that i should meet you on the pier." the lady stood still. "what do you mean by that?" the gentleman, confronting her, returned her glance for glance. "i mean what i say. i knew that i should meet you on the pier--and i have." the lady walked on again; whatever she might think of mr. paxton's inference, his actual statement was undeniable. "you don't seem in the best of tempera, cyril. how is mr. franklyn?" "he was all right when i saw him last--a good deal better than i was or than i am." "what is the matter with you? are you ill?" "matter!" mr. paxton's tone was bitter. "what is likely to be the matter with the man who, after having had the luck which i have been having lately, to crown it all finds the woman he loves philandering with a stranger--the acquaintance of a shower of rain--on brighton pier." "you have no right to speak to me like that--not the slightest! i am perfectly free to do as i please, as you are. and, without condescending to dispute your inferences--though, as you very well know, they are quite unjust!--any attempt at criticism on your part will be resented by me in a manner which you may find unpleasant." a pause followed the lady's words, which the gentleman did not seem altogether to relish. "still the fact remains that i do love you better than anything else in the world." "surely if that were so, cyril, at this time of day you and i would not be situated as we are." "by which you mean?" "if you felt for me what you are always protesting that you feel, surely sometimes you would have done as i wished." "which being interpreted is equivalent to saying that i should have put my money into goschens, and entered an office at a salary of a pound a week." "if you had done so you would at any rate still have your money, and also, possibly, the prospect of a career." they had reached the end of the pier, and were leaning over the side, looking towards the worthing lights. miss strong's words were followed by an interval of silence. when the gentleman spoke again, in his voice there was the suspicion of a tremor. "daisy, don't be hard on me." "i don't wish to be hard. it was you who began by being hard on me." he seemed to pay no heed to her speech, continuing on a line of his own-- "especially just now!" she glanced at him. "why especially just now?" "well----" he stopped. the tremor in his voice became more pronounced. "because i'm going for the gloves." if the light had been clearer he might have seen that her face assumed a sudden tinge of pallor. "what do you mean by you're going for the gloves?" "i mean that probably by this time tomorrow i shall have either won you or lost you for ever." "cyril!" there was a catching in her breath. "i hope you are going to do nothing--wild." "it depends upon the point of view." he turned to her with sudden passion. "i'm sick of things as they are--sick to death! i've made up my mind to know either the best or the worst." "how do you propose to arrive at that state of knowledge?" "i've gone a bull on eries--a big bull. so big a bull that if they fall one i'm done." "how done?" "i shall be done, because it will be for reasons, good, strong, solid reasons, the last deal i shall ever make on the london stock exchange." there was silence. then she spoke again-- "you will lose. you always do lose!" "thanks." "it will be almost better for you that you should lose. i am beginning to believe, cyril, that you never will do any good till you have touched bottom, till you have lost all that you possibly can lose." "thank you, again." she drew herself up, drawing herself away from the railing against which she had been leaning. she gave a gesture which was suggestive of weariness. "i too am tired. this uncertainty is more than i can stand; you are so unstable, cyril. your ideas and mine on some points are wide apart. it seems to me that if a girl is worth winning, she is worth working for. as a profession for a man, i don't think that what you call 'punting' on the stock exchange is much better than pitch-and-toss." "well?" the word was an interrogation. she had paused. "it appears to me that the girl who marries a man who does nothing else but 'punt' is preparing for herself a long line of disappointments. think how many times you have disappointed me. think of the fortunes you were to have made. think, cyril, of the trumpit gold mine--what great things were to come of that!" "i am quite aware that i did invest every penny i could beg, borrow, or steal in the trumpit gold mine, and that at present i am the fortunate possessor of a trunkful of shares which are not worth a shilling a-piece. the reminder is a pleasant one. proceed--you seem wound up to go." her voice assumed a new touch of sharpness. "the long and the short of it is, cyril--it is better that we should understand each other!--if your present speculation turns out as disastrously as all your others have done, and it leaves you worse off than ever, the relations, such as they are, which exist between us must cease. we must be as strangers!" "which means that you don't care for me the value of a brass-headed pin." "it means nothing of the kind, as you are well aware. it simply means that i decline to link my life with a man who appears incapable of keeping his own head above water. because he insists on drowning himself, why should i allow him to drown me too?" "i observe that you take the commercial, up-to-date view of marriage." "what view do you take? are you nearer to being able to marry me than ever you were? are you not farther off? you have no regular income--and how many entanglements? what do you propose that we should live on--on the hundred and twenty pounds a year which mother left me?" there came a considerable silence. he had not moved from the position he had taken up against the railing, and still looked across the waveless sea towards the glimmering lights of worthing. when he did speak his tones were cold, and clear, and measured--perhaps the coldness was assumed to hide a warmer something underneath. "your methods are a little rough, but perhaps they are none the worse on that account. as you say so shall it be. win or lose, to-morrow evening i will meet you again upon the pier--that is, if you will come." "you know i'll come!" "if i lose it will be to say goodbye. next week i emigrate." she was still, so he went on-- "now, if you don't mind, i'll see you to the end of the pier, and say goodbye until tomorrow. i'll get something to eat and hurry back to town." "won't you come and see charlie?" "thank you, i don't think i will. miss wentworth has not a sufficiently good opinion of me to care if i do or don't. make her my excuses." another pause. then she said, in a tone which was hardly above a whisper-- "cyril, i do hope you'll win." he stood, and turned, and faced her. "do you really mean that, daisy?" "you know that i do." "then, if you really hope that i shall win--the double event!--as an earnest of your hopes--there is no one looking!--kiss me." she did as he bade her. chapter ii overheard in the train it was with a feeling of grim amusement that mr. paxton bought himself a first-class ticket. it was, probably, the last occasion on which he would ride first-class for some considerable time to come. the die had fallen; the game was lost--eries had dropped more than one. not only had he lost all he had to lose, he was a defaulter. it was out of his power to settle, he was going to emigrate instead. he had with him a gladstone bag; it contained all his worldly possessions that he proposed to take with him on his travels. his intention was, having told miss strong the news, and having bidden a last farewell, to go straight from brighton to southampton, and thence, by the american line, to the continent on whose shores europe dumps so many of its failures. the train was later than are the trains which are popular with city men. it seemed almost empty at london bridge. mr. paxton had a compartment to himself. he had an evening paper with him. he turned to the money article. eries had closed a point lower even than he had supposed. it did not matter. a point lower, more or less, would make no difference to him--the difference would be to the brokers who had trusted him. wishing to do anything but think, he looked to see what other news the paper might contain. some sensational headlines caught his eye. "robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds! "an extraordinary tale." the announcement amused him. "after all that is the sort of line which i ought to have made my own--robbing pure and simple. it's more profitable than what daisy says that i call 'punting.'" he read on. the tale was told in the usual sensational style, though the telling could scarcely have been more sensational than the tale which was told. that afternoon, it appeared, an amazing robbery had taken place--amazing, first, because of the almost incredible value of what had been stolen; and, second, because of the daring fashion in which the deed had been done. in spite of the desperate nature of his own position--or, perhaps, because of it--mr. paxton drank in the story with avidity. the duchess of datchet, the young, and, if report was true, the beautiful wife of one of england's greatest and richest noblemen, had been on a visit to the queen at windsor--the honoured guest of the sovereign. as a fitting mark of the occasion, and in order to appear before her majesty in the splendours which so well became her, the duchess had taken with her the famous datchet diamonds. as all the world knows the dukes of datchet have been collectors of diamonds during, at any rate, the last two centuries. the value of their collection is fabulous--the intrinsic value of the stones which the duchess had taken with her on that memorable journey, according to the paper, was at least £ , --a quarter of a million of money! this was the net value--indeed, it seemed that one might almost say it was the trade value, and was quite apart from any adventitious value which they might possess, from, for instance, the point of view of historical association. mr. paxton drew a long breath as he read: "two hundred and fifty thousand pounds--a quarter of a million! i am not at all sure that i should not have liked to have had a finger in such a pie as that. it would be better than punting at eries." the diamonds, it seemed, arrived all right at windsor, and the duchess too. the visit passed off with due _éclat_. it was as her grace was returning that the deed was done, though how it was done was, as yet, a profound mystery. "of course," commented mr. paxton to himself, "all criminal london knew what she had taken with her. the betting is that they never lost sight of those diamonds from first to last; to adequately safeguard them she ought to have taken with her a regiment of soldiers." although she had not gone so far as a regiment of soldiers, that precaution had been taken--and precautions, moreover, which had been found to be adequate, over and over again, on previous occasions--was sufficiently plain. the duchess had travelled in a reserved saloon carriage by the five minutes past four train from windsor to paddington. she had been accompanied by two servants, her maid, and a man-servant named stephen eversleigh. eversleigh was one of a family of servants the members of which had been in the employment of the dukes of datchet for generations. it was he who was in charge of the diamonds. they were in a leather despatch-box. the duchess placed them in it with her own hand, locked the box, and retained the key in her own possession. eversleigh carried the box from the duchess's apartment in the castle to the carriage which conveyed her to the railway station. he placed it on the seat in front of her. he himself sat outside with the maid. when the carriage reached the station he carried it to the duchess's saloon. the duchess was the sole occupant of the saloon. she travelled with the despatch-box in front of her all the way to london. the duke met her at paddington. eversleigh again placed the box on the front seat of the carriage, the duke and duchess, sitting side by side, having it in full view as the brougham passed through the london streets. the diamonds, when not in actual use, were always kept, for safe custody, at bartlett's bank. the confidential agent of the bank was awaiting their arrival when the brougham reached the ducal mansion in grosvenor square. the despatch-box was taken straight to him, and, more for form's sake than anything else, was opened by the duchess in his presence, so that he might see that it really did contain the diamonds before he gave the usual receipt. it was as well for the bank's sake that on that occasion the form was observed. when the box was opened, it was empty! there was nothing of any sort to show that the diamonds had ever been in it--they had vanished into air! when he had reached this point mr. paxton put the paper down. he laughed. "that's a teaser. the position seems to promise a pleasing problem for one of those masters of the art of detection who have been cutting such antics lately in popular fiction. if i were appointed to ferret out the mystery, i fancy that i should begin by wanting to know a few things about her grace the duchess. i wonder what happened to that despatch-box while she and it were _tête-à-tête?_ it is to be hoped that she possesses her husband's entire confidence, otherwise it is just possible that she is in for a rare old time of it." the newspaper had little more to tell. there were the usual attempts to fill a column with a paragraph; the stereotyped statements about the clues which the police were supposed to be following up, but all that they amounted to was this: that the duchess asserted that she had placed the diamonds in the despatch-box at windsor castle, and that, as a matter of plain fact, they were not in it when the box reached grosvenor square. mr. paxton leaned back in his seat, thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, and mused. "what lucky beggars those thieves must be! what wouldn't any one do for a quarter of a million--what wouldn't i? even supposing that the value of the stones is over-stated, and that they are only worth half as much, there is some spending in £ , . it would set me up for life, with a little over. what prospect is there in front of me--don't i know that there is none? existence in a country which i have not the faintest desire to go to; a life which i hate; a continual struggling and striving for the barest daily bread, with, in all human probability, failure, and a nameless grave at the end. what use is there in living out such a life as that? but if i could only lay my hands on even an appreciable fraction of that quarter of a million, with daisy at my side--god bless the girl! how ill i have treated her!--how different it all would be!" mr. paxton was possessed by a feeling of restlessness; his thoughts pricked him in his most secret places. for him, the train was moving much too slowly; had it flown on the wings of the wind it could scarcely have kept pace with the whirlwind in his brain. rising to his feet, he began to move backwards and forwards in the space between the seats--anything was better than complete inaction. the compartment in which he was travelling was not a new one; indeed, so far was it from being a new one, that it belonged to a type which, if not actually obsolete, at any rate nowadays is rarely seen. an oblong sheet of plate-glass was let into the partition on either side, within a few inches of the roof. this sheet of plate-glass was set in a brass frame, the frame itself being swung on a pivot. desirous of doing anything which would enable him, even temporarily, to escape from his thoughts, mr. paxton gave way to his idle and, one might almost add, impertinent curiosity. he stood, first on one seat, and peered through the glass into the adjoining compartment. so far as he was able to see, from the post of vantage which he occupied, it was vacant. he swung the glass round on its pivot. he listened. there was not a sound. satisfied--if, that is, the knowledge gave him any satisfaction!--that there was no one there, he prepared to repeat the process of espial on the other seat. but in this case the result was different. no sooner had he brought his eyes on a level with the sheet of glass, than he dropped down off the seat again with the rapidity of a jack-in-the-box. "by george! i've seen that man before! it would hardly do to be caught playing the part of peeping tom." conscious of so much, he was also conscious at the same time of an increase of curiosity. among mr. paxton's attributes was that one which is supposed to be the peculiar perquisite of royalty--a memory for faces. if, for any cause, a face had once been brought to his notice, he never afterwards forgot it. he had seen through that sheet of glass a countenance which he had seen before, and that quite recently. "the chances are that i sha'n't be noticed if i am careful; and if i am caught i'll make a joke of it. i'll peep again." he peeped again. as he did so audible words all but escaped his lips. "the deuce! it's the beggar who was last night with daisy on the pier." there could not be a doubt about it; in the carriage next to his sat the individual whose companionship with miss strong had so annoyed him. mr. paxton, peering warily through the further end of the glass, treated mr. lawrence to a prolonged critical inspection, which was not likely to be prejudiced in that gentleman's favour. mr. lawrence sat facing his observer, on mr. paxton's right, in the corner of the carriage. that he was not alone was plain. mr. paxton saw that he smiled, and that his lips were moving. unfortunately, from mr. paxton's point of view, it was not easy to see who was his associate; whoever it was sat just in front of him, and therefore out of mr. paxton's line of vision. this was the more annoying in that mr. lawrence took such evident interest in the conversation he was carrying on. an idea occurred to mr. paxton. "the fellow doesn't seem to see me. when i turned that other thing upon its pivot it didn't make any sound. i wonder, if i were to open this affair half an inch or so, if i could hear what the fellow's saying?" mr. paxton was not in a mood to be particular. on the contrary, he was in one of those moods which come to all of us, in some dark hour of our lives, when we do the things which, being done, we never cease regretting. mr. paxton knelt on the cushions and he opened the frame, as he had said, just half an inch, and he put his ear as close to the opening as he conveniently could, without running the risk of being seen, and he listened. at first he heard nothing for his pains. he had not got his ear just right, and the roar of the train drowned all other sounds. slightly shifting his position mr. paxton suddenly found, however, that he could hear quite well. the speakers, to make themselves audible to each other, had to shout nearly at the top of their voices, and this, secure in their privacy, they did, the result being that mr. paxton could hear just as well what was being said as the person who, to all intents and purposes, was seated close beside him. the first voice he heard was mr. lawrence's. it should be noted that here and there he lost a word, as probably also did the person who was actually addressed; but the general sense of the conversation he caught quite well. "i told you i could do it. you only want patience and resolution to take advantage of your opportunities, and a big coup is as easily carried off as a small one." mr. lawrence's voice ceased. the rejoinder came from a voice which struck mr. paxton as being a very curious one indeed. the speaker spoke not only with a strong nasal twang, but also, occasionally, with an odd idiom. the unseen listener told himself that the speaker was probably the newest thing in races--"a german-american." "with the assistance of a friend--eh?" mr. lawrence's voice again; in it more than a suggestion of scorn. "the assistance of a friend! when it comes to the scratch, it is on himself that a man must rely. what a friend principally does is to take the lion's share of the spoil." "well--why not? a man will not be able to be much of a friend to another, if, first of all, he is not a friend to himself--eh?" mr. lawrence appeared to make no answer--possibly he did not relish the other's reasoning. presently the same voice came again, as if the speaker intended to be apologetic-- "understand me, my good friend, i do not say that what you did was not clever. no, it was damn clever!--that i do say. and i always have said that there was no one in the profession who can come near you. in your line of business, or out of it, how many are there who can touch for a quarter of a million, i want to know? now, tell me, how did you do it--is it a secret, eh?" if mr. lawrence had been piqued, the other's words seemed to have appeased him. "not from you--the thing was as plain as walking! the bigger the thing you have to do the more simply you do it the better it will be done." "it does not seem as though it were simple when you read it in the papers--eh? what do you think?" "the papers be damned! directly you gave me the office that she was going to take them with her to windsor, i saw how i was going to get them, and who i was going to get them from." "who--eh?" "eversleigh. stow it--the train is stopping!" the train was stopping. it had reached a station. the voices ceased. mr. paxton withdrew from his listening place with his brain in a greater whirl than ever. what had the two men been talking about? what did they mean by touching for a quarter of a million, and the reference to windsor? the name which mr. lawrence had just mentioned, eversleigh--where, quite recently, had he made its acquaintance? mr. paxton's glance fell on the evening paper which he had thrown on the seat. he snatched it up. something like a key to the riddle came to him in a flash! he opened the paper with feverish hands, turning to the account of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds. it was as he thought; his memory had not played him false--the person who had been in charge of the gems had been a man named stephen eversleigh. mr. paxton's hands fell nervelessly on to his knees. he stared into vacancy. what did it mean? the train was off again. having heard so much, mr. paxton felt that he must hear more. he returned to the place of listening. for some moments, while the train was drawing clear of the station, the voices continued silent--probably before exchanging further confidences they were desirous of being certain that their privacy would remain uninterrupted. when they were heard again it seemed that the conversation was being carried on exactly at the point at which mr. paxton had heard it cease. the german-american was speaking. "eversleigh?--that is his grace's confidential servant--eh?" "that's the man. i studied mr. eversleigh by proxy, and i found out just two things about him." "and they were--what were they?" "one was that he was short-sighted, and the other was that he had a pair of spectacles which the duke had given him for a birthday present, and which he thought no end of." "that wasn't much to find out--eh?" "you think so? then that's where you're wrong. it's perhaps just as well for you that you don't have to play first lead." "the treasury is more in my line--eh? however, what was the use which you made of that little find of yours?" "if it hadn't been for that little find of mine, the possibility is that the sparklers wouldn't be where they are just now. a friend of mine had a detective camera. those spectacles were kept in something very gorgeous in cases. my friend snapped that spectacle case with his camera. i had an almost exact duplicate made of the case from the print he got--purposely not quite exact, you know, but devilish near. "i found myself at windsor station just as her grace was about to start for town. there were a good many people in the booking-office through which you have to pass to reach the platform. as i expected, the duchess came in front, with the maid, old eversleigh bringing up the rear. just as eversleigh came into the booking-office some one touched him on the shoulder, and held out that duplicate spectacle case, saying, 'i beg your pardon, sir! have you lost your glasses?' of old eversleigh's fidelity i say nothing. i don't call mere straightness anything;--but he certainly wasn't up to the kind of job he had in hand--not when he was properly handled. he has been heard to say that he would sooner lose an arm than those precious spectacles--because the duke gave them to him, you know. perhaps he would; anyhow, he lost something worth a trifle more than his arm. when he felt himself touched on the shoulder, and saw what looked like that almighty goggle-box in the stranger's hand, he got all of a flurry, jabbed his fist into the inside pocket of his coat, and to enable him to do so popped the despatch-box down on the seat beside him--as i expected that he would do. i happened to be sitting on that seat with a rug, very nicely screened too by old eversleigh himself, and by the stranger with the goggle-box. i nipped my rug over his box, leaving another one--own brother to the duchess's--exposed. old eversleigh found that the stranger's goggle-box was not his--that his own was safe in his pocket!--picked up my despatch-box, and marched off with it, while i travelled with his by the south-western line to town; and i can only hope that he was as pleased with the exchange as i was." the german-american's voice was heard. "as you say, in the simplicity of your method, my good friend, was its beauty. and indeed, after all, simplicity is the very essence, the very soul, of all true art--eh?" chapter iii the diamonds mr. paxton heard no more--he made no serious attempt to hear. as the german-american ceased to speak the train slowed into preston park. at the station mr. paxton saw that some one else got into the next compartment, forming a third, with its previous occupants, the rest of the way to brighton. mr. paxton had heard enough. the whirlwind in his brain, instead of becoming less, had grown more. his mental confusion had become worse confounded. he seemed unable to collect his ideas. he had attained to nothing like an adequate grasp of the situation by the time the train had arrived at its journey's end. he alighted, his gladstone in his hand, feeling in a sort of intellectual fog. he saw mr. lawrence--also carrying a gladstone--get out of the next compartment. a tall, thin man, with high cheekbones, a heavy moustache, and a pronounced stoop, got out after him--evidently the german-american. mr. paxton allowed the pair to walk down the platform in front, keeping himself a respectful distance in the rear. they turned into the refreshment-room. he went in after them, taking up his position close beside them, with, however, no sort of definite intention in his head. mr. lawrence recognised him at once, showing that he also had a memory for faces. he nodded. "mr. paxton, i believe." mr. paxton admitted that that was his name, conscious, on a sudden, of a wild impulse to knock the fellow down for daring to accost him. "what is your drink, mr. paxton?" that was too much; mr. paxton was certainly not going to drink with the man. he responded curtly-- "i have ordered." "that doesn't matter, does it? drink up, and have another with me." the fellow was actually pressing him to accept of his pestilent charity--that was how mr. paxton put it to himself. he said nothing--not because he had nothing to say, but because never before in his life had he felt so stupid, with so little control over either his senses or his tongue. he shook his head, walked out of the refreshment-room, got into a cab, and drove off to makell's hotel. directly the cab had started and was out of the station yard he told himself that he had been a fool--doubly, trebly, a fool--a fool all round, from every possible point of view. he ought never to have let the scoundrels out of his sight; he ought to have spoken to the police; he ought to have done something; under the circumstances no one but an idiot would have done absolutely nothing at all. never mind--for the moment it was too late. he would do something to repair his error later. he would tell miss strong the tale; she would rejoice to find a friend of her own figuring as the hero of such a narrative; it would be a warning to her against the making of chance acquaintance! he would ask her advice; it was a case in which two heads might be better than one. reaching the hotel, he went straight to his bedroom, still in a sort of mental haze. he had a wash--without, however, managing to wash much of the haze out of his head. he turned to unlock his gladstone, intending to take out of it his brush and comb. there was something the matter with the key, or else with the lock--it would not open. it was a brand-new gladstone, bought with a particular intent; mr. paxton was very far from being desirous that his proposed voyage to foreign parts should prematurely be generally known. plainly, the lock was not in the best of order. half abstractedly he fumbled with it for some seconds, before it could be induced to open, then it was opened rather by an exertion of force, than in response to the action of the key. having opened it, mr. paxton found himself a little puzzled by the arrangement of its contents. he could not at first remember just where he had put his brush and comb. he felt on the one side, where he had a sort of dim idea that it ought to be, and then on the other. he failed to light on it on either side. he paused for a moment to consider. then, by degrees, distinctly remembered having placed it in a particular corner. he felt for it. it was not there. he wondered where it had contrived to conceal itself. he was certain that he had placed it in the bag. it must be in it now. he began to empty the bag of all its contents. the first thing he took out was a shirt. he threw it from him on to the bed. as it passed through the air something fell from it on to the floor--something which came rolling against his foot. he picked it up. it was a ring. he could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes. he sat staring at the trinket in a stupor of surprise. and the more he stared the more his wonder grew. that it was a ring there could not be the slightest shadow of doubt. it was a woman's ring, a costly one--a hoop of diamonds, the stones being of unusual lustre and size. how could such an article as that have found its way into his gladstone bag? he picked up another shirt, and as he did so felt that in the front there was something hard. he opened the front to see what it was. the shirt almost dropped from his hand in the shock of his amazement. something gleamed at him from inside the linen. taking this something out he found himself holding in his hand a magnificent tiara of diamonds. as he knelt there, on one knee, gazing at the gaud, he would have presented a promising study for an artist possessed of a sense of humour. his mouth was open, his eyes distended to their fullest; every feature of his countenance expressed the bewilderment he felt. the presence of a ring in that brand-new bag of his was sufficiently surprising--but a tiara of diamonds! was he the victim of some extraordinary hallucination, or the hero of a fairy tale? he stared at the jewel, and from the jewel to the shirt, and from the shirt to the bag. then an idea, beginning at first to glimmer on him dimly, suddenly took vivid shape, filling him with a sense of strange excitement. he doubted if the bag were his. he leant over it to examine it more closely. new brown gladstone bags, thirty inches in length, are apt to be as like each other as peas. this was a new bag, his was a new bag--he perceived nothing in the appearance of this one to suggest that it was not his. and yet that this was not his bag he was becoming more and more convinced. he turned to the shirt he had been holding. the contents of his bag had all been freshly purchased--obviously, this shirt had just come from the maker's too. he looked at the maker's name inside the neckband. this was not his shirt--it had been bought at a different shop; it had one buttonhole in front instead of three; it was not his size. he looked hastily at the rest of the things which were in the bag--they none of them were his. had he had his wits about him he would have discovered that fact directly the bag was opened. every garment seemed to have been intended to serve as cover to a piece of jewellery. he tumbled on to the bed rings, bracelets, brooches, necklets; out of vests, shirts, socks, and drawers. till at last he stood, with an air of stupefaction, in front of a heap of glittering gems, the like of which he had scarcely thought could have existed outside a jeweller's shop. what could be the meaning of it? by what accident approaching to the miraculous could a bag containing such a treasure trove have been exchanged for his? what eccentric and inexcusably careless individual could have been carrying about with him such a gorgeous collection in such a flimsy covering? the key to the situation came to him as borne by a flash of lightning. they were all diamonds on the bed--nothing but diamonds. he caught up the evening paper which he had brought with him from town. he turned to the list which it contained of the diamonds which had been stolen from the duchess of datchet. it was as he thought. incredible though it seemed, unless his senses played him false, in front of him were those priceless jewels--the world-famed datchet diamonds! reflection showed him, too, that this astounding climax had been brought about by the simplest accident. he remembered that mr. lawrence had alighted from the railway carriage on to the brighton platform with the gladstone in his hand;--he remembered now, although it had not struck him at the time, that that bag, like his own, had been brown and new. in the refreshment-room mr. lawrence had put his bag down upon the floor. mr. paxton had put his down beside it. in leaving, he must have caught up mr. lawrence's bag instead of his own. he had spoiled the spoiler of his spoils. without intending to do anything of the kind, he had played on mr. lawrence exactly the same trick which that enterprising gentleman had himself--if mr. paxton could believe what he had overheard him say in the railway carriage--played on the duchess of datchet. when mr. paxton realised exactly how it was he sat down on the side of the bed, and he trembled. it was so like a special interposition of providence--or was it of the devil? he stared at the scintillating stones. he took them up and began to handle them. this, according to the paper, was the amsterdam necklace, so called because one of the dukes of datchet had bought all the stones for it in amsterdam. it, alone, was worth close in the neighbourhood of a hundred thousand pounds. a hundred thousand pounds! mr. paxton's fingers tingled as he thought of it. his lips went dry. what would a hundred thousand pounds not mean to him?--and he held it, literally, in the hollow of his hand. he did not know with certainty whose it was. providence had absolutely thrown it at his head. it might not be the duchess's, after all. at any rate, it would be but robbing the robber. then there was the datchet tiara, the begum's brooch, the banee's bracelet; if the newspaper could be credited, every piece in the collection was historical. as he toyed with them, holding them to the light, turning them this way and that, looking at them from different points of view, how the touch of the diamonds seemed to make the blood in mr. paxton's veins run faster! he began to move about the bedroom restlessly, returning every now and then to take still another look at the shimmering lumps of light which were beginning to exercise over him a stronger and stronger fascination. how beautiful they were! and how low he himself had fallen! he could scarcely sink much lower. anyhow, it would be but to pass from one ditch to another. supposing he obtained for them even a tithe of their stated value! at this crisis in his career, what a fresh start in life five-and-twenty thousand pounds would mean! it would mean the difference between hope and helplessness, between opportunity and despair. with his experience, on such a foundation he could easily build up a monstrous fortune--a fortune which would mean happiness--daisy's and his own. then the five-and-twenty thousand pounds could be easily returned. compared with what he would make with it, it was but a trifle, after all. and then the main point was--and mr. paxton told himself that on that point rested the crux of the position--it would not be the duchess of datchet who would be despoiled; it was the robbers who, with true poetic justice, would be deprived of their ill-gotten gains. she had lost them in any case. he--he had but found them. he endeavoured to insist upon it, to himself, that he had but found them. true, there was such a thing as the finder returning what he had found--particularly when he suspected who had been the loser. but who could expect a man situated as he was to throw away a quarter of a million of money? this was not a case which could be judged by the ordinary standards of morality--it was an unparalleled experience. still, he could not bring himself to say, straight out, that he would stick to what he had got, and make the most of it. his mind was not sufficiently clear to enable him to arrive at any distinct decision. but he did what was almost equally fatal, he allowed himself, half unconsciously--without venturing to put it into so many words--to drift. he would see which way the wind blew, and then, if he could, go with it. for the present he would do nothing, forgetting that, in such a position as his, the mere fact of his doing nothing involved the doing of a very great deal. he looked at his watch, starting to find it was so late. "daisy will be tired of waiting. i must hurry, or she'll be off before i come." he looked into the glass. somehow there seemed to be a sort of film before his eyes which prevented him from seeing himself quite clearly, or else the light was bad! but he saw enough of himself to be aware that he was not looking altogether his usual self. he endeavoured to explain this in a fashion of his own. "no wonder that i look worried after what i've gone through lately, and especially to-day--that sort of thing's enough to take the heart out of any man, and make him look old before his time." he set his teeth; something hard and savage came into his face. "but perhaps the luck has turned. i'd be a fool to throw a chance away if it has. i've gone in for some big things in my time; why shouldn't i go in for the biggest thing of all, and with one bold stroke more than win back all i've lost?" he suffered his own question to remain unanswered; but he stowed the precious gems, higgledy-piggledy, inside the copy of the evening paper which contained the news of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds; the paper he put into a corner of the gladstone bag which was not his; the bag he locked with greater care than he had opened it. when it was fastened, he stood for a moment, surveying it a little grimly. "i'll leave it where it is. no one knows what there is inside it. it'll be safe enough. anyhow, i'll give the common or garden thief a chance of providing for himself for life; his qualms on the moral aspect of the situation will be fewer than mine. if it's here when i come back i'll accept its continued presence as an omen." he put on his hat, and he went out to find miss strong. chapter iv miss wentworth's rudeness miss strong was growing a little tired of waiting. indeed, she was beginning to wonder if mr. paxton was about to fail in still another something he had undertaken. she loitered near the gates of the pier, looking wistfully at every one who entered. the minutes went by, and yet "he cometh not," she said. it was not the pleasantest of nights for idling by the sea. a faint, but chilly, breeze was in the air. there was a suspicion of mist. miss strong was growing more and more conscious that the night was raw and damp. to add to the discomfort of her position, just inside the gates of brighton pier is not the most agreeable place for a woman to have to wait at night--she is likely to find the masculine prowler conspicuously in evidence. miss strong had moved away from at least the dozenth man who had accosted her, when she referred to her watch. "i'll give him five minutes more, and then, if he doesn't come, i'm off." scarcely had she uttered the words than she saw mr. paxton coming through the turnstile. with a feeling of no inconsiderable relief she moved hastily forward. in another moment they were clasping hands. "cyril! i'm glad you've come at last! but how late you are!" "yes; i've been detained." the moment he opened his mouth it struck her that about his manner there was something odd. but, as a wise woman in her generation, she made no comment. together they went up the pier. now that he had come mr. paxton did not seem to be in a conversational mood. they had gone half-way up; still he evinced no inclination to speak. miss strong, however, excused him. she understood the cause of his silence--or thought she did. her heart was heavy--on his account, and on her own. her words, when they came, were intended to convey the completeness of her comprehension. "i am so sorry." he turned, as if her words had startled him. "sorry?" "i know all about it, cyril." this time it was not merely a question of appearance. it was an obvious fact that he was startled. he stood stock still and stared at her. stammering words came from his lips. "you know all about it? what--what do you mean?" she seemed to be surprised at his surprise. "my dear cyril, you forget that there are papers." "papers?" still he stammered. "yes, papers--newspapers. i've had every edition, and of course i've seen how eries have fallen. "eries? fallen? oh!--of course!--i see!" she was puzzled to perceive that he appeared positively relieved, as though he had supposed and feared that she had meant something altogether different. he took off his hat to wipe his brow, although the night was very far from being unduly warm. he began walking again, speaking now glibly enough, with a not unnatural bitterness. "they have fallen, sure enough--just as surely as if, if i had gone a bear, they would have risen. as you were good enough to say last night, it was exactly the sort of thing which might have been expected." "i am so sorry, cyril." "what's the use of being sorry?" his tone was rough, almost rude. but she excused him still. "is it very bad?" then a wild idea came to him--one which, at the moment, seemed to him almost to amount to inspiration. in the disordered condition of his faculties--for, temporarily, they were disordered--he felt, no doubt erroneously enough, that in the girl's tone there was something besides sympathy, that there was contempt as well--contempt for him as for a luckless, helpless creature who was an utter and entire failure. and he suddenly resolved to drop at least a hint that, while she was despising him as so complete a failure, even now there was, actually within his grasp, wealth sufficient to satisfy the dreams of avarice. "i don't know what you call very bad; as regards the eries it is about as bad as it could be. but----" he hesitated and stopped. "but what?" she caught sight of his face. she saw how it was working. "cyril, is there any good news to counteract the bad? have you had a stroke of luck?" yet he hesitated, already half regretting that he had said anything at all. but, having gone so far, he went farther. "i don't want you to reckon on it just at present, but i think it possible that, very shortly, i may find myself in possession of a larger sum of money than either of us has dreamed of." "cyril! do you mean it?" her tone of incredulity spurred him on. "should i be likely to say such a thing if i did not mean it? i mean exactly what i said. to be quite accurate, it is possible, nay, probable, that before very long i shall be the possessor of a quarter of a million of money. i hope that will be enough for you. it will for me." "a quarter of a million! two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, cyril!" "it sounds a nice little sum, doesn't it? i hope that it will feel as nice when it's mine!" "but, cyril, i don't understand. is it a new speculation you are entering on?" "it is a speculation--of a kind." his tone was ironical, though she did not seem to be conscious of the fact. "a peculiar kind. its peculiarity consists in this, that, though i may not be able to lay my hands on the entire quarter of a million, i can on an appreciable portion of it whenever i choose." "what is the nature of the speculation? is it on the stock exchange?" "that, at present, is a secret. it is not often that i have kept a secret from you; you will have to forgive me, daisy, if i keep one now." something peculiar in his tone caught her ear. she glanced at him sharply. "you are really in earnest, cyril? you do mean that there is a reasonable prospect of your position being improved at last?" "there is not only a reasonable prospect, there is a practical certainty." "in spite of what you have lost in eries?" "in spite of everything." a ring of passion came into his voice. "daisy, don't ask me any more questions now. trust me! i tell you that in any case a fortune, or something very like one, is within my grasp." he stopped, and she was silent. they went and stood where they had been standing the night before--looking towards the worthing lights. each seemed to be wrapped in thought. then she said softly, in her voice a trembling-- "cyril, i am so glad." "i am glad that you are glad." "and i am so sorry for what i said last night." "what was it you said that is the particular occasion of your sorrow?" she drew closer to his side. when she spoke it was as if, in some strange way, she was afraid. "i am sorry that i said that if luck went against you to-day things would have to be over between us. i don't know what made me say it. i did not mean it. i thought of it all night; i have been thinking of it all day. i don't think that, whatever happens, i could ever find it in my heart to send you away." "i assure you, lady, that i should not go unless you sent me!" "cyril!" she pressed his arm. her voice sank lower. she almost whispered in his ear, while her eyes looked towards the worthing lights. "i think that perhaps it would be better if we were to get married as soon as we can--better for both of us." turning, he gripped her arms with both his hands. "do you mean it?" "i do; if you do the great things of which you talk or if you don't. if you don't there is my little fortune, with which we must start afresh, both of us together, either on this side of the world or on the other, whichever you may choose." "daisy!" his voice vibrated with sudden passion. "will you come with me to the other side of the world in any case?" "what--even if you make your fortune?" "yes; even if i make my fortune!" she looked at him with that something on her face which is the best thing that a man can see. and tears came into her eyes. and she said to him, in the words which have been ringing down the ages-- "whither thou goest, i will go; and where thou lodgest, i will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy god, my god; where thou diest, will i die, and there will i be buried; the lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me!" it may be that the words savoured to him of exaggeration; at any rate, he turned away, as if something choked his utterance. she, too, was still. "i suppose you don't want a grand wedding." "i want a wedding, that's all i want. i don't care what sort of a wedding it is so long as it's a wedding. and"--again her voice sank, and again she drew closer to his side--"i don't want to have to wait for it too long." "will you be ready to marry me within a month?" "i will." "then within a month we will be married." they were silent. his thoughts, in a dazed sort of fashion, travelled to the diamonds which were in somebody else's gladstone bag. her thoughts wandered through elysian fields. it is possible that she imagined--as one is apt to do--that his thoughts were there likewise. all at once she said something which brought him back from what seemed to be a waking dream. she felt him start. "come with me, and let's tell charlie." the suggestion was not by any means to mr. paxton's taste. he considered for a few seconds, seeming to hesitate. she perceived that her proposition had not been received with over-much enthusiasm. "surely you don't mind our telling charlie?" "no"--his voice was a little surly--"i don't mind." miss charlotte wentworth, better known to her intimates as charlie, was in some respects a young woman of the day. she was thirty, and she wrote for her daily bread--wrote anything, from "fashions" to "poetry," from "fiction" to "our family column." she had won for herself a position of tolerable comfort, earning something over five-hundred a year with satisfactory regularity. to state that is equivalent to saying that, on her own lines, she was a woman of the world, a citizen of the new bohemia, capable of holding something more than her own in most circumstances in which she might find herself placed, with most, if not all, of the sentiment which is supposed to be a feminine attribute knocked out of her. she was not bad-looking; dressed well, with a suggestion of masculinity; wore pince-nez, and did whatsoever it pleased her to do. differing though they did from each other in so many respects, she and daisy strong had been the friends of years. when mrs. strong had died, and daisy was left alone, miss wentworth had insisted on their setting up together, at least temporarily, a joint establishment, an arrangement from which there could be no sort of doubt that miss strong received pecuniary advantage. mr. paxton was not miss wentworth's lover--nor, to be frank, was she his; the consequence of which was that her brusque, outspoken method of speech conveyed to his senses--whether she intended it or not--a suggestion of scorn, being wont to touch him on just those places where he found himself least capable of resistance. when the lovers entered, miss wentworth, with her person on one chair and her feet on another, was engaged in reading a magazine which had just come in. miss strong, desiring to avoid the preliminary skirmishing which experience had taught her was apt to take place whenever her friend and her lover met, plunged at once into the heart of the subject which was uppermost in her mind. "i've brought you some good news--at least i think it is good news." miss wentworth looked at her--a cross-examining sort of look--then at mr. paxton, then back at the lady. "good news? one always does associate good news with mr. paxton. the premonition becomes a kind of habit." the gentleman thus alluded to winced. miss strong did not appear to altogether relish the lady's words. she burst out with the news of which she spoke, as if with the intention of preventing a retort coming from mr. paxton. "we are going to be married." miss wentworth displayed a possibly intentional mental opacity. "who is going to be married?" "charlie! how aggravating you are! cyril and i, of course." miss wentworth resumed her reading. "indeed! well, it's no affair of mine. of course, therefore, i should not presume to make any remark. if, however, any one should invite me to comment on the subject, i trust that i shall be at the same time informed as to what is the nature of the comment which i am invited to make." miss strong went and knelt at miss wentworth's side, resting her elbows on that lady's knees. "charlie, won't you give us your congratulations?" miss wentworth replied, without removing her glance from off the open page of her magazine-- "with pleasure--if you want them. also, if you want it, i will give you eighteenpence--or even half a crown." "charlie! how unkind you are!" miss wentworth lowered her magazine. she looked miss strong straight in the face. tears were in the young lady's eyes, but miss wentworth showed not the slightest sign of being moved by them. "unfortunately, as it would seem, though i am a woman, i do occasionally allow my conduct to be regulated by the dictates of common sense. when i see another woman making a dash towards suicide i don't, as a rule, give her a helping push, merely because she happens to be my friend; preferentially, if i can, i hold her back, even though it be against her will. i have yet to learn in what respect mr. paxton--who, i gladly admit, is personally a most charming gentleman--is qualified to marry even a kitchen-maid. permit me to finish. you told me last night that mr. paxton was going a bull on eries; that if they fell one he would be ruined. in the course of the day they have fallen more than one; therefore, if what you told me was correct, he must be ruined pretty badly. then, without any sort of warning, you come and inform me that you intend to marry the man who is doubly and trebly ruined, and you expect me to offer my congratulations on the event offhand! on the evidence which is at present before the court it can't be done." "why shouldn't i marry him, even if he is ruined?" "why, indeed? i am a supporter of the liberty of the female subject, if ever there was one. why, if you wished to, shouldn't you marry a crossing-sweep? i don't know. but, on the other hand, i don't see on what grounds you could expect me to offer you my congratulations if you did." "cyril is not a crossing-sweep." "no; he has not even that trade at his finger-ends." "charlie!" mr. paxton made as if to speak. miss strong motioned him to silence with a movement of her hand. "as it happens, you are quite wrong. it is true that cyril lost by eries, but he has more than made up for that loss by what he has gained in another direction. instead of being ruined, he has made a fortune." "indeed! pray, how did he manage to do that? i always did think that mr. paxton was a remarkable man. my confidence in him is beginning to be more than justified. and may i, at the same time, ask what is mr. paxton's notion of a fortune?" "tell her, cyril, all about it." thus suffered at last to deliver his soul in words, mr. paxton evinced a degree of resentment which, perhaps, on the whole, was not unjustified. "i fail to see that there is any necessity for me to justify myself in miss wentworth's eyes, who, on more than one occasion, has shown an amount of interest in my affairs which was only not impertinent because it happened to be feminine. but since, daisy, you appear to be anxious that miss wentworth should be as satisfied on the subject of my prospects and position as you yourself are, i will do the best i can. and therefore miss wentworth, i would explain that my notion of a fortune is a sum equivalent to some ten or twenty times the amount you yourself are likely to be able to earn in the whole of your life." "that ought to figure up nicely. and do you really mean to say, mr. paxton, that you have lost one fortune and gained another in the course of a single day?" "i do." "how was it done? i wish you would put me in the way of doing it for myself." "surely, miss wentworth, a woman of your capacity is qualified to do anything she pleases without prompting, and solely on her own initiative!" "thanks, mr. paxton, it's very kind of you to say such pretty things, but i am afraid you estimate my capacity a thought too highly." miss wentworth turned in her seat, so as to have the gentleman within her range of vision. "you understand, mr. paxton, very well how it is. daisy is a lonely child. she belongs to the order of women who were in fashion before the commercial instinct became ingrained in the feminine constitution. she wants looking after. there are only mr. franklyn and myself to look after her. satisfy me that, after all liabilities are settled, there is a substantial balance on the right side of your account, and i will congratulate you both." "that, at the moment, i cannot do. but i will do this. i will undertake, in less than a fortnight, to prove myself the possessor of possibly something like a quarter of a million, and certainly of a hundred thousand pounds." "a quarter of a million! a hundred thousand pounds! such figures warm one's blood. one will almost begin to wonder, mr. paxton, if you can have come by them honestly." the words were uttered lightly. mr. paxton chose to take them as if they had been meant in earnest. his cheeks flushed. his eyes flamed fire. he stood up, so beside himself with rage that it was a second or two before he could regain sufficient self-control to enable him to speak. "miss wentworth, how dare you say such a thing! i have endured more from you than any man ought to endure from any woman. but when you charge me with dishonesty it is too much, even from you to me. you take advantage of your sex to address to me language for which, were the speaker a man, i would thrash him within an inch of his life." miss strong, with white face, looked from one to the other. "cyril, she didn't mean what you think. tell him, charlie, that you didn't mean what he thinks." through her glasses miss wentworth surveyed the angry man with shrewd, unfaltering eyes. "really, mr. paxton puts me in a difficult position. he is so quick to take offence where none was intended, that one hardly knows what to think. surely, when a man shows such heat and such violence in resenting what only a distorted imagination could twist into an actual imputation of dishonesty, it suggests that his own conscience can scarcely be quite clear." mr. paxton seemed struggling as if to speak, and then to put a bridle on his tongue. the truth is, that he was only too conscious that he was in no mood to be a match in argument--or, for the matter of that, in retort either--for this clear-sighted lady. he felt that, if he was not careful, he would go too far; that he had better take himself away before he had made a greater exhibition of himself than he had already. so he contented himself with what was meant as an assumption of dignity. "that is enough. between you and me nothing more need, or can, be said. i have the honour, miss wentworth, of wishing you goodnight." she showed no symptoms of being crushed. on the contrary, she retained her coolness, and also her powers of exasperation. "good-night, mr. paxton. shall i ring the bell, daisy, or will you show mr. paxton to the door?" miss strong darted at her a look which, on that occasion at any rate, was not a look of love, and followed mr. paxton, who already had vanished from the room. finding him in the hall, she nestled up to his side. "i am sorry, cyril, that this should have happened. if i had had the least suspicion of anything of the kind, i never would have asked you to come." mr. paxton wore, or attempted to wear, an air of masculine superiority. "my dear daisy, i have seldom met miss wentworth without her having insulted me. on this occasion, however, she has gone too far. i will never, willingly, darken her door again. i hope you will not ask me; but if you do i shall be compelled to decline." "it's my door as well as hers. but it won't be for long. still, i don't think she meant what you thought she did--she couldn't be so absurd! it's a way she has of talking; she often says things without considering the construction of which they are capable." "it is only the fact of her being a woman, my dear daisy, which gives her the impunity of which she takes undue advantage." "cyril, you mustn't brand all women because of one. we are not all like that. do you suppose that i am not aware that the person, be it man or woman, who imagines you to be capable of dishonesty either does not know you, or else is stark, raving mad? do you think that i could love you without the absolute certainty of knowing you to be a man of blameless honour? i don't suppose you are an angel--i'm not one either, though perhaps you mightn't think it, sir! and i take it for granted that you have done plenty of things which you would rather have left undone--as i have too! but i do know that, regarded from the point of view of any standard, whether human or divine, in all essentials you are an honest man, and that you could be nothing else." the eulogium was a warm one--it made mr. paxton feel a trifle queer. "thank you, darling," so he murmured, and he kissed her. "you will meet me again to-morrow night to tell me how the fortune fares?" he tried to avoid doing so; but the effort only failed--he had to wince. he could only hope that she did not notice it. "i will, my darling--on the pier." "and mind you're punctual!" "i promise you i'll be punctual to a second." chapter v in the bodega as mr. paxton walked away from the house in which the two ladies resided, it was with the consciousness strong upon him that his position had not been made any easier by what he had said to the lady of his love, not to speak of that lady's friend. before he had met miss strong he had been, comparatively, free--free, that is, to return the diamonds to their rightful owner. now, it seemed to him, his hands were tied--he himself had tied them. he had practically committed himself to a course of action which could only point in one direction, and that an ugly one. "what a fool i've been!" one is apt to tell oneself that sort of thing when the fact is already well established, and also, not only without intending to undo one's folly, but even when one actually proposes to make it more! as mr. paxton did then. he told himself, frankly, and with cutting scorn, what a fool he had been, and then proceeded to take what, under similar circumstances, seems to be a commonly accepted view of the situation--assuring, or endeavouring to assure himself, that to pile folly on to folly, until the height of it reached the mountain-tops, and then to undo it, would be easier than to take steps to undo it at once, while it was still comparatively a little thing. it was perhaps this line of reasoning which induced mr. paxton to fancy himself in want of a drink. he turned into the bodega. he treated himself to a whisky and soda. while he was consuming the fluid and abusing fate, some one touched him on the shoulder. looking round he found himself confronted by mr. lawrence and his friend the german-american. not only was their appearance wholly unexpected, but obviously the surprise was not a pleasant one. mr. paxton clutched at the edge of the bar, glaring at the two men as if they had been ghosts. "good evening, mr. paxton." it was mr. lawrence who spoke, in those quiet, level tones with which miss strong was familiar. to mr. paxton's lively imagination their very quietude seemed to convey a threat. and mr. lawrence kept those beautiful blue eyes of his fixed on mr. paxton's visage with a sustained persistence which, for some cause or other, that gentleman found himself incapable of bearing. he nodded, turned his face away, and picked up his glass. but to do mr. paxton justice, he was very far from being a coward; nor, when it came to the sticking-point, was his nerve at all likely to fail him. he realised instantly that he was in a very delicate situation, and one on which, curiously enough, he had not reckoned. but if mr. lawrence and his friend supposed that mr. paxton, even if taken by surprise, was a man who could, in the long run, be taken at an advantage, they were wrong. mr. paxton emptied his glass, and replied to mr. lawrence-- "it's not a pleasant evening, is it? i think that up at the station you asked me to have a drink with you. now, perhaps, you'll have one with me?" as he spoke mr. paxton was conscious that the german-american was regarding him, if possible, even more intently than his friend. this was the man to whom he had taken an instinctive dislike. there was about the fellow a suggestion of something animal--of something almost eerie. he did not strike one as being a person with whom it would be wise to quarrel, but rather as an individual who would stick at nothing to gain his ends, and who would be moved by no appeals for either sympathy or mercy. "would you mind stepping outside for a moment, mr. paxton?" "outside? why?" mr. paxton's air of innocence was admirably feigned. it might be that he was a better actor with a man than with a woman. "there is something which i rather wish to say to you." "to me? what is it?" "i would rather, if you don't mind, speak to you outside." mr. paxton turned his back against the bar facing mr. lawrence with a smile. "aren't we private enough in here? what is it you can have to say to me?" "you know very well what it is i have to say to you. if you take my advice, you'll come outside." mr. lawrence still spoke softly, but with a softness which, if one might put it so, had in it the suggestion of a scratch. a gleam came into his eyes which was scarcely a friendly gleam. the smile on mr. paxton's countenance broadened. "i know! you are mistaken. i do not know. you are the merest acquaintance; i have never exchanged half a dozen words with you. what communication of a private nature you may have to make to me, i have not the faintest notion, but, whatever it is, i would rather you said it here." mr. paxton's tones were, perhaps purposely, as loud as mr. lawrence's were soft. what he said must have been distinctly audible, not only to those who were close to him but also to those who were at a little distance. especially did the high words seem audible to a shabby-looking fellow who was seated at a little table just in front of them, and wore his hat a good deal over his eyes, but who, in spite of that fact, seemed to keep a very keen eye on mr. paxton. perceiving that his friend appeared to be slightly nonplussed by mr. paxton's manner, the german-american came a little forward, as if to his assistance. this was a really curious individual. as has been already mentioned, he was tall and thin, and, in spite of his stoop, his height was accentuated by the fashion of his attire. he wore a long, straight black overcoat, so long that it reached almost to his ankles. it was wide enough to have admitted two of him. he kept it buttoned high up to his chin. his head was surmounted by a top hat, which could scarcely have been of english manufacture, for not only was it a size or two too large for him, but, relatively, it was almost as long as his overcoat. thus, since his hat came over his forehead, and his overcoat came up to his chin, not much of his physiognomy was visible, and what was visible was not of a kind to make one long for more. his complexion was of a dirty red. his cheekbones were high, and his cheeks were hollow. they were covered with tiny bristles, which gleamed in the light as he moved his head. his eyes were small, and black, and beady, and he had a trick of opening and shutting them, as if they were constantly being focussed. his nose was long, and thin, and aquiline--that aquiline which suggests a vulture. his voluminous moustache was black; one wondered if it owed that shade to nature. but, considerable though it was, it altogether failed to conceal his mouth, which, as the irishman said, "rolled right round his jaws." indeed, it was of such astonishing dimensions that the surprise which one felt on first encountering it, caused one, momentarily, to neglect to notice the practically entire absence of a chin. this pleasing-looking person, coming to mr. paxton, raised a long, lean forefinger, capped by what rather resembled a talon than a human fingernail, and crooked it in mr. paxton's face. and he said, speaking with that pronounced german-american accent-- "permit me, my dear friend, to ask of mr. paxton just one question--just one little question. mr. paxton, what was the colour of your gladstone bag, eh?" mr. paxton felt, as he regarded the speaker, that he was looking at what bore a stronger resemblance to some legendary evil creature than to a being of our common humanity. "i fail to understand you, sir." "and yet my question is a very simple one--a very simple one indeed. i ask you, what was the colour of your gladstone bag, eh?" "my gladstone bag!--which gladstone bag?" "the gladstone bag which you brought with you in the train from town, eh?" mr. paxton gazed at his questioner with, on his countenance, an entire absence of any sort of comprehension. he turned to mr. lawrence-- "is this a friend of yours?" [illustration: "what was the colour of your gladstone bag, eh?" _the datchet diamonds_. _page_ .] the pair looked at mr. paxton, then at each other, then back at mr. paxton, then again at each other. the german-american waggled his lean forefinger. "he is very difficult, mr. paxton--very difficult indeed, eh? he understand nothing. it is strange. but it is like that sometimes, eh?" mr. lawrence interposed. "look here, i'll be plain enough, even for you, mr. paxton. have you got my gladstone bag?" mr. lawrence still spoke softly, but as he put his question mr. paxton was conscious that his eyes were fixed on him with a singular intentness, and his friend's eyes, and the eyes of the man who half concealed them with his hat, and, unless he was mistaken, the eyes of another shabby individual who was seated at a second table, between himself and the door. indeed, he had a dim perception that sharp eyes were watching him from all over the spacious room, and that they waited for his words. still, he managed to retain very fair control over his presence of mind. "your gladstone bag! i! what the deuce do you mean?" "what i say--have you got my gladstone bag?" mr. paxton drew himself up. something of menace came on to his face and into his eyes. his tone became hard and dry. "either i still altogether fail to understand you, mr. lawrence, or else i understand too much. your question is such a singular one that i must ask you to explain what construction i am intended to place upon it." the two men regarded each other steadily, eye to eye. it is possible that mr. paxton read more in mr. lawrence's glance than mr. lawrence read in his, for mr. paxton perceived quite clearly that, in spite of the man's seeming gentleness, on the little voyage on which he was setting forth he would have to look out, at the very least, for squalls. the german-american broke the silence. "it is that mr. paxton has not yet opened the gladstone bag, and seen that a little exchange has taken place--is that so, eh?" mr. paxton understood that the question was as a loophole through which he might escape. he might still rid himself of what already he dimly saw might turn out to be something worse than an old man of the sea upon his shoulders. but he deliberately declined to avail himself of the proffered chance. on the contrary, by his reply he burnt his boats, and so finally cut off his escape--at any rate in that direction. "opened it? of course i opened it! i opened it directly i got in. i've no more idea of what you two men are talking about than the man in the moon." once more the friends exchanged glances, and again mr. lawrence asked a question. "mr. paxton, i've a particular reason for asking, and i should therefore feel obliged if you will tell me what your bag was like?" mr. paxton never hesitated--he took his second fence in his stride. "mine? it's a black bag--rather old--with my initials on one side--stuck pretty well all over with luggage labels. but why do you ask?" again the two men's eyes met, mr. lawrence regarding the other with a glance which seemed as if it would have penetrated to his inmost soul. this time, however, mr. paxton's own eyes never wavered. he returned the other's look with every appearance of _sang froid_. mr. lawrence's voice continued to be soft and gentle. "you are sure that yours was not a new brown bag?" "sure! of course i'm sure! it was black; and, as for being new--well, it was seven or eight years old at least." "would you mind my having a look at it?" "what do you want to have a look at it for?" "i should esteem it a favour if you would permit me." "why should i?" again the two men's glances met. the german-american spoke. "where are you stopping, mr. paxton, eh?" wheeling round, mr. paxton treated the inquirer to anything but an enlightening answer. "what has that to do with you? although a perfect stranger to me--and one to whom i would rather remain a stranger--you appear to take a degree of interest in my affairs which i can only characterize as--impertinent." "it is not meant to be impertinent, oh, dear no; oh, no, mr paxton, eh?" putting up his clawlike hand, the fellow began to rub it against his apology for a chin. mr. paxton turned his attention to mr. lawrence; it was a peculiarity of that gentleman's bearing that since his appearance on the scene he had never for a single instant removed his beautiful blue eyes from mr. paxton's countenance. "you have asked me one or two curious questions, without giving me any sort of explanation; now perhaps you won't mind answering one or two for me. have you lost a bag?" "i can scarcely say that i have lost it. i am parted from it--for a time." mr. paxton stared, as if not comprehending. "i trust that the parting may not be longer than you appear to anticipate. was there anything in it of value?" "a few trifles, which i should not care to lose." "where, as you phrase it, did the parting take place?" "in the refreshment-room at the central station--when you went out of it." mr. paxton flushed--it might have been a smart bit of acting, but it was a genuine flush. he looked at the soft-toned but sufficiently incisive speaker as if he would have liked to have knocked him down; possibly, too, came very near to trying to do it. then seemed to remember himself, confining himself instead to language which was as harsh and as haughty as he could conveniently make it. "that is not the first time you have dropped a similar insinuation. but it shall be the last. i do not wish to have a scene in a public place, but if you address me again i will call the attention of the attendants to you, and i will have you removed." so saying, mr. paxton, wheeling round on his heels, favoured the offender with a capital view of his back. to be frank, he hardly expected that his bombastes furioso air would prove of much effect. he had reason to think that mr. lawrence was not the sort of person to allow himself to be cowed by such a very unsubstantial weapon as tall-talk. his surprise was, therefore, the greater when, the words being scarcely out of his mouth, the german-american, touching his associate on the arm, made to him some sort of a sign, and without another word the two marched off together. somewhat oddly, as it seemed, when they went out two or three other persons went out also; but mr. paxton particularly noticed that the man with the hat over his eyes who was seated at the little table remained behind, suddenly appearing, however, to have all his faculties absorbed in a newspaper which had been lying hitherto neglected just in front of him. mr. paxton congratulated himself on the apparent effect which his words had had. "that's a good riddance, anyhow. i don't think that i'm of the sort that's easily bluffed, but the odds were against me, and--well--the stakes are high--very high!" as mr. paxton took off his hat to wipe his forehead it almost seemed that his temperature was high as well as the stakes. he called for another whisky and soda, as he sipped it, he inquired of himself how long it would be advisable for him to stop before taking his departure; he had no desire to find the enterprising associates waiting for him in the street. while he meditated some one addressed him from behind, in precisely the same words which mr. lawrence had originally used. commonplace though they were, as they reached his ears they seemed to give him a sort of thrill. "good evening, mr. paxton." mr. paxton turned round so quickly that some of the liquor which was in the glass that he was holding was thrown out upon the floor. the speaker proved to be a rather short and thick-set man, with a stubbly grey beard and whiskers, and a pair of shrewd, brown eyes. mr. paxton beheld him with as few signs of satisfaction as he had evinced on first beholding mr. lawrence. he tried to pass off his evident discomposure with a laugh. "you! you're a pretty sort of fellow to startle a man like that!" "did i startle you?" "when a man's dreaming of angels, he's easily startled. what's your liquid?" "scotch, cold. who was that you were talking to just now?" mr. paxton shot at the stranger a keen, inquisitorial glance. "what do you mean?" "weren't you talking to somebody as i came in?--two men, weren't there?" "oh yes! one of them i never met in my life before, and i never want to meet again. the other, the younger, i was introduced to yesterday." "the younger--what's his name?" "lawrence. do you know him?" the stranger appeared not to notice the second hurried, almost anxious look which mr. paxton cast in his direction. "i fancied i did. but i don't know any one of the name of lawrence. i must have been wrong." mr. paxton applied himself to his glass. it appeared, he told himself, that he was in bad luck's way. only one person could have been more unwelcome just at the moment than mr. lawrence had been, and that person had actually followed hard on mr. lawrence's heels. as is the way with men of his class, who frequent the highways and the byways of great cities, mr. paxton had a very miscellaneous acquaintance. among them were not a few officers of police. he had rather prided himself on this fact--as men of his sort are apt to do. but now he almost wished that he had never been conscious that such a thing as a policeman existed in the world; for there--at the moment when he was least wanted--standing at his side, was one of the most famous of london detectives; a man who was high in the confidence of the dignitaries at the "yard"; a man, too, with whom he had had one or two familiar passages, and whom he could certainly not treat with the same stand-off air with which he had treated mr. lawrence. he understood now why the associates had stood not on the order of their going; it was not fear of him, as in his conceit he had supposed, which had sped their heels; it was fear of john ireland. gentlemen of mr. lawrence's kidney were pretty sure to know a man of mr. ireland's reputation, at any rate by sight. the "office" had been given him that a "tec." was in the neighbourhood, and mr. lawrence had taken himself away just in time, as he hoped, to escape recognition. that that hope was vain was obvious from what john ireland had said. in spite of his disclaiming any knowledge of a man named lawrence, mr. paxton had little doubt that both men had been "spotted." a wild impulse came to him. he seemed to be drifting, each second, into deeper and deeper waters. why not take advantage of what might, after all, be another rope thrown out to him by chance? why not make a clean breast of everything to ireland? why not go right before it was, indeed, too late--return her diamonds to the sorrowing duchess, and make an end of his wild dreams of fortune? no; that he would--he could not do. at least not yet. he had committed himself to daisy, to miss wentworth. there was plenty of time. he could, if he chose, play the part of harlequin, and with a touch of his magic wand at any time change the scene. he even tried to flatter himself that he might play the part of an amateur detective, and track the criminals on original--and fabian!--lines of his own; but self-flattery of that sort was too gross even for his digestion. "nice affair that of the duchess of datchet's diamonds." the glass almost dropped from mr. paxton's hand. the utterance of the words at that identical instant was of course but a coincidence; but it was a coincidence of a kind which made it extremely difficult for him to retain even a vestige of self-control. fortunately, perhaps, mr. ireland appeared to be unconscious of his agitation. putting his glass down on the bar-counter, he twisted it round and round by the stem. he tried to modulate his voice into a tone of complete indifference. "the duchess of datchet's diamonds? what do you mean?" "haven't you heard?" mr. paxton hesitated. he felt that it might be just as well not to feign too much innocence in dealing with john ireland. "saw something about it as i came down in the train." "i thought you had. came down from town?" "yes--just for the run." "came in the same train with mr. lawrence?" "i rather fancy i did." "he was in the next compartment to yours, wasn't he?" mr. ireland's manner was almost ostentatiously careless, and he seemed to be entirely occupied in the contents of his glass, but for some reason mr. paxton was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable. "was he? i wasn't aware of it. i noticed him on the platform when the train got in." "with his friend?" "yes--the other man was with him." "went into the refreshment-room with them, didn't you, and had a drink?" mr. paxton turned and looked at the speaker; mr. ireland seemed, as it were, to studiously refrain from looking at him. "upon my word, ireland, you seem to have kept a keen eye upon my movements." "i came down by that train too; you didn't appear to notice me." mr. paxton wished--he scarcely knew why, but he did wish--that he had. he admitted that the detective had gone unrecognised, and there was a pause, broken by mr. ireland. "i am inclined to think that i know where those diamonds are." odd how conscience--or is it the want of experience?--plays havoc with the nervous system of the amateur in crime. ordinarily, mr. paxton was scarcely conscious that he had such things as nerves; he was about as cool an individual as you would be likely to meet. but since lighting on those sparkling pebbles in somebody else's gladstone bag, he had been one mass of nerves, and of exposed nerves, too. like some substance which is in the heart of a thunderstorm, and which is peculiarly sensitive to the propinquity of electricity, he had been receiving a continual succession of shocks. when mr. ireland said in that unexpected and, as mr. paxton felt, uncalled-for fashion that he thought that he knew where those diamonds were, mr. paxton was the recipient of another shock upon the spot. half a dozen times it had been with an effort that he had just succeeded in not betraying himself; he had to make another and a similar effort then. "you think that you know where those diamonds are?" "i do!" there was silence; then the officer of the law went on. mr. paxton wished within himself that he would not. "you're a sporting man, mr. paxton. i wouldn't mind making a bet that they're not far off! there's a chance for you!" "oh!" it was not at all a sort of bet which mr. paxton was disposed to take, nor a kind of chance he relished. "thanks; but it's a thing about which you're likely to know more than i do; i'm not betting. are you on the job?" "half the yard is on the job already." silence once more; then again mr. ireland. he stood holding his glass in his hand, twiddling it between his finger and thumb, and all his faculties seemed to be engaged in making an exhaustive examination of the liquor it contained; but mr. paxton almost felt as if his voice had been the voice of fate. "the man who has those diamonds will find that they won't be of the slightest use to him. he'll find that they'll be as difficult to get rid of as the koh-i-nor. like the chap who stole the gainsborough, he'll find himself in possession of a white elephant. every dealer of reputation, in every part of the world, who is likely to deal in such things knows the datchet diamonds as well as, if not better than, the duke himself. the chap who has them will have to sell them to a fence. that fence will give him no more for them than if they were the commonest trumpery. and for this very good reason--the fence will either have to lock them up, and bequeath them to his great-grandson, on the offchance of his having face enough to put them on the market; or else he will have to break them up and offer them to the trade as if they were the ordinary stones of commerce, just turned up by the shovel. if i were on the cross, mr. paxton, i wouldn't have those sparklers if they were offered me for nothing. i should be able to get very little for them; the odds are they would quod me; and you may take this from me, that for the man--i don't care who he is, first offender or not--who is found with the duchess of datchet's diamonds in his possession, it's a lifer!" mr. paxton was silent for a moment or two after the detective had ceased. he took another drink; it might have been that his lips stood in need of being moistened. "you think it would be a lifer, do you?" "i'm certain. after all the jewel thieves who have got clean off, if a judge does get this gentleman in front of him--which i think he will!--he'll make it as hot for him as ever he can. i shouldn't like to see you in such a position, mr. paxton, i assure you." again mr. paxton raised his glass to his lips. "i hope that you won't, mr. ireland, with all my heart." "i hope i sha'n't, mr. paxton. you know, perhaps as well as i do, it's an awful position for a man to stand in. what did you say your friend's name was--lawrence? it's queer that i should have thought that i knew his face, and yet i don't think that i ever knew any one of that name. by the way, i fancy that you once told me that you didn't mind having a try at anything in which there was money to be made. now, if you could give me a hint as to the whereabouts of the duchess's diamonds, you might find that there was money in that." as he emptied his glass mr. paxton looked the detective in the face. "i wish i could, john--i'd be on for the deal! only, i'm sorry that i can't." chapter vi the adventures of a night "there was something about mr. john ireland's manner which i couldn't quite make out." this was what mr. paxton told himself as he came out of the bodega. he turned down ship street, on to the front, meaning to stroll along the king's road to his hotel. as he came out of the hotel his eye caught a glimpse of a loiterer standing in the shadow of a door higher up the street. when he had gone a little distance along the king's road, glancing over his shoulder, he perceived that some one was standing at the corner of ship street, with his face turned in his direction. "it occurs to me as being just possible that the events of the night are going to form a fitting climax to a day of adventure. that ireland can have the slightest inkling of how the case really stands is certainly impossible; and yet, if i didn't know it was impossible, i should feel just a trifle uneasy. his manner's queer. i wonder if he has any suspicions of lawrence, or of lawrence's friend. that he knew the pair i'll bet my boots. plainly, lawrence is not the fellow's real name; it is simply the name by which he chose to be known to daisy. if ireland has cause to suspect the precious pair, seeing me with them twice, under what may seem to him to be curious circumstances, may cause him to ask himself what the deuce i am doing in such a galley. undoubtedly, there was something in mr. ireland's manner which suggested that, in his opinion, i knew more about the matter than i altogether ought to." again mr. paxton glanced over his shoulder. about a hundred yards behind him a man advanced in his direction. looking across the road, on the seaward side, he perceived that another man was there--a man who, as soon as mr. paxton turned his head, stopped short, seeming to be wholly absorbed in watching the sea. the man immediately behind him, however, was still advancing. mr. paxton hesitated. a fine rain was falling. it was late for brighton. except these two, not a creature was in sight. "i wonder if either of those gentlemen is shadowing me, and, if so, which?" he turned up west street. when he had gone some way up it he peeped to see. a man was coming up the same side of the street on which he was. "there's number one." he went farther; then looked again. the same man was coming on; at the corner of the street a second man was loitering. "there's number two. unless i am mistaken that is the gentleman who on a sudden found himself so interested in the sea. the question is, whether they are both engaged by the same person, or if they are in separate employ. i have no doubt whatever that one of them defies the chances of catching cold in the interests of mr. lawrence. until the little mystery connected with the disappearance of his gladstone bag is cleared up, if he can help it, he is scarcely likely to allow me to escape his constant supervision. for him i am prepared; but to be attended also by a myrmidon of ireland's is, i confess, a prospect which i do not relish." he trudged up the hill, pondering as he went. the rain was falling faster. he pulled his coat collar up about his ears. he had no umbrella. "this is for me an experience of an altogether novel kind, and uncommonly pleasant weather it is in which to make its acquaintance. one obvious reason why mr. lawrence should have me shadowed is because of the strong desire which he doubtless feels to know where it is that i am staying. the natural deduction being that where i stay, there also stays my gladstone bag. the odds are that mr. lawrence feels a quite conceivable curiosity to know in what the difference exactly consists between my gladstone bag, and the one from which he, as he puts it, for a time has parted. why john ireland should wish to have my movements dogged i do not understand; and i am bound to add i would much rather not know either." mr. paxton had reached the top of west street. the man on the same side of the road still plodded along. on the opposite side of the street, much farther behind, came the other man too. mr. paxton formed an immediate resolution. "i have no intention of tramping the streets of brighton to see which of us can be tired first. i'm off indoors. the gladstone, with its contents, i'll confide to the landlord of the hotel, to hold in his safe keeping. then we'll see what will happen." he swept round the corner into north street, turning his face again towards the front. as he expected, first one follower, then the other, appeared. "it's the second beggar who bothers me. i wonder what it means?" arrived at the hotel, mr. paxton went straight to the office. he asked for the landlord. he was told that the landlord did not reside in the building, but that he could see the manager. he saw the manager. "i have property of considerable value in my gladstone bag. have you a strong room in which you could keep it for me till the morning?" the manager replied in the affirmative, adding that he was always pleased to take charge of valuables which guests might commit to his charge. mr. paxton went to his bedroom. he unlocked the gladstone bag--again with some difficulty--unwrapped the evening paper which served as an unworthy covering for such priceless treasures. there they were--a sight to gladden a connoisseur's heart; to make the blood in his veins run faster! how they sparkled, and glittered, and gleamed! how they threw off coruscations, each one a fresh revelation of beauty, with every movement of his hands and of his eyes. he would get nothing for them--was that what john ireland said? nothing, at any rate, but the lowest market price, as for the commonest gems. john ireland's correctness remained to be proved. there were ways and means in which a man in his position--a man of reputation and of the world--could dispose of such merchandise, of which perhaps john ireland, with all his knowledge of the shady side of life, had never dreamed. putting the stones back into the bag, mr. paxton took the bag down into the office. then he went into the smoking-room. it was empty when he entered. but hardly had he settled himself in a chair, than some one else came in, a short, broad-shouldered individual, with piercing black eyes and shaven chin and cheeks. mr. paxton did not fancy his appearance; the man's manner, bearing, and attire were somewhat rough; he looked rather like a prizefighter than the sort of guest one would expect to encounter in an hotel of standing. still less was mr. paxton pleased with the familiarity of his address. the man, placing himself in the adjoining chair, plunged into the heart of a conversation as if they had been the friends of years. after making one or two remarks, which were of so extremely confidential a nature that mr. paxton hardly knew whether to smile at them as the mere gaucheries of an ill-bred person, or to openly resent them as an intentional impertinence, the man began to subject him to a species of cross-examination which caused him to eye the presumptuous stranger with suddenly aroused but keen suspicion. "stopping here?" "it seems that i am, doesn't it?" "on what floor?" "why do you ask?" "on the third floor, ain't you?" "why should you suppose that i am on the third floor?" "i don't suppose nothing. perhaps you're on the fourth. are you on the fourth?" "the world is full of possibilities." the man took a pull or two at his pipe; then, wholly unabashed, began again-- "what's your number?" "my number?" "what's the number of your room?" "i see." "well--what is it?" "what is what?" "what is what! why, what's the number of your room?" "precisely." "well, you haven't told me what it is." "no." "aren't you going to tell me?" "i am afraid that i must wish you good-night." rising, mr. paxton moved towards the door. turning in his chair, the stranger stared at him with an air of grievance. "you don't seem very polite, not answering a civil question when you're asked one." mr. paxton only smiled. "good-night." he could hear the stranger grumbling to himself, even after the door was closed. he asked the porter in the hall casually who the man might be. "i don't know, sir. he came in just after you. i don't think i have ever seen him before. he has taken a bed for the night." mr. paxton went up the stairs, smiling to himself as he went. "they are hot on the scent. mr. lawrence evidently has no intention of allowing the grass to grow under his feet. he means, if the thing is possible, to have a sight of that gladstone bag, at any rate by deputy. i may be wrong, but the deputy whom i fancy he has selected is an individual possessed of such a small amount of tact--whatever other virtues he may have--that i hardly think i am. in any case it is probably just as well that that gladstone bag sleeps downstairs, while i sleep up." the door of mr. paxton's bedroom was furnished with a bolt as well as a lock. he carefully secured both. "i don't think that any one will be able to get through that door without arousing me. and even should any enterprising person succeed in doing so, i fear that his success will go no farther. his labours will be unrewarded." mr. paxton was master of a great art--the art of being able to go to sleep when he wished. practically, in bed or out of it, whenever he chose, he could treat himself to the luxury of a slumber; and also, when he chose, he could wake out of it. this very desirable accomplishment did not fail him then. as soon as he was between the sheets he composed himself to rest; and in an infinitesimally short space of time rest came to him. he slept as peacefully as if he had not had a care upon his mind. and his sleep continued far into the night. but, profound and restful though it was, it was light. the slightest unusual sound was sufficient to awake him. it was indeed a sound which would have been inaudible to nine sleepers out of ten which actually did arouse him. instantly his eyes were wide open and his senses keenly on the alert. he lay quite still in bed, listening. and as he listened he smiled. "i thought so. my friend of the smoking-room, unless i err. trying to turn the key in the lock with a pair of nippers, from outside. it won't do, my man. you are a little clumsy at your work. your clumsiness betrayed you. you should get a firm hold of the key before you begin to turn, or your nippers are apt to slip, and when they slip they make a noise." mr. paxton permitted no sign to escape him which could show the intruder who was endeavouring to make an unceremonious entrance into the apartment that he had ceased to sleep. he continued to lie quite still and to listen, enjoying what he heard. either the lock was rusty or the key refractory, or, as mr. paxton said, the operator clumsy, but certainly he did take what seemed to be an unconscionable length of time in performing what is supposed to be a rudimentary function in the burglar's art. he fumbled and fumbled, time after time, in vain. one could hear in the prevailing silence the tiny click which his nippers made each time they lost their hold. some three or four minutes probably elapsed before a slight grating sound--which seemed to show that the lock was rusty--told that, after all, the key had been turned. mr. paxton almost chuckled. "now for the scattering of the labourer's hopes of harvest!" the person who was outside the door, satisfied that the lock had been opened, firmly, yet no doubt gently, grasped the handle of the door. he turned it. with all his gentleness it grated. one could hear that he gave it an inward push, only to discover that the bolt was shot inside. and that same moment mr. paxton's voice rang out, clear and cold-- "who's there?" no answer. mr. paxton's sharp ears imagined that they could just detect the shuffling along the passage of retreating footsteps. "is any one at the door?" still no reply. mr. paxton's next words were uttered _sotto voce_ with a grin. "i don't fancy that there is any one outside the door just now; nor that to-night there is likely to be again. i'll just jump out and undo the result of that poor man's patient labours." re-locking the door, mr. paxton once more composed himself to rest, and again sleep came to him almost in the instant that he sought it. and for the second time he was aroused by a sound so faint that it would hardly have penetrated to the average sleeper's senses. on this occasion the interruption was unexpected. he turned himself slightly in bed, so that he might be in a better position for listening. "what's that? if it's my friend of the smoking-room again, he's a persevering man. it doesn't sound as if it were coming from the door; it sounds more as if it were coming from the window--and, by george, it is! what does it mean? it occurs to me that this is a case in which it might be advisable that i should make personal inquiries." slipping out of bed, mr. paxton thrust his legs into a pair of trousers. he took a revolver from underneath his pillow. "it's lucky," he said to himself, as his fingers closed upon the weapon, "that my prophetic soul told me that this was a plaything which might be likely to come in handy." in his bare feet he moved towards the window, holding the revolver in his hand. the room was in darkness, but mr. paxton was aware that in front of the window stood the dressing-table. he knew also that the window itself was screened, not only by the blind, but by a pair of heavy curtains. placing himself by the side of the dressing-table, he gingerly moved one of the curtains, with a view of ascertaining if his doing so would enable him to see what was going on without. one thing the movement of the curtains did reveal to him, that there was a dense fog out of doors. the blind did not quite fit the window, and enough space was left at the side to show that the lights in the king's road were veiled by a thick white mist. mr. paxton moved both the blind and the curtain sufficiently aside to enable him to see all that there was to be seen, without, however, unnecessarily exposing himself. for a moment or so that all was nothing. then, gradually becoming accustomed to the light, or want of it, he saw something which, while little enough in itself, was yet sufficient to have given a nervous person a considerable shock. something outside seemed to reach from top to bottom of the window. at first mr. paxton could not make out what it was. then he understood. "a ladder--by george, it is! it would almost seem as if my friend of the smoking-room had given his friends outside the 'office,' and that they are taking advantage of the fog to endeavor to succeed where he has failed. if i had expected this kind of thing, i should have preferred to sleep a little nearer to the sky. instead of the first floor, it should have been the third, or even the fourth, beyond the reach of ladders. messrs. lawrence and co. seem resolved to beat the iron while it's hot. the hunt becomes distinctly keen. it is perhaps only natural to expect that they should be anxious; but, so far as i am concerned, a little of this sort of thing suffices. they are slow at getting to work, considering how awkward they might find it if some one were to come along and twig that ladder. hallo, the fun begins! unless my ears deceive me, some one's coming now." mr. paxton's ears did not deceive him. even as he spoke a dark something appeared on the ladder above the level of the window. it was a man's head. the head was quickly followed by a body. the acute vision of the unseen watcher could dimly make out, against the white background of fog, the faint outline of a man's figure. this figure did an unexpected thing. without any sort of warning, the shutter of a dark lantern was suddenly opened, and the light thrown on the window in such a way that it shone full into mr. paxton's eyes. that gentleman retained his presence of mind. he withdrew his head, while keeping his hold on the blind; if he had let it go the movement could scarcely have failed to have been perceived. the light vanished almost as quickly as it came. it was followed by a darkness which seemed even denser than before. it was a second or two before mr. paxton could adapt his dazzled eyes to the restoration of the blackness. when he did so, he perceived that the man on the ladder was leaning over towards the window. if the lantern had been flashed on him just then, it would have been seen that an ugly look was on mr. paxton's countenance. "you startled me, you brute, with your infernal lantern, and now i've half a mind to startle you." mr. paxton made his half-mind a whole one. he brought his revolver to the level of his elbow; he pointed it at the window, and he fired. the figure on the ladder disappeared with the rapidity of a jack-in-the-box. whether the man had fallen or not, there was for the moment no evidence to show. mr. paxton dragged the dressing-table away, threw up the window, and looked out. the mist came streaming in. in the distance could be heard the stampede of feet. plainly two or three persons were making off as fast as their heels would carry them. an imperious knocking came at the bedroom door. "anything the matter in there?" mr. paxton threw the door wide open. a porter was standing in the lighted corridor. "a good deal's the matter. burglary's the matter." "burglary?" "yes, burglary. i caught a man in the very act of opening my window, so i had a pop at him. he appears to have got off; but his ladder he has left behind." other people came into the room, among them the manager. an examination of the premises was made from without. the man had escaped; but the precipitancy of his descent was evidenced by the fact that his lantern, falling from his grasp, had been shattered to fragments on the ground. the fragments he had not stayed to gather. still less had he and his associates stood on the order of their going sufficiently long to enable them to remove the ladder. chapter vii the datchet diamonds are placed in safe custody when the morning came, and mr. paxton found himself being cross-examined by the manager, with every probability of his, later on, having to undergo an examination by the police, he was as taciturn as possible. although he was by no means sorry that he had fired that shot, and so effectually frightened the man upon the ladder, he would infinitely rather that less fuss had been made about it afterwards. one thing mr. paxton had decided to do before he left his bedroom. he had decided to remove the datchet diamonds to a place of safety. that mr. lawrence and his friends had a very shrewd notion that they were in his possession was plain; that they were disposed to stick at nothing which would enable them to get hold of them again was, if possible, plainer. mr. paxton was resolute that they should not have them, who ever did. it happened that, in his more prosperous days, he had rented one of the chancery lane deposit company's safes. nor was the term of his tenancy at an end. he determined to do a bold, and, one might add, an impudent thing. he would carry the duchess' diamonds back with him to town, lock them in the safe he rented, and then, whatever might happen, nobody but himself would ever be able to have access to them again. he had the gladstone bag brought up to his bedroom, removed from it the precious parcel, returned the bag itself to the manager's keeping, and, declining to have his morning meal at the hotel, went up by the pullman train to town, and breakfasted on board. he flattered himself that whoever succeeded in taking from him the diamonds before his arrival with them in chancery lane, would have to be a very clever person. still, he did not manage to reach his journey's end without having had one or two little adventures by the way. he drove up from the hotel to the station in a hansom cab. as he stepped into the cab he noticed, standing on the kerbstone a little to the left of the hotel entrance, a man who wore his billycock a good deal on the side of his head, and who had a cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. he should not have particularly observed the fellow had not the man, as soon as he found mr. paxton's eyes turned in his direction, performed a right-about-face on his heels, and presented an almost ostentatious view of the middle of the back. when mr. paxton's cab rattled into the central yard, and mr. paxton proceeded to step out from it on to the pavement, another hansom came dashing up behind his own, and from it there alighted the man who had turned his back on him in front of the hotel. as mr. paxton took his ticket this man was at his side. and, having purchased his morning paper, as he strolled up the platform towards the train, he noticed that the fellow was only a few steps in his rear. there seemed to be no reasonable room for doubt that the man was acting as his shadow. no one likes to feel that he is under espionage. and mr. paxton in particular felt that just recently he had endured enough of that kind of thing to last--if his own tastes were to be consulted--for the remainder of his life. he decided to put a stop there and then to, at any rate, this man's persecution. suddenly standing still, wheeling sharply round, mr. paxton found himself face to face with the individual with his hat on the side of his head. "are you following me?" mr. paxton's manner as he asked the question, though polite, meant mischief. the other seemed to be a little taken aback. then, with an impudent air, taking what was left of his cigar out of his mouth, he blew a volume of smoke full into mr. paxton's eyes. "were you speaking to me?" mr. paxton's fingers itched to knock the smoker down. but situated as he was, a row in public just then would have been sheer madness. he adopted what was probably an even more effective plan. he signalled to a passing official. "guard!" the man approached. "this person has been following me from my hotel. be so good as to call a constable. his proceedings require explanation." the man began to bluster. "what do you mean by saying i've been following you? who are you, i should like to know? can't any one move about except yourself? following you, indeed! it's more likely that you've been following me!" a constable came up. mr. paxton addressed him in his cool, incisive tones. "officer, this person has followed me from my hotel to the station; from the station to the booking-office; from the booking-office to the bookstall; and now he is following me from the bookstall to the train. i have some valuable property on me, with which fact he is possibly acquainted. since he is a complete stranger to me, i should be obliged if you would ask him what is the cause of the unusual interest which he appears to take in my movements." the man with the cigar became apologetic. "the gentleman's quite mistaken; i'm not following him; i wouldn't do such a thing! i'm going to town by this train, and it seems that this gentleman's going too, and perhaps that's what's made him think that i was following. if there's any offence, i'm sure that i beg pardon." the man held out his hand--it was unclean and it was big--as if expecting mr. paxton to grasp it. mr. paxton, however, moved away addressing a final observation to the constable as he went. "officer, be so good as to keep an eye upon that man." mr. paxton entered the breakfast carriage. what became of the too attentive stranger he neither stopped to see nor cared to inquire. he saw no more of him; that was all he wanted. as the train rushed towards town he ate his breakfast and he read his paper. the chief topic of interest in the journals of the day was the robbery on the previous afternoon of the duchess of datchet's diamonds. it filled them to the almost complete exclusion of other news of topical importance. there were illustrations of some of the principal jewels which had been stolen, together with anecdotes touching on their history--very curious some of them were! the dukes of datchet seemed to have gathered those beautiful gems, if not in ways which were dark, then occasionally, at any rate, in ways which were, to say the least of it, peculiar. those glittering pebbles seemed to have been mixed up with a good deal of trickery and fraud and crime. the papers gave the most minute description of the more important stones. even the merest novice in the knowledge of brilliants, if he had mastered those details, could scarcely fail to recognise them if ever they came his way. it appeared that few even royal collections possessed so large a number of really fine examples. their valuation at a quarter of a million was the purest guesswork. the present duke would not have accepted for them twice that sum. half a million! five hundred thousand pounds! at even per cent.--and who does not want more for his money than a miserable per cent.?-- that was fifteen thousand pounds a year. three hundred pounds a week. more than forty pounds a day. over three pounds for every working hour. and mr. paxton had it in his pockets! it was not strange that mr. lawrence and his associates should betray such lively anxiety to regain possession of such a sum as that; it would have been strange if they had not! it was a sum worth having; worth fighting for; worth risking something for as well. and yet there was something; indeed, there was a good deal, which could be said for the other side of the question. mr. paxton owned to himself that there was. he could not honestly--if it were still possible to speak of honesty in connection with a gentleman who had launched himself on such a venture--lay his hand upon his heart, and say that he was happier since he had discovered what were the contents of somebody else's gladstone bag. on the contrary, if he could have blotted out of his life the few hours which had intervened since the afternoon of the previous day, he would have done so, even yet, with a willing hand. nor was this feeling lessened by an incident which took place on his arrival at london bridge. if he were of an adventurous turn of mind, evidently he could not have adopted a more certain means of gratifying his peculiar taste than by retaining possession of the duchess's diamonds. adventures were being heaped on him galore. as he was walking down the platform, looking for a likely cab, some one came rushing up against him from behind with such violence as to send him flying forward on his face. two roughly dressed men assisted him to rise. but, while undergoing their kindly ministrations, it occurred to him, in spite of his half-dazed condition, that they were evincing a livelier interest in the contents of his pockets than in his regaining his perpendicular. he managed to shake them off, however, before their interest had been carried to too generous a length. the inevitable crowd had gathered. a man, attired as a countryman, was volubly explaining--with a volubility which was hardly suggestive of a yokel--that he was late for market, and was hurrying along without looking where he was going, when he stumbled against the gentleman, and was so unfortunate as to knock him over. he was profuse, and indeed almost lachrymose, in his apologies for the accident which his clumsiness had occasioned. mr. paxton said nothing. he did not see what there was to say. he dusted himself down, adjusted his hat, got into a cab and drove away. drove straight away to chancery lane. and, when he had deposited the duchess of datchet's diamonds in his safe, and had left them behind him in that impregnable fortress, where, if the statements of the directors could be believed, fire could not penetrate, nor water, nor rust, nor thieves break through and steal, he felt as if a load had been lifted off his mind. chapter viii in the moment of his success diamonds worth a quarter of a million! and yet already they were beginning to hang like a millstone round mr. paxton's neck. the relief which he felt at having got rid of them from his actual person proved to be but temporary. all day they haunted him. having done the one thing which he had come to town to do, he found himself unoccupied. he avoided the neighbourhood of the stock exchange, and of his usual haunts, for reasons. eries were still declining. the difference against him had assumed a portentous magnitude. possibly, confiding brokers were seeking for him high and low, anxious for security which would protect them against the necessity of having to make good his losses. no, just then the city was not for him. discretion, of a sort, suggested his confining himself to the west-end of town. unfortunately, in this case, the west-end meant loitering about bars and similar stimulating places. he drank not only to kill time but also to drown his thoughts, and the more he tried to drown them, the more they floated on the surface. what a fool he had been--what an egregious fool! how he had exchanged his talents for nothing, and for less than nothing. how he had thrown away his prospects, his opportunities, his whole life, his all! and now, by way of a climax, he had been guilty of a greater folly than any which had gone before. he had sold more than his birthright for less--much less--than a mess of pottage. he had lost his soul for the privilege of being able to hang a millstone round his neck--cast honour to the winds for the sake of encumbering himself with a burden which would crush him lower and lower, until it laid him level with the dust. wherever he went, the story of the robbery met his eyes. the latest news of it was announced on the placards of the evening papers. newsboys bawled it in his ears. he had only to listen to what was being said by the other frequenters of the bars against which he lounged to learn that it was the topic of conversation on every tongue. all england, all europe, indeed, one might say that the whole of the civilised world was on tiptoe to catch the man who had done this thing. as john ireland had said, he might as soon think of being able to sell the diamonds as of being able to sell the koh-i-nor. every one who knew anything at all of precious stones was on the look-out for them, from pole to pole. during his lifetime he would not even venture to attempt their disposal, any attempt of the kind would inevitably involve his being instantaneously branded as a felon. last night, when he left london, he had had something over two hundred pounds in his pockets. except debts, and certain worthless securities, for which no one would give him a shilling, it was all he had left in the world. it was not a large sum, but it was sufficient to take him to the other side of the globe, and to keep him there until he had had time to turn himself round, and to find some means of earning for himself his daily bread. he had proposed to go on to southampton this morning, thence straight across the seas. now what was it he proposed to do? every day that he remained in england meant making further inroads into his slender capital. at the rate at which he was living, it would rapidly dwindle all away. then how did he intend to replenish it? by selling the duchess's diamonds? nonsense! he told himself, with bitter frankness, that such an idea was absolute nonsense; that such a prospect was as shadowy as, and much more dangerous than, the proverbial mirage of the desert. he returned by an afternoon train to brighton, in about as black a mood as he could be. he sat in a corner of a crowded compartment--for some reason he rather shirked travelling alone--communing with the demons of despair who seemed to be the tenants of his brain; fighting with his own particular wild beasts. arrived at brighton without adventure, he drove straight to makell's hotel. as he advanced into the hall, the manager came towards him out of the office. "good evening, mr. paxton. did you authorise any one to come and fetch away your bag?" "no. why?" "some fellow came and said that you had sent him for your gladstone bag." "i did nothing of the kind. did you give it him?" the manager smiled. "hardly. you had confided it to my safe keeping, and i was scarcely likely to hand it to a stranger who was unable to present a more sufficient authority than he appeared to have. we make it a rule that articles entrusted to our charge are returned to the owners only, on personal application." "what sort of a man was he to look at?" "oh, a shabby-looking chap, very much down at heel indeed, middle-aged; the sort of man whom you would expect would run messages." "tell me, as exactly as you can, what it was he said." "he said that mr. paxton had sent him for his gladstone bag. i asked him where you were. he said you were at medina villas, and you wanted your bag. you had given him a shilling to come for it, and you were to give him another shilling when he took it back. i told him our rule referring to property deposited with us by guests, and he made off." medina villas? miss strong resided in medina villas, and miss wentworth; with which fact mr. lawrence was possibly acquainted. once more in this latest dash for the bag mr. paxton seemed to trace that gentleman's fine roman hand. he thanked the manager for the care which he had taken of his interests. "i'm glad that you sent the scamp empty away, but, between you and me, the loss wouldn't have been a very serious one if you had given him what he wanted. i took all that the bag contained of value up with me to town, and left it there." the manager looked at him, as mr. paxton felt, a trifle scrutinisingly, as if he could not altogether make him out. "there seems to be a sort of dead set made at you. first, the attempted burglary last night--which is a kind of thing which has never before been known in the whole history of the hotel--and now this impudent rascal trying to make out that you had authorised him to receive your gladstone bag. one might almost think that you were carrying something about with you which was of unique importance, and that the fact of your doing so had somehow become known to a considerable proportion of our criminal population." mr. paxton laughed. he had the bag carried upstairs, telling himself as he went that it was already more than time that his sojourn at makell's hotel should be brought to a conclusion. he ate a solitary dinner, lingering over it, though he had but a scanty appetite, as long as he could, in order to while away the time until the hour came for meeting daisy. towards the end of the meal, sick to death of his own thoughts, for sheer want of something else to do, he took up an evening paper, which he had brought into the room with him, and which was lying on a chair at his side, and began to glance at it. as he idly skimmed its columns, all at once a paragraph in the city article caught his eye. he read the words with a feeling of surprise; then, with increasing amazement, he read them again. "the boom in the shares of the trumpit gold mine continues. on the strength of a report that the reef which has been struck is of importance, the demand for them, even at present prices, exceeded the supply. when our report left, buyers were offering £ --the highest price of the day." after subjecting the paragraph to a second reading, mr. paxton put the paper down upon his knees, and gasped for breath. it was a mistake--a canard--quite incredible. trumpits selling at £ --it could not be! he would have been glad, quite lately, to have sold his for d each; only he was conscious that even at that price he would have found no buyer. £ indeed! it was a price of which, at one time, he had dreamed--but it had remained a dream. he read the paragraph again. so far as the paper was concerned, there seemed to be no doubt about it--there it was in black and white. the paper was one of the highest standing, of unquestionable authority, not given to practical jokes--especially in the direction of quotations in its city article. could the thing be true? he felt that something was tingling all over his body. on a sudden, his pulses had begun to beat like sledge-hammers. he rose from his seat, just as the waiter was placing still another plate in front of him, and, to the obvious surprise of that well-trained functionary, he marched away without a word. he made for the smoking-room. he knew that he should find the papers there. and he found them, morning and evening papers--even some of the papers of the day before--as many as he wished. he ransacked them all. each, with one accord, told the same tale. the thing might be incredible, but it was true! while he was gambling in eries, losing all, and more than all, that he had; while he was gambling in stolen jewels, losing all that was left of his honour too, a movement had been taking place in the market which was making his fortune for him all the time, and he had not noticed it. the thing seemed to him to be almost miraculous. and certainly it was not the least of the miracles which lately had come his way. some two years before a friend had put him on--as friends do put us on--to a real good thing--the trumpit gold mine. the friend professed to have special private information about this mine, and mr. paxton believed that he had. he still believed that he thought he had. mr. paxton was not a greenhorn, but he was a gambler, which now and then is about as bad. he looked at the thing all round--in the light of his friend's special information!--as far as he could, and as time would permit, and it seemed to him to be good enough for a plunge. the shares just then were at a discount--a considerable discount. from one point of view it was the time to buy them--and he did. he got together pretty well every pound he could lay his hands on, and bought ten thousand--bought them out and out, to hold--and went straight off and told miss strong he had made his fortune. it was only the mistake of a word--what he ought to have told her was that he had lost it. the certainly expected find of yellow ore did not come off, nor did the looked-for rise in the shares come off either. they continued at a discount, and went still lower. purchasers could not be discovered at any price. it was a bitter blow. almost, if not quite, as bitter a blow to miss strong as to himself. indeed, mr. paxton had felt ever since as if miss strong had never entirely forgiven him for having made such a fool of her. he might--he could not help fancying that some such line of reasoning had occupied her attention more than once--before telling her of the beautiful chickens which were shortly about to be hatched, at least have waited till the eggs were laid. he had been too much engaged in other matters to pay attention to quotations for shares, which had long gone unquoted, and which he had, these many days, regarded as a loss past praying for. it appeared that rumours had come of gold in paying quantities having been found; that the rumours had gathered strength; that, in consequence, the shares had risen, until, on a sudden, the market was in a frenzy--as occasionally the market is apt to be--and ten pounds a-piece was being offered. ten thousand at ten pounds a-piece--why, it was a hundred thousand pounds! a fortune in itself! by the time mr. paxton had attained to something like an adequate idea of the situation, he was half beside himself with excitement. he looked at his watch--it was time for meeting daisy. he hurried into the hall, crammed on his hat, and strode into the street. scarcely had he taken a dozen steps, when some one struck him a violent blow from behind. as he turned to face his assailant, an arm was thrust round his neck, and what felt like a damp cloth was forced against his mouth. he was borne off his feet, and, in spite of his struggles, was conveyed with surprising quickness into a cab which was drawn up against the kerb. chapter ix a proposal of marriage "it's too bad of him!" miss strong felt that it was much too bad! twenty minutes after the appointed time, and still no signs of mr. paxton. the weather was, if anything, worse even than the night before. the mist was more pronounced; a chillier breeze was in the air; a disagreeable drizzle showed momentary symptoms of falling faster. the pier was nearly deserted; it was not the kind of evening to tempt pleasure-seekers out. miss strong had been at the place of meeting in front of time. after mr. paxton's departure on the previous evening, between miss wentworth and herself there had been certain passages. bitter words had been said--particularly by miss strong. in consequence, for the first time on record, the friends had parted in anger. nor had the quarrel been made up afterwards. on the contrary, all day long the atmosphere had been charged with electricity. miss strong was conscious that in certain of the things which she had said she had wronged her friend, as, she assured herself, her friend had wronged her lover. it is true two wrongs do not make a right; but miss strong had made up her mind that she would not apologise to miss wentworth for what she had said to her, until miss wentworth had apologised for what she had said to cyril. as miss wentworth showed no disposition to do anything of the kind, the position was more than a trifle strained. so strained indeed that miss strong, after confining herself to the bedroom for most of the day, rushed out of the house a full hour before it was time for meeting cyril, declaring to herself that anything--mist, wind, or rain--was better than remaining prisoned any longer under the same roof which sheltered an unfriendly friend. under such circumstances, to her, it seemed a cardinal crime on cyril's part that he should actually be twenty minutes late. "after what he said last night, about not keeping me waiting for a second--considering the way in which he said it--i did think that he would be punctual. how can he expect me to trust him in larger things, if he does not keep faith with me in small? if anything had happened to detain him, he might have let me know in time." the indignant lady did not stay to reflect that she had left home unnecessarily early, and that an explanation of the gentleman's absence might, even now, be awaiting her there. besides, twenty minutes is not long. but perhaps in the case of a lovers' rendezvous, by some magnifying process proper to such occasions, twenty minutes may assume the dimensions of an hour. "i'll go once more up and down the pier, and then if he hasn't come i'll go straight home. how charlie will laugh at me, and triumph, and say 'i told you so!' oh, cyril, how unkind you are, not to come when you promised! i don't care, but i do know this, that if charlie wentworth is not careful what she says, i will never speak to her again--never--as long as i live!" it seemed as if the young lady did not quite know whether to be the more angry with her lover or her friend. she went up the pier; then started to return. as she came back a man wearing a mackintosh advanced to her with uplifted cap and outstretched hand. "miss strong!" it was mr. lawrence. the last man whom, just then, she would have wished to see. could anything have been more unfortunate? what would cyril think if, again, he found them there together. she decided to get rid of the man without delay. but the thing was easier decided on than done. especially as mr. lawrence immediately said something which caused her to postpone his dismissal longer than she had intended. "i saw mr. paxton this afternoon, in town." he had fallen in quite naturally by her side. she had moderated her pace, wishing to rid herself of him before she reached the gates. "indeed! in the city, i suppose? he is there on business." "he wasn't in the city when i saw him. and the business on which he was employed was of an agreeable kind. he seemed to be making a day of it at the criterion bar." "are you not mistaken? are you sure that it was mr. paxton?" "quite sure. may i ask if he is an intimate friend of yours?" "he is--a very intimate friend indeed. i am expecting him here every moment." "expecting him here! you really are!" mr. lawrence stopped, and turned, and stared, as if her words surprised him. "i beg your pardon, miss strong, but--he is stopping to-night in town." "stopping to-night in town!" it was miss strong's turn to stand and stare. "how do you know? did he tell you so?" "not in so many words, but--i think you will find that he is. the--the fact is, miss strong, i heard an ugly story about mr. paxton, and--i am afraid you will find that there is something wrong." the lady grasped the handle of her umbrella with added vigour. her impulse was to lay it about the speaker's head. but she refrained. "you must be too acute of hearing, mr. lawrence. if i were you, i should exchange your ears for another pair. good evening." but she was not to escape from him so easily. he caught her by the arm. "miss strong, don't go--not for a moment. there is something which i particularly wish to say to you." "what there is, mr. lawrence, which you can particularly wish to say to me i am unable to conceive." "i fear that may be so, miss strong. but there is something, all the same. these are early days in which to say it; and the moment is not the most propitious i could have chosen. but circumstances are stronger than i. i have a feeling that it must be now or never. you know very little of me, miss strong. probably you will say you know nothing--that i am, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. but i know enough of you to know that i love you: that you are to me what no woman has ever been before, or will ever be again. and what i particularly wish to say to you is to ask you to be my wife." his words were so wholly unexpected, that, for the moment, they took the lady's breath away. he spoke quietly, even coldly; but, in his coldness there was a vibrant something which was suggestive of the heat of passion being hidden below, while the very quietude of his utterance made his words more effective than if he had shouted them at the top of his voice. it was a second or two before the startled lady answered. "what you have said takes me so completely by surprise that i hardly know whether or not you are in earnest." "i am in earnest, i assure you. that i am mad in saying it, i am quite aware; how mad, even you can have no notion. but i had to say it, and it's said. if you would only be my wife, you would do a good deed, of the magnitude of which you have no conception. there is nothing in return which i would not do for you. on this occasion in saying so i do not think that i am using an empty form of words." "as you yourself pointed out, you are a stranger to me; nor have i any desire that you should be anything but a stranger." "thank you, miss strong." "you brought it upon yourself." "i own that it is not your fault that i love you; nor can i admit that it is my misfortune." "there is one chief reason why your flattering proposals are unwelcome to me. i happen already to be a promised wife. i am engaged to mr. paxton." "is that so? then i am sorry for you." "why are you sorry?" "ere long, unless i am mistaken, you will learn that i have cause for sorrow, and that you have cause for sorrow too." without another word the lady, the gentleman making no effort to detain her, walked away. she went straight home. she found miss wentworth in her favourite attitude--feet stretched on a chair in front of her--engaged, as miss strong chose to phrase it, in "her everlasting reading." when miss wentworth was not writing she was wont to be reading. miss strong occasionally wished that she would employ herself in more varying occupations. momentarily oblivious of the coolness which had sprung up between her friend and herself, miss strong plumped herself down on to a chair, forgetful also of the fact that she had brought her umbrella with her into the room, and that the rain was trickling down it. "charlie, whatever do you think has happened?" miss wentworth had contented herself with nodding as her friend had entered. now, lowering her book, she glanced at her over the top of it. "i don't know what has happened, my dear, but i do know what is happening--your umbrella is making a fish-pond on the carpet." miss strong got up with something of a jump. she deposited her mackintosh and umbrella in the hall. when she returned her friend greeted her with laughter in her eyes. "well, what has happened? but perhaps before you tell me you might give an eye to those elegant boots of yours. they never struck me as being altogether waterproof." with tightened lips miss strong removed her boots. it was true that they badly wanted changing. but that was nothing. in her present mood she resented having her attention diverted to unimportant details. she expressed herself to that effect as she undid the buttons. "i do believe that you are the hardest-natured girl i ever knew. you've no sense of feeling. if i were dying for want of it, i should never dream of coming to you for sympathy." miss wentworth received this tirade with complete placidity. "quite so, my dear. well, what has happened?" miss strong snuggled her feet into her slippers. she began to fidget about the room. suddenly she burst out in what could only be described as a tone of angry petulance. "you will laugh at me--i know you will. but you had better not. i can tell you that i am in no mood to be laughed at. i feel as if i must tell it to some one, and i have no one in the world to tell things to but you--mr. lawrence has dared to make me a proposal of marriage." the complete, and one might almost say, the humorous repose of miss wentworth's manner was in striking contrast to her friend's excitability. "mr. lawrence? isn't that the individual whom you met on the dyke, and who was introduced to you by his umbrella?" "of course it is!" "and he has proposed to you, has he? very good of him, i'm sure. the sex has scored another victory. i did not know that matters had progressed with you so far as that! but now and then, i suppose, one does move quickly. i offer you my congratulations." "charlie! you are maddening!" "not at all. but i believe that it is a popular theory that a woman ought always to be congratulated on receiving a proposal from a man. the idea seems to be that it is the best gift which the gods can possibly bestow--upon a woman. and, pray, where did this gentleman so honour you? right under mr. paxton's nose?" "cyril wasn't there." "not there?" miss strong turned her face away. miss wentworth eyed her for a moment before she spoke again. "i thought that you had an appointment with him, and that you went out to keep it." "he never came." "indeed!" miss wentworth's tone was dry. but, in spite of its dryness, it seemed that there was something in it which touched a secret spring which was hidden in her listener's breast. suddenly miss strong broke into a flood of tears, and, running forward, fell on her knees at her friend's side, and pillowed her face in her lap. "oh, charlie, i am so unhappy--you mustn't laugh at me--i am! everything seems to be going wrong--everything. i feel as if i should like to die!" "there is allotted to every one of us a time for death. i wouldn't attempt to forestall my allotment, if i were you. what is the particular, pressing grief?" "i am the most miserable girl in the world!" "hush! be easy! there are girls--myriads of them--myriads--who would esteem such misery as yours happiness. tell me, what's the trouble?" in spite of the satirical touch which tinged her speech, a strain of curious melody had all at once come into her voice which--as if it had been an anæsthetic--served to ease the extreme tension of the other's nerves. miss strong looked up, the tears still streaming down her cheeks, but exhibiting some signs of at least elementary self-control. "everything's the trouble! everything seems to be going wrong; that's just the plain and simple truth. cyril said he would meet me tonight, and promised he'd be punctual, and i waited for him, ever so long, on the pier, in the rain, and after all he never came. and then that wretched mr. lawrence came and made his ridiculous proposal, and--and said all sorts of dreadful things of cyril!" "said all sorts of dreadful things of cyril, did he? as, for instance, what?" "he said that he was going to stop in town all night." "well, and why shouldn't he?" "why shouldn't he? after saying he would meet me! and promising to be punctual! and keeping me waiting on the pier! without giving me any sort of hint that he had changed his mind! charlie!" "pray, how did mr. lawrence come to know that mr. paxton intended to spend the night in london?" "he says that he saw him there." "i did not know they were acquainted!" "i introduced them the night before last." "i see." again miss wentworth's tone was significantly dry. "mr. paxton has never seemed to me to be a man whose confidence was easily gained, especially by a stranger. mr. lawrence must have progressed more rapidly with him even than with you. and, pray, what else was mr. lawrence pleased to say of mr. paxton?" "oh, a lot of lies! of course i knew that they were a lot of lies, but they made me so wild that i felt that i should like to shake him." "shake me instead, my dear. one is given to understand that jolting is good for the liver. who's that?" there was a sound of knocking at the front door. miss strong glanced eagerly round. a flush came into her cheeks; a light into her eyes. "possibly that is the recalcitrant mr. paxton, in his own proper person, coming with apologies in both his hands. perhaps you would like to go and see." chapter x cyril's friend miss strong did like to go and see. she looked at miss wentworth with a make-believe of anger, and, rising to her feet, went quickly across the room. admission had already been given to the knocker. there advanced towards the girl standing in the open door a man--who was not mr. paxton. "mr. franklyn! i thought----" there was a note of disappointment in her voice. she stopped short, as if desirous not to allow her self-betrayal to go too far. she moved a little back, so as to allow the newcomer to enter the room. this newcomer was a man of the medium height, about forty years of age. his black hair was already streaked with grey. he had a firm, clear-cut, clean-shaven mouth and chin, and a pair of penetrating grey-black eyes, with which he had a trick of looking every one whom he addressed squarely in the face. his manner, ordinarily, was grave and deliberate, as if he liked to weigh each word he uttered. he held miss strong's hand for a moment in his cool, close grasp. "well; you thought what?" "i'm very glad to see you--you know i am; but i thought it was cyril." "are you expecting him?" "i was expecting him, but--it seems he hasn't come." turning to miss wentworth he greeted her. and it was to be noted that as she offered him her hand a humorous twinkle beamed through her glasses, and her whole face was lighted by a smile. he turned again to miss strong. "have you heard the news?" "what news?" "hasn't cyril told you?" "he told me something last night, but i really couldn't tell you quite what it was he told me, and i haven't seen him since." "he is in brighton?" "is he? i was informed that he was stopping in town." "you were informed? by whom?" "by an acquaintance, who said that he saw him there." mr. franklyn waited before speaking again. his unflinching eyes seemed to be studying the lady's face. probably he saw that there was something unusual in her manner. "that is strange. i was under the impression that he was in brighton. i have come from town specially to see him. i expected to find him with you here." "he did promise to meet me to-night. he hasn't kept his promise. i don't understand why. to be plain with you, it rather troubles me. "he promised to meet you?" "he did most faithfully." "and you have received no intimation from him to the effect that he was not coming?" "not a word--not a line!" "then he may be here at any moment. something has unexpectedly delayed him. you are acquainted with him sufficiently well to be aware that had anything occurred to cause him to alter his plans, he would immediately have let you know. your informant was wrong. i have had inquiries made for him everywhere in town, and as a result have good reason to believe that he is in brighton." "what is the news of which you were speaking?" "has cyril said nothing to you about the trumpit gold mine?" "he referred to it casually the night before last in his usual strain, as having been the cause of his destruction." "that really is extraordinary. i confess i do not understand it. it is so unlike cyril to have communicated neither with you nor with me. are you sure that he said nothing more?" "about the trumpit gold mine? not a word. what was there, what is there to say? do get it out!" the young lady made an impatient movement with her foot. the gentleman looked at her with amusement in his eyes. she was very well worth looking at just then. her hair was a little out of order; and, though she might not have agreed with such a statement, it suited her when it was slightly disarranged. her cheeks were flushed. she held herself very straight. perhaps it was her tears which had lent brightness to her eyes; they were bright. her small, white teeth sparkled between her blush-rose lips, which were slightly parted as if in repressed excitement. she presented a pretty picture of a young lady who was in no mood for trifling. "i shall have much pleasure, miss strong, in getting it out. what seem to be well-founded rumours have reached england that gold has been found at last in considerable quantities. the shares have gone up with a rush. when the stock exchange closed this afternoon they were quoted at £ s. a little more than a week ago they were unsaleable at twopence each." "£ s.! oh, mr. franklyn! and has cyril got rid of his?" "not a bit of it. they are in my strongbox. there are ten thousand of them--cyril is one of the largest holders, if he is not the largest; and what that means at £ s. apiece you can calculate as well as i." "oh, mr. franklyn!" the young lady brought her hands together with a little clap. she turned in natural triumph towards her friend. "what did i tell you? now aren't you sorry for what you said last night? didn't i say that you hadn't the faintest notion of what you were talking about?" miss wentworth, though, as was to be expected, not so excited as the lady who was principally concerned, evinced sufficiently lively signs of interest. "you certainly did, and i certainly hadn't; and while you left nothing unsaid which you ought to have said, there can be no sort of doubt whatever that i said everything which i ought to have left unsaid. but, at the same time, i do beg leave to remark that mr. paxton need not have worn such an air of mystery." "why?" miss strong tapped the toe of her slipper against the floor. "he wasn't compelled to blurt out his affairs to all the world." miss wentworth shrugged her shoulders. "certainly not--if i am all the world. are you also all the world? from what i gathered he did not make much of a confidante of you." "well, he wasn't forced to!" suddenly miss strong made a wholly irrational, but not wholly unnatural, movement in the direction of miss wentworth's chair. she placed her hand upon that lady's shoulders. and she kissed her twice, first on the lips, then on the brow. and she exclaimed, "never mind. i forgive you!" miss wentworth was quite as demure as the occasion required. she surveyed her emotional friend with twinkling eyes. "thank you very much indeed, my dear." miss strong moved restlessly about the room, passing, as it seemed, aimlessly from object to object. "it is strange that he should have kept such news to himself! and not have said a word about it! and now not coming after all!" she turned to mr. franklyn. "i suppose that it is all quite true? that you have not been building up my hopes simply to dash them down again?" "i have given you an accurate statement of the actual position of affairs when prices were made up for the day, as you may easily prove yourself by a reference to an evening paper." with her hands miss strong pushed back her hair from her temples. "after all he had lost in eries----" mr. franklyn interposed a question. "in eries! did he lose in eries?" "i am afraid he did, heavily. and then, in spite of that, on the same day, to see his way to a quarter of a million!" "a quarter of a million! did he mention that precise amount?" "i think he did,--i feel sure he did. charlie, didn't you hear him speak of a quarter of a million?" miss wentworth, who from the depths of her easy chair had been regarding the two almost as if they had been studies of interesting, though contrasting, types of human nature, smiled as she replied-- "i believe that i did hear mr. paxton make a passing and, as it seemed to me, a mysterious allusion to that insignificant sum." "then he must be acquainted with the movements of the markets." mr. franklyn was the speaker. "though i must tell you candidly, miss strong, that at present i am very far from being prepared to advise him to hold until his profits reach what miss wentworth, in a truly liberal spirit, calls that insignificant sum. as things stand, he can get out with half of it. if he waits for more, he may get nothing. indeed, it is an almost vital necessity of the situation that i should see him at once. the shares are in my keeping. without his direct authority i can do nothing with them. after all, the boom may be but a bubble; it may already have been blown to a bursting-point; in the morning it may have been pricked. such things are the commonplaces of the stock exchange. in any case, it is absolutely necessary that he should be on the spot, ready, if needful, to take prompt, instant advantage of the turn of the market in whatever direction it may be. or, by the time that he does appear upon the scene, his shares may again be unsaleable at twopence apiece, and all his profits may have gone. now, tell me, do you know where he stayed last night?" "at makell's hotel. he nearly always does stay there when he is in brighton." "it is possible, then, that he is there now; or, at any rate, that they have news of him. i will go at once and inquire." miss strong made a quick movement towards the speaker. "mr. franklyn, mayn't i come with you?" he hesitated. "there is not the slightest necessity. if he is there i will bring him back with me; if he is not i will either bring or send you news." "you promise?" "i do--certainly." "you promise that you will let me hear as soon as you can--at once--without a moment's delay?" the girl put her hand to her side. tears came into her eyes. "mr. franklyn, you don't know what all this means to me. all day long i have been conscious of something hanging over me, as it were, a cloud of catastrophe. that something very strange either has happened, or shortly will happen, i am convinced. it frightens me! so, if you wish to do me a kindness, you will not keep me in suspense one moment longer than you can help." miss strong had passed, so far as appearances went, instantly, without any sort of warning, from a white heat of excitement to almost preternatural coldness. one had only to look at her to perceive that her mind was not at ease; nor, since mental and physical conditions are closely allied, her body either. mr. franklyn proffered reassurance. "believe me, miss strong, there is not the slightest real cause for anxiety. the probability is that cyril is looking for me, just as i am looking for him; that, in fact, we are chasing each other. anyhow, you shall have news when i have news, and that without a second's delay. i ought to find a cab upon the nearest stand. if i do, you ought to hear from me in thirty minutes. but even if i don't, i think that i can promise that you shall hear from me within the hour." chapter xi john ireland's warrant mr. franklyn was unable to find a cab. he walked. and as he walked he wondered. mr. paxton's conduct seemed to him to be stranger than, in the presence of miss strong, he had cared to admit. it was unlike cyril to have allowed so amazing a change to have taken place in a holding in which he was so largely interested, and yet to have held his peace. mr. franklyn had made more considerable efforts to place himself in communication with cyril than he had hinted at. there had been several things lately in that gentleman's conduct which had struck him as peculiar. but all his efforts had been vain. it was only by chance that that afternoon he had run across an acquaintance who informed him that he had just seen mr. paxton leaving victoria in a brighton train. taking it for granted that he was journeying towards miss strong, as soon as he could, franklyn followed on his heels. and now miss strong had seen nothing of him! indeed, she had been told that he intended to spend the night in town. coupled with other circumstances, to mr. franklyn the thing seemed distinctly odd. arrived at makell's hotel, he accosted the porter who held the door open for him to enter. "is mr. paxton staying here?" "mr. paxton is out." "out? then he is staying here?" "he has been here. i don't know if he is returning. you had better inquire at the office." mr. franklyn inquired. at the office their acquaintance with mr. paxton's movements did not appear to be much greater than the porter's. he was out. he might return. he probably would. when, they could not say. "how long ago is it since he went out?" "something over an hour." "did he say anything about where he was going to?" "not to me. i know nothing, it's only what i surmise, but he went hurrying out as if he had an appointment which he wanted to keep." "an appointment? something over an hour ago? yes, he had an appointment about that time, but he never kept it." franklyn looked at his watch. the thirty minutes of which he had spoken to miss strong were already nearly past. "can i have a bed here to-night?" the clerk said that he could. franklyn took a card out of his pocket-book. he scribbled on it in pencil-- "i shall be at medina villas till eleven. come at once. they are very anxious to have news of you." securing it in an envelope, he handed it to the clerk, instructing him, should mr. paxton return before he did, to let him have it at once. then mr. franklyn left the hotel, meaning to walk to the cab rank, which was distant only a few yards, and then drive straight back to medina villas. as he walked along the broad pavement some one stopping him, addressed him by name. "is that you, mr. franklyn?" the speaker was john ireland. in his professional capacity as a solicitor mr. franklyn had encountered the detective on more than one occasion. the detective's next question took mr. franklyn a little by surprise. "where's mr. paxton?" mr. franklyn looked at his questioner as attentively as the imperfect light would permit. to his trained ear there was something in the inquirer's tone which was peculiar. "mr. paxton! why do you ask?" ireland seemed to hesitate. then blurted out bluntly-- "because i've a warrant for his arrest." franklyn made a startled movement backwards. "his arrest! ireland, you're dreaming!" "am i? i'm not of a dreaming sort, as you ought to know by now. look here, mr. franklyn, you and i know each other. i know you're mr. paxton's friend, but if you'll take my advice, you won't, for his sake, try to give him a lead away from us. you've just come out of makell's hotel. is he there?" mr. franklyn answered, without pausing a moment for reflection. "he is not there. nor did they seem to be able to tell me where he is. i'm quite as anxious to see him as you are." ireland slapped his hand against his legs. "then i'll be hanged if i don't believe that he's given us the slip. it'll almost serve me right if he has. i ought to have had him without waiting for a warrant, but the responsibility was a bit bigger one than i cared to take. and now some of those pretty friends of his have given him the word, and he's away. if he's clean away, and all because i shirked, i shall almost feel like doing time myself." when he spoke again franklyn's manner was caustic. "since, ireland, you appear to wish me to be a little unprofessional, perhaps you also won't mind being a little unprofessional, by way of a _quid pro quo_. might i ask you to tell me what is the offence which is specified on the warrant which you say you hold?" "i don't mind telling you, not the least. in the morning you'll see it for yourself in all the papers--as large as life and twice as natural. mr. paxton is wanted for the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds." if the other had struck him mr. franklyn could scarcely have seemed more startled. "the duchess of datchet's diamonds! ireland, are you mad or drunk?" "both, if you like. it's as you choose, mr. franklyn." franklyn eyed the detective as if he really thought that he might be mentally deranged. "seriously, ireland, you don't mean to say that mr. paxton--mr. cyril paxton--the cyril paxton whom i know--is charged with complicity in the affair of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds?" "you have hit it, mr. franklyn, to a t." regardless of the falling drizzle, mr. franklyn took off his hat, as if to allow the air a chance to clear his brain. "but--the thing is too preposterous!--altogether too outrageous for credibility! you yourself must be aware that in the case of a man in paxton's position, such a step as that which you propose to take is likely to be fraught, for yourself, with the very gravest consequences. and i, on my part, can assure you that you are on the verge of making another of those blunders for which you police are famous. who is the author of this incredibly monstrous charge?" "don't you trouble yourself about that, mr. franklyn. people who bring monstrous charges will have to bear the brunt of them. but i tell you what i'll do. you talk about being unprofessional. i'm willing to be a bit more unprofessional for the sake of a little flutter. i'll bet you any reasonable sum you like, at evens, that when we do have him it's proved that at any rate mr. paxton knows where the duchess's diamonds are." "you talk utter nonsense." "all right, put it so. anyhow, i'm willing to back my talk. and i'm giving you a chance to back yours." "let me understand you. do you say that you are willing to back your ability to prove that mr. paxton has a guilty knowledge of the datchet diamonds?" "a guilty knowledge--that's it; you keep on hitting it, and you've hit it again. i'm ready to lay an even hundred pounds--we may as well have something on worth having--that when we do get mr. paxton it's proved that he has, as you put it, a guilty knowledge of the whereabouts of the datchet diamonds." "such a supposition is wholly beyond the bounds of reason." "will you bet?" "i will." "you understand that i'm betting on a certainty; but since you seem to think that you're betting on a certainty too the thing's about even. it's a bet?" "it is." "good! perhaps you'll make a note of it. i'll make one too." as a matter of fact, mr. ireland, taking out his pocket-book, made a note of it upon the spot. "when i've proved my point i'll ask you for that hundred." "say, rather, that when you've failed to prove it, i'll ask you." "all right. and you shall have it, never you fear." mr. ireland replaced his pocketbook. "now i'm going to makell's to make a few inquiries on my own account. if those inquiries are not satisfactory, i'll at once wire round mr. paxton's description. there'll be a reward offered for him in the morning, and if we don't have him within four-and-twenty hours, i'm a dutchman." franklyn, knowing his man, was more moved by ireland's words than he cared to show. "for goodness' sake, ireland, be careful what you do. as you say, you know me, and you know that it is not my custom to express an opinion rashly. i assure you that it is my solemn conviction that if you take the steps which you speak of taking, you will be doing a possibly irreparable injury to a perfectly innocent man." the detective looked at the lawyer steadily for a second or two. "quite right, mr. franklyn, i do know you, and it is because i know you that i am willing to strain a point, and, without prejudice to that little bet of ours, give you proof that in matters of this sort a man of my experience is not likely to move without good grounds. you see this?" mr. ireland took something out of his waistcoat pocket. it was a ring. slipping it on to the tip of his little finger, he held it up for the other to see. "i see that it's a ring. what of it?" "as mr. paxton was coming out of makell's hotel this morning he took his handkerchief out of his pocket. as he did so, unnoticed by him, something dropped out of his handkerchief on to the pavement. it was this ring." "well?" "ill, i should call it, if i were you, because this ring happens to be one of those which were stolen from the duchess of datchet. i had previously had reasons of my own for suspecting that he knew more than was good for him of that business; even you will grant that the discovery in his possession of one of the stolen articles was sufficient to turn suspicion into practical certainty." mr. franklyn said nothing, perhaps because he had nothing to say which he felt was equal to the occasion. what mr. ireland said astounded him. he perceived that, at any rate in mr. paxton's absence, the position presented the appearance of an aggravating puzzle. that mr. paxton could, if he chose, furnish a satisfactory solution, he did not doubt. but he wondered what it was. the detective went on. "now, mr. franklyn, since i have been, as you yourself would say, unprofessionally open with you, i must ask you, on your side, to be equally open with me. what are you going to do?" franklyn reflected before replying. "i fail to see how you are entitled to ask me such a question; unless you suspect me also of being an accomplice in the crime. at any rate i decline to answer." "very well, mr. franklyn, i am sorry, but i must do my duty. i have reason to suspect that you may intend to aid and abet mr. paxton in effecting his escape. to prevent your doing so is my obvious duty. hollier!" mr. ireland beckoned to a man who had hitherto been loitering under the shadow of the houses. mr. franklyn might or might not have noticed it, but during their conversation two or three other men had been hanging about within hailing distance in apparently similar purposeless fashion. the individual who had been signalled to approached. "mr. franklyn, this is george hollier, an officer of police. hollier, this gentleman's name is franklyn. he's a friend of mr. paxton. i think it's just possible that he will, if he can, give mr. paxton a helping hand to get away. i order you to follow him, to observe his movements as closely as you may, and if he does anything which in your judgment looks like an attempt to place himself in communication with mr. paxton, to arrest him on the spot. you understand?" the man nodded. mr. franklyn said nothing. he called a cab from the rank in front of them. as the vehicle drew up beside them mr. ireland addressed the man upon the box. "cabman, what's your number?" the cabman gave question for question. "what do you want to know for?" "i'm an officer of police. this gentleman wishes you to drive him somewhere. it is possible that i may require you to tell me where. you won't lose by it; you needn't be afraid." the driver gave his number. the detective noted it, as he had done his bet. he called a second cab, again addressing its jehu. "cabman, this man is an officer of police. he's going to ride beside you on the box, and he wants you to keep the cab in which this gentleman is going to be a passenger well in sight. he'll see that you are properly paid for your trouble." as mr. franklyn drove off he was almost tickled by the thought that he, a lawyer of blameless reputation, and of the highest standing, was being followed about the streets of brighton by a policeman as if he had been a criminal. but all disposition towards amusement was banished by the further instant reflection that he had promised miss strong to bring her news of her lover. and he was bringing her news--of what a character! chapter xii a woman roused almost as soon as mr. franklyn touched the knocker of the house in medina villas, the door was opened from within, and he found himself confronted by miss strong. "oh, mr. franklyn, is it you at last?" she saw that some one was standing at mr. franklyn's back. "cyril!" she cried. then, perceiving her mistake, drew back. "i beg your pardon, i thought it was mr. paxton." the man in the rear advanced. "is mr. paxton here?" he turned to mr. franklyn. "unless you want trouble, if he is here, you had better tell me." mr. franklyn answered. "mr. paxton is not here. if you like you may go in and look for yourself; but if you are a wise man you will take my assurance as sufficient." mr. hollier looked at mr. franklyn, then at miss strong, then decided. "very well, sir. i don't wish to make myself more disagreeable than i can help. i'll take your word." directly he was in the hall and the door was closed miss strong caught mr. franklyn by the arm. he could feel that she was trembling, as she whispered, almost in his ear-- "mr. franklyn, what does that man want with cyril?" he drew her with him into the sitting-room. conscious that he was about to play a principal part in a very delicate situation, he desired to take advantage of still another moment or two to enable him to collect his thoughts. miss wentworth, having relinquished her reading, was sitting up in her armchair, awaiting his arrival with an air of evident expectancy. he looked at miss strong. her hand was pressed against her side; her head was thrown a little back; you could see the muscles working in her beautiful, rounded throat almost as plainly as you may see them working in the throat of a bird. for the moment mr. franklyn was inclined to wish that cyril paxton had never been his friend. he was not a man who was easily unnerved, but as he saw the something which was in the young girl's face, he found himself, for almost the first time in his life, at a loss for words. miss strong had to put her question a second time. "mr. franklyn, what does that man want with cyril?" when he did speak the lawyer found, somewhat to his surprise, that his throat seemed dry, and that his voice was husky. "strictly speaking, i cannot say that the man wants cyril at all. what he does want is to know if i am in communication with him." "why should he want to know that?" while he was seeking words, miss strong followed with another question. "but, tell me, have you seen cyril?" "i have not. though it seems he is in brighton, or, rather, he was two hours ago." "two hours ago? then where is he now?" "that at present i cannot tell you. he left his hotel two hours ago, as was thought, to keep an appointment; it would almost seem as if he had been starting to keep the appointment which he had with you." "two hours ago? yes. i was waiting for him then. but he never came. why didn't he? you know why he didn't. tell me!" "the whole affair seems to be rather an odd one, though in all probability it amounts to nothing more than a case of cross-questions and crooked answers. what i have learnt is little enough. if you will sit down i will tell you all there is to tell." mr. franklyn advanced a chair towards miss strong with studied carelessness. she spurned the proffered support with something more than contempt. "i won't sit down. how can i sit down when you have something to tell me? i can always listen best when i am standing." putting his hands behind his back, mr. franklyn assumed what he possibly intended to be an air of parental authority. "see here, miss strong. you can, if you choose, be as sensible a young woman as i should care to see. if you so choose now, well and good. but i tell you plainly that on your showing the slightest symptom of hysterics my lips will be closed, and you will not get another word out of me." if by his attempting to play the part of heavy father he had supposed that miss strong would immediately be brought into a state of subjection, he had seldom made a greater error. so far from having cowed her, he seemed to have fired all the blood in her veins. she drew herself up until she had increased her stature by at least an inch, and she addressed the man of law in a strain in which he probably had never been addressed before. "how dare you dictate how i am to receive any scraps of information which you may condescend to dole out to me! you forget yourself. cyril is to be my husband; you pretend to be his friend. if it is anything but pretence, and you are a gentlemen, and a man of honour, you will see that it is your duty to withhold no tidings of my promised husband from his future wife. how i choose to receive those tidings is my affair, not yours." certainly the lady's slightly illogical indignation made her look supremely lovely. mr. franklyn recognised this fact with a sensation which was both novel and curious. even in that moment of perturbation, he told himself that it would never be his fate to have such a beautiful creature breathing burning words for love of him. while he wondered what to answer, miss wentworth interposed, rising from her chair to do so. "daisy is quite right, mr. franklyn. don't play the game which the cat plays with the mouse by making lumbering attempts to, what is called, break it gently. if you have bad news, tell it out like a man! you will find that the feminine is not necessarily far behind the masculine animal in fibre." mr. franklyn looked from one young woman to the other, and felt himself ill-used. he had known them both for quite a tale of years; and yet he felt, somehow, as if he were becoming really acquainted with them for the first time now. "you misjudge me, miss strong, and you, miss wentworth, too. the difficulty which i feel is how to tell you, as we lawyers say, without prejudice, exactly what there is to tell. as i said, the situation is such an odd one. i must begin by asking you a question. has either of you heard of the affair of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds?" "the affair of the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds?" miss strong repeated his words, passing her hand over her eyes, as if she did not understand. miss wentworth, however, made it quickly plain that she did. "i have; and so of course has daisy. what of it?" "this. an addle-headed detective, named john ireland, has got hold of a wild idea that cyril knows something about it." miss wentworth gave utterance to what sounded like a half-stifled exclamation. "i guessed as much! what an extraordinary thing! i had been reading about it just before mr. paxton came in last night, and when he began talking in a mysterious way about his having made a quarter of a million at a single coup--precisely the amount at which the diamonds were valued--it set me thinking. i suppose i was a fool." for miss wentworth's quickness in guessing his meaning mr. franklyn had been unprepared. if she, inspired solely by the evidence of her own intuitions, had suspected mr. paxton, what sort of a case might not mr. ireland have against him? but miss strong's sense of perception was, apparently, not so keen. she looked at her companions as a person might look who is groping for the key of a riddle. "i daresay i am stupid. i did read something about some diamonds being stolen. but--what has that to do with cyril?" mr. franklyn glanced at miss wentworth as if he thought that she might answer. but she refrained. he had to speak. "in all probability the whole affair is a blunder of ireland's." "ireland? who is ireland?" "john ireland is a scotland yard detective, and, like all such gentry, quick to jump at erroneous conclusions." they saw that miss strong made a little convulsive movement with her hands. she clenched her fists. she spoke in a low, clear, even tone of voice. "i see. and does john ireland think that cyril paxton stole the datchet diamonds?" "i fancy that he hardly goes as far as that. from what i was able to gather, he merely suspects him of being acquainted with their present whereabouts." although miss strong did not raise her voice, it rang with scorn. "i see. he merely suspects him of that. what self-restraint he shows! and is that john ireland on the doorstep?" "that is a man named hollier, whom john ireland was good enough to commission to keep an eye on me." "why on you? does he suspect you also?" mr. franklyn shrugged his shoulders. "he knows that i am cyril's friend." "and all cyril's friends are to be watched and spied upon? i see. and is cyril arrested? is he in prison? is that the meaning of his absence?" "not a bit of it. he seems, temporarily, to have disappeared." "and when he reappears i suppose john ireland will arrest him?" "candidly, miss strong, i fear he will." "there is something else you fear. and which you fear too!" miss strong swung round towards miss wentworth with an imperious gesture. her rage, despite it being tinged with melodrama, was in its way sublime. the young lady's astonishing intensity so carried away her hearers that they probably omitted to notice that there was any connection between her words and manner and the words and manner of, say, the transpontine drama. "you fear, both of you, that what john ireland suspects is true. you feel that cyril paxton, the man i love, who would not suffer himself to come into contact with dishonour, whose shoestrings you are neither of you worthy to unloose--you fear that he may have soiled his hands with sordid crime. i see your fear branded on your faces--looking from your eyes. you cravens! you cowards! you unutterable things! to dare so to prejudge a man who, as yet, has had no opportunity to know even what it is with which you charge him!" suddenly miss strong devoted her particular attention to miss wentworth. she pointed her words with a force and a directness which ensured their striking home. "as for you, now i know what it was you meant last night; what it was which in your heart you accused him of, but which your tongue did not dare to quite bring itself to utter. and you have pretended to be my friend, and yet you are so swift to seek to kill that which you know is dearer than life to the man whom i love and hold in honour. since your friendship is plainly more dangerous than your enmity, in the future we'll be enemies, openly, avowedly, for never again i'll call you friend of mine!" miss wentworth moved forward, exclaiming-- "daisy!" but miss strong moved back. "don't speak to me! don't come near to me! if you touch me, woman though i am, and woman though you are, i will strike you!" since miss strong seemed to mean exactly what she said, miss wentworth, deeming, under certain given circumstances, discretion to be the better part of valour, held her peace. miss strong, having annihilated miss wentworth, one could but hope to her entire satisfaction, redirected her attention to the gentleman. "and you pretended to be cyril's friend! heaven indeed preserve us from our friends, it is they who strike the bitterest blows! this only i will say to you. you have the courage of your opinions when there's no courage wanted, but were cyril paxton this moment to enter the room you would no more dare to hint to him what you have dared to hint to me, than you would dare to fly." then, recollecting herself, with exquisite sarcasm miss strong apologised for having confused her meaning. "i beg your pardon, mr. franklyn, a thousand times. i said exactly the contrary of what i wished to say. of course, if cyril did enter the room, there is only one thing which you would dare to do, dare to fly. i leave you alone together, in the complete assurance that i am leaving you to enjoy the perfect communion of two equal minds." miss strong moved towards the door. mr. franklyn interposed. "one moment, miss strong. where are you going?" "to look for cyril. do you object? i will try to induce him not to hurt you, when i find him." "you understand that you will have to endure the ignominy of having the man outside following you wherever you may go." "ignominy, you call it! why, the man may actually be to me as a protection from my friends." "you use hard words. i enter into your feelings sufficiently to understand that, from your own point of view, they may not seem to be unjustified. but at the same time i am sufficiently your friend, and cyril's friend, to decline to allow you, if i can help it, to throw dust in your own eyes. that cyril has been guilty of actual theft, i do not for a moment believe. that he may have perpetrated some egregious blunder, i fear is possible. i know him probably as well as you do. i know john ireland too, and i am persuaded that he would not bring a charge of this kind without having good grounds to go upon. indeed, i may tell you plainly--slurring over the truth will do no good to any one--cyril is known to have been in actual possession of one of the missing jewels." "i don't believe it." "best assured you will do good neither to cyril's cause nor to your own by a refusal to give credence to actual facts. it is only facts which a judge and jury can be induced to act upon. satisfactorily explain them if you can, but do not suppose that you will be able to impress other people with the merits of your cause by declining to believe in their existence. i do entreat you to be advised by me before, by some rash, if well-meaning act, you do incalculable mischief to cyril and yourself." "thank you, mr. franklyn, but one does not always wish to be advised even by one's legal adviser. just now i should be obliged by your confining yourself to answering questions. perhaps you will be so good as to tell me where i am most likely to find john ireland, that immaculate policeman?" "when i left him he was just going to makell's hotel to make inquiries as to cyril's whereabouts upon his own account." "then i will go to makell's hotel to make inquiries of john ireland upon my account." "in that case you must excuse me if i come with you. i warn you again, that if you are not careful you may do cyril more mischief than you have any notion of." "i shall come too." this was miss wentworth. miss strong bowed. "if you will, you will. evidently the man on the doorstep is not likely to serve me as an adequate protection against my friends." miss strong put on her hat and mackintosh in what was probably one of the shortest times on record. miss wentworth generally dressed more quickly than her friend; on such an occasion she was not likely to be left behind. the curious procession of three passed through the door and down the steps in indian file, miss strong first, mr. franklyn last. at the bottom of the steps stood mr. hollier. the leader looked him up and down. "is your name hollier?" the man touched his hat. "that's my name, miss." "i am daisy strong, mr. cyril paxton's promised wife." she seemed on a sudden to be fond of advertising the fact. "i am going to look for mr. paxton now. you may, if you choose, play the part of spy, and follow me; but let me tell you that if he comes to harm through you, or through any of your associates, there'll be trouble." "i see, miss." mr. hollier grinned, hurting, as it seemed, the lady's sense of dignity. "i don't know what you see to smile at. a woman has given a man sufficient cause for tears before to-day. you may find, in your own case, that she will again." chapter xiii the detective and the lady mr. ireland marched into makell's hotel as if he owned the building. he created a sensation in the office. "you know me?" the clerk, who was a good-looking young gentleman, with a curled moustache, eyed the speaker with somewhat supercilious curiosity. mr. ireland's manner was more suggestive of his importance than was his appearance. the clerk decided that he did not know him. he owned as much. "i'm inspector ireland, of the criminal investigation department. i hold a warrant for the arrest of cyril paxton. he is stopping in your hotel. i don't want to cause any more trouble than necessary--my assistants are outside--so, perhaps, you will tell me whereabouts in the house i am likely to find him." the clerk looked the surprise which he felt. "mr. paxton is out." "are you sure?" "i will make inquiries if you wish it. but i know that he is out. i saw him go, and, as i have not left the office since he went, if he had returned i could not have helped seeing him." "has he any property here?" "i will speak to the manager." the clerk turned as if to suit the action to the word. reaching through the office window, mr. ireland caught him by the shoulder. "all right. you send for him. i'll speak to him instead." the clerk eyed the detaining hand with an air of unconcealed disgust. "very good. have the kindness to remove your hand. if you are a policeman, as you say you are, yours is not the kind of grasp which i care to have upon my shoulder." "hoity-toity! don't you injure yourself, young man. all i want is to have the first talk with the manager. are you going to send for the manager, or am i?" "here is the manager." as the clerk spoke, and before he had had time to properly smooth his ruffled plumes, the dignitary in question entered the office from an inner room. john ireland accosted him. "are you the manager of this hotel--name of treadwater?" "i am mr. treadwater." ireland explained who he was, and what he wanted. mr. treadwater was evidently even more surprised than the clerk had been. "you have a warrant for the arrest of cyril paxton! not our mr. paxton, surely?" "i don't know about your mr. paxton; but it's the mr. paxton who's stopping here, so don't you make any mistake about it. i'm told he's out. one of my men will stay here till he returns. in the meantime i want to know if there is any property of his about the place. if there is, i want to have a look at it." the manager considered. "i don't wish to seem to doubt, mr. ireland, that you are what you say you are, or, indeed, anything at all that you have said. but an effort has already been made once to-day to gain access--under what turned out to be false pretences--to certain property which mr. paxton has committed to our keeping. and i am compelled to inform you that it is a rule of ours not, under any circumstances, to give up property which has been intrusted to us by our guests to strangers without a proper authority." ireland smiled grimly. "where is there somewhere i can speak to you in private? i'll show you authority enough, and to spare." the manager, having taken mr. ireland into the inner room, the detective lost no time in explaining the position. "you're a sensible man, mr. treadwater. you don't want to have any bother in a place of this sort, and i don't want to make any more bother than i'm compelled. mr. paxton's wanted for a big thing, about as big a thing as i've ever been engaged in. i wasn't likely to come here without my proper credentials, hardly. just you cast your eye over this." ireland unfolded a blue paper which he had taken from among a sheaf of other papers, which were in the inner pocket of his coat, and held it up before the manager's face. "that's a search warrant. if you're not satisfied with what you see of it, i'll read it to you, and that's all i'm bound to do. i've reason to believe that cyril paxton has certain stolen property in his possession here, in this hotel. if you choose to give me facilities to examine any property he may have, well and good. if you don't choose, this warrant authorises me to search the building. i'll call my men in, and i'll have it searched from attic to basement--every drawer and every box which the place contains, if it takes us all night to do it." mr. treadwater rubbed his hands together. he did not look pleased. "i had no idea, when i spoke, that you were in possession of such a document. as you say, i certainly do not wish to have a bother. a search warrant is authority enough, even for me. all the property mr. paxton has in the hotel is in this room. i will show it to you." the manager moved to a door which seemed to have been let into the wall. "this is our strong-room. as you perceive, it is a letter lock. only one person, except myself, ever has the key to it." while he was speaking he opened the door. he disappeared into the recess which the opening of the door disclosed. presently he reappeared carrying a gladstone in his hand. he laid the bag on the table, in front of mr. ireland. "that is all the property mr. paxton has in the hotel." "how do you know?" the manager smiled--the smile of superiority. "my dear sir, it is part of my duty to know what every guest brings into the hotel. you can, if you like, go up to the room which he occupied last night, but you'll find nothing in it of mr. paxton's. all that he brought with him is contained in that gladstone bag." "then we'll see what's in it. i'm going to open it in your presence, so that you'll be evidence to prove that i play no hankey-pankey tricks." mr. ireland did open it in the manager's presence. with, considering the absence of proper tools, a degree of dexterity which did him credit. but after all it appeared that there was nothing in it to adequately reward him for the trouble he had taken. the bag was filled chiefly with shirts and underclothing. although every article seemed to be bran-new, there was absolutely nothing which, correctly speaking, could be said to be of value. with total want of ceremony the investigator turned the entire contents of the bag out upon the table. but though he did so, nothing in any way out of the common was discovered. judging from the expression of his countenance, mr. ireland did not seem to be contented. "wasn't there an attempt at burglary here last night? one's been reported." "there was. for the first time in the history of the hotel. an attempt was made from the street to gain admission through the window, to mr. paxton's bedroom." "and didn't you say that an attempt had been made to-day to gain access, by means of false pretences, to mr. paxton's property?" "that is so." "and didn't he ask you to keep that property safe in your strong-room?" "he did." "well--doesn't it seem as if somebody was precious anxious to lay his hands upon that property, and that mr. paxton was equally anxious that he shouldn't?" "precisely." "and yet you go and tell me that all the property he has is contained in that gladstone bag. what is there that should make any one go out of his way to take it? you tell me that!" when the manager replied, it was with an appreciable amount of hesitation. "i think that is a point on which i may be able to throw some light." "then throw it--do!" "i shouldn't be surprised if mr. paxton took all that the bag contained which was of value up to london with him this morning, and left it there. indeed, this evening, before he went out, he told me that that was what he had done." mr. ireland gave utterance to what, coming from the mouth of any one but an inspector of police, would have sounded like a string of execrations. "i suppose you've no idea what it was that he took with him or where it was he took it?" "not the faintest notion." "mr. treadwater, this is another illustration of the fact that if you want a thing well done you must do it yourself. this morning i set a man to shadow mr. paxton--i told him not to let him get out of his sight. what does he do, this utter idiot? he sees our gentleman drop a ring. my man, he picks it up, and he gets into such a state of excitement that he loses his head and tears straight off with it to me. i'm not saying that he'd not chanced upon an important piece of evidence, because he had; but if he'd kept his wits about him, and had his head screwed on straight, he'd have had the ring and mr. paxton too. as it was, that was the last he saw of mr. paxton." "may i ask what it is you suspect mr. paxton of having taken with him up to town?" "unless i'm out of my reckoning, mr. paxton went up to town with the duchess of datchet's diamonds stowed away in his pockets." the manager's face was a vivid note of exclamation. "no! my dear sir, i have been acquainted with mr. paxton some considerable time. i happen to know that he's a gentleman of position in the city. you must surely be mistaken in supposing that he could be mixed up in such an affair as that--it's incredible!" "is it? that's all right. if you like, you think so. gentlemen of position in the city have had their fingers in some queer pies before to-day. if you don't happen to know it, i present you with the information gratis. have you any idea of where he was going when he went out to-night?" "i fancy that when he comes to brighton he comes to see a lady. i rather took it for granted that, as usual, he was going to her." "what's her name; and where does she live?" "i don't know her name; but i believe she lives in medina villas--that, you know, is at west brighton." "medina villas?" ireland seemed to be turning something over in his mind. he smiled. "i shouldn't be surprised. if she does, i'm inclined to think that one of my men has got his eye on her address. if mr. paxton's there, he's nabbed. but i'm afraid he isn't. on this occasion i'm inclined to think that he had an appointment which he found to be slightly more pressing than that which he had with the lady." ireland looked at the manager with what he probably intended for a look of frankness. "i don't mind owning that there are features about the case, as it stands at present, which are beyond my comprehension, and i tell you, i would give a good round sum to be able this moment to lay my finger on mr. paxton." "so would i. i'd give a great deal to be able to lay my finger on mr. paxton. with all my heart i would. yes, sir, indeed i would." each of the talkers had been too much interested in what the other had to say to notice that while they talked, without invitation or any sort of announcement, a procession--the procession of three!--had entered the room. the speaker was, of course, miss strong. behind her, gripping the handle of her parasol, as it seemed a little nervously, came miss wentworth. mr. franklyn, looking distinctly the most uncomfortable of the trio, brought up the rear. miss strong, in front, bore herself like a female paladin. she held herself quite straight; her shoulders were thrown well back; her dainty head was gallantly poised upon her lovely neck; she breathed the air of battle. she might not have known it, but seldom had she looked more charming. the detective and the manager both looked at her askance. she only looked at the detective. "are you john ireland?" "i am. though i have not the pleasure, madam, of knowing you." "i am daisy strong, who am shortly to be cyril paxton's wife. how dare you, mr. ireland, so foully slander him!" mr. ireland showed symptoms of being surprised. he had an eye for a lady, and still more, perhaps, for a pretty girl. and by neither was he accustomed to being addressed in such a strain. "i trust, madam, that i have not slandered mr. paxton." "you trust so, do you? mr. franklyn, will you come forward, please, instead of hanging behind there in the shadow of miss wentworth's skirts, as if you were afraid?" mr. franklyn, thus addressed, came forward, looking, however, as if he would rather not. "you hear what this person says. and yet you tell me he has slandered cyril paxton as foully as he could." mr. franklyn shot a glance at mr. ireland which was meant to be pregnant with meaning. he showed a disposition to hum and to ha. "my dear miss strong, i'm sure you will find that mr. ireland is not unreasonable. his only desire is to do his duty." miss strong stamped her foot upon the floor. "his duty! to slander a gentleman in whose presence he is not worthy to stand! because a man calls himself a policeman, and by doubtful methods contrives to earn the money with which to keep himself alive, is such an one entitled to fling mud at men of stainless honour and untarnished reputation, and then to excuse himself by pretending that flinging mud is his duty? if you, mr. franklyn, are afraid of a policeman, merely because he's a policeman, i assure you i am not. and i take leave to tell mr. ireland that there are policemen who are, at least, as much in want of being kept in order as any member of the criminal classes by any possibility could be." ireland eyed the eloquent lady as if he were half-puzzled, half-amused. "i understand your feelings, madam, and i admire your pluck in standing up for mr. paxton." again the lady stamped her foot. "i care nothing for your approval! and it has nothing at all to do with the matter on hand." the detective coughed apologetically. "perfectly true, madam. but i can't help it. i assure you i always do admire a young woman who sticks up for her young man when he happens to find himself in a bit of a scrape. but, if you take my tip, miss strong, you'll leave us men to manage these sort of things. you'll only do mr. paxton harm by interfering. you tell her, mr. franklyn, if what i say isn't true." miss strong turned towards mr. ireland, cutting short the words on franklyn's lips before they had a chance of getting themselves spoken. "do not refer to mr. franklyn on any matter which concerns me. there is no connection between us. mr. franklyn and i are strangers. i am quite capable of taking care of myself. i even think that you may find me almost a match for you." she turned to treadwater. "is mr. paxton stopping in this hotel?" "he stayed here last night, madam. and he has been here again this evening. at present, he is out." "and what is this?" she motioned towards the open bag, with its contents strewed upon the table. "that is mr. paxton's. mr. ireland has forced it open." miss strong turned towards ireland--a veritable feminine fury. "you wretched spy! you cowardly thief! to take advantage of a man's back being turned to poke and pry among his private possessions in order to gratify your curiosity! is that the science of detection?" she transferred her attentions to the manager. "and you--are those the lines on which your hotel is conducted, that you hand over, in their absence, the belongings of your guests to the tender mercies of such a man as this? if so, then your methods of management ought to be known more widely than they are. decent people will then know what they have to expect when they trust themselves inside your doors." treadwater did not seem as if he altogether relished the fashion of the lady's speech. he began to make excuses. "i protested against mr. ireland's action; but on his producing a search warrant, i yielded to the pressure of necessity." "the pressure of necessity! do you call this the pressure of necessity?" miss strong pointed a scornful finger at mr. ireland. ostentatiously ignoring her, the detective addressed himself to the manager. "i'm going now, mr. treadwater. i'll leave one of my men behind me. if mr. paxton returns, he'll deal with him." the lady interposed. "what do you mean--he'll deal with him?" "what do i mean? i mean that mr. paxton will be arrested as soon as he shows his nose inside the door. and i'll tell you what, miss strong, if you were to use fewer hard words, and were to do something to prove mr. paxton's innocence, instead of talking big about it, you might do him more good than you're likely to do by the way in which you've been going on up to now. i'll put these things together and take them with me." by "these things" mr. ireland meant mr. paxton's. he moved towards the table. miss strong thrust herself between him and it. "don't touch them--don't dare to touch them! don't dare to touch cyril's property! do you suppose that, because you're a policeman, all the world can be cowed into suffering you to commit open robbery?" she clutched at the table with both her hands, glaring at him like some wild cat. shrugging his shoulders, ireland laughed, shortly, grimly. "very good, miss strong. there is nothing there which is of the slightest consequence in this particular case. you are welcome to take them in your custody. only, remember, you assume the responsibility for their safe keeping." "the man who forces open another man's portmanteau without the knowledge of its owner becomes, i fancy, at once responsible for its contents. and i promise you that if the slightest article is missing you will be taught that even a policeman can be called to account." without attempting to answer her, ireland went towards the door, pausing, as he went, to whisper to mr. franklyn-- "why did you bring her with you? she'll only make bad worse." mr. franklyn shrugged his shoulders, as the detective himself had done. "i didn't bring her! she brought me!" miss strong's clear tones came after the detective. "you set a man to spy on me, mr. ireland, and now i mean to spy on you. we'll see if turn and turn about is not fair play, and if you dare to try to prevent my going exactly where i please." still ignoring her, ireland went into the hall. there he found hollier in waiting. "any report, hollier?" "nothing material, sir. i followed mr. franklyn to medina villas and back, but saw nothing to cause me to suppose that he was in communication with mr. paxton." "you remain here until i relieve you. if mr. paxton returns, arrest him. send for me if i am required. i will leave a man outside, so that you can have help, if it is needed." ireland went through the hall, and through the door, miss strong hard upon his heels. on the steps he turned and spoke to her. "now, miss strong, if you are wise, you'll go home and go to bed. you may do as you like about attempting to follow me, but i promise you, i shall not permit you to dog my footsteps one moment longer than it suits my convenience. on that point you need be under no misapprehension." the detective strode away. miss strong was about to follow, when miss wentworth caught her by the arm. "now, daisy, be reasonable--you'll do no good by persisting--let's go home." "loose my arm." miss wentworth loosed it. in less than a minute daisy had decreased the distance between ireland and herself to half a dozen feet. franklyn and miss wentworth came after, splashing through the mud and the mist, somewhat disconsolately, a few paces in the rear. the cavalcade had gone, perhaps, fifty yards, when a figure, dashing out of an entry they were passing, caught ireland by the lapel of his sleeve. "guv'nor! i want to speak to you!" the figure was that of a man--an undersized, half-grown, very shabby-looking man. the light was not bad enough to conceal so much. the collar of a ragged, dirty coat was turned up high about his neck, and an ancient billycock was crammed down upon his head. stopping, ireland turned and looked at him. "you want to speak to me?" "yes, mr. ireland; don't yer know me?" "know you?" suddenly ireland's arm went out straight from the shoulder, and the stranger, as if he had been a rat, was gripped tightly by the neck. "yes, bill cooper, i do know you. i've been looking for you some time. there's something which i rather wish to say to you. now, what's your little game?" the man's voice became a whine; the change was almost excusable when one considers how uncomfortable he must have been in the detective's grasp. daisy, who was standing within a yard, could hear distinctly every word that was uttered. "don't be nasty, mr. ireland, that ain't like you! i know you want me--that's all right--but if you take me without hearing what i've got to say you'll be sorry all the same." "sorry, shall i? how do you make that out?" "why, because i'll make your fortune for you if you'll give me half a chance--leastways, i daresay it's made already, but i'll double it for you, anyhow." "and pray how do you propose to do that?" "why, i'll put you on to the biggest thing that ever you were put on to." "you mean that you'll round on your comrades. i see. is that it?" the stranger did not seem to altogether like the fashion in which mr. ireland summed up his intentions. "you may call it what you please, but if i hadn't been used bad first of all myself, i wouldn't have said a word; red-hot irons wouldn't have made me. but when a chap's been used like i've been used, he feels like giving of a bit of it back again; that's fair enough, ain't it?" "chuck the patter, bill. go on with what you have to say." "look here, mr. ireland, you give me ten thick 'uns, enough to take me to 'merriker; i'll go there, and i'll put you on to them as had something to do with them there duchess of datchet's diamonds what's been and got theirselves mislaid." it was daisy who answered. she seemed to speak in sudden and uncontrollable excitement. "i don't know what ten thick 'uns are, but if you do what you say i'll give you fifty pounds out of my own pocket." the man regarded miss strong with an inquiring eye. "i don't know you, miss. mr. ireland, who's the lady?" "the lady's all right. she's a bit interested in the datchet diamonds herself. if she says she'll give you fifty pounds you'll get 'em, only you've got to earn 'em, mind!" "fifty pound!" the man drew a long breath. "i'd do pretty nigh anything for fifty pound, let alone the way they've been and used me. i've been having a cruel hard time, i have--cruel hard!" ireland took cooper by the shoulder and shook him, with the apparent intention of waking him up. "all right, mr. ireland, all right; there ain't no call for you to go handling of me; i ain't doing nothing to you. i don't know the lady, and she don't know me, and i'm only a-trying to see that's it's all right. you wouldn't do a pore bloke, miss, would you? that fifty'll be all right?" mr. ireland presented cooper with a second application of the previous dose. "that fifty'll be all right, or rather it'll be all wrong, if you keep me standing here much longer in the rain." "you are so hasty, mr. ireland, upon my word you are. i'm a-coming to it, ain't i? now i'll tell you straight. tom the toff, he done the nicking; and the baron, he put him up to it." miss strong looked bewildered. "tom the toff? the baron? who are they?" the detective spoke. "i know who they are, miss strong. and i may tell mr. cooper that i've had an eye on those two gentlemen already. what i want to know is where the diamonds are. they're worth more than the rogues who took them. now, bill, where are the shiners?" cooper stretched out both his hands in front of him with a gesture which was possibly intended to impress mr. ireland with a conviction of his childlike candour. "that's where it is--just exactly where it is! i don't know where the shiners are--and that's the trewth! yet more don't nobody else seem to know where the shiners are! that's what the row's about! seems as how the shiners has hooked theirselves clean off--and ain't there ructions! so far as i can make out from what i've come across and put together, don't yer know, it seems as how a cove as they calls paxton----" "paxton!" the name came simultaneously from ireland and miss strong. "i don't know as that's his name--that's only what i've heard 'em call him, don't yer know. he's a rare fine toff, a regular out-and-outer, whatever his name is. it seems as how this here cove as they calls paxton has been playing it off on the toff and the baron, and taken the whole blooming lot of sparklers for his own--so far as i can make out, he has." "it's a lie!" this was, of course, miss strong. the plain speaking did not seem to hurt mr. cooper's feelings. "that i don't know nothing at all about; i'm only telling you what i know. and i do know that they've had a go at this here cove as they calls paxton more than once, and more than twice, and that now they've got him fast enough." mr. ireland twisted cooper round, so that the electric lamplight shone on his face. "what do you mean--they've got him fast enough?" "i mean what i says, don't i? they got hold of him this evening, and they've took him to a crib they got, and if he don't hand over them sparklers they'll murder him as soon as look at him." miss strong turned to the detective with shining eyes. "mr. ireland, save him! what shall we do?" "don't put yourself out, miss strong. this may turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to mr. paxton. bill, where's this crib of theirs?" cooper pushed his hat on to the side of his head. "i don't know as how i could rightly describe it to you--brighton ain't my home, you know. but i daresay i could show it to you if i was to try." "then you shall try. listen to me, bill cooper. if you take me to this crib of theirs, and if what you say is true, and you don't try to play any of those tricks of yours, i'll add something of my own to this lady's fifty, and it'll be the best stroke of business that you ever did in all your life." ireland called a cab. he allowed daisy to enter first. cooper got in after her. "the police-station, driver--as fast as you can." cooper immediately wanted to get out again. "where are you a-taking me to? i ain't going to no police-station!" "stay where you are, you idiot! so long as you act fairly with me, i'll act fairly with you. you don't suppose that this is a sort of job that i can tackle single-handed? i'm going to the station to get help. now then, driver, move that horse of yours!" the cab moved off, leaving miss wentworth and mr. franklyn to follow in another if they chose. chapter xiv among thieves cyril was vaguely conscious of the touch of some one's hand about the region of his throat; not of a soft or a gentle hand, but of a clumsy, fumbling, yet resolute paw. then of something falling on to him--falling with a splashing sound. he opened his eyes, heavily, dreamily. he heard a voice, speaking as if from afar. "hullo, chummie, so you ain't dead, after all?--leastways, not as yet you ain't." the voice was not a musical voice, nor a friendly one. it was harsh and husky, as if the speaker suffered from a chronic cold. it was the voice not only of an uneducated man, but of the lowest type of english-speaking human animal. cyril shuddered as he heard it. his eyes closed of their own accord. "now then!" the words were accompanied by a smart, stinging blow on mr. paxton's cheek, a blow from the open palm of an iron-fronted hand. severe though it was, paxton was in such a condition of curious torpor that it scarcely seemed to stir him. it induced him to open his eyes again, and that, apparently, was all. "look here, chummie, if you're a-going to make a do of it, make a do of it, and we'll bury you. but if you're going to keep on living, move yourself, and look alive about it. i ain't going to spend all my time waiting for you--it's not quite good enough." while the flow of words continued, cyril endeavoured to get the speaker's focus--to resolve his individuality within the circuit of his vision. and, by degrees, it began to dawn on him that the man was, after all, quite close to him: too close, indeed--very much too close. with a sensation of disgust he realised that the fellow's face was actually within a few inches of his own--realised, too, what an unpleasant face it was, and that the man's horrible breath was mingling with his. it was an evil face, the face of one who had grown prematurely old. staring eyes were set in cavernous sockets. a month's growth of bristles accentuated the animalism of the man's mouth, and jaw, and chin. his ears stuck out like flappers. his forehead receded. his scanty, grizzled hair looked as if it had been shaved off close to his head. altogether, the man presented a singularly unpleasant picture. as paxton grasped, slowly enough, how unpleasant, he became conscious of a feeling of unconquerable repulsion. "who are you?" he asked. his voice did not sound to him as if it were his own. it was thin, and faint like the voice of some puny child. "me?" the fellow chuckled--not by any means in a way which was suggestive of mirth. "i'm the lord mayor and aldermen--that's who i am." paxton's senses were so dulled, and he felt so stupid, that he was unable to understand, on the instant, if the fellow was in earnest. "the lord mayor and aldermen--you?" the man chuckled again. "yes; and likewise the dook of northumberland and the archbishop of canterbury. let alone the queen's own r'yal physician, what's been specially engaged, regardless of all cost, to bring you back to life, so as you can be killed again." the man's words made cyril think. killed again? what had happened to him already? where was he? something seemed suddenly to clear his brain, and to make him conscious of the strangeness of his surroundings. he tried to move, and found he could not. "what's the matter? where am i?" "as for what's the matter, why, there's one or two things as is the matter. and, as for where you are, why, that's neither here nor there. if i was you, i wouldn't ask no questions." mr. paxton looked at the speaker keenly. his eyesight was improving. the sense of accurate perception was returning to him fast. the clearer his head became, the more acutely he realised that something beyond the normal seemed to be weighing on his physical frame, and to clog all the muscles of his body. "what tricks have you been playing on me?" the man's huge mouth was distorted by a mirthless grin. "there you are again, asking of your questions. ain't i told yer, not half a moment since, that if i was you i wouldn't? i've only been having a little game with you, that's all." the man's tone stirred paxton to sudden anger. it was all he could do to prevent himself giving utterance to what, under the circumstances, would have been tantamount to a burst of childish petulance. he tried again to move, and immediately became conscious that at least the upper portion of his body was sopping wet, and he was lying in what seemed to be a pool of water. "what's this i'm lying in?" for answer the man, taking up a pail which had been standing by his side, dashed its contents full into cyril's face. "that's what you're lying in--about eighteen gallons or so of that; as nice clean water as ever you swallowed. you see, i've had to give you a sluicing or two, to liven you up. we didn't want to feel, after all the trouble we've had to get you, as how we'd lost you." the water, for which mr. paxton had been wholly unprepared, and which had been hurled at him with considerable force, had gone right into his eyes and mouth. he had to struggle and gasp for breath. his convulsive efforts seemed to amuse his assailant not a little. "that's right, choke away! a good plucked one you are, from what i hear. fond of a bit of a scrap, i'm told. a nice little job they seem to have had of it a-getting of you here." as the fellow spoke, the events of the night came back to cyril in a sudden rush of memory. his leaving the hotel, flushed with excitement; the glow of pleasure which had warmed the blood in his veins at the prospect of meeting daisy laden with good tidings--he remembered it all. remembered, too, how, when he had scarcely started on his quest, some one, unexpectedly, had come upon him from behind, and how a cloth had been thrown across his face and held tightly against his mouth--a wet cloth, saturated with some sticky, sweet-smelling stuff. and how it had dragged him backwards, overpowering him all at once with a sense of sickening faintness. he had some misty recollection, too, of a cab standing close beside him, and of his being forced into it. but memory carried him no further; the rest was blank. he had been kidnapped--that was clear enough; the cloth had been soaked with chloroform--that also was sufficiently clear. the after-effects of chloroform explained the uncomfortable feeling which still prostrated him. but by whom had he been kidnapped? and why? and how long ago? and where had his captors brought him? he was bound hand and foot--that also was plain. his hands were drawn behind his back and tied together at the wrists, with painful tightness, as he was realising better and better every moment. he had been thrown on his back, so that his whole weight lay on his arms. what looked like a clothes line had been passed over his body, fastened to a ring, or something which was beneath him, on the floor, and then drawn so tightly across his chest that not only was it impossible for him to move, but it was even hard for him to breathe. as if such fastenings were not enough, his feet and legs had been laced together and rendered useless, cords having been wound round and round him from his ankles to his thighs. a trussed fowl could not have been more helpless. the wonder was that, confined in such bonds, he had ever been able to escape the stupefying effects of the chloroform--even with the aid of his companion's pail of water. the room in which he was lying was certainly not an apartment in any modern house. the floor was bare, and, as he was painfully conscious, unpleasantly uneven. the ceiling was low and raftered, and black with smoke. at one end was what resembled a blacksmith's furnace rather than an ordinary stove. scattered about were not only hammers and other tools, but also a variety of other implements, whose use he did not understand. the place was lighted by the glowing embers of a fire, which smouldered fitfully upon the furnace, and also by a lamp which was suspended from the centre of the raftered ceiling--the glass of which badly needed cleaning. a heavy deal table stood under the lamp, and this, together with a wooden chair and a stool or two, was all the furniture the place contained. how air and ventilation were obtained paxton was unable to perceive, and the fumes which seemed to escape from the furnace were almost stifling in their pungency. while paxton had been endeavouring to collect his scattered senses, so that they might enable him, if possible, to comprehend his situation, the man with the pail had been eyeing him with a curious grin. paxton asked himself, as he looked at him, if the man might not be susceptible to the softening influence of a substantial bribe. he decided, at any rate, to see if he had not in his constitution such a thing as a sympathetic spot. "these ropes are cutting me like knives. if you were to loosen them a bit you would still have me tied as tight as your heart could desire. suppose you were to ease them a trifle." the fellow shook his head. "it couldn't be done, not at no price. it's only a-getting of yer used to what's a-coming--it ain't nothing to what yer going to have, lor' bless yer, no. the baron, he says to me, says he, 'tie 'em tight,' he says, 'don't let's 'ave no fooling,' he says. 'so as when the toff's a-ready to deal with him he'll be in a humbler frame of mind.'" "the baron?--the toff?--who are they?" "there you are again, a-asking of your questions. if you ask questions i'll give you another dose from this here pail." the speaker brandished his pail with a gesture which was illustrative of his meaning. paxton felt, as he regarded him, that he would have given a good round sum to have been able to carry on a conversation with him on terms of something like equality. "what's your name?" "what!" as, almost unconsciously, still another question escaped mr. paxton's lips, the fellow, moving forward, brandished his pail at arm's length above his shoulders. although he expected, momentarily, that the formidable weapon would be brought down with merciless force upon his unprotected face and head, paxton, looking his assailant steadily in the eyes, showed no signs of flinching. it was, possibly, this which induced the fellow to change his mind--for change it he apparently did. he brought the pail back slowly to its original position. "next time you'll get it. i'm dreadful short of temper, i am--can't stand no crossing. talk to me about the state of the nation, or the price of coals, or your mother-in-law, and i'm with you, but questions i bar." paxton tried to summon up a smile. "under different circumstances i should be happy to discuss with you the political and other tendencies of the age, but just at present, for conversation on such an exalted plane, the conditions can scarcely be called auspicious." up went the pail once more. "none of your sauce for me, or you'll get it. now, what's the matter?" the matter was that paxton had closed his eyes and compressed his lips, and that a suggestive pallor had come into his cheeks. the pain of his ligatures was rapidly becoming so excruciating that it was as much as he could do to bear it and keep his senses. "these ropes of yours cut like knives," he murmured. instead of being moved to pity, the fellow was moved to smile. "like another pailful--hot or cold?" it was a moment or two before paxton could trust himself to speak. when he did it was once more with the ghastly semblance of a smile. "what a pleasant sort of man you seem to be!" "i am that for certain sure." "what would you say to a five-pound note?" "thank you; i've got one or two of them already. took 'em out of your pocket, as you didn't seem to have no use for them yourself." while paxton was endeavouring, seemingly, to grasp the full meaning of this agreeable piece of information, a door at the further end of the room was opened and some one else came in. paxton turned his head to see who it was. it was with a sense of shock, and yet, with a consciousness that it was, after all, what he might have expected, that he perceived that the newcomer was the ill-favoured associate of mr. lawrence, towards whom he had felt at first sight so strong an aversion. he was attired precisely as he had been when paxton had seen him last--in the long, loose, black overcoat and the amazingly high tall hat. as he stood peering across the room, he looked like some grotesque familiar spirit come straight from shadowland. "well, my skittles, and is our good friend still alive--eh?" the man with the pail thus addressed as skittles grinned at paxton as he answered. "the blokey's all right. him and me's been having a little friendly talk together." "is that so? i hope, my skittles, you have been giving mr. paxton a little good advice?" the man with the curious foreign accent came, and, standing by cyril's side, glowered down on him like some uncanny creature of evil origin. "well, mr. paxton, i am very glad to see you, sir, underneath this humble roof--eh?" paxton looked up at him as steadily as the pain which he was enduring would permit. "i don't know your name, sir, or who you are, but i must request you to give me, if you can, an explanation of this extraordinary outrage to which i have been subjected?" "outrage--eh? you have been subjected to outrage? alas! it is hard, mr. paxton, that a man of your character should be subjected to outrage--not true--eh?" "you'll be called to account for this, for that you may take my word. my absence has been discovered long ago, and i have friends who will leave no stone unturned till they have tracked you to your lair." "those friends of yours, mr. paxton, will be very clever if they track me to what you call my lair until it is too late--for you! you have my promise. before that time, if you are not very careful, you will be beyond the reach of help." "at any rate i shall have the pleasure of knowing that, for your share in the transaction, you'll be hanged." the german-american shrugged his shoulders. "well, perhaps. that is likely, anyhow. it is my experience that, sooner or later, one has to pay for one's little amusements, as, mr. paxton, you are now to find." paxton's lips curled. there was something about the speaker's manner--in his voice, with its continual suggestion of a sneer, about his whole appearance--which filled him with a sense of loathing to which he would have found it impossible to give utterance in words. he felt as one might feel who is brought into involuntary contact with an unclean animal. "i don't know if you are endeavouring to frighten me. surely you are aware that i am not to be terrified by threats?" "with threats? oh, no! i do not wish to frighten you with threats. that i will make you afraid, is true, but it will not be with threats--i am not so foolish. you think that nothing will make you afraid? mr. paxton, i have seen many men like that. when a man is fresh and strong, and can defend himself, and still has hopes, it takes a deal, perhaps, to make him afraid. but when a man is helpless, and is in the hands of those who care not what he suffers, and he has undergone a little course of scientific treatment, there comes a time when he is afraid--oh, yes! as you will see. why, mr. paxton, what is the matter with you? you look as if you were afraid already." paxton's eyes were closed, involuntarily. beads of sweat stood upon his brow. the muscles of his face seemed to be convulsed. it was a second or two before he was able to speak. "these cords are killing me. tell that friend of yours to loosen them." "loosen them? why, certainly. why not? my skittles, loosen the cords which give mr. paxton so much annoyance--at once." skittles looked at the baron with doubtful eyes. "do you mean it, baron?" the baron--as the german-american was designated by skittles--burst, without the slightest warning, into a frenzy of rage, which, although it was suggested rather than expressed, seemed to wither skittles, root and branch, as if it had been a stroke of lightning. "mean it?--you idiot! how dare you ask if i mean it? do as i say!" skittles lost no time in doing his best to appease the other's anger. "you needn't be nasty, baron. i never meant no harm. you don't always mean just exactly what you says--and that's the truth, baron." "never you mind what i mean at other times--this time i mean what i say. untie the ropes which fasten mr. paxton to the floor--the ropes about his hands and his feet, they are nothing, they will do very well where they are. a change of position will do him good--eh? lift him up on to his feet, and stand him in the corner against the wall." skittles did as he was bid--at any rate, to the extent of unfastening the cords, which, as it were, nailed paxton to the ground. the relief was so sudden, and, at the same time, so violent, that before he knew it, he had fainted. fortunately, his senses did not forsake him long. he returned to consciousness just in time to hear the baron-- "my skittles, you get a pail of boiling water, so hot it will bring the skin right off him. it's the finest thing in the world to bring a man out of a faint--you try it, quick, you will see." paxton interposed, feebly--just in time to prevent the drastic prescription being given actual effect. "you needn't put your friend to so much trouble. i must apologise for going off. i was never guilty of such a thing before. but if you had felt as i felt you might have fainted too." "that is so--not a doubt of it. and yet, mr. paxton, a little time ago, if i had told you that just because a cord was untied you would faint, like a silly woman, you would have laughed at me. it is the same with fear. you think that nothing will make you afraid. my friends, and myself, we will show you. we will make you so afraid that, even if you escape with your life, and live another fifty years, you will carry your fear with you always--always--to the grave." the baron rubbed his long, thin, yellow hands together. "now, my skittles, you will lift mr. paxton on to his feet, and you will stand him in the corner there, against the wall. he is very well again, in the best of health, and in the best of spirits, eh? our friend"--there was a perceptible pause before the name was uttered--"lawrence--you know mr. lawrence, my skittles, very well--is not yet ready to talk to our good friend mr. paxton--no, not quite, yet. so, till he is ready, we must keep mr. paxton well amused, is that not so, my skittles, eh?" acting under the baron's instructions, skittles picked up mr. paxton as if he had been a child, and--although he staggered beneath the burden--carried him to the corner indicated by the other. when cyril had been placed to the baron's--if not to his own--satisfaction, the baron produced from his hip-pocket a revolver. no toy affair such as one sees in england, but the sort of article which is found, and commonly carried, in certain of the western states of america, and which thereabouts is called, with considerable propriety, a gun. this really deadly weapon the baron proceeded to fondle in a fashion which suggested that, after all, he actually had in his heart a tenderness for something. "now, my skittles, it is some time since i have had practice with my revolver; i am going to have a little practice now. i fear my hand may be a trifle out; it is necessary that a man in my position should always keep it in--eh? mr. paxton, i am going to amuse you very much indeed. i am a pretty fair shot--that is so. if you keep quite still--very, very still indeed--i do not think that i shall hit you, perhaps not. but, if you move ever so little, by just that little you will be hit. it will not be my fault, it will be yours, you see. i am going to singe the lobe of your left ear. ready! fire!" the baron fired. although released from actual bondage to the floor, mr. paxton was still, to all intents and purposes, completely helpless. his hands remained pinioned. cords were wound round his legs so many times, and were drawn so tightly, that the circulation was impeded, and without support he was incapable of standing up straight on his own feet. he had no option but to confront the ingenious baron, and to suffer him to play what tricks with him he pleased. whatever he felt he suffered no signs of unwillingness to escape him. he looked his tormentor in the face as unflinchingly as if the weapon which he held had been a popgun. scarcely had the shot been fired than, in one sense, if not in another, he gave the "shootist" as good as he had sent. "you appear to be a braggart as well as a bully. you can't shoot a bit. that landed a good half-inch wide of my left ear." "did i not say i fear my hand is a little out? now it is your right ear which i will make to tingle. ready! fire!" again the baron fired. so far as one was able to perceive, his victim did not move by so much as a hair's breadth, yet there was a splash of blood upon his cheek. "now i will try to put a bullet into the wall quite close to the right side of your throat. ready! fire!" chapter xv put to the question the noise of the report had not yet died away, and the cloud of smoke got wholly clear of the muzzle of the baron's revolver, when the door of the room was thrown open to admit some one, who in low, clear, even, authoritative tones, asked a question-- "who's making this noise?" whether the baron's aim had this time been truer there was, as yet, no evidence to show. cyril had, at any rate, escaped uninjured. at the sound of the voice, which, although it had been heard by him so seldom, had already become too familiar, he glanced round towards the questioner. it was lawrence. he stood just inside the door, looking from the baron to the involuntary target of that gentleman's little pleasantries. close behind him were two men, whom paxton immediately recognised as old acquaintances; the one was the individual who had taken a bed for the night at makell's hotel, who had shown such a pertinacious interest in his affairs, and whom he had afterwards suspected of an attempt to effect an entrance through his bedroom door; the second was the person who, the next morning, had followed him to the central station, and of whose too eager attentions he had rid himself by summoning a constable. in the looks which lawrence directed towards the baron there seemed to be something both of reproach and of contempt. "pray, what is the meaning of this?" the baron made a movement in the air with one hand, then pointed with it to the revolver which he held in the other. "my friend, it is only a little practice which i have--that is all! it is necessary that i keep my hand well in--not so--eh?" lawrence's voice as he replied was alive with quiet scorn. "i would suggest that you should choose a more appropriate occasion on which to indulge yourself in what you call a little practice. did it not occur to you, to speak of nothing else, that it might be as well to make as little, instead of as much, noise as you conveniently could?" he went and stood in front of mr. paxton. "i am sorry, sir, that we should meet again under such disagreeable conditions; but, as you are aware, the responsibility for what has occurred cannot, justly, be laid either on my friends or on myself." paxton's reply was curt. the abrupt, staccato, contemptuous tone in which he spoke was in striking contrast to lawrence's mellifluous murmurings. "i am aware of nothing of the sort." lawrence moved his head with a slight gesture of easy courtesy, which might, or might not, have been significative of his acquiescence in the other's point-blank contradiction. "what is that upon your face--blood?" "that is proof positive of your bungling friend's bad markmanship. he would, probably, have presented me with a few further proofs of his incapacity had you postponed your arrival for a few minutes longer." lawrence repeated his former courteous inclination. "my friend is a man of an unusual humour. apt, occasionally, like the rest of us, to rate his capacities beyond their strict deserts." he turned to the two men who had come with him into the room. "untie mr. paxton's legs." then back again to cyril. "i regret, sir, that it is impossible for me, at the moment, to extend the same freedom to your arms and hands. but it is my sincerest trust that, in a very few minutes, we may understand each other so completely as to place it in my power to restore you, without unnecessary delay, to that position in society from which you have been withdrawn." although paxton was silent outwardly, his looks were eloquent of the feelings with which he regarded the other's well-turned phrases. when his legs had been freed, the two newcomers, standing on either side of him as if they had been policemen, urged him forward, until he stood in front of the heavy table which occupied the centre of the room. on the other side of the table lawrence had already seated himself on the only chair which the place contained. the baron, still holding his revolver, had perched himself on a corner of the table itself. lawrence, leaning a little forward on his chair, with one arm resting on the table, never lost his bearing of apparent impartiality, and, while he spoke with an air of quiet decision, never showed signs of a ruffled temper. "i have already apologised to you, sir, for the discomforts which you may have endured; but, as you are aware, those discomforts you have brought upon yourself." paxton's lips curled, but he held his peace. "my friends and i are in the position of men who make war upon society. as is the case in all wars, occasions arise on which exceptional measures have to be taken which, though unpleasant for all the parties chiefly concerned, are inevitable. you are an example of such an occasion." cyril's reply was sufficiently scornful. "you don't suppose that your wind-bag phrases hoodwink me. you're a scoundrel; and, in consort with other scoundrels, you have taken advantage of a gentleman. i prefer to put the matter into plain english." to this little outburst lawrence paid no attention. for all the notice he seemed to take of them the contemptuous words might have remained unuttered. "it is within your knowledge that, in pursuit of my profession, i appropriated the duchess of datchet's diamonds. i do not wish to impute to you, mr. paxton, acts of which you may have not been guilty; therefore i say that i think it possible it was by accident you acquired that piece of information. it is in the same spirit of leniency that i add that, at the refreshment-rooms at the central station, it was by mistake that you took my gladstone bag in exchange for your own. i presume that at this time of day you do not propose to deny that such an exchange was effected. in that gladstone bag of mine, which you took away with you by mistake instead of your own, as you know, were the datchet diamonds. what i have now to ask you to do--and i desire, i assure you, mr. paxton, to ask you with all possible courtesy--is to return those diamonds at once to me, their rightful owner." "by what process of reasoning do you make out that you are the rightful owner of the datchet diamonds?" "by right of conquest." "right of conquest! then, following your own line of reasoning, even taking it for granted that all you have chosen to say of me is correct, i in my turn have become their rightful owner." "precisely. but the crux of the position is this. if the duchess could get me into her power she would stick at nothing to extort from me the restitution of the stones. in the same way, now that i have you in my power, i intend to stick at nothing which will induce their restoration from you." "the difference between you and myself is, shortly, this--you are a thief, and i am an honest man." "pray, mr. paxton, what is your standard of honesty? if you were indeed the kind of honest man that you would appear to wish us to believe you are, you would at once have handed the stones to the police, or even have restored them to the duchess." "how do you know that i have not?" "i will tell you how i know. if you had been so honest there would not be in existence now a warrant to arrest you on the charge of stealing them. things being as they are, it happens that there is." "it's an impudent lie!" "possibly you may believe it to be an impudent lie; still, it is the truth. a warrant for your arrest has been granted to-day to your friend ireland, of scotland yard, on his sworn information. i merely mention this as evidence that you have not handed the stones to the police, that you have not returned them to the duchess, but that you have retained them in your possession with a view of using them for purposes of your own, and that, therefore, your standard of morality is about on a level with ours." "what you say is, from first to last, a tissue of lies. you hound! you know that! although it is a case of five to one, my hands are tied, and so it's safe to use what words you please." lawrence, coming closer to the table, leaned both his elbows on the board, and crossed his arms in front of him. "it seems, mr. paxton, as if you, a man of whose existence i was unaware until the other day, have set yourself to disappoint me in two of the biggest bids i have ever made for fortune and for happiness. i am a thief. it has never been made sufficiently plain to me that the difference between theft and speculation is such a vital one as to clearly establish the superiority of the one over the other. but even a thief is human--sometimes very human. i own i am. and it chances that, for some days now, i had begun to dream dreams of a most amusing kind--dreams of love--yes, and dreams of marriage. i chanced to meet a certain lady--i do not think, mr. paxton, that i need name any names?" "it is a matter of indifference to me whether you do so or not." "thank you, very much. with this certain lady i found myself in love. i dreamt dreams of her--from which dreams i have recently arisen. a new something came into my life. i even ventured, in my new-learned presumption, to ask her would she marry me. then for the first time i learned that what i asked for already had been given, that what i so longed for already was your own. it is strange how much one suffers from so small a thing. you'd not believe it. in our first fall, then, it seems that you have thrown me. "then there is this business of the datchet jewels. a man of your experience cannot suppose that an affair of this magnitude can be arranged and finished in a moment. it needs time, and careful planning, and other things to boot. i speak as one who knows. suppose you planned some big haul upon the stock exchange, collected your resources, awaited the propitious second, and, when it came, brought off your coup. if in that triumphant moment some perfect stranger were to carry off, from underneath your very nose, the spoils for which you had risked so much, and which you regarded, and rightly regarded, as your own, what would your feelings be towards such an one? would you not feel, at least, that you would like to have his blood? if you have sufficient imagination to enable you to place yourself in such a situation, you will then be able to dimly realise what, at the present moment, our feelings are towards you." paxton's voice, when he spoke, was, if possible, more contemptuous than ever. "i care nothing for your feelings." "precisely; and, by imparting to us that information, you make our task much easier. we, like others, can fight for our own hands--and we intend to. you see, mr. paxton, that, although i did the actual conveying of the diamonds, and therefore the major share of the spoil is mine, there were others concerned in the affair as well as myself, and they naturally regard themselves as being entitled to a share of the profits. you have, consequently, others to deal with as well as myself, for we, to be plain, are many. and our desire is that you should understand precisely what it is we wish to do. the first thing which we wish you to do is to tell us where, at the present moment, the diamonds are?" "then i won't, even supposing that i know!" lawrence went on without seeming to pay any heed to cyril's unqualified refusal-- "the second thing which we wish you to do--supposing you to have placed the diamonds where it will be difficult for us to reach them--is to give us an authority which will be sufficient to enable us to demand, as your agents, if you choose, that the diamonds be handed to us without unnecessary delay." "i will do nothing of the kind." again lawrence seemed to allow the refusal to go unheeded. "and we would like you to understand that, so soon as the diamonds are restored to us, you will be free to go, and to do, and say exactly what you please, but that you will continue to be our prisoner till they are." "if my freedom is dependent on my fulfilling the conditions which you would seek to impose, i shall continue to be what you call your prisoner until i die; but, as it happens, my freedom is contingent on nothing of the sort, as you will find." "we would desire, also, mr. paxton, that you should be under no delusion. it is far from being our intention that what, as you put it, we call your imprisonment should be a period of pleasant probation; on the contrary, we intend to make it as uncomfortable as we can--which, believe me, is saying not a little." "that, while i am at your mercy, you will behave in a cowardly and brutal fashion i have no doubt whatever." "more. we have no greater desire than you have yourself that you should continue to be, what we call, our prisoner. with a view, therefore, to shortening the duration of your imprisonment we shall leave no stone unturned--even if we have to resort to all the tortures of the spanish inquisition--to extort from you the things which we require." paxton laughed--shortly, dryly, scornfully. "i don't know if your intention is to be impressive; if it is, i give you my word that you don't impress me a little bit. your attempts to wrap up your rascality in fine-sounding phrases strike me as being typical of the sort of man you are." "mr. paxton, before we come to actual business, let me advise you--and, believe me, in this case my advice is quite unprejudiced--not to treat us to any more of this kind of talk! can't you realise that it is not for counters we are playing? that men of our sort, in our position, are not likely to stick at trifles? that it is a case of head you lose, tails we win--for, while it is obviously a fact that we have nothing we can lose, it is equally certainly a fact that there is nothing you can gain? so learn wisdom; be wise in time; endeavour to be what i would venture to call conformable. be so good as to give me your close attention. i should be extremely obliged, mr. paxton, if you would give me an answer to the question which i am about to put to you. where, at the present moment, are the datchet diamonds?" "i would not tell you even if i knew." "you do know. on that point there can be no room for doubt. we mean to know, too, before we've done with you. is that your final answer?" "it is." "think again." "why should i think?" "for many reasons. i will give still another chance; i will repeat my question. before you commit yourself to a reply, do consider. tell me where, at the present moment, are the datchet diamonds?" "that i will never tell you." mr. lawrence made a movement with his hands which denoted disapproval. "since you appear to be impervious to one sort of reasoning, perhaps you may be more amenable to another kind. we will do our best to make you." mr. lawrence turned to the man who had been addressed as skittles. "be so good as to put a branding-iron into the fire, the one on which there is the word 'thief.'" chapter xvi a modern instance of an ancient practice skittles, when he had, apparently with an effort, mastered the nature of mr. lawrence's instructions, grinned from ear to ear. he went to where a number of iron rods with broad heads were heaped together on a shelf. they were branding-irons. selecting one of these, he thrust it into the heart of the fire which glowed on the blacksmith's furnace. he heaped fuel on to the fire. after a movement or two of the bellows it became a roaring blaze. lawrence turned to mr. paxton-- "still once more--are you disposed to tell us where the datchet diamonds are?" "no." lawrence smiled. he addressed himself to the two men who held paxton's arms. "hold him tight. now, skittles, bring that iron of yours. burn a hole under mr. paxton's right shoulder-blade, through his clothing." skittles again moved the iron from the fire. it had become nearly white. he regarded it for a moment with a critical eye. then, advancing with it held at arm's length in front of him, he took up his position at mr. paxton's back. "don't let him go. now!" skittles thrust the flaming iron towards paxton's shoulder-blade. there was a smell of burning cloth. for a second paxton stood like a statue; then, leaping right off his feet, he gave first a forward and then a backward bound, displaying as he did so so much vigour that, although his guardians retained their hold, skittles, apparently, was taken unawares. possibly, with an artist's pride in good workmanship, he had been so much engrossed by the anxiety to carry out the commission with which he had been entrusted thoroughly well, that he was unprepared for interruptions. however that may have been, when paxton moved his grip on the iron seemed to suddenly loosen, so that, losing for the moment complete control of it, it fell down between paxton's arms, the red-hot brand at the further end resting on his pinioned wrists. a cry as of a wounded animal, which he was totally unable to repress, came from his lips--a cry half of rage, half of agony. but the red-hot iron, while inflicting on him frightful pain, had at least done him one good service; if it had burned his flesh, it had also burned the cords which bound his wrists together. exerting, in his passion and his agony, the strength of half a dozen men, he severed the scorched strands of rope as if they had been straws, and, hurling from him the two fellows who held his arms--who had expected nothing so little as to find his arms unbound--he stood before them, so far as his limbs were concerned, free. once lost, he was not to be easily regained. he was quicker in his movements than skittles had ever been, and the latter's quickest days were long since done. dropping on to one knee, plunging forward under skittles' guard, he butted that gentleman with his head full in the stomach, and had snatched the iron by its handle from his astonished hands before he had fully realised what was happening. springing with the rapidity of a jack-in-the-box, to his feet again, he brought the dreadful weapon down heavily on skittles' head. with a groan of agony, that gentleman dropped like a log on to the floor. armed with the heated iron--a kind of article with which no one would care to come into close contact--paxton turned and faced the others, who as yet did not seem fully alive to what had taken place. "now, you brutes! i may be bested in the end, but i'll be even with one or two of you before i am!" lawrence stood up. "will you? that still remains to be seen. shoot him, baron!" the baron fired. either his marksmanship, or his nerve, or his something, was at fault, for he missed. before he could fire again paxton's weapon had crashed through his grotesquely tall high hat, and apparently through his skull as well, for he too went headlong to the floor. quick as lightning as he fell cyril took his revolver from his nerveless grasp. lawrence and his two colleagues were--a little late in the day, perhaps--making for him. but when they saw how he was doubly armed and his determined front they paused--and therein showed discretion. the tables had turned. the fortune of war had gone over to what hitherto had been distinctly the losing side. so at least paxton appeared to think. "now, the question is, what shall i do with you? shall i shoot all three of you--or shall i brain one of you with this pretty little play-thing, which i have literally snatched from the burning?" if one could draw deductions from the manner in which he bore himself, lawrence never for an instant lost his presence of mind. when he spoke it was in the easy, quiet tones which he had used throughout. "you move too fast, forgetting two things--one, that you are caught here like a rat in a trap, so that, unless we choose to let you, you cannot get out of this place alive; the other, that i have only to summon assistance to overwhelm you with the mere force of numbers." "then why don't you summon assistance, if you are so sure that it will come at your bidding?" "i intend to summon assistance when i choose." "i give you warning that, if you move so much as a muscle in an attempt to attract the attention of any other of your associates who may be about the place, i will shoot you!" for answer lawrence smiled. suddenly, lifting his hand, he put two fingers to his lips and blew a loud, shrill, peculiar whistle. simultaneously paxton raised the revolver, and, pointing it straight at the other's head, he pulled the trigger. and that was all. no result ensued. there was the sound of a click--and nothing more. his face darkened. a second time he pulled the trigger; again without result. mr. lawrence's smile became more pronounced. his tone was one of gentle badinage. "i thought so. you see, you will move too quickly. it is a six-chambered revolver. i was aware that my highly esteemed friend had discharged two barrels earlier in the evening, and had not reloaded. i knew that he had taken two, if not three, little pops at you, and had had another little pop just now. if, therefore, he had not recharged in my absence the barrels i had seen him empty, and had taken, before i interrupted him, three little pops at you, the revolver must be empty. i thought the risk worth taking, and i took it." while cyril seemed to hesitate as to what to do next, lawrence, raising his fingers to his lips, blew another cat-call. while the shrill discord still travelled through the air, paxton sprang towards him. stepping back, the whistler, picking up the wooden chair on which he had been sitting, dashed it in his assailant's face. and at the same moment the two men who had hitherto remained passive spectators of what had been, practically, an impromptu if abortive duel, closed in on paxton from either side. he struck at one with his clubbed revolver. the other, getting his arm about his throat, dragged him backwards on to the floor. he was down, however, only for a second. slipping from the fellow's grasp like an eel, he was up again in time to meet the renewed attack from the man whom he had already struck with his revolver. he struck at him again; but still the man was not disabled. meanwhile, his more prudent companion, conducting his operations from the rear, again got his arms about paxton. the three went in a heap together on the floor. just then the door was opened and some one entered on the scene. paxton did not stop to see who it was. exercising what seemed to be a giant's strength, he succeeded in again freeing himself from the grasp of his two opponents. leaping to his feet, he made a mad dash at lawrence. that gentleman, springing nimbly aside, eluded the threatening blow from the clubbed revolver, delivered neatly enough a blow with his clenched fist full in mr. paxton's face. the blow was a telling one. mr. paxton staggered; then, just as he seemed about to fall, recovered himself, and struck again at mr. lawrence. this time the blow went home. the butt of the revolver came down upon the other's head with a sickening thud. the stricken man flung up his arms, and, without a sound, collapsed in an invertebrate heap. the whole place became filled with confusion and shouts. with what seemed to be a sudden inspiration, swinging right round, with the branding-iron, which he had managed to retain in his possession, paxton struck at the hanging lamp, which was suspended from the ceiling. in a moment the atmosphere began to be choked by the suffocating fumes of burning oil. a sheet of fire was running across the floor. heedless of all else, paxton rushed towards the door. such was the confusion occasioned by the disappearance of the lamp, and by the appearance of the flames, that his frantic flight seemed for the moment to be unnoticed. he tore through the door, up a narrow flight of steps rising between two walls, which he found in front of him, only, however, to find an individual awaiting his arrival at the top. this individual was evidently one who deemed that there are cases in which discretion is the better part of valour, and that the present case was one of them. when paxton appeared, instead of trying to arrest his progress, he moved hastily aside, evincing, indeed, a conspicuous unwillingness to offer him any impediment in his wild career. paxton passed him. there was a door in front of him. in his mad haste, throwing it open, he went through it. in an instant it was banged behind him; he heard the sound of a bolt being shot home into its socket, and of a voice exclaiming with a chuckle--on the other side of the door!-- "couldn't have done it better if i'd tried, i couldn't! locked hisself in--straight he has!" too late paxton learned that, to all intents and purposes, that was exactly what he had done. the place in which he found himself was pitchy dark. he had supposed that it might be a passage leading to a door beyond. it proved to be nothing of the kind. it seemed, instead, to be some sort of cupboard--probably a pantry--for he could feel that there were shelves on either side of him, and that on the shelves were what seemed to be victuals. though narrow, by stretching out his arms he could feel the wall with either hand; it extended, longitudinally, to some considerable distance--possibly to twenty feet. at the further end there was a window. it was at an inconvenient height from the floor, and directly under it was a shelf. on this shelf, so far as he was able to judge, was an indiscriminate collection of pieces of crockery. the shelf, however, was a broad one, and, disregarding the various impedimenta with which it seemed to be covered, by clambering on to it he was brought within easy reach of the window. it was a small one, and had two sashes. had the sashes not been there, there might have been sufficient space to enable him to thrust his body through the frame. they were of the ordinary kind, moving up and down, and, in consequence, when they were open to their widest extent, only half the window space was available either for ingress or for egress. he did throw up the lower sash as far as it would go, only to discover that it scarcely gave him room enough to put the whole of his head outside. taking firm hold of the framework, he tested its solidity; it appeared to be substantially constructed of some kind of heavy wood. though he exerted considerable force, it could hardly be induced to rattle. to remove it, even if it was removable, would be a work of time and of labour. time he had not at his command. although he was fastened in, his assailants were not fastened out. at any moment they might enter; his struggles--against such odds!--would have to be recommenced all over again. he was conscious that the best of his strength was spent. he was stiff and sore, weary and bewildered. nor had he escaped uninjured. he was covered with bruises--bruises which ached. where the red-hot branding-iron, slipping from mr. skittles' grasp, had struck against his wrists, the flesh felt as if it had been burnt to the bone; it occasioned him exquisite pain. no, in his present plight, recapture would be easy. after the recent transactions, in which he had played so prominent a figure, recapture would mean nameless tortures, if not death outright. his only hope lay in flight, or--the thought came to him as he was endeavouring to marshal his faculties in sufficient order to enable him to take an impartial view of his position--in summoning help. summoning help? yes! why not? the thing was feasible. here was the open window. he could call through it. his cries might be heard, and if he could only make his shouts heard by some one without the alarm would be raised, and he would soon be rescued from this den of thieves. thrusting his head out as far as possible, he shouted, with might and with main--"help! murder! help!" he listened. he seemed to hear the faint echo of his own words travelling mockingly, mournfully, through the silent air. naught else was audible. all else was still as the grave. nor did the prospect of his being able to make himself heard seem promising. he had no notion whereabouts the house in which he was so unwilling a guest was situated. in front of him he could see nothing but open space. there was neither moon nor stars, nor was the atmosphere particularly clear; yet, as his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, it seemed to him that he could see for miles, and that there was nothing to be seen. there was not a light in sight; no glare of lights upon the distant sky; the shadow neither of a house nor of a tree. no murmur of voices; no hum of far-off traffic; not even the unceasing turmoil of the restless sea. since, so far as he was able to perceive, the place seemed to be given up to such utter and entire solitude, it struck him with unpleasant force that it might be located in the very heart of the open downs. in that case it was quite upon the cards that there was not another human habitation within miles. at night--even yet!--few places are more deserted than the brighton downs. all sorts of deeds without a name, so far as human witnesses are concerned, can be wrought thereon with complete impunity. if the house was really built upon the downs, his chances of making himself heard were remote indeed. still, in his desperate position, he was not disposed to give up hope without making at least another trial. once more he shouted "help! murder! help!" again he listened. and this time, from what evidently was a considerable distance, there was borne through the night what seemed to be an answering call--"hollo!" seldom was so slight a sound so grateful to a listener's ears! with renewed ardour he repeated his shouts, with, if possible, even greater vigour than before: "quick! help! murder! help!" again, from afar, there seemed to come the faint response--"hollo!" and at the same instant he became conscious of voices speaking together outside the door of the cul-de-sac in which, foolishly enough, he had allowed himself to be made, for a second time, a prisoner. chapter xvii the most dangerous for of all mr. paxton withdrew his face from the window. he turned towards the door, his ears wide open. the speakers were talking so loudly that he could hear distinctly, without moving from his post of vantage on the shelf, every word which was uttered. they seemed to be in a state of great excitement. the first voice he heard belonged evidently to the quick-witted individual who had fastened him in the trap which he himself had entered. "there he is--inside there he is--ran in of his own accord he did, so i shut the door, and i slipped the bolt before he knowed where he was. the winder's only a little 'un--if he gets hisself out, you can call me names." the second voice was one which mr. paxton did not remember to have previously noticed. "blast him!--what do i care where he is? he ain't no affair of mine! there's the toff, and a crowd of 'em down there--you come and lend a hand!" "not me! i ain't a-taking any! i ain't going to get myself choked, not for no toff, nor yet for any one else. i feel more like cutting my lucky--only i don't know my way across these ---- hills." "you ain't got no more pluck than a chicken. go and put the 'orse in! me and them other two chaps will bring 'em up. we shall have to put the whole lot aboard, and make tracks as fast as the old mare will canter." a third voice became audible--a curiously husky one, as if its owner was in difficulties with his throat. "here's the toff--he seems to be a case. i ain't a-going down no more. it's no good a-trying to put it out--you might as well try to put out 'ell fire!" then a fourth voice--even huskier than the other. "catch 'old! if some one don't catch 'old of the baron i shall drop 'im. my god! this is a pretty sort of go!" there was a pause, then the voice of the first speaker again. "he do look bad, the baron do--worse nor the toff, and he don't seem too skittish!" "strikes me he ain't far off from a coffin and a six-foot 'ole. you wouldn't look lively if you'd had what he 'as. that there ---- brained 'im, and now he's been burned alive. i tell you what it is, we shall have to look slippy if we want to get ourselves well out of this. them others will have to scorch--it's no good trying to get 'em out--no mortal creature could live down there--it'll only be a bit sooner, anyhow. the whole ---- place is like a ---- tinder-box. it'll all be afire in less than no time, and it'll make a bonfire as'll be seen over all the countryside; and if we was seen a-making tracks away from it, there might be questions asked, and we mightn't find that pretty!" "where's the ---- as done it all?" "in there--that's where he is!" "in there? sure? my----! wouldn't i like to strip his skin from off his ---- carcase!" "he'll have his skin stripped off from him without your doing nothing, don't you be afraid--and made crackling of! he'll never get outside of that--he'll soon be warm enough--burnt to a cinder, that's what he'll be!" suddenly there was a tumult of exclamations and of execrations, sound of the opening of a door, and of a general stampede. then silence. and mr. paxton realised to the full what had happened. for into the place of his imprisonment there penetrated, all at once, the fumes of smoke--fumes which had an unpleasantly irritating effect upon the tonsils of his throat. the house was on fire! the hanging-lamp which he had sent crashing to the floor had done its work--had, indeed, plainly, done more than he intended. nothing so difficult to extinguish as the flames of burning oil. nothing which gets faster, fiercer, more rapidly increasing hold--nothing which, in an incredibly short space of time, causes more widespread devastation. the house was on fire! and he was caged there like a rat in a trap! the smoke already reached him--already the smell of the fire was in his nostrils. and those curs, those cowards, those nameless brutes, thinking only of their wretched selves, had left their comrades in that flaming, fiery furnace, to perish by the most hideous of deaths, and had left him, also, there to burn. in a sudden paroxysm of rage, leaping off the shelf, he rushed to the opposite end of what, it seemed, bade fair to be his crematorium, and flung himself with all his weight and force against the door. it never yielded--he might as well have flung himself against the wall. he shouted through it, like a madman-- "open the door! open the door, you devils!" in his frenzy a stream of oaths came flooding from his lips. in such situations even clean-mouthed men can swear. there are not many of us who, brought suddenly, under such circumstances, face to face with the hereafter, can calm our minds and keep watch and ward over our tongues. mr. paxton, certainly, was not such an one. he was, rather, as one who was consumed with fury. what was that? he listened. it was the sound of wheels and of a horse's hoofs. those scoundrels were off--fleeing for their lives. and he was there--alone! and in the dreadful furnace, at the bottom of that narrow flight of steps, the miserable creatures with whom he had had such a short and sharp reckoning were being burned. in his narrow chamber the presence of smoke was becoming more conspicuous. he could hear the crackling of fire. it might have been imagination, but it seemed to him that already the temperature was increasing. what was he to do? he recollected the window--clambered back upon the shelf, and thrust his face out into the open air. how sweet it was! and fresh, and cool! once more he listened. he could hear, plainly enough, the noise of wheels rolling rapidly away, but nothing more. with the full force of his lungs he repeated his previous cry, with a slight variation-- "help! fire! help!" but this time there came no answering "hollo!" there was no reply. again he shouted, and again and again, straining his throat and his lungs to bursting-point, screaming himself hoarse, but there was none that answered. it seemed that this was a case in which, if he could not help himself, he, in very deed and in very truth, was helpless. he set himself to remove the sashes from their places, feeling that if he only could, small even then though the space would be, he might, at such a pinch as this, be able to squeeze his body through. but the thing was easier essayed than done. the sashes were small, strongly constructed, and solidly set in firmly fashioned grooves. he attacked them with his hands; he hammered them with the baron's revolver and the branding-iron, but they remained precisely where they were. he had a suspicion that they were looser, and that in time, say in an hour or so, they might be freed. but he had not an hour to spare. he had not many minutes, for while he still wrestled with their obstinacy there came from behind him a strange, portentous roar. his prison became dimly, fitfully illuminated with a dreadful light--so that he could see. what he could see through the cracks in the bolted door were tongues of fire, roaring in the room beyond--roaring as the waves roar over the stones, or as the sound of a high wind through the tops of trees. the suddenness of the noise, disturbing so unexpectedly the previous stillness, confused him. he remained on the shelf, looking round. then, oblivious for the moment of the danger which so swiftly was coming nearer, he was filled with admiration. what a beautiful ruddy light it was, which was making the adjacent chamber to gleam like glowing gold! how every instant it was becoming ruddier and ruddier, until, with fairylike rapidity, it became a glorious blaze of colour! the whole place was transfigured and transformed. it was radiant with the splendours of the fairy queen's palace of a million marvels. the crackling noise which fire makes when its hungry tongues lick woodwork brought him back to a sense of stern reality. he became conscious of the strong breeze which was blowing through the open window. it was coming from the house, and was bearing with it a rush as of heated breath. already it seemed to scorch his cheeks--momentarily it seemed to scorch them more and more. the air, as he drew it into his lungs, was curiously dry. he had to draw two breaths where before he had drawn one. it parched his throat. what would he not have given to have been able to glue his lips to cool, fresh water! as in a vision he pictured himself laving his face, splashing in the crystal waters of a running stream, with the trees in leaf above his head. escape was hopeless. neither on the one side nor on the other could salvation be attained. other men, he told himself, with a sardonic twitching of the corners of his lips, had been burnt alive before to-day--then why not he? he, at any rate, could play the man. to attempt to strive against the inevitable was puerile. better, if one must die, "facing fearful odds," to die with one's arms folded, and with one's pulse marking time at its normal pace. what must be, might be; what cared he? confound the smoke! it came in thicker and thicker wreaths through the interstices in the panels of the door. it was impossible to continue facing it; it made him cough, and the more he coughed the more he had to. it got into his mouth and up his nose; it made his eyes tingle. to cough and cough until, like a ramshackle cart, one shook oneself to pieces, was not the part of dignity. he turned his back to the door. he thrust his face again through the window. with his lips wide open he gulped in the air with a sense of rapture which amounted to positive pain. what a feeling of life and of freedom there seemed to be under the stars and the far-reaching sky! what a spirit of solitude was abroad on the hills, in the darkness of the night! what a lonely death this was which he was about to die! no one there but god and the fire to see if he died like a man! he tried to collect his thoughts. as he did so, there was borne to him, on a sudden overwhelming flood of recollection, the woman whom he loved. he seemed to see her there in front of him--her very face. what was she doing now? what would she do if she had an inkling of his plight? what, when she knew that he had gone? if he had only had time to hand over to her all the fruits of that rise in the shares of the trumpit gold mine! how hot it was! and the smoke--how suffocating! how the fire roared behind him! the bolted door had been stout enough to keep him captive, but against the fury of the flames it would be as nothing. any moment they might be through. and then? he had an inspiration. he began to feel in his pockets. those rogues had stripped them, only leaving, so far as in his haste he could judge, two worthless trifles, which probably had been overlooked because of their triviality. in one pocket was the back of an old letter, in another a scrap of pencil. they were sufficient to serve his purpose. spreading the half-sheet of notepaper out on the shelf in front of him, he wrote, as well as he could for the blinding, stifling smoke, with the piece of pencil-- "i give and bequeath all that i have in the world to my dear love, daisy strong, who would have been my wife. god bless her!--cyril paxton." chapter xviii the last of the datchet diamonds they found him, with the half-sheet of notepaper all crushed in his hand. at the police station, acting on the hints dropped by mr. cooper, mr. ireland had enlisted the aid of a dozen constables. he had chartered a large waggonette, and with mr. cooper and a sergeant beside him on the box-seat had started off for an evening drive across the downs. miss strong had, perforce, to content herself with a seat with miss wentworth and mr. franklyn in a fly behind. the weather had cleared. by the time they reached the open country the stars were shining, and when they found themselves following the winding road among the hills it was as fine a night as one could wish. suddenly the occupants of the fly became conscious that the waggonette in front had stopped. a constable, hurrying back, checked the flyman. miss strong leant over the side of the vehicle to address him. "what is the matter?" "we don't know yet, miss. only there's something coming along the road, and we want to see what they look like. they seem to be in a bit of a hurry." as the man said, whoever it was who was approaching did seem to be in a "bit of a hurry." evidently the horse in the advancing vehicle was being urged to a breakneck gallop. where the waggonette had stopped the ground rose abruptly on either side. the road turned sharply just in front. the constables, alighting, formed in double line across it. suddenly the people who were hastening brightonwards found themselves quite unexpectedly surrounded by the officers of the law. there was the liveliest five minutes miss strong had ever known. at the end of it the police found themselves in possession of three prisoners, who had fought as well as, under the circumstances, they knew how, and also of a fly with two men lying apparently dead inside it. when miss strong learnt this, she came hurrying up. "is cyril there?" mr. ireland shook his head. "you are telling me the truth?" "if you doubt it, miss strong, you may look for yourself." just then a constable who, for purposes of observation, had climbed the sloping ground on one side of the road, gave a great shout. "fire! there's a house on fire on the hills!" mr. cooper, who, while his former friends were being captured, had, much against his will, been handcuffed to a policeman, called to mr. ireland. "i reckon it's the crib. they been and set it afire, and left the bloke as they calls paxton to burn inside of it. see if they ain't!" * * * * * it was miss strong who found him. running round the burning building, she came to a little open window through which a man's hand was stretched. the window was too high above the ground to enable her to see into it. only the hand was visible. she thought it belonged to some one who was seeking to escape. "who are you?" she cried. none answered. she touched the hand, supposing its owner did not hear. as she did so a piece of crumpled paper fell out of it. she caught at it as it fluttered through the air; looked at it--there was a sufficiency of artificial light to enable her to see--saw her own name--"my dear love, daisy strong"--staring her in the face; perceived that it was in the writing which she knew so well. "cyril, cyril!" she snatched at the hand which had held that paper--testimony of a love which was resolute to live even beyond the grave--sprang up at the window, through which the smoke was streaming, with the flames beginning to follow after--broke into shrieks. they brought tools, and having by their aid removed the sashes, they dragged him by main force through the window, through which he himself had vainly endeavoured to escape. and slowly, enduring as he went not a little agony, he went through the valley of the shadow, branching out of it after all through a pass which led, not unto death, but back again to the plain of life. when, weeks after, he opened his eyes to consciousness, the first thing he saw was, leaning over him, the face of the woman he loved. "daisy!" in an attenuated whisper the name came from his lips. and, forgetting herself, she fell on his breast and kissed him, and in the tumult of her joy cried as if her heart would break. while still his life was in the balance, never once had she lost her self-control, fearing that if she did she might be banished from his presence. now that the event seemed clear, the cisterns of her heart were opened, and she wept as one distraught. as the days went by mr. paxton understood not only that he was in a bedroom in miss wentworth's house, but also that in the adjacent apartment there was something, or some one, whose presence miss strong, at any rate, was desirous should be concealed from him. the thing becoming more and more conspicuous, mr. paxton insisted at last on having the mystery explained to him. with flashing eyes and faltering lips miss strong explained. in the room adjoining that in which he lay was a policeman. he had been there all the time. he intended to remain, at least, as long as mr. paxton stayed. mr. paxton was, in fact, a prisoner--a prisoner in miss wentworth's house. since it had seemed likely that he would die, the authorities had suffered him to be committed to the hands of friends, in order that, if they could, they might nurse him back to health and strength. but not for an instant had he been out of official supervision. egress from the sick-chamber was only possible by passing through the adjoining room; in that adjoining room a policeman had been stationed night and day. now that he was mending, at any moment rough, unfeeling hands might drag him off to gaol. miss strong's manner, as she made the situation clear to mr. paxton, was reminiscent of the tragic muse. her rage against mr. ireland was particularly fierce. when she spoke of him it was with clenched fists and knitted brows and eyes like flaming coals. "he actually dares to pretend to think that you had something to do with the stealing of the datchet diamonds." mr. paxton seemed to hesitate; then took her breath away with his answer. "he is right in thinking so; i had." she was standing at his bedside. when he said that, she looked down at him as if she felt either that her ears must be playing her false or that he must be still delirious. yet he seemed to speak rationally, and although pale and wan and but the shadow of his old self, he did not look as if he were insane. "cyril! you don't understand me. i say that he thinks that you had something to do with the stealing of the datchet diamonds--some improper connection with the crime, i mean." "i understand you perfectly well, my dear. i repeat, i had." she sat down on a chair and gasped. "you had! goodness gracious! what?" "after they had been stolen. the diamonds came into my possession owing to an accident." "cyril! whatever did you do with them?" "they are in my possession now." "the datchet diamonds! in your possession! where?" her eyes, opened at their widest, were round as saucers. she was a living note of exclamation. obviously, though he did not seem as though he were, she felt that he must be still delirious. he quickly made it plain to her, however, that he was nothing of the kind. he told her, clearly and succinctly, the whole strange history--nothing extenuating, attempting in no whit to whitewash the blackness of his own offending--precisely as it all occurred. and when his tale was at an end, instead of reproaching him by so much as a look, she kissed him, and, pillowing her lovely head upon his undeserving breast, anointed him with her tears, as if by what his criminality had cost him he had earned for himself a niche in hagiology. later, he repeated the story to mr. franklyn and to mr. ireland. neither of them were moved to show signs of sympathy. plainly his friend was of opinion that, at the very least, he had played the fool; while the detective, whose moral sensibilities had perhaps been dulled by his constant contact with crime, seemed to be struck rather by his impudence than by anything else. mr. paxton having voluntarily furnished mr. ireland with sufficient authority to enable him to gain access to the safe which he rented in that stronghold in chancery lane, the diamonds were found reposing securely in its fastnesses, exactly as he had described. her grace of datchet's heart was gladdened by the knowledge that her priceless treasures would be returned to her in the same condition in which they left her. and the thing, being noised abroad, became a nine days' wonder. the law is very beautiful in its tender mercies. the honest man, being sick, may die in a ditch, and no one cares. on the ailing criminal are lavished all the resources of medical science. mr. lawrence and his friend the baron were far too precious in the eyes of the law to be allowed to die. it was absolutely indispensable that such unmitigated scoundrels should be kept alive. and they were. although, had not the nicest skill been continually at their disposal, they had been dead a dozen times. not only had mr. paxton broken both their skulls--well broken them too--with a breaking that required not a little mending; but, as if that were not enough, they had been nearly incinerated on top of it. however, the unremitting attention with which the law provided them, because they were such rogues, sufficed to pull them through. and at last there came a day on which they were sufficiently recovered to permit of their taking their places in the dock in order that they might be charged with their offences. the prisoners who stood before the magistrates, charged with various degrees of complicity in the robbery of the duchess of datchet's diamonds, were, to begin with, six in number. first and foremost was reginald hargraves, _alias_ arthur lawrence, _alias_ "the toff," _alias_, in all probability, twenty other names. from the beginning to the end he bore himself with perfect self-possession, never leading any one to suppose, either by look or gesture, that he took any particular amount of interest in what was going on. a second was isaac bergstein, _alias_ "the baron." his behaviour, especially when the chief and most damning testimony was being given against him, was certainly not marked by the repose which, if we are to believe the poet, is a characteristic of the caste of vere de vere. cyril paxton was a third; while the tail consisted of the three gentlemen who had fallen into the hands of the philistines on the road to brighton. before the case was opened the counsel for the prosecution intimated that he proposed to offer no evidence against the defendant, cyril paxton, but, with the permission of the bench, would call him as a witness for the crown. the bench making no objection, mr. paxton stepped from the dock to the box, his whilom fellow-prisoners following him on his passage with what were very far from being looks of love. mr. william cooper and mr. paxton were the chief witnesses for the prosecution. it was they who made the fate of the accused a certainty. mr. cooper, in particular, had had with them such long and such an intimate acquaintance that the light which he was enabled to cast on their proceedings was a vivid one. at the same time, beyond all sort of doubt, mr. paxton's evidence was the sensation of the case. seldom has a more curious story than that which he unfolded been told, even in that place in which all the strangest stories have been told, a court of justice. he had more than one bad quarter of an hour, especially at the hands of cross-examining counsel. but, when he was finally allowed to leave the box, it was universally felt that, so far as hope of escape for the prisoners was concerned, already the case was over. their defenders would have to work something like a miracle if mr. paxton's evidence was to be adequately rebutted. that miracle was never worked. when the matter came before the judge at the assizes, his lordship's summing-up was brief and trenchant, and, without leaving their places, the jury returned a verdict of guilty against the whole of the accused. mr. hargraves and mr. bergstein--who have figured in these pages under other names--was each sent to penal servitude for twenty years, their colleagues being sentenced to various shorter periods of punishment. mr. hargraves--or mr. lawrence, whichever you please--bowed to the judge with quiet courtesy as he received his sentence. mr. bergstein, or the "baron," however, looked as if he felt disposed to signify his sentiments in an altogether different fashion. chapter xix a woman's logic the boom in the shares of the trumpit gold mine continued long enough to enable mr. paxton to realise his holding, if not at the top price--that had been touched while he had been fighting for his life in bed--still for a sum which was large enough to ensure his complete comfort, so far as pecuniary troubles were concerned, for the rest of his life. it was his final speculation. the ready money which he obtained he invested in consols. he lives on the interest, and protests that nothing will ever again induce him to gamble in stocks and shares. since a lady who is largely interested in his movements has endorsed his promise, it is probable that he will keep his word. immediately after the trial mr. cyril paxton and miss daisy strong were married quietly at a certain church in brighton; if you find their names upon its register of marriages you will know which church it was. in the first flush of his remorse and self-reproach--one should always remember that "when the devil was ill, the devil a saint would be"--mr. paxton declared that his conduct in connection with the datchet diamonds had made him unworthy of an alliance with a decent woman. when he said this, urged thereto by his new-born humility and sense of shame, miss strong's conduct really was outrageous. she abused him for calling himself unworthy, asserted that all along she had known that, when it came to the marrying-point, he meant to jilt her; and that, since her expectations on that subject were now so fully realised, to her most desperate undoing, all that there remained for her to do was to throw herself into the sea from the end of the pier. she vowed that everything had been her fault, exclaiming that if she had never fallen away from the high estate which is woman's proper appanage, so far as to accept of the shelter of mr. lawrence's umbrella in that storm upon the dyke, but suffered herself to be drowned and blown to shreds instead, nothing would have happened which had happened; and that, therefore, all the evil had been wrought by her. though she had never thought--never for an instant--that he would, or could, have been so unforgiving! when she broke into tears, affirming that, in the face of his hardheartedness, nothing was left to her but death, he succumbed to this latest example of the beautiful simplicity of feminine logic, and admitted that he might after all be a more desirable _parti_ than he had himself supposed. "you have passed through the cleansing fires," she murmured, when, her reasoning having prevailed, a reconciliation had ensued. "and you have issued from them, if possible, truer metal than you went in." mr. paxton felt that that indeed was very possible. he allowed the compliment to go unheeded--conscious, no doubt, that it was undeserved. "god grant that i may never again be led into such temptation!" that was what he said. we, on our part, may hope that his prayer may be granted. lyre and lancet _a story in scenes_ by f. anstey author of "vice versÂ," "the giant's robe," "voces populi," etc. london: smith, elder & co., , waterloo place. . (_all rights reserved._) _reprinted from "punch" by permission of the proprietors._ contents part page i. shadows cast before ii. select passages from a coming poet iii. the two andromedas iv. rushing to conclusions v. cross purposes vi. round pegs in square holes vii. ignotum pro mirifico viii. surprises--agreeable and otherwise ix. the mauvais quart d'heure x. borrowed plumes xi. time and the hour xii. dignity under difficulties xiii. what's in a name? xiv. le vÉtÉrinaire malgrÉ lui xv. trapped! xvi. an intellectual privilege xvii. a bomb shell xviii. the last straw xix. unearned increment xx. different persons have different opinions xxi. the feelings of a mother xxii. a descent from the clouds xxiii. shrinkage xxiv. the happy dispatch characters galfrid undershell (_a minor poet_). james spurrell, m.r.c.v.s. the countess of cantire. lady maisie mull (_her daughter_). sir rupert culverin. lady culverin. lady rhoda cokayne. mrs. brooke-chatteris. miss spelwane. the bishop of birchester. lord lullington. lady lullington. mrs. earwaker. the honourable bertie pilliner. captain thicknesse. archie bearpark. mr. shorthorn. drysdale (_a journalist_). tanrake (_a job-master_). emma phillipson (_maid to_ lady cantire). mrs. pomfret (_housekeeper at wyvern court_). miss stickler (_maid to_ lady culverin). miss dolman (_maid to_ lady rhoda cokayne). mlle. chiffon (_maid to_ miss spelwane). m. ridevos (_chef at wyvern_). tredwell (_butler at wyvern_). steptoe (_valet to_ sir rupert culverin). thomas (_a footman_). adams (_stud-groom_). checkley (_head coachman_). steward's room boy, etc. lyre and lancet a story in scenes part i shadows cast before _in_ sir rupert culverin's _study at wyvern court. it is a rainy saturday morning in february._ sir rupert _is at his writing-table, as_ lady culverin _enters with a deprecatory air_. _lady culverin._ so _here_ you are, rupert! not _very_ busy, are you? i won't keep you a moment. (_she goes to a window._) such a nuisance it's turning out wet, with all these people in the house, isn't it? _sir rupert._ well, i was thinking that, as there's nothing doing out of doors, i might get a chance to knock off some of these confounded accounts, but--(_resignedly_)--if you think i ought to go and look after---- _lady culverin._ no, no; the men are playing billiards, and the women are in the morning-room--_they_'re all right. i only wanted to ask you about to-night. you know the lullingtons, and the dear bishop and mrs. rodney, and one or two other people are coming to dinner? well, who ought to take in rohesia? _sir rupert_ (_in dismay_). rohesia! no idea she was coming down this week! _lady culverin._ yes, by the . . with dear maisie. surely you knew that? _sir rupert._ in a sort of way; didn't realize it was so near, that's all. _lady culverin._ it's some time since we had her last. and she wanted to come. i didn't think you would like me to write and put her off. _sir rupert._ put her off? of course i shouldn't, albinia. if my only sister isn't welcome at wyvern at any time--i say at _any_ time--where the deuce is she welcome? _lady culverin._ i don't know, dear rupert. but--but about the table? _sir rupert._ so long as you don't put her near me--that's all _i_ care about. _lady culverin._ i mean--ought i to send her in with lord lullington, or the bishop? _sir rupert._ why not let 'em toss up? loser gets her, of course. _lady culverin._ _rupert!_ as if i could suggest such a thing to the bishop! i suppose she'd better go in with lord lullington--he's lord lieutenant--and then it won't matter if she _does_ advocate disestablishment. oh, but i forgot; she thinks the house of lords ought to be abolished _too_! _sir rupert._ whoever takes rohesia in is likely to have a time of it. talked poor cantire into his tomb a good ten years before he was due there. always lecturing, and domineering, and laying down the law, as long as _i_ can remember her. can't stand rohesia--never could! _lady culverin._ i don't think you ought to say so, really, rupert. and i'm sure _i_ get on very well with her--generally. _sir rupert._ because you knock under to her. _lady culverin._ i'm sure i don't, rupert--at least, no more than everybody else. dear rohesia is so strong-minded and advanced and all that, she takes such an interest in all the new movements and things, that she can't understand contradiction; she is so democratic in her ideas, don't you know. _sir rupert._ didn't prevent her marrying cantire. and a democratic countess--it's downright unnatural! _lady culverin._ she believes it's her duty to set an example and meet the people half-way. that reminds me--did i tell you mr. clarion blair is coming down this evening, too?--only till monday, rupert. _sir rupert._ clarion blair! never heard of him. _lady culverin._ i suppose i forgot. clarion blair isn't his _real_ name, though; it's only a--an alias. _sir rupert._ don't see what any fellow wants with an alias. what _is_ his real name? _lady culverin._ well, i know it was _something_ ending in "ell," but i mislaid his letter. still, clarion blair is the name he writes under; he's a poet, rupert, and quite celebrated, so i'm told. _sir rupert_ (_uneasily_). a poet! what on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow down _here_? poetry isn't much in our way; and a poet _will_ be, confoundedly! [illustration: "what on earth possessed you to ask a literary fellow down here?"] _lady culverin._ i really couldn't help it, rupert. rohesia insisted on my having him to meet her. she likes meeting clever and interesting people. and this mr. blair, it seems, has just written a volume of verses which are finer than anything that's been done since--well, for _ages_! _sir rupert._ what sort of verses? _lady culverin._ well, they're charmingly bound. i've got the book in the house, somewhere. rohesia told me to send for it; but i haven't had time to read it yet. _sir rupert._ shouldn't be surprised if rohesia hadn't, either. _lady culverin._ at all events, she's heard it talked about. the young man's verses have made quite a sensation; they're so dreadfully clever and revolutionary, and morbid and pessimistic, and all that, so she made me promise to ask him down here to meet her! _sir rupert._ devilish thoughtful of her. _lady culverin._ wasn't it? she thought it might be a valuable experience for him; he's sprung, i believe, from _quite_ the middle-class. _sir rupert._ don't see myself why he should be sprung on _us_. why can't rohesia ask him to one of her own places? _lady culverin._ i dare say she will, if he turns out to be quite presentable. and, of course, he _may_, rupert, for anything we can tell. _sir rupert._ then you've never seen him yourself! how did you manage to ask him here, then? _lady culverin._ oh, i wrote to him through his publishers. rohesia says that's the usual way with literary persons one doesn't happen to have met. and he wrote to say he would come. _sir rupert._ so we're to have a morbid revolutionary poet staying in the house, are we? he'll come down to dinner in a flannel shirt and no tie--or else a _red_ one--if he don't bring down a beastly bomb and try to blow us all up! you'll find you've made a mistake, albinia, depend upon it. _lady culverin._ dear rupert, aren't you just a little bit _narrow_? you forget that nowadays the very best houses are proud to entertain genius--no matter _what_ their opinions and appearance may be. and besides, we don't know what changes may be coming. surely it is wise and prudent to conciliate the clever young men who might inflame the masses against us. rohesia thinks so; she says it may be our only chance of stemming the rising tide of revolution, rupert! _sir rupert._ oh, if rohesia thinks a revolution can be stemmed by asking a few poets down from saturday to monday, she might do _her_ share of the stemming at all events. _lady culverin._ but you will be _nice_ to him, rupert, won't you? _sir rupert._ i don't know that i'm in the habit of being uncivil to any guest of yours in this house, my dear, but i'll be hanged if i _grovel_ to him, you know; the tide ain't as high as all that. but it's an infernal nuisance, 'pon my word it is; you must look after him yourself. _i_ can't. i don't know what to talk to geniuses about; i've forgotten all the poetry i ever learnt. and if he comes out with any of his red republican theories in _my_ hearing, why---- _lady culverin._ oh, but he _won't_, dear. i'm certain he'll be quite mild and inoffensive. look at shakespeare--the bust, i mean--and _he_ began as a poacher! _sir rupert._ ah, and this chap would put down the game laws if he could, i dare say; do away with everything that makes the country worth living in. why, if he had his way, albinia, there wouldn't be---- _lady culverin._ i know, dear, i know. and you must make him see all that from _your_ point. look, the weather really seems to be clearing a little. we might all of us get out for a drive or something after lunch. i would ride, if deerfoot's all right again; he's the only horse i ever feel _really_ safe upon, now. _sir rupert._ sorry, my dear, but you'll have to drive then. adams tells me the horse is as lame as ever this morning, and he don't know what to make of it. he suggested having horsfall over, but i've no faith in the local vets myself, so i wired to town for old spavin. he's seen deerfoot before, and we could put him up for a night or two. (_to_ tredwell, _the butler, who enters with a telegram_.) eh, for me? just wait, will you, in case there's an answer. (_as he opens it._) ah, this _is_ from spavin--h'm, nuisance! "regret unable to leave at present, bronchitis, junior partner could attend immediately if required.--spavin." never knew he _had_ a partner. _tredwell._ i did hear, sir rupert, as mr. spavin was looking out for one quite recent, being hasthmatical, m'lady, and so i suppose this is him as the telegram alludes to. _sir rupert._ very likely. well, he's sure to be a competent man. we'd better have him, eh, albinia? _lady culverin._ oh yes, and he must stay till deerfoot's better. i'll speak to pomfret about having a room ready in the east wing for him. tell him to come by the . , rupert. we shall be sending the omnibus in to meet that. _sir rupert._ all right, i've told him. (_giving the form to_ tredwell.) see that that's sent off at once, please. (_after_ tredwell _has left_.) by the way, albinia, rohesia may kick up a row if she has to come up in the omnibus with a vet, eh? _lady culverin._ goodness, so she might! but he needn't go _inside_. still, if it goes on raining like this--i'll tell thomas to order a fly for him at the station, and then there _can't_ be any bother about it. part ii select passages from a coming poet _in the morning room at wyvern._ lady rhoda cokayne, mrs. brooke-chatteris, _and_ miss vivien spelwane _are comfortably established near the fireplace. the_ hon. bertie pilliner, captain thicknesse, _and_ archie bearpark, _have just drifted in_. _miss spelwane._ why, you _don't_ mean to say you've torn yourselves away from your beloved billiards already? _quite_ wonderful! _bertie pilliner._ it's too _horrid_ of you to leave us to play all by ourselves! we've all got so cross and fractious we've come in here to be petted! [_he arranges himself at her feet, so as to exhibit a very neat pair of silk socks and pumps._ _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). do hate to see a fellow come down in the mornin' with evenin' shoes on! _archie bearpark_ (_to_ bertie pilliner). you speak for yourself, pillener. _i_ didn't come to be petted. came to see if lady rhoda wouldn't come and toboggan down the big staircase on a tea-tray. _do!_ it's clinkin' sport! _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). if there's one thing i _can't_ stand, it's a rowdy bullyraggin' ass like archie! _lady rhoda cokayne._ ta muchly, dear boy, but you don't catch me travellin' downstairs on a tea-tray _twice_--it's just a bit _too_ clinkin', don't you know! _archie bearpark_ (_disappointed_). why, there's a mat at the bottom of the stairs! well, if you won't, let's get up a cushion fight, then. bertie and i will choose sides. pilliner, i'll toss you for first pick up--come out of that, do. _bertie pilliner_ (_lazily_). thanks, i'm much too comfy where i am. and i don't see any point in romping and rumpling one's hair just before lunch. _archie bearpark._ well, you _are_ slack. and there's a good hour still before lunch. thicknesse, _you_ suggest something, there's a dear old chap. _captain thicknesse_ (_after a mental effort_). suppose we all go and have another look round at the gees--eh, what? _bertie pilliner._ i beg to oppose. do let's show _some_ respect for the privacy of the british hunter. why should i go and smack them on their fat backs, and feel every one of their horrid legs twice in one morning? i shouldn't like a horse coming into my bedroom at all hours to smack _me_ on the back. i should _hate_ it! _mrs. brooke-chatteris._ i love them--dear things! but still, it's so wet, and it would mean going up and changing our shoes too--perhaps lady rhoda---- [lady rhoda _flatly declines to stir before lunch_. _captain thicknesse_ (_resentfully_). only thought it was better than loafin' about, that's all. (_to himself._) i do bar a woman who's afraid of a little mud. (_he saunters up to_ miss spelwane _and absently pulls the ear of a japanese spaniel on her knee_.) poo' little fellow, then! _miss spelwane._ poor little fellow? on _my_ lap! _captain thicknesse._ oh, it--ah--didn't occur to me that he was on _your_ lap. he don't seem to mind _that_. _miss spelwane._ no? _how_ forbearing of him! would you mind not standing quite so much in my light? i can't see my work. _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself, retreating_). that girl's always fishin' for compliments. i didn't rise _that_ time, though. it's precious slow here. i've a good mind to say i must get back to aldershot this afternoon. [_he wanders aimlessly about the room_; archie bearpark _looks out of window with undisguised boredom_. _lady rhoda._ i say, if none of you are goin' to be more amusin' than this, you may as well go back to your billiards again. _bertie pilliner._ dear lady rhoda, how cruel of you! you'll have to let _me_ stay. i'll be _so_ good. look here, i'll read aloud to you. i _can_--quite prettily. what shall it be? you don't care? no more do i. i'll take the first that comes. (_he reaches for the nearest volume on a table close by._) how _too_ delightful! poetry--which i know you _all_ adore. [_he turns over the leaves._ _lady rhoda._ if you ask _me_, i simply loathe it. _bertie pilliner._ ah, but then you never heard _me_ read it, you know. now, here is a choice little bit, stuck right up in a corner, as if it had been misbehaving itself. "disenchantment" it's called. [_he reads._ "my love has sicklied unto loath, and foul seems all that fair i fancied-- the lily's sheen a leprous growth, the very buttercups are rancid!" _archie bearpark._ jove! the johnny who wrote that must have been feelin' chippy! _bertie pilliner._ he gets cheaper than that in the next poem. this is his idea of "abasement." [_he reads._ "with matted head a-dabble in the dust, and eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust, i lie all loathly in my rags and rust-- yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust." now, do you know, i rather like that--it's so deliciously decadent! _lady rhoda._ i should call it utter rot, myself. _bertie pilliner_ (_blandly_). forgive me, lady rhoda. "utterly rotten," if you like, but _not_ "utter rot." there's a difference, really. now, i'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, i suppose. "stanza written in depression near dulwich." [_he reads._ "the lark soars up in the air; the toad sits tight in his hole; and i would i were certain which of the pair were the truer type of my soul!" _archie bearpark._ i should be inclined to back the toad, myself. _miss spelwane._ if you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. aren't there any love songs? _bertie pilliner._ i'll look. yes, any amount--here's one. (_he reads._) "to my lady." "twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe, gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green, pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe, then--kiss me, lady grisoline!" _miss spelwane_ (_interested_). so _that's_ his type. does he mention whether she _did_ kiss him? _bertie pilliner._ probably. poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. i'll see ... h'm, ha, yes; he _does_ mention it ... i think i'll read something else. here's a classical specimen. [_he reads._ "uprears the monster now his slobberous head, its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing." and so on, don't you know.... now i'll read you a regular rouser called "a trumpet blast." sit tight, everybody! [_he reads._ "pale patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (one for _you_, dear archie!) blink your blearèd eyes. (blink, pretty creatures, blink!) behold the sun-- burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence, demos dawning, and the darkness--done!" [_general hilarity, amidst which_ lady culverin _enters_. [illustration: "now i'll read you a regular rouser called 'a trumpet blast.'"] _lady culverin._ so _glad_ you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. what is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear vivien? _miss spelwane._ bertie pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear lady culverin--_the_ most ridiculous poetry--made us all simply shriek. what's the name of it? (_taking the volume out of_ bertie's _hand_.) oh, _andromeda, and other poems_. by clarion blair. _lady culverin_ (_coldly_). bertie pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know; but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. indeed, my sister-in-law---- _all_ (_in consternation_). lady cantire! is _she_ the author? oh, of course, if we'd had any idea---- _lady culverin._ i've no reason to believe that lady cantire ever composed _any_ poetry. i was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece maisie are coming to us this evening---- _miss spelwane._ dear lady culverin, the verses are quite, _quite_ beautiful; it was only the way they were read. _lady culverin._ i am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because i'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. i hope, bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that _i_ can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand. [_she passes on._ _bertie_ (_plaintively, after_ lady culverin _has left the room_). may i trouble somebody to scrape me up? i'm pulverised! but really, you know, a real live poet at wyvern! i say, miss spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh? _miss spelwane._ perhaps i shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. and, if you've quite done with that volume, _i_ should like to have a look at it. [_she retires with it to her room._ _archie_ (_to himself_). i'm not half sorry this poet-johnny's comin'; i never caught a bard in a booby-trap _yet_. _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). she's coming--this very evenin'! and i was nearly sayin' i must get back to aldershot! _lady rhoda._ so lady cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! but maisie's a dear thing. do you know her, captain thicknesse? _captain thicknesse._ i--i used to meet lady maisie mull pretty often at one time; don't know if she'll remember it, though. _lady rhoda._ she'll love meetin' this writin' man--she's so fearfully romantic. i heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealized by a great poet--sort of--what's their names--petrarch and beatrice business, don't you know. it will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off--won't it? _captain thicknesse_ (_choking_). i--ah--no affair of mine, really. (_to himself._) i'm not intellectual enough for her, i know that. suppose i shall have to stand by and look on at the petrarchin'. well, there's always aldershot! [_the luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction._ part iii the two andromedas _opposite a railway bookstall at a london terminus._ time--_saturday_, . p.m. _drysdale_ (_to his friend_, galfrid undershell, _whom he is "seeing off"_). twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of light literature. _undershell_ (_in a head voice_). i fear the merely ephemeral does not appeal to me. but i should like to make a little experiment. (_to the_ bookstall clerk.) a--do you happen to have a copy left of clarion blair's _andromeda_? _clerk._ not in stock, sir. never 'eard of the book, but dare say i could get it for you. here's a detective story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes--_the man with the missing toe_--very cleverly written story, sir. [illustration: "here's a detective story we're selling like 'ot cakes."] _undershell._ i merely wished to know--that was all. (_turning with resigned disgust to_ drysdale.) just think of it, my dear fellow. at a bookstall like this one feels the pulse, as it were, of contemporary culture; and here my _andromeda_, which no less an authority than the _daily chronicle_ hailed as the uprising of a new and splendid era in english song-making, a poetic renascence, my poor _andromeda_, is trampled underfoot by--(_choking_)--men with missing toes! what a satire on our so-called progress! _drysdale._ that a purblind public should prefer a shilling shocker for railway reading when for a modest half-guinea they might obtain a numbered volume of coming poetry on hand-made paper! it _does_ seem incredible,--but they do. well, if they can't read _andromeda_ on the journey, they can at least peruse a stinger on it in this week's _saturday_. seen it? _undershell._ no. i don't vex my soul by reading criticisms on my work. i am no keats. they may howl--but they will not kill _me_. by the way, the _speaker_ had a most enthusiastic notice last week. _drysdale._ so you saw _that_ then? but you're right not to mind the others. when a fellow's contrived to hang on to the chariot of fame, he can't wonder if a few rude and envious beggars call out "whip behind!" eh? you don't want to get in yet? suppose we take a turn up to the end of the platform. [_they do._ james spurrell, m.r.c.v.s., _enters with his friend_, thomas tanrake, _of_ hurdell and tanrake, _job and riding masters, mayfair_. _spurrell._ yes, it's lucky for me old spavin being laid up like this--gives me a regular little outing, do you see? going down to a swell place like this wyvern court, and being put up there for a day or two! i shouldn't wonder if they do you very well in the housekeeper's room. (_to_ clerk.) give me a pink un and last week's _dog fancier's guide_. _clerk._ we've returned the unsold copies, sir. could give you _this_ week's; or there's _the rabbit and poultry breeder's journal_. _spurrell._ oh, rabbits be blowed! (_to_ tanrake.) i wanted you to see that notice they put in of andromeda and me, with my photo and all; it said she was the best bull-bitch they'd seen for many a day, and fully deserved her first prize. _tanrake._ she's a rare good bitch, and no mistake. but what made you call her such an outlandish name? _spurrell._ well, i _was_ going to call her sal; but a chap at the college thought the other would look more stylish if i ever meant to exhibit her. andromeda was one of them roman goddesses, you know. _tanrake._ oh, i knew _that_ right enough. come and have a drink before you start--just for luck--not that you want _that_. _spurrell._ i'm lucky enough in most things, tom; in everything except love. i told you about that girl, you know--emma--and my being as good as engaged to her, and then, all of a sudden, she went off abroad, and i've never seen or had a line from her since. can't call _that_ luck, you know. well, i won't say no to a glass of something. [_they disappear into the refreshment room._ _the_ countess of cantire _enters with her daughter_, lady maisie mull. _lady cantire_ (_to_ footman). get a compartment for us, and two foot-warmers, and a second-class as near ours as you can for phillipson; then come back here. stay, i'd better give you phillipson's ticket. (_the_ footman _disappears in the crowd_.) now we must get something to read on the journey. (_to_ clerk.) i want a book of some sort--no rubbish, mind; something serious and improving, and _not_ a work of fiction. _clerk._ exactly so, ma'am. let me see. ah, here's _alone with the 'airy ainoo_. how would you like that? _lady cantire_ (_with decision_). i should not like it at all. _clerk._ i quite understand. well, i can give you _three 'undred ways of dressing the cold mutton_--useful little book for a family, redooced to one and ninepence. _lady cantire._ thank you. i think i will wait till i am reduced to one and ninepence. _clerk._ precisely. what do you say to _seven 'undred side-splitters for sixpence_? 'ighly yumerous, i assure you. _lady cantire._ are these times to split our sides, with so many serious social problems pressing for solution? you are presumably not without intelligence; do you never reflect upon the responsibility you incur in assisting to circulate trivial and frivolous trash of this sort? _clerk_ (_dubiously_). well, i can't say as i do, particular, ma'am. i'm paid to sell the books--i don't _select_ 'em. _lady cantire._ that is _no_ excuse for you--you ought to exercise some discrimination on your own account, instead of pressing people to buy what can do them no possible good. you can give me a _society snippets_. _lady maisie._ mamma! a penny paper that says such rude things about the royal family! _lady cantire._ it's always instructive to know what these creatures are saying about one, my dear, and it's astonishing how they manage to find out the things they do. ah, here's gravener coming back. he's got us a carriage, and we'd better get in. [_she and her daughter enter a first-class compartment_; undershell _and_ drysdale _return_. _drysdale_ (_to_ undershell). well, i don't see now where the insolence comes in. these people have invited you to stay with them---- _undershell._ but why? not because they appreciate my work--which they probably only half understand--but out of mere idle curiosity to see what manner of strange beast a poet may be! and _i_ don't know this lady culverin--never met her in my life! what the deuce does she mean by sending me an invitation? why should these smart women suppose that they are entitled to send for a man of genius, as if he was their _lackey_? answer me that! _drysdale._ perhaps the delusion is encouraged by the fact that genius occasionally condescends to answer the bell. _undershell_ (_reddening_). do you imagine i am going down to this place simply to please _them_? _drysdale._ i should think it a doubtful kindness, in your present frame of mind; and, as you are hardly going to please yourself, wouldn't it be more dignified, on the whole, not to go at all? _undershell._ you never _did_ understand me! sometimes i think i was born to be misunderstood! but you might do me the justice to believe that i am not going from merely snobbish motives. may i not feel that such a recognition as this is a tribute less to my poor self than to literature, and that, as such, i have scarcely the _right_ to decline it? _drysdale._ ah, if you put it in that way, i am silenced, of course. _undershell._ or what if i am going to show these patricians that--poet of the people as i am--they can neither patronise nor cajole me? _drysdale._ exactly, old chap--what if you _are_? _undershell._ i don't say that i may not have another reason--a--a rather romantic one--but you would only sneer if i told you! i know you think me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an undeserved success. _drysdale._ you're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old chum, are you? come, you know well enough i don't think anything of the sort. i've always said you had the right stuff in you, and would show it some day; there are even signs of it in _andromeda_ here and there; but you'll do better things than that, if you'll only let some of the wind out of your head. i take an interest in you, old fellow, and that's just why it riles me to see you taking yourself so devilish seriously on the strength of a little volume of verse which--between you and me--has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably more. you've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at present, old boy! _undershell_ (_with bitterness_). i am fortunate in possessing such a candid friend. but i mustn't keep you here any longer. _drysdale._ very well. i suppose you're going first? consider the feelings of the culverin footman at the other end! _undershell_ (_as he fingers a first-class ticket in his pocket_). you have a very low view of human nature! (_here he becomes aware of a remarkably pretty face at a second-class window close by_). as it _happens_, i am travelling second. [_he gets in._ _drysdale_ (_at the window_). well, good-bye, old chap. good luck to you at wyvern, and remember--wear your livery with as good a grace as possible. _undershell._ i do not intend to wear any livery whatever. [_the owner of the pretty face regards_ undershell _with interest_. _spurrell_ (_coming out of the refreshment room_). what, second--with all my exes. paid? not _likely_! i'm going to travel in style this journey. no--not a smoker; don't want to create a bad impression, you know. this will do for me. [_he gets into a compartment occupied by_ lady cantire _and her daughter_. _tanrake_ (_at the window_). there--you're off now. pleasant journey to you, old man. hope you'll enjoy yourself at this wyvern court you're going to--and, i say, don't forget to send me that notice of andromeda when you get back! [_the_ countess _and_ lady maisie _start slightly; the train moves out of the station_. part iv rushing to conclusions _in a first-class compartment._ _spurrell_ (_to himself_). formidable old party opposite me in the furs! nice-looking girl over in the corner; not a patch on my emma, though! wonder why i catch 'em sampling me over their papers whenever i look up! can't be anything wrong with my turn out. why, of course, they heard tom talk about my going down to wyvern court; think i'm a visitor there and no end of a duke! well, what snobs some people are, to be sure! _lady cantire_ (_to herself_). so this is the young poet i made albinia ask to meet me. i can't be mistaken, i distinctly heard his friend mention _andromeda_. h'm, well, it's a comfort to find he's _clean_! have i read his poetry or not? i know i _had_ the book, because i distinctly remember telling maisie she wasn't to read it--but--well, that's of no consequence. he looks clever and quite respectable--not in the least picturesque--which is fortunate. i was beginning to doubt whether it was quite prudent to bring maisie; but i needn't have worried myself. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). here, actually in the same carriage! does he guess who _i_ am? somehow---- well, he certainly _is_ different from what i expected. i thought he would show more signs of having thought and suffered; for he _must_ have suffered to write as he does. if mamma knew i had read his poems; that i had actually written to beg him not to refuse aunt albinia's invitation! he never wrote back. of course i didn't put any address; but still, he could have found out from the red book if he'd cared. i'm rather glad now he _didn't_ care. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). old girl seems as if she meant to be sociable; better give her an opening. (_aloud._) hem! would you like the window down an inch or two? _lady cantire._ not on _my_ account, thank you. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). broke the ice, anyway. (_aloud._) oh, _i_ don't want it down, but some people have such a mania for fresh air. _lady cantire_ (_with a dignified little shiver_). have they? with a temperature as glacial as it is in here! they must be maniacs indeed! _spurrell._ well, it _is_ chilly; been raw all day. (_to himself._) she don't answer. i _haven't_ broken the ice. [_he produces a memorandum book._ _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). he hasn't said anything _very_ original yet. so _nice_ of him not to pose! oh, he's got a note-book; he's going to compose a poem. how interesting! [illustration: "he's going to compose a poem. how interesting!"] _spurrell_ (_to himself_). yes, i'm all right if heliograph wins the lincolnshire handicap; lucky to get on at the price i did. wonder what's the latest about the city and suburban? let's see whether the pink un has anything about it. [_he refers to the sporting times._ _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). the inspiration's stopped--_what_ a pity! how odd of him to read the _globe_! i thought he was a democrat! _lady cantire._ maisie, there's quite a clever little notice in _society snippets_ about the dance at skympings last week. i'm sure i wonder how they pick up these things; it quite bears out what i was told; says the supper arrangements were "simply disgraceful; not nearly enough champagne; and what there was, undrinkable!" so _like_ poor dear lady chesepare; never _does_ do things like anybody else. i'm sure _i've_ given her hints enough! _spurrell_ (_to himself, with a suppressed grin_). wants to let me see _she_ knows some swells. now _ain't_ that paltry? _lady cantire_ (_tendering the paper_). would you like to see it, maisie? just this bit here; where my finger is. _lady maisie_ (_to herself, flushing_). i saw him smile. what _must_ he think of us, with his splendid scorn for rank? (_aloud._) no, thank you, mamma: such a wretched light to read by! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). chance for _me_ to cut in! (_aloud._) beastly light, isn't it? 'pon my word, the company ought to provide us with a dog and string apiece when we get out! _lady cantire_ (_bringing a pair of long-handled glasses to bear upon him_). i happen to hold shares in this line. may i ask _why_ you consider a provision of dogs and string at all the stations a necessary or desirable expenditure? _spurrell._ oh--er--well, you know, i only meant, bring on _blindness_ and that. harmless attempt at a joke, that's all. _lady cantire._ i see. i scarcely expected that _you_ would condescend to such weakness. i--ah--think you are going down to stay at wyvern for a few days, are you not? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i was right. what tom said _did_ fetch the old girl; no harm in humouring her a bit. (_aloud._) yes--oh yes, they--aw--wanted me to run down when i could. _lady cantire._ i heard they were expecting you. you will find wyvern a pleasant house--for a short visit. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). _she_ heard! oh, she wants to kid me she knows the culverins. rats! (_aloud._) shall i, though? i dare say. _lady cantire._ lady culverin is a very sweet woman; a little limited, perhaps, not intellectual, or quite what one would call the _grande dame_; but perhaps _that_ could scarcely be expected. _spurrell_ (_vaguely_). oh, of course not--no. (_to himself._) if she bluffs, so can i! (_aloud._) it's funny your turning out to be an acquaintance of lady c.'s, though. _lady cantire._ you think so? but i should hardly call myself an _acquaintance_. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). old cat's trying to back out of it now; she shan't, though! (_aloud._) oh, then i suppose you know sir rupert best? _lady cantire._ yes, i certainly know sir rupert better. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). oh, you do, do you? we'll see. (_aloud._) nice cheery old chap, sir rupert, isn't he? i must tell him i travelled down in the same carriage with a particular friend of his. (_to himself._) that'll make her sit up! _lady cantire._ oh, then you and my brother rupert have met already? _spurrell_ (_aghast_). your brother! sir rupert culverin your----! excuse me--if i'd only known, i--i do assure you i never should have dreamt of saying----! _lady cantire_ (_graciously_). you've said nothing whatever to distress yourself about. you couldn't possibly be expected to know who i was. perhaps i had better tell you at once that i am lady cantire, and this is my daughter, lady maisie mull. (spurrell _returns_ lady maisie's _little bow in the deepest confusion_.) we are going down to wyvern too, so i hope we shall very soon become better acquainted. _spurrell_ (_to himself, overwhelmed_). the deuce we shall! i _have_ got myself into a hole this time; i wish i could see my way well out of it! why on earth couldn't i hold my confounded tongue? i _shall_ look an ass when i tell 'em. [_he sits staring at them in silent embarrassment._ _in a second-class compartment._ _undershell_ (_to himself_). singularly attractive face this girl has; so piquant and so refined! i can't help fancying she is studying me under her eyelashes. she has remarkably bright eyes. can she be interested in me? does she expect me to talk to her? there are only she and i--but no, just now i would rather be alone with my thoughts. this maisie mull whom i shall meet so soon; what is _she_ like, i wonder? i presume she is unmarried. if i may judge from her artless little letter, she is young and enthusiastic, and she is a passionate admirer of my verse; she is longing to meet me. i suppose some men's vanity would be flattered by a tribute like that. i think i must have none; for it leaves me strangely cold. i did not even reply; it struck me that it would be difficult to do so with any dignity, and she didn't tell me where to write to.... after all, how do i know that this will not end--like everything else--in disillusion? will not such crude girlish adoration pall upon me in time? if she were exceptionally lovely; or say, even as charming as this fair fellow-passenger of mine--why then, to be sure--but no, something warns me that that is not to be. i shall find her plain, sandy, freckled; she will render me ridiculous by her undiscriminating gush.... yes, i feel my heart sink more and more at the prospect of this visit. ah me! [_he sighs heavily._ _his fellow passenger_ (_to herself_). it's too silly to be sitting here like a pair of images, considering that---- (_aloud._) i hope you aren't feeling unwell? _undershell._ thank you, no, not unwell. i was merely thinking. _his fellow passenger._ you don't seem very cheerful over it, i must say. i've no wish to be inquisitive, but perhaps you're feeling a little low-spirited about the place you're going to? _undershell._ i--i must confess i am rather dreading the prospect. how wonderful that you should have guessed it! _his fellow passenger._ oh, i've been through it myself. i'm just the same when _i_ go down to a new place; feel a sort of sinking, you know, as if the people were sure to be disagreeable, and i should never get on with them. _undershell._ _exactly_ my own sensations! if i could only be sure of finding _one_ kindred spirit, one soul who would help and understand me. but i daren't let myself hope even for that! _his fellow passenger._ well, i wouldn't judge beforehand. the chances are there'll be _somebody_ you can take to. _undershell_ (_to himself_). what sympathy! what bright, cheerful common sense! (_aloud._) do you know, you encourage me more than you can possibly imagine! _his fellow passenger_ (_retreating_). oh, if you are going to take my remarks like _that_, i shall be afraid to go on talking to you! _undershell_ (_with pathos_). don't--_don't_ be afraid to talk to me! if you only knew the comfort you give! i have found life very sad, very solitary. and true sympathy is so rare, so refreshing. i--i fear such an appeal from a stranger may seem a little startling; it is true that hitherto we have only exchanged a very few sentences; and yet already i feel that we have something--much--in common. you can't be so cruel as to let all intimacy cease here--it is quite tantalising enough that it must end so soon. a very few more minutes, and this brief episode will be only a memory; i shall have left the little green oasis far behind me, and be facing the dreary desert once more--alone! _his fellow passenger_ (_laughing_). well, of all the uncomplimentary things! as it happens, though, "the little green oasis"--as you're kind enough to call me--_won't_ be left behind; not if it's aware of it! i think i heard your friend mention wyvern court! well, that's where _i'm_ going. _undershell_ (_excitedly_). you--_you_ are going to wyvern court! why, then, you must be---- [_he checks himself._ _his fellow passenger._ what were you going to say; _what_ must i be? _undershell_ (_to himself_). there is no doubt about it; bright, independent girl; gloves a trifle worn; travels second-class for economy; it must be miss mull herself; her letter mentioned lady culverin as her aunt. a poor relation, probably. she doesn't suspect that i am---- i won't reveal myself just yet; better let it dawn upon her gradually. (_aloud._) why, i was only about to say, why then you must be going to the same house as i am. how extremely fortunate a coincidence! _his fellow passenger._ that remains to be seen. (_to herself._) what a funny little man; such a flowery way of talking for a footman. oh, but i forgot; he said he _wasn't_ going to wear livery. well, he _would_ look a sight in it! part v cross purposes _in a first-class compartment._ _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). poets don't seem to have much self-possession. he seems perfectly overcome by hearing my name like that. if only he doesn't lose his head completely and say something about my wretched letter! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i'd better tell 'em before they find out for themselves. (_aloud; desperately._) my lady, i--i feel i ought to explain at once how i come to be going down to wyvern like this. [lady maisie _only just suppresses a terrified protest_. _lady cantire_ (_benignly amused_). my good sir, there's not the slightest necessity; i am perfectly aware of who you are, and everything about you! _spurrell_ (_incredulously_). but really i don't see _how_ your ladyship---- why, i haven't said a _word_ that---- _lady cantire_ (_with a solemn waggishness_.) celebrities who mean to preserve their _incognito_ shouldn't allow their friends to see them off. i happened to hear a certain _andromeda_ mentioned, and that was quite enough for me! _spurrell_ (_to himself, relieved_). she knows; seen the sketch of me in the _dog fancier_, i expect; goes in for breeding bulls herself, very likely. well, that's a load off my mind! (_aloud._) you don't say so, my lady. i'd no idea your ladyship would have any taste that way; most agreeable surprise to me, i can assure you! _lady cantire._ i see no reason for _surprise_ in the matter. i have always endeavoured to cultivate my taste in all directions; to keep in touch with every modern development. i make it a rule to read and see _everything_. of course, i have no time to give more than a rapid glance at most things; but i hope some day to be able to have another look at your _andromeda_. i hear the most glowing accounts from all the judges. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). she knows all the judges! she _must_ be in the fancy! (_aloud._) any time your ladyship likes to name i shall be proud and happy to bring her round for your inspection. _lady cantire_ (_with condescension_). if you are kind enough to offer me a copy of _andromeda_, i shall be _most_ pleased to possess one. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). sharp old customer, this; trying to rush me for a pup. _i_ never offered her one! (_aloud._) well, as to _that_, my lady, i've promised so many already, that really i don't--but there--i'll see what i can _do_ for you. i'll make a note of it; you mustn't mind having to _wait_ a bit. _lady cantire_ (_raising her eyebrows_). i will make an effort to support existence in the meantime. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). i couldn't have believed that the man who could write such lovely verses should be so--well, not _exactly_ a gentleman! how _petty_ of me to have such thoughts. perhaps geniuses never _are_. and as if it _mattered_! and i'm sure he's very natural and simple, and i shall like him when i know him better. [_the train slackens._ _lady cantire._ what station is this? oh, it _is_ shuntingbridge. (_to_ spurrell, _as they get out_.) now, if you'll kindly take charge of these bags, and go and see whether there's anything from wyvern to meet us--you will find us here when you come back. _on the platform at shuntingbridge._ _lady cantire._ ah, _there_ you are, phillipson! yes, you can take the jewel-case; and now you had better go and see after the trunks. (phillipson _hurries back to the luggage-van_; spurrell _returns_.) well, mr.--i always forget names, so i shall call you "andromeda"--have you found out---- the omnibus, is it? very well, take us to it, and we'll get in. [_they go outside._ _undershell_ (_at another part of the platform--to himself_). where has miss mull disappeared to? oh, there she is, pointing out her luggage. what a quantity she travels with! can't be such a _very_ poor relation. how graceful and collected she is, and how she orders the porters about! i really believe i shall enjoy this visit. (_to a porter._) that's mine--the brown one with a white star. i want it to go to wyvern court--sir rupert culverin's. _porter_ (_shouldering it_). right, sir. follow me, if you please. [_he disappears with it._ _undershell_ (_to himself_). i mustn't leave miss mull alone. (_advancing to her._) can i be of any assistance? _phillipson._ it's all done now. but you might try and find out how we're to get to the court. [undershell _departs; is requested to produce his ticket, and spends several minutes in searching every pocket but the right one_. [illustration: searching every pocket but the right one.] _in the station yard at shuntingbridge._ _lady cantire_ (_from the interior of the wyvern omnibus, testily, to_ footman). what are we waiting for _now_? is my maid coming with us--or how? _footman._ there's a fly ordered to take her, my lady. _lady cantire_ (_to_ spurrell, _who is standing below_). then it's _you_ who are keeping us! _spurrell._ if your ladyship will excuse me. i'll just go and see if they've put out my bag. _lady cantire_ (_impatiently_). never mind about your bag. (_to_ footman.) what have you done with this gentleman's luggage? _footman._ everything for the court is on top now, my lady. [_he opens the door for_ spurrell. _lady cantire_ (_to_ spurrell, _who is still irresolute_). for goodness' sake don't hop about on that step! come in, and let us start. _lady maisie._ _please_ get in--there's _plenty_ of room! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). they _are_ chummy, and no mistake! (_aloud, as he gets in._) i do hope it won't be considered any intrusion--my coming up along with your ladyships, i mean! _lady cantire_ (_snappishly_). intrusion! i never heard such nonsense! did you expect to be asked to run behind? you really mustn't be so ridiculously modest. as if your _andromeda_ hadn't procured you the _entrée_ everywhere! [_the omnibus starts._ _spurrell_ (_to himself_). good old drummy! no idea i was such a swell. i'll keep my tail up. shyness ain't one of _my_ failings. (_aloud, to an indistinct mass at the further end of the omnibus, which is unlighted._) er--hum--pitch dark night, my lady, don't get much idea of the country! (_the mass makes no response._) i was saying, my lady, it's too dark to---- (_the mass snores peacefully._) her ladyship seems to be taking a snooze on the quiet, my lady. (_to_ lady maisie.) (_to himself._) not that _that's_ the term for it! _lady maisie_ (_distantly_). my mother gets tired rather easily. (_to herself._) it's really too dreadful; he makes me hot all over! if he's going to do this kind of thing at wyvern! and i'm more or less _responsible_ for him, too! i _must_ see if i can't---- it will be only kind. (_aloud, nervously._) mr.--mr. blair! _spurrell._ excuse me, my lady, not _blair_--spurrell. _lady maisie._ of course, _how_ stupid of me. i knew it wasn't _really_ your name. mr. _spurrell_, then, you--you won't mind if i give you just one little hint, _will_ you? _spurrell._ i shall take it kindly of your ladyship, whatever it is. _lady maisie_ (_more nervously still_). it's really such a trifle, but--but, in speaking to mamma or me, it isn't at all necessary to say "my lady" or "your ladyship." i--i mean, it sounds rather, well--_formal_, don't you know! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). _she's_ going to be chummy now! (_aloud._) i thought, on a first acquaintance, it was only manners. _lady maisie._ oh--manners? yes, i--i dare say--but still--but still--_not_ at wyvern, don't you know. if you like, you can call mamma "lady cantire," and me "lady maisie," now and then, and, of course, my aunt will be "lady culverin," but--but if there are other people staying in the house, you needn't call them _anything_, do you see? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i'm not likely to have the chance! (_aloud._) well, if you're sure they won't _mind_ it, because i'm not used to this sort of thing, so i put myself entirely in your hands,--for, of course, _you_ know what brought me down here? _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). he means my foolish letter! oh, i must put a stop to _that_ at once! (_in a hurried undertone._) yes--yes; i--i think i do i mean, i _do_ know--but--but _please_ forget it--_indeed_, you must! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). forget i've come down as a vet? the culverins will take care i don't forget that! (_aloud._) but, i say, it's all very well; but how _can_ i? why, look here; i was told i was to come down here on purpose to---- _lady maisie_ (_on thorns_). i know--you needn't tell me! and _don't_ speak so loud! _mamma_ might hear! _spurrell_ (_puzzled_). what if she did? why, i thought her la--your mother _knew_! _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). he actually thinks i should tell mamma! oh, how _dense_ he is! (_aloud._) yes--yes--of _course_ she knows--but--but you might _wake_ her! and--and please don't allude to it again--to me or--or any one. (_to herself._) that i should have to beg him to be silent like this! but what can i _do_? goodness only knows _what_ he mightn't say, if i don't warn him! _spurrell_ (_nettled_). i don't mind _who_ knows. _i'm_ not ashamed of it, lady maisie--whatever you may be! _lady maisie_ (_to herself, exasperated_). he dares to imply that _i_'ve done something to be ashamed of! (_aloud, haughtily._) i'm _not_ ashamed--why _should_ i be? only--oh, can't you _really_ understand that--that one may do things which one wouldn't care to be reminded of publicly? i don't _wish_ it--isn't _that_ enough? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i see what she's at now--doesn't want it to come out that she's travelled down here with a vet! (_aloud, stiffly._) a lady's wish is enough for _me_ at any time. if you're sorry for having gone out of your way to be friendly, why, i'm not the person to take advantage of it. i hope i know how to behave. [_he takes refuge in offended silence._ _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). why did i say anything at all! i've only made things worse--i've let him see that he _has_ an advantage. and he's certain to use it sooner or later--unless i am civil to him. i've offended him now--and i shall _have_ to make it up with him! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i thought all along she didn't seem as chummy as her mother--but to turn round on me like this! _lady cantire_ (_waking up_). well, mr. andromeda, i should have thought you and my daughter might have found _some_ subject in common; but i haven't heard a word from either of you since we left the station. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). that's _some_ comfort! (_aloud._) you must have had a nap, mamma. we--we _have_ been talking. _spurrell._ oh yes, we _have_ been talking, i can assure you, lady cantire! _lady cantire._ dear me. well, maisie, i hope the conversation was entertaining? _lady maisie._ m--most entertaining, mamma! _lady cantire._ i'm quite sorry i missed it. (_the omnibus stops._) wyvern at last! but _what_ a journey it's been, to be sure! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i should just think it had. i've never been so taken up and put down in all my life! but it's over now; and, thank goodness, i'm not likely to see any more of 'em! [_he gets out with alacrity._ part vi round pegs in square holes _in the entrance hall at wyvern._ _tredwell_ (_to_ lady cantire). this way, if you please, my lady. her ladyship is in the hamber boudwore. _lady cantire._ wait. (_she looks round._) what has become of that young mr. androm----? (_perceiving_ spurrell, _who has been modestly endeavouring to efface himself_.) ah, _there_ he is! now, come along, and be presented to my sister-in-law. she'll be enchanted to know you! _spurrell._ but indeed, my lady, i--i think i'd better wait till she sends for me. _lady cantire._ wait? fiddlesticks! what! a famous young man like you! remember _andromeda_, and don't make yourself so ridiculous! _spurrell_ (_miserably_). well, lady cantire, if her ladyship _says_ anything, i hope you'll bear me out that it wasn't---- _lady cantire._ bear you out? my good young man, you seem to need somebody to bear you _in_! come, you are under _my_ wing. _i_ answer for your welcome--so do as you're told. _spurrell_ (_to himself, as he follows resignedly_). it's my belief there'll be a jolly row when i _do_ go in; but it's not my fault! _tredwell_ (_opening the door of the amber boudoir_). lady cantire and lady maisie mull (_to_ spurrell.) what name, if you please, sir? [illustration: "what name, if you please, sir?"] _spurrell_ (_dolefully_). you can say "james spurrell"--you needn't _bellow_ it, you know! _tredwell_ (_ignoring this suggestion_). mr. james spurrell. _spurrell_ (_to himself, on the threshold_). if i don't get the chuck for this, i _shall_ be surprised, that's all! [_he enters._ _in a fly._ _undershell_ (_to himself_). alone with a lovely girl, who has no suspicion, as yet, that i am the poet whose songs have thrilled her with admiration! _could_ any situation be more romantic? i think i must keep up this little mystification as long as possible. _phillipson_ (_to herself_). i wonder who he is? _somebody's_ man, i suppose. i do believe he's struck with me. well, i've no objection. i don't see why i shouldn't forget jim now and then--he's quite forgotten me! (_aloud._) they might have sent a decent carriage for us instead of this ramshackle old summerhouse. we shall be _hours_ getting to the house at this rate! _undershell_ (_gallantly_). for my part, i care not how long we may be. i feel so unspeakably content to be where i am. _phillipson_ (_disdainfully_). in this mouldy, lumbering old concern? you must be rather easily contented, then! _undershell_ (_dreamily_). it travels only too swiftly. to me it is a veritable enchanted car, drawn by a magic steed. _phillipson._ i don't know whether he's magic--but i'm sure he's lame. and stuffiness is not _my_ notion of _enchantment_. _undershell._ i'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. but cannot you guess what has transformed this vehicle for me--in spite of its undeniable shortcomings--or must i speak more plainly still? _phillipson._ well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, i must say you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is! _undershell._ i know i must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and yet that is not my true disposition. in general, i feel an almost fastidious shrinking from strangers---- _phillipson_ (_with a little laugh_). really? i shouldn't have thought it! _undershell._ because, in the present case, i do not--i cannot--feel as if we _were_ strangers. some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the first, to associate you with a certain miss maisie mull. _phillipson._ well, i wonder how you discovered _that_. though you shouldn't have said "miss"--_lady_ maisie mull is the proper form. _undershell_ (_to himself_). lady maisie mull! i attach no meaning to titles--and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and distinction. (_aloud._) i should have said _lady_ maisie mull, undoubtedly--forgive my ignorance. but at least i have divined you. does nothing tell you who and what _i_ may be? _phillipson._ oh, i think i can give a tolerable guess at what _you_ are. _undershell._ you recognize the stamp of the muse upon me, then? _phillipson._ well, i shouldn't have taken you for a groom exactly. _undershell_ (_with some chagrin_). you are really too flattering! _phillipson._ am i? then it's your turn now. you might say you'd never have taken me for a _lady's maid_! _undershell._ i might--if i had any desire to make an unnecessary and insulting remark. _phillipson._ insulting? why, it's what i _am_! i'm maid to lady maisie. i thought your mysterious instinct told you all about it? _undershell_ (_to himself--after the first shock_). a lady's maid! gracious heaven! what have i been saying--or rather, what _haven't_ i? (_aloud._) to--to be sure it did. of course, i quite understand _that_. (_to himself._) oh, confound it all, i wish we were at wyvern! _phillipson._ and, after all, you've never told me who _you_ are. who _are_ you? _undershell_ (_to himself_). i must not humiliate this poor girl! (_aloud._) i? oh--a very insignificant person, i assure you! (_to himself._) this is an occasion in which deception is pardonable--even justifiable! _phillipson._ oh, i knew _that_ much. but you let out just now you had to do with a mews. you aren't a rough-rider, are you? _undershell._ n--not _exactly_--not a _rough_-rider. (_to himself._) never on a horse in my life!--unless i count my _pegasus_. (_aloud._) but you are right in supposing i am connected with a muse--in one sense. _phillipson._ i _said_ so, didn't i? don't you think it was rather clever of me to spot you, when you're not a bit horsey-looking? _undershell_ (_with elaborate irony_). accept my compliments on a power of penetration which is simply phenomenal! _phillipson_ (_giving him a little push_). oh, go along--it's all talk with you--i don't believe you mean a word you say! _undershell_ (_to himself_). she's becoming absolutely vulgar. (_aloud._) i don't--i _don't_; it's a manner i have; you mustn't attach any importance to it--none whatever! _phillipson._ what! not to all those high-flown compliments? do you mean to tell me you are only a gay deceiver, then? _undershell_ (_in horror_). not a _deceiver_, no; and decidedly not _gay_. i mean i _did_ mean the _compliments_, of course. (_to himself._) i mustn't let her suspect anything, or she'll get talking about it; it would be too horrible if this were to get round to lady maisie or the culverins--so undignified; and it would ruin all my _prestige_! i've only to go on playing a part for a few minutes, and--maid or not--she's a most engaging girl! [_he goes on playing the part, with the unexpected result of sending_ miss phillipson _into fits of uncontrollable laughter_. _at a back entrance at wyvern. the fly has just set down_ phillipson _and_ undershell. _tredwell_ (_receiving_ phillipson). lady maisie's maid, i presume? i'm the butler here--mr. tredwell. your ladies arrived some time back. i'll take you to the housekeeper, who'll show you their rooms, and where yours is, and i hope you'll find everything comfortable. (_in an undertone, indicating_ undershell, _who is awaiting recognition in the doorway_.) do you happen to know who it is _with_ you? _phillipson_ (_in a whisper_). i can't quite make him out--he's so flighty in his talk. but he _says_ he belongs to some mews or other. _tredwell._ oh, then _i_ know who he is. we expect him right enough. he's a partner in a crack firm of vets. we've sent for him special. i'd better see to him, if you don't mind finding your own way to the housekeeper's room, second door to the left, down that corridor. (phillipson _departs_.) good evening to you, mr.--ah--mr.----? _undershell_ (_coming forward_). mr. undershell. lady culverin expects me, i believe. _tredwell._ quite correct, mr. undershell, sir. she do. leastwise, i shouldn't say myself she'd require to see you--well, not _before_ to-morrow morning--but you won't mind _that_, i dare say. _undershell_ (_choking_). not mind that! take me to her at once! _tredwell._ couldn't take it on myself, sir, really. there's no particular 'urry. i'll let her ladyship know you're 'ere; and if she wants you, she'll send for you; but, with a party staying in the 'ouse, and others dining with us to-night, it ain't likely as she'll have time for you till to-morrow. _undershell._ oh, then whenever her ladyship should find leisure to recollect my existence, will you have the goodness to inform her that i have taken the liberty of returning to town by the next train? _tredwell._ lor! mr. undershell, you aren't so pressed as all _that_, are you? i know my lady wouldn't like you to go without seeing you personally; no more wouldn't sir rupert. and i understood you was coming down for the sunday! _undershell_ (_furious_). so did _i_--but not to be treated like this! _tredwell_ (_soothingly_). why, _you_ know what ladies are. and you couldn't see deerfoot--not properly, to-night, either. _undershell._ i have seen enough of this place already. i intend to go back by the next train, i tell you. _tredwell._ but there _ain't_ any next train up to-night--being a loop line--not to mention that i've sent the fly away, and they can't spare no one at the stables to drive you in. come, sir, make the best of it. i've had my horders to see that you're made comfortable, and mrs. pomfret and me will expect the pleasure of your company at supper in the 'ousekeeper's room, . sharp. i'll send the steward's room boy to show you to your room. [_he goes, leaving_ undershell _speechless_. _undershell_ (_almost foaming_). the insolence of these cursed aristocrats! lady culverin will see me when she has time, forsooth! i am to be entertained in the servants' hall! _this_ is how our upper classes honour poetry! i won't stay a single hour under their infernal roof. i'll walk. but where _to_? and how about my luggage? [phillipson _returns_. _phillipson._ mr. tredwell says you want to go already! it _can't_ be true! without even waiting for supper? _undershell_ (_gloomily_). why should i wait for supper in this house? _phillipson._ well, _i_ shall be there; i don't know if _that's_ any inducement. [_she looks down._ _undershell_ (_to himself_). she is a singularly bewitching creature; and i'm starving. why _shouldn't_ i stay--if only to shame these culverins? it will be an experience--a study in life. i can always go afterwards. i _will_ stay. (_aloud._) you little know the sacrifice you ask of me, but enough; i give way. we shall meet--(_with a gulp_)--in the housekeeper's room! _phillipson_ (_highly amused_). you _are_ a comical little man. you'll be the death of me if you go on like that! [_she flits away._ _undershell_ (_alone_). i feel disposed to be the death of _somebody_! oh, lady maisie mull, to what a bathos have you lured your poet by your artless flattery--a banquet presided over by your aunt's butler! part vii ignotum pro mirifico _the amber boudoir at wyvern immediately after_ lady cantire _and her daughter have entered_. _lady cantire_ (_in reply to_ lady culverin). tea? oh yes, my dear; anything _warm_! i'm positively perished--that tedious cold journey and the long drive afterwards! i always tell rupert he would see me _far_ oftener at wyvern if he would only get the company to bring the line round close to the park gates, but it has _no_ effect upon him! (_as_ tredwell _announces_ spurrell, _who enters in trepidation_.) mr. james spurrell! who's mr.----? oh, to be sure; _that's_ the name of my interesting young poet--_andromeda_, you know, my dear! go and be pleasant to him, albinia, he wants reassuring. _lady culverin_ (_a trifle nervous_). how do you do, mr.--ah--spurrell? (_to herself._) i _said_ he ended in "ell"! (_aloud._) so pleased to see you! we think so much of your _andromeda_ here, you know. quite delightful of you to find time to run down! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). why, _she's_ chummy, too! old drummy pulls me through everything! (_aloud._) don't name it, my la--hum--lady culverin. no trouble at all; only too proud to get your summons! _lady culverin_ (_to herself_). he doesn't seem very revolutionary! (_aloud._) that's so sweet of you; when so many must be absolutely fighting to get you! _spurrell._ oh, as for that, there _is_ rather a run on me just now, but i put everything else aside for _you_, of course! _lady culverin_ (_to herself_). he's soon _reassured_. (_aloud, with a touch of frost._) i am sure we must consider ourselves most fortunate. (_turning to the countess._) you _did_ say cream, rohesia? sugar, maisie dearest? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i'm all right up to now! i suppose i'd better say nothing about the horse till _they_ do. i feel rather out of it among these nobs, though. i'll try and chum on to little lady maisie again; she may have got over her temper by this time, and she's the only one i know. (_he approaches her._) well, lady maisie, here i _am_, you see. i'd really no idea your aunt would be so friendly! i say, you know, you don't mind _speaking_ to a fellow, do you? i've no one else i can go to--and--and it's a bit strange at first, you know! _lady maisie_ (_colouring with mingled apprehension, vexation, and pity_). if i can be of any help to you, mr. spurrell----! _spurrell._ well, if you'd only tell me what i ought to _do_! _lady maisie._ surely that's very simple; do _nothing_; just take everything quietly as it comes, and you _can't_ make any mistakes. _spurrell_ (_anxiously_). and you don't think anybody'll see anything out of the way in my being here like this? _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). i'm only too afraid they _will_! (_aloud._) you really _must_ have a little self-confidence. just remember that no one here could produce anything a millionth part as splendid as your _andromeda_! it's _too_ distressing to see you so _appallingly_ humble! (_to herself._) there's captain thicknesse over there--he _might_ come and rescue me; but he doesn't seem to care to! _spurrell._ well, you _do_ put some heart into me, lady maisie. i feel equal to the lot of 'em now! _pilliner_ (_to_ miss spelwane). is _that_ the poet? why, but i say--he's a _fraud_! where's his matted head? he's not a bit ragged, or rusty either. and why don't he dabble? don't seem to know what to do with his hands quite, though, _does_ he? _miss spelwane_ (_coldly_). he knows how to do some very exquisite poetry with _one_ of them, at all events. i've been reading it, and _i_ think it perfectly marvellous! _pilliner._ i see what it is, you're preparing to turn his matted head for him? i warn you you'll only waste your sweetness. that pretty little lady maisie's annexed _him_. can't you content yourself with _one_ victim at a time? _miss spelwane._ don't be so utterly idiotic! (_to herself._) if maisie imagines she's to be allowed to monopolise the only man in the room worth talking to!---- _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself, as he watches_ lady maisie). she is lookin' prettier than ever! forgotten me. used to be friendly enough once, though, till her mother warned me off. seems to have a good deal to say to that poet fellow; saw her colour up from here the moment he came near; he's _begun_ petrarchin', hang him! i'd cross over and speak to her if i could catch her eye. don't know, though; what's the use? she wouldn't thank me for interruptin'. she likes these clever chaps; don't signify to her if they _are_ bounders, i suppose. _i_'m not intellectual. gad, i wish i'd gone back to aldershot! _lady cantire_ (_by the tea-table_). why don't you make that woman of yours send you up decent cakes, my dear? these are cinders. i'm afraid you let her have too much of her own way. now, tell me--who are your party? vivien spelwane! never have that girl to meet me again, i can't _endure_ her; and that affected little ape of a mr. pilliner--h'm! do i see captain thicknesse? now, i don't object to _him_. maisie and he used to be great friends.... ah, how do you _do_, captain thicknesse? quite pleasant finding you here; such ages since we saw anything of you! why haven't you been near us all this time?... oh, i may have been out once or twice when you called; but you might have tried again, _mightn't_ you? there, _i_ forgive you; you had better go and see if you can make your peace with maisie! _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself, as he obeys_). doosid odd, lady cantire comin' round like this. wish she'd thought of it before. _lady cantire_ (_in a whisper_). he's always been such a favourite of mine. they tell me his uncle, poor dear lord dunderhead, is _so_ ill--felt the loss of his only son so terribly. of course it will make a great difference--in many ways. _captain thicknesse_ (_constrainedly to_ lady maisie). how do you do? afraid you've forgotten me. _lady maisie._ oh no, indeed! (_hurriedly._) you--you don't know mr. spurrell, i think? (_introducing them._) captain thicknesse. _captain thicknesse._ how are you? been hearin' a lot about you lately. _andromeda_, don't you know; and that kind of thing. _spurrell._ it's wonderful what a hit she seems to have made--not that i'm _surprised_ at it, either; i always knew---- _lady maisie_ (_hastily_). oh, mr. spurrell, you haven't had any tea! _do_ go and get some before it's taken away. [spurrell _goes_. _captain thicknesse._ been tryin' to get you to notice me ever since you came; but you were so awfully absorbed, you know! _lady maisie._ was i? so absorbed as all that! what with? _captain thicknesse._ well, it looked like it--with talkin' to your poetical friend. _lady maisie_ (_flushing_). he is not _my_ friend in particular; i--i admire his poetry, of course. _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). can't even speak of him without a change of colour. bad sign that! (_aloud._) you always _were_ keen about poetry and literature and that in the old days, weren't you? used to rag me for not readin' enough. but i do now. i was readin' a book only last week. i'll tell you the name if you give me a minute to think--book everybody's readin' just now--no end of a clever book. [miss spelwane _rushes across to_ lady maisie. _miss spelwane._ maisie, dear, how are you? you look _so_ tired! that's the journey, i suppose. (_whispering._) do tell me--is that really the author of _andromeda_ drinking tea close by? you're a _great_ friend of his, i know. do be a dear, and introduce him to me! i declare the dogs have made friends with him already. poets have such a wonderful attraction for animals, haven't they? [lady maisie _has to bring_ spurrell _up and introduce him_; captain thicknesse _chooses to consider himself dismissed_. _miss spelwane_ (_with shy adoration_). oh, mr. spurrell, i feel as if i _must_ talk to you about _andromeda_. i _did_ so admire it! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). another of 'em! they seem uncommonly sweet on "bulls" in this house! (_aloud._) very glad to hear you say so, i'm sure. but i'm bound to say she's about as near perfection as anything _i_ ever--i dare say you went over her points---- _miss spelwane._ indeed, i believe none of them were lost upon me; but my poor little praise must seem so worthless and ignorant! _spurrell_ (_indulgently_). oh, i wouldn't say _that_. i find some ladies very knowing about these things. i'm having a picture done of her. _miss spelwane._ are you really? _how_ delightful! as a frontispiece? _spurrell._ eh? oh no--full length, and sideways--so as to show her legs, you know. _miss spelwane._ her legs? oh, of _course_--with "her roseal toes cramped." i thought that such a _wonderful_ touch! _spurrell._ they're not more cramped than they ought to be; she never turned them _in_, you know! _miss spelwane_ (_mystified_). i didn't suppose she did. and now tell me--if it's not an indiscreet question--when do you expect there'll be another edition? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). another addition! _she's_ cadging for a pup now! (_aloud._) oh--er--really--couldn't say. _miss spelwane._ i'm sure the first must be disposed of by this time. i shall look out for the next _so_ eagerly! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). time i "off"ed it. (_aloud._) afraid i can't say anything definite--and, excuse me leaving you, but i think lady culverin is looking my way. _miss spelwane._ oh, by all _means_? (_to herself._) i might as well praise a pillar-post! and after spending quite half an hour reading him up, too! i wonder if bertie pilliner was right; but i shall have him all to myself at dinner. _lady cantire._ and where is rupert? too busy of _course_ to come and say a word! well, some day he may understand what a sister is--when it's too late. ah, here's our nice unassuming young poet coming up to talk to you. don't _repel_ him, my dear! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). better give her the chance of telling me what's wrong with the horse, i suppose. (_aloud._) er--nice old-fashioned sort of house this, lady culverin. (_to himself._) i'll work round to the stabling by degrees. _lady culverin_ (_coldly_). i believe it dates from the tudors--if that is what you mean. _lady cantire._ my dear albinia, i _quite_ understand him; "old-fashioned" is _exactly_ the epithet. and i was born and brought up here, so perhaps i should know. [_a footman enters, and comes up to_ spurrell _mysteriously._ _footman._ will you let me have your keys, if you please, sir? _spurrell_ (_in some alarm_). my keys! (_suspiciously._) why, what do you want _them_ for? [illustration: "my keys! why, what do you want them for?"] _lady cantire_ (_in a whisper_). isn't he _deliciously_ unsophisticated? quite a child of nature! (_aloud._) my dear mr. spurrell, he wants your keys to unlock your portmanteau and put out your things; you'll be able to dress for dinner all the quicker. _spurrell._ do you mean--am i to have the honour of sitting down to table with all of _you_? _lady culverin_ (_to herself_). oh, my goodness, what _will_ rupert say? (_aloud._) why, of course, mr. spurrell; how can you ask? _spurrell_ (_feebly_). i--i didn't know, that was all. (_to_ footman.) here you are, then. (_to himself._) put out my things?--he'll find nothing to put out except a nightgown, sponge bag, and a couple of brushes! if i'd only known i should be let in for this, i'd have brought dress-clothes. but how _could_ i? i--i wonder if it would be any good telling 'em quietly how it is. i shouldn't like 'em to think i hadn't got any. (_he looks at_ lady cantire _and her sister-in-law, who are talking in an undertone_.) no, perhaps i'd better let it alone. i--i can allude to it in a joky sort of way when i come down! part viii surprises--agreeable and otherwise _in the amber boudoir._ sir rupert _has just entered_. _sir rupert._ ha, maisie, my dear, glad to see you! well, rohesia, how are you, eh? you're _looking_ uncommonly well! no idea you were here! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). sir rupert! he'll hoof me out of this pretty soon, i expect! _lady cantire_ (_aggrieved_). we have been in the house for the best part of an hour, rupert--as you might have discovered by inquiring--but no doubt you preferred your comfort to welcoming so unimportant a guest as your sister! _sir rupert_ (_to himself_). beginning already! (_aloud._) very sorry--got rather wet riding--had to change everything. and i knew albinia was here. _lady cantire_ (_magnanimously_). well, we won't begin to quarrel the moment we meet; and you are forgetting your other guest. (_in an undertone._) mr. spurrell--the poet--wrote _andromeda_. (_aloud._) mr. spurrell, come and let me present you to my brother. _sir rupert._ ah, how d'ye do? (_to himself, as he shakes hands._) what the deuce am i to say to this fellow? (_aloud._) glad to see you here, mr. spurrell--heard all about you--_andromeda_, eh? hope you'll manage to amuse yourself while you're with us; afraid there's not much you can do _now_ though. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). horse in a bad way; time they let me see it. (_aloud._) well, we must see, sir; i'll do all _i_ can. _sir rupert._ you see, the shooting's _done_ now. _spurrell_ (_to himself, professionally piqued_). they might have waited till i'd seen the horse before they shot him! after calling me in like this! (_aloud._) oh, i'm sorry to hear that, sir rupert. i wish i could have got here earlier, i'm sure. _sir rupert._ wish we'd asked you a month ago, if you're fond of shooting. thought you might look down on sport, perhaps. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). sport? why, he's talking of _birds_--not the horse! (_aloud._) me, sir rupert? not _much_! i'm as keen on a day's gunning as any man, though i don't often get the chance now. _sir rupert_ (_to himself, pleased_). come, he don't seem strong against the game laws! (_aloud._) thought you didn't look as if you sat over your desk all day! there's hunting still, of course. don't know whether you ride? _spurrell._ rather so, sir! why, i was born and bred in a sporting county, and as long as my old uncle was alive, i could go down to his farm and get a run with the hounds now and again. _sir rupert_ (_delighted_). capital! well, our next meet is on tuesday--best part of the country; nearly all grass, and nice clean post and rails. you must stay over for it. got a mare that will carry your weight perfectly, and i think i can promise you a run--eh, what do you say? _spurrell_ (_to himself, in surprise_). he _is_ a chummy old cock! i'll wire old spavin that i'm detained on biz; and i'll tell 'em to send my riding-breeches and dress-clothes down! (_aloud._) it's uncommonly kind of you, sir, and i think i can manage to stop on a bit. _lady culverin_ (_to herself_). rupert must be out of his senses! it's bad enough to have him here till monday! (_aloud._) we mustn't forget, rupert, how valuable mr. spurrell's time is; it would be too selfish of us to detain him here a day longer than---- _lady cantire._ my dear, mr. spurrell has already said he can _manage_ it; so we may all enjoy his society with a clear conscience. (lady culverin _conceals her sentiments with difficulty_.) and now, albinia, if you'll excuse me, i think i'll go to my room and rest a little, as i'm rather overdone, and you have all these tiresome people coming to dinner to-night. [_she rises and leaves the room; the other ladies follow her example._ _lady culverin._ rupert, i'm going up now with rohesia. you know where we've put mr. spurrell, don't you? the verney chamber. [_she goes out._ _sir rupert._ take you up now, if you like, mr. spurrell--it's only just seven, though. suppose you don't take an hour to dress, eh? _spurrell._ oh dear no, sir, nothing like it! (_to himself._) won't take me two minutes as i am now! i'd better tell him--i can say my bag hasn't come. i don't believe it _has_, and, anyway, it's a good excuse. (_aloud._) the--the fact is, sir rupert, i'm afraid that my luggage has been unfortunately left behind. _sir rupert._ no luggage, eh? well, well, it's of no consequence. but i'll ask about it--i dare say it's all right. [_he goes out._ _captain thicknesse_ (_to_ spurrell). sure to have turned up, you know--man will have seen that. shouldn't altogether object to a glass of sherry and bitters before dinner. don't know how _you_ feel--suppose you've a soul _above_ sherry and bitters, though? _spurrell._ not at this moment. but i'd soon _put_ my soul above a sherry and bitters if i got a chance! _captain thicknesse_ (_after reflection_). i say, you know, that's rather smart, eh? (_to himself._) aw'fly clever sort of chap, this, but not stuck up--not half a bad sort, if he _is_ a bit of a bounder. (_aloud._) anythin' in the evenin' paper? don't get 'em down here. [illustration: "i say, you know, that's rather smart, eh?"] _spurrell._ nothing much. i see there's an objection to monkey-tricks. _captain thicknesse_ (_startled_). no, by jove! hope they'll overrule it--make a lot of difference to me if they don't. _spurrell._ don't fancy there's much in it. your money's safe enough, i expect. have you any particular fancy for the grand national? i know something that's safe to win, bar accidents--a dead cert, sir! got the tip straight from the stable. you just take my advice, and pile all you can on jumping joan. _captain thicknesse_ (_later, to himself, after a long and highly interesting conversation_). thunderin' clever chap--never knew poets _were_ such clever chaps. might be a "bookie," by gad! no wonder maisie thinks such a lot of him! [_he sighs._ _sir rupert_ (_returning_). now, mr. spurrell, if you'll come upstairs with me, i'll show you your quarters. by the way, i've made inquiries about your luggage, and i think you'll find it's all right. (_as he leads the way up the staircase._) rather awkward for you if you'd had to come down to dinner just as you are, eh? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). oh, lor, my beastly bag _has_ come after all! now they'll _know_ i didn't bring a dress suit. what an owl i was to tell him! (_aloud, feebly._) oh--er--very awkward indeed, sir rupert! _sir rupert_ (_stopping at a bedroom door_). verney chamber--here you are. ah, my wife forgot to have your name put on the door--better do it now, eh? (_he writes it on the card in the door-plate._) there--well, hope you'll find it all comfortable--we dine at eight, you know. you've plenty of time for all you've got to do! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). if i only knew _what_ to do! i shall never have the cheek to come down as i am! [_he enters the verney chamber dejectedly._ _in an upper corridor in the east wing._ _steward's room boy_ (to undershell). this is your room, sir--you'll find a fire lit and all. _undershell_ (_scathingly_). a fire? for me! i scarcely expected such an indulgence. you are _sure_ there's no mistake? _boy._ this is the room i was told, sir. you'll find candles on the mantelpiece, and matches. _undershell._ every luxury indeed! i am pampered--_pampered_! _boy._ yes, sir. and i was to say as supper's at ar-past nine, but mrs. pomfret would be 'appy to see you in the pugs' parlour whenever you pleased to come down and set there. _undershell._ the pugs' parlour? _boy._ what we call the 'ousekeeper's room, among ourselves, sir. _undershell._ mrs. pomfret does me too much honour. and shall i have the satisfaction of seeing your intelligent countenance at the festive board, my lad? _boy_ (_giggling_). on'y to _wait_, sir. i don't set down to meals along with the _upper_ servants, sir! _undershell._ and i--a mere man of genius--_do_! these distinctions must strike you as most arbitrary; but restrain any natural envy, my young friend. i assure you i am not puffed up by this promotion! _boy._ no, sir. (_to himself, as he goes out._) i believe he's a bit dotty, i do. i don't understand a word he's been a-talking of! _undershell_ (_alone, surveying the surroundings_). a cockloft, with a painted iron bedstead, a smoky chimney, no bell, and a text over the mantelpiece! thank heaven, that fellow drysdale can't see me here! but i will not sleep in this place, my pride will only just bear the strain of staying to supper--no more. and i'm hanged if i go down to the housekeeper's room till hunger drives me. it's not eight yet--how shall i pass the time? ha, i see they've favoured me with pen and ink. i will invoke the muse. indignation should make verses, as it did for juvenal; and _he_ was never set down to sup with slaves! [_he writes._ _in the verney chamber._ _spurrell_ (_to himself_). my word, what a room! carpet hung all over the walls, big fourposter, carved ceiling, great fireplace with blazing logs,--if this is how they do a _vet_ here, what price the _other_ fellows' rooms? and to think i shall have to do without dinner, just when i was getting on with 'em all so swimmingly! i _must_. i can't, for the credit of the profession--to say nothing of the firm--turn up in a monkey jacket and tweed bags, and that's all _i've_ got except a nightgown!... it's all very well for lady maisie to say, "take everything as it comes," but if she was in _my_ fix!... and it isn't as if i hadn't _got_ dress things either. if only i'd brought 'em down, i'd have marched in to dinner as cool as a---- (_he lights a pair of candles._) hullo! what's that on the bed? (_he approaches it._) shirt! white tie! socks! coat, waistcoat, trousers--they _are_ dress clothes!... and here's a pair of brushes on the table! i'll swear they're not _mine_--there's a monogram on them--"u.g." what does it all mean? why, of course! regular old trump, sir rupert, and naturally he wants me to do him credit. he saw how it was, and he's gone and rigged me out! in a house like this, they're ready for emergencies--keep all sizes in stock, i dare say.... it isn't "u.g." on the brushes--it's "g.u."--"guest's use." well, this is what i call doing the thing in style! _cinderella's_ nothing to it! only hope they're a decent fit. (_later, as he dresses._) come, the shirt's all right; trousers a trifle short--but they'll let down; waistcoat--whew, must undo the buckle--hang it, it _is_ undone! i feel like a hooped barrel in it! now the coat--easy does it. well, it's _on_; but i shall have to be peeled like a walnut to get it off again.... shoes? ah, here they are--pair of pumps. phew--must have come from the torture exhibition in leicester square; glass slippers nothing to 'em! but they'll have to do at a pinch; and they _do_ pinch like blazes! ha, ha, that's good! i must tell that to the captain. (_he looks at himself in a mirror._) well, i can't say they're up to mine for cut and general style; but they're passable. and now i'll go down to the drawing-room and get on terms with all the smarties! [_he saunters out with restored complacency._ part ix the mauvais quart d'heure _in the chinese drawing-room at wyvern._ time-- . . lady culverin _is alone, glancing over a written list_. _lady cantire_ (_entering_). down already, albinia? i _thought_ if i made haste i should get a quiet chat with you before anybody else came in. what is that paper? oh, the list of couples for rupert. may i see? (_as_ lady culverin _surrenders it_.) my dear, you're _not_ going to inflict that mincing little pilliner boy on poor maisie! that really _won't do_. at least let her have somebody she used to. why not captain thicknesse? he's an old friend, and she's not seen him for months. i must alter that, if you've no objection. (_she does._) and then you've given my poor poet to that spelwane girl! now, _why_? _lady culverin._ i thought she wouldn't mind putting up with him just for one evening. _lady cantire._ wouldn't _mind_! putting up with him! and is that how you speak of a celebrity when you are so fortunate as to have one to entertain? _really_, albinia! _lady culverin._ but, my dear rohesia, you must allow that, whatever his talents may be, he is not--well, not _quite_ one of us. now, _is_ he? _lady cantire_ (_blandly_). my dear, i never heard he had any connection with the manufacture of chemical manures, in which your worthy papa so greatly distinguished himself--if _that_ is what you mean. _lady culverin_ (_with some increase of colour_). that is _not_ what i meant, rohesia--as you know perfectly well. and i do say that this mr. spurrell's manner is most objectionable; when he's not obsequious, he's horribly familiar! _lady cantire_ (_sharply_). i have not observed it. he strikes me as well enough--for that class of person. and it is intellect, soul, all that kind of thing that _i_ value. i look _below_ the surface, and i find a great deal that is very original and charming in this young man. and surely, my dear, if i find myself able to associate with him, _you_ need not be so fastidious! i consider him my _protégé_, and i won't have him slighted. he is far too good for vivien spelwane! _lady culverin_ (_with just a suspicion of malice_). perhaps, rohesia, you would like him to take _you_ in? _lady cantire._ that, of course, is quite out of the question. i see you have given me the bishop--he's a poor, dry stick of a man--never forgets he was the headmaster of swisham--but he's always glad to meet _me_. i freshen him up so. _lady culverin._ i really don't know whom i _can_ give mr. spurrell. there's rhoda cokayne, but she's not poetical, and she'll get on much better with archie bearpark. oh, i forgot mrs. brooke-chatteris--she's sure to _talk_, at all events. _lady cantire_ (_as she corrects the list_). a lively, agreeable woman--she'll amuse him. _now_ you can give rupert the list. [sir rupert _and various members of the house-party appear one by one_; lord _and_ lady lullington, _the_ bishop of birchester _and_ mrs. rodney, mr. _and_ mrs. earwaker, _and_ mr. shorthorn _are announced at intervals; salutations, recognitions, and commonplaces are exchanged_. _lady cantire_ (_later--to the_ bishop, _genially_). ah, my dear bishop, you and i haven't met since we had our great battle about--now, was it the necessity of throwing open the public schools to the lower classes--for whom of course they were originally _intended_--or was it the failure of the church to reach the working man? i really forget. _the bishop_ (_who has a holy horror of the_ countess). i--ah--fear i cannot charge my memory so precisely, my dear lady cantire. we--ah--differ unfortunately on so many subjects. i trust, however, we may--ah--agree to suspend hostilities on this occasion? _lady cantire_ (_with even more bonhomie_). don't be too sure of _that_, bishop. i've several crows to pluck with you, and we are to go in to dinner together, you know! _the bishop._ indeed? i had no conception that such a pleasure was in store for me! (_to himself._) this must be the penance for breaking my rule of never dining out on saturday! severe--but not unmerited! _lady cantire._ i wonder, bishop, if you have seen this wonderful volume of poetry that every one is talking about--_andromeda_? _the bishop_ (_conscientiously_). i chanced only this morning, by way of momentary relaxation, to take up a journal containing a notice of that work, with copious extracts. the impression left on my mind was--ah--unfavourable; a certain talent, no doubt, some felicity of expression, but a noticeable lack of the--ah--reticence, the discipline, the--the scholarly touch which a training at one of our great public schools (i forbear to particularise), and at a university, can alone impart. i was also pained to observe a crude discontent with the existing social system--a system which, if not absolutely perfect, cannot be upset or even modified without the gravest danger. but i was still more distressed to note in several passages a decided taint of the morbid sensuousness which renders so much of our modern literature sickly and unwholesome. _lady cantire._ all prejudice, my dear bishop; why, you haven't even _read_ the book! however, the author is staying here now, and i feel convinced that if you only knew him, you'd alter your opinion. such an unassuming, inoffensive creature! there, he's just come in. i'll call him over here.... goodness, why does he shuffle along in that way! _spurrell_ (_meeting_ sir rupert). hope i've kept nobody waiting for _me_, sir rupert. (_confidentially._) i'd rather a job to get these things on; but they're really a wonderful fit, considering! [_he passes on, leaving his host speechless._ [illustration: "i'd rather a job to get these things on; but they're really a wonderful fit, considering!"] _lady cantire._ that's right, mr. spurrell. come here, and let me present you to the bishop of birchester. the bishop has just been telling me he considers your _andromeda_ sickly, or unhealthy, or something. i'm sure you'll be able to convince him it's nothing of the sort. [_she leaves him with the_ bishop, _who is visibly annoyed_. _spurrell_ (_to himself, overawed_). oh, lor! wish i knew the right way to talk to a bishop. can't call _him_ nothing--so doosid familiar. (_aloud._) _andromeda_ sickly, your--(_tentatively_)--your right reverence? not a bit of it--sound as a roach! _the bishop._ if i had thought my--ah--criticisms were to be repeated--i might say misrepresented, as the countess has thought proper to do, mr. spurrell, i should not have ventured to make them. at the same time, you must be conscious yourself, i think, of certain blemishes which would justify the terms i employed. _spurrell._ i never saw any in _andromeda_ myself, your--your holiness. you're the first to find a fault in her. i don't say there mayn't be something dicky about the setting and the turn of the tail, but that's a trifle. _the bishop._ i did not refer to the setting of the tale, and the portions i object to are scarcely trifles. but pardon me if i prefer to end a discussion that can hardly be other than unprofitable. (_to himself, as he turns on his heel._) a most arrogant, self-satisfied, and conceited young man--a truly lamentable product of this half-educated age! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). well, he may be a dab at dogmas--he don't know much about dogs. drummy's got a constitution worth a dozen of _his_! _lady culverin_ (_approaching him_). oh, mr. spurrell, lord lullington is most anxious to know you. if you will come with me. (_to herself, as she leads him up to_ lord lullington.) i do _wish_ rohesia wouldn't force me to do this sort of thing! [_she presents him._ _lord lullington_ (_to himself_). i suppose i _ought_ to know all about his novel, or whatever it is he's done. (_aloud, with courtliness._) very pleased to make your acquaintance, mr. spurrell; you've--ah--delighted the world by your _andromeda_. when are we to look for your next production? soon, i hope. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). _he's_ after a pup now! never met such a doggy lot in my life! (_aloud._) er--well, my lord, i've promised so many as it is, that i hardly see my way to---- _lord lullington_ (_paternally_). take my advice, my dear young man, leave yourself as free as possible. expect you to give us your best, you know. [_he turns to continue a conversation._ _spurrell_ (_to himself_). _give_ it! he won't get it under a five-pound note, i can tell him. (_he makes his way to_ miss spelwane.) i say, what do you think the old bishop's been up to? pitching into _andromeda_ like the very dooce--says she's _sickly_! _miss spelwane_ (_to herself_). he brings his literary disappointments to _me_, not maisie! (_aloud, with the sweetest sympathy._) how dreadfully unjust! oh, i've dropped my fan--no, pray don't trouble; i can pick it up. my arms are so long, you know--like a kangaroo's--no, what is that animal which has such long arms? you're so clever, you _ought_ to know! _spurrell._ i suppose you mean a gorilla? _miss spelwane._ how crushing of you! but you must go away now, or else you'll find nothing to say to me at dinner--you take me in, you know. i hope you feel privileged. _i_ feel---- but if i told you, i might make you too conceited! _spurrell_ (_gracefully_). oh, it's not so easily done as all _that_! [sir rupert _approaches with_ mr. shorthorn. _sir rupert._ vivien, my dear, let me introduce mr. shorthorn--miss spelwane. (_to_ spurrell.) let me see--ha--yes, you take in mrs. chatteris. don't know her? come this way, and i'll find her for you. [_he marches_ spurrell _off_. _mr. shorthorn_ (_to_ miss spelwane). good thing getting this rain at last; a little more of this dry weather and we should have had no grass to speak of! _miss spelwane_ (_who has not quite recovered from her disappointment_). and now you _will_ have some grass to speak of? _how_ fortunate! _spurrell_ (_as dinner is announced, to_ lady maisie). i say, lady maisie, i've just been told i've got to take in a married lady. _i_ don't know what to talk to her about. i should feel a lot more at home with you. couldn't we work it somehow? _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). what a fearful suggestion--but i simply _daren't_ snub him! (_aloud._) i'm afraid, mr. spurrell, we must both put up with the partners we have; most distressing, isn't it--_but_! [_she gives a little shrug._ _captain thicknesse_ (_immediately behind her, to himself_). gad, _that's_ pleasant! i knew i'd better have gone to aldershot! (_aloud._) i've been told off to take you in, lady maisie--not _my_ fault, don't you know. _lady maisie._ there's no need to be so apologetic about it. (_to herself._) oh, i _hope_ he didn't hear what i said to that wretch! _captain thicknesse._ well, i rather thought there _might_ be, perhaps. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). he _did_ hear it. if he's going to be so stupid as to misunderstand, i'm sure _i_ shan't explain. [_they take their place in the procession to the dining-hall._ part x borrowed plumes _in_ undershell's _bedroom in the east wing at wyvern_. time--_about_ p.m. _the steward's room boy_ (_knocking and entering_). brought you up some 'ot water, sir, case you'd like to clean up afore supper. _undershell._ i presume evening dress is not indispensable in the housekeeper's room; but i can hardly make even the simplest toilet until you are good enough to bring up my portmanteau. where is it? _boy._ i never 'eard nothink of no porkmanteau, sir! _undershell._ you will hear a good deal about it, unless it is forthcoming at once. just find out what's become of it--a new portmanteau, with a white star painted on it. [_the boy retires, impressed. an interval._ _boy_ (_reappearing_). i managed to get a few words with thomas, our second footman, just as he was coming out o' the 'all, and _he_ sez the only porkmanteau with a white star was took up to the verney chamber, which thomas unpacked it hisself. _undershell._ then tell thomas, with my compliments, that he will trouble himself to pack it again immediately. _boy._ but thomas has to wait at table, and besides, he says as he laid out the dress things, and the gen'lman as is in the verney chamber is a wearin' of 'em now, sir. _undershell_ (_indignant_). but they're _mine_! confound his impudence! here, i'll write him a line at once. (_he scribbles a note._) there, see that the gentleman of the verney chamber gets this at once, and bring me his answer. _boy._ what! _me_ go into the dinin'-'all, with all the swells at table? i dursn't. i should get the sack from old treddy. _undershell._ i don't care who takes it so long as it _is_ taken. tell thomas it's _his_ mistake, and he must do what he can to put it right. say i shall certainly complain if i don't get back my clothes and portmanteau. get that note delivered somehow, and i'll give you half-a-crown. (_to himself, as the_ boy _departs, much against his will._) if lady culverin doesn't consider me fit to appear at her dinner-table, i don't see why my evening clothes should be more privileged! _in the dining-hall. the table is oval_; spurrell _is placed between_ lady rhoda cokayne _and_ mrs. brooke-chatteris. _mrs. chatteris_ (_encouragingly, after they are seated_). now, i shall expect you to be very brilliant and entertaining. _i_'ll do all the listening for once in a way--though, generally, i can talk about all manner of silly things with _anybody_! _spurrell_ (_extremely ill at ease_). oh--er--i should say you were quite equal to _that_. but i really can't think of anything to talk _about_. _mrs. chatteris._ that's a bad beginning. i always find the _menu_ cards such a good subject, when there's anything at all out of the common about them. if they're ornamented, you _can_ talk about them--though not for _very_ long at a time, don't you think? _spurrell_ (_miserably_). i can't say how long i could go on about _ornamented_ ones--but these are plain. (_to himself._) i can hear this waistcoat going already--and we're only at the soup! _mrs. chatteris._ it _is_ a pity. never mind; tell me about literary and artistic people. do you know, i'm rather glad i'm not literary or artistic myself; it seems to make people so _queer-looking_, somehow. oh, of course i didn't mean _you_ looked queer--but _generally_, you know. you've made quite a success with your _andromeda_, haven't you? i only go by what i'm told--i don't read much myself. we women have so many really serious matters to attend to--arranging about dinners, and visits, and trying on frocks, and then rushing about from party to party. i so seldom get a quiet moment. ah, i knew i wanted to ask you something. did you ever know any one called lady grisoline? _spurrell._ lady--er--grisoline? no; can't say i do. i know lady maisie, that's all. _mrs. chatteris._ oh, and _she_ was the original? now, that _is_ exciting! but i should hardly have recognised her--"lanky," you know, and "slanting green eyes." but i suppose you see everybody differently from other people? it's having so much imagination. i dare say _i_ look green or something to you now--though really i'm _not_. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i don't understand more than about half she's saying. (_aloud._) oh, i don't see anything particularly green about _you_. _mrs. chatteris_ (_only partially pleased_). i wonder if you meant that to be complimentary--no, you needn't explain. now, tell me, is there any news about the laureateship? who's going to get it? will it be swinburne or lewis morris? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). never heard of the stakes or the horses either. (_aloud._) well, to tell you the truth, i haven't been following their form--too many of these small events nowadays. _mrs. chatteris_ (_to herself_). it's quite amusing how jealous these poets are of one another! (_aloud._) is it true they get a butt of sherry given them for it? _spurrell._ i've heard of winners getting a bottle or two of champagne in a bucket--not sherry. but a little stimulant won't hurt a crack when he comes in, provided it's not given him too soon; wait till he's got his wind and done blowing, you know. _mrs. chatteris._ i'm taking that in. i know it's very witty and satirical, and i dare say i shall understand it in time. _spurrell._ oh, it doesn't matter much if you don't. (_to himself._) pleasant kind of woman--but a perfect fool to talk to! _mrs. chatteris_ (_to herself_). i've always _heard_ that clever writers are rather stupid when you meet them--it's quite true. _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). i should like her to see that i've got some imagination in me, though she _does_ think me such an ass. (_aloud, to_ lady maisie.) jolly old hall this is, with the banners, and the gallery, and that--makes you fancy some of those old mediæval johnnies in armour--knights, you know--comin' clankin' in and turnin' us all out. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). i do trust mr. spurrell isn't saying something too dreadful. i'm sure i heard my name just now. (_aloud, absently, to_ captain thicknesse.) no, did you _really_? how amusing it must have been! _captain thicknesse_ (_aggrieved_). if you'd done me the honour of payin' any attention to what i was sayin', you'd have found out it _wasn't_ amusin'. _lady maisie_ (_starting_). oh, _wasn't_ it? i'm so sorry i missed it. i--i'm afraid i was thinking of something else. do tell me again! _captain thicknesse_, (_still hurt_). no, i won't inflict it on you--not worth repeatin'. and i should only be takin' off your attention from a fellow that _does_ know how to talk. _lady maisie_ (_with a guiltiness which she tries to carry off under dignity_). i don't think i understand what you mean. _captain thicknesse._ well, i couldn't help hearin' what you said to your poet-friend before we went in about having to put up with partners; and it isn't what you may call flattering to a fellow's feelin's, being put up with. _lady maisie_ (_hotly_). it--it was not intended for you. you entirely misunderstood! _captain thicknesse._ dare say i'm very dense; but, even to _my_ comprehension, it's plain enough that the reason why you weren't listenin' to me just now was that the poet had the luck to say somethin' that you found more interesting. _lady maisie._ you are _quite_ wrong--it's too absurd; i never even met mr. spurrell in my life till this afternoon. if you really _must_ know, i heard him mention my name, and--and i wondered, naturally, what he could possibly be saying. _captain thicknesse._ somethin' very charmin', and poetical, and complimentary, i'm sure, and i'm makin' you lose it all. apologise--shan't happen again. _lady maisie._ please be sensible, and let us talk of something else. are you staying here long? _captain thicknesse._ you will be gratified to hear i leave for aldershot to-morrow. meant to have gone to-day. sorry i _didn't_ now. _lady maisie._ i think it was a thousand pities you didn't, as you seem to have stayed on purpose to be as stupid and unkind as you possibly can. [_she turns to her other neighbour_, lord lullington. _mrs. chatteris_ (_to_ captain thicknesse, _who is on her other side_). oh, captain thicknesse, what _do_ you think mr. spurrell has just told me? you remember those lines to lady grisoline that mr. pilliner made such fun of this morning? well, they were meant for lady maisie! they're quite old friends, it seems. _so_ romantic! wouldn't you like to know how they came to meet? _captain thicknesse._ can't say i'm particularly curious--no affair of mine, don't you know. (_to himself._) and she told me they'd never met before! sooner i get back the better. only in the way here. _lady maisie_ (_turning to him_). well, are you as determined to be as disagreeable as ever? oh yes, i see you are! _captain thicknesse._ i'm hurt, that's what it is, and i'm not clever at hiding my feelin's. fact is, i've just been told somethin' that--well, it's no business of _mine_, only you _might_ have been a little more frank with an old friend, instead of leavin' it to come through somebody else. these things always come out, you know. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). that wretch _has_ been talking! i knew he would! (_aloud._) i--i know i've been very foolish. if i was to tell you some time---- _captain thicknesse_ (_hastily_). oh, no reason why you should tell me anything. assure you, i--i'm not curious. _lady maisie._ in that case i shall certainly not trouble you. (_to herself._) he may think just what he pleases, _i_ don't care. but, oh, if mr. spurrell dares to speak to me after this, i shall astonish him! _lady rhoda_ (_to_ spurrell). i say--i _am_ in a funk. only just heard who i'm next to. i always do feel such a perfect fool when i've got to talk to a famous person--and you're _frightfully_ famous, aren't you? _spurrell_ (_modestly_). oh, i don't know--i suppose i _am_, in a sort of way, through _andromeda_. seem to think so _here_, anyhow. _lady rhoda._ well, i'd better tell you at once, i'm no good at poetry--can't make head or tail of it, some'ow. it does seem to me such--well, such footle. awf'ly rude of me sayin' things like that! [illustration: "it does seem to me such--well, such footle."] _spurrell._ is it? i'm just the same--wouldn't give a penny a yard for poetry, myself! _lady rhoda._ you wouldn't? i _am_ glad. _such_ a let-off for me! i was afraid you'd want to talk of nothin' else, and the only things i can really talk about are horses and dogs, and that kind of thing. _spurrell._ that's all right, then. all i don't know about dogs and horses you could put in a homoeopathic globule--and _then_ it would rattle! _lady rhoda._ then you're just the man. look here, i've an airedale at home, and he's losin' all his coat and---- [_they converse with animation._ _spurrell_ (_later--to himself_). i am getting on. i always knew i was made for society. if only this coat was easier under the arms! _thomas_ (_behind him--in a discreet whisper_). beg your pardon, sir, but i was requested to 'and you this note, and wait for an answer. _spurrell_ (_opening it, and reading_). "mr. galfrid undershell thinks that the gentleman who is occupying the verney chamber has, doubtless by inadvertence, put on mr. undershell's evening clothes. as he requires them immediately, he will be obliged by an early appointment being made, with a view to their return." (_to himself._) oh, lor! then it _wasn't_ sir rupert, after all! just when i was beginning to enjoy my evening, too. what on earth am i to say to this chap? i _can't_ take 'em all off here! [_he sits staring at the paper in blank dismay._ part xi time and the hour _in the dining-hall._ _spurrell_ (_to himself, uncomfortably conscious of the expectant_ thomas _in his rear_). must write _something_ to this beggar, i suppose; it'll keep him quiet. (_to_ mrs. brooke-chatteris.) i--i just want to write a line or two. could you oblige me with a lead pencil? _mrs. chatteris._ you are really going to write! at a dinner-party, of all places! now _how_ delightfully original and unconventional of you! i promise not to interrupt till the inspiration is over. only, really, i'm afraid i don't carry lead pencils about with me--so bad for one's frocks, you know! _thomas_ (_in his ear_). i can lend you a pencil, sir, if you require one. [_he provides him with a very minute stump._ _spurrell_ (_reading what he has written on the back of_ undershell's _missive_). "will be in my room (verney chamber) as soon after ten as possible. "j. spurrell." (_he passes the paper to_ thomas _surreptitiously_.) there, take him that. [thomas _retires_. _archie_ (_to himself_.) the calm cheek of these writin' chaps! i saw him takin' notes under the table! lady rhoda ought to know the sort of fellow he is--and she shall! (_to_ lady rhoda, _in an aggrieved undertone_.) i should advise you to be jolly careful what you say to your other neighbour; he's takin' it all down. i just caught him writin'. he'll be bringing out a satire, or whatever he calls it, on us all by and bye--you see if he won't! _lady rhoda._ what an ill-natured boy you are! just because _he_ can write, and you _can't_. and i don't believe he's doing anythin' of the sort. i'll ask him--_i_ don't care! (_aloud, to_ spurrell.) i say, i know i'm awfully inquisitive--but i do want to know so--you've just been writin' notes or somethin', haven't you? mr. bearpark declares you're goin' to take them all off here--you're not really, _are_ you? _spurrell_ (_to himself_). that sulky young chap has spotted it! (_aloud, stammering._) i--take everything off? _here!_ i--i assure you i should never even _think_ of doing anything so indelicate! _lady rhoda._ i was sure that was what you'd say! but still (_with reviving uneasiness_), i suppose you _have_ made use of things that happened just to fit your purpose, haven't you? _spurrell_ (_penitently_). all i can say is, that--if i have--you won't catch me doing it _again_! and other people's things _don't_ fit. i'd much rather have my own. _lady rhoda_ (_relieved_). of course! but i'm glad you told me. (_to_ archie, _in an undertone_.) i _asked_ him--and, as usual, you were utterly wrong. so you'll please not to be a pig! _archie_ (_jealously_). and you're goin' to go on talkin' to him all through dinner? pleasant for me--when i took you down! _lady rhoda._ you want to be taken down yourself, i think. and i mean to talk to him if i choose. you can talk to lady culverin--she likes boys! (_turning to_ spurrell.) i was goin' to ask you--ought a schipperke to have meat? mine won't touch puppy biscuits. [spurrell _enlightens her on this point_; archie _glowers_. _lady cantire_ (_perceiving that the_ bishop _is showing signs of restiveness_). well, bishop, i wish i could find you a little more ready to listen to what the other side has to say! _the bishop_ (_who has been "heckled" to the verge of his endurance._) i am--ah--not conscious of any unreadiness to enter into conversation with the very estimable lady on my other side, should an opportunity present itself. _lady cantire._ now, that's one of your quibbles, my dear bishop, and i detest quibbling! but at least it shows you haven't a leg to stand upon. _the bishop._ precisely--nor to--ah--run away upon, dear lady. i am wholly at your mercy, you perceive! _lady cantire_ (_triumphantly_). then you _admit_ you're beaten? oh, i don't despair of you _yet_, bishop. _the bishop._ i confess i am less sanguine. (_to himself._) shall i have strength to bear these buffets with any remains of christian forbearance through three more courses? ha, thank heaven, the salad! [_he cheers up at the sight of this olive-branch._ _mrs. earwaker_ (_to_ pilliner). now, i don't altogether approve of the new woman myself; but still, i am glad to see how women are beginning to assert themselves and come to the front; surely you sympathise with all that? _pilliner_ (_plaintively_). no, really i _can't_, you know! i'd so much rather they _wouldn't_. they've made us poor men feel positively obsolete! they'll snub us out of existence soon--our sex will be extinct--and then they'll be sorry. there'll be nobody to protect them from one another! after all, we can't help being what we are. it isn't _my_ fault that i was born a man thing--now, _is_ it? _lady cantire_ (_overhearing this remark_). well, if it _is_ a fault, mr. pilliner, we must all acknowledge that you've done everything in your power to correct it! _pilliner_ (_sweetly_). how nice and encouraging of you, dear lady cantire, to take up the cudgels for me like that! [lady cantire _privately relieves her feelings by expressing a preference for taking up a birch rod, and renews her attack on the_ bishop. _mr. shorthorn_ (_who has been dragging his mental depths for a fresh topic--hopefully, to_ miss spelwane). by the bye, i haven't asked you what you thought about these--er--revolting daughters? _miss spelwane._ no, you haven't; and i thought it _so_ considerate of you. [mr. shorthorn _gives up dragging, in discouragement_. _pilliner_ (_sotto voce, to_ miss spelwane). have you quite done sitting on that poor unfortunate man? _i_ heard you! _miss spelwane_ (_in the same tone_). i'm afraid i _have_ been rather beastly to him. but, oh, he _is_ such a bore--he _would_ talk about his horrid "silos," till i asked him whether they would eat out of his hand. after that, the subject dropped--somehow. _pilliner._ i see you've been punishing him for not happening to be a distinguished poet. i thought _he_ was to have been the fortunate man? _miss spelwane._ so he was; but they changed it all at the last moment; it really was rather provoking. i _could_ have talked to _him_. _pilliner._ lady rhoda appears to be consoling him. poor dear old archie's face is quite a study. but really i don't see that his poetry is so very wonderful; no more did _you_ this morning! _miss spelwane._ because you deliberately picked out the worst bits, and read them as badly as you could! _pilliner._ ah, well, he's here to read them for himself now. i dare say he'd be delighted to be asked. _miss spelwane._ do you know, bertie, that's rather a good idea of yours. i'll ask him to read us something to-night. _pilliner_ (_aghast_). to-night! with all these people here? i say, they'll never _stand_ it, you know. [lady culverin _gives the signal_. _miss spelwane_ (_as she rises_). they ought to feel it an immense privilege. i know _i_ shall. _the bishop_ (_to himself, as he rises_). port in sight--at last! but, oh, _what_ i have had to suffer! _lady cantire_ (_at parting_). well, we've had quite one of our old discussions. i always enjoy talking to _you_, bishop. but i haven't _yet_ got at your reasons for voting as you did on the parish councils bill; we must go into that upstairs. _the bishop_ (_with strict veracity_). i shall be--ah--all impatience, lady cantire. (_to himself._) i fervently trust that a repetition of this experience may yet be spared me! [illustration: "i shall be--ah--all impatience, lady cantire."] _lady rhoda_ (_as she leaves_ spurrell). you will tell me the name of the stuff upstairs, won't you? so very much ta! _archie_ (_to himself_). i'd like to tar him very much, and feather him too, for cuttin' me out like this! (_the men sit down_; spurrell _finds himself between_ archie _and_ captain thicknesse, _at the further end of the table_; archie _passes the wine to_ spurrell _with a scowl_.) what are you drinkin'? claret? what do you do your writin' on, now, as a general thing? _spurrell_ (_on the defensive_). on paper, sir, when i've any to do. do you do yours on a _slate_? _captain thicknesse._ i say, that's rather good. had you there, bearpark! _spurrell_ (_to_ archie, _lowering his voice_). look here, i see you're trying to put a spoke in my wheel. you saw me writing at dinner, and went and told that young lady i was going to take everything off there and then, which you must have known i wasn't likely to do. now, sir, it's no business of yours that i can see; but, as you seem to be interested, i may tell you that i shall go up and do it in my own room, as soon as i leave this table, and there will be no fuss or publicity about it whatever. i hope you're satisfied now? _archie._ oh, _i_'m satisfied. (_he rises._) left my cigarette-case upstairs--horrid bore--must go and get it. _captain thicknesse._ they'll be bringing some round in another minute. _archie._ prefer my own. (_to himself, as he leaves the hall._) i knew i was right. that bounder _is_ meaning to scribble some rot about us all! he's goin' straight up to his room to do it.... well, he may find a little surprise when he gets there! _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). mustn't let this poet fellow think i'm jealous; dare say, after all, there's nothing serious between them. not that it matters to me; any way, i may as well talk to him. i wonder if he knows anything about steeplechasin'. [_he discovers that_ spurrell _is not unacquainted with this branch of knowledge_. _in a corridor leading to the housekeeper's room._ time-- . p.m. _undershell_ (_to himself_). if i wasn't absolutely compelled by sheer hunger, i would not touch a morsel in this house. but i can't get my things back till after ten. as soon as ever i do, i will insist on a conveyance to the nearest inn. in the meantime i must sup. after all, no one need know of this humiliating adventure. and if i _am_ compelled to consort with these pampered menials, i think i shall know how to preserve my dignity--even while adapting myself to their level. and that girl will be there--a distinctly redeeming fact in the situation. i will be easy--affable, even; i will lay aside all foolish pride; it would be unreasonable to visit their employer's snobbery upon their unoffending heads. i hear conversation inside this room. this must be the door. i--i suppose i had better go in. [_he enters._ part xii dignity under difficulties _in the housekeeper's room at wyvern_; mrs. pomfret, _the housekeeper, in a black silk gown and her smartest cap, is seated in a winged armchair by the fire, discussing domestic politics with_ lady culverin's _maid_, miss stickler. _the chef_, m. ridevos, _is resting on the sofa, in languid converse with_ mlle. chiffon, miss spelwane's _maid_; pilliner's _man_, louch, _watches_ steptoe, sir rupert's _valet, with admiring envy, as he makes himself agreeable to_ miss phillipson, _who is in demi-toilette, as are all the other ladies' maids present_. _miss stickler_ (_in an impressive undertone_). all i _do_ say, mrs. pomfret, ma'am, is this: if that girl louisa marches into the pew to-morrow, as she did _last_ sunday, before the second laundry maid--and her only under-scullery maid--such presumptiousness should be put a stop to in future! _mrs. pomfret_ (_wheezily_). depend upon it, my dear, it's her ignorance; but i shall most certainly speak about it. girls must be taught that ranks was made to be respected, and the precedency into that pew has come down from time immemoriable, and is not to be set aside by such as her while _i_'m 'ousekeeper here. _mlle. chiffon_ (_in french, to_ m. ridevos). you have the air fatigued, my poor friend! oh, there--but fatigued! _m. ridevos._ broken, mademoiselle, absolutely broken. but what will you? this night i surpass myself. i achieve a masterpiece--a sublime pyramid of quails with a sauce that will become classic. i pay now the penalty of a veritable crisis of nerves. it is of my temperament as artist. [illustration: "broken, mademoiselle, absolutely broken."] _mlle. chiffon._ and me, my poor friend, how i have suffered from the cookery of these others--i who have the stomach so feeble, so fastidious! figure to yourself an existence upon the villainous curry, the abominable "iahristue," beloved by these barbarians, but which succeed with me not at all--oh, but not at all! since i am here--ah, the difference! i digest as of old--i am gay. but next week to return with mademoiselle to the curry, my poor friend, what regrets! _m. ridevos._ for me, dear mademoiselle, for me the regrets--to hear no more the conversation, so spiritual, so sympathetic, of a fellow-countrywoman. for remark that here they are stupid--they comprehend not. and the old ones they roll at me the eyes to make terror. behold this gorgon who approaches. she adores me, my word of honour, this ruin! [miss stickler _comes up to the sofa smiling in happy unconsciousness_. _miss stickler_ (_graciously_). so you've felt equal to joining us for once, mossoo! we feel it a very 'igh compliment, i can assure you. we've really been feeling quite 'urt at the way you keep to yourself--you might be a regular 'ermit for all _we_ see of you! _m. ridevos._ for invent, dear mees, for create, ze arteeste must live ze solitaire as of rule. to-night--no! i emairge, as you see, to res-tore myself viz your smile. _miss stickler_ (_flattered_). well, i've always said, mossoo, and i always _will_ say, that for polite 'abits and pretty speeches, give _me_ a frenchman! _m. ridevos_ (_alarmed_). for me it is too moch 'appiness. for anozzer, ah! [_he kisses his fingers with ineffable grace._ _phillipson_ (_advancing to meet_ miss dolman, _who has just entered_). why, i'd no idea i should meet _you_ here, sarah! and how have you been getting on, dear? still with----? _miss dolman_ (_checking her with a look_). her grace? no, we parted some time ago. i'm with lady rhoda cokayne at present. (_in an undertone, as she takes her aside._) you needn't say anything here of your having known me at mrs. dickenson's. i couldn't afford to have it get about in the circle i'm in that i'd ever lived with any but the nobility. i'm sure you see what i mean. of course i don't mind your saying we've _met_. _phillipson._ oh, i _quite_ understand. i'll say nothing. i'm obliged to be careful myself, being maid to lady maisie mull. _miss dolman._ my _dear_ emma! it _is_ nice seeing you again--such _friends_ as we used to be! _phillipson._ at her grace's? i'm afraid you're thinking of somebody else. (_she crosses to_ mrs. pomfret.) mrs. pomfret, what's become of the gentleman i travelled down with--the horse doctor? i do hope he means to come in; he would amuse _you_, mr. steptoe. i never heard anybody go on like him; he _did_ make me laugh so! _mrs. pomfret._ i really can't say _where_ he is, my dear. i sent up word to let him know he was welcome here whenever he pleased; but perhaps he's feeling a little shy about coming down. _phillipson._ oh, i don't think he suffers much from _that_. (_as the door opens._) ah, _there_ he is! _mrs. pomfret_ (_rising, with dignity, to receive_ undershell, _who enters in obvious embarrassment_). come in, sir. i'm glad to see you've found your way down at last. let me see, i haven't the advantage of knowing your--mr. undershell, _to_ be sure! well, mr. undershell, we're very pleased to see you. i hope you'll make yourself quite at home. her ladyship gave particular directions that we was to look after you--_most_ particular she was! _undershell._ you are very good, ma'am. i am obliged to lady culverin for her (_with a gulp_) condescension. but i shall not trespass more than a short time upon your hospitality. _mrs. pomfret._ don't speak of it as trespassing, sir. it's not often we have a gentleman of your profession as a visitor, but you are none the less welcome. now i'd better introduce you all round, and then you won't feel yourself a stranger. miss phillipson you _have_ met, i know. [_she introduces him to the others in turn_; undershell _bows helplessly_. _steptoe_ (_with urbanity_). your fame, sir, has preceded you. and you'll find us a very friendly and congenial little circle on a better acquaintance--if this is your first experience of this particular form of society? _undershell_ (_to himself_). i mustn't be stiff, i'll put them at their ease. (_aloud._) why, i must admit, mr. steptoe, that i have never before had the privilege of entering the--(_with an ingratiating smile all round him_) the "pugs' parlour," as i understand you call this very charming room. [_the company draw themselves up and cough in disapprobation._ _steptoe_ (_very stiffly_). pardon _me_, sir, you have been totally misinformed. such an expression is not current _here_. _mrs. pomfret_ (_more stiffly still_). it is never alluded to in _my_ presence except as the 'ousekeeper's room, which is the right and proper name for it. there may be some other term for it in the servants' 'all for anything _i_ know to the contrary--but, if you'll excuse me for saying so, mr. undershell, we'd prefer for it not to be repeated in _our_ presence. _undershell_ (_confusedly_). i--i beg ten thousand pardons. (_to himself._) to be pulled up like this for trying to be genial--it's really _too_ humiliating! _steptoe_ (_relaxing_). well, well, sir; we must make some allowances for a neophyte. you'll know better another time, _i_ dare say. miss phillipson here has been giving you a very favourable character as a highly agreeable rattle, mr. undershell. i hope we may be favoured with a specimen of your social talents later on. we're always grateful here for anything in that way--such as a recitation now, or a comic song, or a yumorous imitation--anything, in short, calculated to promote the general harmony and festivity will be appreciated. _miss stickler_ (_acidly_). provided it is free from any helement of coarseness, which we do _not_ encourage--far from it! _undershell_ (_suppressing his irritation_). you need be under no alarm, madam. i do not propose to attempt a performance of _any_ kind. _phillipson._ don't be so solemn, mr. undershell! i'm sure you can be as comical as any play-actor when you choose! _undershell._ i really don't know how i can have given you that impression. if you expect me to treat my lyre like a _horse-collar_, and grin through it, i'm afraid i am unable to gratify you. _steptoe_ (_at sea_). capital, sir, the professional allusion very neat. you'll come out presently, _i_ can see, when supper's on the table. can't expect you to rattle till you've something _inside_ of you, can we? _miss stickler._ reelly, mr. steptoe, i _am_ surprised at such commonness from _you_! _steptoe._ now you're too severe, miss stickler, you are indeed. an innocent little judy mow like that! _tredwell_ (_outside_). don't answer _me_, sir. ham i butler 'ere, or ham i _not_? i've a precious good mind to report you for such a hignorant blunder.... i don't want to hear another word about the gentleman's cloes--you'd no hearthly business for to do such a thing at all! (_he enters and flings himself down on a chair._) that thomas is beyond everything--stoopid _hass_ as he is! _mrs. pomfret_ (_concerned_). la, mr. tredwell, you _do_ seem put out! whatever have thomas been doing _now_? _undershell_ (_to himself_). it's really very good of him to take it to heart like this! (_aloud._) pray don't let it distress you; it's of no consequence, none at all! _tredwell_ (_glaring_). i'm the best judge of that, mr. undershell, sir--if you'll allow _me_; _i_ don't call my porogatives of no consequence, whatever _you_ may! and that feller thomas, mrs. pomfret, actially 'ad the hordacity, without consulting me previous, to go and 'and a note to one of our gentlemen at the hupstairs table, all about some hassinine mistake he'd made with his cloes! what call had he to take it upon himself? i feel puffecly disgraced that such a thing should have occurred under my authority! [_the_ steward's room boy _has entered with a dish, and listens with secret anxiety on his own account_. _undershell._ i assure you there is no harm done. the gentleman is wearing my evening clothes--but he's going to return them---- [_the conclusion of the sentence is drowned in a roar of laughter from the majority._ _tredwell_ (_gasping_). hevenin' cloes! _your_ hevenin'---- p'raps you'll 'ave the goodness to explain yourself, sir! _steptoe._ no, no, tredwell, my dear fellah, you don't understand our friend here--he's a bit of a wag, don't you see? he's only trying to pull your leg, that's all; and, gad, he did it too! but you mustn't take liberties with _this_ gentleman, mr. undershell; he's an important personage _here_, i can tell you! _undershell_ (_earnestly_). but i never meant--if you'll only let me explain---- [_the_ boy _has come behind him, and administers a surreptitious kick, which_ undershell _rightly construes as a hint to hold his tongue_. _tredwell_ (_in solemn offence_). i'm accustomed, mr. hundershell, to be treated in this room with respect and deference--especially by them as come here in the capacity of guests. _from_ such i regard any attempt to pull my leg as in hindifferent taste--to say the least of it. i wish to 'ave no more words on the subjick, which is a painful one, and had better be dropped, for the sake of all parties. mrs. pomfret, i see supper is on the table, so, by your leave, we had better set down to it. _phillipson_ (_to_ undershell). never mind _him_, pompous old thing! it _was_ awfully cheeky of you, though. you can sit next _me_ if you like. _undershell_ (_to himself, as he avails himself of this permission_). i shall only make things worse if i explain now. but, oh, great heavens, _what_ a position for a poet! part xiii what's in a name? _at the supper-table in the housekeeper's room._ mrs. pomfret _and_ tredwell _are at the head and foot of the table respectively_. undershell _is between_ mrs. pomfret and miss phillipson. _the_ steward's room boy _waits_. _tredwell._ i don't see mr. adams here this evening, mrs. pomfret. what's the reason of that? _mrs. pomfret._ why, he asked to be excused to-night, mr. tredwell. you see some of the visitors' coachmen are putting up their horses here, and he's helping mr. checkley entertain them. (_to_ undershell.) mr. adams is our stud-groom, and him and mr. checkley, the 'ed coachman, are very friendly just now. adams is very clever with his horses, i believe, and i'm sure he'd have liked a talk with you; it's a pity he's engaged elsewhere this evening. _undershell_ (_mystified_). i--i'm exceedingly sorry to have missed him, ma'am. (_to himself._) is the stud-groom _literary_, i wonder?... ah, no, i remember now; i allowed miss phillipson to conclude that my tastes were equestrian. perhaps it's just as well the stud-groom _isn't_ here! _mrs. pomfret._ well, he _may_ drop in later on. i shouldn't be surprised if you and he had met before. _undershell_ (_to himself_). _i_ should. (_aloud._) i hardly think it's probable. _mrs. pomfret._ i've known stranger things than _that_ happen. why, only the other day, a gentleman came into this very room, as it might be yourself, and it struck me he was looking very hard at me, and by and bye he says, "you don't recollect _me_, ma'am, but i know _you_ very well," says he. so i said to him, "you certainly have the advantage of me at present, sir." "well, ma'am," he says, "many years ago i had the honour and privilege of being steward's room boy in a house where you was still-room maid; and i consider i owe the position i have since attained entirely to the good advice you used to give me, as i've never forgot it, ma'am," says he. then it flashed across me who it was--"mr. pocklington!" says i. which it _were_. and him own man to the duke of dumbleshire! which was what made it so very nice and 'andsome of him to remember me all that time. _undershell_ (_perfunctorily_). it must have been most gratifying, ma'am. (_to himself._) i hope this old lady hasn't any more anecdotes of this highly interesting nature. i mustn't neglect miss phillipson--especially as i haven't very long to stay here. [_he consults his watch stealthily._ _miss phillipson_ (_observing the action_). i'm sorry you find it so slow here; it's not very polite of you to show it quite so openly though, i must say. [_she pouts._ _undershell_ (_to himself_). i can't let this poor girl think me a brute! but i must be careful not to go too far. (_to her, in an undertone which he tries to render unemotional._) don't misunderstand me like that. if i looked at my watch, it was merely to count the minutes that are left. in one short half-hour i must go--i must pass out of your life, and you must forget--oh, it will be easy for _you_--but for _me_, ah! you cannot think that i shall carry away a heart entirely unscathed! believe me, i shall always look back gratefully, regretfully, on---- _phillipson_ (_bending her head with a gratified little giggle_). i declare you're beginning all that _again_. i never _did_ see such a cure as you are. _undershell_ (_to himself, displeased_). i wish she could bring herself to take me a little more seriously. i can _not_ consider it a compliment to be called a "cure"--whatever that is. _steptoe_ (_considering it time to interfere_). come, mr. undershell, all this whispering reelly is not fair on the company! you mustn't hide your bushel under a napkin like this; don't reserve _all_ your sparklers for miss phillipson there. _undershell_ (_stiffly_). i--ah--was not making any remark that could be described as a sparkler, sir. i _don't_ sparkle. _phillipson_ (_demurely_). he was being rather sentimental just then, mr. steptoe, as it happens. not that he can't sparkle, when he likes. i'm sure if you'd heard how he went on in the fly! _steptoe_ (_with malice_). not having been privileged to be present, perhaps our friend here could recollect a few of his happiest efforts and repeat them. _miss dolman._ do, mr. undershell, please. i do _love_ a good laugh. _undershell_ (_crimson_). i--you really must excuse me. i said nothing worth repeating. i don't remember that i was particularly---- _steptoe._ pardon me. afraid i was indiscreet. we must spare miss phillipson's blushes by all manner of means. _phillipson._ oh, it was nothing of _that_ sort, mr. steptoe! _i_'ve no objection to repeat what he said. he called me a little green something or other. no; he said _that_ in the train, though. but he would have it that the old cab-horse was a magic steed, and the fly an enchanted chariot; and i don't know what all. (_as nobody smiles._) it sounded awfully funny as _he_ said it, with his face perfectly solemn like it is now, i assure you it did! _steptoe_ (_patronisingly_). i can readily believe it. we shall have you contributing to some of our yumerous periodicals, mr. undershell, sir, before long. such facetious talent is too good to be lost, it reelly is. _undershell_ (_to himself, writhing_). i gave her credit for more sense. to make me publicly ridiculous like this! [_he sulks._ _miss stickler_ (_to_ m. ridevos, _who suddenly rises_). mossoo, you're not _going_! why, whatever's the matter? _m. ridevos._ pairmeet zat i make my depart. i am cot at ze art. [_general outcry and sensation._ _mrs. pomfret_ (_concerned_). you never mean that, mossoo? and a nice dish of quails just put on, too, that they haven't even touched upstairs! _m. ridevos._ it is for zat i do not remmain! zey 'ave not toch him; my pyramide, result of a genius stupend, énorme! to zem he is nossing; zey retturn him to crash me! to-morrow i demmand zat miladi accept my demission. _ici je souffre trop!_ [_he leaves the room precipitately._ _miss stickler_ (_offering to rise_). it _does_ seem to have upset him! shall i go after him and see if i can't bring him round? _mrs. pomfret_ (_severely_). stay where you are, harriet; he's better left to himself. if he wasn't so wropped up in his cookery, he'd know there's always a dish as goes the round untasted, without why or wherefore. i've no _patience_ with the man! _tredwell_ (_philosophically_). that's the worst of 'aving to do with frenchmen; they're so apt to beyave with a sutting childishness that--(_checking himself_)--i really ask your pardon, mamsell, i quite forgot you was of his nationality; though it ain't to be wondered at, i'm sure, for you might pass for an englishwoman almost anywhere! _mlle. chiffon._ as you for frenchman, _hein_? _tredwell._ no, 'ang it _all_, mamsell, i 'ope there's no danger o' _that_! (_to_ miss phillipson.) delighted to see the countess keeps as fit as ever, miss phillipson! wonderful woman for her time o' life! law, she _did_ give the bishop beans at dinner, and no mistake! _phillipson._ her ladyship is pretty generous with them to most people, mr. tredwell. i'm sure i'd have left her long ago, if it wasn't for lady maisie--who _is_ a lady, if you like! _tredwell._ she don't favour her ma, i will say _that_ for her. by the way, who is the party they brought down with them? a youngish looking chap--seemed a bit out of his helement, when he first come in, though he's soon got over that, judging by the way him and your lady rhoda, miss dolman, was 'obnobbing together at table! _phillipson._ nobody came down with _my_ ladies; they must have met him in the bus, i expect. what is his name? _tredwell._ why, he give it to me, i know, when i enounced him; but it's gone clean out of my head again. he's got the verney chamber, i know _that_ much; but what _was_ his name again? i shall forget my own next. _undershell_ (_involuntarily_). in the verney chamber? then the name must be spurrell! _phillipson_ (_starting_). spurrell! why, _i_ used to---- but of course it can't be _him_! _tredwell._ spurrell _was_ the name, though. (_with a resentful glare at_ undershell.) i don't know how _you_ came to be aware of it, sir! _undershell._ why, the fact is, i happened to find out that--(_here he receives an admonitory drive in the back from the_ boy)--that his name _was_ spurrell. (_to himself._) i wish this infernal boy wouldn't be officious--but perhaps he's right! _tredwell._ ho, indeed! well, _another_ time, mr. hundershell, if you require information about parties staying with _us_, p'raps you'll be good enough to apply to me pussonally, instead of picking it up in some 'ole-and-corner fashion. (undershell _controls his indignation with difficulty_.) to return to the individual in question, miss phillipson, i should have said myself he was something in the artistic or littery way; he suttingly didn't give me the impression of being a gentleman. [illustration: "he suttingly didn't give me the impression of being a gentleman."] _phillipson_ (_to herself, relieved_). then it _isn't_ my jem! i might have known he wouldn't be visiting here, and carrying on with lady rhodas. he'd never forget himself like that--if he _has_ forgotten me! _steptoe._ it strikes me he's more of a sporting character, tredwell. i know when i was circulating with the cigarettes and so on, in the hall just now, he was telling the captain some anecdote about an old steeplechaser that was faked up to win a selling handicap, and it tickled me to that extent i could hardly hold the spirit-lamp steady. _tredwell._ i may be mistook, steptoe. all _i_ can say is, that when me and james was serving cawfy to the ladies in the drawing-room, some of them had got 'old of a little pink book all sprinkled over with silver cutlets, and, rightly _or_ wrongly, i took it to 'ave some connection with 'im. _undershell_ (_excitedly_). pink and silver! might i ask--was it a volume of poetry, called--er--_andromeda_? _tredwell_ (_crushingly_). that i did not take the liberty of inquiring, sir, as you might be aware if you was a little more familiar with the hetiquette of good society. [undershell _collapses_; mr. adams _enters, and steps into the chair vacated by the chef, next to_ mrs. pomfret, _with whom he converses_. _undershell_ (_to himself_). to think that they may be discussing my book in the drawing-room at this very moment, while i--i---- (_he chokes._) ah, it won't bear thinking of! i must--i _will_ get out of this accursed place! i have stood this too long as it is! but i won't go till i have seen this fellow spurrell, and made him give me back my things. what's the time? ... ten! i can go at last. (_he rises._) mrs. pomfret, will you kindly excuse me? i--i find i must go at once. _mrs. pomfret._ well, mr. undershell, sir, you're the best judge; and, if you really can't stop, this is mr. adams, who'll take you round to the stables himself, and do anything that's necessary. won't you, mr. adams? _adams._ so you're off to-night, sir, are you? well, i'd rather ha' shown you deerfoot by daylight, myself; but there, i dessay that won't make much difference to _you_, so long as you _do_ see the 'orse? _undershell_ (_to himself_). so deerfoot's a _horse_! one of the features of wyvern, i suppose; they seem very anxious i shouldn't miss it. _i_ don't want to see the beast; but i dare say it won't take many minutes; and, if i don't humour this man, i shan't get a conveyance to go away in! (_aloud._) no difference whatever--to _me_. i shall be delighted to be shown deerfoot; only i really can't wait _much_ longer; i--i've an appointment elsewhere! _adams._ right, sir; you get your 'at and coat, and come along with me, and you shall see him at once. [undershell _takes a hasty farewell of_ miss phillipson _and the company generally--none of whom attempts to detain him--and follows his guide. as the door closes upon them, he hears a burst of stifled merriment, amidst which_ miss phillipson's _laughter is only too painfully recognisable_. part xiv le vÉtÉrinaire malgrÉ lui _outside the stables at wyvern._ time--_about_ p.m. _undershell_ (_to himself, as he follows_ adams). now is my time to arrange about getting away from here. (_to_ adams.) by the bye, i suppose you can let me have a conveyance of some sort--after i've seen the horse? i--i'm rather in a hurry. _adams._ you'd better speak to mr. checkley about that, sir; it ain't in _my_ department, you see. i'll fetch him round, if you'll wait here a minute; he'd like to hear what you think about the 'orse. [_he goes off to the coachman's quarters._ _undershell_ (_alone_). a very civil fellow this; he seems quite anxious to show me this animal! there must be _something_ very remarkable about it. [adams _returns with_ checkley. _adams._ mr. checkley, our 'ed coachman, mr. undershell. he's coming in along with us to 'ear what you say, if you've no objections. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i must make a friend of this coachman, or else---- (_aloud._) i shall be charmed, mr. checkley. i've only a very few minutes to spare; but i'm most curious to see this horse of yours. _checkley._ he ain't one o' _my_ 'orses, sir. if he _'ad_ been---- but there, i'd better say nothing about it. _adams_ (_as he leads the way into the stables, and turns up the gas_). there, sir, that's deerfoot over there in the loose box. _undershell_ (_to himself_). he seems to me much like any _other_ horse! however, i can't be wrong in admiring. (_aloud, as he inspects him, through the rails._) ah, indeed? he _is_ worth seeing! a magnificent creature! _adams_ (_stripping off_ deerfoot's _clothing_). he's a good 'orse, sir. her ladyship won't trust herself on no other animal, not since she 'ad the influenzy so bad. she'd take on dreadful if i 'ad to tell her he wouldn't be fit for no more work, she would! _undershell_ (_sympathetically_). i can quite imagine so. not that he seems in any danger of _that_! _checkley_ (_triumphantly_). there, you 'ear that, adams? the minute he set eyes on the 'orse! _adams._ wait till mr. undershell has seen him move a bit, and see what he says _then_. _checkley._ if it was what _you_ think, he'd never be standing like he is now, depend upon it. _adams._ you _can't_ depend upon it. he 'eard us coming, and he's quite artful enough to draw his foot back for fear o' getting a knock. (_to_ undershell.) i've noticed him very fidgety-like on his forelegs this last day or two. _undershell._ _have_ you, though? (_to himself._) i hope he won't be fidgety with his _hind_-legs. i shall stay outside. _adams._ i cooled him down with a rubub and aloes ball, and kep 'im on low diet; but he don't seem no better. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i didn't gather the horse was unwell. (_aloud._) dear me! no better? you don't say so! _checkley._ if you'd rubbed a little embrocation into the shoulder, you'd ha' done more good, in _my_ opinion, and it's my belief as mr. undershell here will tell you i'm right. _undershell_ (_to himself_). can't afford to offend the coachman! (_aloud._) well, i dare say--er--embrocation _would_ have been better. _adams._ ah, that's where me and mr. checkley differ. according to me, it ain't to do with the shoulder at all--it's a deal lower down.... i'll 'ave him out of the box and you'll soon see what i mean. _undershell_ (_hastily_). pray don't trouble on my account. i--i can see him capitally from where i am, thanks. _adams._ you know best, sir. only i thought you'd be better able to form a judgment after you'd seen the way he stepped across. but if you was to come in and examine the frog?-- i don't like the look of it myself. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i'm sure _i_ don't. i've a horror of reptiles. (_aloud._) you're very good. i--i think i won't come in. the place must be rather _damp_, mustn't it--for that? _adams._ it's dry enough in 'ere, sir, as you may see; nor yet he ain't been standing about in no wet. still, there it _is_, you see! _undershell_ (_to himself_). what a fool he must be not to drive it out! of course it must annoy the horse. (_aloud._) i don't see it; but i'm quite willing to take your word for it. _adams._ i don't know how you can _expect_ to see it, sir, without you look inside of the 'oof for it. _undershell_ (_to himself_). it's not alive--it's something _inside_ the hoof. i suppose i ought to have known that. (_aloud._) just so; but i see no necessity for looking inside the hoof. _checkley._ in course he don't, or he'd ha' looked the very fust thing, with all his experience. i 'ope you're satisfied _now_, adams? _adams._ i can't say as i am. i say as no man can examine a 'orse thoroughly at that distance, be he who he may. and whether i'm right or wrong, it 'ud be more of a satisfaction to me if mr. undershell was to step in and see the 'oof for himself. _checkley._ well, there's sense in that, and i dessay mr. undershell won't object to obliging you that far. _undershell_ (_with reluctance_). oh, with pleasure, if you make a point of it. [_he enters the loose box delicately._ _adams_ (_picking up one of the horse's feet_). now, tell me how this 'ere 'oof strikes you. _undershell_ (_to himself_). that hoof _can't_; but i'm not so sure about the others. (_aloud, as he inspects it._) well--er--it seems to me a very _nice_ hoof. _adams_ (_grimly_). i was not arsking your opinion of it as a work of _art_, sir. do you see any narrering coming on, or do you not? that's what i should like to get out of _you_! _undershell_ (_to himself_). does this man suppose i _collect_ hoofs! however, i'm not going to commit myself. (_aloud._) h'm--well, i--i rather agree with mr. checkley. _checkley._ i knew he would! now you've _got_ it, adams! _i_ can see mr. undershell knows what he's about. _adams_ (_persistently_). but look at this 'ere pastern. you can't deny there's puffiness there. how do you get over _that_? _undershell._ if the horse is puffy, it's _his_ business to get over it--not mine. _adams_ (_aggrieved_). you may think proper to treat it light, sir; but if you put your 'and down 'ere, above the coronet, you'll feel a throbbing as plain as---- _undershell._ very likely. but i don't know, really, that it would afford me any particular gratification if i _did_! _adams._ well, if you don't take _my_ view, i should ha' thought as you'd want to feel the 'orse's pulse. _undershell._ you are quite mistaken. i don't. (_to himself._) particularly as i shouldn't know where to find it. what a bore this fellow is with his horse! _checkley._ in course, sir, _you_ see what's running in mr. adams's 'ed all this time, what he's a-driving at, eh? _undershell_ (_to himself_). i only wish i did! this will require tact. (_aloud._) i--i could hardly avoid seeing _that_--could i? _checkley._ _i_ should think not. and it stands to reason as a vet like yourself'd spot a thing like navickler fust go off. _undershell_ (_to himself_). a vet! they've been taking me for a vet all this time! i can't have been so ignorant as i thought. i really don't like to undeceive them--they might feel annoyed. (_aloud, knowingly._) to be sure, i--i spotted it at once. _adams._ he _does_ make it out navicular after all! what did i tell you, checkley? now p'raps you'll believe _me_! _checkley._ i'll be shot if that 'orse has navickler, whoever says so--there! _adams_ (_gloomily_). it's the 'orse 'll 'ave to be shot; worse luck! i'd ha' give something if mr. undershell could ha' shown i was wrong; but there was very little doubt in _my_ mind what it was all along. _undershell_ (_to himself, horrified_). i've been pronouncing this unhappy animal's doom without knowing it! i must tone it down. (_aloud._) no--no, i never said he must be shot. there's no reason to despair. it--it's quite a mild form of er--clavicular--not at all infectious at present. and the horse has a splendid constitution. i--i really think he'll soon be himself again, if we only--er--leave nature to do her work, you know. _adams_ (_after a prolonged whistle_). well, if nature ain't better up in her work than you seem to be, it's 'igh time she chucked it, and took to something else. you've a lot to learn about navicular, _you_ 'ave, if you can talk such rot as that! [illustration: "you've a lot to learn about navicular, you 'ave, if you can talk such rot as that!"] _checkley._ ah, i've 'ad to do with a vet or two in my time, but i'm blest if i ever come across the likes o' _you_ afore! _undershell_ (_to himself_). i _knew_ they'd find me out! i must pacify them. (_aloud._) but, look here, i'm _not_ a vet. i never said i _was_. it was your mistake entirely. the fact is, my--my good men, i came down here because--well, it's unnecessary to explain now _why_ i came. but i'm most anxious to get away, and if you, my dear mr. checkley, could let me have a trap to take me to shuntingbridge to-night, i should feel extremely obliged. [checkley _stares, deprived of speech_. _adams_ (_with a private wink to_ checkley). certainly he will, sir. i'm sure checkley 'll feel proud to turn out, late as it is, to oblige a gentleman with your remarkable knowledge of 'orseflesh. drive you over hisself in the broom and pair, _i_ shouldn't wonder! _undershell._ _one_ horse will be quite sufficient. very well, then. i'll just run up and get my portmanteau, and--and one or two things of mine, and if you will be round at the back entrance--don't trouble to drive up to the _front_ door--as soon as possible, i won't keep you waiting longer than i can help. good evening, mr. adams, and many thanks. (_to himself, as he hurries back to the house._) i've got out of that rather well. now, i've only to find my way to the verney chamber, see this fellow spurrell, and get my clothes back, and then i can retreat with comfort, and even dignity! these culverins shall learn that there is at least _one_ poet who will not put up with their insolent patronage! _checkley_ (_to_ adams). he _has_ got a cool cheek, and no mistake! but if he waits to be druv over to shuntingbridge till _i_ come round for him, he'll 'ave to set on that portmanteau of his a goodish time! _adams._ he did you pretty brown, i must say. to 'ear you crowing over me when he was on your side. i could 'ardly keep from larfing! _checkley._ i see he warn't no vet long afore you, but i let it go on for the joke of it. it was rich to see you a-wanting him to feel the 'oof, and give it out navickler. well, you got his opinion for what it was wuth, so _you're_ all right! _adams._ you think nobody knows anything about 'orses but yourself, you do; but if you're meanin' to make a story out o' this against me, why, i shall tell it _my_ way, that's all! _checkley._ it was you he made a fool of, not me--and i can prove it--there! [_they dispute the point, with rising warmth, for some time._ _adams_ (_calming down_). well, see 'ere, checkley, i dunno, come to think of it, as either on us 'll show up partickler smart over this 'ere job; and it strikes me we'd better both agree to keep quiet about it, eh? (checkley _acquiesces, not unwillingly_.) and i think i'll take a look in at the 'ousekeeper's-room presently, and try if i can't drop a hint to old tredwell about that smooth-tongued chap, for it's my belief he ain't down 'ere for no good! part xv trapped! _in a gallery outside the verney chamber._ time--_about_ . p.m. _undershell_ (_to himself, as he emerges from a back staircase_). i suppose this _is_ the corridor? the boy said the name of the room was painted up over the door.... ah, there it is; and, yes, mr. spurrell's name on a card.... the door is ajar; he is probably waiting for me inside. i shall meet him quite temperately, treat it simply as a---- (_he enters; a waste-paper basket, containing an ingenious arrangement of liquid and solid substances, descends on his head._) what the devil do you mean, sir, by this outrageous----? all dark! nobody here! is there a general conspiracy to insult me? have i been lured up here for a brutal---- (spurrell _bursts in_.) ah, _there_ you are, sir! (_with cold dignity, through the lattice-work of the basket._) will you kindly explain what this means? _spurrell._ wait till i strike a light. (_after lighting a pair of candles._) well, sir, if _you_ don't know why you're ramping about like that under a waste-paper basket, i can hardly be expected to---- _undershell._ i was determined not to remove it until somebody came in; it fell on my head the moment i entered; it contained something in a soap-dish, which has wetted my face. you may laugh, sir, but if this is a sample of your aristocratic---- _spurrell._ if you could only see yourself! but _i_'d nothing to do with it, 'pon my word i hadn't; only just this minute got away from the hall.... _i_ know! it's that sulky young beggar, bearpark. i remember he slipped off on some excuse or other just now. he must have come in here and fixed that affair up for me--confound him! _undershell._ i think _i_'m the person most entitled to---- but no matter; it is merely one insult more among so many. i came here, sir, for a purpose, as you are aware. _spurrell_ (_ruefully_). your dress clothes? all right, you shall have them directly. i wouldn't have put 'em on if i'd known they'd be wanted so soon. _undershell._ i should have thought your own would have been more comfortable. _spurrell._ more comfortable! i believe you. why, i assure you i feel like a bath bun in a baby's sock! but how was i to know? you shouldn't leave your things about like that! _undershell._ it is usual, sir, for people to come to a place like this provided with evening clothes of their own. _spurrell._ i know that as well as you do. don't you suppose i'm unacquainted with the usages of society! why, i've stayed in boarding-houses at the seaside many a time where it was _de rigger_ to dress--even for high tea! but coming down, as i did, on business, it never entered my head that i should want my dress suit. so, when i found them all as chummy and friendly as possible, and expecting me to dine as a matter of course,--why, i can tell you i was too jolly glad to get hold of anything in the shape of a swallowtail and white choker to be over particular! _undershell._ you seem to have been more fortunate in your reception than i. but then _i_ had not the advantage of being here in a business capacity. _spurrell._ well, it wasn't that altogether. you see, i'm a kind of a celebrity in my way. _undershell._ i should hardly have thought _that_ would be a recommendation here. _spurrell._ i was surprised myself to find what a lot they thought of it; but, bless you, they're all as civil as shopwalkers; and, as for the ladies, why, the old countess and lady maisie and lady rhoda couldn't be more complimentary if i'd won the victoria cross, instead of getting a first prize for breeding and exhibiting a bull-bitch at cruft's dog show! _undershell_ (_bitterly, to himself_). and this is our aristocracy! they make a bosom friend of a breeder of dogs; and find a poet only fit to associate with their servants! what a theme for a satirist! (_aloud._) i see nothing to wonder at. you possess precisely the social qualifications most likely to appeal to the leisured class. _spurrell._ oh, there's a lot of humbug in it, mind you! most of 'em know about as much of the points of a bull as the points of a compass, only they let on to know a lot because they think it's smart. and some of 'em are after a pup from old drummy's next litter. _i_ see through all that, you know! _undershell._ you are a cynic, i observe, sir. but possibly the nature of the business which brings you here renders them---- _spurrell._ that's the rummest thing about it. i haven't heard a word about that yet. i'm in the veterinary profession, you know. well, they sent for me to see some blooming horse, and never even ask me to go near it! seems odd, don't it? _undershell_ (_to himself_). _i_ had to go near the blooming horse! now i begin to understand; the very servants did not expect to find a professional vet in any company but their own! (_aloud._) i--i trust that the horse will not suffer through any delay. _spurrell._ so do i; but how do i know that some ignorant duffer mayn't be treating him for the wrong thing? it may be all up with the animal before i get a chance of seeing what i can do? _undershell_ (_to himself_). if he knew how near i went to getting the poor beast shot! but i needn't mention that now. _spurrell._ i don't say it isn't gratifying to be treated like a swell, but i've got my professional reputation to consider, you know; and if they're going to take up all my time talking about andromeda---- _undershell_ (_with a start_). andromeda! they have been talking about andromeda? to you! then it's _you_ who---- _spurrell._ haven't i been telling you? i should just jolly well think they _have_ been talking about her! so you didn't know my bull's name was andromeda before, eh? but _you_ seem to have heard of her, too! _undershell_ (_slowly_). i--i _have_ heard of andromeda--yes. [_he drops into a chair, dazed._ _spurrell_ (_complacently_). it's curious how that bitch's fame seems to have spread. why, even the old bishop---- but, i say, you're looking rather queer; anything the matter with you, old fellow? _undershell_ (_faintly_). nothing--nothing. i--i feel a little giddy, that's all. i shall be better presently. [_he conceals his face._ _spurrell_ (_in concern_). it was having that basket down on your head like that. too bad! here, i'll get you some water. (_he bustles about._) i don't know if you're aware of it, old chap, but you're in a regular _dooce_ of a mess! _undershell_ (_motioning him away irritably_). do you suppose i don't know _that_? for heaven's sake, don't speak to me! let me alone!... i want to think--i want to think. (_to himself._) i see it all now! i've made a hideous mistake! i thought these culverins were deliberately---- and all the time---- oh, what an unspeakable idiot i've been!... and i can't even explain!... the only thing to do is to escape before this fellow suspects the truth. it's lucky i ordered that carriage! (_aloud, rising._) i'm all right now; and--and i can't stay here any longer. i am leaving directly--directly! _spurrell._ you must give me time to get out of this toggery, old chap; you'll have to pick me out of it like a lobster! _undershell_ (_wildly_). the clothes? never mind them now. i can't wait. keep them! _spurrell._ do you really mean it, old fellow? if you _could_ spare 'em a bit longer, i'd be no end obliged. because, you see, i promised lady rhoda to come and finish a talk we were having, and they've taken away my own things to brush, so i haven't a rag to go down in except these; and they'd all think it so beastly rude if i went to bed now! _undershell_ (_impatiently_). i tell you you may keep them, if you'll only go away! _spurrell._ but where am i to send the things to when i've done with 'em? _undershell._ what do i---- stay, here's my card. send them to that address. now go and finish your evening! _spurrell_ (_gratefully_). you _are_ a rattling good chap, and no mistake! though i'm hanged if i can quite make out what you're doing here, you know! _undershell._ it's not at all necessary that you _should_ make it out. i am leaving immediately, and--and i don't wish sir rupert or lady culverin to hear of this--you understand? _spurrell._ well, it's no business of mine; you've behaved devilish well to me, and i'm not surprised that you'd rather not be seen in the state you're in. i shouldn't like it myself! _undershell._ state? _what_ state? _spurrell._ ah, i _wondered_ whether you knew. you'll see what i mean when you've had a look at yourself in the glass. i dare say it'll come off right enough. i can't stop. ta, ta, old fellow, and thanks awfully! [_he goes out._ _undershell_ (_alone_). what does he mean? but i've no time to waste. where have they put my portmanteau? i can't give up _everything_. (_he hunts round the room, and eventually discovers a door leading into a small dressing-room._) ah, it's in there. i'll get it out, and put my things in. (_as he rushes back, he suddenly comes face to face with his own reflection in a cheval glass._) wh--who's that? can this--this piebald horror possibly be--_me_? how----? ah, it was _ink_ in that infernal basket--not water! and my hair's full of flour! i _can't_ go into a hotel like this, they'd think i was an escaped lunatic! (_he flies to a wash-hand stand, and scrubs and sluices desperately, after which he inspects the result in the mirror._) it's not _nearly_ off yet! will _anything_ get rid of this streakiness? (_he soaps and scrubs once more._) and the flour's caked in my hair now! i must brush it all out before i am fit to be seen. (_he gradually, after infinite toil, succeeds in making himself slightly more presentable._) is the carriage waiting for me all this time? (_he pitches things into his portmanteau in a frantic flurry._) what's that? some one's coming! [_he listens._ [illustration: he suddenly comes face to face with his own reflection.] _tredwell_ (_outside_). it's my conviction you've been telling me a pack o' lies, you young rascal. for what hearthly business that feller undershell could 'ave in the verney---- however, _i_'ll soon see how it is. (_he knocks._) is any one in 'ere? _undershell_ (_to himself, distractedly_). he mustn't find me here! yet, where---- ah, it's the only place! [_he blows out the candles, and darts into the dressing-room as_ tredwell _enters_. _tredwell._ the boy's right. he _is_ in here; them candles is smouldering still. (_he relights one, and looks under the bed._) you'd better come out o' that, undershell, and give an account of yourself--do you 'ear me?... he ain't under there! (_he tries the dressing-room door_; undershell _holds his breath, and clings desperately to the handle_.) very well, sir, i know you're _there_, and i've no time to trouble with you at present, so you may as well stay where you are till you're wanted. i've 'eard o' your goings-on from mr. adams, and i shall 'ave to fetch sir rupert up to 'ave a talk with you by and bye. [_he turns the key upon him, and goes._ _undershell_ (_to himself, overwhelmed, as the butler's step is heard retreating._) and i came down here to assert the dignity of literature! part xvi an intellectual privilege _in the chinese drawing-room._ time--_about_ . p.m. _mrs. earwaker._ yes, dear lady lullington, i've always insisted on each of my girls adopting a distinct line of her own, and the result has been _most_ satisfactory. louisa, my eldest, is literary; she had a little story accepted not long ago by _the milky way_; then maria is musical--practices regularly three hours every day on her violin. fanny has become quite an expert in photography--kodaked her father the other day in the act of trying a difficult stroke at billiards; a back view--but _so_ clever and characteristic! _lady lullington_ (_absently_). a back view? how _nice_! _mrs. earwaker._ he was the only one of the family who didn't recognize it at once. then my youngest caroline--well, i must say that for a long time i was quite in despair about caroline. it really looked as if there was no single thing that she had the slightest bent or inclination for. so at last i thought she had better take up religion, and make _that_ her speciality. _lady lullington_ (_languidly_). religion! how _very_ nice! _mrs. earwaker._ well, i got her a _christian year_ and a covered basket, and quantities of tracts, and so on; but, somehow, she didn't seem to get _on_ with it. so i let her give it up; and now she's gone in for poker-etching instead. _lady lullington_ (_by an act of unconscious cerebration_). poker-etching! how very, _very_ nice! [_her eyelids close gently._ _lady rhoda._ oh, but indeed, lady culverin, i thought he was perfectly charmin': not a bit booky, you know, but as clever as he can stick; knows more about terriers than any man i ever met! _lady culverin._ so glad you found him agreeable, my dear. i was half afraid he might strike you as--well, just a little bit _common_ in his way of talking. _lady rhoda._ p'raps--but, after all, one can't expect those sort of people to talk quite like we do ourselves, _can_ one? _lady cantire._ is that mr. spurrell you are finding fault with, albinia? it is curious that _you_ should be the one person here who---- i consider him a very worthy and talented young man, and i shall most certainly ask him to dinner--or _lunch_, at all events--as soon as we return. i dare say lady rhoda will not object to come and meet him. _lady rhoda._ rather not. _i_'ll come, like a shot! _lady culverin_ (_to herself_). i suppose it's very silly of me to be so prejudiced. nobody else seems to mind him! _miss spelwane_ (_crossing over to them_). oh, lady culverin, lady lullington has such a _delightful_ idea--she's just been saying how very, very nice it would be if mr. spurrell could be persuaded to read some of his poetry aloud to us presently. _do_ you think it could be managed? _lady culverin_ (_in distress_). really, my dear vivien, i--i don't know _what_ to say. i fancy people would so _much_ rather talk--don't you think so, rohesia? _lady cantire._ probably they would, albinia. it is most unlikely that they would care to hear anything more intellectual and instructive than the sound of their own voices. _miss spelwane._ i _told_ lady lullington that i was afraid you would think it a bore, lady cantire. _lady cantire._ you are perfectly mistaken, miss spelwane. i flatter myself i am quite as capable of appreciating a literary privilege as anybody here. but i cannot answer for its being so acceptable to the majority. _lady culverin._ no, it wouldn't do at all. and it would be making this young man so _much_ too conspicuous. _lady cantire._ you are talking nonsense, my dear. when you are fortunate enough to secure a celebrity at wyvern, you can't make him _too_ conspicuous. i never knew that laura lullington had any taste for literature before, but there's something to be said for her suggestion--if it can be carried out; it would at least provide a welcome relief from the usual after-dinner dullness of this sort of gathering. _miss spelwane._ then--would _you_ ask him, lady cantire? _lady cantire._ i, my dear? you forget that _i_ am not hostess here. my sister-in-law is the proper person to do that. _lady culverin._ indeed i couldn't. but perhaps, vivien, if you liked to suggest it to him, he might---- _miss spelwane._ i'll try, dear lady culverin. and if my poor little persuasions have no effect, i shall fall back on lady cantire, and then he _can't_ refuse. i must go and tell dear lady lullington--she'll be so pleased! (_to herself, as she skims away._) i generally _do_ get my own way. but i mean him to do it to please _me_! _lady cantire_ (_to herself_). i must say that girl is very much improved in manner since i last saw anything of her. _mrs. chatteris_ (_a little later, to_ lady maisie). have you heard what a treat is in store for us? that delightful mr. spurrell is going to give us a reading or a recitation, or something, from his own poems; at least miss spelwane is to ask him as soon as the men come in. only _i_ should have thought that he would be much more likely to consent if _you_ asked him. _lady maisie._ would you? i'm sure i don't know why. _mrs. chatteris_ (_archly_). oh, he took me in to dinner, you know, and it's quite wonderful how people confide in me, but i suppose they feel i can be trusted. he mentioned a little fact, which gave me the impression that a certain fair lady's wishes would be supreme with him. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). the wretch! he _has_ been boasting of my unfortunate letter! (_aloud._) mr. spurrell had no business to give you any impression of the kind. and the mere fact that i--that i happened to admire his verses---- _mrs. chatteris._ exactly! poets' heads are so easily turned; and, as i said to captain thicknesse---- _lady maisie._ captain thicknesse! you have been talking about it--to _him_! _mrs. chatteris._ i'd no idea you would mind anybody knowing, or i would never have dreamed of---- i've such a perfect _horror_ of gossip! it took me so much by surprise, that i simply couldn't resist. but i can easily tell captain thicknesse it was all a mistake; _he_ knows how fearfully inaccurate i always am. _lady maisie._ i would rather you said nothing more about it, please; it is really not worth while contradicting anything so utterly absurd. (_to herself._) that gerald--captain thicknesse--of all people, should know of my letter! and goodness only knows what story she may have made out of it! _mrs. chatteris_ (_to herself, as she moves away_). i've been letting my tongue run away with me, as usual. she's _not_ the original of "lady grisoline," after all. perhaps he meant vivien spelwane--the description was much more like _her_! _pilliner_ (_who has just entered with some of the younger men, to_ miss spelwane). what _are_ you doing with these chairs? why are we all to sit in a circle, like moore and burgess people? you're _not_ going to set the poor dear bishop down to play baby-games? how perfectly barbarous of you! _miss spelwane._ the chairs are being arranged for something much more intellectual. we are going to get mr. spurrell to read a poem to us, if you want to know. i _told_ you i should manage it. _pilliner._ there's only one drawback to that highly desirable arrangement. the songster has unostentatiously retired to roost. so i'm afraid you'll have to do without your poetry this evening--that is, unless you care to avail yourself again of _my_ services? _miss spelwane_ (_indignantly_). it is too _mean_ of you. you must have told him! [_he protests his innocence._ _lady rhoda._ archie, what's become of mr. spurrell? i particularly want to ask him something. _bearpark._ the poet? he nipped upstairs--as i told you all along he meant to--to scribble some of his democratic drivel, and (_with a suppressed grin_) i don't _think_ you'll see him again this evening. _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself, as he enters_). she's keepin' a chair next hers in the corner there for somebody. can it be for that poet chap?... (_he meets_ lady maisie's _eye suddenly_.) great scott! if she means it for _me_!... i've half a mind not to---- no, i shall be a fool if i lose such a chance! (_he crosses, and drops into the vacant chair next hers._) i _may_ sit here, mayn't i? _lady maisie_ (_simply_). i meant you to. we used to be such good friends; it's a pity to have misunderstandings. and--and i want to ask you what that silly little mrs. chatteris has been telling you at dinner about me. _captain thicknesse._ well, she was sayin'--and i must say i don't understand it, after your tellin' me you knew nothing about this mr. spurrell till this afternoon---- _lady maisie._ but i don't. and i--i _did_ offer to explain, but you said you weren't curious! _captain thicknesse._ didn't want you to tell me anything that perhaps you'd rather not, don't you know. still, i _should_ like to know how this poet chap came to write a poem all about you, and call it "lady grisoline," if he never---- _lady maisie._ but it's too ridiculous! how _could_ he? when he never saw me, so far as i know, in all his life before! _captain thicknesse._ he told mrs. chatteris you were the original of his "lady grisoline" anyway, and really---- _lady maisie._ he dared to tell her that? how disgracefully impertinent of him. (_to herself._) so long as he hasn't talked about my letter, he may say what he pleases! _captain thicknesse._ but what _was_ it you were goin' to explain to me? you said there was somethin'---- _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). it's no use; i'd sooner die than tell him about that letter now! (_aloud._) i--i only wished you to understand that, whatever i think about poetry--i detest poets! _lady cantire._ yes, as you say, bishop, a truly augustan mode of recreation. still, mr. spurrell doesn't seem to have come in yet, so i shall have time to hear anything you have to say in defence of your opposition to parish councils. [_the_ bishop _resigns himself to the inevitable_. _archie_ (_in_ pilliner's _ear_). ink and flour--couldn't possibly miss him; the bard's got a matted head _this_ time, and no mistake. [illustration: "ink and flour--couldn't possibly miss him."] _pilliner._ beastly bad form, _i_ call it--with a fellow you don't know. you'll get yourself into trouble some day. and you couldn't even bring your own ridiculous booby-trap off, for here the beggar comes, as if nothing had happened. _archie_ (_disconcerted_). confound him! the best booby trap i _ever_ made! _the bishop._ my dear lady cantire, here _is_ our youthful poet, at the eleventh hour. (_to himself._) "_sic me servavit_ apollo!" [miss spelwane _advances to meet_ spurrell, _who stands surveying the array of chairs in blank bewilderment_. part xvii a bomb shell _in a gallery near the verney chamber._ time--_same as that of the preceding part._ _spurrell_ (_to himself_). i must say it's rather rough luck on that poor devil. i get his dress suit, and all _he_ comes in for is my booby-trap! (phillipson, _wearing a holland blouse over her evening toilette, approaches from the other end of the passage; he does not recognise her until the moment of collision_.) emma!! it's never _you_! how do you come to be _here_? _phillipson_ (_to herself_). then it _was_ my jem after all! (_aloud, distantly._) i'm here in attendance on lady maisie mull, being her maid. if i was at all curious--which i'm not--i might ask you what _you_'re doing in such a house as this; and in evening dress, if you please! _spurrell._ i'm in evening dress, emma, such as it is (not that i've any right to find fault with it); but i'm in evening dress (_with dignity_) because i've been included in the dinner party here. _phillipson._ you must have been getting on since _i_ knew you. then you were studying to be a horse-doctor. _spurrell._ i _have_ got on. i am now a qualified m.r.c.v.s. _phillipson._ and does that qualify you to dine with bishops and countesses and baronets and the gentry, like one of themselves? _spurrell._ i don't say it does, in itself. it was my andromeda that did the trick, emma. _phillipson._ andromeda? they were talking of that downstairs. what made you take to scribbling, james? _spurrell._ scribbling? how do you mean? my handwriting's easy enough to read, as you ought to know very well. _phillipson._ you can't expect me to remember what your writing's like; it's so long since i've seen it! _spurrell._ come, i like that! when i wrote twice to say i was sorry we'd fallen out; and never got a word back! _phillipson._ if you'd written to the addresses i gave you abroad---- _spurrell._ then you _did_ write; but none of the letters reached me. i never even knew you'd _gone_ abroad. i wrote to the old place. and so did you, i suppose, not knowing i'd moved my lodgings too, so naturally---- but what does it all matter, so long as we've met and it's all right between us? oh, my dear girl, if you only knew how i worried myself, thinking you were---- well, all that's over now, isn't it? [_he attempts to embrace her._ _phillipson_ (_repulsing him_). not quite so fast, james. before i say whether we're to be as we were or not, i want to know a little more about you. you wouldn't be here like this if you hadn't done _something_ to distinguish yourself. _spurrell._ well, i don't say i mayn't have got a certain amount of what they call "kudosh," owing to andromeda. but what difference does that make? _phillipson._ tell me, james, is it _you_ that's been writing a pink book all over silver cutlets? _spurrell._ me? write a book--about cutlets--or anything else! emma, you don't suppose i've quite come down to that! andromeda's the name of my bull-dog. i took first prize with her; there were portraits of both of us in one of the papers. and the people here were very much taken with the dog, and--and so they asked me to dine with them. that's how it was. _phillipson._ i should have thought, if they asked one of you to dine, it ought to have been the bull-dog. _spurrell._ now what's the good of saying extravagant things of that sort? not that old drummy couldn't be trusted to behave anywhere! _phillipson._ better than her master, i dare say. _i_ heard of your goings on with some lady rhoda or other! _spurrell._ oh, the girl i sat next to at dinner? nice chatty sort of girl; seems fond of quadrupeds---- _phillipson._ especially two-legged ones! you see, i've been told all about it! _spurrell._ i assure you, i didn't go a step beyond the most ordinary civility. you're not going to be jealous because i promised i'd give her a liniment for one of her dogs, are you? _phillipson._ liniment! you always _were_ a flirt, james! but i'm not jealous. i've met a very nice-spoken young man while i've been here; he sat next to me at supper, and paid me the most beautiful compliments, and was most polite and attentive--though he hasn't got as far as liniment, at present. _spurrell._ but, emma, you're not going to take up with some other fellow just when we've come together again? _phillipson._ if you call it "coming together," when i'm down in the housekeeper's room, and you're up above, carrying on with ladies of title! _spurrell._ do you want to drive me frantic? as if i could help being where i am! how could i know _you_ were here? _phillipson._ at all events, you know _now_, james. and it's for you to choose between your smart lady friends and me. if you're fit company for them, you're too grand for one of their maids. _spurrell._ my dear girl, don't be unreasonable! i'm expected back in the drawing-room, and i _can't_ throw 'em over now all of a sudden without giving offence. there's the interests of the firm to consider, and it's not for me to take a lower place than i'm given. but it's only for a night or two, and you don't really suppose i wouldn't rather be where you are if i was free to choose--but i'm _not_, emma, that's the worst of it! _phillipson._ well, go back to the drawing-room, then; don't keep lady rhoda waiting for her liniment on my account. i ought to be in my ladies' rooms by this time. only don't be surprised if, whenever you _are_ free to choose, you find you've come back just too late--that's all! [_she turns to leave him._ _spurrell_ (_detaining her_). emma, i won't let you go like this! not before you've told me where i can meet you again here. _phillipson._ there's no place that i know of--except the housekeeper's room; and of course you couldn't descend so low as that.... james, there's somebody coming! let go my hand--do you want to lose me my character! [_steps and voices are heard at the other end of the passage; she frees herself, and escapes._ _spurrell_ (_attempting to follow_). but, emma, stop one---- she's gone!... confound it, there's the butler and a page-boy coming! it's no use staying up here any longer. (_to himself, as he goes downstairs._) it's downright _torture_--that's what it is! to be tied by the leg in the drawing-room, doing the civil to a lot of girls i don't care a blow about; and to know that all the time some blarneying beggar downstairs is doing his best to rob me of my emma! flesh and blood can't stand it; and yet i'm blest if i see any way out of it without offending 'em all round. [_he enters the chinese drawing-room._ _in the chinese drawing-room._ _miss spelwane._ at last, mr. spurrell! we began to think you meant to keep away altogether. has anybody told you _why_ you've been waited for so impatiently? _spurrell_ (_looking round the circle of chairs apprehensively_). no. is it family prayers, or what? er--are they over? _miss spelwane._ no, no; nothing of that sort. can't you _guess_? mr. spurrell, i'm going to be very bold, and ask a great, _great_ favour of you. i don't know why they chose _me_ to represent them; i told lady lullington i was afraid my entreaties would have no weight; but if you only would---- _spurrell_ (_to himself_). they're at it again! how many _more_ of 'em want a pup! (_aloud._) sorry to be disobliging, but---- _miss spelwane_ (_joining her hands in supplication_). not if i _implore_ you? oh, mr. spurrell, i've quite set my heart on hearing you read aloud to us. are you really cruel enough to refuse? _spurrell._ read aloud! is _that_ what you want me to do? but i'm no particular hand at it. i don't know that i've ever read aloud--except a bit out of the paper now and then--since i was a boy at school! _lady cantire._ _what's_ that i hear? mr. spurrell professing incapacity to read aloud? sheer affectation! come, mr. spurrell, i am much mistaken if you are wanting in the power to thrill all hearts here. think of us as instruments ready to respond to your touch. play upon us as you will; but don't be so ungracious as to raise any further obstacles. _spurrell_ (_resignedly_). oh, very well, if i'm required to read, _i'm_ agreeable. [_murmurs of satisfaction._ _lady cantire._ hush, please, everybody! mr. spurrell is going to read. my dear bishop, if you _wouldn't_ mind just---- lord lullington, can you hear where you are? where are you going to sit, mr. spurrell? in the centre will be best. will somebody move that lamp a little, so as to give him more light? _spurrell_ (_to himself, as he sits down_). i wonder what we're supposed to be playing at! (_aloud._) well, what am i to read, eh? _miss spelwane_ (_placing an open copy of_ "andromeda" _in his hands with a charming air of deferential dictation_). you might begin with _this_--such a _dear_ little piece! i'm dying to hear _you_ read it! [illustration: "you might begin with this--such a dear little piece."] _spurrell_ (_as he takes the book_). i'll do the best i can! (_he looks at the page in dismay._) why, look here, it's _poetry_! i didn't bargain for that. poetry's altogether out of my line! [miss spelwane _opens her eyes to their fullest extent, and retires a few paces from him; he begins to read in a perfunctory monotone, with deepening bewilderment and disgust_-- "the sick knight. reach me the helmet from yonder rack, _mistress o' mine! with its plume of white_: now help me upon my destrier's back, _mistress o' mine! though he swerve in fright_. and guide my foot to the stirrup-ledge, _mistress o' mine! it eludes me still_. then fill me a cup as a farewell pledge, _mistress o' mine! for the night air's chill_! haste! with the buckler and pennon'd lance, _mistress o' mine! or ever i feel_ my war-horse plunge in impatient prance, _mistress o' mine! at the prick of heel_. pay scant heed to my pallid hue, _mistress o' mine! for the wan moon's sheen_ doth blazon the gules o' my cheek with blue, _mistress o' mine! or glamour it green_. one last long kiss, ere i seek the fray ... _mistress o' mine! though i quit my sell_, i would meet the foe i' the mad mêlée. _mistress o' mine! an' i were but well!_" (_after the murmur of conventional appreciation has died away._) well, of course, i don't set up for a judge of such things myself, but i must say, if i was asked _my_ opinion--of all the downright tommy-rot i _ever_---- (_the company look at one another with raised eyebrows and dropped underlips; he turns over the leaves backwards until he arrives at the title-page._) i _say_, though, i do call this _rather_ rum! who the dickens is clarion blair? because _i_ never heard of him--and yet it seems he's been writing poetry on my bull-dog! _miss spelwane_ (_faintly_). writing poetry--about your bull-dog! _spurrell._ yes, the one you've all been praising up so. if it isn't meant for her, it's what you might call a most surprising coincidence, for here's the old dog's name as plain as it can be--_andromeda_! [_tableau._ part xviii the last straw _after_ spurrell's _ingenuous comments upon the volume in his hand, a painful silence ensues, which no one has sufficient presence of mind to break for several seconds_. _miss spelwane_ (_to herself_). not clarion blair! not even a poet! i--i could _slap_ him! _pilliner_ (_to himself_). poor dear vivien! but if people will insist on patting a strange poet, they mustn't be surprised if they get a nasty bite! _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). he didn't write _andromeda_! then he hasn't got my letter after all! and i've been such a _brute_ to the poor dear man! _how_ lucky i said nothing about it to gerald! _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). so he _ain't_ the bard!... now i see why maisie's been behavin' so oddly all the evenin'; she spotted him, and didn't like to speak out. tried to give me a hint, though. well, i shall stay out my leave now! _lady rhoda_ (_to herself_). i thought all along he seemed too good a sort for a poet! _archie_ (_to himself_). it's all very well; but how about that skit he went up to write on us? he _must_ be a poet of sorts. _mrs. brooke-chatteris_ (_to herself_). this is fearfully puzzling. what made him say that about "lady grisoline"? _the bishop_ (_to himself_). a crushing blow for the countess; but not unsalutary. i am distinctly conscious of feeling more kindly disposed to that young man. now why? [_he ponders._ _lady lullington_ (_to herself_). i thought this young man was going to read us some more of his poetry; it's too tiresome of him to stop to tell us about his bull-dog. as if anybody cared _what_ he called it! _lord lullington_ (_to himself_). uncommonly awkward, this! if i could catch laura's eye--but i suppose it would hardly be decent to go just yet. _lady culverin_ (_to herself_). can rohesia have known this? what possible object could she have had in---- and oh, dear, _how_ disgusted rupert will be! _sir rupert_ (_to himself_). seems a decent young chap enough! too bad of rohesia to let him in for this. i don't care a straw what he is--he's none the worse for not being a poet. _lady cantire_ (_to herself_). what _is_ he maundering about? it's utterly inconceivable that _i_ should have made any mistake. it's only too clear what the cause is--_claret_! _spurrell_ (_aloud, good-humouredly_). too bad of you to try and spoof me like this before everybody, miss spelwane! i don't know whose idea it was to play me such a trick, but---- _miss spelwane_ (_indistinctly_). please understand that nobody here had the _least_ intention of playing a trick upon you! _spurrell._ well, if you say so, of course---- but it looked rather like it, asking me to read when i've about as much poetry in me as--as a pot hat! still, if i'm _wanted_ to read aloud, i shall be happy to---- _lady culverin_ (_hastily_). indeed, _indeed_, mr. spurrell, we couldn't think of troubling you any more under the circumstances! (_in desperation._) vivien, my dear, won't you _sing_ something? [_the company echo the request with unusual eagerness._ _spurrell_ (_to himself, during_ miss spelwane's _song_). wonder what's put them off being read to all of a sudden? my elocution mayn't be first-class, exactly, but still---- (_as his eye happens to rest on the binding of the volume on his knee._) hullo! this cover's pink, with silver things, not unlike cutlets, on it! didn't emma ask me----? by george, if it's _that_! i may get down to the housekeeper's room, after all! as soon as ever this squalling stops i'll find out; i _can't_ go on like this! (miss spelwane _leaves the piano; everybody plunges feverishly into conversation on the first subject--other than poetry or dogs--that presents itself, until_ lord _and_ lady lullington _set a welcome example of departure_.) better wait till these county nobs have cleared, i suppose--there goes the last of 'em--now for it!... (_he pulls himself together, and approaches his host and hostess._) hem, sir rupert, and your ladyship, it's occurred to me that it's just barely possible you may have got it in your heads that i was something in the _poetical_ way. _sir rupert_ (_to himself_). not this poor young chap's fault; must let him down as easily as possible! (_aloud._) not at all--not at all! ha--assure you we quite understand; no necessity to say another word about it. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). just my luck! they quite understand! no housekeeper's room for me this journey! (_aloud._) of course i knew the countess, there, and lady maisie, were fully aware all along---- (_to_ lady maisie, _as stifled exclamations reach his ear_.) you _were_, weren't you? _lady maisie_ (_hastily_). yes, yes, mr. spurrell. of course! it's all _perfectly_ right! _spurrell_ (_to the others_). you see, i should never have thought of coming in as a visitor if it hadn't been for the countess; she would _have_ it that it was all right, and that i needn't be afraid i shouldn't be welcome. _lady culverin._ to be sure--any friend of my sister-in-law's---- _lady cantire._ albinia, i have refrained from speech as long as possible; but this is really _too_ much! you _don't_ suppose i should have introduced mr. spurrell here unless i had had the strongest reasons for knowing, however he may be pleased to mystify us now, that he, and nobody else, is the author of _andromeda_! and i, for one, absolutely decline to believe in this preposterous story of his about a bull-dog. _spurrell._ but your ladyship must have known! why, you as good as asked me on the way here to put you down for a bull-pup! _lady cantire._ never, never! a bull-pup is the last creature i should ever dream of coveting. you were obliging enough to ask me to accept a presentation copy of your verses. _spurrell._ was i? i don't exactly see how i _could_ have been, considering i never made a rhyme in my life! _sir rupert._ there, there, rohesia, it was _your_ mistake; but as we are indebted to it for the pleasure of making mr. spurrell's acquaintance---- _lady cantire._ i am not in the habit of making mistakes, rupert. i don't know what you and albinia and maisie may know that i am in ignorance of, but, since you seem to have been aware from the first that mr. spurrell was not the poet you had invited here to meet me, will you kindly explain what has become of the _real_ author? _sir rupert._ my dear rohesia, i don't know and i don't _care_! _lady cantire._ there you are _wrong_, rupert, because it's obvious that if he is not mr. spurrell, the real poet's absence has to be accounted for in _some_ way. _spurrell._ by jove, i believe i can put you on the track. i shouldn't wonder if he's the party these dress clothes of mine belong to! i dare say you may have noticed they don't look as if they were made for me? _lady cantire_ (_closing her eyes_). pray let us avoid any sartorial questions! we are waiting to hear about this person. _spurrell._ well, i found i'd got on his things by mistake, and i went up as soon as i could after dessert to my room to take 'em off, and there he was, with a waste-paper basket on his head---- _lady cantire._ a waste-paper basket on his head! and pray what should he have _that_ for? _spurrell._ i'm no wiser than your ladyship _there_. all _i_ know is he said he wouldn't take it off till he saw me. and i never saw any one in such a mess with ink and flour as he was! _lady cantire._ ink and flour, indeed! this rigmarole gets more ridiculous every moment! you can't seriously expect any one here to believe it! [archie _discreetly retires to the smoking-room_. _spurrell._ well, i rather think somebody must have fixed up a booby-trap for _me_, you know, and he happened to go in first and get the benefit of it. and he was riled, very naturally, thinking _i_'d done it, but after we'd had a little talk together, he calmed down and said i might keep his clothes, which i thought uncommonly good-natured of him, you know. by the way, he gave me his card. here it is, if your ladyship would like to see it. [_he hands it to_ lady culverin. _lady culverin._ "mr. undershell!"... rohesia, that _is_ clarion blair! i knew it was _something_ ending in "ell." (_to_ spurrell.) and you say mr. undershell is here--in this house? _spurrell._ not now. he's gone by this time. _the others_ (_in dismay_). gone! _spurrell._ he said he was leaving at once. if he'd only told me how it was, i'd have---- _lady cantire._ i don't believe a single word of all this! if mr. spurrell is not clarion blair, let him explain how he came to be coming down to wyvern this afternoon! _spurrell._ if your ladyship doesn't really know, you had better ask sir rupert; _he'll_ tell you it's all right. _lady cantire._ then perhaps _you_ will be good enough to enlighten us, rupert? _sir rupert_ (_driven into a corner_). why, 'pon my word, i'm bound to say that i'm just as much in the dark as anybody else, if it comes to that! _spurrell_ (_eagerly_). but you wired me to come, sir! about a horse of yours! i've been wondering all the evening when you'd tell me i could go round and have a look at him. i'm here instead of mr. spavin--_now_ do you understand, sir rupert? i'm the vet. [_suppressed sensation._ _sir rupert_ (_to himself_). this is devilish awkward! don't quite know what to do. (_aloud._) to--to be sure you are! of course! that's it, rohesia! mr. spurrell came down to see a horse, and we shall be very glad to have the benefit of his opinion by and bye. [_he claps him amicably on the shoulder._ _lady cantire_ (_in a sepulchral tone_). albinia, i think i will go to bed. [_she withdraws._ [illustration: "albinia, i think i will go to bed."] _sir rupert_ (_to himself_). there'll be no harm in letting him stay, now he _is_ here. if rohesia objects, she's got nobody but herself to blame for it! _spurrell_ (_to himself_). they won't want to keep me upstairs much longer after this! (tredwell _enters, and seems to have something of importance to communicate to_ sir rupert _in private_.) i wonder what the dooce is up _now_! [_partial reaction in company._ part xix unearned increment _sir rupert_ (_to_ tredwell). well, what is it? _tredwell_ (_in an undertone_). with reference to the party, sir rupert, as represents himself to have come down to see the 'orse, i---- _sir rupert_ (_aloud_). you mean mr. spurrell? it's all right. mr. spurrell will see the horse to-morrow. (tredwell _disguises his utter bewilderment_.) by the way, we expected a mr. ---- what did you say the name was, my dear?... undershell? to be sure, a mr. undershell, to have been here in time for dinner. do you know why he has been unable to come before this? _tredwell_ (_to himself_). do i know? oh, lor! (_aloud._) i--i believe he _have_ arrived, sir rupert. _sir rupert._ so i understand from mr. spurrell. is he here still? _tredwell._ he is, sir rupert. i--i considered it my dooty not to allow him to leave the house, not feeling---- _sir rupert._ quite right, tredwell. i should have been most seriously annoyed if i had found that a guest we were all anxiously expecting had left the court, owing to some fancied---- where is he now? _tredwell_ (_faintly_). in--in the verney chamber. leastways---- _sir rupert._ ah. (_he glances at_ spurrell.) then where----? but that can be arranged. go up and explain to mr. undershell that we have only this moment heard of his arrival; say we understand that he has been obliged to come by a later train, and that we shall be delighted to see him, just as he is. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). he was worth looking at just as he _was_, when _i_ saw him! _pilliner_ (_to himself_). by a later train? then, how the deuce did his clothes----? oh, well, however it was, it don't concern _me_. _tredwell._ very good, sir rupert. (_to himself, as he departs._) if i'm not precious careful over this job, it may cost me my situation! _spurrell._ sir rupert, i've been thinking that, after what's occurred, it would probably be more satisfactory to all parties if i shifted my quarters, and--took my meals in the housekeeper's room. [lady maisie _and_ lady rhoda _utter inarticulate protests_. _sir rupert._ my _dear_ sir, not on any account--couldn't _hear_ of it! my wife, i'm sure, will say the same. _lady culverin_ (_with an effort_). i hope mr. spurrell will continue to be our guest precisely as before--that is, if he will forgive us for putting him into another room. _spurrell_ (_to himself_). it's no use; i _can't_ get rid of 'em; they stick to me like a lot of blooming burrs! (_aloud, in despair._) your ladyship is very good, but---- well, the fact is, i've only just found out that a young lady i've long been deeply attached to is in this very house. she's a miss emma phillipson--maid, so i understand, to lady maisie--and, without for one moment wishing to draw any comparisons, or to seem ungrateful for all the friendliness i've received, i really and truly would feel myself more comfortable in a circle where i could enjoy rather more of my emma's society than i can here! _sir rupert_ (_immensely relieved_). perfectly natural! and--hum--sorry as we are to lose you, mr. spurrell, we--ah--mustn't be inconsiderate enough to keep you here a moment longer. i've no doubt you will find the young lady in the housekeeper's room--any one will tell you where it is.... good night to you, then; and, remember, we shall expect to see you in the field on tuesday. _lady maisie._ good night, mr. spurrell, and--and i'm so very glad--about emma, you know. i hope you will both be very happy. [_she shakes hands warmly._ [illustration: "i'm so very glad--about emma, you know."] _lady rhoda._ so do i. and mind you don't forget about that liniment, you know. _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). maisie don't care a hang! and i was ass enough to fancy---- but there, that's all over now! _in the verney chamber._ _undershell_ (_in the dressing-room, to himself_). i wonder how long i've been locked up here--it seems hours! i almost hope they've forgotten me altogether.... some one has come in.... if it should be sir rupert!! great heavens, what a situation to be found in by one's host!... perhaps it's only that fellow spurrell; if so, there's a chance. (_the door is unlocked by_ tredwell, _who has lighted the candles on the dressing table_.) it's the butler again. well, i shall soon know the worst! (_he steps out, blinking, with as much dignity as possible._) perhaps you will kindly inform me why i have been subjected to this indignity? _tredwell_ (_in perturbation_). i think, mr. undershell, sir, in common fairness, you'll admit as you've mainly yourself to thank for any mistakes that have occurred; for which i 'asten to express my pussonal regret. _undershell._ so long as you realise that you have made a mistake, i am willing to overlook it, on condition that you help me to get away from this place without your master and mistress's knowledge. _tredwell._ it's too late, sir. they know you're 'ere! _undershell._ they know! then there's no time to be lost. i must leave this moment! _tredwell._ no, sir, excuse me; but you can't hardly do that _now_. i was to say that sir rupert and the ladies would be glad to see you in the droring-room himmediate. _undershell._ man alive! do you imagine anything would induce me to meet them now, after the humiliations i have been compelled to suffer under this roof? _tredwell._ if you would prefer anything that has taken place in the room, sir, or in the stables to be 'ushed up---- _undershell._ prefer it! if it were only possible! but they know--they _know_! what's the use of talking like that? _tredwell_ (_to himself_). i know where i am now! (_aloud._) they know nothink up to the present, mr. undershell, nor yet i see no occasion why they should--leastwise from any of _us_. _undershell._ but they know i'm here; how am i to account for all the time----? _tredwell._ excuse me, sir. i thought of that, and it occurred to me as it might be more agreeable to your feelings, sir, if i conveyed an impression that you had only just arrived--'aving missed your train, sir. _undershell_ (_overjoyed_). how am i to thank you? that was really most discreet of you--most considerate! _tredwell._ i am truly rejoiced to hear you say so, sir. and i'll take care nothing leaks out. and if you'll be kind enough to follow me to the droring-room, the ladies are waiting to see you. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i may actually meet lady maisie mull after all! (_aloud, recollecting his condition._) but i can't go down like this. i'm in such a horrible mess! _tredwell._ i reelly don't perceive it, sir; except a little white on your coat-collar behind. allow me--there it's off now. (_he gives him a hand-glass_) if you'd like to see for yourself. _undershell_ (_to himself as he looks_). a slight pallor, that's all. i am more presentable than i could have hoped. (_aloud._) have the kindness to take me to lady culverin at once. _in the chinese drawing-room. a few minutes later._ _sir rupert_ (_to_ undershell, _after the introductions have been gone through_). and so you missed the . and had to come on by the . which stops everywhere, eh? _undershell._ it--it certainly does stop at most stations. _sir rupert._ and how did you get on to wyvern--been here long? _undershell._ n--not _particularly_ long. _sir rupert._ fact is, you see, we made a mistake. very ridiculous, but we've been taking that young fellow, mr. spurrell, for _you_ all this time; so we never thought of inquiring whether you'd come or not. it was only just now he told us how he'd met you in the verney chamber, and the very handsome way, if you will allow me to say so, in which you had tried to efface yourself. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i didn't expect him to take _that_ view of it! (_aloud._) i--i felt i had no alternative. [lady maisie _regards him with admiration_. _sir rupert._ you did an uncommon fine thing, sir, and i'm afraid you received treatment on your arrival which you had every right to resent. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i hoped he didn't know about the housekeeper's room! (_aloud._) please say no more about it, sir rupert. i know now that you were entirely innocent of any---- _sir rupert_ (_horrified_). good gad! you didn't suppose _i_ had any hand in fixing up that booby-trap, or whatever it was, did you? young fellows will get bear-fighting and playing idiotic tricks on one another, and you seem to have been the victim--that's how it was. have you had anything to eat since you came? if not---- _undershell_ (_hastily_). thank you, i--i _have_ dined. (_to himself._) so he _doesn't_ know where, after all! i will spare him _that_. _sir rupert._ got some food at shuntingbridge, eh? afraid they gave you a wretched dinner? _undershell._ quite the reverse, i assure you. (_to himself._) considering that it came from his own table! _pilliner_ (_to himself_). i _still_ don't understand how his clothes---- (_aloud._) did you send your portmanteau on ahead, then, or what? _undershell_ (_blankly_). send my port--? i don't understand. _pilliner._ oh, i only asked, because the other man said he was wearing your things. _sir rupert_ (_as_ undershell _remains speechless_). i see how it was--perfectly simple--rush for the train--porter put your luggage in--you got left behind, wasn't that it? _undershell._ i--i certainly _did_ get separated from my portmanteau, somehow, and i suppose it must have arrived before me. (_to himself._) considering the pace of the fly-horse, i think i am justified in assuming _that_! _pilliner_ (_to himself_). ass i was not to hold my tongue! _lady maisie_ (_in an undertone, to_ captain thicknesse). gerald, you remember what i said some time ago--about poetry and poets? _captain thicknesse._ perfectly. and i thought you were quite right. _lady maisie._ i was quite _wrong_. i didn't know what i was talking about. i do now. good night. (_she crosses to_ undershell.) good night, mr. blair, i'm so very glad we have met--at last! [_she goes._ _undershell_ (_to himself, rapturously_). she's _not_ freckled; she's not even sandy. she's lovely! and, by some unhoped-for good fortune, all this has only raised me in her eyes. i am more than compensated! _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). i may just as well get back to aldershot to-morrow--_now_. i'll go and prepare lady c.'s mind, in case. it's hard luck; just when everything seemed goin' right! i'd give somethin' to have the other bard back, i know. it's no earthly use my tryin' to stand against _this_ one! part xx different persons have different opinions lady maisie's _room at wyvern_. time--_saturday night, about_ . . _lady maisie_ (_to_ phillipson, _who is brushing her hair_). you are _sure_ mamma isn't expecting me? (_irresolutely._) perhaps i had better just run in and say good night. _phillipson._ i wouldn't recommend it, really, my lady; her ladyship seems a little upset in her nerves this evening. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). _il-y-a de quoi!_ (_aloud, relieved._) it might only disturb her, certainly.... i hope they are making you comfortable here, phillipson? _phillipson._ very much so indeed, thank you, my lady. the tone of the room downstairs is _most_ superior. _lady maisie._ _that's_ satisfactory. and i hear you have met an old admirer of yours here--mr. spurrell, i mean. _phillipson._ we _did_ happen to encounter each other in one of the galleries, my lady, just for a minute; though i shouldn't have expected _him_ to allude to it! _lady maisie._ indeed! and why not? _phillipson._ mr. james spurrell appears to have elevated himself to a very different sphere from what he occupied when _i_ used to know him, my lady; though how and why he comes to be where he is, i don't rightly understand myself at present. _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). and no wonder! i feel horribly guilty! (_aloud._) you mustn't blame poor mr. spurrell, phillipson; _he_ couldn't help it! _phillipson_ (_with studied indifference_). i'm not blaming him, my lady. if he prefers the society of his superiors to mine, he's very welcome to do so; there's others only too willing to take his place! _lady maisie._ surely none who would be as fond of you or make so good a husband, phillipson! _phillipson._ that's as maybe, my lady. there was one young man that travelled down in the same compartment, and sat next me at supper in the room. i could see he took a great fancy to me from the first, and his attentions were really quite pointed. i am sure i couldn't bring myself to repeat his remarks, they were so flattering! _lady maisie._ don't you think you will be rather a foolish girl if you allow a few idle compliments from a stranger to outweigh such an attachment as mr. spurrell seems to have for you? _phillipson._ if _he_'s found new friends, my lady, i consider myself free to act similarly. _lady maisie._ then you don't know? he told us quite frankly this evening that he had only just discovered you were here, and would much prefer to be where you were. he went down to the housekeeper's room on purpose. _phillipson_ (_moved_). it's the first i've heard of it, my lady. it must have been after i came up. if i'd only known he'd behave like _that_! _lady maisie_ (_instructively_). you see how loyal he is to _you_. and now, i suppose, he will find he has been supplanted by this new acquaintance--some smooth-tongued, good-for-nothing valet, i dare say? _phillipson_ (_injured_). oh, my lady, indeed he wasn't a _man_! but there was nothing serious between us--at least, on _my_ side--though he certainly did go on in a very sentimental way himself. however, he's left the court by now, that's _one_ comfort! (_to herself._) i wish now i'd said nothing about him to jem. if he was to get asking questions downstairs---- he always _was_ given to jealousy--reason or none! [_a tap is heard at the door._ _lady rhoda_ (_outside_). maisie, may i come in? if you've done your hair, and sent away your maid. (_she enters._) ah, i see you haven't. _lady maisie._ don't run away, rhoda; my maid has just done. you can go now, phillipson. _lady rhoda_ (_to herself, as she sits down_). phillipson! so _that's_ the young woman that funny vet man prefers to _us_! h'm, can't say i feel flattered! _phillipson_ (_to herself, as she leaves the room_). this must be the lady rhoda, who was making up to my jem! he wouldn't have anything to say to her, though; and, now i see her, i am not surprised at it! [_she goes. a pause._ _lady rhoda_ (_crossing her feet on the fender_). well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', _can_ we? [illustration: "well, we can't complain of havin' had a dull evenin', can we?"] _lady maisie_ (_taking a hand-screen from the mantelshelf_). not altogether. has--anything fresh happened since i left? _lady rhoda._ nothing particular. archie apologised to this new man in the billiard-room. for the booby trap. we all told him he'd _got_ to. and mr. carrion bear, or blundershell, or whatever he calls himself--_you_ know--was so awf'lly gracious and condescendin' that i really thought poor dear old archie would have wound up his apology by punchin' his head for him. strikes me, maisie, that mop-headed minstrel boy is a decided change for the worse. doesn't it you? _lady maisie_ (_toying with the screen_). how do you _mean_, rhoda? _lady rhoda._ i meantersay i call mr. spurrell---- well, he's real, anyway--he's a _man_, don't you know. as for the other, so _feeble_ of him missin' his train like he did, and turnin' up too late for everything! now, _wasn't_ it? _lady maisie._ poets _are_ dreamy and unpractical and unpunctual--it's their nature. _lady rhoda._ then they should stay at home. just see what a hopeless muddle he's got us all into! i declare i feel as if anybody might turn into somebody else on the smallest provocation after this. i _know_ poor vivien spelwane will be worryin' her pillows like rats most of the night, and i rather fancy it will be a close time for poets with your dear mother, maisie, for some time to come. all this silly little man's fault! _lady maisie._ no, rhoda. not his--_ours_. mine and mamma's. we ought to have felt from the first that there _must_ be some mistake, that poor mr. spurrell couldn't _possibly_ be a poet! i don't know, though--people generally _are_ unlike what you'd expect from their books. i believe they do it on purpose! not that that applies to mr. blair; he _is_ one's idea of what a poet should be. if he hadn't arrived when he did, i don't think i could ever have borne to read another line of poetry as long as i lived! _lady rhoda._ i _say_! do you call him as good-lookin' as all _that_? _lady maisie._ i was not thinking about his looks, rhoda--it's his _conduct_ that's so splendid. _lady rhoda._ his conduct? don't see anything splendid in missin' a train. i could do it myself if i tried. _lady maisie._ well, i wish i could think there were many men capable of acting so nobly and generously as he did. _lady rhoda._ as how? _lady maisie._ you really don't see! well, then, you _shall_. he arrives late, and finds that somebody else is here already in his character. he makes no fuss; manages to get a private interview with the person who is passing as himself; when, of course, he soon discovers that poor mr. spurrell is as much deceived as anybody else. what is he to do? humiliate the unfortunate man by letting him know the truth? mortify my uncle and aunt by a public explanation before a whole dinner-party? that is what a stupid or a selfish man might have done, almost without thinking. but not mr. blair. he has too much tact, too much imagination, too much chivalry for that. he saw at once that his only course was to spare his host and hostess, and--and all of us a scene, by slipping away quietly and unostentatiously, as he had come. _lady rhoda_ (_yawning_). if he saw all that, why didn't he _do_ it? _lady maisie_ (_indignantly_). why? how provoking you can be, rhoda! _why?_ because that stupid tredwell wouldn't let him! because archie delayed him by some idiotic practical joke! because mr. spurrell went and blurted it all out!... oh, don't try to run down a really fine act like that; because you can't--you simply _can't_! _lady rhoda_ (_after a low whistle_). no idea it had gone so far as that--already! _now_ i begin to see why gerry thicknesse has been lookin' as if he'd sat on his best hat, and why he told your aunt he might have to be off to-morrow; which is all stuff, because i happen to know his leave ain't up for two or three days yet. but he sees this troubadour has put his poor old nose out of joint for him. _lady maisie_ (_flushing_). now, rhoda, i won't have you talking as if--as if---- _you_ ought to know, if gerald thicknesse doesn't, that it's nothing at all of that sort! it's just---- oh, i can't _tell_ you how some of his poems moved me, what new ideas, wider views they seemed to teach; and then how _dreadfully_ it hurt to think it was only mr. spurrell after all!... but _now_--oh, the _relief_ of finding they're not spoilt; that i can still admire, still look up to the man who wrote them! not to have to feel that he is quite commonplace--not even a gentleman--in the ordinary sense! _lady rhoda_ (_rising_). ah well, i prefer a hero who looks as if he had his hair cut, occasionally--but then, i'm not romantic. he may be the paragon you say; but if i was you, my dear, i wouldn't expect too much of that young man--allow a margin for shrinkage, don't you know. and now i think i'll turn into my little crib, for i'm dead tired. good night; don't sit up late readin' poetry; it's my opinion you've read quite enough as it is! [_she goes._ _lady maisie_ (_alone, as she gazes dreamily into the fire_). she doesn't in the _least_ understand! she actually suspects me of---- as if i could possibly--or as if mamma would ever--even if _he_---- oh, how _silly_ i am!... i don't care! i _am_ glad i haven't had to give up my ideal. i _should_ like to know him better. what harm is there in that? and if gerald chooses to go to-morrow, he must--that's all. he isn't nearly so nice as he used to be; and he has even _less_ imagination than ever! i don't think i _could_ care for anybody so absolutely matter-of-fact. and yet, only an hour ago i almost---- but that was _before_! part xxi the feelings of a mother. _in the morning room._ time--_sunday morning; just after breakfast._ _captain thicknesse_ (_outside, to_ tredwell). dogcart round, eh? everything in? all right--shan't be a minute. (_entering._) hallo, pilliner, you all alone here? (_he looks round disconcertedly._) don't happen to have seen lady maisie about? _pilliner._ let me see--she _was_ here a little while ago, i fancy.... why? do you want her? _captain thicknesse._ no--only to say good-bye and that. i'm just off. _pilliner._ off? to-day! you don't mean to tell me your chief is such an inconsiderate old ruffian as to expect you to travel back to your tommies on the sabbath! you could wait till to-morrow if you _wanted_ to. come now! _captain thicknesse._ perhaps--only, you see, i _don't_ want to. _pilliner._ well, tastes differ. i shouldn't call a cross-country journey in a slow train, with unlimited opportunities of studying the company's bye-laws and traffic arrangements at several admirably ventilated junctions, the ideal method of spending a cheery sunday, myself, that's all. _captain thicknesse_ (_gloomily_). dare say it will be about as cheery as stoppin' on here, if it comes to that. _pilliner._ i admit we were most of us a wee bit chippy at breakfast. the bard conversed--i will say _that_ for him--but he seemed to diffuse a gloom somehow. shut you up once or twice in a manner that might almost be described as damned offensive. _captain thicknesse._ don't know what you all saw in what he said that was so amusin'. confounded rude _i_ thought it! _pilliner._ don't think anyone _was_ amused--unless it was lady maisie. by the way, he might perhaps have selected a happier topic to hold forth to sir rupert on than the scandalous indifference of large landowners to the condition of the rural labourer. poor dear old boy, he stood it wonderfully, considering. pity lady cantire breakfasted upstairs; she'd have enjoyed herself. however, he had a very good audience in little lady maisie. _captain thicknesse._ i do hate a chap that jaws at breakfast.... _where_ did you say she was? _lady maisie's voice_ (_outside, in conservatory_). yes, you really ought to see the orangery and the elizabethan garden, mr. blair. if you will be on the terrace in about five minutes, i could take you round myself. i must go and see if i can get the keys first. _pilliner._ if you want to say good-bye, old fellow, now's your chance! _captain thicknesse._ it--it don't matter. she's engaged. and, look here, you needn't mention that i was askin' for her. _pilliner._ of course, old fellow, if you'd rather not. (_he glances at him._) but i say, my dear old chap, if _that's_ how it is with you, i don't quite see the sense of chucking it up _already_, don't you know. no earthly affair of mine, i know; still, if i _could_ manage to stay on, i would, if i were _you_. _captain thicknesse._ hang it all, pilliner, do you suppose _i_ don't know when the game's up! if it was any _good_ stayin' on---- and besides, i've said good-bye to lady c., and all that. no, it's too late now. _tredwell_ (_at the door_). excuse me, sir, but if you're going by the . , you haven't any too much time. _pilliner_ (_to himself after_ captain thicknesse _has hurried out_). poor old chap, he does seem hard hit! pity he's not lady maisie's sort. though what she can see in that long-haired beggar----! wonder when vivien spelwane intends to come down; never knew her miss breakfast before.... what's that rustling?... women! i'll be off, or they'll nail me for church before i know it. [_he disappears hastily in the direction of the smoking-room as_ lady cantire and mrs. chatteris _enter_. [illustration: "i'll be off, or they'll nail me for church before i know it."] _lady cantire._ nonsense, my dear, no walk at all; the church is only just across the park. my brother rupert always goes, and it pleases him to see the wyvern pew as full as possible. i seldom feel equal to going myself, because i find the necessity of allowing pulpit inaccuracies to pass without a protest gets too much on my nerves; but my daughter will accompany you. you'll have just time to run up and get your things on. _mrs. chatteris_ (_with arch significance_). i don't _fancy_ i shall have the pleasure of your daughter's society this morning. i just met her going to get the garden keys; i think she has promised to show the grounds to---- well, i needn't mention _whom_. oh dear me, i hope i'm not being indiscreet _again_! _lady cantire._ i make a point of never interfering with my daughter's proceedings, and you can easily understand how natural it is that such old friends as they have always been---- _mrs. chatteris._ really? i _thought_ they seemed to take a great pleasure in one another's society. it's quite romantic. but i must rush up and get my bonnet on if i'm to go to church. (_to herself, as she goes out._) so she _was_ "lady grisoline," after all! if i was her mother---- but dear lady cantire is so advanced about things. _lady cantire_ (_to herself_). darling maisie! he'll be lord dunderhead before very long. how sensible and sweet of her! and i was quite uneasy about them last night at dinner; they scarcely seemed to be talking to each other at all. but there's a great deal more in dear maisie than one would imagine. _sir rupert_ (_outside_). we're rather proud of our church, mr. undershell--fine old monuments and brasses, if you care about that sort of thing. some of us will be walking over to service presently, if you would like to---- _undershell_ (_outside--to himself_). and lose my _tête-à-tête_ with lady maisie! not exactly! (_aloud._) i am afraid, sir rupert, that i cannot conscientiously---- _sir rupert_ (_hastily_). oh, very well, very well; do exactly as you like about it, of course. i only thought---- (_to himself._) now, that _other_ young chap would have gone! _lady cantire._ rupert, who is that you are talking to out there? i don't recognise his voice, somehow. _sir rupert_ (_entering with_ undershell). ha, rohesia, you've come down, then? slept well, i hope. i was talking to a gentleman whose acquaintance i know you will be very happy to make--at last. this is the genuine celebrity _this_ time. (_to_ undershell.) let me make you known to my sister, lady cantire, mr. undershell. (_as_ lady cantire _glares interrogatively_.) mr. clarion blair, rohesia, author of hum--ha--_andromache_. _lady cantire._ i thought we were given to understand last night that mr. spurrell--mr. blair--you must pardon me, but it's really so very confusing--that the writer of the--ah--volume in question had already left wyvern. _sir rupert._ well, my dear, you see he is still here--er--fortunately for us. if you'll excuse me, i'll leave mr. blair to entertain you; got to speak to adams about something. [_he hurries out._ _undershell_ (_to himself_). this must be lady maisie's mamma. better be civil to her, i suppose; but i can't stay here and entertain her long! (_aloud._) lady cantire, i--er--have an appointment for which i am already a little late; but before i go, i should like to tell you how much pleasure it has given me to know that my poor verse has won your approval; appreciation from---- _lady cantire._ i'm afraid you must have been misinformed, mr.--a--blair. there are so many serious publications claiming attention in these days of literary over-production that i have long made it a rule to read no literature of a lighter order that has not been before the world for at least ten years. i may be mistaken, but i infer from your appearance that your own work must be of a considerably more recent date. _undershell_ (_to himself_). if she imagines she's going to snub me----! (_aloud._) then i was evidently mistaken in gathering from some expressions in your daughter's letter that---- _lady cantire._ entirely. you are probably thinking of some totally different person, as my daughter has never mentioned having written to you, and is not in the habit of conducting _any_ correspondence without my full knowledge and approval. i think you said you had some appointment; if so, pray don't consider yourself under any necessity to remain here. _undershell._ you are very good; i will not. (_to himself, as he retires._) awful old lady, that! i quite thought she would know all about that letter, or i should never have---- however, i said nothing to compromise any one, luckily! _lady culverin_ (_entering_). good morning, rohesia. so glad you felt equal to coming down. i was almost afraid--after _last night_, you know. _lady cantire_ (_offering a cold cheekbone for salutation_). i am in my usual health, thank you, albinia. as to last night, if you _must_ ask a literary socialist down here, you might at least see that he is received with common courtesy. you may, for anything _you_ can tell, have advanced the social revolution ten years in a single evening! _lady culverin._ my _dear_ rohesia! if you remember, it was you yourself who----! _lady cantire_ (_closing her eyes_). i am in no condition to _argue_ about it, albinia. the slightest exercise of your own common sense would have shown you---- but there, no great harm has been done, fortunately, so let us say no more about it. i have something more agreeable to talk about. i've every reason to hope that maisie and dear gerald thicknesse---- _lady culverin_ (_astonished_). maisie? but i thought gerald thicknesse spoke as if----! _lady cantire._ very possibly, my dear. i have always refrained from giving him the slightest encouragement, and i wouldn't put any pressure upon dear maisie for the world--still, i have my feelings as a mother, and i can't deny that, with such prospects as he has now, it _is_ gratifying for me to think that they may be coming to an understanding together at this very moment. she is showing him the grounds; which i always think are the great charm of wyvern, so _secluded_! _lady culverin_ (_puzzled_). together! at this very moment! but--but surely gerald has _gone_? _lady cantire._ gone! what nonsense, albinia! where in the world should he have gone to? _lady culverin._ he _was_ leaving by the . , i know. for aldershot. i ordered the cart for him, and he said good-bye after breakfast. he seemed so dreadfully down, poor fellow, and i quite concluded from what he said that maisie must have---- _lady cantire._ impossible, my dear, quite impossible! i tell you he is _here_. why, only a few minutes ago, mrs. chatteris was telling me---- ah, here she is to speak for herself. (_to_ mrs. chatteris, _who appears, arrayed for divine service_.) mrs. chatteris, did i, or did i _not_, understand you to say just now that my daughter maisie----? _mrs. chatteris_ (_alarmed_). but, _dear_ lady cantire, i had no idea you would disapprove. indeed you seemed---- and really, though she certainly seems to find him rather well--_sympathetic_--i'm sure--_almost_ sure--there can be nothing serious--at present. _lady cantire._ thank you, my dear, i merely wished for an answer to my question. and you see, albinia, that gerald thicknesse can hardly have gone yet, since he is walking about the grounds with maisie. _mrs. chatteris._ captain thicknesse? but he _has_ gone, lady cantire! i saw him start. i didn't mean _him_. _lady cantire._ indeed? then i shall be obliged if you will say who it is you _did_ mean. _mrs. chatteris._ why, only her old friend and admirer--that little poet man, mr. blair. _lady cantire_ (_to herself_). and i actually _sent_ him to her! (_rising in majestic wrath._) albinia, whatever comes of this, remember i shall hold _you_ entirely responsible! [_she sweeps out of the room; the other two ladies look after her, and then at one another, in silent consternation._ part xxii a descent from the clouds _in the elizabethan garden._ lady maisie _and_ undershell _are on a seat in the yew walk_. time--_about_ a.m. _lady maisie_ (_softly_). and you really meant to go away, and never let one of us know what had happened to you! _undershell_ (_to himself_). how easy it is after all to be a hero! (_aloud._) that certainly _was_ my intention, only i was--er--not permitted to carry it out. i trust you don't consider i should have been to blame? _lady maisie_ (_with shining eyes_). to _blame_? mr. blair! as if i could possibly do that! (_to herself._) he doesn't even see _how_ splendid it was of him! _undershell_ (_to himself_). i begin to believe that i can do _no_ wrong in her eyes! (_aloud._) it was not altogether easy, believe me, to leave without even having seen your face; but i felt so strongly that it was better so. _lady maisie_ (_looking down_). and--do you still feel that? _undershell._ i must confess that i am well content to have failed. it was such unspeakable torture to think that you, lady maisie, _you_ of all people, would derive your sole idea of my personality from such an irredeemable vulgarian as that veterinary surgeon--the man spurrell! _lady maisie_ (_to herself, with an almost imperceptible start_). i suppose it's only natural he should feel like that--but i wish--i _do_ wish he had put it just a little differently! (_aloud._) poor mr. spurrell! perhaps he was not exactly---- _undershell._ not _exactly_! i assure you it is simply inconceivable to me that, in a circle of any pretensions to culture and refinement, an ill-bred boor like that could have been accepted for a single moment as--i won't say a man of _genius_, but---- _lady maisie_ (_the light dying out of her eyes_). no, _don't_--don't go on, mr. blair. we were all excessively stupid, no doubt, but you must make allowances for us--for _me_, especially. i have had so few opportunities of meeting people who are really distinguished--in literature, at least. most of the people i know best are--well, not exactly _clever_, you know. i so often wish i was in a set that cared rather more about intellectual things! _undershell_ (_with infinite pity_). how you must have pined for freer air! how you must have starved on such mental provender as, for example, the vapid and inane commonplaces of that swaggering carpet-soldier, captain--thickset, isn't it? _lady maisie_ (_drawing back into her corner_). you evidently don't know that captain thicknesse distinguished himself greatly in the soudan, where he was very severely wounded. _undershell._ possibly; but that is scarcely to the point. i do not question his efficiency as a fighting animal. as to his intelligence, perhaps, the less said the better. _lady maisie_ (_contracting her brows_). decidedly. i ought to have mentioned at once that captain thicknesse is a very old friend of mine. _undershell._ really? _he_, at least, may be congratulated. but pray don't think that i spoke with any personal animus; i merely happen to entertain a peculiar aversion for a class whose profession is systematic slaughter. in these democratic times, when humanity is advancing by leaps and bounds towards international solidarity, soldiers are such grotesque and unnecessary anachronisms. _lady maisie_ (_to herself, with a little shiver_). oh, why does he--why _does_ he? (_aloud._) i should have thought that, until war itself is an anachronism, men who are willing to fight and die for their country could never be quite unnecessary. but we won't discuss captain thicknesse, particularly now that he has left wyvern. suppose we go back to mr. spurrell. i know, of course, that, in leaving him in ignorance as you did, you acted from the best and highest motives; but still---- _undershell._ it is refreshing to be so thoroughly understood! i think i know what your "but still" implies--why did i not foresee that he would infallibly betray himself before long? i _did_. but i gave him credit for being able to sustain his part for another hour or two--until i had gone, in fact. _lady maisie._ then you didn't wish to spare _his_ feelings as well as ours? _undershell._ to be quite frank, i didn't trouble myself about him: my sole object was to retreat with dignity; he had got himself somehow or other into a false position he must get out of as best he could. after all, he would be none the worse for having filled _my_ place for a few hours. _lady maisie_ (_slowly_). i see. it didn't matter to you whether he was suspected of being an impostor, or made to feel uncomfortable, or--or anything. wasn't that a little unfeeling of you? _undershell._ unfeeling! i allowed him to keep my evening clothes, which is more than a good many---- _lady maisie._ at all events, he may have had to pay more heavily than you imagine. i wonder whether---- but i suppose anything so unromantic as the love affairs of a veterinary surgeon would have no interest for you? _undershell._ why not, lady maisie? to the student of humanity, and still more to the poet, the humblest love-story may have its interesting--even its suggestive--aspect. _lady maisie._ well, i may tell you that it seems mr. spurrell has long been attached, if not actually engaged, to a maid of mine. _undershell_ (_startled out of his self-possession_). you--you don't mean to miss phillipson? _lady maisie._ that _is_ her name. how very odd that you---- but perhaps mr. spurrell mentioned it to you last night? _undershell_ (_recovering his sangfroid_). i am hardly likely to have heard of it from any other quarter. _lady maisie._ of course not. and did he tell you that she was here, in this very house? _undershell._ no, he never mentioned _that_. what a remarkable coincidence! _lady maisie._ yes, rather. the worst of it is that the foolish girl seems to have heard that he was a guest here, and have jumped to the conclusion that he had ceased to care for her; so she revenged herself by a desperate flirtation with some worthless wretch she met in the housekeeper's room, whose flattery and admiration, i'm very much afraid, have completely turned her head! _undershell_ (_uncomfortably_). ah, well, she must learn to forget him, and no doubt, in time---- how wonderful the pale sunlight is on that yew hedge! _lady maisie._ you are not very sympathetic! i should not have told you at all, only i wanted to show you that if poor mr. spurrell _did_ innocently usurp your place, he may have lost---- but i see all this only bores you. _undershell._ candidly, lady maisie, i can't affect a very keen interest in the--er--gossip of the housekeeper's room. indeed, i am rather surprised that _you_ should condescend to listen to---- _lady maisie_ (_to herself_). this is really _too_ much! (_aloud._) it never occurred to me that i was "condescending" in taking an interest in a pretty and wayward girl who happens to be my maid. but then, i'm not a democrat, mr. blair. _undershell._ i--i'm afraid you construed my remark as a rebuke; which it was not at all intended to be. _lady maisie._ it would have been rather superfluous if it had been, wouldn't it? (_observing his growing uneasiness._) i'm afraid you don't find this bench quite comfortable? _undershell._ i--er--moderately so. (_to himself._) there's a female figure coming down the terrace steps. it's horribly like---- but that must be my morbid fancy; still, if i can get lady maisie away, just in case---- (_aloud._) d--don't you think sitting still becomes a little--er--monotonous after a time? couldn't we---- [_he rises, spasmodically._ _lady maisie_ (_rising too_). certainly; we have sat here quite long enough. it is time we went back. _undershell_ (_to himself_). we shall meet her! and i'm almost sure it's---- i _must_ prevent any---- (_aloud._) not _back_, lady maisie! you--you promised to show me the orchid-house--you did, indeed! _lady maisie._ very well; we can go in, if you care about orchids. it's on our way back. _undershell_ (_to himself_). this is too awful! it _is_ that girl phillipson. she is looking for somebody! me! (_aloud._) on second thoughts, i don't think i _do_ care to see the orchids. i detest them; they are such weird, unnatural, extravagant things. let us turn back and see if there are any snowdrops on the lawn behind that hedge. i love the snowdrop, it is so trustful and innocent, with its pure green-veined---- _do_ come and search for snowdrops! [illustration: "do come and search for snowdrops!"] _lady maisie._ not just now. i think--(_as she shields her eyes with one hand_)--i'm not quite sure yet--but i rather fancy that must be my maid at the other end of the walk. _undershell_ (_eagerly_). _i_ assure you, lady maisie, you are quite mistaken. not the _least_ like her! _lady maisie_ (_astonished_). why, how can you possibly tell that, without having seen her, mr. blair? _undershell._ i--i meant---- you described her as "pretty," you know. this girl is plain--distinctly plain! _lady maisie._ i don't agree at all. however, it certainly is phillipson, and she seems to have come out in search of me; so i had better see if she has any message. _undershell._ she hasn't. i'm _positive_ she hasn't. she--she wouldn't walk like _that_ if she had. (_in feverish anxiety._) lady maisie, shall we turn back? she--she hasn't seen us _yet_! _lady maisie._ really, mr. blair! i don't quite see why i should run away from my own maid!... what is it, phillipson? [_she advances to meet_ phillipson, _leaving_ undershell _behind, motionless_. _undershell_ (_to himself_). it's all over! that confounded girl recognises me. i saw her face change! she'll be jealous, i _know_ she'll be jealous--and then she'll tell lady maisie everything!... i wish to heaven i could hear what she is saying. lady maisie seems agitated.... i--i might stroll gently on and leave them; but it would look too like running away, perhaps. no, i'll stay here and face it out like a man! i won't give up just yet. (_he sinks limply upon the bench._) after all, i've been in worse holes than this since i came into this infernal place, and i've always managed to scramble out--triumphantly too! if she will only give me five minutes alone, i _know_ i can clear myself; it isn't as if i had done anything to be _ashamed_ of.... she's sent away that girl. she seems to be expecting me to come to her.... i--i suppose i'd better. [_he rises with effort, and goes towards_ lady maisie _with a jaunty unconsciousness that somehow has the air of stopping short just above the knees_. part xxiii shrinkage _in the yew walk._ _lady maisie_ (_to herself, as she watches_ undershell _approaching_). how badly he walks, and what _does_ he mean by smiling at me like that? (_aloud, coldly._) i am sorry, mr. blair, but i must leave you to finish your stroll alone; my maid has just told me---- _undershell_ (_vehemently_). lady maisie, i ask you, in common fairness, not to judge me until you have heard _my_ version. you will not allow the fact that i travelled down here in the same compartment with your maid, phillipson---- _lady maisie_ (_wide-eyed_). the _same_! but _we_ came by that train. i thought you missed it? _undershell._ i--i was not so fortunate. it is rather a long and complicated story, but---- _lady maisie._ i'm afraid i really can't listen to you _now_, mr. blair, after what i have heard from phillipson---- _undershell._ i implore you not to go without hearing both sides. sit down again--if only for a minute. i feel confident that i can explain everything satisfactorily. _lady maisie_ (_sitting down_). i can't imagine what there is to explain--and really i ought, if phillipson---- _undershell._ you know what maids _are_, lady maisie. they embroider. unintentionally, i dare say, but still, they _do_ embroider. _lady maisie_ (_puzzled_). she is very clever at mending lace, i know, though what _that_ has to do with it---- _undershell._ listen to me, lady maisie. i came to this house at your bidding. yes, but for your written appeal, i should have treated the invitation i received from your aunt with silent contempt. had i obeyed my first impulse and ignored it, i should have been spared humiliations and indignities which ought rather to excite your pity than--than any other sensation. think--try to realise what my feelings must have been when i found myself expected by the butler here to sit down to supper with him and the upper servants in the housekeeper's room! _lady maisie_ (_shocked_). oh, mr. blair! indeed, i had no---- you weren't _really_! how _could_ they? what _did_ you say? _undershell_ (_haughtily_). i believe i let him know my opinion of the snobbery of his employers in treating a guest of theirs so cavalierly. _lady maisie_ (_distressed_). but surely--_surely_ you couldn't suppose that my uncle and aunt were capable of---- _undershell._ what else _could_ i suppose, under the circumstances? it is true i have since learnt that i was mistaken in this particular instance; but i am not ignorant of the ingrained contempt you aristocrats have for all who live by exercising their intellect--the bitter scorn of birth for brains! _lady maisie._ i am afraid the--the contempt is all on the other side; but if _that_ is how you feel about it, i don't wonder that you were indignant. _undershell._ indignant! i was _furious_. in fact, nothing would have induced me to sit down to supper at all, if it hadn't been for---- _lady maisie_ (_in a small voice_). then--you _did_ sit down? with the servants! oh, mr. blair! _undershell._ i thought you were already aware of it. yes, lady maisie, i endured even that. but (_with magnanimity_) you must not distress yourself about it now. if _i_ can forget it, surely you can do so! _lady maisie._ can i? that _you_ should have consented, for any consideration whatever; how could you--how _could_ you? _undershell_ (_to himself_). she admires me all the more for it. but i _knew_ she would take the right view! (_aloud, with pathos._) i was only compelled by absolute starvation. i had had an unusually light lunch, and i was so hungry! _lady maisie_ (_after a pause_). that explains it, of course.... i hope they gave you a good supper! _undershell._ excellent, thank you. indeed, i was astonished at the variety and even luxury of the table. there was a pyramid of quails---- _lady maisie._ i am pleased to hear it. but i thought there was something you were going to explain. _undershell._ i have been _endeavouring_ to explain to the best of my ability that if i have undesignedly been the cause of--er--a temporary diversion in the state of miss phillipson's affections, no one could regret more deeply than i that the--er--ordinary amenities of the supper-table should have been mistaken for---- _lady maisie_ (_horrified_). oh, stop, mr. blair, please stop! i don't want to hear any more. i see now. it was _you_ who---- _undershell._ of course it was i. surely the girl herself has been telling you so just now! _lady maisie._ you really thought _that_ possible, too? she simply came with a message from my mother. _undershell_ (_slightly disconcerted_). oh! if i had known it was merely _that_. however, i am sure i need not ask you to treat my--my communication in the strictest confidence, lady maisie. _lady maisie._ indeed, that is _perfectly_ unnecessary, mr. blair. _undershell._ yes, i felt from the first that i could trust you--even with my life. and i cannot regret having told you, if it has enabled you to understand me more thoroughly. it is such a relief that you know all, and that there are no more secrets between us. you _do_ feel that i only acted as was natural and inevitable under the circumstances? _lady maisie._ oh yes, yes. i--i dare say you could not help it. i mean you did quite, _quite_ right! _undershell._ ah, how you comfort me with your fresh girlish---- you are not _going_, lady maisie? _lady maisie_ (_rising_). i must. i ought to have gone before. my mother wants me. no, you are not to come too; you can go on and gather those snowdrops, you know. [_she walks slowly back to the house._ _undershell_ (_looking after her_). she took it wonderfully well. i've made it all right, or she wouldn't have said that about the snowdrops. yes, she shall not be disappointed; she shall have her posy! _in the morning-room. half an hour later._ _lady maisie_ (_alone--to herself_). thank goodness, _that's_ over! it was _awful_. i don't think i _ever_ saw mamma a deeper shade of plum colour! _how_ i have been mistaken in mr. blair! that he could write those lines-- "aspiring unto that far-off ideal, i may not stoop to any meaner love," and yet philander with my poor foolish phillipson the moment he met her! and then to tell mamma about my letter like that! why, even mr. spurrell had more discretion--to be sure, _he_ knew nothing about it--but _that_ makes no difference! rhoda was right; i ought to have allowed a margin--only i should never have allowed margin _enough_! the worst of it is that, if mamma was unjust in some things she said, she was right about _one_. i _have_ disgusted gerald. he mayn't be brilliant, but at least he's straightforward and loyal and a gentleman, and--and he _did_ like me once. he doesn't any more--or he wouldn't have gone away. and it may be ages before i ever get a chance to let him see how _dreadfully_ sorry---- (_she turns, and sees_ captain thicknesse.) oh, haven't you gone _yet_? _captain thicknesse._ yes, i went, but i've come back again. i--i couldn't help it; 'pon my word i couldn't. _lady maisie_ (_with a sudden flush_). you--you weren't _sent_ for--by--by any one? _captain thicknesse._ so _likely_ any one would send for me, isn't it? _lady maisie._ i don't know why i said that; it was silly, of course. but how---- _captain thicknesse._ ran it a bit too fine; got to shuntin'bridge just in time to see the tail end of the train disappearin'; wasn't another for hours--not much to do _there_, don't you know. _lady maisie._ you might have taken a walk--or gone to church. _captain thicknesse._ so i might, didn't occur to me; and besides, i--i remembered i never said good-bye to _you_. _lady maisie._ didn't you? and whose fault was that? _captain thicknesse._ not mine, anyhow. you were somewhere about the grounds with mr. blair. _lady maisie._ now you mention it, i believe i was. we had--rather an interesting conversation. still, you might have come to look for me! _captain thicknesse._ perhaps you wouldn't have been over and above glad to see me. _lady maisie._ oh yes, i should!--when it was to say _good-bye_, you know! _captain thicknesse._ ah! well, i suppose i shall only be in the way if i stop here any longer now. _lady maisie._ do you? what makes you suppose that? _captain thicknesse._ nothin'! saw your friend the bard hurryin' along the terrace with a bunch of snowdrops; he'll be here in another---- _lady maisie_ (_in unmistakable horror_). gerald, _why_ didn't you tell me before? there's only just time! [_she flies to a door and opens it._ _captain thicknesse._ but i _say_, you know! maisie, may i come too? _lady maisie._ don't be a _goose_, gerald. of course you can, if you like. [_she disappears in the conservatory._ _captain thicknesse_ (_to himself_). can't quite make this out, but i'm no end glad i came back! [_he follows quickly._ _undershell_ (_entering_). i hoped i should find her here. (_he looks round._) her mother's gone--that's _something_! i dare say lady maisie will come in presently. (_he sits down and re-arranges his snowdrops._) it will be sweet to see her face light up when i offer her these as a symbol of the new and closer link between us! (_he hears the sound of drapery behind him._) ah, already! (_rising, and presenting his flowers with downcast eyes._) i--i have ventured to gather these--for you. (_he raises his eyes._) miss spelwane! _miss spelwane_ (_taking them graciously_). how very sweet of you, mr. blair. are they really for me? [illustration: "how very sweet of you, mr. blair. are they really for me?"] _undershell_ (_concealing his disappointment_). oh--er--yes. if you will give me the pleasure of accepting them. _miss spelwane._ i feel immensely proud. i was so afraid you must have thought i was rather cross to you last night. i didn't mean to be. i was feeling a little overdone, that was all. but you have chosen a charming way of letting me see that i am forgiven. (_to herself._) it's really _too_ touching. he certainly is a great improvement on the other wretch! _undershell_ (_dolefully_). i--i had no such intention, i assure you. (_to himself._) i hope to goodness lady maisie won't come in before i can get rid of this girl. i seem fated to be misunderstood here! part xxiv the happy dispatch "perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, but----" _in the morning-room._ time--_about_ p.m. _undershell_ (_to himself alone_). i'm rather sorry that that miss spelwane couldn't stay. she's a trifle angular--but clever. it was distinctly sharp of her to see through that fellow spurrell from the first, and lay such an ingenious little trap for him. and she has a great feeling for literature--knows my verses by heart, i discovered, quite accidentally. all the same, i wish she hadn't intercepted those snowdrops. now i shall have to go out and pick some more. (_sounds outside in the entrance hall._) too late--they've got back from church! _mrs. brooke-chatteris_ (_entering with_ lady rhoda, sir rupert _and_ bearpark). such a nice, plain, simple service--i'm positively _ravenous_! _lady rhoda._ struck me some of those chubby choir-boys wanted smackin'. what a business it seems to get the servants properly into their pew--as bad as boxin' a string of hunters! as for _you_, archie, the way you fidgeted durin' the sermon was downright disgraceful!... so _there_ you are, mr. blair; not been to church; but i forgot--p'raps you're a dissenter, or somethin'? _undershell_ (_annoyed_). only, lady rhoda, in the sense that i have hitherto failed to discover any form of creed that commands my intellectual assent. _lady rhoda_ (_unimpressed_). i expect you haven't tried. are you a--what d'ye call it?--a lacedemoniac? _undershell_ (_with lofty tolerance_). i _presume_ you mean a "laodicean." no, i should rather describe myself as a deist. _archie_ (_in a surly undertone_). what's a _deast_ when he's at home? if he'd said a _beast_, now! (_aloud, as_ pilliner _enters with_ captain thicknesse.) hullo, why, here's thicknesse! so you _haven't_ gone, after all, then? _captain thicknesse._ what an observant young beggar you are, bearpark! nothin' escapes you. no, i haven't. (_to_ sir rupert, _rather sheepishly_.) fact, is, sir, i--i somehow just missed the train, and--and--thought i might as well come back, instead of waitin' about, don't you know. _sir rupert_ (_heartily_). why, of course, my dear boy, of course! never have forgiven you if you _hadn't_. great nuisance for _you_, though. hope you blew the fool of a man up; he _ought_ to have been round in plenty of time. _captain thicknesse._ not the groom's fault, sir. i kept him waitin' a bit, and--and we had to stop to shift the seat and that, and so---- _undershell_ (_to himself_). great blundering booby! can't he see nobody wants him _here_? as if he hadn't bored poor lady maisie enough at breakfast! ah, well, i must come to her rescue once more, i suppose! _sir rupert._ half an hour to lunch! anybody like to come round to the stables? i'm going to see how my wife's horse deerfoot is getting on. fond of horses, eh, mr.--a--undershell? care to come with us? _undershell_ (_to himself_). i've seen quite enough of _that_ beast already! (_aloud, with some asperity._) you must really excuse me, sir rupert. i am at one with mr. ruskin--i _detest_ horses. _sir rupert._ ah? pity. we're rather fond of 'em here. but we can't expect a poet to be a sportsman, eh? _undershell._ for my own poor part, i confess i look forward to a day, not far distant, when the spread of civilisation will have abolished every form of so-called sport. _sir rupert._ _do_ you, though? (_after conquering a choke with difficulty._) allow me to hope that you will continue to enjoy the pleasures of anticipation as long as possible. (_to the rest._) well, are you coming? [_all except_ undershell _follow their host out_. _undershell_ (_alone, to himself_). if they think i'm going to be _patronised_, or suppress my honest convictions----! now i'll go and pick those---- (lady maisie _enters from the conservatory_.) ah, lady maisie, i have been trying to find you. i had plucked a few snowdrops, which i promised myself the pleasure of presenting to you. unfortunately they--er--failed to reach their destination. _lady maisie_ (_distantly_). thanks, mr. blair; i am only sorry you should have given yourself such unnecessary trouble. _undershell_ (_detaining her, as she seemed about to pass on_). i have another piece of intelligence which you may hear less--er--philosophically, lady maisie. your _bête noire_ has returned. _lady maisie_ (_with lifted eyebrows_). my _bête noire_, mr. blair? _undershell._ why affect not to understand? i have an infallible instinct in all matters concerning _you_, and, sweetly tolerant as you are, i instantly divined what an insufferable nuisance you found our military friend, captain thicknesse. _lady maisie._ there are limits even to _my_ tolerance, mr. blair. i admit i find some people insufferable--but captain thicknesse is not one of them. _undershell._ then appearances are deceptive indeed. come, lady maisie, surely you can trust _me_! [lady cantire _enters_. _lady cantire_ (_in her most awful tones_). maisie, my dear, i appear to have interrupted an interview of a somewhat confidential character. if so, pray let me know it, and i will go elsewhere. _lady maisie_ (_calmly_). not in the very least, mamma. mr. blair was merely trying to prepare me for the fact that captain thicknesse has come back; which was quite needless, as i happen to have heard it already from his own lips. _lady cantire._ captain thicknesse come back! (_to_ undershell.) i wish to speak to my daughter. may i ask you to leave us? _undershell._ with pleasure, lady cantire. (_to himself, as he retires._) what a consummate actress that girl is! and what a coquette! _lady cantire_ (_after a silence_). maisie, what does all this mean? no _nonsense_, now! what brought gerald thicknesse back? _lady maisie._ i _suppose_ the dog-cart, mamma. he missed his train, you know. i don't think he minds--much. _lady cantire._ let me tell you _this_, my dear. it is a great deal more than you _deserve_ after---- how long has he come back for? _lady maisie._ only a few hours; but--but from things he said, i fancy he would stay on longer--if aunt albinia asked him. _lady cantire._ then we may consider that settled; he stays. (lady culverin _appears_.) here _is_ your aunt. you had better leave us, my dear. _somewhat later; the party have assembled for lunch._ _sir rupert_ (_to his wife_). well, my dear, i've seen that young spurrell (smart fellow he is, too, thoroughly up in his business), and you'll be glad to hear he can't find anything seriously wrong with deerfoot. _undershell_ (_in the background, to himself_). no more could i, for that matter! _sir rupert._ he's clear it isn't navicular, which adams was afraid of, and he thinks, with care and rest, you know, the horse will be as fit as a fiddle in a very few days. _undershell_ (_to himself_). just exactly what i _told_ them; but the fools wouldn't believe _me_! _lady culverin._ oh, rupert, i _am_ so glad. how clever of that nice mr. spurrell! i was afraid my poor deerfoot would have to be shot. _undershell_ (_to himself_). she may thank me that he _wasn't_. and this other fellow gets all the credit for it. how like life! _lady maisie._ and, uncle rupert, how about--about phillipson, you know? is it all right? _sir rupert._ phillipson? oh, why, 'pon my word, my dear, didn't think of asking. _lady rhoda._ but _i_ did, maisie. and they met this mornin', and it's all settled, and they're as happy as they can be. except that he's on the look out for a mysterious stranger, who disappeared last night, after tryin' to make desperate love to her. he is determined, if he can find him, to give him a piece of his mind. [undershell _endeavours to conceal his extreme uneasiness_. _pilliner._ and the whole of a horsewhip. he invited my opinion of it as an implement of castigation. kind of thing, you know, that would impart "proficiency in the _trois temps_, as danced in the most select circles," in a single lesson to a lame bear. (_to himself._) i drew my little bow at a venture, and i'm hanged if it hasn't touched him up! there's _something_ fishy about this chap--i felt it all along. still, i don't see what more i can do--or i'd do it, for poor old gerry thicknesse's sake. _undershell_ (_to himself_). i don't stir a step out of this house while i'm here, that's all! _sir rupert._ ha-ha! athletic young chap that. glad to see him in the field next tuesday. by the way, albinia, you've heard how thicknesse here contrived to miss his train this morning? our gain, of course; but still we must manage to get you back to aldershot to-night, my boy, or you'll get called over the coals by your colonel when you _do_ put in an appearance, hey? now, let's see; what train ought you to catch? [_he takes up_ "bradshaw" _from a writing-table_. _lady cantire_ (_possessing herself of the volume_). allow me, rupert, my eyes are better than yours. _i_ will look out his trains for him. (_after consulting various pages._) just as i _thought_! quite impossible for him to reach north camp to-night now. there isn't a train till six, and _that_ gets to town just too late for him to drive across to waterloo and catch the last aldershot train. so there's no more to be said. [_she puts_ "bradshaw" _away_. _captain thicknesse_ (_with undisguised relief_). oh, well, dessay they won't kick up much of a row if i don't get back till to-morrow,--or the day _after_, if it comes to that. _undershell_ (_to himself_). it _shan't_ come to that--if _i_ can prevent it! lady maisie is quite in despair, i can see. (_aloud._) indeed? i was--a--not aware that discipline was quite so lax as that in the british army. and surely officers should set an example of---- [_he finds that his intervention has produced a distinct sensation, and, taking up the discarded_ "bradshaw" _becomes engrossed in its study_. _captain thicknesse_ (_ignoring him completely_). it's like this, lady culverin. somehow i--i muddled up the dates, don't you know. mean to say, got it into my head to-day was the th, instead of only the th. (_lamely._) that's how it _was_. _lady culverin._ delightful, my dear gerald. then we shall keep you here till tuesday, of _course_! _undershell_ (_looking up from_ "bradshaw," _impulsively_). lady culverin, i see there's a very good train which leaves shuntingbridge at . this afternoon, and gets---- [_the rest regard him with unaffected surprise and disapproval._ _lady cantire_ (_raising her glasses_). upon my word, mr. blair! if you will kindly leave captain thicknesse to make his own arrangements----! _lady maisie_ (_interposing hastily_). but, mamma, you must have misunderstood mr. blair! as if he would _dream_ of---- he was merely mentioning the train he wishes to go by himself. _weren't_ you, mr. blair? _undershell_ (_blinking and gasping_). i--eh? just so, that--that _was_ my intention, certainly. (_to himself._) does she at all realise what this will cost her? _lady culverin._ my dear mr. blair, i--i'd no notion we were to lose you so soon; but if you're really quite _sure_ you must go---- _lady cantire_ (_sharply_). really, albinia, we must give him credit for knowing his own mind. he tells you he is _obliged to go_! _lady culverin._ then of course we must let you do _exactly_ as you please. _pilliner_ (_to himself_). lady maisie's a little brick! no notion she had it _in_ her. no occasion to bother myself about the beggar now. "let him alone and he'll go home, and carry his tail beneath him!" [_all except_ miss spelwane _breathe more freely_; tredwell _appears_. _lady culverin._ oh, lunch, is it, tredwell? very well. by the bye, see that some one packs mr. undershell's things for him, and tell them to send the dog-cart round after lunch in time to catch the . from shuntingbridge. _archie_ (_sotto voce, to_ pilliner). we don't want any _more_ missin' of trains, eh? i'll go round and see the cart properly balanced myself _this_ time. _pilliner_ (_in the same tone_). no, dear boy, you're not to be trusted! _i'll_ see that done, then the bard and his train will be alike in one respect--_neither_ of 'em 'll be missed! _miss spelwane_ (_to herself, piqued._) going already! i wish i had never touched his ridiculous snowdrops! _lady culverin._ well, shall we go in to lunch, everybody? [_they move in irregular order towards the dining-hall._ _undershell_ (_in an undertone to_ lady maisie, _as they follow last_). lady maisie, i--er--this is just a _little_ unexpected. i confess i don't quite understand your precise motive in suggesting so--so hasty a departure. _lady maisie_ (_without looking at him_). don't you, mr. blair? perhaps--when you come to think over it all quietly--you _will_. [_she passes on, leaving him perplexed._ [illustration: "perhaps--when you come to think over it all quietly--you will."] _undershell_ (_to himself_). shall i? i certainly can't say i do just---- why, yes, i _do_! that bully spurrell with his horsewhip! she dreads an encounter between us--and i should much prefer to avoid it myself. yes; that's it, of course. she is willing to sacrifice anything rather than endanger _my_ personal safety! what unselfish angels some women are! even that sneering fellow drysdale will be impressed when i tell him this.... yes, it's best that i should go--i see that now. i don't so much mind leaving. without any false humility, i can hardly avoid seeing that, even in the short time i have been amongst these people, i have produced a decided impression. and there is at least one--perhaps _two_--who will miss me when i am gone. [_he goes into the dining-hall, with restored complacency._ the end. printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. * * * * * the novel series. this is a series of works, each in one volume, by the best writers of the day, english and american. the volumes are suitable for the pocket and the shelf; they are convenient to handle, being of the square mo size, while from their appearance, as well as from their literary merit, they deserve a place in the library. the volumes are bound in cloth, and are uniform, except in thickness and in price. the prices will be s., s., and s. volume of the series, price s. the story of bessie costrell, by mrs. humphry ward. the christian world.--"mrs. ward has done nothing finer than this brief story. the sustained interest, which does not permit the reader to miss a line; the vivid clearness in which each character stands out in self-revelation; the unfailing insight into the familiar and confused workings of the village mind--all represent work of the highest class. 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made up from beginning to end of laughter, and yet not a comic book, or a 'merry' book, or a book of jokes, or a book of pictures, or a jest book, or a tomfool book, but a perfectly sober and serious book, in the reading of which a sober man may laugh without shame from beginning to end, it is the book called 'vice versâ; or, a lesson to fathers.'... we close the book, recommending it very earnestly to all fathers in the first instance, and their sons, nephews, uncles, and male cousins next." _cheap edition_, crown vo, limp red cloth, _s._ _d._ a fallen idol. from the times.--"mr. anstey's new story will delight the multitudinous public that laughed over 'vice versâ'.... the boy who brings the accursed image to champion's house, mr. bales, the artist's factotum, and above all mr. yarker, the ex-butler who has turned policeman, are figures whom it is as pleasant to meet as it is impossible to forget." london: smith, elder & co., , waterloo place. * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious typographical errors repaired. hyphenation inconsistencies retained (booby trap and booby-trap). illustrations have been re-positioned to the corresponding action in the scene. italic font is indicated by _underscores_ (text version only). ravenshoe [illustration: charles in the balaclava charge. _drawn by r. caton woodville._ _ravenshoe._ _page ._] ravenshoe by henry kingsley new edition--third thousand with a frontispiece by r. caton woodville london ward, lock and bowden, limited warwick house, salisbury square, e.c. new york and melbourne [all rights reserved] to my brother, charles kingsley, i dedicate this tale, in token of a love which only grows stronger as we both get older. preface. the language used in telling the following story is not (as i hope the reader will soon perceive) the author's, but mr. william marston's. the author's intention was, while telling the story, to develop, in the person of an imaginary narrator, the character of a thoroughly good-hearted and tolerably clever man, who has his fingers (as he would say himself) in every one's pie, and who, for the life of him, cannot keep his own counsel--that is to say, the only person who, by any possibility, could have collected the mass of family gossip which makes up this tale. had the author told it in his own person, it would have been told with less familiarity, and, as he thinks, you would not have laughed quite so often. contents. page chapter i an account of the family of ravenshoe chapter ii. supplementary to the foregoing chapter iii. in which our hero's troubles begin chapter iv. father mackworth chapter v. ranford chapter vi. the "warren hastings" chapter vii. in which charles and lord welter distinguish themselves at the university chapter viii. john marston chapter ix. adelaide chapter x. lady ascot's little nap chapter xi. gives us an insight into charles's domestic relations, and shows how the great conspirator soliloquised to the grand chandelier chapter xii. containing a song by charles ravenshoe, and also father tiernay's opinion about the family chapter xiii. the black hare chapter xiv. lord saltire's visit, and some of his opinions chapter xv. charles's "liddell and scott" chapter xvi. marston's arrival chapter xvii. in which there is another shipwreck chapter xviii. marston's disappointment chapter xix. ellen's flight chapter xx. ranford again chapter xxi. clotho, lachesis, and atropos chapter xxii. the last glimpse of oxford chapter xxiii. the last glimpse of the old world chapter xxiv. the first glimpse of the new world chapter xxv. father mackworth brings lord saltire to bay, and what came of it chapter xxvi. the grand crash chapter xxvii. the coup de grace chapter xxviii. flight chapter xxix. charles's retreat upon london chapter xxx. mr. sloane chapter xxxi. lieutenant hornby chapter xxxii. some of the humours of a london mews. chapter xxxiii. a glimpse of some old friends chapter xxxiv. in which fresh mischief is brewed chapter xxxv. in which an entirely new, and, as will be seen hereafter, a most important character is introduced chapter xxxvi. the derby chapter xxxvii. lord welter's mÉnage chapter xxxviii. the house full of ghosts chapter xxxix. charles's explanation with lord welter chapter xl. a dinner party among some old friends chapter xli. charles's second expedition to st. john's wood chapter xlii. ravenshoe hall, during all this chapter xliii. the meeting chapter xliv. another meeting chapter xlv. half a million chapter xlvi. to lunch with lord ascot chapter xlvii. lord hainault's blotting-book chapter xlviii. in which cuthbert begins to see things in a new light chapter xlix. the second column of "the times" of this date, with other matters chapter l. shreds and patches chapter li. in which charles comes to life again chapter lii. what lord saltire and father mackworth said when they looked out of the window chapter liii. captain archer turns up chapter liv. charles meets hornby at last chapter lv. archer's proposal chapter lvi. scutari chapter lvii. what charles did with his last eighteen shillings chapter lviii. the north side of grosvenor square chapter lix. lord ascot's crowning act of folly chapter lx. the bridge at last chapter lxi. saved chapter lxii. mr. jackson's big trout chapter lxiii. in which gus cuts flora's doll's corns chapter lxiv. the allied armies advance on ravenshoe chapter lxv. father mackworth puts the finishing touch on his great piece of embroidery chapter lxvi. gus and flora are naughty in church, and the whole business comes to an end ravenshoe. chapter i. an account of the family of ravenshoe. i had intended to have gone into a family history of the ravenshoes, from the time of canute to that of her present majesty, following it down through every change and revolution, both secular and religious; which would have been deeply interesting, but which would have taken more hard reading than one cares to undertake for nothing. i had meant, i say, to have been quite diffuse on the annals of one of our oldest commoner families; but, on going into the subject, i found i must either chronicle little affairs which ought to have been forgotten long ago, or do my work in a very patchy and inefficient way. when i say that the ravenshoes have been engaged in every plot, rebellion, and civil war, from about a century or so before the conquest to , and that the history of the house was marked by cruelty and rapacity in old times, and in those more modern by political tergiversation of the blackest dye, the reader will understand why i hesitate to say too much in reference to a name which i especially honour. in order, however, that i may give some idea of what the hereditary character of the family is, i must just lead the reader's eye lightly over some of the principal events of their history. the great irish families have, as is well known, a banshee, or familiar spirit, who, previous to misfortune or death, flits moaning round the ancestral castle. now although the ravenshoes, like all respectable houses, have an hereditary lawsuit; a feud (with the humbys of hele); a ghost (which the present ravenshoe claims to have repeatedly seen in early youth); and a buried treasure: yet i have never heard that they had a banshee. had such been the case, that unfortunate spirit would have had no sinecure of it, but rather must have kept howling night and day for nine hundred years or so, in order to have got through her work at all. for the ravenshoes were almost always in trouble, and yet had a facility of getting out again, which, to one not aware of the cause, was sufficiently inexplicable. like the stuarts, they had always taken the losing side, and yet, unlike the stuarts, have always kept their heads on their shoulders, and their house over their heads. lady ascot says that, if ambrose ravenshoe had been attainted in , he'd have been hung as sure as fate: there was evidence enough against him to hang a dozen men. i myself, too, have heard squire densil declare, with great pride, that the ravenshoe of king john's time was the only baron who did not sign magna charta; and if there were a ravenshoe at runnymede, i have not the slightest doubt that such was the case. through the rose wars, again, they were always on the wrong side, whichever that might have been, because your ravenshoe, mind you, was not bound to either side in those times, but changed as he fancied fortune was going. as your ravenshoe was the sort of man who generally joined a party just when their success was indubitable--that is to say, just when the reaction against them was about to set in--he generally found himself among the party which was going down hill, who despised him for not joining them before, and opposed to the rising party, who hated him because he had declared against them. which little game is common enough in this present century among some men of the world, who seem, as a general rule, to make as little by it as ever did the ravenshoes. well, whatever your trimmers make by their motion nowadays, the ravenshoes were not successful either at liberal conservatism or conservative liberalism. at the end of the reign of henry vii. they were as poor as job, or poorer. but, before you have time to think of it, behold, in , there comes you to court a sir alured ravenshoe, who incontinently begins cutting in at the top of the tune, swaggering, swearing, dressing, fighting, dicing, and all that sort of thing, and, what is more, paying his way in a manner which suggests successful burglary as the only solution. sir alured, however, as i find, had done no worse than marry an old maid (miss hincksey, one of the staffordshire hinckseys) with a splendid fortune; which fortune set the family on its legs again for some generations. this sir alured seems to have been an audacious rogue. he made great interest with the king, who was so far pleased with his activity in athletic sports that he gave him a post in ireland. there our ravenshoe was so fascinated by the charming manners of the earl of kildare that he even accompanied that nobleman on a visit to desmond; and, after a twelvemonth's unauthorised residence in the interior of ireland, on his return to england he was put into the tower for six months to "consider himself." this alured seems to have been a deuce of a fellow, a very good type of the family. when british harry had that difference we wot of with the bishop of rome, i find alured to have been engaged in some five or six romish plots, such as had the king been in possession of facts, would have consigned him to a rather speedy execution. however, the king seems to have looked on this gentleman with a suspicious eye, and to have been pretty well aware what sort of man he was, for i find him writing to his wife, on the occasion of his going to court--"the king's grace looked but sourly upon me, and said it should go hard, but that the pitcher which went so oft to the well should be broke at last. thereto i making answer, 'that that should depend on the pitcher, whether it were iron or clomb,' he turned on his heel, and presently departed from me." he must have been possessed of his full share of family audacity to sharpen his wits on the terrible harry, with such an unpardonable amount of treason hanging over him. i have dwelt thus long on him, as he seems to have possessed a fair share of the virtues and vices of his family--a family always generous and brave, yet always led astray by bad advisers. this alured built ravenshoe house, as it stands to this day, and in which much of the scene of this story is laid. they seem to have got through the gunpowder plot pretty well, though i can show you the closet where one of the minor conspirators, one watson, lay _perdu_ for a week or so after that gallant attempt, more i suspect from the effect of a guilty conscience than anything else, for i never heard of any distinct charge being brought against him. the forty-five, however, did not pass quite so easily, and ambrose ravenshoe went as near to lose his head as any one of the family since the conquest. when the news came from the north about the alarming advance of the highlanders, it immediately struck ambrose that this was the best opportunity for making a fool of himself that could possibly occur. he accordingly, without hesitation or consultation with any mortal soul, rang the bell for his butler, sent for his stud-groom, mounted every man about the place (twenty or so), armed them, grooms, gardeners, and all, with crossbows and partisans from the armoury, and rode into the cross, at stonnington, on a market-day, and boldly proclaimed the pretender king. it soon got about that "the squire" was making a fool of himself, and that there was some fun going; so he shortly found himself surrounded by a large and somewhat dirty rabble, who, with cries of "well done, old rebel!" and "hurrah for the pope!" escorted him, his terror-stricken butler and his shame-stricken grooms, to the crown and sceptre. as good luck would have it, there happened to be in the town that day no less a person than lord segur, the leading roman catholic nobleman of the county. he, accompanied by several of the leading gentlemen of the same persuasion, burst into the room where the squire sat, overpowered him, and, putting him bound into a coach, carried him off to segur castle, and locked him up. it took all the strength of the popish party to save him from attainder. the church rallied right bravely round the old house, which had always assisted her with sword and purse, and never once had wavered in its allegiance. so while nobler heads went down, ambrose ravenshoe's remained on his shoulders. ambrose died in . john (monseigneur) in . howard in . he first took the claycomb hounds. petre in . he married alicia, only daughter of charles, third earl of ascot, and was succeeded by densil, the first of our dramatis personæ--the first of all this shadowy line that we shall see in the flesh. he was born in the year , and married, first in , at his father's desire, a miss winkleigh, of whom i know nothing; and second, at his own desire, in , susan, fourth daughter of lawrence petersham, esq., of fairford grange, county worcester, by whom he had issue-- cuthbert, born ; charles, born . densil was an only son. his father, a handsome, careless, good-humoured, but weak and superstitious man, was entirely in the hands of the priests, who during his life were undisputed masters of ravenshoe. lady alicia was, as i have said, a daughter of lord ascot, a staunton, as staunchly a protestant a house as any in england. she, however, managed to fall in love with the handsome young popish squire, and to elope with him, changing not only her name, but, to the dismay of her family, her faith also, and becoming, pervert-like, more actively bigoted than her easy-going husband. she brought little or no money into the family; and, from her portrait, appears to have been exceedingly pretty, and monstrously silly. to this strong-minded couple was born, two years after their marriage, a son who was called densil. this young gentleman seems to have got on much like other young gentlemen till the age of twenty-one, when it was determined by the higher powers in conclave assembled that he should go to london, and see the world; and so, having been cautioned duly how to avoid the flesh and the devil, to see the world he went. in a short time intelligence came to the confessor of the family, and through him to the father and mother, that densil was seeing the world with a vengeance; that he was the constant companion of the right honourable viscount saltire, the great dandy of the radical atheist set, with whom no man might play picquet and live; that he had been upset in a tilbury with mademoiselle vaurien of drury-lane at kensington turnpike; that he had fought the french _émigré_, a comte de hautenbas, apropos of the vaurien aforementioned--in short, that he was going on at a deuce of a rate: and so a hurried council was called to deliberate what was to be done. "he will lose his immortal soul," said the priest. "he will dissipate his property," said his mother. "he will go to the devil," said his father. so father clifford, good man, was despatched to london, with post horses, and ordered to bring back the lost sheep _vi et armis_. accordingly, at ten o'clock one night, densil's lad was astounded by having to admit father clifford, who demanded immediately to be led to his master. now this was awkward, for james well knew what was going on upstairs; but he knew also what would happen, sooner or later, to a ravenshoe servant who trifled with a priest, and so he led the way. the lost sheep which the good father had come to find was not exactly sober this evening, and certainly not in a very good temper. he was playing _écarté_ with a singularly handsome, though supercilious-looking man, dressed in the height of fashion, who, judging from the heap of gold beside him, had been winning heavily. the priest trembled and crossed himself--this man was the terrible, handsome, wicked, witty, atheistical, radical lord saltire, whose tongue no woman could withstand, and whose pistol no man dared face; who was currently believed to have sold himself to the deuce, or, indeed, as some said, to be the deuce himself. a more cunning man than poor simple father clifford would have made some common-place remark and withdrawn, after a short greeting, taking warning by the impatient scowl that settled on densil's handsome face. not so he. to be defied by a boy whose law had been his word for ten years past never entered into his head, and he sternly advanced towards the pair. densil inquired if anything were the matter at home. and lord saltire, anticipating a scene, threw himself back in his chair, stretched out his elegant legs, and looked on with the air of a man who knows he is going to be amused, and composes himself thoroughly to appreciate the entertainment. "thus much, my son," said the priest; "your mother is wearing out the stones of the oratory with her knees, praying for her first-born, while he is wasting his substance, and perilling his soul, with debauched atheistic companions, the enemies of god and man." lord saltire smiled sweetly, bowed elegantly, and took snuff. "why do you intrude into my room, and insult my guest?" said densil, casting an angry glance at the priest, who stood calmly like a black pillar, with his hands before him. "it is unendurable." "_quem deus vult_," &c. father clifford had seen that scowl once or twice before, but he would not take warning. he said-- "i am ordered not to go westward without you. i command you to come." "command me! command a ravenshoe!" said densil, furiously. father clifford, by way of mending matters, now began to lose _his_ temper. "you would not be the first ravenshoe who has been commanded by a priest; ay, and has had to obey too," said he. "and you will not be the first jack-priest who has felt the weight of a ravenshoe's wrath," replied densil, brutally. lord saltire leant back, and said to the ambient air, "i'll back the priest, five twenties to one." this was too much. densil would have liked to quarrel with saltire, but that was death--he was the deadest shot in europe. he grew furious, and beyond all control. he told the priest to go (further than purgatory); grew blasphemous, emphatically renouncing the creed of his forefathers, and, in fact, all other creeds. the priest grew hot and furious too, retaliated in no measured terms, and finally left the room with his ears stopped, shaking the dust off his feet as he went. then lord saltire drew up to the table again, laughing. "your estates are entailed, ravenshoe, i suppose?" said he. "no." "oh! it's your deal, my dear fellow." densil got an angry letter from his father in a few days, demanding full apologies and recantations, and an immediate return home. densil had no apologies to make, and did not intend to return till the end of the season. his father wrote declining the honour of his further acquaintance, and sending him a draft for fifty pounds to pay outstanding bills, which he very well knew amounted to several thousands. in a short time the great catholic tradesmen, with whom he had been dealing, began to press for money in a somewhat insolent way; and now densil began to see that, by defying and insulting the faith and the party to which he belonged, he had merely cut himself off from rank, wealth, and position. he had defied the _partie prêtre_, and had yet to feel their power. in two months he was in the fleet prison. his servant (the title "tiger" came in long after this), a half groom, half valet, such as men kept in those days--a simple lad from ravenshoe, james horton by name--for the first time in his life disobeyed orders; for, on being told to return home by densil, he firmly declined doing so, and carried his top boots and white neckcloth triumphantly into the fleet, there pursuing his usual avocations with the utmost nonchalance. "a very distinguished fellow that of yours, curly" (they all had nicknames for one another in those days), said lord saltire. "if i were not saltire, i think i would be jim. to own the only clean face among six hundred fellow-creatures is a pre-eminence, a decided pre-eminence. i'll buy him of you." for lord saltire came to see him, snuff-box and all. that morning densil was sitting brooding in the dirty room with the barred windows, and thinking what a wild free wind would be sweeping across the downs this fine november day, when the door was opened, and in walks me my lord, with a sweet smile on his face. he was dressed in the extreme of fashion--a long-tailed blue coat with gold buttons, a frill to his shirt, a white cravat, a wonderful short waistcoat, loose short nankeen trousers, low shoes, no gaiters, and a low-crowned hat. i am pretty correct, for i have seen his picture, dated . but you must please to remember that his lordship was in the very van of the fashion, and that probably such a dress was not universal for two or three years afterwards. i wonder if his well-known audacity would be sufficient to make him walk along one of the public thoroughfares in such a dress, to-morrow, for a heavy bet--i fancy not. he smiled sardonically--"my dear fellow," he said, "when a man comes on a visit of condolence, i know it is the most wretched taste to say, 'i told you so;' but do me the justice to allow that i offered to back the priest five to one. i had been coming to you all the week, but tuesday and wednesday i was at newmarket; thursday i was shooting at your cousin ascot's: yesterday i did not care about boring myself with you; so i have come to-day because i was at leisure and had nothing better to do." densil looked up savagely, thinking he had come to insult him: but the kindly compassionate look in the piercing grey eye belied the cynical curl of the mouth, and disarmed him. he leant his head upon the table and sobbed. lord saltire laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said-- "you have been a fool, ravenshoe; you have denied the faith of your forefathers. pardieu, if i had such an article i would not have thrown it so lightly away." "_you_ talk like this? who next? it was your conversation led me to it. am i worse than you? what faith have you, in god's name?" "the faith of a french lycée, my friend; the only one i ever had. i have been sufficiently consistent to that, i think." "consistent indeed," groaned poor densil. "now, look here," said saltire; "i may have been to blame in this. but i give you my honour, i had no more idea that you would be obstinate enough to bring matters to this pass, than i had that you would burn down ravenshoe house because i laughed at it for being old-fashioned. go home, my poor little catholic pipkin, and don't try to swim with iron pots like wrekin and me. make submission to that singularly _distingué_-looking old turkey-cock of a priest, kiss your mother, and get your usual autumn's hunting and shooting." "too late! too late, now!" sobbed densil. "not at all, my dear fellow," said saltire, taking a pinch of snuff; "the partridges will be a little wild of course--that you must expect; but you ought to get some very pretty pheasant and cock-shooting. come, say yes. have your debts paid, and get out of this infernal hole. a week of this would tame the devil, i should think." "if you think you could do anything for me, saltire." lord saltire immediately retired, and re-appeared, leading in a lady by her hand. she raised the veil from her head, and he saw his mother. in a moment she was crying on his neck; and, as he looked over her shoulder, he saw a blue coat passing out of the door, and that was the last of lord saltire for the present. it was no part of the game of the priests to give densil a cold welcome home. twenty smiling faces were grouped in the porch to welcome him back; and among them all none smiled more brightly than the old priest and his father. the dogs went wild with joy, and his favourite peregrine scolded on the falconer's wrist, and struggled with her jesses, shrilly reminding him of the merry old days by the dreary salt marsh, or the lonely lake. the past was never once alluded to in any way by any one in the house. old squire petre shook hands with faithful james, and gave him a watch, ordering him to ride a certain colt next day, and see how well forward he could get him. so next day they drew the home covers, and the fox, brave fellow, ran out to parkside, making for the granite walls of hessitor. and, when densil felt his nostrils filled once more by the free rushing mountain air, he shouted aloud for joy, and james's voice alongside of him said-- "this is better than the fleet, sir." and so densil played a single-wicket match with the holy church, and, like a great many other people, got bowled out in the first innings. he returned to his allegiance in the most exemplary manner, and settled down to the most humdrum of young country gentlemen. he did exactly what every one else about him did. he was not naturally a profligate or vicious man; but there was a wild devil of animal passion in him, which had broken out in london, and which was now quieted by dread of consequences, but which he felt and knew was there, and might break out again. he was a changed man. there was a gulf between him and the life he had led before he went to london. he had tasted of liberty (or rather, not to profane that divine word, of licentiousness), and yet not drunk long enough to make him weary of the draught. he had heard the dogmas he was brought up to believe infallible turned to unutterable ridicule by men like saltire and wrekin; men who, as he had the wit to see, were a thousand times cleverer and better informed than father clifford or father dennis. in short, he had found out, as a great many others have, that popery won't hold water, and so, as a _pis aller_, he adopted saltire's creed--that religion was necessary for the government of states, that one religion was as good as another, and that, _cæteris paribus_, the best religion was the one which secured the possessor £ , a year, and therefore densil was a devout catholic. it was thought by the allied powers that he ought to marry. he had no objection and so he married a young lady, a miss winkleigh--catholic, of course--about whom i can get no information whatever. lady ascot says that she was a pale girl, with about as much air as a milkmaid; on which two facts i can build no theory as to her personal character. she died in , childless; and in densil lost both his father and mother, and found himself, at the age of thirty-seven, master of ravenshoe and master of himself. he felt the loss of the old folks most keenly, more keenly than that of his wife. he seemed without a stay or holdfast in the world, for he was a poorly educated man, without resources; and so he went on moping and brooding until good old father clifford, who loved him dearly, got alarmed, and recommended travels. he recommended rome, the cradle of the faith, and to rome he went. he stayed at rome a year; at the end of which time he appeared suddenly at home with a beautiful young wife on his arm. as father clifford, trembling and astonished, advanced to lay his hand upon her head, she drew up, laughed, and said, "spare yourself the trouble, my dear sir; i am a protestant." i have had to tell you all this, in order to show you how it came about that densil, though a papist, bethought of marrying a protestant wife to keep up a balance of power in his house. for, if he had not married this lady, the hero of this book would never have been born; and this greater proposition contains the less, "that if he had never been born, his history would never have been written, and so this book would have had no existence." chapter ii. supplementary to the foregoing. the second mrs. ravenshoe was the handsome dowerless daughter of a worcester squire, of good standing, who, being blessed with an extravagant son, and six handsome daughters, had lived for several years abroad, finding society more accessible, and consequently, the matrimonial chances of the "petersham girls" proportionately greater than in england. she was a handsome proud woman, not particularly clever, or particularly agreeable, or particularly anything, except particularly self-possessed. she had been long enough looking after an establishment to know thoroughly the value of one, and had seen quite enough of good houses to know that a house without a mistress is no house at all. accordingly, in a very few days the house felt her presence, submitted with the best grace to her not unkindly rule, and in a week they all felt as if she had been there for years. father clifford, who longed only for peace, and was getting very old, got very fond of her, heretic as she was. she, too, liked the handsome, gentlemanly old man, and made herself agreeable to him, as a woman of the world knows so well how to do. father mackworth, on the other hand, his young coadjutor since father dennis's death, an importation of lady alicia's from rome, very soon fell under her displeasure. the first sunday after her arrival, she drove to church, and occupied the great old family pew, to the immense astonishment of the rustics, and, after afternoon service, caught up the old vicar in her imperious off-hand way, and will he nil he, carried him off to dinner--at which meal he was horrified to find himself sitting with two shaven priests, who talked latin and crossed themselves. his embarrassment was greatly increased by the behaviour of mrs. ravenshoe, who admired his sermon, and spoke on doctrinal points with him as though there were not a priest within a mile. father mackworth was imprudent enough to begin talking at him, and at last said something unmistakably impertinent; upon which mrs. ravenshoe put her glass in her eye, and favoured him with such a glance of haughty astonishment as silenced him at once. this was the beginning of hostilities between them, if one can give the name of hostilities to a series of infinitesimal annoyances on the one side, and to immeasurable and barely concealed contempt on the other. mackworth, on the one hand, knew that she understood and despised him, and he hated her. she on the other hand knew that he knew it, but thought him too much below her notice, save now and then that she might put down with a high hand any, even the most distant, approach to a tangible impertinence. but she was no match for him in the arts of petty, delicate, galling annoyances. there he was her master; he had been brought up in a good school for that, and had learnt his lesson kindly. he found that she disliked his presence, and shrunk from his smooth, lean face with unutterable dislike. from that moment he was always in her way, overwhelming her with oily politeness, rushing across the room to pick up anything she had dropped, or to open the door, till it required the greatest restraint to avoid breaking through all forms of politeness, and bidding him begone. but why should we go on detailing trifles like these, which in themselves are nothing, but accumulated are unbearable? so it went on, till one morning, about two years after the marriage, mackworth appeared in clifford's room, and, yawning, threw himself into a chair. "benedicite," said father clifford, who never neglected religious etiquette on any occasion. mackworth stretched out his legs and yawned, rather rudely, and then relapsed into silence. father clifford went on reading. at last mackworth spoke. "i'll tell you what, my good friend, i am getting sick of this; i shall go back to rome." "to rome?" "yes, back to rome," repeated the other impertinently, for he always treated the good old priest with contemptuous insolence when they were alone. "what is the use of staying here, fighting that woman? there is no more chance of turning her than a rock, and there is going to be no family." "you think so?" said clifford. "good heavens, does it look like it? two years, and not a sign; besides, should i talk of going, if i thought so? then there would be a career worthy of me; then i should have a chance of deserving well of the church, by keeping a wavering family in her bosom. and i could do it, too: every child would be a fresh weapon in my hands against that woman. clifford, do you think that ravenshoe is safe?" he said this so abruptly that clifford coloured and started. mackworth at the same time turned suddenly upon him, and scrutinised his face keenly. "safe!" said the old man; "what makes you fear otherwise?" "nothing special," said mackworth; "only i have never been easy since you told me of that london escapade years ago." "he has been very devout ever since," said clifford. "i fear nothing." "humph! well, i am glad to hear it," said mackworth. "i shall go to rome. i'd sooner be gossiping with alphonse and pierre in the cloisters than vegetating here. my talents are thrown away." he departed down the winding steps of the priest's turret, which led to the flower garden. the day was fine, and a pleasant seat a short distance off invited him to sit. he could get a book he knew from the drawing-room, and sit there. so, with habitually noiseless tread, he passed along the dark corridor, and opened the drawing-room door. nobody was there. the book he wanted was in the little drawing-room beyond, separated from the room he was in by a partly-drawn curtain. the priest advanced silently over the deep piled carpet and looked in. the summer sunlight, struggling through a waving bower of climbing plants and the small panes of a deeply mullioned window, fell upon two persons, at the sight of whom he paused, and, holding his breath, stood, like a black statue in the gloomy room, wrapped in astonishment. he had never in his life heard these twain use any words beyond those of common courtesy towards one another; he had thought them the most indifferent, the coldest pair, he had ever seen. but now! now, the haughty beauty was bending from her chair over her husband, who sat on a stool at her feet; her arm was round his neck, and her hand was in his; and, as he looked, she parted the clustering black curls from his forehead and kissed him. he bent forward and listened more eagerly. he could hear the surf on the shore, the sea-birds on the cliffs, the nightingale in the wood; they fell upon his ear, but he could not distinguish them; he waited only for one of the two figures before him to speak. at last mrs. ravenshoe broke silence, but in so low a voice that even he, whose attention was strained to the uttermost, could barely catch what she said. "i yield, my love," said she; "i give you this one, but mind, the rest are mine. i have your solemn promise for that?" "my solemn promise," said densil, and kissed her again. "my dear," she resumed, "i wish you could get rid of that priest, that mackworth. he is irksome to me." "he was recommended to my especial care by my mother," was densil's reply. "if you could let him stay i should much rather." "oh, let him stay!" said she; "he is too contemptible for me to annoy myself about. but i distrust him, densil. he has a lowering look sometimes." "he is talented and agreeable," said densil; "but i never liked him." the listener turned to go, having heard enough, but was arrested by her continuing-- "by the by, my love, do you know that that impudent girl norah has been secretly married this three months?" the priest listened more intently than ever. "who to?" asked densil. "to james, your keeper." "i am glad of that. that lad james stuck to me in prison, susan, when they all left me. she is a fine, faithful creature, too. mind you give her a good scolding." mackworth had heard enough apparently, for he stole gently away through the gloomy room, and walked musingly upstairs to father clifford. that excellent old man took up the conversation just where it had left off. "and when," said he, "my brother, do you propose returning to rome?" "i shall not go to rome at all," was the satisfactory reply, followed by a deep silence. in a few months, much to father clifford's joy and surprise, mrs. ravenshoe bore a noble boy, which was named cuthbert. cuthbert was brought up in the romish faith, and at five years old had just begun to learn his prayers of father clifford, when an event occurred equally unexpected by all parties. mrs. ravenshoe was again found to be in a condition to make an addition to her family. chapter iii. in which our hero's troubles begin. if you were a lazy yachtsman, sliding on a summer's day, before a gentle easterly breeze, over the long swell from the atlantic, past the south-westerly shores of the bristol channel, you would find, after sailing all day beneath shoreless headlands of black slate, that the land suddenly fell away and sunk down, leaving, instead of beetling cliffs, a lovely amphitheatre of hanging wood and lawn, fronted by a beach of yellow sand--a pleasing contrast to the white surf and dark crag to which your eye had got accustomed. this beautiful semicircular basin is about two miles in diameter, surrounded by hills on all sides, save that which is open to the sea. east and west the headlands stretch out a mile or more, forming a fine bay open to the north; while behind, landward, the downs roll up above the woodlands, a bare expanse of grass and grey stone. half way along the sandy beach, a trout-stream comes foaming out of a dark wood, and finds its way across the shore in fifty sparkling channels; and the eye, caught by the silver thread of water, is snatched away above and beyond it, along a wooded glen, the cradle of the stream, which pierces the country landward for a mile or two, till the misty vista is abruptly barred by a steep blue hill, which crosses the valley at right angles. a pretty little village stands at the mouth of the stream, and straggles with charming irregularity along the shore for a considerable distance westward; while behind, some little distance up the glen, a handsome church tower rises from among the trees. there are some fishing boats at anchor, there are some small boats on the beach, there is a coasting schooner beached and discharging coal, there are some fishermen lounging, there are some nets drying, there are some boys bathing, there are two grooms exercising four handsome horses; but it is not upon horses, men, boats, ship, village, church, or stream, that you will find your eye resting, but upon a noble, turreted, deep-porched, grey stone mansion, that stands on the opposite side of the stream, about a hundred feet above the village. on the east bank of the little river, just where it joins the sea, abrupt lawns of grass and fern, beautifully broken by groups of birch and oak, rise above the dark woodlands, at the culminating point of which, on a buttress which runs down from the higher hills behind, stands the house i speak of, the north front looking on the sea, and the west on the wooded glen before mentioned--the house on a ridge dividing the two. immediately behind again the dark woodlands begin once more, and above them is the moor. the house itself is of grey stone, built in the time of henry viii. the façade is exceedingly noble, though irregular; the most striking feature in the north or sea front being a large dark porch, open on three sides, forming the basement of a high stone tower, which occupies the centre of the building. at the north-west corner (that towards the village) rises another tower of equal height; and behind, above the irregular groups of chimneys, the more modern cupola of the stables shows itself as the highest point of all, and gives, combined with the other towers, a charming air of irregularity to the whole. the windows are mostly long, low, and heavily mullioned, and the walls are battlemented. on approaching the house you find that it is built very much after the fashion of a college, with a quadrangle in the centre. two sides of this, the north and west, are occupied by the house, the south by the stables, and the east by a long and somewhat handsome chapel, of greater antiquity than the rest of the house. the centre of this quad, in place of the trim grass-plat, is occupied by a tan lunging ring, in the middle of which stands a granite basin filled with crystal water from the hills. in front of the west wing, a terraced flower-garden goes step by step towards the stream, till the smooth-shaven lawns almost mingle with the wild ferny heather turf of the park, where the dappled deer browse, and the rabbit runs to and fro busily. on the north, towards the sea, there are no gardens; but a noble gravel terrace, divided from the park only by a deep rampart, runs along beneath the windows; and to the east the deer-park stretches away till lawn and glade are swallowed up in the encroaching woodland. such is ravenshoe hall at the present day, and such it was on the th of june, (i like to be particular), as regards the still life of the place; but, if one had then regarded the living inhabitants, one would have seen signs of an unusual agitation. round the kitchen door stood a group of female servants talking eagerly together; and, at the other side of the court, some half-dozen grooms and helpers were evidently busy on the same theme, till the appearance of the stud-groom entering the yard suddenly dispersed them right and left; to do nothing with superabundant energy. to them also entered a lean, quiet-looking man, aged at this time fifty-two. we have seen him before. he was our old friend jim, who had attended densil in the fleet prison in old times. he had some time before this married a beautiful irish catholic waiting-maid of lady alicia's, by whom he had a daughter, now five years old, and a son aged one week. he walked across the yard to where the women were talking, and addressed them. "how is my lady to-night?" said he. "holy mother of god!" said a weeping irish housemaid, "she's worse." "how's the young master?" "hearty, a darling; crying his little eyes out, he is, a-bless him." "he'll be bigger than master cuthbert, i'll warrant ye," said a portly cook. "when was he born?" asked james. "nigh on two hours," said the other speaker. at this conjuncture a groom came running through the passage, putting a note in his hat as he went; he came to the stud-groom, and said hurriedly, "a note for dr. marcy at lanceston, sir. what horse am i to take?" "trumpeter. how is my lady?" "going, as far as i can gather, sir." james waited until he heard him dash full speed out of the yard, and then till he saw him disappear like a speck along the mountain road far aloft; then he went into the house, and, getting as near to the sick room as he dared, waited quietly on the stairs. it was a house of woe, indeed! two hours before, one feeble, wailing little creature had taken up his burthen, and begun his weary pilgrimage across the unknown desolate land that lay between him and the grave--for a part of which you and i are to accompany him; while his mother even now was preparing for her rest, yet striving for the child's sake to lengthen the last few weary steps of her journey, that they two might walk, were it never so short a distance, together. the room was very still. faintly the pure scents and sounds stole into the chamber of death from the blessed summer air without; gently came the murmur of the surf upon the sands; fainter and still fainter came the breath of the dying mother. the babe lay beside her, and her arm was round its body. the old vicar knelt by the bed, and densil stood with folded arms and bowed head, watching the face which had grown so dear to him, till the light should die out from it for ever. only those four in the chamber of death! the sighing grew louder, and the eye grew once more animated. she reached out her hand, and, taking one of the vicar's, laid it upon the baby's head. then she looked at densil, who was now leaning over her, and with a great effort spoke. "densil, dear, you will remember your promise?" "i will swear it, my love." a few more laboured sighs, and a greater effort: "swear it to me, love." he swore that he would respect the promise he had made, so help him god! the eyes were fixed now, and all was still. then there was a long sigh; then there was a long silence; then the vicar rose from his knees, and looked at densil. there were but three in the chamber now. * * * * * densil passed through the weeping women, and went straight to his own study. there he sat down, tearless, musing much about her who was gone. how he had grown to love that woman, he thought--her that he had married for her beauty and her pride, and had thought so cold and hard! he remembered how the love of her had grown stronger, year by year, since their first child was born. how he had respected her for her firmness and consistency; and how often, he thought, had he sheltered his weakness behind her strength! his right hand was gone, and he was left alone to do battle by himself! one thing was certain. happen what would, his promise should be respected, and this last boy, just born, should be brought up a protestant as his mother had wished. he knew the opposition he would have from father mackworth, and determined to brave it. and, as the name of that man came into his mind, some of his old fierce, savage nature broke out again, and he almost cursed him aloud. "i hate that fellow! i should like to defy him, and let him do his worst. i'd do it, now she's gone, if it wasn't for the boys. no, hang it, it wouldn't do. if i'd told him under seal of confession, instead of letting him grab it out, he couldn't have hung it over me like this. i wish he was--" if father mackworth had had the slightest inkling of the state of mind of his worthy patron towards him, it is very certain that he would not have chosen that very moment to rap at the door. the most acute of us make a mistake sometimes; and he, haunted with vague suspicions since the conversation he had overheard in the drawing-room before the birth of cuthbert, grew impatient, and determined to solve his doubts at once, and, as we have seen, selected the singularly happy moment when poor passionate densil was cursing him to his heart's content. "brother, i am come to comfort you," he said, opening the door before densil had time, either to finish the sentence written above, or to say "come in." "this is a heavy affliction, and the heavier because--" "go away," said densil, pointing to the door. "nay, nay," said the priest, "hear me--" "go away," said densil, in a louder tone. "do you hear me? i want to be alone, and i mean to be. go!" how recklessly defiant weak men get when they are once fairly in a rage? densil, who was in general civilly afraid of this man, would have defied fifty such as he now. "there is one thing, mr. ravenshoe," said the priest, in a very different tone, "about which i feel it my duty to speak to you, in spite of the somewhat unreasonable form your grief has assumed. i wish to know what you mean to call your son." "why?" "because he is ailing, and i wish to baptise him." "you will do nothing of the kind, sir," said densil, as red as a turkey-cock. "he will be baptised in proper time in the parish church. he is to be brought up a protestant." the priest looked steadily at densil, who, now brought fairly to bay, was bent on behaving like a valiant man, and said slowly-- "so my suspicions are confirmed, then, and you have determined to hand over your son to eternal perdition" (he didn't say perdition, he used a stronger word, which we will dispense with, if you have no objection). "perdition, sir!" bawled densil; "how dare you talk of a son of mine in that free-and-easy sort of way? why, what my family has done for the church ought to keep a dozen generations of ravenshoes from a possibility of perdition, sir. don't tell me." this new and astounding theory of justification by works, which poor densil had broached in his wrath, was overheard by a round-faced, bright-eyed, curly-headed man about fifty, who entered the room suddenly, followed by james. for one instant you might have seen a smile of intense amusement pass over his merry face; but in an instant it was gone again, and he gravely addressed densil. "my dear mr. ravenshoe, i must use my authority as doctor, to request that your son's spiritual welfare should for the present yield to his temporal necessities. you must have a wet-nurse, my good sir." densil's brow had grown placid in a moment beneath the doctor's kindly glance. "god bless me," he said, "i never thought of it. poor little lad! poor little lad!" "i hope, sir," said james, "that you will let norah have the young master. she has set her heart upon it." "i have seen mrs. horton," said the doctor, "and i quite approve of the proposal. i think it, indeed, a most special providence that she should be able to undertake it. had it been otherwise, we might have been undone." "let us go at once," said the impetuous densil. "where is the nurse? where is the boy?" and, so saying, he hurried out of the room, followed by the doctor and james. mackworth stood alone, looking out of the window, silent. he stood so long that one who watched him peered from his hiding-place more than once to see if he were gone. at length he raised his arm and struck his clenched hand against the rough granite window-sill so hard that he brought blood. then he moodily left the room. as soon as the room was quiet, a child about five years old crept stealthily from a dark corner where he had lain hidden, and with a look of mingled shyness and curiosity on his face, departed quietly by another door. meanwhile, densil, james, and the doctor, accompanied by the nurse and baby, were holding their way across the court-yard towards a cottage which lay in the wood beyond the stables. james opened the door, and they passed into the inner room. a beautiful woman was sitting propped up by pillows, nursing a week-old child. the sunlight, admitted by a half-open shutter, fell upon her, lighting up her delicate features, her pale pure complexion, and bringing a strange sheen on her long loose black hair. her face was bent down, gazing on the child which lay on her breast; and at the entrance of the party she looked up, and displayed a large lustrous dark blue eye, which lighted up with infinite tenderness, as densil, taking the wailing boy from the nurse, placed it on her arm beside the other. "take care of that for me, norah," said densil. "it has no mother but you, now." "acushla ma chree," she answered; "bless my little bird. come to your nest, alanna, come to your pretty brother, my darlin'." the child's wailing was stilled now, and the doctor remarked, and remembered long afterwards, that the little waxen fingers, clutching uneasily about, came in contact with the little hand of the other child, and paused there. at this moment, a beautiful little girl, about five years old, got on the bed, and nestled her peachy cheek against her mother's. as they went out, he turned and looked at the beautiful group once more, and then he followed densil back to the house of mourning. reader, before we have done with those three innocent little faces, we shall see them distorted and changed by many passions, and shall meet them in many strange places. come, take my hand, and we will follow them on to the end. chapter iv. father mackworth. i have noticed that the sayings and doings of young gentlemen before they come to the age of, say seven or eight, are hardly interesting to any but their immediate relations and friends. i have my eye, at this moment, on a young gentleman of the mature age of two, the instances of whose sagacity and eloquence are of greater importance, and certainly more pleasant, to me, than the projects of napoleon, or the orations of bright. and yet i fear that even his most brilliant joke, if committed to paper, would fall dead upon the public ear; and so, for the present, i shall leave charles ravenshoe to the care of norah, and pass on to some others who demand our attention more. the first thing which john mackworth remembered was his being left in the _loge_ of a french school at rouen by an english footman. trying to push back his memory further, he always failed to conjure up any previous recollection to that. he had certainly a very indistinct one of having been happier, and having lived quietly in pleasant country places with a kind woman who talked english; but his first decided impression always remained the same--that of being, at six years old, left friendless, alone, among twenty or thirty french boys older than himself. his was a cruel fate. he would have been happier apprenticed to a collier. if the man who sent him there had wished to inflict the heaviest conceivable punishment on the poor unconscious little innocent, he could have done no more than simply left him at that school. we shall see how he found out at last who his benefactor was. english boys are sometimes brutal to one another (though not so often as some wish to make out), and are always rough. yet i must say, as far as my personal experience goes, the french boy is entirely master in the art of tormenting. he never strikes; he does not know how to clench his fist. he is an arrant coward, according to an english schoolboy's definition of the word: but at pinching, pulling hair, ear pulling, and that class of annoyance, all the natural ingenuity of his nation comes out, and he is superb; add to this a combined insolent studied sarcasm, and you have an idea of what a disagreeable french schoolboy can be. to say that the boys at poor john mackworth's school put all these methods of torture in force against him, and ten times more, is to give one but a faint idea of his sufferings. the english at that time were hated with a hatred which we in these sober times have but little idea of; and, with the cannon of trafalgar ringing as it were in their ears, these young french gentlemen seized on mackworth as a lawful prize providentially delivered into their hands. we do not know what he may have been under happier auspices, or what he may be yet with a more favourable start in another life; we have only to do with what he was. six years of friendless persecution, of life ungraced and uncheered by domestic love, of such bitter misery as childhood alone is capable of feeling or enduring, transformed him from a child into a heartless, vindictive man. and then, the french schoolmaster having roughly finished the piece of goods, it was sent to rome to be polished and turned out ready for the market. here i must leave him; i don't know the process. i have seen the article when finished, and am familiar with it. i know the trade mark on it as well as i know the tower mark on my rifle. i may predicate of a glass that it is bohemian ruby, and yet not know how they gave it the colour. i must leave descriptions of that system to mr. steinmetz, and men who have been behind the scenes. the red-hot ultramontane thorough-going catholicism of that pretty pervert, lady alicia, was but ill satisfied with the sensible, old english, cut and dried notions of the good father clifford. a comparison of notes with two or three other great ladies, brought about a consultation, and a letter to rome, the result of which was that a young englishman of presentable exterior, polite manners, talking english with a slight foreign accent, made his appearance at ravenshoe, and was installed as her ladyship's confessor, about eighteen months before her death. his talents were by no means ordinary. in very few days he had gauged every intellect in the house, and found that he was by far the superior of all in wit and education; and he determined that as long as he stayed in the house he would be master there. densil's jealous temper sadly interfered with this excellent resolution; he was immensely angry and rebellious at the slightest apparent infringement of his prerogative, and after his parents' death treated mackworth in such an exceedingly cavalier manner, that the latter feared he should have to move, till chance threw into his hand a whip wherewith he might drive densil where he would. he discovered a scandalous liaison of poor densil's, and in an indirect manner let him know that he knew all about it. this served to cement his influence until the appearance of mrs. ravenshoe the second, who, as we have seen, treated him with such ill-disguised contempt, that he was anything but comfortable, and was even meditating a retreat to rome, when the conversation he overheard in the drawing-room made him pause, and the birth of the boy cuthbert confirmed his resolution to stay. for now, indeed, there was a prospect open to him. here was this child delivered over to him like clay to a potter, that he might form it as he would. it should go hard but that the revenues and county influence of the ravenshoes should tend to the glory of the church as heretofore. only one person was in his way, and that was mrs. ravenshoe; after her death he was master of the situation with regard to the eldest of the boys. he had partly guessed, ever since he overheard the conversation of densil and his wife, that some sort of bargain existed between them about the second child; but he paid little heed to it. it was, therefore, with the bitterest anger that he saw his fears confirmed, and densil angrily obstinate on the matter; for supposing cuthbert were to die, all his trouble and anxiety would avail nothing, and the old house and lands would fall to a protestant heir, the first time in the history of the island. father clifford consoled him. meanwhile, his behaviour towards densil was gradually and insensibly altered. he became the free and easy man of the world, the amusing companion, the wise counsellor. he saw that densil was of a nature to lean on some one, and he was determined it should be on him; so he made himself necessary. but he did more than this; he determined he would be beloved as well as respected, and with a happy audacity he set to work to win that poor wild foolish heart to himself, using such arts of pleasing as must have been furnished by his own mother wit, and could never have been learned in a hundred years from a jesuit college. the poor heart was not a hard one to win; and, the day they buried poor father clifford in the mausoleum, it was with a mixture of pride at his own talents, and contemptuous pity for his dupe, that mackworth listened to densil as he told him that he was now his only friend, and besought him not to leave him--which thing mackworth promised, with the deepest sincerity, he would not do. chapter v. ranford. master charles, blessed with a placid temper and a splendid appetite, throve amazingly. before you knew where you were, he was in tops and bottoms; before you had thoroughly realized that, he was learning his letters; then there was hardly time to turn round, before he was a rosy-cheeked boy of ten. from the very first gleam of reason, he had been put solely and entirely under the care of mr. snell, the old vicar, who had been with his mother when she died, and a protestant nurse, mrs. varley. faithfully had these two discharged their sacred trust; and, if love can repay such services, right well were they repaid. a pleasant task they had, though, for a more lovable little lad than charles there never was. his little heart seemed to have an infinite capacity of affection for all who approached him. everything animate came before him in the light of a friend, to whom he wished to make himself agreeable, from his old kind tutor and nurse down to his pony and terrier. charles had not arrived at the time of life when it was possible for him to quarrel about women; and so he actually had no enemies as yet, but was welcomed by pleasant and kind faces wherever he went. at one time he would be at his father's knee, while the good-natured densil made him up some fishing tackle; next you would find him in the kennel with the whipper-in, feeding the hounds, half-smothered by their boisterous welcome; then the stables would own him for a time, while the lads were cleaning up and feeding; then came a sudden flitting to one of the keeper's lodges; and anon he would be down on the sands wading with half a dozen fisher-boys as happy as himself--but welcome and beloved everywhere. sunday was a right pleasant day for him. after seeing his father shave, and examining his gold-topped dressing-case from top to bottom--amusements which were not participated in by cuthbert, who had grown too manly--he would haste through his breakfast, and with his clean clothes hurry down the village towards the vicarage, which stood across the stream near the church. not to go in yet, you will observe, because the sermon, he well knew, was getting its finishing touches, and the vicar must not be disturbed. no, the old stone bridge would bring him up; and there he would stay looking at the brown crystal-clear water rushing and seething among the rocks, lying dark under the oak-roots, and flashing merrily over the weir, just above the bridge; till "flick!" a silver bar would shoot quivering into the air, and a salmon would light on the top of the fall, just where the water broke, and would struggle on into the still pool above, or be beaten back by the force, to resume his attempt when he had gained breath. the trout, too, under the bridge, bless the rogues, they knew it was sunday well enough--how they would lie up there in the swiftest places, where glancing liquid glorified the poor pebbles below into living amber, and would hardly trouble themselves to snap at the great fat, silly stoneflies that came floating down. oh! it was a terrible place for dawdling was that stone bridge, on a summer sabbath morn. but now would the country folks come trooping in from far and near, for ravenshoe was the only church for miles, and however many of them there were, every one had a good hearty west-country greeting for him. and, as the crowd increased near the church door, there was so much to say and hear, that i am afraid the prayers suffered a little sometimes. the villagers were pleased enough to see the lad in the old carved horsebox (not to be irreverent) of a pew, beneath the screen in the chancel, with the light from the old rose window shining on his curly brown hair. the older ones would think of the haughty beautiful lady who sat there so few years ago, and oftentimes one of the more sagacious would shake his head and mutter to himself, "ah! if _he_ were heir." any boy who reads this story, and i hope many will read it, is hereby advertised that it is exceedingly wrong to be inattentive in church in sermon time. it is very naughty to look up through the windows at the white clouds flying across the blue sky, and think how merrily the shadows are sweeping over the upland lawn, where the pewits' nests are, and the blackcock is crowing on the grey stones among the heather. no boy has any right to notice another boy's absence, and spend sermon-time in wondering whether he is catching crabs among the green and crimson seaweed on the rocks, or bathing in the still pool under the cliff. a boy had better not go to church at all if he spends his time in thinking about the big trout that lies up in one of the pools of the woodland stream, and whether he will be able to catch a sight of him again by creeping gently through the hazel and king fern. birds' nests, too, even though it be the ringousel's, who is to lay her last egg this blessed day, and is marked for spoliation to-morrow, should be banished from a boy's mind entirely during church time. now, i am sorry to say, that charley was very much given to wander in church, and, when asked about the sermon by the vicar next day, would look rather foolish. let us hope that he will be a warning to all sinners in this respect. then, after church, there would be dinner, at his father's lunch time, in the dark old hall, and there would be more to tell his father and brother than could be conveniently got through at that meal; then there was church again, and a long stroll in the golden sunshine along the shore. ah, happy summer sabbaths! the only two people who were ever cold to charley, were his brother and mackworth. not that they were openly unkind, but there was between both of them and himself an indefinable gulf, an entire want of sympathy, which grieved him sometimes, though he was as yet too young to be much troubled by it. he only exhausted all his little arts of pleasing towards them to try and win them; he was indefatigable in running messages for cuthbert and the chaplain; and once, when kind grandaunt ascot (she was a miss headstall, daughter of sir cingle headstall, and married lord george ascot, brother of lady alicia, densil's mother) sent him a pineapple in a box, he took it to the priest and would have had him take it. mackworth refused it, but looked on him not unkindly for a few minutes, and then turned away with a sigh. perhaps he was trying to recall the time so long, long ago, when his own face was as open and as innocent as that. god knows! charles cried a little, because the priest wouldn't take it, and, having given his brother the best slice, ate the rest in the stable, with the assistance of his foster brother and two of the pad grooms. thereby proving himself to be a lad of low and dissipated habits. cuthbert was at this time a somewhat good-looking young fellow of sixteen. neither of the brothers was what would be called handsome, though, if charley's face was the most pleasing, cuthbert certainly had the most regular features. his forehead was lofty, although narrow, and flat at the sides; his cheek bones were high, and his nose was aquiline, not ill-formed, though prominent, starting rather suddenly out below his eyes; the lips were thin, the mouth small and firmly closed, and the chin short and prominent. the _tout ensemble_ was hardly pleasing even at this youthful period; the face was too much formed and decided for so young a man. cuthbert was a reserved methodical lad, with whom no one could find fault, and yet whom few liked. he was studious and devout to an extent rare in one so young; and, although a capital horseman and a good shot, he but seldom indulged in those amusements, preferring rather a walk with the steward, and soon returning to the dark old library to his books and father mackworth. there they two would sit, like two owls, hour after hour, appearing only at meals, and talking french to one another, noticing charley but little; who, however, was always full of news, and would tell it, too, in spite of the inattention of the strange couple. densil began to respect and be slightly afraid of his eldest son, as his superior in learning and in natural abilities; but i think charles had the biggest share in his heart. aunt ascot had a year before sent to cuthbert to pay her a visit at ranford, her son's, lord ascot's place, where she lived with him, he being a widower, and kept house for him. ranford, we all know, or ought to know, contains the largest private racing stud in england, and the ascot family for many generations had given themselves up entirely to sporting--so much so, that their marriages with other houses have been to a certain extent influenced by it; and so poor cuthbert, as we may suppose, was quite like a fish out of water. he detested and despised the men he met there, and they, on their parts, such of them as chose to notice him, thought him a surly young bookworm; and, as for his grandaunt, he hated the very sound of that excellent lady's voice. her abruptness, her homoeopathic medicines, her protestantism (which she was always airing), and her stable-talk, nearly drove him mad; while she, on the other hand, thought him one of the most disagreeable boys she had ever met with in her life. so the visit was rather a failure than otherwise, and not very likely to be repeated. nevertheless, her ladyship was very fond of young faces, and so in a twelvemonth, she wrote to densil as follows:-- "i am one mass of lumbago all round the small of my back, and i find nothing like opodeldoc after all. the pain is very severe, but i suppose you would comfort me, as a heretic, by saying it is nothing to what i shall endure in a few years' time. bah! i have no patience with you papists, packing better people than yourselves off somewhere in that free-and-easy way. by-the-bye, how is that father confessor of yours, markworth, or some such name--mind me, ravenshoe, that fellow is a rogue, and you being, like all ravenshoes, a fool, there is a pair of you. why, if one of ascot's grooms was to smile as that man does, or to whine in his speech as that man does, when he is talking to a woman of rank, i'd have him discharged on the spot, without warning, for dishonesty. "don't put a penny on ascot's horse at chester; he will never stay over the cup course. curfew, in my opinion, looks by no means badly for the derby; he is scratched for the two thousand--which was necessary, though i am sorry for it, &c., &c., &c. "i wish you would send me your boy, will you? not the eldest: the protestant one. perhaps he mayn't be such an insufferable coxcomb as his brother." at which letter densil shook his honest sides with uproarious laughter. "cuthbert, my boy," he said, "you have won your dear aunt's heart entirely; though she, being determined to mortify the flesh with its affection, does not propose seeing you again, but asks for charley. the candour of that dear old lady increases with her age. you seem to have been making your court, too, father; she speaks of your smile in the most unqualified terms." "her ladyship must do me the honour to quiz me," said mackworth. "if it is possible to judge by her eye, she must like me about as well as a mad dog." "for my part, father," said cuthbert, curling up the corners of his thin lips sardonically, "i shall be highly content to leave my dear aunt in the peaceable enjoyment of her favourite society of grooms, horse-jockeys, blacklegs, dissenting ministers, and such-like. a month in that house, my dear charley, will qualify you for a billiard-marker; and, after a course of six weeks, you will be fit to take the situation of croupier in a low hell on a race-course. how you will enjoy yourself, my dear!" "steady, cuthbert steady," said his father; "i can't allow you to talk like that about your cousin's house. it is a great house for field sports, but there is not a better conducted house in the kingdom." cuthbert lay over the sofa to fondle a cat, and then continued speaking very deliberately, in a slightly louder voice,-- "i will allow my aunt to be the most polite, intellectual, delicate-minded old lady in creation, my dearest father, if you wish it; only, not having been born (i beg her pardon, dropped) in a racing stable, as she was herself, i can hardly appreciate her conversation always. as for my cousin, i consider him a splendid sample of an hereditary legislator. charley, dear, you won't go to church on sunday afternoon at ranford; you will go into the croft with your cousin ascot to see the chickens fed. ascot is very curious in his poultry, particularly on sunday afternoon. father, why does he cut all the cocks' tails square?" "pooh, pooh," said densil, "what matter? many do it, besides him. don't you be squeamish, cuthbert--though, mind you, i don't defend cock-fighting on sunday." cuthbert laughed and departed, taking his cat with him. charles had a long coach journey of one day, and then an awful and wonderful journey on the great western railway as far as twyford--alighting at which place, he was accosted by a pleasant-looking, fresh-coloured boy, dressed in close-fitting cord trousers, a blue handkerchief, spotted with white, and a scotch cap; who said-- "oh! i'm your cousin welter. i'm the same age as you, and i'm going to eton next half. i've brought you over tiger, because punch is lame, and the station-master will look after your things; so we can come at once." the boys were friends in two minutes; and, going out, there was a groom holding two ponies--on the prettiest of which charley soon found himself seated, and jogging on with his companion towards henley. i like to see two honest lads, just introduced, opening their hearts to one another, and i know nothing more pleasant than to see how they rejoice as each similarity of taste comes out. by the time these two had got to henley bridge, lord welter had heard the name of every horse in the ravenshoe stables, and charley was rapidly getting learned in lord ascot's racing stud. the river at henley distracted his attention for a time, as the biggest he had seen, and he asked his cousin, "did he think the mississippi was much bigger than that now?" and lord welter supposed, "oh dear yes, a great deal bigger," he should say. then there was more conversation about dogs and guns, and pleasant country places to ride through; then a canter over a lofty breezy down, and then the river again, far below, and at their feet the chimneys of ranford. the house was very full; and, as the boys came up there was a crowd of phaetons, dog-carts, and saddle-horses, for the people were just arriving home for dinner after the afternoon drive; and, as they had all been to the same object of attraction that afternoon, they had all come in together and were loitering about talking, some not yet dismounted, and some on the steps. welter was at home at once, and had a word with every one; but charles was left alone, sitting on his pony, feeling very shy; till, at last, a great brown man with a great brown moustache, and a gruff voice, came up to him and lifted him off the horse, holding him out at arm's length for inspection. "so you are curly ravenshoe's boy, hey?" said he. "yes, sir." "ha!" said the stranger, putting him down, and leading him towards the door; "just tell your father you saw general mainwaring, will you? and that he wanted to know how his old friend was." charles looked at the great brown hand which was in his own, and thought of the affghan war, and of all the deeds of renown that that hand had done, and was raising his eyes to the general's face, when they were arrested half-way by another face, not the general's. it was that of a handsome, grey-headed man, who might have been sixty, he was so well _conservé_, but who was actually far more. he wore his own white hair, which contrasted strongly with a pair of delicate thin black eyebrows. his complexion was florid, with scarcely a wrinkle, his features were fine and regular, and a pair of sparkling dark grey eyes gave a pleasant light to his face. his dress was wondrously neat, and charles, looking on him, guessed, with a boy's tact, that he was a man of mark. "whose son did you say he was, general?" said the stranger. "curly's!" said mainwaring, stopping and smiling. "no, really!" said the other; and then he looked fixedly at charles, and began to laugh, and charley, seeing nothing better to do, looked up at the grey eyes and laughed too, and this made the stranger worse; and then, to crown the joke, the general began to laugh too, though none of them had said a syllable more than what i have written down; and at last the ridiculous exhibition finished up by the old gentleman taking a great pinch of snuff from a gold box, and turning away. charles was much puzzled, and was still more so when, in an hour's time, having dressed himself, and being on his way downstairs to his aunt's room, who had just come in, he was stopped on a landing by this same old gentleman, beautifully dressed for dinner, who looked on him as before. he didn't laugh this time, but he did worse. he utterly "dumbfoundered" charley, by asking abruptly-- "how's jim?" "he is very well, thank you, sir. his wife norah nursed me when mamma died." "oh, indeed," said the other; "so he hasn't cut your father's throat yet, or anything of that sort?" "oh dear no," said charles, horrified; "bless you, what can make you think of such things? why, he is the kindest man in the world." "i don't know," said the old gentleman, thoughtfully; "that excessively faithful kind of creature is very apt to do that sort of thing. i should discharge any servant of mine who exhibited the slightest symptoms of affection as a dangerous lunatic;" with which villainous sentiment he departed. charles thought what a strange old gentleman he was for a short time, and then slid down the banisters. they were better banisters than those at ravenshoe, being not so steep, and longer: so he went up, and slid down again;[ ] after which he knocked at his aunt's door. it was with a beating heart that he waited for an answer. cuthbert had described lady ascot as such a horrid old ogress, that he was not without surprise when a cheery voice said, "come in;" and entering a handsome room, he found himself in presence of a noble-looking old lady, with grey hair, who was netting in an upright, old-fashioned chair. "so you are charles ravenshoe, eh?" she began. "why, my dear, you must be perished with cold and hunger. i should have come in before, but i didn't expect you so soon. tea will be here directly. you ain't a beauty, my dear, but i think i shall like you. there never was but one really handsome ravenshoe, and that was poor petre, your grandfather. poor alicia made a great fool of herself, but she was very happy with him. welter, you naughty boy, be still." the right honourable viscount welter wanted his tea, and was consequently troublesome and fractious. he had picked a quarrel with his grandmother's terrier, which he averred had bitten him in the leg, and he was now heating the poker, in order, he informed the lady, to burn the place out, and prevent hydrophobia. whether he would have done so or not, we shall never know now, for, tea coming in at that moment, he instantly sat down at table, and called to charles to do likewise. "call miss adelaide, will you, sims?" said lady ascot; and presently there came tripping into the room the loveliest little blonde fairy, about ten years old, that ever you saw. she fixed her large blue eyes on charley, and then came up and gave him a kiss, which he, the rogue, returned with interest, and then, taking her seat at the table, she turned to welter, and hoped he was going to be good. such, however, it soon appeared, was not his lordship's intention. he had a guest at table, and he was bound in honour to show off before him, besides having to attend to his ordinary duty of frightening his grandmother as nearly into fits as was safe. accordingly, he began the repast by cramming buns into his mouth, using the handle of his knife as a rammer, until the salvation of his life appeared an impossibility, at which point he rose and left the room with a rapid, uneven step. on his re-appearance he began drinking, but, having caught his grandmother's eye over his teacup, he winked at her, and then held his breath till he was purple, and she begun to wring her hands in despair. all this time he was stimulated by charles's laughter and adelaide's crying out, continually, "oh, isn't he a naughty boy, lady ascot? oh, do tell him not to do it." but the crowning performance of this promising young gentleman--the feat which threw everything else into the shade, and which confirmed charley in his admiration of his profound talents--was this. just as a tall, grave, and handsome footman was pouring water into the teapot, and while her ladyship was inspecting the operation with all the interest of an old tea-maker, at that moment did lord welter contrive to inflict on the unfortunate man a pinch on the leg, of such a shrewdly agonising nature as caused him to gnash his teeth in lady ascot's face, to cry aloud, "oh, lord!" to whirl the kettle within an inch of her venerable nose, and finally, to gyrate across the room on one leg, and stand looking like the king of fools. lady ascot, who had merely seen the effect, and not the cause, ordered him promptly to leave the room, whereupon welter explained, and afterwards continued to charles, with an off-hand candour quite his own, as if no such person as his grandmother was within a hundred miles-- "you know, charley, i shouldn't dare to behave like this if my tutor was at home; she'd make nothing of telling him, now. she's in a terrible wax, but she'll be all right by the time he comes back from his holidays; won't you, grandma?" "you wicked boy," she replied, "i hope hawtrey will cure you; keate would have, i know." the boys slid on the banisters; then they went to dessert. then they went upstairs, and looked over welter's cricket apparatus, fishing tackle, and so on; and then they went into the billiard-room, which was now lighted up and full of guests. there were two tables in the room, at one of which a pool was getting up, while the other was empty. welter was going to play pool, and charles would have liked to do so too, being a very tolerable player; only he had promised his old tutor not to play for money till he was eighteen, and so he sat in the corner by the empty table, under the marking-board, with one leg gathered under him, and instantly found himself thinking about the little girl he had seen upstairs. once or twice he was surprised to find himself thinking so much about her, but he found it a pleasant subject, too, for he had sat in his corner more than half an hour without changing it, when he became aware that two men were taking down cues from the rack, and were going to play at his table. they were his two friends of the afternoon, general mainwaring and the grey-headed man who laughed. when they saw him they seemed glad, and the old gentleman asked him why he wasn't playing. "i musn't play pool," he answered. "i should like to mark for you." "well said, my hero," said the general: "and so jim's an honest man, is he?" charles saw that the old gentleman had told the general what had passed on the stairs, and wondered why he should take such an interest in him; but he soon fell to thinking about little adelaide again, and marking mechanically though correctly. he was aroused by the general's voice--"who did you mark that last miss to, my little man?" he said. "to the old gentleman," said charles, and then blushed at the consciousness of having said a rude thing. "that is one for you, methuselah," said the general. "never mind," said the old gentleman, "i have one great source of pride, which no one can rob me of; i am twelve years older than i look." they went on playing. "by-the-bye," said the general, "who is that exceedingly pretty child that the old lady has got with her?" "a child she has adopted," said the old gentleman. "a grand-daughter of an old friend who died in poverty. she is a noble-hearted old soul, the jockey, with all her absurdities." "who was she?" said the general. "(that was rather a fluke, was it not?)" "she? why, a daughter of old cingle headstall's, the mad old cheshire baronet--you don't remember him, of course, but your father knew him. drove his tandem round and round berkeley square for four hours on a foggy night, under the impression he was going home to hounslow, and then fired at the watchman who tried to put him right, taking him for a highwayman. the son went to france, and was lost sight of in the revolution; so the girl came in for what money there was: not very much, i take it. this poor thing, who was pretty and clever enough, but without education, having been literally brought up in a stable, captivated the sagacious ascot, and made him a capital wife." "i suppose she'll portion this girl, then; you say she had money?" "h'm," said the old gentleman, "there's a story about the aforesaid money, which is told in different ways, but which amounts to this, that the money is no more. hallo, our marker is getting sleepy." "not at all, sir," said charles. "if you will excuse me a moment, i will come back." he ran across to lord welter, who was leaning on his cue. "can you tell me," said he, "who is that old gentleman?" "which old gentleman?" "that one, with the black eyebrows, playing with general mainwaring. there, he is taking snuff." "oh _him_?" said welter; "that is lord saltire." chapter vi. the "warren hastings." time, the inexorable, kept mowing away at poor charles's flowers until the disagreeable old creature had cut them all down but two or three, and mowed right into the morning when it was necessary that he should go home; and then charles, looking forward through his tears, could see nothing at first but the very commonest grass. for was he not going to leave adelaide, probably never to see her again? in short, charles was in love, and going to separate from the object of his affections for the first time; at which i request you not to laugh, but just reflect how old you were yourself when you first fell in love. the little flirt, she must have waited till she heard him coming out of his room, and then have pretended to be coming upstairs all in a hurry. he got a kiss or a dozen, though, and a lock of hair, i believe; but he hadn't much time to think about it, for lord ascot was calling out for him, and when he got into the hall, there was all the household to see him off. everybody had a kind word for him; the old lady cried; lord saltire and the general shook hands; lord welter said it was a beastly sell; and lord ascot hummed and hawed, and told him to tell his father he had been a good boy. they were all sorry he was going, and he felt as though he was leaving old friends; but the carriage was there, and the rain was pouring down; and, with one last look at the group of faces, he was in the carriage and away. it was a terrible day, though he did not notice it at first. he was thinking how pleasant it was that the people were all so kind to him, just as kind as they were at home. he thought of adelaide, and wondered whether she would ever think of him. he was rather glad that welter was a naughty boy (not really naughty, you know), because she would be less likely to like him. and then he thought how glad the people at home would be to see him; and then he looked out of the window. he had left lord ascot's carriage and got into the train some time before this. now he saw that the train was going very slowly, and nothing was visible through the driving rain. then he tried to remember whether he had heard his father speak of lord saltire, and what he had heard about him; and thinking about this, the train stopped.--swindon. he got out to go to the refreshment room, and began wondering what the noise was which prevented him from hearing any one when they spoke, and why the people looked scared, and talked in knots. then he found that it was the wind in the roof; and some one told him that a chimney had been blown across the line, and they must wait till it was removed. all the day the brave engine fought westward against the wind, and two hours after time charles found himself in the coach which would take him to stonnington. the night crept on, and the coach crawled on its way through the terrible night, and charles slept. in the cold pitiless morning, as they were going over a loftily exposed moor, the coach, though only going foot's pace, stood for a moment on two wheels, and then fell crashing over on to a heap of road-side stones, awaking charles, who, being unhurt, lay still for a minute or so, with a faint impression of having been shaken in his sleep, and, after due reflection, made the brilliant discovery that the coach was upset. he opened the door over his head and jumped out. for an instant he was blinded by the stinging rain, but turned his back to it; and then, for the first time, he became aware that this was the most terrible gale of wind he had ever seen in his lifetime. he assisted the coachman and guard, and the solitary outside passenger, to lead the poor horses along the road. they fought on for about two hundred yards, and came to an alehouse, on the sight of which charles knew that they were two stages short of where he thought they had been, for this was the watershed inn, and the rain from its roof ran partly into the bristol channel and partly into the british. after an hour's rest here charles was summoned to join the coach in the valley below, and they crawled on again. it was a weary day over some very bleak country. they saw in one place a cottage unroofed on a moor, and the terrified family crouched down beneath the tottering walls. in the valleys great trees were down across the road, which were cross-cut and moved by country men, who told of oaks of three hundred years fallen in the night, and of corn stacks hurried before the blast like the leaves of autumn. still, as each obstacle was removed, there was the guard up blowing his horn cheerily, and charles was inside with a jump, and on they went. at last, at three o'clock, the coach drove under the gate of the "chichester arms," at stonnington, and charles, jumping out, was received by the establishment with the air of people who had done a clever thing, and were ready to take their meed of praise with humility. the handsome landlady took great credit to herself for charles's arrival--so much so, that one would have thought she herself had singlehanded dragged the coach from exeter. "_she_ had been sure all along that mr. charles would come"--a speech which, with the cutting glance that accompanied it, goaded the landlord to retort in a voice wheezy with good living, and to remind her that she had said, not ten minutes before, that she was quite sure he wouldn't; whereupon the landlady loftily begged him not to expose himself before the servants. at which the landlord laughed, and choked himself; at which the landlady slapped him on the back, and laughed too; after which they went in. his father, the landlord told him, had sent his pony over, as he was afraid of a carriage on the moor to-day, and that, if he felt at all afraid to come on, he was to sleep where he was. charles looked at the comfortable parlour and hesitated; but, happening to close his eyes an instant, he saw as plain as possible the library at home, and the flickering fire-light falling on the crimson and oak furniture, and his father listening for him through the roaring wind; and so he hesitated no longer, but said he would push on, and that he would wish to see his servant while he took dinner. the landlord eyed him admiringly with his head on one side, and proceeded to remark that corn was down another shilling; that squire west had sold his chesnut mare for one hundred and twenty pounds; and that if he kept well under the walls going home he would be out of the wind; that his missis was took poorly in the night with spasms, and had been cured by two wine-glasses of peppermint; that a many chimney-pots was blown down, and that old jim baker had heard tell as a pig was blowed through a church window. after which he poked the fire and retired. charles was hard at his dinner when his man came in. it was the oldest of the pad grooms--a man with grizzled hair, looking like a white terrier; and he stood before him smoothing his face with his hand. "hallo, michael," said charley, "how came you to come?" "master wouldn't send no other, sir. it's a awful day down there; there's above a hundred trees down along the road." "shall we be able to get there?" "as much as we shall, sir." "let us try. terrible sea, i suppose?" "awful to look at, sir. mr. mackworth and mr. cuthbert are down to look at it." "no craft ashore?" "none as yet. none of our boats is out. yesterday morning a pill boat, , stood in to see where she was, and beat out again, but that was before it came on so bad." so they started. they pushed rapidly out of the town, and up a narrow wooded valley which led to the moor which lay between them and ravenshoe. for some time they were well enough sheltered, and made capital way, till the wood began to grow sparer, and the road to rise abruptly. here the blast began to be more sensibly felt, and in a quarter of mile they had to leap three uprooted trees; before them they heard a rushing noise like the sea. it was the wind upon the moor. creeping along under the high stone walls, and bending down, they pushed on still, until, coming to the open moor, and receiving for the first time the terrible tornado full in their faces, the horses reared up and refused to proceed; but, being got side by side, and their heads being homeward, they managed to get on, though the rain upon their faces was agonising. as they were proceeding thus, with michael on the windward side, charles looked up, and there was another horseman beside him. he knew him directly; it was lloyd's agent. "anything wrong, mr. lewis? any ship ashore?" he shouted. "not yet, sir," said the agent. "but there'll be many a good sailor gone to the bottom before to-morrow morning, i am thinking. this is the heaviest gale for forty years." by degrees they descended to more sheltered valleys, and after a time found themselves in the court-yard of the hall. charles was caught up by his father; lloyd's agent was sent to the housekeeper's room; and very soon charles had forgotten all about wind and weather, and was pouring into his father's ear all his impressions of ranford. "i am glad you liked it," said densil, "and i'll be bound they liked you. you ought to have gone first, cuthbert don't suit them." "oh, cuthbert's too clever for them," said charles; "they are not at all clever people, bless you!" and only just in time too, for cuthbert walked into the room. "well, charley," he said, coolly, "so you're come back. well, and what did you think of welter, eh? i suppose he suited you?" "i thought him very funny, cuthbert," said charles, timidly. "i thought him an abominable young nuisance," said cuthbert. "i hope he hasn't taught you any of his fool's tricks." charles wasn't to be put off like this; so he went and kissed his brother, and then came back to his father. there was a long dull evening, and when they went to complines, he went to bed. up in his room he could hear that the wind was worse than ever, not rushing up in great gusts and sinking again, as in ordinary gales, but keeping up one continued unvarying scream against the house, which was terrible to hear. he got frightened at being alone; afraid of finding some ghostly thing at his elbow, which had approached him unheard through the noise. he began, indeed, to meditate upon going down stairs, when cuthbert, coming into the next room, reassured him, and he got into bed. this wasn't much better, though, for there was a thing in a black hood came and stood at the head of his bed; and, though he could not see it, he could feel the wind of its heavy draperies as it moved. moreover, a thing like a caterpillar, with a cat's head, about two feet long, came creep--creeping up the counterpane, which he valiantly smote, and found it to be his handkerchief; and still the unvarying roar went on till it was unendurable. he got up and went to his brother's room, and was cheered to find a light burning; he came softly in and called "cuthbert." "who is there?" asked he, with a sudden start. "it's i," said charles; "can you sleep?" "not i," saith cuthbert, sitting up. "i can hear people talking in the wind. come into bed; i'm so glad you're come." charles lay down by his brother, and they talked about ghosts for a long time. once their father came in with a light from his bedroom next door, and sat on the bed talking, as if he, too, was glad of company, and after that they dozed off and slept. it was in the grey light of morning that they awoke together and started up. the wind was as bad as ever, but the whole house was still, and they stared terrified at one another. "what was it?" whispered charles. cuthbert shook his head, and listened again. as he was opening his mouth to speak it came again, and they knew it was that which woke them. a sound like a single footstep on the floor above, light enough, but which shook the room. cuthbert was out of bed in an instant, tearing on his clothes. charles jumped out too, and asked him, "what is it?" "a gun!" charles well knew what awful disaster was implied in those words. the wind was n.w., setting into the bay. the ship that fired that gun was doomed. he heard his father leap out of bed, and ring furiously at his bell. then doors began to open and shut, and voices and rapid footsteps were heard in the passage. in ten minutes the whole terrified household were running hither and thither, about they hardly knew what. the men were pale, and some of the women were beginning to whimper and wring their hands; when densil, lewis the agent, and mackworth came rapidly down the staircase and passed out. mackworth came back, and told the women to put on hot water and heat blankets. then cuthbert joined him, and they went together; and directly after charles found himself between two men-servants, being dragged rapidly along towards the low headland which bounded the bay on the east. when they came to the beach, they found the whole village pushing on in a long straggling line the same way as themselves. the men were walking singly, either running or going very fast; and the women were in knots of twos and threes, straggling along and talking excitedly, with much gesticulation. "there's some of the elect on board, i'll be bound," charles heard one woman say, "as will be supping in glory this blessed night." "ay, ay," said an old woman. "i'd sooner be taken to rest sudden, like they're going to be, than drag on till all the faces you know are gone before." "my boy," said another, "was lost in a typhoon in the china sea. darn they lousy typhoons! i wonder if he thought of his mother afore he went down." among such conversation as this, with the terrible, ceaseless thunder of the surf upon the left, charles, clinging tight to his two guardians, made the best weather of it he could, until they found themselves on the short turf of the promontory, with their faces seaward, and the water right and left of them. the cape ran out about a third of a mile, rather low, and then abruptly ended in a cone of slate, beyond which, about two hundred yards at sea, was that terrible sunken rock, "the wolf," on to which, as sure as death, the flowing tide carried every stick which was embayed. the tide was making; a ship was known to be somewhere in the bay; it was blowing a hurricane; and what would you more? they hurried along as well as they could among the sharp slates which rose through the turf, until they came to where the people had halted. charles saw his father, the agent, mackworth, and cuthbert together, under a rock; the villagers were standing around, and the crowd was thickening every moment. every one had his hand over his eyes, and was peering due to windward, through the driving scud. they had stopped at the foot of the cone, which was between them and the sea, and some more adventurous had climbed partly up it, if, perhaps, they might see further than their fellows; but in vain: they all saw and heard the same--a blinding white cauldron of wind-driven spray below, and all around, filling every cranny, the howling storm. a quarter of an hour since she fired last, and no signs of her yet. she must be carrying canvas and struggling for life, ignorant of the four-knot stream. some one says she may have gone down--hush! who spoke? old sam evans had spoken. he had laid his hand on the squire's shoulder, and said, "there she is." and then arose a hubbub of talking from the men, and every one crowded on his neighbour and tried to get nearer. and the women moved hurriedly about, some moaning to themselves, and some saying, "ah, poor dear!" "ah, dear lord! there she is, sure enough." she hove in sight so rapidly that, almost as soon as they could be sure of a dark object, they saw that it was a ship--a great ship about tons; that she was dismasted, and that her decks were crowded. they could see that she was unmanageable, turning her head hither and thither as the sea struck her, and that her people had seen the cliff at the same moment, for they were hurrying aft, and crowding on to the bulwarks. charles and his guardians crept up to his father's party. densil was standing silent, looking on the lamentable sight; and, as charles looked at him, he saw a tear run down his cheek, and heard him say, "poor fellows!" cuthbert stood staring intently at the ship, with his lips slightly parted. mackworth, like one who studies a picture, held his elbow in one hand, and kept the other over his mouth; and the agent cried out, "a troop-ship, by gad. dear! dear!" it is a sad sight to see a fine ship beyond control. it is like seeing one one loves gone mad. sad under any circumstances; how terrible it is when she is bearing on with her, in her mad bacchante's dance, a freight of living human creatures to untimely destruction! as each terrible feature and circumstance of the catastrophe became apparent to the lookers-on, the excitement became more intense. forward, and in the waist, there was a considerable body of seamen clustered about under the bulwarks--some half-stripped. in front of the cuddy door, between the poop and the mainmast, about forty soldiers were drawn up, with whom were three officers, to be distinguished by their blue coats and swords. on the quarter-deck were seven or eight women, two apparently ladies, one of whom carried a baby. a well-dressed man, evidently the captain, was with them; but the cynosure of all eyes was a tall man in white trousers, at once and correctly judged to be the mate, who carried in his arms a little girl. the ship was going straight upon the rock, now only marked as a whiter spot upon the whitened sea, and she was fearfully near it, rolling and pitching, turning her head hither and thither, fighting for her life. she had taken comparatively little water on board as yet; but now a great sea struck her forward, and she swung with her bow towards the rock, from which she was distant not a hundred yards. the end was coming. charles saw the mate slip off his coat and shirt, and take the little girl again. he saw the lady with the baby rise very quietly and look forward; he saw the sailors climbing on the bulwarks; he saw the soldiers standing steady in two scarlet lines across the deck; he saw the officers wave their hands to one another; and then he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed as if his heart would break. they told him after how the end had come: she had lifted up her bows defiantly, and brought them crashing down upon the pitiless rock as though in despair. then her stem had swung round, and a merciful sea broke over her, and hid her from their view, though above the storm they plainly heard her brave old timbers crack; then she floated off, with bulwarks gone, sinking, and drifted out of sight round the headland, and, though they raced across the headland, and waited a few breathless minutes for her to float round into sight again, they never saw her any more. the _warren hastings_ had gone down in fifteen fathoms. and now there was a new passion introduced into the tragedy to which it had hitherto been a stranger--hope. the wreck of part of the mainmast and half the main-topmast, which they had seen, before she struck, lumbering the deck, had floated off, and there were three, four, five men clinging to the futtock shrouds; and then they saw the mate with the child hoist himself on to the spar, and part his dripping hair from his eyes. the spar had floated into the bay, into which they were looking, into much calmer water; but, directly too leeward, the swell was tearing at the black slate rocks, and in ten minutes it would be on them. every man saw the danger, and densil, running down to the water's edge, cried-- "fifty pounds to any one who will take 'em a rope! fifty gold sovereigns down to-night! who's going?" jim matthews was going, and had been going before he heard of the fifty pounds--that was evident; for he was stripped, and out on the rocks, with the rope round his waist. he stepped from the bank of slippery seaweed into the heaving water, and then his magnificent limbs were in full battle with the tide. a roar announced his success. as he was seen clambering on to the spar, a stouter rope was paid out; and very soon it and its burden were high and dry upon the little half-moon of land which ended the bay. five sailors, the first mate, and a bright-eyed little girl, were their precious prize. the sailors lay about upon the sand, and the mate, untying the shawl that bound her to him, put the silent and frightened child into the hands of a woman that stood close by. the poor little thing was trembling in every limb. "if you please," she said to the woman, "i should like to go to mamma. she is standing with baby on the quarter-deck. mr. archer, will you take me back to mamma, please? she will be frightened if we stay away." "well, a-deary me," said the honest woman, "she'll break my heart, a darling; mamma's in heaven, my tender, and baby too." "no, indeed," said the child eagerly; "she's on the quarter-deck. mr. archer, mr. archer!" the mate, a tall, brawny, whiskerless, hard-faced man, about six-and-twenty, who had been thrust into a pea-coat, now approached. "where's mamma, mr. archer?" said the child. "where's mamma, my lady-bird? oh, dear! oh, dear!" "and where's the ship, and captain dixon, and the soldiers?" "the ship, my pretty love?" said the mate, putting his rough hand on the child's wet hair; "why the good ship, _warren hastings_, dixon master, is a-sunk beneath the briny waves, my darling; and all on board of her, being good sailors and brave soldiers, is doubtless at this moment in glory." the poor little thing set up a low wailing cry, which went to the hearts of all present; then the women carried her away, and the mate, walking between mackworth and densil, headed the procession homeward to the hall. "she was the _warren hastings_, of tons," he said, "from calcutta, with a detachment of the th on board. the old story--dismasted, both anchors down, cables parted, and so on. and now i expect you know as much as i do. this little girl is daughter to captain corby, in command of the troops. she was always a favourite of mine, and i determined to get her through. how steady those sojers stood, by jingo, as though they were on parade! well, i always thought something was going to happen, for we had never a quarrel the whole voyage, and that's curious with troops. capital crew, too. ah, well, they are comfortable enough now, eh, sir?" that night the mate arose from his bed like a giant refreshed with wine, and posted off to bristol to "her owners," followed by a letter from densil, and another from lloyd's agent of such a nature that he found himself in command of a ship in less than a month. periodically, unto this day, there arrive at ravenshoe, bows and arrows (supposed to be poisoned), paddles, punkahs, rice-paper screens; a malignant kind of pickle, which causeth the bowels of him that eateth of it to burn; wicked-looking old gods of wood and stone; models of juggernaut's car; brown earthenware moonshees, translating glazed porcelain bibles; and many other indian curiosities, all of which are imported and presented by the kind-hearted archer. in a fortnight the sailors were gone, and, save a dozen or so of new graves in the churchyard, nothing remained to tell of the _warren hastings_ but the little girl saved so miraculously--little mary corby. she had been handed over at once to the care of the kind-hearted norah, charles's nurse, who instantaneously loved her with all her great warm heart, and about three weeks after the wreck gave charles these particulars about her, when he went to pay her a visit in the cottage behind the kennels. after having hugged him violently, and kissed him till he laughingly refused to let her do it again till she had told him the news, she began--"the beauty-boy, he gets handsomer every day" (this might be true, but there was great room for improvement yet), "and comes and sees his old nurse, and who loves him so well, alanna? it's little i can tell ye about the little girl, me darlin'. she's nine years old, and a heretic, like yer own darlin' self, and who's to gainsay ye from it? she's book-learned enough, and play she says she can, and i axed her would she like to live in the great house, and she said no. she liked me, and wanted to stay with me. she cries about her mother, a dear, but not so much as she did, and she's now inside and asleep. come here, avick." she bent down her handsome face to charles's ear and whispered, "if my boy was looking out for a little wee fairy wife, eh?" charles shook his hair, and laughed, and there and then told norah all about adelaide, which attachment norah highly approved of, and remarked that he'd be old enough to be married before he knew where he was. in spite of densil's letters and inquiries, no friends came forward to claim little mary. uncle corby, when in possession of facts, was far too much a man of business to do anything of the kind. in a very short time densil gave up inquiring, and then he began dreading lest she should be taken from him, for he had got wonderfully fond of the quiet, pale, bright-eyed little creature. in three months she was considered as a permanent member of the household, and the night before charles went to school he told her of his grand passion. his lordship considered this step showed deep knowledge of the world, as it would have the effect of crushing in the bud any rash hopes which mary might have conceived; and, having made this provision for her peace of mind, he straightway departed to shrewsbury school. chapter vii. in which charles and lord welter distinguish themselves at the university. it is a curious sensation, that of meeting, as a young man of two or three-and-twenty, a man one has last seen as a little lad of ten, or thereabouts. one is almost in a way disappointed. you may be asked out to dinner to meet a man called, say, jones (or, if you like the name better, delamere d'eresby), whom you believe to be your old friend jones, and whom you have not seen for a month or so; and on getting to the house find it is not your jones at all, but another jones whom you don't know. he may be cleverer, handsomer, more agreeable than your old friend--a man whom you are glad to know; and yet you are disappointed. you don't meet the man you expected, and you are rather disposed to be prejudiced against his representative. so it is when you meet a friend in manhood whom you have not seen since you were at school. you have been picturing to yourself the sort of man your friend must have developed into, and you find him different from what you thought. so, instead of foregathering with an old friend, you discover that you have to make a new acquaintance. you will now have to resume the acquaintance of charles ravenshoe at two and twenty. i hope you will not be much disappointed in him. he was a very nice boy, if you remember, and you will see immediately that he has developed into a very nice young man indeed. it is possible that i may not be about to introduce him to you under the most favourable circumstances; but he created those circumstances for himself, and must abide by them. as it is not my intention to follow him through any part of his university life, but only to resume his history when he quits it, so it becomes imperatively necessary for me to state, without any sort of disguise, the reason why he did leave it. and, as two or three other important characters in the story had something to do with it, i shall do so more at length than would at first seem necessary. it was nine o'clock on the th of november. the sun, which had been doing duty for her majesty all night at calcutta, sydney, &c., had by this time reached oxford, and was shining aslant into two pretty little gothic windows in the inner or library quadrangle of st. paul's college, and illuminating the features of a young man who was standing in the middle of the room, and scratching his head. he was a stout-built fellow, not particularly handsome, but with a very pleasing face. his hair was very dark brown, short, and curling; his forehead was broad and open, and below it were two uncommonly pleasant-looking dark grey eyes. his face was rather marked, his nose very slightly aquiline, and plenty of it, his mouth large and good-humoured, which, when opened to laugh, as it very frequently was, showed a splendid set of white teeth, which were well contrasted with a fine healthy brown and red complexion. altogether a very pleasant young fellow to look on, and looking none the worse just now for an expression of droll perplexity, not unmixed with a certain amount of terror, which he had on his face. it was charles ravenshoe. he stood in his shirt and trousers only, in the midst of a scene of desolation so awful, that i, who have had to describe some of the most terrible scenes and circumstances conceivable, pause before attempting to give any idea of it in black and white. every moveable article in the room--furniture, crockery, fender, fire-irons--lay in one vast heap of broken confusion in the corner of the room. not a pane of glass remained in the windows; the bedroom-door was broken down; and the door which opened into the corridor was minus the two upper panels. well might charles ravenshoe stand there and scratch his head! "by george," he said at last, soliloquising, "how deuced lucky it is that i never get drunk! if i had been screwed last night, those fellows would have burnt the college down. what a devil that welter is when he gets drink into him! and marlowe is not much better. the fellows were mad with fighting, too. i wish they hadn't come here and made hay afterwards. there'll be an awful row about this. it's all up, i am afraid. it's impossible to say though." at this moment, a man appeared in the passage, and, looking in through the broken door, as if from a witness-box, announced, "the dean wishes to see you at once, sir." and exit. charles replied by using an expression then just coming into use among our youth, "all serene!" dressed himself by putting on a pilot coat, a pair of boots, and a cap and gown, and with a sigh descended into the quadrangle. there were a good many men about, gathered in groups. the same subject was in everybody's mouth. there had been, the night before, without warning or apparent cause, the most frightful disturbance which, in the opinion of the porter, had graced the college for fifty years. it had begun suddenly at half-past twelve, and had been continued till three. the dons had been afraid to come and interfere, the noise was so terrible. five out-college men had knocked out at a quarter to three, refusing to give any name but the dean's. a rocket had been let up, and a five-barrel revolver had been let off, and--charles ravenshoe had been sent for. a party of young gentlemen, who looked very seedy and guilty, stood in his way, and as he came up shook their heads sorrowfully; one, a tall one, with large whiskers, sat down in the gravel walk, and made as though he would have cast dust upon his head. "this is a bad job, charley," said one of them. "some heads must fall," said charles; "i hope mine is not among the number. rather a shame if it is, eh?" the man with the big whiskers shook his head. "the state of your room," he said. "who has seen it?" eagerly asked charles. "sleeping innocent!" replied the other, "the porter was up there by eight o'clock, and at half-past the dean himself was gazing on your unconscious face as you lay peacefully sleeping in the arms of desolation." charles whistled long and loud, and proceeded with a sinking heart towards the dean's rooms. a tall, pale man, with a hard, marked countenance, was sitting at his breakfast, who, as soon as he saw his visitor, regarded him with the greatest interest, and buttered a piece of toast. "_well_, mr. ravenshoe," was his remark. "i believe you sent for me, sir," said charles, adding to himself, "confound you, you cruel old brute, you are amusing yourself with my tortures." "this is a pretty business," said the dean. charles would be glad to know to what he alluded. "well," said the dean, laughing, "i don't exactly know where to begin. however, i am not sure it much matters. you will be wanted in the common room at two. the proctor has sent for your character also. altogether, i congratulate you. your career at the university has been brilliant; but, your orbit being highly elliptical, it is to be feared that you will remain but a short time above the horizon. good morning." charles rejoined the eager knot of friends outside; and, when he spoke the awful word, "common room," every countenance wore a look of dismay. five more, it appeared, were sent for, and three were wanted by the proctor at eleven. it was a disastrous morning. there was a large breakfast in the rooms of the man with the whiskers, to which all the unfortunates were of course going. one or two were in a state of badly-concealed terror, and fidgeted and were peevish, until they got slightly tipsy. others laughed a good deal, rather nervously, and took the thing pluckily--the terror was there, but they fought against it; but the behaviour of charles extorted applause from everybody. he was as cool and as merry as if he was just going down for the long vacation; he gave the most comical account of the whole proceedings last night from beginning to end, as he was well competent to do, being the only sober man who had witnessed them; he ate heartily, and laughed naturally, to the admiration of every one. one of the poor fellows who had shown greatest signs of terror, and who was as near crying as he could possibly be without actually doing so, looked up and complimented him on his courage, with an oath. "in me, my dear dick," said charles, good-naturedly, "you see the courage of despair. had i half your chances, i should be as bad as you. i know there are but a few more ceremonies to be gone through, and then--" the other rose and left the room. "well," said he, as he went, with a choking voice, "i expect my old governor will cut his throat, or something; i'm fifteen hundred in debt." and so the door closed on the poor lad, and the party was silent. there came in now a young man, to whom i wish especially to call your attention. he was an ordinary young man enough, in the morning livery of a groom. he was a moderately well-looking fellow, and there seems at first nothing in any way remarkable about him. but look at him again, and you are struck with a resemblance to some one you know, and yet at first you hardly know to whom. it is not decidedly, either, in any one feature, and you are puzzled for a time, till you come to the conclusion that everyone else does. that man is a handsome likeness of charles ravenshoe. this is charles's foster-brother william, whom we saw on a former occasion taking refreshment with that young gentleman, and who had for some time been elevated to the rank of mr. charles's "lad." he had come for orders. there were no orders but to exercise the horses, charles believed; he would tell him in the afternoon if there were, he added sorrowfully. "i saw lord welter coming away from the proctor's, sir," said william. "he told me to ask what train you were going down by. his lordship told me to say, sir, that lord welter of christchurch would leave the university at twelve to-morrow, and would not come into residence again till next michaelmas term." "by jove," said charles, "he has got a dose! i didn't think they'd have given him a year. well, here goes." charles went to the proctor's, but his troubles there were not so severe as he had expected. he had been seen fighting several times during the evening, but half the university had been doing the same. he had been sent home three times, and had reappeared; that was nothing so very bad. on his word of honour he had not tripped up the marshal; brown himself thought he must have slipped on a piece of orange-peel. altogether it came to this; that ravenshoe of paul's had better be in by nine for the rest of term, and mind what he was about for the future. but the common room at two was the thing by which poor charles was to stand or fall. there were terrible odds against him--the master and six tutors. it was no use, he said, snivelling, or funking the thing; so he went into battle valiantly. the master opened the ball, in a voice suggestive of mild remonstrance. in all his experience in college life, extending over a period of forty-five years, he had never even heard of proceedings so insubordinate, so unparalleled, so--so--monstrous, as had taken place the night before, in a college only a twelvemonth ago considered to be the quietest in the university. a work of fiction of a low and vicious tendency, professing to describe scenes of headlong riot and debauchery at the sister university, called, he believed, "peter priggins," had been written, and was, he understood, greatly read by the youth of both seats of learning; but he was given to understand that the worst described in that book sank into nothing, actually dwindled into insignificance, before last night's proceedings. it appeared, he continued (referring to a paper through his gold eye-glasses), that at half-past twelve a band of intoxicated and frantic young men had rushed howling into the college, refusing to give their names to the porter (among whom was recognised mr. ravenshoe); that from that moment a scene of brutal riot had commenced in the usually peaceful quadrangle, and had continued till half-past three; loaded weapons had been resorted to, and fireworks had been exhibited; and, finally, that five members of another college had knocked out at half-past three, stating to the porter (without the slightest foundation) that they had been having tea with the dean. now you know, really and truly, it simply resolved itself into this. were they going to keep st. paul's college open, or were they not? if the institution which had flourished now for above five hundred years was to continue to receive undergraduates, the disturbers of last night must be sternly eliminated. in the last case of this kind, where a man was only convicted of--eh, mr. dean?--pump handle--thank you--was only convicted of playfully secreting the handle of the college pump, rustication had been inflicted. in this case the college would do its duty, however painful. charles was understood to say that he was quite sober, and had tried to keep the fellows out of mischief. the master believed mr. ravenshoe would hardly deny having let off a rocket on the grass-plat. charles was ill-advised enough to say that he did it to keep the fellows quiet; but the excuse fell dead, and there was a slight pause. after which, the dean rose, with his hands in his pockets, and remarked that this sort of thing was all mighty fine, you know; but they weren't going to stand it, and the sooner this was understood the better. he, for one, as long as he remained dean of that college, was not going to have a parcel of drunken young idiots making a row under his windows at all hours in the morning. he should have come out himself last night, but that he was afraid, positively afraid, of personal violence; and the odds were too heavy against him. he, for one, did not want any more words about it. he allowed the fact of mr. ravenshoe being perfectly sober, though whether that could be pleaded in extenuation was very doubtful. (did you speak, mr. bursar? no. i beg pardon, i thought you did.) he proposed that mr. ravenshoe should be rusticated for a year, and that the dean of christchurch should be informed that lord welter was one of the most active of the rioters. that promising young nobleman had done them the honour to create a disturbance in the college on a previous occasion, when he was, as last night, the guest of mr. ravenshoe. charles said that lord welter had been rusticated for a year. the dean was excessively glad to hear it, and hoped that he would stay at home and give his family the benefit of his high spirits. as there were five other gentlemen to come before them, he would suggest that they should come to a determination. the bursar thought that mr. ravenshoe's plea of sobriety should be taken in extenuation. mr. ravenshoe had never been previously accused of having resorted to stimulants. he thought it should be taken in extenuation. the dean was sorry to be of a diametrically opposite opinion. no one else taking up the cudgels for poor charles, the master said he was afraid he must rusticate him. charles said he hoped they wouldn't. the dean gave a short laugh, and said that, if that was all he had to say, he might as well have held his tongue. and then the master pronounced sentence of rustication for a year, and charles, having bowed, withdrew. chapter viii. john marston. charles returned to his room, a little easier in his mind than when he left it. there still remained one dreadful business to get over--the worst of all; that of letting his father know. non-university men sneer at rustication; they can't see any particular punishment in having to absent yourself from your studies for a term or two. but do they think that the dons don't know what they are about? why, nine spirited young fellows out of ten would snap their fingers at rustication, if it wasn't for the _home_ business. it is breaking the matter to the father, his just anger, and his mother's still more bitter reproaches. it must all come out, the why and the wherefore, without concealment or palliation. the college write a letter to justify themselves, and then a mine of deceit is sprung under the parents' feet, and their eyes are opened to things they little dreamt of. this, it appears, is not the first offence. the college has been long-suffering, and has pardoned when it should have punished repeatedly. the lad who was thought to be doing so well has been leading a dissipated, riotous life, and deceiving them all. this is the bitterest blow they have ever had. how can they trust him again?--and so the wound takes long to heal, and sometimes is never healed at all. that is the meaning of rustication. a majority of young fellows at the university deceive their parents, especially if they come of serious houses. it is almost forced upon them sometimes, and in all cases the temptation is strong. it is very unwise to ask too many questions. home questions are, in some cases, unpardonable. a son can't tell a father, as one man can tell another, to mind his own business. no. the father asks the question suddenly, and the son lies, perhaps, for the first time in his life. if he told the truth, his father would knock him down. now charles was a little better off than most young fellows in this respect. he knew his father would scold about the rustication, and still more at his being in debt. he wasn't much afraid of his father's anger. they two had always been too familiar to be much afraid of one another. he was much more afraid of the sarcasms of mackworth, and he not a little dreaded his brother; but with regard to his father he felt but slight uneasiness. he found his scout and his servant william trying to get the room into some order, but it was hopeless. william looked up with a blank face as he came in, and said-- "we can't do no good, sir; i'd better go for herbert's man, i suppose?" "you may go, william," said charles, "to the stables, and prepare my horses for a journey. ward, you may pack up my things, as i go down to-morrow. i am rusticated." they both looked very blank, especially william, who, after a long pause, said-- "i was afraid of something happening yesterday after hall, when i see my lord----" here william paused abruptly, and, looking up, touched his head to some one who stood in the doorway. it was a well-dressed, well-looking young man of about charles's age, with a handsome, hairless, florid face, and short light hair. handsome though his face was, it was hardly pleasing in consequence of a certain lowering of the eyebrows which he indulged in every moment--as often, indeed, as he looked at any one--and also of a slight cynical curl at the corners of the mouth. there was nothing else noticeable about lord welter except his appearance of great personal strength, for which he was somewhat famous. "hallo, welter!" shouted charles, "yesterday was an era in the annals of intoxication. nobody ever was so drunk as you. i did all i could for you, more fool i, for things couldn't be worse than they are, and might be better. if i had gone to bed instead of looking after you, i shouldn't have been rusticated." "i'm deuced sorry, charley, i am, 'pon my soul. it is all my confounded folly, and i shall write to your father and say so. you are coming home with me, of course?" "by jove, i never thought of it. that wouldn't be a bad plan, eh? i might write from ranford, you know. yes, i think i'll say yes. william, you can take the horses over to-morrow. that is a splendid idea of yours. i was thinking of going to london." "hang london in the hunting season," said lord welter. "by george, how the governor will blow up. i wonder what my grandmother will say. somebody has told her the world is coming to an end next year. i hope there'll be another derby. she has cut homoeopathy and taken to vegetable practice. she has deuced near slaughtered her maid with an overdose of linum catharticum, as she calls it. she goes digging about in waste places like a witch, with a big footman to carry the spade. she is a good old body, though; hanged if she ain't." "what does adelaide think of the change in lady ascot's opinions, medical and religious?" "she don't care, bless you. she laughs about the world coming to an end, and as for the physic, she won't stand that. she has pretty much her own way with the old lady, i can tell you, and with every one else, as far as that goes. she is an imperious little body; i'm afraid of her.--how do, marston?" this was said to a small, neatly-dressed, quiet-looking man, with a shrewd, pleasant face, who appeared at this moment, looking very grave. he returned welter's salutation, and that gentleman sauntered out of the room, after having engaged charles to dinner at the cross at six. the new comer then sat down by charles, and looked sorrowfully in his face. "so it has come to this, my poor boy," said he, "and only two days after our good resolutions. charley, do you know what issachar was like?" "no." "he was like a strong ass stooping between two burdens," replied the other, laughing. "i know somebody who is, oh, so very like him. i know a fellow who could do capitally in the schools and in the world, who is now always either lolling about reading novels, or else flying off in the opposite extreme, and running, or riding, or rowing like a madman. those are his two burdens, and he is a dear old ass also, whom it is very hard to scold, even when one is furiously angry with him." "it's all true, marston; it's all true as gospel," said charles. "look how well you did at shrewsbury," continued marston, "when you were forced to work. and now, you haven't opened a book for a year. why don't you have some object in life, old fellow? try to be captain of the university eight or the eleven; get a good degree; anything. think of last easter vacation, charley. well, then, i won't----be sure that pot-house work won't do. what earthly pleasure can there be in herding with men of that class, your inferiors in everything except strength? and you can talk quite well enough for any society?" "it ain't my fault," broke in charles, piteously. "it's a good deal more the fault of the men i'm with. that easter vacation business was planned by welter. he wore a velveteen shooting-coat and knee-breeches, and called himself----" "that will do, charley; i don't want to hear any of that gentleman's performances. i entertain the strongest personal dislike for him. he leads you into all your mischief. you often quarrel; why don't you break with him?" "i can't." "because he is a distant relation? nonsense. your brother never speaks to him." "it isn't that." "do you owe him money?" "no, it's the other way, by jove! i can't break with that man. i can't lose the run of ranford. i must go there. there's a girl there i care about more than all the world beside; if i don't see her i shall go mad." marston looked very thoughtful. "you never told me of this," he said; "and she has--she has refused you, i suppose?" "ay! how did you guess that?" "by my mother wit. i didn't suppose that charles ravenshoe would have gone on as he has under other circumstances." "i fell in love with her," said charley, rocking himself to and fro, "when she was a child. i have never had another love but her; and the last time i left ranford i asked her--you know--and she laughed in my face, and said we were getting too old for that sort of nonsense. and when i swore i was in earnest, she only laughed the more. and i'm a desperate beggar, by jove, and i'll go and enlist, by jove." "what a brilliant idea!" said marston. "don't be a fool, charley. is this girl a great lady?" "great lady! lord bless you, no; she's a dependant without a sixpence." "begin all over again with her. let her alone a little. perhaps you took too much for granted, and offended her. very likely she has got tired of you. by your own confession, you have been making love to her for ten years; that must be a great bore for a girl, you know. i suppose you are thinking of going to ranford now?" "yes, i am going for a time." "the worst place you could go to; much better go home to your father. yours is a quiet, staid, wholesome house; not such a bear-garden as the other place--but let us change the subject. i am sent after you." "by whom?" "musgrave. the university eight is going down, and he wants you to row four. the match with cambridge is made up." "oh, hang it!" said poor charles; "i can't show after this business. get a waterman; do, marston. they will know all about it by this time." "nay, i want you to come; do come, charles. i want you to contrast these men with the fellows you were with last night, and to see what effect three such gentlemen and scholars as dixon, hunt, and smith have in raising the tone of the men they are thrown among." on the barge charles met the others of the eight--quiet, staid, gentlemanly men, every one of whom knew what had happened, and was more than usually polite in consequence. musgrave, the captain, received him with manly courtesy. he was sorry to hear ravenshoe was going down--had hoped to have had him in the eight at easter; however, it couldn't be helped; hoped to get him at henley; and so on. the others were very courteous too, and charles soon began to find that he himself was talking in a different tone of voice, and using different language from that which he would have been using in his cousin's rooms; and he confessed this to marston that night. meanwhile the university eight, with the little blue flag at her bows, went rushing down the river on her splendid course. past heavy barges and fairy skiffs; past men in dingys, who ran high and dry on the bank to get out of the way; and groups of dandys, who ran with them for a time. and before any man was warm--iffley. then across the broad mill-pool and through the deep crooks, out into the broads, and past the withered beds of reeds which told of coming winter. bridges, and a rushing lasher--sandford. no rest here. out of the dripping well-like lock. get your oars out and away again, past the yellowing willows, past the long wild grey meadows, swept by the singing autumn wind. through the swirling curves and eddies, onward under the westering sun towards the woods of nuneham. it was so late when they got back, that those few who had waited for them--those faithful few who would wait till midnight to see the eight come in--could not see them, but heard afar off the measured throb and rush of eight oars as one, as they came with rapid stroke up the darkening reach. charles and marston walked home together. "by george," said charles, "i should like to do that and nothing else all my life. what a splendid stroke musgrave gives you, so marked, and so long, and yet so lively. oh, i should like to be forced to row every day like the watermen." "in six or seven years you would probably row as well as a waterman. at least, i mean, as well as some of the second-rate ones. i have set my brains to learn steering, being a small weak man; but i shall never steer as well as little tims, who is ten years old. don't mistake a means for an end--" charles wouldn't always stand his friend's good advice, and he thought he had had too much of it to-day. so he broke out into sudden and furious rebellion, much to marston's amusement, who treasured up every word he said in his anger, and used them afterwards with fearful effect against him. "i don't care for you," bawled charles; "you're a greater fool than i am, and be hanged to you. you're going to spend the best years of your life, and ruin your health, to get a first. _a first! a first!_ why that miserable little beast, lock, got a first. a fellow who is, take him all in all, the most despicable little wretch i know! if you are very diligent you may raise yourself to _his_ level! and when you have got your precious first, you will find yourself utterly unfit for any trade or profession whatever (except the church, which you don't mean to enter). what do you know about modern languages or modern history? if you go into the law, you have got to begin all over again. they won't take you in the army; they are not such _muffs_. and this is what you get for your fifteen hundred pounds!" charles paused, and marston clapped his hands and said, "hear, _hear_!" which made him more angry still. "i shouldn't care if i _was_ a waterman. i'm sick of all this pretension and humbug; i'd sooner be anything than what i am, with my debts, and my rustication, and keeping up appearances. i wish i was a billiard marker; i wish i was a jockey; i wish i was alick reed's novice; i wish i was one of barclay and perkins's draymen. hang it! i wish i was a cabman! queen elizabeth was a wise woman, and she was of my opinion." "did queen elizabeth wish she was a cabman?" asked marston, gravely. "no, she didn't," said charles, very tartly. "she wished she was a milkmaid, and i think she was quite right. now, then." "so you would like to be a milkmaid?" said the inexorable marston. "you had better try another easter vacation with welter. mrs. sherrat will get you a suit of cast-off clothes from some of the lads. here's the 'cross,' where you dine. bye, bye!" john marston knew, and knew well, nearly every one worth knowing in the university. he did not appear particularly rich; he was not handsome; he was not brilliant in conversation; he did not dress well, though he was always neat; he was not a cricketer, a rower, or a rider; he never spoke at the union; he never gave large parties; no one knew anything about his family; he never betted; and yet he was in the best set in the university. there was, of course, some reason for this; in fact, there were three good and sufficient reasons, although above i may seem to have exhausted the means of approach to good university society. first, he had been to eton as a town boy, and had been popular there. second, he had got one of the great open scholarships. and third, his behaviour had always been most correct and gentlemanly. a year before this he had met charles as a freshman in lord welter's rooms, and had conceived a great liking for him. charles had just come up with a capital name from shrewsbury, and marston hoped that he would have done something; but no. charles took up with riding, rowing, driving, &c., &c., not to mention the giving and receiving of parties, with all the zest of a young fellow with a noble constitution, enough money, agreeable manners, and the faculty of excelling to a certain extent in every sport he took in hand. he very soon got to like and respect marston. he used to allow him to blow him up, and give him good advice when he wouldn't take it from any one else. the night before he went down marston came to his rooms, and tried to persuade him to go home, and not to "the training stables," as he irreverently called ranford; but charles had laughed and laughed, and joked, and given indirect answers, and marston saw that he was determined, and discontinued pressing him. chapter ix. adelaide. the next afternoon lord welter and charles rode up to the door at ranford. the servants looked surprised; they were not expected. his lordship was out shooting; her ladyship was in the poultry-yard; mr. pool was in the billiard-room with lord saltire. "the deuce!" said lord welter; "that's lucky, i'll get him to break it to the governor." the venerable nobleman was very much amused by the misfortunes of these ingenuous youths, and undertook the commission with great good nature. but, when he had heard the cause of the mishap, he altered his tone considerably, and took on himself to give the young men what was for him a severe lecture. he was sorry this had come out of a drunken riot; he wished it ... which, though bad enough, did not carry the disgrace with it that the other did. let them take the advice of an old fellow who had lived in the world, ay, and moved with the world, for above eighty years, and take care not to be marked, even by their own set, as drinking men. in his day, he allowed, drinking was entirely _de rigueur_; and indeed nothing could be more proper and correct than the whole thing they had just described to him, if it had happened fifty years ago. but now a drunken row was an anachronism. nobody drank now. he had made a point of watching the best young fellows, and none of them drank. he made a point of taking the time from the rising young fellows, as every one ought to, who wished to go with the world. in his day, for instance, it was the custom to talk with considerable freedom on sacred subjects, and he himself had been somewhat notorious for that sort of thing; but look at him now: he conformed with the times, and went to church. every one went to church now. let him call their attention to the fact that a great improvement had taken place in public morals of late years. so the good-natured old heathen gave them what, i daresay, he thought was the best of advice. he is gone now to see what his system of morality was worth. i am very shy of judging him, or the men of his time. it gives me great pain to hear the men of the revolutionary era spoken of flippantly. the time was so exceptional. the men at that time were a race of giants. one wonders how the world got through that time at all. six hundred millions of treasure spent by britain alone! how many millions of lives lost none may guess. what wonder if there were hell-fire clubs and all kinds of monstrosities. would any of the present generation have attended the fête of the goddess of reason, if they had lived at that time, i wonder? of course they wouldn't. charles went alone to the poultry-yard; but no one was there except the head keeper, who was administering medicine to a cock, whose appearance was indictable--that is to say, if the laws against cock-fighting were enforced. lady ascot had gone in; so charles went in too, and went upstairs to his aunt's room. one of the old lady's last fancies was sitting in the dark, or in a gloom so profound as to approach to darkness. so charles, passing out of a light corridor, and shutting the door behind him, found himself unable to see his hand before him. confident, however, of his knowledge of localities, he advanced with such success that he immediately fell crashing headlong over an ottoman; and in his descent, imagining that he was falling into a pit or gulf of unknown depth, uttered a wild cry of alarm. whereupon the voice of lady ascot from close by answered, "come in," as if she thought she heard somebody knock. "come up, would be more appropriate, aunt," said charles. "why do you sit in the dark? i've killed myself, i believe." "is that you, charles?" said she. "what brings you over? my dear, i am delighted. open a bit of the window, charles, and let me see you." charles did as he was desired; and, as the strong light from without fell upon him, the old lady gave a deep sigh. "ah, dear, so like poor dear petre about the eyes. there never was a handsome ravenshoe since him, and there never will be another. you were quite tolerable as a boy, my dear; but you've got very coarse, very coarse and plain indeed. poor petre!" "you're more unlucky in the light than you were in the darkness, charles," said a brisk, clear, well-modulated voice from behind the old lady. "grandma seems in one of her knock-me-down moods to-day. she had just told me that i was an insignificant chit, when you made your graceful and noiseless entrance, and saved me anything further." if adelaide had been looking at charles when she spoke, instead of at her work, she would have seen the start which he gave when he heard her voice. as it was, she saw nothing of it; and charles, instantly recovering himself, said in the most nonchalant voice possible: "hallo, are you here? how do you contrive to work in the dark?" "it is not dark to any one with eyes," was the curt reply. "i can see to read." here lady ascot said that, if she had called adelaide a chit, it was because she had set up her opinion against that of such a man as dr. going; that adelaide was a good and dutiful girl to her; that she was a very old woman, and perhaps shouldn't live to see the finish of next year; and that her opinion still was that charles was very plain and coarse, and she was sorry she couldn't alter it. adelaide came rapidly up and kissed her, and then went and stood in the light beside charles. she had grown into a superb blonde beauty. from her rich brown crêpé hair to her exquisite little foot, she was a model of grace. the nose was delicately aquiline, and the mouth receded slightly, while the chin was as slightly prominent; the eyes were brilliant, and were concentrated on their object in a moment; and the eyebrows surmounted them in a delicately but distinctly marked curve. a beauty she was, such as one seldom sees; and charles, looking on her, felt that he loved her more madly than ever, and that he would die sooner than let her know it. "well, charles," she said, "you don't seem overjoyed to see me." "a man can't look joyous with broken shins, my dear adelaide. aunt, i've got some bad news for you. i am in trouble." "oh dear," said the old lady, "and what is the matter now? something about a woman, i suppose. you ravenshoes are always--" "no, no, aunt. nothing of the kind. adelaide, don't go, pray; you will lose such a capital laugh. i've got rusticated, aunt." "that is very comical, i dare say," said adelaide, in a low voice; "but i don't see the joke." "i thought you would have had a laugh at me, perhaps," said charles; "it is rather a favourite amusement of yours." "what, in the name of goodness, makes you so disagreeable and cross to-day, charles? you were never so before, when anything happened. i am sure i am very sorry for your misfortune, though i really don't know its extent. is it a very serious thing?" "serious, very. i don't much like going home. welter is in the same scrape; who is to tell her?" "this is the way," said adelaide; "i'll show you how to manage her." all this was carried on in a low tone, and very rapidly. the old lady had just begun in a loud, querulous, scolding voice to charles, when adelaide interrupted her with-- "i say, grandma, welter is rusticated too." adelaide good-naturedly said this to lead the old lady's wrath from charles, and throw it partly on to her grandson; but however good her intentions, the execution of them was unsuccessful. the old lady fell to scolding charles; accusing him of being the cause of the whole mishap, of leading welter into every mischief, and stating her opinion that he was an innocent and exemplary youth, with the fault only of being too easily led away. charles escaped as soon as he could, and was followed by adelaide. "this is not true, is it?" she said. "it is not your fault?" "my fault, partly, of course. but welter would have been sent down before, if it hadn't been for me. he got me into a scrape this time. he mustn't go back there. you mustn't let him go back." "i let him go back, forsooth! what on earth can i have to do with his lordship's movements?" she said, bitterly, "do you know who you are talking to?--a beggarly orphan." "hush! don't talk like that, adelaide. your power in this house is very great. the power of the only sound head in the house. you could stop anything you like from happening." they had come together at a conservatory door; and she put her back against it, and held up her hand to bespeak his attention more particularly. "i wish it was true, charles; but it isn't. no one has any power over lord ascot. is welter much in debt?" "i should say, a great deal," was charles's reply. "i think i ought to tell you. you may help him to break it to them." "ay, he always comes to me for that sort of thing. always did from a child. i'll tell you what, charles, there's trouble coming or come on this house. lord ascot came home from chester looking like death; they say he lost fearfully both there and at newmarket. he came home quite late, and went up to grandma; and there was a dreadful scene. she hasn't been herself since. another blow like it will kill her. i suspect my lord's bare existence depends on this colt winning the derby. come and see it gallop," she added, suddenly throwing her flashing eyes upon his, and speaking with an animation and rapidity very different from the cold stern voice in which she had been telling the family troubles. "come, and let us have some oxygen. i have not spoken to a man for a month. i have been leading a life like a nun's; no, worse than any nun's; for i have been bothered and humiliated by--ah! such wretched trivialities. go and order horses. i will join you directly." so she dashed away and left him, and he hurried to the yard. scarcely were the horses ready when she was back again, with the same stem, cold expression on her face, now more marked, perhaps, from the effect of the masculine habit she wore. she was a consummate horsewoman, and rode the furious black irish mare, which was brought out for her, with ease and self-possession, seeming to enjoy the rearing and plunging of the sour-tempered brute far more than charles, her companion, did, who would rather have seen her on a quieter horse. a sweeping gallop under the noble old trees, through a deep valley, and past a herd of deer, which scudded away through the thick-strewn leaves, brought them to the great stables, a large building at the edge of the park, close to the downs. twenty or thirty long-legged, elegant, nonchalant-looking animals, covered to the tips of their ears with cloths, and ridden each by a queer-looking brown-faced lad, were in the act of returning from their afternoon exercise. these adelaide's mare, "molly asthore," charged and dispersed like a flock of sheep; and then, adelaide pointing with her whip to the downs, hurried past the stables towards a group they saw a little distance off. there were only four people--lord ascot, the stud-groom, and two lads. adelaide was correctly informed; they were going to gallop the voltigeur colt (since called haphazard), and the cloths were now coming off him. lord ascot and the stud-groom mounted their horses, and joined our pair, who were riding slowly along the measured mile the way the horse was to come. lord ascot looked very pale and worn; he gave charles a kindly greeting, and made a joke with adelaide; but his hands fidgeted with his reins, and he kept turning back towards the horse they had left, wondering impatiently what was keeping the boy. at last they saw the beautiful beast shake his head, give two or three playful plunges, and then come striding rapidly towards them, over the short, springy turf. then they turned, and rode full speed: soon they heard the mighty hollow-sounding hoofs behind, that came rapidly towards them, devouring space. then the colt rushed by them in his pride, with his chin on his chest, hard held, and his hind feet coming forward under his girth every stride, and casting the turf behind him in showers. then adelaide's horse, after a few mad plunges, bolted, overtook the colt, and actually raced him for a few hundred yards; then the colt was pulled up on a breezy hill, and they all stood a little together talking and congratulating one another on the beauty of the horse. charles and adelaide rode away together over the downs, intending to make a little détour, and so lengthen their ride. they had had no chance of conversation since they parted at the conservatory door, and they took it up nearly where they had left it. adelaide began, and, i may say, went on, too, as she had most of the talking. "i should like to be a duchess; then i should be mistress of the only thing i am afraid of." "what is that?" "poverty," said she; "that is my only terror, and that is my inevitable fate." "i should have thought, adelaide, that you were too high spirited to care for that, or anything." "ah, you don't know; all my relations are poor. _i_ know what it is; _i_ know what it would be for a beauty like me." "you will never be poor or friendless while lady ascot lives." "how long will that be? my home now depends very much on that horse; oh, if i were only a man, i should welcome poverty; it would force me to action." charles blushed. not many days before, marston and he had had a battle royal, in which the former had said, that the only hope for charles was that he should go two or three times without his dinner, and be made to earn it, and that as long as he had a "mag" to bless himself with, he would always be a lazy, useless humbug; and now here was a young lady uttering the same atrocious sentiments. he called attention to the prospect. three hundred feet below them, father thames was winding along under the downs and yellow woodlands, past chalk quarry and grey farm-house, blood-red beneath the setting sun; a soft, rich, autumnal haze was over everything; the smoke from the distant village hung like a curtain of pearl across the valley; and the long, straight, dark wood that crowned the high grey wold, was bathed in a dim purple mist, on its darkest side; and to perfect the air of dreamy stillness, some distant bells sent their golden sound floating on the peaceful air. it was a quiet day in the old age of the year; and its peace seemed to make itself felt on these two wild young birds; for they were silent more than half the way home; and then charles said, in a low voice-- "dear adelaide, i hope you have chosen aright. the time will come when you will have to make a more important decision than any you have made yet. at one time in a man's or woman's life, they say, there is a choice between good and evil. in god's name think before you make it." "charles," she said, in a low and disturbed voice, "if a conjurer were to offer to show you your face in a glass, as it would be ten years hence, should you have courage to look?" "i suppose so; would not you!" "oh, no, no, no! how do you know what horrid thing would look at you, and scare you to death? ten years hence; where shall we be then?" chapter x. lady ascot's little nap. there was a very dull dinner at ranford that day, lord ascot scarcely spoke a word; he was kind and polite--he always was that--but he was very different from his usual self. the party missed his jokes; which, though feeble and sometimes possibly "rather close to the wind," served their purpose, served to show that the maker of them was desirous to make himself agreeable to the best of his ability. he never once laughed during dinner, which was very unusual. it was evident that lord saltire had performed his commission, and charles was afraid that he was furiously angry with welter; but, on one occasion, when the latter looked up suddenly and asked him some question, his father answered him kindly in his usual tone of voice, and spoke to him so for some time. lady ascot was a host in herself. with a noble self-sacrifice, she, at the risk of being laughed at, resolved to attract attention by airing some of her most remarkable opinions. she accordingly attacked lord saltire on the subject of the end of the world, putting its total destruction by fire at about nine months from that time. lord saltire had no opinion to offer on the probability of dr. going's theory, but sincerely hoped that it might last his time, and that he might be allowed to get out of the way in the ordinary manner. he did not for a moment doubt the correctness of her calculations; but he put it to her as a woman of the world, whether or no such an occurrence as she described would not be in the last degree awkward and disconcerting? adelaide said she didn't believe a word of it, and nothing should induce her to do so until it took place. this brought the old lady's wrath down upon her and helped the flagging conversation on a little. but, after dinner, it got so dull in spite of every one's efforts, that lord saltire confided to his young friend, as they went upstairs, that he had an idea that something was wrong; but at all events, that the house was getting so insufferably dull that he must rat, pardieu, for he couldn't stand it. he should rat into devon to his friend lord segur. welter took occasion to tell charles that lord ascot had sent for him, and told him that he knew all about what had happened, and his debts. that he did not wish the subject mentioned (as if i were likely to talk about it!); that his debts should, if possible, be paid. that he had then gone on to say, that he did not wish to say anything harsh to welter on the subject--that he doubted whether he retained the right of reproving his son. that they both needed forgiveness one from the other, and that he hoped in what was to follow they would display that courtesy and mutual forbearance to one another which gentlemen should. "and what the deuce does he mean, eh? he never spoke like this before. is he going to marry again? ay, that's what it is, depend upon it," said this penetrating young gentleman; "that will be rather a shame of him, you know, particularly if he has two or three cubs to cut into my fortune;" and so from that time lord welter began to treat his father with a slight coolness, and an air of injured innocence most amusing, though painful, to charles and adelaide, who knew the truth. as for adelaide, she seemed to treat charles like a brother once more. she kept no secret from him; she walked with him, rode with him, just as of old. she did not seem to like lord welter's society, though she was very kind to him; and he seemed too much taken up with his dogs and horses to care much for her. so charles and she were thrown together, and charles's love for her grew stronger day by day, until that studied indifferent air which he had assumed on his arrival became almost impossible to sustain. he sustained it, nevertheless, treating adelaide almost with rudeness, and flinging about his words so carelessly, that sometimes she would look suddenly up indignant, and make some passionate reply, and sometimes she would rise and leave the room--for aught i know, in tears. it was a sad house to stay in; and his heart began to yearn for his western home in spite of adelaide. after a short time came a long letter from his father, a scolding loving letter, in which densil showed plainly that he was trying to be angry, and could not, for joy at having his son home with him--and concluded by saying that he should never allude to the circumstance again, and by praying him to come back at once from that wicked, cock-fighting, horse-racing, ranford. there was an inclosure for lord saltire, the reading of which caused his lordship to take a great deal of snuff, in which he begged him, for old friendship's sake, to send his boy home to him, as he had once sent him home to his father. and so lord saltire appeared in charles's dressing-room before dinner one day, and, sitting down, said that he was come to take a great liberty, and, in fact, was rather presuming on his being an old man, but he hoped that his young friend would not take it amiss from a man old enough to be his grandfather, if he recommended him to leave that house, and go home to his father's. ranford was a most desirable house in every way, but, at the same time, it was what he believed the young men of the day called a fast house; and he would not conceal from his young friend that his father had requested him to use his influence to make him return home; and he did beg his old friend's son to believe that he was actuated by the best of motives. "dear lord saltire," said charles, taking the old man's hand; "i am going home to-morrow; and you don't know how heartily i thank you for the interest you always take in me." "i know nothing," said lord saltire, "more pleasing to a battered old fellow like myself than to contemplate the ingenuousness of youth, and you must allow me to say that your ingenuousness sits uncommonly well upon you--in fact, is very becoming. i conceived a considerable interest in you the first time i saw you, on that very account. i should like to have had a son like you, but it was not to be. i had a son, who was all that could be desired by the most fastidious person, brought up in a far better school than mine; but he got shot in his first duel, at one-and-twenty. i remember to have been considerably annoyed at the time," continued the old gentleman, taking a pinch of snuff, and looking steadily at charles without moving a muscle, "but i dare say it was all for the best; he might have run in debt, or married a woman with red hair, or fifty things. well, i wish you good day, and beg your forgiveness once more for the liberty i have taken." charles slipped away from the dinner-table early that evening, and, while lady ascot was having her after-dinner nap, had a long conversation with adelaide in the dark, which was very pleasant to one of the parties concerned, at any rate. "adelaide, i am going home to-morrow." "are you really? are you going so suddenly?" "i am, positively. i got a letter from home to-day. are you very sorry or very glad?" "i am very sorry, charles. you are the only friend i have in the world to whom i can speak as i like. make me a promise." "well?" "this is the last night we shall be together. promise that you won't be rude and sarcastic as you are sometimes--almost always, now, to poor me--but talk kindly, as we used to do." "very well," said charles. "and you promise you won't be taking such a black view of the state of affairs as you do in general. do you remember the conversation we had the day the colt was tried?" "i remember." "well, don't talk like that, you know." "i won't promise that. the time will come very soon when we shall have no more pleasant talks together." "when will that be?" "when i am gone out for a governess." "what wages will you get? you will not get so much as some girls, because you are so pretty and so wilful, and you will lead them such a deuce of a life." "charles, you said you wouldn't be rude." "i choose to be rude. i have been drinking wine, and we are in the dark, and aunt is asleep and snoring, and i shall say just what i like." "i'll wake her." "i should like to see you. what shall we talk about? what an old roman lord saltire is. he talked about his son who was killed, to me to-day, just as i should talk about a pointer dog." "then he thought he had been showing some signs of weakness. he always speaks of his son like that when he thinks he has been betraying some feeling." "i admire him for it," said charles.--"so you are going to be a governess, eh?" "i suppose so." "why don't you try being barmaid at a public-house? welter would get you a place directly; he has great influence in the licensed victualling way. you might come to marry a commercial traveller, for anything you know." "i would not have believed this," she said, in a fierce, low voice. "you have turned against me and insult me, because----unkind, unjust, ungentlemanlike." he heard her passionately sobbing in the dark, and the next moment he had her in his arms, and was covering her face with kisses. "lie there, my love," he said; "that is your place. all the world can't harm or insult my adelaide while she is there. why did you fly from me and repulse me, my darling, when i told you i was your own true love?" "oh, let me go, charles," she said, trying, ever so feebly, to repulse him. "dear charles, pray do; i am frightened." "not till you tell me you love me, false one." "i love you more than all the world." "traitress! and why did you repulse me and laugh at me?" "i did not think you were in earnest." "another kiss for that wicked, wicked falsehood. do you know that this rustication business has all come from the despair consequent on your wicked behaviour the other day?" "you said welter caused it, charles. but oh, please let me go." "will you go as a governess now?" "i will do nothing but what you tell me." "then give me one, your own, own self, and i will let you go." have the reader's feelings of horror, indignation, astonishment, outraged modesty, or ridicule, given him time to remember that all this went on in the dark, within six feet of an unconscious old lady? such, however, was the case. and scarcely had adelaide determined that it was time to wake her, and barely had she bent over her for that purpose, when the door was thrown open, and--enter attendants with lights. now, if the reader will reflect a moment, he will see what an awful escape they had; for the chances were about a thousand to one in favour of two things having happened: st, the groom of the chambers might have come into the room half a minute sooner; and nd, they might have sat as they were half a minute longer; in either of which cases, charles would have been discovered with his arm round adelaide's waist, and a fearful scandal would have been the consequence. and i mention this as a caution to young persons in general, and to remind them that, if they happen to be sitting hand in hand, it is no use to jump apart and look very red just as the door opens, because the incomer can see what they have been about as plain as if he had been there. on this occasion, also, charles and adelaide set down as usual to their own sagacity what was the result of pure accident. adelaide was very glad to get away after tea, for she felt rather guilty and confused. on charles's offering to go, however, lady ascot, who had been very silent and glum all tea-time, requested him to stay, as she had something serious to say to him. which set the young gentleman speculating whether she could possibly have been awake before the advent of candles, and caused him to await her pleasure with no small amount of trepidation. her ladyship began by remarking that digitalis was invaluable for palpitation, and that she had also found camomile, combined with gentle purgatives, efficient for the same thing, when suspected to proceed from the stomach. she opined that, if this weather continued, there would be heavy running for the cambridgeshire, and commissioner would probably stand as well as any horse. and then, having, like a pigeon, taken a few airy circles through stable-management, theology, and agriculture, she descended on her subject, and frightened charles out of his five wits by asking him if he didn't think adelaide a very nice girl. charles decidedly thought she was a very nice girl; but he rather hesitated, and said--"yes, that she was charming." "now, tell me, my dear," said lady ascot, manoeuvring a great old fan, "for young eyes are quicker than old ones. did you ever remark anything between her and welter?" charles caught up one of his legs, and exclaimed, "the devil!" "what a shocking expression, my dear! well, i agree with you. i fancy i have noticed that they have entertained a decided preference for one another. of course, welter will be throwing himself away, and all that sort of thing, but he is pretty sure to do that. i expect, every time he comes home, that he will bring a wife from behind the bar of a public-house. now, adelaide--" "aunt! lady ascot! surely you are under a mistake. i never saw anything between them." "h'm." "i assure you i never did. i never heard welter speak of her in that sort of way, and i don't think she cares for him." "what reason have you for thinking _that_?" "well--why, you know it's hard to say. the fact is, i have rather a partiality for adelaide myself, and i have watched her in the presence of other men." "oho! do you think she cares for you? do you know she won't have a sixpence?" "we shall have enough to last till next year, aunt; and then the world is to come to an end, you know, and we shan't want anything." "never you mind about the world, sir. don't you be flippant and impertinent, sir. don't evade my question, sir. do you think adelaide cares for you, sir?" "charles looked steadily and defiantly at his aunt, and asked her whether she didn't think it was very difficult to find out what a girl's mind really was--whereby we may conclude that he was profiting by lord saltire's lesson on the command of feature." "this is too bad, charles," broke out lady ascot, "to put me off like this, after your infamous and audacious conduct of this evening--after kissing and hugging that girl under my very nose--" "i thought it!" said charles, with a shout of laughter. "i thought it, you were awake all the time!" "i was not awake all the time, sir--" "you were awake quite long enough, it appears, aunty. now, what do you think of it?" at first lady ascot would think nothing of it, but that the iniquity of charles's conduct was only to be equalled by the baseness and ingratitude of adelaide's; but by degrees she was brought to think that it was possible that some good might come of an engagement; and, at length, becoming garrulous on this point, it leaked out by degrees, that she had set her heart on it for years, that she had noticed for some time charles's partiality for her with the greatest pleasure, and recently had feared that something had disturbed it. in short, that it was her pet scheme, and that she had been coming to an explanation that very night, but had been anticipated. chapter xi. gives us an insight into charles's domestic relations, and shows how the great conspirator soliloquised to the grand chandelier. it may be readily conceived that a considerable amount of familiarity existed between charles and his servant and foster-brother william. but, to the honour of both of them be it said, there was more than this--a most sincere and hearty affection; a feeling for one another which, we shall see, lasted through everything. till charles went to shrewsbury, he had never had another playfellow. he and william had been allowed to paddle about on the sand, or ride together on the moor, as they would, till a boy's friendship had arisen, sufficiently strong to obliterate all considerations of rank between them. this had grown with age, till william had become his confidential agent at home, during his absence, and charles had come to depend very much on his account of the state of things at head-quarters. he had also another confidential agent, to whom we shall be immediately introduced. she, however, was of another sex and rank. william's office was barely a pleasant one. his affection for his master led him most faithfully to attend to his interests; and, as a catholic, he was often brought into collision with father mackworth, who took a laudable interest in charles's affairs, and considered himself injured on two or three occasions by the dogged refusal of william to communicate the substance and result of a message forwarded through william, from shrewsbury, to densil, which seemed to cause the old gentleman some thought and anxiety. william's religious opinions, however, had got to be somewhat loose, and to sit somewhat easily upon him, more particularly since his sojourn to oxford. he had not very long ago confided to charles, in a private sitting, that the conviction which was strong on his mind was, that father mackworth was not to be trusted. god forgive him for saying so; and, on being pressed by charles to state why, he point-blank refused to give any reason whatever, but repeated his opinion with redoubled emphasis. charles had a great confidence in william's shrewdness, and forbore to press him, but saw that something had occurred which had impressed the above conviction on william's mind most strongly. he had been sent from oxford to see how the land lay at home, and had met charles at the rose and crown, at stonnington, with saddle horses. no sooner were they clear of the town than william, without waiting for charles's leave, put spurs to his horse and rode up alongside of him. "what is your news, william?" "nothing very great. master looks bothered and worn." "about this business of mine." "the priest goes on talking about it, and plaguing him with it, when he wants to forget it." "the deuce take him! he talks about me a good deal." "yes; he has begun about you again. master wouldn't stand it the other day, and told him to hold his tongue, just like his own self. tom heard him. they made it up afterwards, though." "what did cuthbert say?" "master cuthbert spoke up for you, and said he hoped there wasn't going to be a scene, and that you weren't coming to live in disgrace, for that would be punishing every one in the house for you." "how's mary?" "she's well. master don't trust her out of his sight much. they will never set him against you while she is there. i wish you would marry her, master charles, if you can give up the other one." charles laughed and told him he wasn't going to do anything of the sort. then he asked, "any visitors?" "ay; one. father tiernay, a stranger." "what sort of man?" "a real good one. i don't think our man likes him, though." they had now come to the moor's edge, and were looking down on the amphitheatre which formed the domain of ravenshoe. far and wide the tranquil sea, vast, dim, and grey, flooded bay and headland, cave and islet. beneath their feet slept the winter woodlands; from whose brown bosom rose the old house, many-gabled, throwing aloft from its chimneys hospitable columns of smoke, which hung in the still autumn air, and made a hazy cloud on the hill-side. everything was so quiet that they could hear the gentle whisper of the ground-swell, and the voices of the children at play upon the beach, and the dogs barking in the kennels. "how calm and quiet old home looks, william," said charles; "i like to get back here after oxford." "no wine parties here. no steeplechases. no bloomer balls," said william. "no! and no chapels and lectures, and being sent for by the dean," said charles. "and none of they dratted bones, neither," said william, with emphasis. "ahem! why no! suppose we ride on." so they rode down the road through the woodland to the lodge, and so through the park--sloping steeply up on their left, with many a clump of oak and holly, and many a broad patch of crimson fern. the deer stood about in graceful groups, while the bucks belled and rattled noisily, making the thorn-thickets echo with the clatter of their horns. the rabbits scudded rapidly across the road, and the blackbird fled screaming from the mountain-ash tree, now all a-fire with golden fruit. so they passed on until a sudden sweep brought them upon the terrace between the old grey house and the murmuring sea. charles jumped off, and william led the horses round to the stable. a young lady in a straw hat and brown gloves, with a pair of scissors and a basket, standing half-way up the steps, came down to meet him, dropping the basket, and holding out the brown gloves before her. this young lady he took in his arms, and kissed; and she, so far from resenting the liberty, after she was set on her feet again, held him by both hands, and put a sweet dark face towards his, as if she wouldn't care if he kissed her again. which he immediately did. it was not a very pretty face, but oh! such a calm, quiet, pleasant one. there was scarcely a good feature in it, and yet the whole was so gentle and pleasing, and withal so shrewd and _espiègle_, that to look at it once was to think about it till you looked again; and to look again was to look as often as you had a chance, and to like the face the more each time you looked. i said there was not a good feature in the face. well, i misled you; there was a pair of calm, honest, black eyes--a very good feature indeed, and which, once seen, you were not likely to forget. and, also, when i tell you that this face and eyes belonged to the neatest, trimmest little figure imaginable, i hope i have done my work sufficiently well to make you envy that lucky rogue charles, who, as we know, cares for no woman in the world but adelaide, and who, between you and me, seems to be much too partial to this sort of thing. "a thousand welcomes home, charley," said the pleasant little voice which belonged to this pleasant little personage. "oh! i am so glad you're come." "you'll soon wish me away again. i'll plague you." "i like to be plagued by you, charley. how is adelaide?" "adelaide is all that the fondest lover could desire" (for they had no secrets, these two), "and either sent her love or meant to do so." "charles, dearest," she said, eagerly, "come and see him now! come and see him with me!" "where is he?" "in the shrubbery, with flying childers." "is he alone?" "all alone, except the dog." "where are _they_?" "they are gone out coursing. come on; they will be back in an hour, and the rook never leaves him. come, come." it will be seen that these young folks had a tolerably good understanding with one another, and could carry on a conversation about "third parties" without even mentioning their names. we shall see how this came about presently; but, for the present, let us follow these wicked conspirators, and see in what deep plot they are engaged. they passed rapidly along the terrace, and turned the corner of the house to the left, where the west front overhung the river glen, and the broad terraced garden went down step by step towards the brawling stream. this they passed, and opening an iron gate, came suddenly into a gloomy maze of shrubbery that stretched its long vistas up the valley. down one dark alley after another they hurried. the yellow leaves rustled beneath their feet, and all nature was pervaded with the smell of decay. it was hard to believe that these bare damp woods were the same as those they had passed through but four months ago, decked out with their summer bravery--an orchestra to a myriad birds. here and there a bright berry shone out among the dull-coloured twigs, and a solitary robin quavered his soft melancholy song alone. the flowers were dead, the birds were flown or mute, and brave, green leaves were stamped under foot; everywhere decay, decay. in the dampest, darkest walk of them all, in a far-off path, hedged with holly and yew, they found a bent and grey old man walking with a toothless, grey old hound for his silent companion. and, as charles moved forward with rapid elastic step, the old man looked up, and tottered to meet him, showing as he did so the face of densil ravenshoe. "now the virgin be praised," he said, "for putting it in your head to come so quick, my darling. whenever you go away now, i am in terror lest i should die and never see you again. i might be struck with paralysis, and not know you, my boy. don't go away from me again." "i should like never to leave you any more, father dear. see how well you get on with my arm. let us come out into the sun; why do you walk in this dismal wood? "why?" said the old man, with sudden animation, his grey eye kindling as he stopped. "why? i come here because i can catch sight of a woodcock, lad! i sprang one by that holly just before you came up. flip flap, and away through the hollies like a ghost! cuthbert and the priest are away coursing. now you are come, surely i can get on the grey pony, and go up to see a hare killed. you will lead him for me, won't you? i don't like to trouble _them_." "we can go to-morrow, dad, after lunch, you and i, and william. we'll have leopard and blue-ruin--by george, it will be like old times again." "and we'll take our little quiet bird on _her_ pony, won't we?" said densil, turning to mary. "she's such a good little bird, charley. we sit and talk of you many an hour. charley, can't you get me down on the shore, and let me sit there? i got cuthbert to take me down once; but father mackworth came and talked about the immaculate conception through his nose all the time. i didn't want to hear him talk; i wanted to hear the surf on the shore. good man! he thought he interested me, i dare say." "i hope he is very kind to you, father?" "kind! i assure you, my dear boy, he is the kindest creature; he never lets me out of his sight; and so attentive!" "he'll have to be a little less attentive in future, confound him!" muttered charles. "there he is. talk of the devil! mary, my dear," he added aloud, "go and amuse the rooks for a little, and let us have cuthbert to ourselves." the old man looked curious at the idea of mary talking to the rooks; but his mind was drawn off by charles having led him into a warm, southern corner, and set him down in the sun. mary did her errand well, for in a few moments cuthbert advanced rapidly towards them. coming up, he took charles's hand, and shook it with a faint, kindly smile. he had grown to be a tall and somewhat handsome young man--certainly handsomer than charles. his face, even now he was warmed by exercise, was very pale, though the complexion was clear and healthy. his hair was slightly gone from his forehead, and he looked much older than he really was. the moment that the smile was gone his face resumed the expression of passionless calm that it had borne before; and sitting down by his brother, he asked him how he did. "i am as well, cuthbert," said charles, "as youth, health, a conscience of brass, and a whole world full of friends can make me. _i'm_ all right, bless you. but you look very peaking and pale. do you take exercise enough?" "i? oh, dear, yes. but i am very glad to see you, charles. our father misses you. don't you, father?" "very much, cuthbert." "yes. i bore him. i do, indeed. i don't take interest in the things he does. i can't; it's not my nature. you and he will be as happy as kings talking about salmon, and puppies, and colts." "i know, cuthbert; i know. you never cared about those things as we do." "no, never, brother; and now less than ever. i hope you will stay with me--with us. you are my own brother. i will have you stay here," he continued in a slightly raised voice; "and i desire that any opposition or impertinence you may meet with may be immediately reported to me." "it will be immediately reported to those who use it, and in a way they won't like, cuthbert. don't you be afraid; i shan't quarrel. tell me something about yourself, old boy." "i can tell you but little to interest you, charles. you are of this world, and rejoice in being so. i, day by day, wean myself more and more from it, knowing its worthlessness. leave me to my books and my religious exercises, and go on your way. the time will come when your pursuits and pleasures will turn to bitter dust in your mouth, as mine never can. when the world is like a howling wilderness to you, as it will be soon, then come to me, and i will show you where to find happiness. at present you will not listen to me." "not i," said charles. "youth, health, talent, like yours--are these gifts to despise?" "they are clogs to keep me from higher things. study, meditation, life in the past with those good men who have walked the glorious road before us--in these consist happiness. ambition! i have one earthly ambition--to purge myself from earthly affections, so that, when i hear the cloister-gate close behind me for ever, my heart may leap with joy, and i may feel that i am in the antechamber of heaven." charles was deeply affected, and bent down his head. "youth, love, friends, joy in this beautiful world--all to be buried between four dull white walls, my brother!" "this beautiful earth, which is beautiful indeed--alas! how i love it still! shall become a burden to us in a few years. love! the greater the love, the greater the bitterness. charles, remember _that_, one day, will you, when your heart is torn to shreds? i shall have ceased to love you then more than any other fellow-creature; but remember my words. you are leading a life which can only end in misery, as even the teachers of the false and corrupt religion which you profess would tell you. if you were systematically to lead the life you do now, it were better almost that there were no future. you are not angry, charles?" there was such a spice of truth in what cuthbert said that it would have made nine men in ten angry. i am pleased to record of my favourite charles that he was not; he kept his head bent down, and groaned. "don't be hard on our boy, cuthbert," said densil; "he is a good boy, though he is not like you. it has always been so in our family--one a devotee and the other a sportsman. let us go in, boys; it gets chill." charles rose up, and, throwing his arms round his brother's neck, boisterously gave him a kiss on the cheek; then he began laughing and talking at the top of his voice, making the nooks and angles in the grey old façade echo with his jubilant voice. under the dark porch they found a group of three--mackworth; a jolly-looking, round-faced, irish priest, by name tiernay; and mary. mackworth received charles with a pleasant smile, and they joined in conversation together heartily. few men could be more agreeable than mackworth, and he chose to be agreeable now. charles was insensibly carried away by the charm of his frank, hearty manner, and for a time forgot who was talking to him. mackworth and charles were enemies. if we reflect a moment, we shall see that it could hardly be otherwise. charles's existence, holding as he did the obnoxious religion, was an offence to him. he had been prejudiced against him from the first; and, children not being very slow to find out who are well disposed towards them, or the contrary, charles had early begun to regard the priest with distrust and dislike. so a distant, sarcastic line of treatment, on the one hand, and childish insolence and defiance, on the other, had grown at last into something very like hatred on both sides. every soul in the house adored charles but the priest; and, on the other hand, the priest's authority and dignity were questioned by none but charles. and, all these small matters being taken into consideration, it is not wonderful, i say, that charles and the priest were not good friends even before anything had occurred to bring about any open rupture. charles and mackworth seldom met of late years without a "sparring match." on this day, however--partly owing, perhaps, to the presence of a jolly good-humoured irish priest--they got through dinner pretty well. charles was as brave as a lion, and, though by far the priest's inferior in scientific "sparring," had a rough, strong, effective method of fighting, which was by no means to be despised. his great strength lay in his being always ready for battle. as he used to tell his crony william, he would as soon fight as not; and often, when rebuked by cuthbert for what he called insolence to the priest, he would exclaim, "i don't care; what did he begin at me for? if he lets me alone, i'll let him alone." and, seeing that he had been at continual war with the reverend gentleman for sixteen years or more, i think it speaks highly for the courage of both parties that neither had hitherto yielded. when charles afterwards came to know what a terrible card the man had held in his hand, he was struck with amazement at his self-possession in not playing it, despite his interest. mackworth was hardly so civil after dinner as he was before; but cuthbert was hoping that charles and he would get on without a battle-royal, when a slight accident brought on a general engagement, and threw all his hopes to the ground. densil and mary had gone up to the drawing-room, and charles, having taken as much wine as he cared for, rose from the table, and sauntered towards the door, when cuthbert quite innocently asked him where he was going. charles said also in perfect good faith that he was going to smoke a cigar, and talk to william. cuthbert asked him, would he get william or one of them to give the grey colt a warm mash with some nitre in it; and charles said he'd see it done for him himself; when, without warning or apparent cause, father mackworth said to father tiernay, "this william is one of the grooms. a renegade, i fancy! i believe the fellow is a protestant at heart. he and mr. charles ravenshoe are very intimate; they keep up a constant correspondence when apart, i assure you." charles faced round instantly, and confronted his enemy with a smile on his lips; but he said not a word, trying to force mackworth to continue. "why don't you leave him alone?" said cuthbert. "my dear cuthbert," said charles, "pray don't humiliate me by interceding; i assure you i am greatly amused. you see he doesn't speak to me; he addressed himself to mr. tiernay." "i wished," said mackworth, "to call father tiernay's attention, as a stranger to this part of the world, to the fact of a young gentleman's corresponding with an illiterate groom in preference to any member of his family." "the reason i do it," said charles, speaking to tiernay, but steadily watching mackworth to see if any of his shafts hit, "is to gain information. i like to know what goes on in my absence. cuthbert here is buried in his books, and does not know everything." no signs of flinching there. mackworth sat with a scornful smile on his pale face, without moving a muscle. "he likes to get information," said mackworth, "about his village amours, i suppose. but, dear me, he can't know anything that the whole parish don't know. i could have told him that that poor deluded fool of an underkeeper was going to marry mary lee, after all that had happened. he will be dowering a wife for his precious favourite some day." "my precious favourite, father tiernay," said charles, still closely watching mackworth, "is my foster-brother. he used to be a great favourite with our reverend friend; his pretty sister ellen is so still, i believe." this was as random an arrow as ever was shot, and yet it went home to the feather. charles saw mackworth give a start and bite his lip, and knew that he had smote him deep; he burst out laughing. "with regard to the rest, father tiernay, any man who says that there was anything wrong between me and mary lee tells, saving your presence, a lie. it's infernally hard if a man mayn't play at love-making with the whole village for a confidant, and the whole matter a merry joke, but one must be accused of all sorts of villainy. isn't ours a pleasant household, mr. tiernay?" father tiernay shook his honest sides with a wondering laugh, and said, "faix it is. but i hope ye'll allow me to put matters right betune you two. father mackworth begun on the young man; he was going out to his dudeen as peaceful as an honest young gentleman should. and some of the best quality are accustomed to converse their grooms in the evening over their cigar. i myself can instance lord mountdown, whose hospitality i have partook frequent. and i'm hardly aware of any act of parliament, brother, whereby a young man shouldn't kiss a pretty girl in the way of fun, as i've done myself, sure. whist now, both on ye! i'll come with ye, ye heretic, and smoke a cigar meeself." "i call you to witness that he insulted me," said mackworth, turning round from the window. "i wish you had let him alone, father," said cuthbert, peevishly; "we were getting on very happily till you began. do go, charles, and smoke your cigar with father tiernay." "i am waiting to see if he wants any more," said charles, with a laugh. "come on, father tiernay, and i'll show you the miscreant, and his pretty sister, too, if you like." "i wish he hadn't come home," said cuthbert, as soon as he and mackworth were alone together. "why do you and he fight like cat and dog? you make me perfectly miserable. i know he is going to the devil, in a worldly point of view, and that his portion will be hell necessarily as a heretic; but i don't see why you should worry him to death, and make the house miserable to him." "it is for his good." "nonsense," rejoined cuthbert. "you make him hate you; and i don't think you ought to treat a son of this house in the way you treat him, you are under obligations to this house. yes, you are. i won't be contradicted now. i will have my say when i am in this temper, and you know it. the devil is not dead yet by a long way, you see. why do you rouse him?" "go on, go on." "yes, i will go on. i'm in my own house, i believe. by the eleven thousand virgins, more or less, of the holy st. ursula, virgin and martyr, that brother of mine is a brave fellow. why, he cares as much for you as for a little dog barking at him. and you're a noble enemy for any man. you'd better let him alone, i think; you won't get much out of him. adieu." "what queer wild blood there is in these ravenshoes," said mackworth to himself, when he was alone. "a younger hand than myself would have been surprised at cuthbert's kicking after so much schooling. not i. i shall never quite tame him, though he is broken in enough for all practical purposes. he will be on his knees to-morrow for this. i like to make him kick; i shall do it sometimes for amusement; he is so much easier managed after one of these tantrums. by jove! i love the man better every day; he is one after my own heart. as for charles, i hate him, and yet i like him after a sort. i like to break a pointless lance with that boy, and let him fancy he is my equal. it amuses me. "i almost fancy that i could have fallen in love with that girl ellen. i was uncommon near it. i must be very careful. what a wild hawk she is! what a magnificent move that was of hers, risking a prosecution for felony on one single throw, and winning. how could she have guessed that there was anything there? she couldn't have guessed it. it was an effort of genius. it was a splendid move. "how nearly that pigheaded fool of a young nobleman has gone to upset my calculations! his namesake the chessplayer could not have done more mischief by his talents than his friend had by stupidity. i wish lord ascot would get ruined as quickly as possible, and then my friend would be safe out of the way. but he won't." chapter xii. containing a song by charles ravenshoe, and also father tiernay's opinion about the family. charles and the good-natured father tiernay wandered out across the old court-yard, towards the stables--a pile of buildings in the same style as the house, which lay back towards the hill. the moon was full, although obscured by clouds, and the whole court-yard was bathed in a soft mellow light. they both paused for a moment to look at the fine old building, standing silent for a time; and then charles startled the contemplative priest by breaking into a harsh scornful laugh, as unlike his own cheery ha! ha! as it was possible to be. "what are you disturbing a gentleman's meditations in that way for?" said the father. "is them your oxford manners? give me ye'r cigar-case, ye haythen, if ye can't appreciate the beauties of nature and art combined--laughing like that at the cradle of your ancestors too." charles gave him the cigar-case, and trolled out in a rich bass voice-- "the old falcon's nest was built up on the crest of the cliff that hangs over the sea; and the jackdaws and crows, as every one knows, were confounded respectful to he, to he--e--e." "howld yer impudence, ye young heretic doggrel-writer; can't i see what ye are driving at?" "but the falcon grew old, and the nest it grew cold, and the carrion birds they grew bolder; so the jackdaws and crows, underneath his own nose, gave both the young falcons cold shoulder." "bedad," said the good-natured irishman, "some one got hot shoulder to-day. aren't ye ashamed of yourself, singing such ribaldry, and all the servants hearing ye?" "capital song, father; only one verse more. "the elder was quelled, but the younger rebelled; so he spread his white wings and fled over the sea. said the jackdaws and crows, 'he'll be hanged i suppose, but what in the deuce does that matter to we?'" there was something in the wild, bitter tone in which he sang the last verse that made father tiernay smoke his cigar in silence as they sauntered across the yard, till charles began again. "not a word of applause for my poor impromptu song? hang it, i'd have applauded anything you sang." "don't be so reckless and bitter, mr. ravenshoe," said tiernay, laying his hand on his shoulder. "i can feel for you, though there is so little in common between us. you might lead a happy peaceful life if you were to come over to us; which you will do, if i know anything of my trade, in the same day that the sun turns pea-green. _allons_, as we used to say over the water; let us continue our travels." "reckless! i am not reckless. the jolly old world is very wide, and i am young and strong. there will be a wrench when the tooth comes out; but it will soon be over, and the toothache will be cured." tiernay remained silent a moment, and then in an absent manner sang this line, in a sweet low voice-- "for the girl of my heart that i'll never see more." "she must cast in her lot with me," said charles. "ay, and she will do it, too. she will follow me to the world's end, sir. are you a judge of horses? what a question to ask of an irishman! here are the stables." the lads were bedding down, and all the great building was alive with the clattering of busy feet and the neighing of horses. the great ravenshoe stud was being tucked up for the night; and over that two thousand pounds' worth of horse-flesh at least six thousand pounds' worth of fuss was being made, under the superintendence of the stud groom, mr. dickson. the physical appearance of mr. dickson was as though you had taken an aged newmarket jockey, and put a barrel of oysters, barrel and all, inside his waistcoat. his face was thin; his thighs were hollow; calves to his legs he had none. he was all stomach. many years had elapsed since he had been brought to the verge of dissolution by severe training; and since then all that he had eaten, or drunk, or done, had flown to his stomach, producing a tympanitic action in that organ, astounding to behold. in speech he was, towards his superiors, courteous and polite; towards his equals, dictatorial; towards his subordinates, abusive, not to say blasphemous. to this gentleman charles addressed himself, inquiring if he had seen william: and he, with a lofty, though courteous, sense of injury, inquired, in a loud tone of voice, of the stablemen generally, if any one had seen mr. charles's pad-groom. in a dead silence which ensued, one of the lads was ill-advised enough to say that he didn't exactly know where he was; which caused mr. dickson to remark that, if that was all he had to say, he had better go on with his work, and not make a fool of himself--which the man did, growling out something about always putting his foot in it. "your groom comes and goes pretty much as he likes, sir," said mr. dickson. "i don't consider him as under my orders. had he been so, i should have felt it my duty to make complaint on more than one occasion; he is a little too much of the gentleman for _my_ stable, sir." "of course, my good dickson," interrupted charles, "the fact of his being my favourite makes you madly jealous of him; that is not the question now. if you don't know where he is, be so good as to hold your tongue." charles was only now and then insolent and abrupt with servants, and they liked him the better for it. it was one of cuthbert's rules to be coldly, evenly polite, and, as he thought, considerate to the whole household; and yet they did not like him half so well as charles, who would sometimes, when anything went wrong, "kick up," what an intelligent young irish footman used to call "the divvle's own shindy." cuthbert, they knew, had no sympathy for them, but treated them, as he treated himself, as mere machines; while charles had that infinite capacity of goodwill which none are more quick to recognise than servants and labouring people. and on this occasion, though mr. dickson might have sworn a little more than usual after charles's departure, yet his feeling, on the whole, was that he was sorry for having vexed the young gentleman by sneering at his favourite. but charles, having rescued the enraptured father tiernay from the stable, and having listened somewhat inattentively to a long description of the curragh of kildare, led the worthy priest round the back of the stables, up a short path through the wood, and knocked at the door of a long, low keeper's lodge, which stood within a stone's throw of the other buildings, in an open, grassy glade, through which flowed a musical, slender stream of water. in one instant, night was hideous with rattling chains and barking dogs, who made as though they would tear the intruders to pieces; all except one foolish pointer pup, who was loose, and who, instead of doing his duty by barking, came feebly up, and cast himself on his back at their feet, as though they were the car of juggernaut, and he was a candidate for paradise. finding that he was not destroyed, he made a humiliating feint of being glad to see them, and nearly overthrew the priest by getting between his legs. but charles, finding that his second summons was unanswered, lifted the latch, and went into the house. the room they entered was dark, or nearly so, and at the first moment appeared empty; but, at the second glance, they made out that a figure was kneeling before the dying embers of the fire, and trying to kindle a match by blowing on the coals. "hullo!" said charles. "william, my boy," said a voice which made the priest start, "where have you been, lad?" at the same moment a match was lit, and then a candle; as the light blazed up, it fell on the features of a grey-headed old man, who was peering through the darkness at them, and the priest cried, "good god! mr. ravenshoe!" the likeness for one moment was very extraordinary; but, as the eye grew accustomed to the light, one saw that the face was the face of a taller man than densil, and one, too, who wore the dress of a gamekeeper. charles laughed at the priest, and said-- "you were struck, as many have been, by the likeness. he has been so long with my father that he has the very trick of his voice, and the look of the eye. where have you been to-night, james?" he added, affectionately. "why do you go out so late alone? if any of those mining rascals were to be round poaching, you might be killed." "i can take care of myself yet, master charles," said the old man, laughing; and, to do him justice, he certainly looked as if he could. "where is norah?" "gone down to young james holby's wife; she is lying-in." "pretty early, too. where's ellen?" "gone up to the house." "see, father, i shall be disappointed in showing you the belle of ravenshoe; and now you will go back to ireland, fancying you can compete with us." father tiernay was beginning a story about five miss moriartys, who were supposed to rival in charms and accomplishments any five young ladies in the world, when his eye was attracted by a stuffed hare in a glass case, of unusual size and very dark colour. "that, sir," said james, the keeper, in a bland, polite, explanatory tone of voice, coming and leaning over him, "is old mrs. jewel, that lived in the last cottage on the right-hand side, under the cliff. i always thought that it had been mrs. simpson, but it was not. i shot this hare on the monday, not three hundred yards from mrs. jewel's house; and on the wednesday the neighbours noticed the shutters hadn't been down for two days, and broke the door open; and there she was, sure enough, dead in her bed. i had shot her as she was coming home from some of her devilries. a quiet old soul she was, though. no, i never thought it had been she." it would be totally impossible to describe the changes through which the broad, sunny face of father tiernay went during the above astounding narration; horror, astonishment, inquiry, and humour were so strangely blended. he looked in the face of the old gamekeeper, and met the expression of a man who had mentioned an interesting fact, and had contributed to the scientific experience of the listener. he looked at charles, and met no expression whatever; but the latter said-- "our witches in these parts, father, take the form of some inferior animal when attending their sabbath or general meetings, which i believe are presided over by an undoubted gentleman, who is not generally named in polite society. in this case, the old woman was caught sneaking home under the form of a hare, and promptly rolled over by james; and here she is." father tiernay said, "oh, indeed!" but looked as if he thought the more. "and there's another of them out now, sir," said the keeper; "and, master charles, dear, if you're going to take the greyhounds out to-morrow, do have a turn at that big black hare under birch tor----" "a black hare!" said father tiernay, aghast. "nearly coal-black, your reverence," said james. "she's a witch, your reverence, and who she is the blessed saints only know. i have seen her three or four times. if the master was on terms with squire humby to hele, we might have the harriers over and run her down. but that can't be, in course. if you take blue-ruin and lightning out to-morrow, master charles, and turn her out of the brambles under the rocks, and leave the master and miss mary against the corner of the stone wall to turn her down the gully, you must have her." the look of astonishment had gradually faded from father tiernay's face. it is said that one of the great elements of power in the roman catholic priesthood is that they can lend themselves to any little bit of--well, of mild deception--which happens to be going. father tiernay was up to the situation. he looked from the keeper to charles with a bland and stolid expression of face, and said-- "if she is a witch, mark my words, the dogs will never touch her. the way would be to bite up a crooked sixpence and fire at her with that. i shall be there to see the sport. i never hunted a witch yet." "has your reverence ever seen a white polecat?" said the keeper. "no, never," said the priest; "i have heard of them though. my friend, mr. moriarty, of castledown (not mountdown castle, ye understand; that is the sate of my lord mountdown, whose blessed mother was a moriarty, the heavens be her bed), claimed to have seen one; but, bedad, no one else ever saw it, and he said it turned brown again as the season came round. may the--may the saints have my sowl if i believe a word of it." "_i_ have one, your reverence; and it is a rarity, i allow. stoats turn white often in hard winters, but polecats rarely. if your reverence and your honour will excuse me a moment, i will fetch it. it was shot by my lord welter when he was staying here last winter. a fine shot is my lord, your reverence, for so young a man." he left the room, and the priest and charles were left alone together. "does he believe all this rubbish about witches?" said father tiernay. "as firmly as you do the liquefaction of the blood of----" "there, there; we don't want all that. do you believe in it?" "of course i don't," said charles; "but why should i tell him so?" "why do you lend yourself to such humbug?" "why do you?" "begorra, i don't know. i am always lending. i lent a low-browed, hang-jawed spalpeen of a belgian priest two pound the other day, and sorra a halfpenny of it will me mother's son ever see again. hark!" there were voices approaching the lodge--the voices of two uneducated persons quarrelling; one that of a man, and the other of a woman. they both made so much out in a moment. charles recognised the voices, and would have distracted the priest's attention, and given those without warning that there were strangers within; but, in his anxiety to catch what was said, he was not ready enough, and they both heard this. the man's voice said fiercely, "you did." the woman's voice said, after a wild sob, "i did not." "you did. i saw you. you are a liar as well as----" "i swear i didn't. strike me dead, bill, if there's been anything wrong." "no. if i thought there had, i'd cut his throat first and yours after." "if it had been _him_, bill, you wouldn't have used me like this." "never you mind that." "you want to drive me mad. you do. you hate me. master charles hates me. oh, i wish i was mad." "i'd sooner see you chained by the waist in the straw than see what i saw to-night." then followed an oath. the door was rudely opened, and there entered first of all our old friend, charles's groom, william, who seemed beside himself with passion, and after him a figure which struck the good irishman dumb with amazement and admiration--a girl as beautiful as the summer morning, with her bright brown hair tangled over her forehead, and an expression of wild terror and wrath on her face, such as one may conceive the old sculptor wished to express when he tried, and failed, to carve the face of the gorgon. she glared on them both in her magnificent beauty only one moment. yet that look, as of a lost soul of another world, mad, hopeless, defiant, has never past from the memory of either of them. she was gone in an instant into an inner room, and william was standing looking savagely at the priest. in another moment his eyes had wandered to charles, and then his face grew smooth and quiet, and he said-- "we've been quarrelling, sir; don't you and this good gentleman say anything about it. master charles, dear, she drives me mad sometimes. things are not going right with her." charles and the priest walked thoughtfully home together. "allow me to say, ravenshoe," said the priest, "that, as an irishman, i consider myself a judge of remarkable establishments. i must say honestly that i have seldom or never met with a great house with so many queer elements about it as yours. you are all remarkable people. and, on my honour, i think that our friend mackworth is the most remarkable man of the lot." chapter xiii. the black hare. it was a glorious breezy november morning; the sturdy oaks alone held on to the last brown remnants of their summer finery; all the rest of the trees in the vast sheets of wood which clothed the lower parts of the downs overhanging ravenshoe had changed the bright colours of autumn for the duller, but not less beautiful, browns and purples of winter. below, in the park, the deer were feeding among the yellow fern brakes, and the rabbits were basking and hopping in the narrow patches of slanting sunlight, which streamed through the leafless trees. aloft, on the hill, the valiant blackcock led out his wives and family from the whortle-grown rocks, to flaunt his plumage in the warmest corner beneath the tor. and the tors, too, how they hung aloft above the brown heather, which was relieved here and there by patches of dead, brown, king-fern; hung aloft like brilliant, clearly-defined crystals, with such mighty breadths of light and shadow as sir charles barry never could accomplish, though he had westminster abbey to look at every day. up past a narrow sheep-path, where the short grass faded on the one side into feathery broom, and on the other into brown heather and grey stone, under the shadow of the tor which lay nearest to ravenshoe, and overhung those dark woods in which we saw densil just now walking with his old hound; there was grouped, on the morning after the day of charles's arrival, a happy party, every one of whom is already known to the reader. of which circumstance i, the writer, am most especially glad. for i am already as tired of introducing new people to you as my lord chamberlain must be of presenting strangers to her majesty at a levée. densil first, on a grey cob, looking very old and feeble, straining his eyes up the glen whither charles, and james, the old keeper, had gone with the greyhounds. at his rein stood william, whom we knew at oxford. beside the old man sat mary on her pony, looking so radiant and happy, that, even if there had been no glorious autumn sun overhead, one glance at her face would have made the dullest landscape in lancashire look bright. last, not least, the good father tiernay, who sat on his horse, hatless, radiant, scratching his tonsure. "and so you're determined to back the blue dog, miss mary," said he. "i have already betted a pair of gloves with charles, mr. tiernay," said mary, "and i will be rash enough to do so with you. ruin is the quickest striker we have ever bred." "i know it; they all say so," said the priest; "but come, i must have a bet on the course. i will back lightning." "lightning is the quicker dog," said densil; "but ruin! you will see him lie behind the other dog all the run, and strike the hare at last. father mackworth, a good judge of a dog, always backs him against the kennel." "where is father mackworth?" "i don't know," said densil. "i am surprised he is not with us; he is very fond of coursing." "his reverence, sir," said william, "started up the moor about an hour ago. i saw him going." "where was he going to?" "i can't say, sir. he took just over past the rocks on the opposite side of the bottom from mr. charles." "i wonder," said father tiernay, "whether james will find his friend, the witch, this morning." "ah," said densil, "he was telling me about that. i am sure i hope not." father tiernay was going to laugh, but didn't. "do you believe in witches, then, mr. ravenshoe?" "why, no," said densil, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "i suppose not. it don't seem to me now, as an old man, a more absurd belief than this new electro-biology and table-turning. charles tells me that they use magic crystals at oxford, and even claim to have raised the devil himself at merton; which, at this time of day, seems rather like reverting to first principles. but i am not sure i believe in any of it. i only know that, if any poor old woman has sold herself to satan, and taken it into her head to transform herself into a black hare, my greyhounds won't light upon her. she must have made such a deuced hard bargain that i shouldn't like to cheat her out of any of the small space left her between this and, and--thingamy." william, as a privileged servant, took the liberty of remarking that old mrs. jewel didn't seem to have been anything like a match for satan in the way of a bargain, for she had had hard times of it seven years before she died. from which-- father tiernay deduced the moral lesson, that that sort of thing didn't pay; and-- mary said she didn't believe a word of such rubbish, for old mrs. jewel was as nice an old body as ever was seen, and had worked hard for her living, until her strength failed, and her son went down in one of the herring-boats. densil said that his little bird was too positive. there was the witch of endor, for instance-- father tiernay, who had been straining his eyes and attention at the movements of charles and the greyhounds, and had only caught the last word, said with remarkable emphasis and distinctness-- "a broomstick of the witch of endor, well shod wi' brass," and then looked at densil as though he had helped him out of a difficulty, and wanted to be thanked. densil continued without noticing him-- "there was the witch of endor. and 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' if there weren't such things as witches, you know, st. paul wouldn't have said that." "i don't think it was st. paul, papa, was it?" said mary. "it was one of them, my love; and, for that matter, i consider st. peter quite as good as st. paul, if not better. st. peter was always in trouble, i know; but he was the only one who struck a blow for the good cause, all honour to him. let me see, he married st. veronica, didn't he?" "marry st. veronica, virgin and martyr?" said the priest, aghast. "my good sir, you are really talking at random." "ah, well, i may be wrong; she was virgin, but she was no martyr." "st. veronica," said father tiernay, dogmatically, and somewhat sulkily, "was martyred under tiberius; no less than that." "i bet you what you like of it," cried densil, "she died----" but what was densil's opinion about the last days of st. veronica will for ever remain a mystery; for at this moment there came a "see, ho!" from charles; in the next a noble hare had burst from a tangled mass of brambles at his feet; in another the two dogs were on her haunches, and charles, carrying two little flags furled in his hand, had dashed at the rough rocks on the bottom of the valley, had brought his horse on his nose, recovered him, and was half way up the hill after the flying greyhounds. it was but a short course. puss raced for some broken ground under the hill, opposite to where our party stood. she was too close pressed, and doubled back for the open, but, meeting james, turned as a last desperate chance back to her first point. too late; the dogs were upon her. there was a short scuffle, and then charles, rising in his saddle, unfurled his blue flag, and waved it. "hurrah!" cried mary, clapping her hands, "two pairs of gloves this morning; where will he try now, i wonder? here comes james; let us ask him." james approached them with the dead hare, and densil asked where he was going to try. he said, just where they were. densil asked, had he seen father mackworth? and he was in the act of saying that he was gone over the down, when a shout from charles, and a still louder one from james, made them all start. a large _black hare_ had burst from the thorns at charles's feet, and was bowling down the glen straight toward them, with the dogs close behind her. "the witch," shouted james, "the witch! we shall know who she is now." it seemed very likely indeed. densil broke away from william, and, spurring his pony down the sheep-path at the risk of his neck, made for the entrance of the wood. the hare, one of such dark colour that she looked almost black, scudded along in a parallel direction, and dashed into the grass ride just in front of densil; they saw her flying down it, just under the dog's noses, and then they saw her dash into a cross ride, one of the dogs making a strike at her as she did so; then hare and greyhounds disappeared round the corner. "she's dead, sir, confound her; we shall have her now, the witch!" they all came round the corner pell-mell. here stood the dogs, panting and looking foolishly about them, while in front of them, a few yards distant, stood father mackworth, looking disturbed and flushed, as though he had been running. old james stared aghast; william gave a long whistle; mary, for a moment, was actually terrified. densil looked puzzled, charles amused; while father tiernay made the forest ring with peal after peal of uproarious laughter. "i am afraid i have spoilt sport, mr. ravenshoe," said mackworth, coming forward; "the hare ran almost against my legs, and doubled into the copse, puzzling the dogs. they seemed almost inclined to revenge themselves on me for a moment." "ha, ha!" cried the jolly priest, not noticing, as charles did, how confused the priest was. "so we've caught you sneaking home from your appointment with your dear friend." "what do you mean, sir, by appointment? you are over-stepping the bounds of decorum, sir. mr. ravenshoe, i beg you to forgive me for inadvertently spoiling your sport." "not at all, my dear father," said densil, thinking it best, from the scared look of old james, to enter into no further explanations; "we have killed one hare, and now i think it is time to come home to lunch." "don't eat it all before i come; i must run up to the tor; i have dropped my whip there," said charles. "james, ride my horse home; you look tired. i shall be there on foot in half the time." he had cast the reins to james, and was gone, and they all turned homewards together. charles, fleet of foot, was up on the tor in a few minutes, and had picked up his missing property; then he sat him down on a stone, thinking. "there is something confoundedly wrong somewhere, and i should like to find out what it is. what had that jack priest been up to, that made him look so queer? and also, what was the matter between ellen and william last night? whom has she been going on with? i will go down. i wish i could find some trace of him. one thing i know, and one thing only, that he hates me worse than poison; and that his is not likely to be a passive hatred." the wood into which charles descended was of very large extent, and composed of the densest copse, intersected by long straight grass rides. the day had turned dark and chilly; and a low moaning wind began to sweep through the bare boughs, rendering still more dismal the prospect of the long-drawn vistas of damp grass and rotting leaves. he passed musing on from one ride to another, and in one of them came in sight of a low, white building, partly ruinous, which had been built in the deepest recesses of the wood for a summer-house. years ago cuthbert and charles used to come and play there on happy summer holidays--play at being robinson crusoe and what not; but there had been a fight with the poachers there, and one of their young men had been kicked in the head by one of the gang, and rendered idiotic; and charles had seen the blood on the grass next morning; and so they voted it a dismal place, and never went near it again. since then it had been taken possession of by the pheasants to dust themselves in. altogether it was a solitary, ghostly sort of place; and, therefore, charles was considerable startled, on looking in at the low door, to see a female figure, sitting unmoveable in the darkest corner. it was not a ghost, for it spoke. it said, "are you come back to upbraid me again? i know my power, and you shall never have it." and charles said, "ellen!" she looked up, and began to cry. at first a low, moaning cry, and afterwards a wild passionate burst of grief. he drew her towards him, and tried to quiet her, but she drew away. "not to-day," she cried, "not to-day." "what is the matter, pretty one? what is the matter, sister?" said charles. "call me sister again," she said, looking up. "i like that name. kiss me, and call me sister, just for once." "sister dear," said charles kindly, kissing her on the forehead, "what is the matter?" "i have had a disagreement with father mackworth, and he has called me names. he found me here walking with master cuthbert." "with cuthbert?" "ay, why not? i might walk with you or him any time, and no harm. i must go." before charles had time to say one word of kindness, or consolation, or wonder, she had drawn him towards her, given him a kiss, and was gone down the ride towards the house. he saw her dress flutter round the last corner, and she disappeared. chapter xiv. lord saltire's visit, and some of his opinions. there followed on the events above narrated two or three quiet months--a time well remembered by charles, as one of the quietest and most peaceful in his life, in all the times which followed. every fine day there was a ramble with his father through the kennels and stables, and down through the wood, or over the farm. charles, who at oxford thought no day complete, after riding with the drag, or drakes, or rowing to sandford; without banquier, vingt-et-un, or loo, till three oclock in the morning, now found, greatly to his astonishment, that he got more pleasure by leaning over a gate with his father, and looking at fat beasts and pigs, chewing a straw the while. a noisy wine-party, where he met the same men he had met the night before, who sang the same songs, and told the same silly stories, was well enough; but he began to find that supper in the oak dining-room, sitting between mary and his father, and talking of the merest trifles, was a great deal pleasanter. another noticeable fact was that father mackworth's sarcasms were turned off with a good-natured laugh, and that battle was on all occasions refused to the worthy priest. in short, charles, away from company and dissipation, was himself. the good, worthy fellow, whom i learnt to like years ago. the man whose history i am proud to write. lord saltire had arrived meanwhile; he had written to densil, to say that he was horribly bored; that he wished, as an ethical study, to settle, once for all, the amount of boredom a man could stand without dying under it; that, having looked carefully about him, to select a spot and a society where that object could be obtained, he had selected ravenshoe, as being the most eligible; that he should wish his room to have a south aspect; and that his man would arrive with his things three days after date. to this densil had written an appropriate reply, begging his kind old friend to come and make his house his home; and lord saltire had arrived one evening, when every one was out of the way but mary, who received him in the hall. she was in some little trepidation. she had read and heard enough of "the wild prince and poyns," and of lord saltire's powers of sarcasm, to be thoroughly frightened at her awful position. she had pictured to herself a terrible old man, with overhanging eyebrows, and cruel gleaming eyes beneath them. therefore she was astonished to see a gentleman, old it is true, but upright as a young oak, of such remarkable personal beauty, and such a pleasant expression of countenance, as she had never seen before. she was astonished, i said; but, mind you, mary was too much of a lady to show too much of it. she sailed towards him through the gloom of the old hall with a frank smile, and just that amount of admiration in her sweet eyes which paid lord saltire the truest compliment he had had for many a day. "mr. ravenshoe will be sorry to have missed receiving you, my lord," she said. "if mr. ravenshoe is sorry," he said, "i certainly am not. mr. ravenshoe has done me the honour to show me the most beautiful thing in his house first. i rather think that is a pretty compliment, miss corby, unless i am getting out of practice." "that is a very pretty compliment, indeed," she answered, laughing. "i most heartily thank you for it. i know nothing in life so pleasant as being flattered. may i introduce father mackworth?" lord saltire would be delighted. father mackworth came forward, and mary saw them look at one another. she saw at a glance that either they had met before, or there was some secret which both of them knew. she never forgot mackworth's defiant look, or lord saltire's calm considerate glance, which said as plain as words, "this fellow knows it." this fellow knew it--had known it for years. the footman who had left mackworth at the lodge of the french lycée, the nameless domestic, who formed the last link with his former life--this man had worn lord saltire's livery, and he remembered it. "i see," said lord saltire, "that miss corby is prepared for walking. i guess that she is going to meet mr. ravenshoe, and, if my surmise is correct, i beg to be allowed to accompany her." "you are wonderfully correct, my lord. cuthbert and charles are shooting pheasants in the wood, and mr. ravenshoe is with them on his pony. if you will walk with me, we shall meet them." so the grand old eagle and the pretty sweet-voiced robin passed out on to the terrace, and stood looking together, under the dull december sky, at the whispering surges. right and left the misty headlands seemed to float on the quiet grey sea, which broke in sighs at their feet, as the long majestic ground-swell rolled in from the ocean; and these two stood there for a minute or more without speaking. "the new school of men," said lord saltire at last, looking out to sea, "have perhaps done wisely, in thinking more of scenery and the mere externals of nature than we did. we lived the life of clubs and crowds, and we are going to our places one after another. there are but few left now. these stephensons and paxtons are fine men enough. _they_ are fighting inert matter, but _we_ fought the armies of the philistine. we had no time for botany and that sort of thing; which was unfortunate. you young folks shouldn't laugh at us though." "i laugh at you!" she said, suddenly and rapidly; "laugh at the giants who warred with the gods. my lord, the men of our time has not shown themselves equal to their fathers." lord saltire laughed. "no, not yet," she continued; "when the time comes they will. the time has not come yet." "not yet, miss corby. it will come,--mind the words of a very old man; an old fellow who has seen a confounded deal of the world." "are we to have any more wars, lord saltire?" "wars such as we never dreamt of, young lady." "is all this new inauguration of peace to go for nothing?" "only as the inauguration of a new series of wars, more terrible than those which have gone before." "france and england combined can give the law to europe." lord saltire turned upon her and laughed. "and so you actually believe that france and england can really combine for anything more important than a raid against russia. not that they will ever fight russia, you know. there will be no fight. if they threaten loud enough, russia will yield. nicholas knows his weakness, and will give way. if he is fool enough to fight the western powers, it will end in another _duel à l'outrance_ between france and england. they will never work together for long. if they do, europe is enslaved, and england lost." "but why, lord saltire?" "well, well; i think so. allow me to say that i was not prepared to find a deep-thinking, though misguided politician in such an innocent-looking young lady. god defend the dear old land, for every fresh acre i see of it confirms my belief that it is the first country in the world." they were crossing the old terraced garden towards the wood, when they heard the guns going rapidly, and both were silent for a minute or so. the leafless wood was before them, and the village at their feet. the church spire rose aloft among the trees. some fisherman patriarch had gone to his well-earned rest that day, and the bell was tolling for him. mary looked at the quiet village, at the calm winter sea, and then up at the calm stern face of the man who walked beside her, and said-- "tell me one thing, lord saltire; you have travelled in many countries. is there any land, east or west, that can give us what this dear old england does--settled order, in which each man knows his place and his duties? it is so easy to be good in england." "well, no. it is the first country in the world. a few bad harvests would make a hell of it, though. has ravenshoe got many pheasants down here?" and, so talking, this strange pair wandered on towards the wood, side by side. charles was not without news in his retirement, for a few friends kept him pretty well _au fait_ with what was going on in the world. first, there was news from oxford; one sort of which was communicated by charles marston, and another sort by one marker of brazenose, otherwise known as "bodger," though why, i know not, nor ever could get any one to tell me. he was purveyor of fashionable intelligence, while charles marston dealt more in example and advice. about this time the latter wrote as follows:-- "how goes issachar? is the ass stronger or weaker than formerly? has my dearly-beloved ass profited, or otherwise, by his stay at ranford? how is the other ass, my lord welter? he is undoubtedly a fool, but i think an honest one, so long as you keep temptation out of his way. he is shamefully in debt; but i suppose, if their horse wins the derby, he will pay; otherwise i would sooner be my lord than his tradesmen. how goes the 'grand passion,'--has chloe relented? she is a great fool if she does. why, if she refuses you, she may marry lord welter, and he may settle his debts on her. a word in your ear. i have an invitation to ranford. i must go, i suppose. the dear old woman, whose absurdities your honour is pleased to laugh at, has been always kind to me and mine; and i shall go. i shall pay my just tribute of flattery to the noble honest old soul, who is struggling to save a falling house. don't you laugh at lady ascot, you impudent young rascal. i have no doubt that she offers some prominent points for the exercise of your excellency's wit, but she is unmeasurably superior to you, you young scapegrace. "bless your dear old face; how i long to see it again! i am coming to see it. i shall come to you at the beginning of the christmas vacation. i shall come to you a beaten man, charley. i shall only get a second. never mind; i would sooner come to you and yours and hide my shame, than to any one else. "charles, old friend, if i get a third, i shall break my heart. don't show this letter to any one. i have lost the trick of greek prose. oh, old charley! believe this, that the day once lost can never, never come back any more! they preach a future hell; but what hell could be worse than the eternal contemplation of opportunities thrown away--of turning-points in the affairs of a man's life, when, instead of rising, he has fallen--not by a bold stroke, like satan, but by laziness and neglect?" charles was very sorry, very grieved and vexed, to find his shrewd old friend brought to this pass by over-reading, and over-anxiety about a subject which, to a non-university man, does not seem of such vital importance. he carried the letter to his father, in spite of the prohibition contained in it, and he found his father alone with the good, honest father tiernay; to whom, not thinking that thereby he was serving his friend ill, he read it aloud. "charley dear," said his father, half rising from his chair, "he must come to us, my boy; he must come here to us, and stay with us till he forgets his disappointment. he is a noble lad. he has been a good friend to my boy; and, by george, the house is his own." "i don't think, dad," said charles, looking from densil to father tiernay, "that he is at all justified in the dark view he is taking of matters. the clever fellows used to say that he was safe of his first. you know he is going in for mathematics as well." "he is a good young man, any way," said father tiernay; "his sentiments do honour to him; and none the worst of them is his admiration for my heretic young friend here, which does him most honour of all. mr. ravenshoe, i'll take three to one against his double first; pity he ain't a catholic. what the divvle do ye prothestants mean by absorbing (to use no worse language) the rints and revenues left by catholic testators for the good of the hooly church, for the edication of heretics? tell me that, now." the other letter from oxford was of a very different tenor. mr. marker, of brazenose, began by remarking that-- "he didn't know what was come over the place; it was getting confoundedly slow, somehow. they had had another bloomer ball at abingdon, but the thing was a dead failure, sir. jemmy dane, of university, had driven two of them home in a cart, by way of nuneham. he had passed the pro's at magdalen turnpike, and they never thought of stopping him, by george. their weak intellects were not capable of conceiving such glorious audacity. both the proctors were down at coldharbour turnpike, stopping every man who came from abingdon way. toreker, of exeter, was coming home on george simmond's darius, and, seeing the proctors in the light of the turnpike-gate, had put his horse at the fence (charles would remember it, a stubbed hedge and a ditch), and got over the back water by the white house, and so home by the castle. above forty men had been rusticated over this business, and some good fellows too." (here followed a list of names, which i could produce, if necessary; but seeing that some names on the list are now rising at the bar, or in the church, think it better not.) "pembroke had won the fours, very much in consequence of exeter having gone round the flag, and, on being made to row again, of fouling them in the gut. the water was out heavily, and had spoilt the boating. the christchurch grind had been slow, but the best that year. l--n was going down, and they said was going to take the pychley. c--n was pretty safe of his first--so reading men said. martin, of trinity, had got his testamur, at which event astonishment, not unmixed with awe, had fallen on the university generally. that he himself was in for his _vivâ voce_ two days after date, and he wished himself out of the hands of his enemies." there was a postscript, which interested charles as much as all the rest of the letter put together. it ran thus:-- "by the by, welter has muckered; you know that by this time. but, worse than that, they say that charles marston's classical first is fishy. the old cock has overworked himself, they say." lord saltire never went to bed without having charles up into his dressing-room for a chat. "not having," as his lordship most truly said, "any wig to take off, or any false teeth to come out, i cannot see why i should deny myself the pleasure of my young friend's company at night. every evening, young gentleman, we are one day older, and one day wiser. i myself have got so confoundedly wise with my many years, that i have nothing left to learn. but it amuses me to hear your exceedingly _naïve_ remarks on things in general, and it also flatters and soothes me to contrast my own consummate wisdom with your folly. therefore, i will trouble you to come up to my dressing-room every night, and give me your crude reflections on the events of the day." so charles came up one night with mr. marker's letter, which he read to lord saltire, while his valet was brushing his hair; and then charles, by way of an easily-answered question, asked lord saltire, what did he think of his friend's chances? "i must really remark," said lord saltire, "even if i use unparliamentary language, which i should be very sorry to do, that that is one of the silliest questions i ever had put to me. when i held certain seals, i used to have some very foolish questions put to me (which, by the way, i never answered), but i don't know that i ever had such a foolish question put to me as that. why, how on earth can i have any idea of what your friend's chances are? do be reasonable." "dear lord saltire, don't be angry with me. tell me, as far as your experience can, how far a man who knows his work, by george, as well as a man can know it, is likely to fail through nervousness. you have seen the same thing in parliament. you know how much mischief nervousness may do. now, do give me your opinion." "well, you are putting your question in a slightly more reasonable form; but it is a very silly one yet. i have seen a long sort of man, with black hair, and a hook nose, like long montague, for instance, who has been devilishly nervous till he got on his legs, and then has astonished every one, and no one more than myself, not so much by his power of declamation as by the extraordinary logical tenacity with which he clung to his subject. yes, i don't know but what i have heard more telling and logical speeches from unprepared men than i ever have from one of the law lords. but i am a bad man to ask. i never was in the lower house. about your friend's chance;--well, i would not give twopence for it; in after-life he may succeed. but from what you have told me, i should prepare myself for a disappointment." very shortly after this, good lord saltire had to retire for a time into the upper chambers; he had a severe attack of gout. there had been no more quarrelling between father mackworth and charles; peace was proclaimed--an armed truce; and charles was watching, watching in silence. never since he met her in the wood had he had an opportunity of speaking to ellen. she always avoided him. william, being asked confidentially by charles what he thought was the matter, said that ellen had been "carrin on" with some one, and he had been blowing her up; which was all the explanation he offered. in the meantime, charles lived under the comforting assurance that there was mischief brewing, and that mackworth was at the bottom of it. chapter xv. charles's "liddell and scott." a growing anxiety began to take possession of charles shortly before christmas, arising from the state of his father's health. densil was failing. his memory was getting defective, and his sense dulled. his eye always was searching for charles, and he was uneasy at his absence. so it was with a vague sense of impending misfortune that he got a letter from the dean of his college, summoning him back after the christmas vacation. mr. dean said, "that mr. ravenshoe's case had been reconsidered, and that at the warm, and, he thought, misguided, intercession of the bursar, a determination had been come to, to allow mr. ravenshoe to come into residence again for the lent term. he trusted that this would be a warning, and that, while there was time, he would arrest himself in that miserable career of vice and folly which could only have one termination--utter ruin in this world and in the next." a college "don," by long practice, acquires a power of hurting a young man's feelings, utterly beyond competition, save by a police magistrate. charles winced under this letter; but the same day mary, coming singing downstairs as was her wont, was alarmed by the descent of a large opaque body of considerable weight down the well of the staircase, which lodged in the wood basket at the bottom, and which, on examination, she found to be a liddell and scott's lexicon. at which she rejoiced; for she concluded that charles had taken to reading again, though why he should begin by throwing his books downstairs she could not well understand, until he joined her, and explained that he had been dusting it on the landing, and that it had slipped out of his hand. "what a crack it came down," added he; "i wish father mackworth's head had been underneath it." "i have no doubt of it, young gentleman," said the priest quietly from behind; and there he was with his hand on the library door, and in he went and shut it behind him. mary and charles were both awfully disconcerted. mary felt horribly guilty; in fact, if the priest had remained quiet one moment more, he would undoubtedly have heard one or two candid and far from complimentary remarks about himself from that young lady, which would have made his ears tingle. "confound him," said charles; "how he glides about! he learned that trick, and a few others, at that precious jesuit college of his. they teach them that sort of thing as the old jews teach the young pickpockets. the old father inquisitor puts the door ajar with a bell against it, and they all have to come in one after another. the one who rings it gets dropped on to like blazes." mary was going to ask what exact amount of personal suffering being dropped on to like blazes involved; but charles stopped her, and took her hand. "mary dear," he said, "do you ever think of the future?" "night and day, charles,--night and day." "if he dies, mary? when he dies?" "night and day, brother," she answered, taking one of his great brown hands between her two white little palms. "i dream in my sleep of the new regime which is to come, and i see only trouble, and again trouble." "and then?" "there is a god in heaven, charles." "ay, but mary, what will you do?" "i?" and she laughed the merriest little laugh ever you heard. "little me? why, go for a governess, to be sure. charles, they shall love me so that this life shall be a paradise. i will go into a family where there are two beautiful girls; and, when i am old and withered, there shall be two nurseries in which i shall be often welcome, where the children shall come babbling to my knee, the darlings, and they shall tell me how they love me, almost as well as their mother. there is my future. would you change it?" charles was leaning against the oak banister; and, when he saw her there before him, when he saw that valiant, true-hearted face, in the light which streamed from the old window above, he was rebuked, and bent down his head on the rail. the dean's letter of that morning had done something; but the sight of that brave little woman, so fearless with all the world before her, did more. she weak, friendless, moneyless, and so courageous! he with the strong arm, so cowardly! it taught him a lesson indeed, a lesson he never forgot. but oh! for that terrible word--too late! ah! too late! what word is so terrible as that? you will see what i mean soon. that is the cry which one writer puts in the mouths of the lost spirits in hell. god's mercy is infinite, and it is yet a question whether it were better for charles to have fallen into the groove of ordinary life, or to have gone through those humiliating scenes through which we must follow him. "charley dear," said mary, laying her hand on his shoulder, "it is not about myself i am thinking; it is about you. what are you going to do when he has gone? are you going into the church?" "oh, no!" said charles, "i couldn't bear the idea of that." "then why are you at oxford?" "to get an education, i suppose." "but what use will a university education be to you, charles! have you no plans?" "i give you my word, my dear mary, that i am as much in the dark about the future as a five days old puppy." "has he made any provision for you?" "oh, yes! i am to have six thousand." "do you know that the estate is involved, charles?" "no." "i believe it is. there has been a great deal of state kept up here, and i believe it is the case." "cuthbert would soon bring that round." "i tremble to think of the future, charles. are your debts at oxford heavy?" "pretty well. five hundred would clear me." "don't get any more in debt, that's a dear." "no, mary dear, i won't. i don't care for the future. i shall have £ a year. that will be enough for william and me. then i shall go to the bar, and make a deuce of a lot of money, and marry adelaide. then you will come to live with us, and we shall have such jolly times of it.--take that, you villain!" this last elegant apostrophe was addressed to william (who at that moment had come in by the side door), and was accompanied by the dexterous delivery of the liddell and scott, in the manner of a cricket ball. our friend william stood to catch it in a style worthy of box, with his knees a yard apart, and one palm over the other; but as luck would have it, he missed it, and it alighted full on the shins of father mackworth, who had selected that time for coming out of the library; and so it lay sillily open at [greek: lam, gem.] at his feet. mackworth really thought that it was intentional, and was furious. he went back into the library; and charles, seeing what must come, followed him, while mary fled upstairs. there was no one in the room but cuthbert and father tiernay. "i will be protected from insult in this house," began mackworth; "twice to-day i have been insulted by mr. charles ravenshoe, and i demand protection." "what have you been doing, charley?" said cuthbert. "i thought you two had given up quarrelling. you will wear my life out. sometimes, what with one thing and another, i wish i were dead. oh! if the great problem were solved! surely my brother may avoid brawling with a priest, a man sacred by his office, though of another faith. surely my brother has taste enough to see the propriety of that." "your brother has no taste or sense, sir," said father mackworth. "he has no decency. he has no gentlemanly feeling. within ten minutes he has dropped a book downstairs, and lamented, to my face, that it hadn't fallen on my head; and just now he has thrown the same book at me, and hit me with it." "i thank god, charles," said poor weary cuthbert, "that our father is spared this. it would kill him. brother, brother, why do you vex me like this? i have always stood on your side, charley. don't let me be killed with these ceaseless brawls." "they will soon cease, sir," said father mackworth; "i leave this house to-morrow." "cuthbert, hear me now. i never intended to insult him." "why did you throw your book at him, charley? it is not decorous. you must know when you wound him you wound me. and i have fought such battles for you, charley." "cuthbert! brother! do hear me. and let him hear me. and let father tiernay hear me. cuthbert, you know i love you. father tiernay, you are a good and honest man; hear what i have to say. you, mackworth, you are a scoundrel. you are a double-dyed villain. what were you doing with that girl in the wood, the day you hunted the black hare a month ago? cuthbert, tell me, like an honest gentleman, did you ever walk in the wood with ellen?" "i?" said cuthbert, scared; "i never walked with ellen there. i have walked with mary there, brother. why should i not?" "there, look at the lie that this man has put into her mouth. she told me that he had found you and her walking together there." "i am not answerable for any young woman's lies," said father mackworth. "i decline to continue this discussion. it is humiliating. as for you, you poor little moth," he said, turning to charles, "when the time comes, i will crush you with my thumb against the wall. my liking for your father prevents my doing my duty as yet. in that i err. wait." charles had been in a passion before this; but, seeing danger, and real danger, abroad, he got cool, and said-- "wait." and they both waited, and we shall see who waited the longest. "i have done it now, mary dear," said charles, returning upstairs with the unlucky lexicon. "it is all over now." "has there been a scene?" "a terrible scene. i swore at him, and called him a villain." "why did you do that, charles? why are you so violent? you are not yourself, charles, when you give way to your temper like that." "well, i'll tell you, my robin. he is a villain." "i don't think so, charles. i believe he is a high-minded man." "i know he is not, birdie. at least, i believe he is not." "i believe him to be so, charles." "i know him to be otherwise; at least, i think so." "are you doing him justice, charley dear? are you sure you are doing him justice?" "i think so." "why?" "i cannot tell you, mary. when the end of all things comes, and you and i are thrown abroad like two corks on the great sea, you will know. but i cannot tell you." "i believe, dear, that you are so honest that you would not do injustice even to him. but, oh! be sure that you are right. hush! change the subject. what were you going to read when that unlucky book fell downstairs?" "demosthenes." "let me come in and sit with you, charley dear, and look out the words; you don't know how clever i am. is it the 'de coronâ'?" charles took her hand and kissed it; and so they two poor fools went on with their demosthenes. chapter xvi. marston's arrival. the night after the terrible lexicon quarrel, which, you will observe, arose entirely from charles's good resolution to set to work reading--whereby we should take warning not to be too sanguine of good resolutions, taken late, bringing forth good fruit--the very evening, i say, after this fracas, charles, his father, and mary, were sitting in the library together. of course densil had heard nothing of the disturbance, and was, good old gentleman, as happy as you please; all his elements of pleasure were there. father mackworth was absent. father tiernay was throwing his whole hearty soul into a splendid copy of bewick's birds, date . cuthbert was before the upper fireplace, beyond the pillar, poring over goodness only knows what monkish lore; while close to him was bird mary sewing, and charles reading aloud a book, very often quoted in everyday life unconsciously. charles read how mr. quilp begged mr. brass would take particular care of himself, or he would never forgive him; how there was a dog in the lane who had killed a boy on tuesday, and bitten a man on friday; how the dog lived on the right-hand side, but generally lurked on the left, ready for a spring; and they were laughing over mr. brass's horror, when there came a noise of wheels on the gravel. "that is marston, father, for a thousand pounds," said charles. he hurried into the hall, as the men were undoing the door; mary, dropping her work, went after him; and densil taking his stick, came too. cuthbert looked up from the further end of the room, and then bent his head over his book again. father tiernay looked up, inquisitive and interested, but sat still. they who followed into the hall saw this. charles stood in front of the hall door, and out of the winter's darkness came a man, with whom, as mary once playfully said, she had fallen in love at once. it was marston. charles went up to him quickly with both hands out, and said-- "we are so glad." "it is very kind of you. god bless you; how did you know it?" "we know nothing, my dear marston, except that you are welcome. now put me out of my pain." "why, well," said the other, "i don't know how it has happened: but i have got my double first." charles gave a wild cheer, and the others were all on him directly--densil, tiernay, cuthbert, and all. never was such a welcome; not one of them, save charles, had ever seen him before, yet they welcomed him as an old friend. "you have not been to ranford, then?" said charles. "why, no. i did not feel inclined for it after so much work. i must take it on my way back." lord saltire's gout was better to-night, and he was downstairs. he proceeded to remark that, having been in----; well, he wouldn't shock miss corby by saying where--for a day or so, he had suddenly, through no merit of his own, got promoted back into purgatory. that, having fought against the blue devils, and come downstairs, for the sole purpose of making himself disagreeable, he had been rewarded, for that display of personal energy and self-sacrifice, by most unexpectedly meeting a son of his old friend, jackdaw marston. he begged to welcome his old friend's son, and to say that, by jove, he was proud of him. his young friend's father had not been a brilliant scholar, as his young friend was; but had been one of the first whist-players in england. his young friend had turned his attention to scholastic honours, in preference to whist, which might or might not be a mistake: though he believed he was committing no breach of trust in saying that the position had been thrust on his young friend from pecuniary motives. property had an infernal trick of deteriorating. his own property had not happened to deteriorate (none knew why, for he had given it every chance); but the property of his young friend's father having deteriorated in a confounded rapid sort of way, he must say that it was exceedingly creditable in his young friend to have made such a decided step towards bringing matters right again as he had. "my father's son, my lord, thanks you for your kind remembrance of his father. i have always desired to see and meet my father's old friends, of whom you, mr. ravenshoe, were among the kindest. we have given up the greater vices lately, my lord, but we do our best among the smaller ones." there was a quiet supper, at which lord saltire consented to stay, provided no one used the expression "cheese"; in which case he said he should have to retire. there wasn't cheese on the table, but there was more than cheese; there was scolloped cockles, and lord saltire ate some. he said at the time that they would have the same effect on him as swallowing the fire-shovel. but, to relieve your mind at once, i may tell you that they didn't do him any harm at all, and he was as well as ever next morning. father tiernay said grace; and, when the meal was half over, in came father mackworth. densil said, "father mackworth, mr. marston;" and marston said, after a moment's glance at him, "how do you do, sir?" possibly a more courteous form of speaking to a new acquaintance might have been used. but marston had his opinions about father mackworth, and had no objection that the holy father should know them. "we got, mary," said cuthbert, suddenly, "more cocks than pheasants to-day. charles killed five couple, and i four. i was very vexed at being beaten by charles, because i am so much the better shot." charles looked up and met his eyes--a look he never forgot. accompanying the apparent petulance of the remark was a look of love and pity and sorrow. it pleased him, above everything, during the events which were to come, to-recall that look, and say, "well, he liked me once." that evening charles and marston retired to charles's study (a deal of study had been carried on there, you may depend), and had a long talk over future prospects. charles began by telling him all about madam adelaide, and marston said, "oh, indeed! what are you going to do, charley, boy, to keep her? she comes out of an extravagant house, you know." "i must get called to the bar." "hard work for nothing, for many years, you know." "i know. but i won't go into the church; and what else is there?" "nothing i know of, except billiard marking and steeplechase riding." "then, you approve of it?" "i do, most heartily. the work will be good for you. you have worked before, and can do it again. remember how well you got on at shrewsbury." then charles told him about the relations between himself and father mackworth, and what had happened that day. "you and he have had disgraceful scenes like this before, haven't you?" "yes, but never so bad as this." "he is a very passionate man, isn't he? you took utterly wrong grounds for what you did to-day. don't you see that you have no earthly grounds for what you said, except your own suspicions? the girl's own account of the matter seems natural enough. that she was walking with your most saint-like brother, and the priest found them, and sent them to the right-about with fleas in their ears." "i believe that man to be a great villain," said charles. "so may i," said the other, "but i shan't tell him so till i can prove it. as for that quarrel between william and his sister the night you came home, that proves nothing, except that she has been going too far with some one. but who? what have you been doing that empowers him to say that he will crush you like a moth?" "oh, bravado, i take it! you should have seen how mad he looked when he said it." "i am glad i did not. let us talk no more about him; is that sweet little bird mary corby?" "you know it is." "well, so i do know, but i wanted an excuse for saying the name over again. charles, you are a fool." "that is such a very novel discovery of yours," said charles, laughing. "what have i been a-doing on now?" "why didn't you fall in love with mary corby instead of madam adelaide?" "i am sure i don't know. why, i never thought of such a thing as that." "then you ought to have done so. now go to bed." chapter xvii. in which there is another shipwreck. time jogged on very pleasantly to the party assembled at ravenshoe that christmas. there were woodcocks and pheasants in the woods; there were hares, snipes, and rabbits on the moor. in the sea there were fish; and many a long excursion they had in the herring-boats--sometimes standing boldly out to sea towards the distant blue island in the main, sometimes crawling lazily along under the lofty shoreless cliffs which towered above their heads from to , feet high. it was three days before christmas-day, and they were returning from fishing along the coast, and were about ten miles or so from home. i say returning, though in fact there was not a breath of wind, and the boat was drifting idly along on the tide. two handsome simple-looking young men were lolling by the useless tiller; an old man, hale and strong as a lion, with a courteous high-bred look about him, was splicing a rope; and a tall, pale, black-haired man was looking steadily seaward, with his hands in his pockets, while charles and marston were standing in the bows smoking. "what a curious, dreamy, dosy, delicious kind of winter you have down here," said marston. "i am very fond of it," said charles; "it keeps you in continual hope for the spring that is coming. in the middle of frost and snow and ice one is apt to lose one's faith in waving boughs and shady pools." "i have had such a quiet time with you down here, charley. i am so pleased with the way in which you are going on. you are quite an altered man. i think we shall both look back to the last few quiet weeks as a happy time." here the tall dark man, who was looking out to sea, suddenly said-- "rain and hail, snow and tempest, stormy wind fulfilling his word." "ay, ay," said the old man; "going to blow to-night, i expect." "we shall go home pretty fast, may be." "not us, master charles, dear," said the tall man. "we are going to have it from south and by west, and so through west round to north. before which time there'll be souls in glory, praise be to god." the old man took off his hat reverently. "there won't be amuch surf on when we beaches she," said one of the young men. "it won't get up afore the wind be full round west for an hour." "you're a spaking like a printed buke, jan," said the old man. "i'm a thinking differently, master evans," said the dark man. "it will chop round very sudden, and be west before we know where we are. i speak with humility to a man who has seen the lord's wonders in the deep so many years longer nor me. but i think, under god, i am right." "you most in general be right. they as converses with the lord night and day, day and night, like as you do, knows likely more of his works nor we, as ain't your gifts." "the lord has vouchsafed me nothing in the way of a vision, about this afternoon, master evans." "didn't 'ee dream never at all last night?" said one of the young men: "think 'ee now." "nought to bear on wind or weather, jan. i judges from the glass. it's a dropping fast." jan would have had more faith in one of matthew's dreams, and didn't seem to think much of the barometer. meanwhile marston had whispered charles-- "who is matthews? what sect is he?" "oh, he's a brianite." "what is that?" "a sort of ranter, i believe." marston looked up, and saw the two great black eyes under the lofty forehead fixed full upon him. with the instinct of a gentleman, he said at once-- "i was asking mr. charles what sect you were of; that was all. he tells me you are a brianite, and i had never heard of that sect before. i hope you will let me talk to you about your matters of belief some day." matthews took off his hat, and said--that with the lord's will he would speak to his honour. "will your honour bear with a poor fisherman, ignorant of the world's learning, but who has had matters revealed to him by the lord in dreams and visions of the night? peter was only a fisherman, your honour, and, oh, if we could only hear him speak now!" he paused, and looked again to seaward. charles had gone again into the bow, and marston was standing among the men right aft. suddenly matthews turned again upon him and said-- "in the beaching of this here boat to-night, your honour, there may be danger. in such case my place will be alongside of him," pointing to charles. "there'd be a many kind hearts aching, if aught happened to him. you stick close to these young men. they'll see after you, sir." "you keep close alongside of we, sir. you hold on of we, sir. we'll see you all right, sir," said the two young men. "but, my dear good souls, i am as good a swimmer as any in england, and as active as a cat. pray, don't mind me." "you keep hold of we and run, sir," said one of the young men, "that's all you're a'got to do, sir." "i shall most certainly run," said marston, laughing, "but i decline drowning any one but myself--" charles said at this moment, "do come here and look at this." it was worth looking at, indeed. they were about a mile from shore, floating about anyhow on an oily smooth sea; for the tide had changed, and they were making no headway. before them one of the noblest headlands on the coast, an abrupt cone of slate, nigh a thousand feet high, covered almost entirely with grass, sloped suddenly into the water; and in advance of it, but slightly on one side, a rugged mound of black rock, nearly six hundred feet, stood out into the sea, and contrasted its horrid jagged lines with the smooth green of the peak behind. round its base, dividing it from the glossy sea, ran a delicate line of silver--the surf caused by the ground-swell; and in front the whole promontory was dimly mirrored in the quietly heaving ocean. "what a noble headland," said marston; "is that grass on the further peak too steep to walk upon?" "there's some one a'walking on it now," said old evans. "there's a woman a'walking on it." none could see it but he, except matthews, who said he couldn't tell if it was a sheep or no. charles got out his glass, and the old man was right. a woman was walking rapidly along the peak, about the third of the way down. "what a curious place for a woman to be in!" he remarked. "it is almost terrible to look at." "i never saw any one there before, save the shepherd," said the old man. "it's a sheep-path," said one of the young ones. "i have been along there myself. it is the short way round to coombe." charles would have thought more of the solitary female figure on that awful precipice, but that their attention was diverted by something else. from the south-westward black flaws of wind began to creep towards them, alternated with long irregular bands of oily calm. soon the calm bands disappeared, and the wind reached them. then they had steerage, and in a very short time were roaring out to sea close hauled, with a brisk and ever-increasing breeze. they saw that they would have to fetch a very long leg, and make a great offing, in order to reach ravenshoe at all. the wind was freshening every moment, changing to the west, and the sea was getting up. it took them three hours to open ravenshoe bay; and, being about five miles from the shore, they could see that already there was an ugly side-surf sweeping in, and that the people were busy on the beach hauling up their boats out of harm's way. "how beautifully these craft sail," said marston, as they were all hanging on by her weather gunwale, and the green sea was rushing past to leeward, almost under their feet, in sheets of angry foam. "it is amazing what speed is got out of them on a wind," said charles, "but they are dangerous craft." "why so?" "these lug-sails are so awkward in tacking, you will see." they ran considerably past ravenshoe and about six miles to sea, when the word was given to go about. in an instant the half deck was lumbered with the heavy red sails; and, after five minutes of unutterable confusion, she got about. marston was expecting her to broach to every moment during this long five minutes, but fortune favoured them. they went freer on this tack, for the wind was now north of west, and the brave little craft went nearly before it at her finest pace. the men kept on her as much sail as she could stand, but that was very little; fast as they went, the great seas went faster, as though determined to be at the dreadful rendezvous before the boat. still the waves rose higher and the wind howled louder. they were nearing the shore rapidly. now they began to see, through the mist, the people gathered in a crowd on the shore, densest at one point, but with a few restless stragglers right and left of that point, who kept coming and going. this spot was where they expected to come ashore. they were apparently the last boat out, and all the village was watching them with the deepest anxiety. they began to hear a sound other than the howling of the wind in the rigging, and the rush of waters around them--a continuous thunder, growing louder each moment as the boat swept onward. the thunder of the surf upon the sand. and, looking forward, they could see just the top of it as it leapt madly up. it was a nervous moment. they stood ready in their shirts and trousers, for a rush, should it be necessary. and the old man was at the helm. they saw the seas begin to curl. then they were in the middle of them. then the water left them on the sand, and three brave fellows from the shore dashed to hook on the tackles; but they were too late. back with a roar like a hungry lion came the sea; the poor boat broached to, and took the whole force of the deluge on her broadside. in a moment more, blinded and stunned, they were all in the water, trying to stand against the backward rush which took them near midthigh. old master evans was nearest to marston; he was tottering to fall when marston got hold of him, and saved him. the two young men got hold of both of them. then three men from the shore dashed in and got hold of charles; and then, as the water went down and they dared move their feet, they all ran for their lives. marston and his party got on to dry land on their feet, but charles and his assistants were tumbled over and over, and washed up ignominiously covered with sand. charles, however, soon recovered himself, and, looking round to thank those who had done him this service, found that one of them was william, who, when the gale had come on, had, with that bland indifference to the stud-groom's personal feelings which we have seen him exhibit before, left his work, and dressed in a jersey and blue trousers, and come down to lend a hand. he had come in time to help his foster-brother out of the surf. "i am so very thankful to you," said charles to the two others. "i will never forget you. i should have been drowned but for you. william, when i am in trouble i am sure to find you at my elbow." "you won't find me far off, master charles," said william. they didn't say any more to one another those two. there was no need. the tall man, matthews, had been cast up with a broken head, and, on the whole, seemed rather disappointed at not finding himself in paradise. he had stumbled in leaping out of the boat, and hurt his foot, and had had a hard time of it, poor fellow. as charles and william stood watching the poor boat breaking up, and the men venturing their lives to get the nets out of her, a hand was laid on charles's shoulder, and, turning round, he faced cuthbert. "oh, charles, charles, i thought i had lost you! come home and let us dry you, and take care of you. william, you have risked your life for one who is very dear to us. god reward you for it! brother, you are shivering with cold, and you have nothing but your trousers and jersey on, and your head and feet are bare, and your poor hair is wet and full of sand; let me carry you up, charles, the stones will cut your feet. let me carry you, charles. i used to do it when you were little." there was water in charles's eyes (the salt water out of his hair, you understand), as he answered:-- "i think i can walk, cuthbert; my feet are as hard as iron." "no, but i must carry you," said cuthbert. "get up, brother." charles prepared to comply, and cuthbert suddenly pulled off his shoes and stockings, and made ready. "oh, cuthbert, don't do that," said charles, "you break my heart." "do let me, dear charles. i seldom ask you a favour. if i didn't know that it was acceptable to god, do you think i would do it?" charles hesitated one moment; but he caught william's eye, and william's eye and william's face said so plainly "do it," that charles hesitated no longer, but got on his brother's back. cuthbert ordered william, who was barefoot, to put on his discarded shoes and stockings, which william did; and then cuthbert went toiling up the stony path towards the hall, with his brother on his back--glorying in his penance. is this ridiculous? i cannot say i can see it in this light. i may laugh to scorn the religion that teaches men that, by artificially producing misery and nervous terror, and in that state flying to religion as a comfort and refuge, we in any way glorify god, or benefit ourselves. i can laugh, i say, at a form of religion like this; but i cannot laugh at the men who believe in it, and act up to it. no. i may smoke my pipe, and say that the fool cuthbert ravenshoe took off his shoes, and gave them to the groom, and carried a twelve-stone brother for a quarter of a mile barefoot, and what a fool he must be, and so forth. but the sneer is a failure, and the laugh dies away; and i say, "well, cuthbert, if you are a fool, you are a consistent and manly one at all events." let us leave these three toiling up the steep rocky path, and take a glance elsewhere. when the gale had come on, little mary had left densil, and putting on her bonnet, gone down to the beach. she had asked the elder fishermen whether there would be any danger in beaching the boat, and they had said in chorus, "oh, bless her sweet ladyship's heart, no. the young men would have the tackles on her and have her up, oh, ever so quick;" and so she had been reassured, and walked up and down. but, as the wind came stronger and stronger, and she had seen the last boat taken in half full of water--and as the women kept walking up and down uneasily, with their hands under their aprons--and as she saw many an old eagle eye, shaded by a horny hand, gazing anxiously seaward at the two brown sails plunging about in the offing--she had lost heart again, and had sat her down on a windlass apart, with a pale face, and a sick heart. a tall gaunt brown woman came up to her and said, "my lady musn't fret. my lady would never do for a fisherman's wife. why, my dear tender flesh, there's a hundred strong arms on the beach now, as would fetch a ravenshoe out of anywhere a'most. 'tis a cross surf, miss mary; but, lord love ye, they'll have the tackles on her afore she's in it. don't ye fret, dear, don't ye fret." but she had sat apart and fretted nevertheless; and, when she saw the brown bows rushing madly through the yellow surf, she had shut her eyes and prayed, and had opened them to see the boat on her beam ends, and a dozen struggling figures in the pitiless water. then she had stood up and wrung her hands. they were safe. she heard that, and she buried her face in her hands, and murmured a prayer of thanksgiving. some one stood beside her. it was marston, bareheaded and barefooted. "oh, thank god!" she said. "we have given you a sad fright." "i have been terribly frightened. but you must not stand dripping there. please come up, and let me attend you." so she got him a pair of shoes, and they went up together. the penance procession had passed on before; and a curious circumstance is this, that although on ordinary occasions marston was as lively a talker as need be, on this occasion he was an uncommonly stupid one, as he never said one word all the way up to the hall, and then separated from her with a formal little salutation. chapter xviii. marston's disappointment. mary did not wonder at marston's silence. she imagined that perhaps he had been sobered by being cast on the shore so unceremoniously, and thought but little more of it. then she dressed for dinner, and went and stood in one of the deep windows of the hall, looking out. the great fire which leapt and blazed in the hall chimney was fast superseding the waning daylight outside. it was very pleasant to look at the fire, and the fire-light on wall and ceiling, on antler and armour, and then to get behind the curtain, and look out into the howling winter's evening, over the darkening, raging sea, and the tossing trees, and think how all the boats were safe in, and the men sitting round the pleasant fires with their wives and children, and that the dogs were warm in the kennels, and the horses in the stable; and to pity the poor birds, and hope they had good warm nooks and corners to get to; and then to think of the ships coming up the channel, and hope they might keep a good offing. this brought her to thinking, for the first time, of her own little self--how, so many years ago, she had been cast up like a little piece of seaweed out of that awful ocean. she thought of the _warren hastings_, and how she and charles, on summer days, when out gathering shells on the rocks, used to look over to where the ship lay beneath the sea, and wonder whereabout it was. then she had a kindly smile on her face as she thought of mr. archer, the brave and good (now i am happy to say captain archer), and looked over the hall to a hideous and diabolical graven image, which he had sent the year before, among some very valuable presents, and had begged her to be particularly careful of, as he had risked his life in getting it; and which she and charles had triumphantly placed in the hall, and maintained there, too, in spite of the sarcasms of father mackworth, and the pious horror of the servants and villagers. and so she went on thinking--thinking of her dead parents, of the silence maintained by her relations, of old densil's protection, and then of the future. that protection must cease soon, and then-- a governess! there were many stories about governesses not being well treated. perhaps it was their own fault, or they were exceptional cases. she would like the nursery best, and to keep away from the drawing-room altogether. "yes," she said, "i will _make_ them love me; i will be so gentle, patient, and obliging. i am not afraid of the children--i know i can win _them_--or of my mistress much; i believe i can win _her_. i am most afraid of the superior servants; but, surely, kindness and submission will win them in time. "my sheet-anchor is old lady ascot. she got very fond of me during that six months i stayed with her; and she is very kind. surely she will get me a place where i shall be well treated! and, if not, why then--i shall only be in the position of thousands of other girls. i must fight through it. there is another life after this. "it will be terribly hard parting from all the old friends though! after that, i think i shall have no heart left to suffer with. yes; i suppose the last details of the break-up will be harder to bear than anything which will follow. that will tear one's heart terribly. that over, i suppose my salary will keep me in drawing materials, and give me the power, at every moment of leisure, of taking myself into fairy land. "i suppose actual destitution is impossible. i should think so. yes, yes; lady ascot would take care of that. if that were to come though? they say a girl can always make four-pence a day by her needle. how i would fight, and strive, and toil! and then how sweet death would be!" she paused, and looked out on the darkened ocean. "and yet," she thought again, "i would follow--follow him to the world's end:-- "'across the hills, and far away, beyond their utmost purple rim; beyond the night, across the day, the happy princess followed him.'" a door opened into the hall, and a man's step was on the stone-floor; she raised the curtain to see who it was. it was marston; and he came straight towards her, and stood beside her, looking out over the wild stormy landscape. "miss corby," he said, "i was coming to try and find you." "you are very lucky in your search," she said, smiling on him. "i was alone here with the storm; and, if i had not raised the curtain, you would never have seen me. how it blows! i am glad you are not out in this. this is one of your lucky days." "i should be glad to think so. will you listen to me for a very few minutes, while i tell you something?" "surely," she said. "who is there that i would sooner listen to?" "i fear i shall tire your patience now, though. i am a comparatively poor man." "and what of that, my dear mr. marston? you are rich in honour, in future prospects. you have a noble future before you." "will you share it, mary?" "oh! what do you mean?" "will you be my wife? i love you beyond all the riches and honours of the world--i love you as you will never be loved again. it is due to you and to myself to say that, although i call myself poor, i have enough to keep you like a lady, and all my future prospects beside. don't give me a hasty answer, but tell me, is it possible you can become my wife?" "oh, i am so sorry for this!" said poor mary. "i never dreamt of this. oh, no! it is utterly and entirely impossible, mr. marston--utterly and hopelessly impossible! you must forgive me, if you can; but you must never, never think about me more." "is there no hope?" said marston. "no hope, no hope!" said mary. "please never think about me any more, till you have forgiven me; and then, with your children on your knee, think of me as a friend who loves you dearly." "i shall think of you till i die. i was afraid of this: it is just as i thought." "what did you think?" "nothing--nothing! will you let me kiss your hand?" "surely; and god bless you!" "are we to say good-bye for ever, then?" said poor marston. "i hope not. i should be sorry to think that," said poor mary, crying. "but you must never speak to me like this again, dear mr. marston. god bless you, once more!" charles was dressing while this scene was going on, and was thinking, while brushing his hair, what there was for dinner, and whether there would be a turbot or not, and whether the cook would send in the breast of the venison. the doe, charles sagely reflected, had been killed five days before, and the weather had been warm: surely that woman would let them have the breast. he was a fool not to have told her of it in the morning before he went out; but she was such an obstinate old catamaran that she very likely wouldn't have done it. "there was no greater mistake," this young heliogabalus proceeded to remark, "than hanging your breasts too long. now your haunch, on the other hand----" but we cannot follow him into such a vast and important field of speculation. "there would be a couple of cocks, though--pretty high, near about the mark----" the door opened, and in walked father mackworth. "hallo, father!" said charles. "how are you? did you hear of our spill to-day? we were deuced near done for, i assure you." "charles," said the priest, "your nature is frank and noble. i was in terror to-day lest you should go to your account bearing me malice." "a ravenshoe never bears malice, father," said charles. "a ravenshoe never does, i am aware," said father mackworth, with such a dead equality of emphasis, that charles could not have sworn that he laid any on the word "ravenshoe." "but i have got an apology to make to you, father," said charles: "i have to apologise to you for losing my temper with you the other day, and breaking out into i can't say what tirade of unjust anger. i pray you to forgive me. we don't love one another, you know. how can we? but i behaved like a blackguard, as i always do when i am in a passion. will you forgive me?" "i had forgotten the circumstance." ("good heaven!" said charles to himself, "can't this man help lying!") "but, if i have anything to forgive, i freely do so. i have come to ask for a peace. as long as your father lives, let there be outward peace between us, if no more." "i swear there shall," said charles. "i like you to-night, sir, better than ever i did before, for the kindness and consideration you show to my father. when he is gone there will be peace between us, for i shall leave this house, and trouble you no more." "i suppose you will," said father mackworth, with the same deadness of emphasis remarked before. and so he departed. "that is a manly young fellow, and a gentleman," thought father mackworth. "obstinate and headstrong, without much brains; but with more brains than the other, and more education. the other will be very troublesome and headstrong; but i suppose i shall be able to manage him." what person do you think father mackworth meant by the "other"? he didn't mean cuthbert. at dinner densil was garrulous, and eager to hear of their shipwreck. he had made a great rally the last fortnight, and was his old self again. lord saltire, whose gout had fled before careful living and moderate exercise, informed them, after the soup, that he intended to leave them after four days' time, as he had business in another part of the country. they were rather surprised at his abrupt departure, and he said that he was very sorry to leave such pleasant society, in which he had been happier than he had been for many years. "there is a pleasant, innocent, domestic sort of atmosphere which radiates from you, my old friend," he said, "such as i seldom or never get away from you or mainwaring, grim warrior though he be (you remember him at ranford, charles?). but the law of the medes and persians is not amenable to change, and i go on thursday." the post arrived during dinner, and there was a letter for charles. it was from ranford. "welter comes on thursday, father--the very day lord saltire goes. how annoying!" "i must try to bear up under the affliction!" said that nobleman, taking snuff, and speaking very drily. "where is he to go, i wonder?" mused mary, aloud. "he must go into the west wing, for he always smokes in his bedroom." charles expected that cuthbert would have had a sneer at welter, whom he cordially disliked; but cuthbert had given up sneering lately. "not much more reading for you, charles!" he said. "i am afraid not," said charles. "i almost wish he wasn't coming; we were very happy before." charles was surprised to see marston so silent at dinner. he feared he might have offended him, but couldn't tell how. then he wondered to see mary so silent, too, for she generally chirruped away like a lark; but he didn't refer the two similar phenomena to a common cause, and so he arrived at no conclusion. when lord saltire went to bed that night, he dismissed charles from attendance, and took marston's arm; and, when they were alone together, he thus began:-- "does your shrewdness connect my abrupt departure with the arrival of lord welter?" "i was inclined to, my lord; but i do not see how you were to have known it." "i heard yesterday from lady ascot." "i am sorry he is coming," said marston. "so am i. i can't stay in the house with him. the contrast of his loud, coarse voice and stable slang to the sort of quiet conversation we have had lately would be intolerable; besides, he is an atrocious young ruffian, and will ruin our boy if he can." "charles won't let him now, lord saltire." "charles is young and foolish. i am glad, however, that welter does not go back to oxford with him. but there will be welter's set in their glory, i suppose, unless some of them have got hung. i would sooner see him at home. he is naturally quiet and domestic. i suppose he was in a sad set up there." "he was in a very good set, and a very bad one. he was a favourite everywhere." "he had made some acquaintances he ought to be proud of, at least," said lord saltire, in a way which made honest marston blush. "i wish he wasn't going to ranford." "report says," said marston, "that affairs are getting somewhat shaky there: welter's tradesmen can't get any money." lord saltire shook his head significantly, and then said, "now i want to speak to you about yourself. did not you have a disappointment to-day?" "yes, my lord." "ha!" they both sat silent for a moment. "how did you guess that, lord saltire?" "i saw what was going on; and, by your manner and hers to-day, i guessed something had taken place. is there no hope for you?" "none." "i feared not: but what right had i to tell you so?" "perhaps, my lord, i should not have believed you if you had," said marston, smiling. "what man would have? you are not angry?" "how could i be? the world is out of joint, that is all." "you are a true gentleman. i swear to you," said the old man, eagerly, "that there is no one in fault. she has given her honest little heart away--and what wonder!--but believe me that you are behaving as a man should behave, in not resenting it. if you were a heathen and a frenchman (synonymous terms, my dear boy), you might find it your duty to cut somebody's throat; but, being a christian and a gentleman, you will remain a true friend to somebody who loves you dearly, and is worth loving in return. this sort of thing cuts a man up confoundedly. it happened to me once; but, believe me, you will get over it." "i mean to do so. how kind and generous you are to me! how shall i ever repay you?" "by kindness to those i love," said the old man. "i take this opportunity of telling you that your fortunes are my particular care. i cannot get you the wife you love, but i am rich and powerful, and can do much. not another word. go to bed, sir--to bed." marston, sitting on his bedside that night, said aloud to himself, "and so that is that dicing old _roué_, saltire, is it? well, well; it is a funny world. what a noble fellow he would have been if he had had a better chance. nay, what a noble fellow he is. i am ten years older since this morning" (he wasn't, but he thought it). and so he said his prayers like an honest man, and prayed for the kind old heathen who had such a warm heart; and then, being nowise ashamed to do so, he prayed that he might sleep well; and, for a time, he forgot all about his disappointment, and slept like a child. lord saltire's valet was a staid and sober-minded gentleman of sixty-four. generally, when he was putting his lordship to bed, he used to give him the news of the day; but to-night lord saltire said, "never mind the news, simpson, if you please; i am thinking of something." my lord used to wear a sort of muffler, like a footless stocking, to keep his old knees warm in bed. he remained silent till he got one on, and then, without taking the other from the expectant simpson, he addressed the fire-irons aloud: "this is a pretty clumsy contrivance to call a world!" he said, with profound scorn. "look here (to the poker), here's as fine a lad as ever you saw, goes and falls in love with a charming girl, who cares no more for him than the deuce. he proposes to her, and is refused. why? because she has given her heart away to another fine young fellow, who don't care twopence for her, and has given _his_ heart away to the most ambitious young jezebel in the three kingdoms, who i don't believe cares so very much for him. i am utterly disgusted with the whole system of mundane affairs! simpson, give me that muffler, if you please; and pray don't wake me before nine. i must try to sleep off the recollection of some of this folly." chapter xix. ellen's flight. after all the fatigues and adventures of the day before, charles slept well--long pleasant dreams of roaming in sunny places on summer days fell to his happy lot--and so he was not pleased when he found himself shaken by the shoulder. it was william come to wake him. charles was at once alarmed to see him there, and started up, saying-- "is anything the matter, will? is my father ill?" "the master's well, i trust, master charles. i want to tell you something that i want others to find out for themselves." "what is it?" said charles, seriously alarmed, for he had had his suspicions lately, though he had dreaded to give them a name. "ellen is gone!" "my dear lad," said charles, hurriedly, "what makes you think so? since when have you missed her?" "since yesterday afternoon." "have you been in her room?" "yes. she has not been to bed, and the window is open just as it was yesterday morning at bed-making time." "hush--wait! there may be time yet. go down and saddle two horses at once. i will tell you what i know as we ride, but there is not time now. tell me only one thing, is there any one she would be likely to go to at coombe?" "no one that i know of." william departed to get the horses. charles had suddenly thought of the solitary female figure he had seen passing along the dizzy sheep-path the day before, and he determined to follow that till he lost sight of it. "for the poor dear girl's sake--for the honour of this old house--i wonder who is at the bottom of all this? i must tell marston," he said, when he was out on the landing. "george, tell them to get me some coffee instantly. i am going out hunting." marston thought as charles did. the right thing to do would be to follow her, see that she wanted for nothing, and leave her brother with her for a time. "he won't quarrel with her now, you'll see. he is a good fellow, mind you, charles, though he did lose his temper with her that night." so they rode forth side by side into the wild winter's morning. the rain had ceased for a time, but the low dark clouds were hurrying swiftly before the blast, and eddying among the loftier tors and summits. the wind was behind them, and their way was east, across the lofty downs. "william," said charles, at last, "who is at the bottom of this?" "i don't know, master charles. if i did there would be mischief, unless it was one of two." "ay, will, but it ain't. you don't think it is cuthbert?" "no, no! he, forsooth! father mackworth knows, i believe, more than we do." "you do not suspect him?" "certainly not. i did, but i don't now. i suspect he knows, as i said, more than we do. he has been speaking harshly to her about it." they had arrived at the hill round which charles suspected he had seen her pass the day before. it was impossible to pass round the promontory on horseback in the best of weathers; now doubly so. they would have to pass inland of it. they both pulled up their horses and looked. the steep slope of turf, the top of which, close over head, was hid by flying mists, trended suddenly downwards, and disappeared. eight hundred feet below was the raging sea. as they stood there, the same thought came across both of them. it was a dreadful place. they neither spoke at all, but spurred on faster, till the little grey village of coombe, down at their feet, sheltered from the storm by the lofty hills around, opened to their view; and they pushed on down the steep rocky path. no. no one had seen her yesterday at such a time. the streets would have been full of the miners coming from work; or, if she had come earlier, there would have been plenty of people to see her. it was a small place, and no stranger, they said, could ever pass through it unnoticed. and, though they scoured the country far and wide, and though for months after the fishermen fished among the quiet bays beneath the cliffs in fear, lest they should find there something which should be carried in silent awe up the village, and laid quietly in the old churchyard, beneath the elm; yet ellen was gone--gone from their ken like a summer cloud. they thought it a pious fraud to tell densil that she was gone--with some excuse, i forget what, but which satisfied him. in a conclave held over the matter, cuthbert seemed only surprised and shocked, but evidently knew nothing of the matter. father mackworth said that he expected something of the kind for some little time, and william held his peace. the gossips in the village laid their heads together, and shook them. there was but one opinion there. "never again shall she put garland on; instead of it she'll wear sad cypress now, and bitter elder broken from the bough." nora--poor old nora--took to her bed. father mackworth was with her continually, but she sank and sank. father mackworth was called away across the moors, one afternoon, to an outlying catholic tenant's family; and, during his absence, william was sent to charles to pray him to come, in god's name, to his mother. charles ran across at once, but nora was speechless. she had something to say to charles; but the great sower, which shall sow us all in the ground, and tread us down, had his hand heavy on her, and she could not speak. in the morning, when the gale had broken, and the white sea-birds were soaring and skimming between the blue sky and the noble green, rolling sea, and the ships were running up channel, and the fishing-boats were putting out gaily from the pier, and all nature was brilliant and beautiful, old nora lay dead, and her secret with her. "master charles," said william, as they stood on the shore together, "she knew something, and ellen knows it too, i very much suspect. the time will come, master charles, when we shall have to hunt her through the world, and get the secret from her." "william, i would go many weary journeys to bring poor ellen back into the ways of peace. the fact of her being your sister would be enough to make me do that." chapter xx. ranford again. charles, though no genius, had a certain amount of common sense, and, indeed, more of that commodity than most people gave him credit for. therefore he did not pursue the subject with william. firstly, because he did not think he could get any more out of him (for william had a certain amount of sturdy obstinacy in his composition); and secondly, because he knew william was, in the main, a sensible fellow, and loved the ground he stood on. charles would never believe that william would serve him falsely; and he was right. he told marston of the curious words which william had used, and marston had said-- "i don't understand it. the devil is abroad. are you coming into any money at your father's death?" "i am to have £ a year." "i wouldn't give £ a year for your chance of it. what is this property worth?" "£ , a year. the governor has lived very extravagantly. the stable establishment is fit for a duke now; and, then, look at the servants!" "he is not living up to ten thousand a year now, i should say." "no; but it is only the other day he gave up the hounds. they cost him two thousand a year; and, while he had them, the house was carried on very extravagantly. the governor has a wonderful talent for muddling away money; and, what is more, i believe he was bit with the railways. you know, i believe, the estate is involved." "bathershin. but still, cuthbert won't marry, and his life is a bad one, and you are a heretic, my poor little innocent." "and then?" "heaven only knows what then. i am sure i don't. at what time does the worthy and intellectual welter arrive?" "he will be here about six." "two hours more rational existence for one, then. after that a smell as of ten thousand stables and fifty stale copies of _bell's life_ in one's nose, till his lordship takes his departure. i don't like your cousin, charles." "what an astounding piece of news! he says you are a conceited prig, and give yourself airs." "he never said a wiser or truer thing in his life. i am exactly that; and he is a fifth-class steeple chaserider, with a title." "how you and he will fight!" "so i expect. that is, if he has the courage for battle, which i rather doubt. he is terribly afraid of me." "i think you are hard on poor welter," said charles; "i do, indeed. he is a generous, good-hearted fellow." "oh! we are all generous, good-hearted fellows," said marston, "as long as we have plenty of money and good digestions. you are right, though, charley. he is what you say, as far as i know; but the reason i hate him is this:--you are the dearest friend i have, and i am jealous of him. he is in eternal antagonism to me. i am always trying to lead you right, and he is equally diligent in leading you into wrong." "well, he sha'n't lead me into any more, i promise you now. do be civil to him." "of course i will, you gaby. did you think i was going to show fight in your house?" when marston came down to dinner, there was lord welter, sitting beside old densil, and kindly amusing him with all sorts of gossip--stable and other. "how do, marston?" said he, rising and coming forward. "how d'ye do, lord welter?" said marston. "i am very glad to meet you here," said lord welter, with a good-humoured smile, "although i am ashamed to look you in the face. marston, my dear mr. ravenshoe, is charles's good genius, and i am his evil one; i am always getting charles into mischief, and he is always trying to keep him out of it. hitherto, however, i have been completely successful, and he has made a dead failure." old densil laughed. "you are doing yourself injustice, welter," he said. "is he not doing himself an injustice, mr. marston?" "not in the least, sir," said marston. and the two young men shook hands more cordially than they had ever done before. that evening lord welter fulfilled mary's prophecy, that he would smoke in his bedroom, and not only smoked there himself, but induced charles to come and do so also. marston was not in the humour for the style of conversation he knew he should have there, and so he retired to bed, and left the other two to themselves. "well, charles," said welter. "oh, by the by, i have got a letter for you from that mysterious madcap, adelaide. she couldn't send it by post; that would not have been mysterious and underhand enough for her. catch hold." charles caught hold, and read his letter. welter watched him curiously from under the heavy eyebrows, and when he had finished, said-- "come, put that away, and talk. that sort of thing is pretty much the same in all cases, i take it. as far as my own experience goes, it is always the same. scold and whine and whimper; whimper, whine, and scold. how's that old keeper of yours?" "he has lost his wife." "poor fellow! i remember his wife--a handsome irish woman." "my nurse?" "ay, ay. and the pretty girl, ellen; how is she?" "poor ellen! she has run away, welter; gone on the bad, i fear." lord welter sat in just the same position, gazing on the fire. he then said, in a very deliberate voice:-- "the deuce she is! i am very sorry to hear that. i was in hopes of renewing our acquaintance." the days flew by, and, as you know, there came no news from ellen. the household had been much saddened by her disappearance and by norah's death, though not one of the number ever guessed what had passed between mary and marston. they were not a very cheerful household; scarce one of them but had some secret trouble. father tiernay came back after a week or so; and, if good-natured, kindly chatter could have cheered them at all, he would have done it. but there was a settled gloom on the party, which nothing could overcome. even lord welter, boisterous as his spirits usually were, seemed often anxious and distraught; and, as for poor cuthbert, he would, at any time, within the knowledge of man, have acted as a "damper" on the liveliest party. his affection for charles seemed, for some reason, to increase day by day, but it was sometimes very hard to keep the peace between welter and him. if there was one man beyond another that cuthbert hated, it was lord welter; and sometimes, after dinner, such a scene as this would take place. you will, perhaps, have remarked that i have never yet represented cuthbert as speaking to mary. the real fact is, that he never did speak to her, or to any woman, anything beyond the merest commonplaces--a circumstance which made charles very much doubt the truth of ellen's statement--that the priest had caught them talking together in the wood. however, cuthbert was, in this way, fond enough of the bonny little soul (i swear i am in love with her myself, over head and ears); and so, one day, when she came crying in, and told him--as being the first person she met--that her little bantam-cock had been killed by the dorking, cuthbert comforted her, bottled up his wrath, till his father had gone into the drawing-room with her after dinner, and the others were sitting at their wine. then he said, suddenly-- "welter, did you have any cock-fighting to-day?" "oh, yes, by the by, a splendid turn-up. there was a noble little bantam in an inclosed yard challenging a great dorking, and they both seemed so very anxious for sport that i thought it would be a pity to baulk them; so i just let the bantam out. i give you my word, it is my belief that the bantam would have been the best man, but that he was too old. his attack was splendid; but he met the fate of the brave." "you should not have done that, welter," said charles; "that was mary's favourite bantam." "i don't allow any cock-fighting at ravenshoe, welter," said cuthbert. "you don't allow it!" said lord welter, scornfully. "no, by heaven," said cuthbert, "i don't allow it!" "don't you?" said welter; "you are not master here, nor ever will be. no ravenshoe was ever master of his own house yet." "i am absolute master here," said cuthbert, with a rising colour. "there is no appeal against me here." "only to the priest," said welter. (i must do him justice to say that neither mackworth nor tiernay was in the room, or he would not have said it.) "you are insolent, welter, and brutal. it is your nature to be so," said cuthbert, fiercely. marston, who had been watching welter all this time, saw a flash come from his eyes, and, for one moment, a terrible savage setting of the teeth. "ha, ha! my friend," thought he, "i thought that stupid face was capable of some such expression as that. i am obliged to you, my friend, for giving me one little glimpse of the devil inside." "by gad, cuthbert," said lord welter, "if you hadn't been at your own table, you shouldn't have said that, cousin or no cousin, twice." "stop, now," said charles, "don't turn the place into a bear-pit. cuthbert, do be moderate. welter, you shouldn't have set the cocks fighting. now don't begin quarrelling again, you two, for heaven's sake!" and so the peace was made: but charles was very glad when the time came for the party to break up; and he went away to ranford with welter, preparatory to his going back to oxford. his father was quite his own old self again, and seemed to have rallied amazingly; so charles left him without much anxiety; and there were reasons we know of why his heart should bound when he heard the word ranford mentioned, and why the raging speed of the great western railway express seemed all too slow for him. lord ascot's horses were fast, the mail-phaeton was a good one, and lord welter's worst enemies could not accuse him of driving slow; yet the way from didcot to ranford seemed so interminably long that he said:-- "by jove, i wish we had come by a slower train, and gone on to twyford!" "why so?" "i don't know. i think it is pleasanter driving through wargrave and henley." lord welter laughed, and charles wondered why. there were no visitors at ranford; and, when they arrived, welter of course adjourned to the stables, while charles ran upstairs and knocked at lady ascot's door. he was bidden to come in by the old lady's voice. her black-and-tan terrier, who was now so old that his teeth and voice were alike gone, rose from the hearth, and went through the motion and outward semblance of barking furiously at charles, though without producing any audible sound. lady ascot rose up and welcomed him kindly. "i am so glad to see your honest face, my dear boy. i have been sitting here all alone so long. ascot is very kind, and comes and sits with me, and i give him some advice about his horses, which he never takes. but i am very lonely." "but where is adelaide, aunt, dear?" "she's gone." "gone! my dear aunt, where to?" "gone to stay ten days with lady hainault." here was a blow. "i know you are very disappointed, my poor boy, and i told welter so expressly to tell you in my last letter. he is so shockingly careless and forgetful!" "so welter knew of it," said charles to himself. "and that is what made him laugh at my hurry. it is very ungentlemanly behaviour." but charles's anger was like a summer cloud. "i think, aunt," he said, "that welter was having a joke with me; that was all. when will she be back?" "the end of next week." "and i shall be gone to oxford. i shall ride over to casterton and see her." "you knew hainault at shrewsbury? yes. well, you had better do so, child. yes, certainly." "what made her go, aunt, i wonder?" "lady hainault was ill, and would have her, and i was forced to let her go." oh, lady ascot, lady ascot, you wicked old fibster! didn't you hesitate, stammer, and blush, when you said that? i am very much afraid you didn't. hadn't you had, three days before, a furious _fracas_ with adelaide about something, and hadn't it ended by her declaring that she would claim the protection of lady hainault? hadn't she ordered out the pony-carriage and driven off with a solitary bandbox, and what i choose to call a crinoline-chest? and hadn't you and lady hainault had a brilliant passage of arms over her ladyship's receiving and abetting the recalcitrant adelaide? lady ascot was perfectly certain of one thing--that charles would never hear about this from adelaide; and so she lied boldly and with confidence. otherwise, she must have made a dead failure, for few people had practised that great and difficult art so little as her ladyship. that there had been a furious quarrel between lady ascot and adelaide about this time, i well know from the best authority. it had taken place just as i have described it above. i do not know for certain the cause of it, but can guess; and, as i am honestly going to tell you all i know, you will be able to make as good a guess as i hereafter. lady ascot said, furthermore, that she was very uneasy in her mind about ascot's colt, which she felt certain would not stay over the derby course. the horse was not so well ribbed up as he should be, and had hardly quarter enough to suit her. talking of that, her lumbago had set in worse than ever since the frost had come on, and her doctor had had the impudence to tell her that her liver was deranged, whereas, she knew it proceeded from cold in the small of her back. talking of the frost, she was told that there had been a very good sheet of ice on the carp-pond, where charles might have skated, though she did hope he would never go on the ice till it was quite safe--as, if he were to get drowned, it would only add to her vexation, and surely she had had enough of that, with that audacious chit of a girl, adelaide, who was enough to turn one's hair grey; though for that matter it had been grey many years, as all the world might see. "has adelaide been vexing you, aunt, dear?" interrupted charles. "no, my dear boy, no," replied the old woman. "she is a little tiresome sometimes, but i dare say it is more my fault than hers." "you will not be angry with her, aunt, dear? you will be long-suffering with her, for my sake?" "dear charles," said the good old woman, weeping, "i will forgive her till seventy times seven. sometimes, dear, she is high-spirited, and tries my temper. and i am very old, dear, and very cross and cruel to her. it is all my fault, charles, all my fault." afterwards, when charles knew the truth, he used to bless the memory of this good old woman, recalling this conversation, and knowing on which side the fault lay. at this time, blindly in love as he was with adelaide, he had sense enough left to do justice. "aunt, dear," he said, "you are old, but you are neither cross nor cruel. you are the kindest and most generous of women. you are the only mother i ever had, aunt. i dare say adelaide is tiresome sometimes; bear with her for my sake. tell me some more about the horses. god help us, they are an important subject enough in this house now!" lady ascot said, having dried her eyes and kissed charles, that she had seen this a very long time: that she had warned ascot solemnly, as it was a mother's duty to do, to be careful of ramoneur blood, and that ascot would never listen to her; that no horse of that breed had ever been a staying horse; that she believed, if the truth could be got at, that the pope of rome had been, indirectly, perhaps, but certainly, the inventor of produce stakes, which had done more to ruin the breed of horses, and consequently the country, than fifty reform bills. then her ladyship wished to know if charles had read lord mount e----'s book on the battle of armageddon, and on receiving a negative answer, gave a slight abstract of that most prophetical production, till the gong sounded, and charles went up to dress for dinner. chapter xxi. clotho, lachesis, and atropos. the road from ranford to casterton, which is the name of lord hainault's place, runs through about three miles of the most beautiful scenery. although it may barely come up to cookham or cliefden, yet it surpasses the piece from wargrave to henley, and beats pangbourne hollow. leaving ranford park, the road passes through the pretty village of ranford. and in the street of ranford, which is a regular street, the principal inn is the white hart, kept by mrs. foley. here, in summer, all through the long glorious days, which seem so hard to believe in in winter time, come anglers, and live. here they order their meals at impossible hours, and drive the landlady mad by not coming home to them. here, too, they plan mad expeditions with the fishermen, who are now in all their glory, wearing bright-patterned shirts, scornful of half-crowns, and in a general state of obfuscation, in consequence of being plied with strange liquors by their patrons, out of flasks, when they are out fishing. here, too, come artists, with beards as long as your arm, and pass the day under white umbrellas, in pleasant places by the waterside, painting. the dark old porch of the inn stands out in the street, but the back of the house goes down to the river. at this porch there is generally a group of idlers, or an old man sunning himself, or a man on horseback drinking. on this present occasion there were all three of these things, and also lord ascot's head-keeper, with a brace of setters. as charles rode very slowly towards the group, the keeper and the groom on horseback left off talking. charles fancied they had been talking about him, and i, who know everything, also know that they had. when charles was nearly opposite him, the keeper came forward and said-- "i should like to show you the first trout of the season, sir. jim, show mr. ravenshoe that trout." a beautiful ten-pounder was immediately laid on the stones. "he would have looked handsomer in another month, jackson," said charles. "perhaps he would, sir. my lady generally likes to get one as soon as she can." at this stage the groom, who had been standing apart, came up, and, touching his hat, put into charles's hand a note. it was in adelaide's handwriting. the groom knew it, the keeper knew it, they all knew it, and charles knew they knew it; but what cared he?--all the world might know it. but they knew and had been talking of something else before he came up, which charles did not know. if anything is going wrong, all the country side know it before the person principally concerned. and all the country side knew that there had been a great and scandalous quarrel between adelaide and lady ascot--all, except charles. he put the note in his pocket without opening it; he gave the groom half-a-crown; he bade good-bye to the keeper; he touched his hat to the loiterers; and then he rode on his way towards casterton, down the village street. he passed the church among the leafless walnut trees, beneath the towering elms, now noisy with building rooks; and then, in the broad road under the lofty chalk downs, with the elms on his left, and glimpses of the flashing river between their stems, there he pulled up his horse, and read his love-letter. "dear charles,--ain't you very cross at my having been away when you came? i don't believe you are, for you are never cross. i couldn't help it, charles, dear. aunt wanted me to go. "aunt is very cross and tiresome. she don't like me as well as she used. you mustn't believe all she says, you know. it ain't one word of it true. it is only her fancy. "do come over and see me. lord hainault" (this i must tell you, reader, is the son, not the husband, of lady ascot's most cherished old enemy,) "is going to be married, and there will be a great wedding. she is that long burton girl, whom you may remember. i have always had a great dislike for her; but she has asked me to be bridesmaid, and of course one can't refuse. lady emily montfort is 'with me,' as the lawyers say, and of course she will have her mother's pearls in her ugly red hair."-- charles couldn't agree as to lady emily's hair being red. he had thought it the most beautiful hair he had ever seen in his life.-- "_pour moi_, i shall wear a camelia, if the gardener will give me one. how i wish i had jewels to beat hers! she can't wear the cleveland diamonds as a bridesmaid; that is a comfort. come over and see me. i am in agony about what aunt may have said to you. "adelaide." the reader may see more in this letter than charles did. the reader may see a certain amount of selfishness and vanity in it: charles did not. he took up his reins and rode on; and, as he rode, said, "by jove, cuthbert shall lend me the emeralds!" he hardly liked asking for them; but he could not bear the idea of lady emily shining superior to adelaide in consequence of her pearls. had he been a wise man (which i suppose you have, by this time, found out that he is decidedly not. allow me to recommend this last sentence in a grammatical point of view), he would have seen that, with two such glorious creatures as adelaide and lady emily, no one would have seen whether they were clothed in purple and fine linen, or in sackcloth and ashes. but charles was a fool. he was in love, and he was riding out to see his love. the scotchman tells us about spey leaping out a glorious giant from among the everlasting hills; the irishman tells you of shannon rambling on past castle and mountain, gathering new beauty as he goes; the canadian tells you of the great river which streams over the cliff between erie and ontario; and the australian tells you of snowy pouring eternally from his great curtain of dolomite, seen forty miles away by the lonely traveller on the dull grey plains; but the englishman tells you of the thames, whose valley is the cradle of freedom, and the possessors of which are the arbiters of the world. and along the thames valley rode charles. at first the road ran along beneath some pleasant sunny heights; but, as it gradually rose, the ground grew more abrupt, and, on the right, a considerable down, with patches of gorse and juniper, hung over the road; while, on the left, the broad valley stretched away to where a distant cloud of grey smoke showed where lay the good old town of casterton. now the road entered a dark beech wood beneath lofty banks, where the squirrels, merry fellows, ran across the road and rattled up the trees, and the air was faint with the scent of last year's leaves. then came a break in the wood to the right, and a vista up a long-drawn valley, which ended in a chalk cliff. then a break in the wood to the left, and a glance at the flat meadows, the gleaming river, and the dim grey distance. then the wood again, denser and darker than ever. then a sound, at first faint and indistinct, but growing gradually upon the ear until it could be plainly heard above the horse's footfall. then suddenly the end of the wood, and broad open sunlight. below, the weirs of casterton, spouting by a hundred channels, through the bucks and under the mills. hard by, casterton town, lying, a tumbled mass of red brick and grey flint, beneath a faint soft haze of smoke, against the vast roll in the land called marldown. on the right, casterton park, a great wooded promontory, so steep that one can barely walk along it, clothed with beech and oak from base to summit, save in one place, where a bold lawn of short grass, five hundred feet high, stoops suddenly down towards the meadows, fringed at the edges with broom and fern, and topped with three tall pines--the landmark for ten miles along the river. a lodge, the white gate of which is swung open by a pretty maiden; a dark oak wood again, with a long vista, ended by the noble precipitous hill on which the house stands; a more open park, with groups of deer lying about and feeding; another dark wood, the road now rising rapidly; rabbits, and a pot-valiant cock-pheasant standing in the middle of the way, and "carrucking," under the impression that charles is in possession of all his domestic arrangements, and has come to disturb them; then the smooth gravel road, getting steeper and steeper; then the summit; one glimpse of a glorious panorama; then the front door and footmen. charles sent his card in, and would be glad to know if lady hainault could see him. while he waited for an answer, his horse rubbed its nose against its knee, and yawned, while the footmen on the steps looked at the rooks. they knew all about it too. (the footmen, i mean, not the rooks; though i wouldn't swear against a rook's knowing anything, mind you.) lady hainault would see mr. ravenshoe--which was lucky, because, if she wouldn't have done so, charles would have been obliged to ask for adelaide. so charles's horse was led to the stable, and charles was led by the butler through the hall, and shown into a cool and empty library, to purge himself of earthly passions, before he was admitted to the presence. charles sat himself down in the easiest chair he could find, and got hold of "ruskin's modern painters." that is a very nice book: it is printed on thick paper, with large print; the reading is very good, full of the most beautiful sentiments ever you heard; and there are also capital plates in it. charles looked through the pictures: he didn't look at the letterpress, i know--for, if he had, he would have been so deeply enchained with it that he wouldn't have done what he did--get up, and look out of the window. the window looked into the flower-garden. there he saw a young scotch gardener, looking after his rose-trees. his child, a toddling bit of a thing, four years old (it must have been his first, for he was a very young man), was holding the slips of matting for him; and glancing up between whiles at the great façade of the house, as though wondering what great people were inside, and whether they were looking at him. this was a pretty sight to a good whole-hearted fellow like charles; but he got tired of looking at that even, after a time; for he was anxious and not well at ease. and so, after his watch had told him that he had waited half an hour he rang the bell. the butler came almost directly. "did you tell lady hainault that i was here?" said charles. "my lady was told, sir." "tell her again, will you?" said charles, and yawned. charles had time for another look at ruskin, and another look at the gardener and his boy, before the butler came back and said, "my lady is disengaged, sir." charles was dying to see adelaide, and was getting very impatient; but he was, as you have seen, a very contented sort of fellow: and, as he had fully made up his mind not to leave the house without a good half-hour with her, he could afford to wait. he crossed the hall behind the butler, and then went up the great staircase, and through the picture-gallery. here he was struck by seeing the original of one of the prints he had seen downstairs, in the book, hanging on the wall among others. he stopped the butler, and asked, "what picture is that?" "that, sir," said the butler, hesitatingly, "that, sir--that is the great turner, sir. yes, sir," he repeated, after a glance at a francia on the one side, and a rembrandt on the other, "yes, sir, that _is_ the great turner, sir." charles was shown into a boudoir on the south side of the house, where sat lady hainault, an old and not singularly agreeable looking woman, who was doing crotchet-work, and her companion, a strong-minded and vixenish-looking old maid, who was also doing crotchet-work. they looked so very like two of the fates, weaving woe, that charles looked round for the third sister, and found her not. "how d'ye do, mr. ravenshoe?" said lady hainault. "i hope you haven't been kept waiting?" "not at all," said charles; and if that was not a deliberate lie, i want to know what is. if there was any one person in the world for whom charles bore a cherished feeling of dislike, it was this virtuous old lady. charles loved lady ascot dearly, and lady hainault was her bitterest enemy. that would have been enough; but she had a horrid trick of sharpening her wit upon young men, and saying things to them in public which gave them a justifiable desire to knock her down and jump on her, as the irish reapers do to their wives; and she had exercised this talent on charles once at ranford, and he hated her as much as he could hate any one, and that was not much. lord saltire used to say that he must give her the credit of being the most infernally disagreeable woman in europe. charles thought, by the twitching of her long fingers over her work, that she was going to be disagreeable now, and he was prepared. but, to charles's great astonishment, the old lady was singularly gracious. "and how," she said, "is dear lady ascot? i have been coming, and coming, for a long time, but i never have gone so far this winter." "lucky for aunt!" thought charles. then there was a pause, and a very awkward one. charles said, very quietly, "lady hainault, may i see miss summers?" "surely! i wonder where she is. miss hicks, ring the bell." charles stepped forward and rang; and miss hicks, as clotho, who had half-risen, sat down again, and wove her web grimly. atropos appeared, after an interval, looking as beautiful as the dawn. so charles was looking too intently at her to notice the quick, eager glances that the old woman threw at her as she came into the room. his heart leapt up as he went forward to meet her; and he took her hand and pressed it, and would have done so if all the furies in pandemonium were there to prevent him. it did not please her ladyship to see this; and so charles did it once more, and then they sat down together in a window. "and how am i looking?" said adelaide, gazing at him full in the face. "not a single pretty compliment for me after so long? i require compliments; i am used to them. lady hainault paid me some this morning." lady hainault, as lachesis, laughed and woved. charles thought, "i suppose she and adelaide have been having a shindy. she and aunt fall out sometimes." adelaide and charles had a good deal of quiet conversation in the window; but what two lovers could talk with clotho and lachesis looking on, weaving? i, of course, know perfectly well what they talked of, but it is hardly worth setting down here. i find that lovers' conversations are not always interesting to the general public. after a decent time, charles rose to go, and adelaide went out by a side door. charles made his adieux to clotho and lachesis, and departed at the other end of the room. the door had barely closed on him, when lady hainault, eagerly thrusting her face towards miss hicks, hissed out-- "did i give her time enough? were her eyes red? does he suspect anything?" "you gave her time enough, i should say," said miss hicks, deliberately. "i didn't see that her eyes were red. but he must certainly suspect that you and she are not on the best of terms, from what she said." "do you think he knows that hainault is at home? did he ask for hainault?" "i don't know," said miss hicks. "she shall not stop in the house. she shall go back to lady ascot. i won't have her in the house," said the old lady, furiously. "why did you have her here, lady hainault?" "you know perfectly well, hicks. you know i only had her to spite old ascot. but she shall stay here no longer." "she must stay for the wedding now," said miss hicks. "i suppose she must," said lady hainault; "but, after that, she shall pack. if the burton people only knew what was going on, the match would be broken off." "i don't believe anything is going on," said miss hicks; "at least, not on his side. you are putting yourself in a passion for nothing, and you will be ill after it." "i am not putting myself in a passion, and i won't be ill, hicks! and you are impudent to me, as you always are. i tell you that she must be got rid of, and she must marry that young booby, or we are all undone. i say that hainault is smitten with her." "i say he is not, lady hainault. i say that what there is is all on her side." "she shall go back to ranford after the wedding. i was a fool to have such a beautiful vixen in the house at all." we shall not see much more of lady hainault. her son is about to marry the beautiful miss burton, and make her lady hainault. we shall see something of her by and by. the wedding came off the next week. a few days previously charles rode over to casterton and saw adelaide. he had with him a note and jewel-case. the note was from cuthbert, in which he spoke of her as his future sister, and begged her to accept the loan of "these few poor jewels." she was graciously pleased to do so; and charles took his leave very soon, for the house was turned out of the windows, and the next day but one "the long burton girl" became lady hainault, and lady ascot's friend became dowager. lady emily did not wear pearls at the wedding. she wore her own splendid golden hair, which hung round her lovely face like a glory. none who saw the two could say which was the most beautiful of these two celebrated blondes--adelaide, the imperial, or lady emily, the gentle and the winning. but, when lady ascot heard that adelaide had appeared at the wedding with the emeralds, she was furious. "she has gone," said that deeply injured lady--"she, a penniless girl, has actually gone, and, without my consent or knowledge, borrowed the ravenshoe emeralds, and flaunted in them at a wedding. that girl would dance over my grave, brooks." "miss adelaide," said brooks, "must have looked very well in them, my lady!" for brooks was good-natured, and wished to turn away her ladyship's wrath. lady ascot turned upon her and withered her. she only said, "emeralds upon pink! heugh!" but brooks was withered nevertheless. i cannot give you any idea as to how lady ascot said "heugh!" as i have written it above. we don't know how the greeks pronounced the amazing interjections in the greek plays. we can only write them down. "perhaps the jewels were not remarked, my lady," said the maid, making a second and worse shot. "not remarked, you foolish woman!" said the angry old lady. "not remark a thousand pounds' worth of emeralds upon a girl who is very well known to be a pensioner of mine. and i daren't speak to her, or we shall have a scene with charles. i am glad of one thing, though; it shows that charles is thoroughly in earnest. now let me get to bed, that's a good soul; and don't be angry with me if i am short tempered, for heaven knows i have enough to try me! send one of the footmen across to the stable to know if mahratta has had her nitre. say that i insist on a categorical answer. has lord ascot come home?" "yes, my lady." "he might have come and given me some news about the horse. but there, poor boy, i can forgive him." chapter xxii. the last glimpse of oxford. oxford. the front of magdalen hall, about which the least said the soonest mended. on the left, further on, all souls, which seems to have been built by the same happy hand which built the new courts of st. john's, cambridge (for they are about equally bad). on the right, the clarendon and the schools, blocking out the western sky. still more to the right, a bit of exeter, and all brazenose. in front, the radcliff, the third dome in england, and, beyond, the straight façade of st. mary's, gathering its lines upward ever, till tired of window and buttress, of crocket, finial, gargoyle, and all the rest of it, it leaps up aloft in one glorious crystal, and carries up one's heart with it into the heaven above. charles ravenshoe and marston. they stood side by side on the pavement, and their eyes roamed together over the noble mass of architecture, passing from the straight lines, and abrupt corner of the radcliffe, on to the steeple of st. mary's. they stood silent for a moment, and then marston said-- "serve him right." "why?" said charles. "because he had no business to be driving tandem at all. he can't afford it. and, besides, if he could, why should he defy the authorities by driving tandem? nobody would drive tandem if it wasn't forbidden." "well, he is sent down, and therefore your virtue may spare him." "sent down!" said marston, testily, "he never ought to have come up. he was only sent here to be pitchforked through the schools, and get a family living." "well, well," said charles; "i was very fond of him." "pish!" said marston. whereat charles laughed uproariously, and stood in the gutter. his mirth was stopped by his being attacked by a toothless black-and-tan terrier, who was so old that he could only bark in a whisper, but whose privilege it was to follow about one of the first divinity scholars of the day, round the sunniest spots in the town. the dog having been appeased, charles and marston stood aside, and got a kindly smile from the good old man, in recognition of their having touched their caps to him. "charley," said marston, "i am so glad to hear of your going on so well. mind you, if you had stuck to your work sooner, you would have had more than a second in moderations. you must, and you shall, get a first, you know. i will have it." "never, my boy, never;" said charles: "i haven't head for it." "nonsense. you are a great fool; but you may get your first." thereupon charles laughed again, louder than before, and wanted to know what his friend had been eating to upset his liver. to which marston answered "bosh!" and then they went down oriel lane, "and so by merton," as the fox-hunters say, to christ church meadow. "i am glad you are in the university eight," said marston; "it will do you a vast deal of good. you used to over-value that sort of thing, but i don't think that you do so now. you can't row or ride yourself into a place in the world, but that is no reason why you should not row or ride. i wish i was heavy enough to row. who steers to-day?" "the great panjandrum." "i don't like the great panjandrum. i think him slangy. and i don't pardon slang in any one beyond a very young bachelor." "i am very fond of him," said charles, "and you are bilious, and out of humour with every one in heaven and earth, except apparently me. but, seriously speaking, old man, i think you have had something to vex you, since you came up yesterday. i haven't seen you since you were at ravenshoe, and you are deucedly altered, do you know?" "i am sure you are wrong, charles. i have had nothing--well, i never lie. i have been disappointed in something, but i have fought against it so, that i am sure you must be wrong. i cannot be altered." "tell me what has gone wrong, marston. is it in money matters? if it is, i know i can help you there." "money. oh! dear no;" said marston. "charley, you are a good fellow. you are the best fellow i ever met, do you know? but i can't tell you what is the matter now." "have i been doing anything?" said charles, eagerly. "you have been doing a great deal to make me like and respect you, charles; but nothing to make me unhappy. now answer me some questions, and let us change the subject. how is your father?" "dear old dad is very well. i got a letter from him to-day." "and how is your brother?" "well in health, but weak in mind, i fear. i am very much afraid that i shall be heir of ravenshoe." "why? is he going mad?" "not a bit of it, poor lad. he is going into a religious house, i am afraid. at least he mentioned that sort of thing the last time he wrote to me, as if he were trying to bring me face to face with the idea; and be sure my dearly beloved father mackworth will never let the idea rest." "poor fellow! and how is adelaide the beautiful?" "_she's_ all right," said charles. "she and aunt are the best friends in the world." "they always were, weren't they?" "why, you see," said charles, "sometimes aunt was cross, and adelaide is very high-spirited, you know. exceedingly high-spirited." "indeed?" "oh, yes, very much so; she didn't take much nonsense from lady hainault, i can tell you." "well," said marston, "to continue my catechising, how is william?" "he is very well. is there no one else you were going to ask after?" "oh, yes. miss corby?" "she is pretty well, i believe, in health, but she does not seem quite so happy as she was," said charles, looking at marston, suddenly. he might as well have looked at the taylor building, if he expected any change to take place in marston's face. he regarded him with a stony stare, and said-- "indeed. i am sorry to hear that." "marston," said charles, "i once thought that there was something between you and her." "that is a remarkable instance of what silly notions get into vacant minds," said marston, steadily. whereat charles laughed again. at this point, being opposite the university barge, charles was hailed by a west-countryman of exeter, whom we shall call lee, who never met with charles without having a turn at talking devonshire with him. he now began at the top of his voice, to the great astonishment of the surrounding dandies. "where be gwine? charles ravenshoe, where be gwine?" "we'm gwine for a ride on the watter, jan lee." "be gwine in the 'varsity eight, charles ravenshoe?" "iss, sure." "how do'e feel? dont'e feel afeard?" "ma dear soul, i've got such a wambling in my innards, and--" "we are waiting for you, ravenshoe," said the captain; and, a few minutes after, the university eight rushed forth on her glorious career, clearing her way through the crowd of boats, and their admiring rowers, towards iffley. and marston sat on the top of the university barge, and watched her sweeping on towards the distance, and then he said to himself-- "ah! there goes the man i like best in the world, who don't care for the woman i love best in the world, who is in love with the man before mentioned, who is in love with a woman who don't care a hang for him. there is a certain left-handedness in human affairs." chapter xxiii.[ ] the last glimpse of the old world. putney bridge at half an hour before high tide; thirteen or fourteen steamers; five or six thousand boats, and fifteen or twenty thousand spectators. this is the morning of the great university race, about which every member of the two great universities, and a very large section of the general public, have been fidgeting and talking for a month or so. the bridge is black, the lawns are black, every balcony and window in the town is black; the steamers are black with a swarming, eager multitude, come to see the picked youths of the upper class try their strength against one another. there are two friends of ours nearly concerned in the great event of the day. charles is rowing three in the oxford boat, and marston is steering. this is a memorable day for both of them, and more especially for poor charles. now the crowd surges to and fro, and there is a cheer. the men are getting into their boats. the police-boats are busy clearing the course. now there is a cheer of admiration. cambridge dashes out, swings round, and takes her place at the bridge. another shout. oxford sweeps majestically out and takes her place by cambridge. away go the police-galleys, away go all the london club-boats, at ten miles an hour down the course. now the course is clear, and there is almost a silence. then a wild hubbub; and people begin to squeeze and crush against one another. the boats are off; the fight has begun! then the thirteen steamers come roaring on after them, and their wake is alive once more with boats. everywhere a roar and a rushing to and fro. frantic crowds upon the towing-path, mad crowds on the steamers, which make them sway and rock fearfully. ahead hammersmith bridge, hanging like a black bar, covered with people as with a swarm of bees. as an eye-piece to the picture, two solitary flying boats, and the flashing oars, working with the rapidity and regularity of a steam-engine. "who's in front?" is asked by a thousand mouths; but who can tell? we shall see soon. hammersmith bridge is stretching across the water not a hundred yards in front of the boats. for one half-second a light shadow crosses the oxford boat, and then it is out into the sunlight beyond. in another second the same shadow crosses the cambridge boat. oxford is ahead. the men with light-blue neckties say that, "by george, oxford can't keep that terrible quick stroke going much longer;" and the men with dark-blue ties say, "can't she, by jove?" well, we shall know all about it soon, for here is barnes bridge. again the shadow goes over the oxford boat, and then one, two, three, four seconds before the cambridge men pass beneath it. oxford is winning! there is a shout from the people at barnes, though the [greek: polloi] don't know why. cambridge has made a furious rush, and drawn nearly up to oxford; but it is useless. oxford leaves rowing, and cambridge rows ten strokes before they are level. oxford has won! five minutes after, charles was on the wharf in front of the ship inn at mortlake, as happy as a king. he had got separated from his friends in the crowd, and the people round him were cheering him, and passing flattering remarks on his personal appearance, which caused charles to laugh, and blush, and bow, as he tried to push through his good-natured persecutors, when he suddenly, in the midst of a burst of laughter caused by a remark made by a drunken bargeman, felt somebody clasp his arm, and, turning round, saw william. he felt such a shock that he was giddy and faint. "will," he said, "what is the matter?" "come here, and i'll tell you." he forced his way to a quieter place, and then turned round to his companion,--"make it short, will; that's a dear fellow. i can stand the worst." "master was took very bad two days ago, master charles; and master cuthbert sent me off for you at once. he told me directly i got to paddington to ask for a telegraph message, so that you might hear the last accounts; and here it is." he put what we now call a "telegram" into charles's hand, and the burden of it was mourning and woe. densil ravenshoe was sinking fast, and all that steam and horse-flesh could do would be needed, if charles would see him alive. "will, go and find mr. marston for me, and i will wait here for you. how are we to get back to putney?" "i have got a cab waiting." william dashed into the inn, and charles waited. he turned and looked at the river. there it was winding away past villa and park, bearing a thousand boats upon its bosom. he looked once again upon the crowded steamers and the busy multitude, and even in his grief felt a rush of honest pride as he thought that he was one of the heroes of the day. and then he turned, for william was beside him again. marston was not to be found. "i should like to have seen him again," he said; "but we must fly, will, we must fly!" had he known under what circumstances he was next to see a great concourse of people, and under what circumstances he was next to meet marston, who knows but that in his ignorance and short-sightedness he would have chosen to die where he stood in such a moment of triumph and honour? in the hurry of departure he had no time to ask questions. only when he found himself in the express train, having chosen to go second-class with his servant, and not be alone, did he find time to ask how it had come about. there was but little to be told. densil had been seized after breakfast, and at first so slightly that they were not much alarmed. he had been put to bed, and the symptoms had grown worse. then william had been despatched for charles, leaving cuthbert, mary, and father mackworth at his bedside. all had been done that could be done. he seemed to be in no pain, and quite contented. that was all. the telegraph told the rest. cuthbert had promised to send horses to crediton, and a relay forty miles nearer home. the terrible excitement of the day, and the fact that he had eaten nothing since breakfast, made charles less able to bear up against the news than he would otherwise have been. strange thoughts and fears began to shape themselves in his head, and to find voices in the monotonous jolting of the carriage. not so much the fear of his father's death. that he did not fear, because he knew it would come; and, as to that, the bitterness of death was past, bitter, deeply bitter, as it was; but a terror lest his father should die without speaking to him--that he should never see those dear lips wreathe into a smile for him any more. yesterday he had been thinking of this very journey--of how, if they won the race, he would fly down on the wings of the wind to tell them, and how the old man would brighten up with joy at the news. yesterday he was a strong, brave man; and now what deadly terror was this at his heart? "william, what frightens me like this?" "the news i brought you, and the excitement of the race. and you have been training hard for a long time, and that don't mend a man's nerves; and you are hungry." "not i." "what a noble race it was! i saw you above a mile off. i could tell the shape of you that distance, and see how you was pulling your oar through. i knew that my boy was going to be in the winning boat, lord bless you! before the race was rowed. and when i saw mr. c---- come in with that tearing, licking quick stroke of his, i sung out for old oxford, and pretty nearly forgot the photograph for a bit." "photograph, will? what photograph?" "telegraph, i mean, it's all the same." charles couldn't talk, though he tried. he felt an anxiety he had never felt before. it was so ill-defined that he could not trace it to its source. he had a right to feel grief, and deep anxiety to see his father alive; but this was sheer terror, and at what? at swindon, william got out and returned laden with this and with that, and forced charles to eat and drink. he had not tasted wine for a long time; so he had to be careful with it; but it seemed to do him no good. but, at last, tired nature did something for him, and he fell asleep. when he awoke it was night, and at first he did not remember where he was. but rapidly his grief came upon him; and up, as it were out of a dark gulf, came the other nameless terror and took possession of his heart. there was a change at exeter; then at crediton they met with their first relay of horses, and, at ten o'clock at night, after a hasty supper, started on their midnight ride. the terror was gone the moment charles was on horseback. the road was muddy and dark, often with steep banks on each side; but a delicious april moon was overhead, and they got on bravely. at bow there was a glimpse of dartmoor towering black, and a fresh puff of westerly wind, laden with scents of spring. at hatherleigh, there were fresh horses, and one of the ravenshoe grooms waiting for them. the man had heard nothing since yesterday; so at one o'clock they started on again. after this, there were none but cross-country roads, and dangerous steep lanes; so they got on slowly. then came the morning with voice of ten thousand birds, and all the rich perfume of awaking nature. and then came the woods of home, and they stood on the terrace, between the old house and the sea. the white surf was playing and leaping around the quiet headlands; the sea-birds were floating merrily in the sunshine; the april clouds were racing their purple shadows across the jubilant blue sea; but the old house stood blank and dull. every window was closed, and not a sound was heard. for charles had come too late. densil ravenshoe was dead. chapter xxiv. the first glimpse of the new world. in the long dark old room with the mullioned windows looking out on the ocean, in the room that had been charles's bedroom, study, and play-room, since he was a boy, there sat charles ravenshoe, musing, stricken down with grief, and forlorn. there were the fishing-rods and the guns, there were the books and the homely pictures in which his soul had delighted. there was "the sanctuary and the challenge," and bob coombes in his outrigger. all were there. but charles ravenshoe was not there. there was another man in his place, bearing his likeness, who sat and brooded with his head on his hands. where was the soul which was gone? was he an infant in a new cycle of existence? or was he still connected with the scenes and people he had known and loved so long? was he present? could he tell at last the deep love that one poor foolish heart had borne for him? could he know now the deep, deep grief that tore that poor silly heart, because its owner had not been by to see the last faint smile of intelligence flutter over features that he was to see no more? "father! father! where are you? don't leave me all alone, father." no answer! only the ceaseless beating of the surf upon the shore. he opened the window, and looked out. the terrace, the woods, the village, and beyond, the great unmeasurable ocean! what beyond that? what was this death, which suddenly made that which we loved so well, so worthless? could they none of them tell us? one there was who triumphed over death and the grave, and was caught up in his earthly body. who is this death that he should triumph over us? alas, poor charles! there are evils worse than death. there are times when death seems to a man like going to bed. wait! there was a picture of mary's, of which he bethought himself. one we all know. of a soul being carried away by angels to heaven. they call it st. catherine, though it had nothing particular to do with st. catherine, that i know of; and he thought he would go see it. but, as he turned, there stood mary herself before him. he held out his hands towards her, and she came and sat beside him, and put her arm round his neck. he kissed her! why not? they were as brother and sister. he asked her why she had come. "i knew you wanted me," she said. then she, still with her arm round his neck, talked to him about what had just happened. "he asked for you soon after he was taken on the first day, and told father mackworth to send off for you. cuthbert had sent two hours before, and he said he was glad, and hoped that oxford would win the race----" "charles," said mary again, "do you know that old james has had a fit, and is not expected to live?" "no." "yes, as soon as he heard of our dear one's death he was taken. it has killed him." "poor old james!" they sat there some time, hand in hand, in sorrowful communion, and then charles said suddenly-- "the future, mary! the future, my love?" "we discussed that before, charles, dear. there is only one line of life open to me." "ah!" "i shall write to lady ascot to-morrow. i heard from adelaide the other day, and she tells me that young lady hainault is going to take charge of poor lord charles's children in a short time; and she will want a nursery governess; and i will go." "i would sooner you were there than here, mary. i am very glad of this. she is a very good woman. i will go and see you there very often." "are you going back to oxford, charles?" "i think not." "do you owe much money there?" "very little, now. he paid it almost all for me." "what shall you do?" "i have not the remotest idea. i cannot possibly conceive. i must consult marston." there passed a weary week--a week of long brooding days and sleepless nights, while outside the darkened house the bright spring sun flooded all earth with light and life, and the full spring wind sang pleasantly through the musical woods, and swept away inland over heather and crag. strange sounds began to reach charles in his solitary chamber; sounds which at first made him fancy he was dreaming, they were so mysterious and inexplicable. the first day they assumed the forms of solitary notes of music, some almost harsh, and some exquisitely soft and melodious. as the day went on they began to arrange themselves into chords, and sound slightly louder, though still a long way off. at last, near midnight, they seemed to take form, and flow off into a wild, mournful piece of music, the like of which charles had never heard before; and then all was still. charles went to bed, believing either that the sounds were supernatural or that they arose from noises in his head. he came to the latter conclusion, and thought sleep would put an end to them; but, next morning, when he had half opened the shutters, and let in the blessed sunlight, there came the sound again--a wild, rich, triumphant melody, played by some hand, whether earthly or unearthly, that knew its work well. "what is that, william?" "music." "where does it come from?" "out of the air. the pixies make such music at times. maybe it's the saints in glory with their golden harps, welcoming master and father." "father!" "he died this morning at daybreak; not long after his old master, eh? he was very faithful to him. he was in prison with him once, i've heard tell. i'll be as faithful to you, charles, when the time comes." and another day wore on in the darkened house, and still the angelic music rose and fell at intervals, and moved the hearts of those that heard it strangely. "surely," said charles to himself, "that music must sound louder in one place than another." and then he felt himself smiling at the idea that he half believed it to be supernatural. he rose and passed on through corridor and gallery, still listening as he went. the music had ceased, and all was still. he went on through parts of the house he had not been in since a boy. this part of the house was very much deserted; some of the rooms he looked into were occupied as inferior servants' bedrooms; some were empty, and all were dark. here was where he, cuthbert, and william would play hide-and-seek on wet days; and well he remembered each nook and lair. a window was open in one empty room, and it looked into the court-yard. they were carrying things into the chapel, and he walked that way. in the dark entrance to the dim chapel a black figure stood aside to let him pass; he bowed, and did so, but was barely in the building when a voice he knew said, "it is charles," and the next moment he was clasped by both hands, and the kind face of father tiernay was beaming before him. "i am so glad to see you, father tiernay. it is so kind of you to come." "you look pale and worn," said the good man; "you have been fretting. i won't have that, now that i am come. i will have you out in the air and sunshine, my boy, along the shore----" the music again! not faint and distant as heretofore, but close overhead, crashing out into a mighty jubilate, which broke itself against rafter and window in a thousand sweet echoes. then, as the noble echoes began to sink, there arose a soft flute-like note, which grew more intense until the air was filled with passionate sound; and it trilled and ran, and paused, and ran on, and died you knew not where. "i can't stand much of that, father tiernay," said charles. "they have been mending the organ, i see. that accounts for the music i have heard. i suppose there will be music at the funeral, then." "my brother murtagh," said father tiernay, "came over yesterday morning from lord segur's. he is organist there, and he mended it. bedad he is a sweet musician. hear what sir henry bishop says of him." there came towards them, from the organ-loft, a young man, wearing a long black coat and black bands with white edges, and having of his own one of the sweetest, kindliest faces eye ever rested on. father tiernay looked on him with pride and affection, and said-- "murty, my dear brother, this is mr. charles ravenshoe, me very good friend, i hope you'll become acquaintances, for the reason that two good fellows should know one another." "i am almost afraid," said the young man, with a frank smile, "that charles ravenshoe has already a prejudice against me for the disagreeable sounds i was making all day yesterday in bringing the old organ into work again." "nay, i was only wondering where such noble bursts of melody came from," said charles. "if you had made all the evil noises in pandemonium, they would have been forgiven for that last piece of music. do you know that i had no idea the old organ could be played on. years ago, when we were boys, cuthbert and i tried to play on it; i blew for him, and he sounded two or three notes, but it frightened us, and we ran away, and never went near it again." "it is a beautiful old instrument," said young tiernay; "will you stand just here, and listen to it?" charles stood in one of the windows, and father tiernay beside him. he leant his head on his arm, and looked forth eastward and northward, over the rolling woods, the cliffs, and the bright blue sea. the music began with a movement soft, low, melodious, beyond expression, and yet strong, firm, and regular as of a thousand armed men marching to victory. it grew into volume and power till it was irresistible, yet still harmonious and perfect. charles understood it. it was the life of a just man growing towards perfection and honour. it wavered and fluttered, and threw itself into sparkling sprays and eddies. it leapt and laughed with joy unutterable, yet still through all the solemn measure went on. love had come to gladden the perfect life, and had adorned without disturbing it. then began discords and wild sweeping storms of sound, harsh always, but never unmelodious: fainter and fainter grew the melody, till it was almost lost. misfortunes had come upon the just man, and he was bending under them. no. more majestic, more grand, more solemn than ever the melody re-asserted itself: and again, as though purified by a furnace, marched solemnly on with a clearness and sweetness greater than at first. the just man had emerged from his sea of troubles ennobled. charles felt a hand on his shoulder. he thought it had been father tiernay. father tiernay was gone. it was cuthbert. "cuthbert! i am so glad you have come to see me. i was not surprised because you would not see me before. you didn't think i was offended, brother, did you? i know you. i know you!" charles smoothed his hair and smiled pleasantly upon him. cuthbert stood quite still and said nothing. "cuthbert," said charles, "you are in pain. in bodily pain i mean." "i am. i spent last night on these stones praying, and the cold has got into my very bones." "you pray for the dead, i know," said charles. "but why destroy the health god has given you because a good man has gone to sleep?" "i was not praying for him so much as for you." "god knows i want it, dear cuthbert. but can you benefit me by killing yourself?" "who knows? i may try. how long is it since we were boys together, charles?" "how long? let me see. why, it is nineteen years at least since i can first remember you." "i have been sarcastic and distant with you sometimes, charles, but i have never been unkind." "cuthbert! i never had an unkind word or action from you. why do you say this?" "because----charles, do you remember the night the _warren hastings_ came ashore?" "ay," said charles, wonderingly. "in future, when you call me to mind, will you try to think of me as i was then, not as i have been lately? we slept together, you remember, through the storm, and he sat on the bed. god has tried me very hard. let us hope that heaven will be worth the winning. after this you will see me no more in private. good-bye!" charles thought he knew what he meant, and had expected it. he would not let him go for a time. chapter xxv. father mackworth brings lord saltire to bay, and what came of it. old james was to be buried side by side with his old master in the vault under the altar. the funeral was to be on the grandest scale, and all the catholic gentry of the neighbourhood, and most of the protestant were coming. father mackworth, it may be conceived, was very busy, and seldom alone. all day he and the two tiernays were arranging and ordering. when thoroughly tired out, late at night, he would retire to his room and take a frugal supper (mackworth was no glutton), and sit before the fire musing. one night, towards the middle of the week, he was sitting thus before the fire, when the door opened, and some one came in; thinking it was the servant, he did not look round; but, when the supposed servant came up to the fireplace and stood still, he cast his eyes suddenly up, and they fell upon the cadaverous face of cuthbert. he looked deadly pale and wan as he stood with his face turned to the flickering fire, and mackworth felt deep pity for him. he held an open letter towards mackworth, and said-- "this is from lord saltire. he proposes to come here the night before the funeral and go away in lord segur's carriage with him after it is over. will you kindly see after his rooms, and so on? here is the letter." "i will," said mackworth. "my dear boy, you look deadly ill." "i wish i were dead." "so do all who hope for heaven," said mackworth. "who would not look worn and ill with such a scene hanging over their heads?" "go away and avoid it." "not i. a ravenshoe is not a coward. besides, i want to see him again. how cruel you have been! why did you let him gain my heart? i have little enough to love." there was a long pause--so long that a bright-eyed little mouse ran out from the wainscot and watched. both their eyes were bent on the fire, and father mackworth listened with painful intentness for what was to come. "he shall speak first," he thought. "how i wonder----" at last cuthbert spoke slowly, without raising his eyes-- "will nothing induce you to forego your purpose?" "how can i forego it, cuthbert, with common honesty? i have foregone it long enough." "listen now," said cuthbert, unheedingly: "i have been reckoning up what i can afford, and i find that i can give you five thousand pounds down for that paper, and five thousand more in bills of six, eight, and twelve months. will that content you?" father mackworth would have given a finger to have answered promptly "no," but he could not. the offer was so astounding, so unexpected, that he hesitated long enough to make cuthbert look round, and say-- "ten thousand pounds is a large sum of money, father." it was, indeed; and lord saltire coming next week! let us do the man justice; he acted with a certain amount of honour. when you have read this book to the end you will see that ten thousand pounds was only part of what was offered to him. he gave it all up because he would not lower himself in the eyes of cuthbert, who had believed in him so long. "i paused," said he, "from astonishment, that a gentleman could have insulted me by such a proposition." "your pause," said cuthbert, "arose from hesitation, not from astonishment. i saw your eyes blaze when i made you the offer. think of ten thousand pounds. you might appear in the world as an english roman catholic of fortune. good heavens! with your talent you might aspire to the cardinal's chair!" "no, no, no!" said mackworth, fiercely. "i did hesitate, and i have lied to you; but i hesitate no longer. i won't have the subject mentioned to me again, sir. what sort of a gentleman are you to come to men's rooms in the dead of night, with your father lying dead in the house, and tempt men to felony? i will not." "god knows," said cuthbert, as he passed out, "whether i have lost heaven in trying to save him." mackworth heard the door close behind him, and then looked eagerly towards it. he heard cuthbert's footsteps die along the corridor, and then, rising up, he opened it and looked out. the corridor was empty. he walked hurriedly back to the fireplace. "shall i call him back?" he said. "it is not too late. ten thousand pounds! a greater stake than i played for; and now, when it is at my feet, i am throwing it away. and for what? for honour, after i have acted the----" (he could not say the word). "after i have gone so far. i must be a gentleman. a common rogue would have jumped at the offer. by heaven! there are some things better than money. if i were to take his offer he would know me for a rogue. and i love the lad. no, no! let the fool go to his prayers. i will keep the respect of one man at least. "what a curious jumble and puzzle it all is, to be sure. am i any worse than my neighbours? i have made a desperate attempt at power, for a name, and an ambition; and then, because the ball comes suddenly at my feet, from a quarter i did not expect, i dare not strike it because i fear the contempt of one single pair of eyes from which i have been used to receive nothing but love and reverence. "yet he cannot trust me, as i thought he did, or he would not have made the offer to me. and then he made it in such a confident way that he must have thought i was going to accept it. that is strange. he has never rebelled lately. am i throwing away substance for shadow? i have been bound to the church body and soul from my boyhood, and i must go on. i have refused a cardinal's chair this night, but who will ever know it? "i must go about with my lord saltire. i could go at him with more confidence if i had ten thousand pounds in the bank though, in case of failure. i am less afraid of that terrible old heretic than i am of those great eyes of cuthbert's turned on me in scorn. i have lived so long among gentlemen that i believe myself to be one. he knows, and he shall tell. "and, if all fails, i have served the church, and the church shall serve me. what fools the best of us are! why did i ever allow that straightforward idiot tiernay into the house? he hates me, i know. i rather like the fool. he will take the younger one's part on monday; but i don't think my gentleman will dare to say too much." after this soliloquy, the key to which will appear very shortly, father mackworth took off his clothes and got into bed. the day before the funeral, cuthbert sent a message to charles, to beg that he would be kind enough to receive lord saltire; and, as the old man was expected at a certain hour, charles, about ten minutes before the time, went down to the bottom of the hall-steps on to the terrace, to be ready for him when he came. oh, the glorious wild freshness of the sea and sky after the darkened house! the two old capes right and left; the mile-long stretch of sand between them; and the short crisp waves rolling in before the westerly wind of spring! life and useful action in the rolling water; budding promise in the darkening woods; young love in every bird's note! william stood beside him before he had observed him. charles turned to him, and took his arm in his. "look at this," he said. "i am looking at it." "does it make you glad and wild?" said charles. "does it make the last week in the dark house look like twenty years? are the two good souls which are gone looking at it now, and rejoicing that earth should still have some pleasure left for us?" "i hope not," said william, turning to charles. "and why?" said charles, and wondering rather what william would say. "i wouldn't," said william, "have neither of their hearts broke with seeing what is to come." "their hearts broke!" said charles, turning full round on his foster-brother. "let them see how we behave under it, william. that will never break their hearts, my boy." "charles," said william, earnestly, "do you know what is coming?" "no; nor care." "it is something terrible for you, i fear," said william. "have you any idea what it is?" said charles. "not the least. but look here. last night, near twelve, i went down to the chapel, thinking to say an ave before the coffin, and there lay master cuthbert on the stones. so i kept quiet and said my prayer. and of a sudden he burst out and said, 'i have risked my soul and my fortune to save him: lord, remember it!'" "did he say that, william?" "the very words." "then he could not have been speaking of me," said charles. "it is possible that by some means i may not come into the property i have been led to expect; but that could not have referred to me. suppose i was to leave the house, penniless, to-morrow morning, william, should i go alone? i am very strong, and very patient, and soon learn anything. cuthbert would take care of me. would you come with me, or let me go alone?" "you know. why should i answer?" "we might go to canada and settle. and then adelaide would come over when the house was ready; and you would marry the girl of your choice; and our boys would grow up to be such friends as you and i are. and then my boy should marry your girl, and----" poor dreaming charles, all unprepared for what was to come! a carriage drove on to the terrace at this moment, with lord saltire's solemn servant on the box. charles and william assisted lord saltire to alight. his lordship said that he was getting devilish stiff and old, and had been confoundedly cut up by his old friend's death, and had felt bound to come down to show his respect to the memory of one of the best and honestest men it had ever been his lot to meet in a tolerably large experience. and then, standing on the steps, went on-- "it is very pleasant to me to be greeted by a face i like as yours, charles. i was gratified at seeing your name in the _times_ as being one of the winners of the great boat-race the other day. my man pointed it out to me. that sort of thing is very honourable to a young fellow, if it does not lead to a neglect of other duties, in which case it becomes very mischievous; in yours it has not. that young man is, i believe, your foster-brother. will he be good enough to go and find miss corby, and tell her that lord saltire wants her to come and walk with him on the terrace? give me your shoulder." william ran right willingly on his errand. "your position here, charles," continued lord saltire, "will be a difficult one." "it will, indeed, my lord." "i intend you to spend most of your time with me in future. i want some one to take care of me. in return for boring you all day, i shall get you the run of all the best houses, and make a man of you. hush! not a word now! here comes our robin redbreast. i am glad i have tempted her out into the air and the sunshine. how peaked you look, my dear! how are you?" poor mary looked pale and wan, indeed, but brightened up at the sight of her old friend. they three walked and talked in the fresh spring morning an hour or more. that afternoon came a servant to lord saltire with a note from father mackworth, requesting the honour of ten minutes' conversation with lord saltire in private. "i suppose i must see the fellow," said the old man to himself. "my compliments to mr. mackworth, and i am alone in the library. the fool," continued he, when the man had left the room, "why doesn't he let well alone? i hate the fellow. i believe he is as treacherous as his mother. if he broaches the subject, he shall have the whole truth." meanwhile, father mackworth was advancing towards him through the dark corridors, and walking slower, and yet more slow, as he neared the room where sat the grim old man. he knew that there would be a fencing match; and of all the men in broad england he feared his lordship most. his determination held, however; though, up to the very last, he had almost determined to speak only about comparatively indifferent subjects, and not about that nearest to his heart. "how do you do, my good sir," said lord saltire, as he came in; "i have to condole with you on the loss of our dear old friend. we shall neither of us ever have a better one, sir." mackworth uttered some commonplaces; to which lord saltire bowed, without speaking, and then sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair, making a triangle of his two fore-fingers and thumbs, staring at father mackworth. "i am going, lord saltire, to trouble you with some of my early reminiscences as a boy." lord saltire bowed, and settled himself easily in his chair, as one does who expects a good story. mackworth went on-- "one of my earliest recollections, my lord, is of being at a french lycée." "the fault of those establishments," said lord saltire, pensively, "is the great range of subjects which are superficially taught. i ask pardon for interrupting you. do you take snuff?" mackworth declined, with great politeness, and continued-- "i was taken to that school by a footman in livery." "upon my honour, then, i owe you an apology. i thought, of course, that the butler had gone with you. but, in a large house, one never really knows what one's people are about." father mackworth did not exactly like this. it was perfectly evident to him, not only that lord saltire knew all about his birth and parentage, but also was willing to tell. "lord saltire," he said, "i have never had a parent's care, or any name but one i believe to be fictitious. you can give me a name--give me, perhaps, a parent--possibly, a brother. will you do this for me?" "i can do neither the one thing nor the other, my good sir. i entreat you, for your own sake, to inquire no further." there was a troubled expression in the old man's face as he answered. mackworth thought he was gaining his point, and pressed on. "lord saltire, as you are a gentleman, tell me who my parents were;" and, as he said this, he rose up and stood before him, folding his arms. "confound the impudent, theatrical jackanapes!" thought lord saltire. "his mother all over. i will gratify your curiosity sir," he said aloud, angrily. "you are the illegitimate son of a french ballet-dancer!" "but who was my father, my lord? answer me that, on your honour." "who was your father? _pardieu_, that is more than i can tell. if any one ever knew, it must have been your mother. you are assuming a tone with me, sir, which i don't intend to put up with. i wished to spare you a certain amount of humiliation. i shall not trouble myself to do so now, for many reasons. now listen to me, sir--to the man who saved you from the kennel, sir--and drop that theatrical attitude. your mother was my brother's mistress, and a clever woman in her way; and meeting her here and there, in the green-room and where not, and going sometimes to her house with my brother, i had a sort of acquaintance with her, and liked her as one likes a clever, brilliant woman of that sort. my brother died. some time after your mother fell into poverty and disgrace under circumstances into which i should advise you not to inquire, and on her death-bed recommended you to my care as an old acquaintance, praying that you might be brought up in her own religion. the request was, under the circumstances, almost impudent; but remembering that i had once liked the woman, and calling to mind the relation she had held to poor dear john, i complied, and did for you what i have done. you were a little over a twelvemonth old at the time of your mother's death, and my brother had been dead nearly or quite five years. your mother had changed her protector thrice during that time. now, sir!" mackworth stood before lord saltire all this time as firm as a rock. he had seen from the old man's eye that every word was terribly true, but he had never flinched--never a nerve in his face had quivered; but he had grown deadly pale. when lord saltire had finished he tried to speak, but found his mouth as dry as dust. he smiled, and, with a bow, reaching past lord saltire, took up a glass of lemonade which stood at his elbow and drank it. then he spoke clearly and well. "you see how you have upset me, my lord. in seeking this interview, i had some hopes of having forced a confession from your lordship of my relationship with you, and thereby serving my personal ambition. i have failed. it now remains to me to thank you heartily and frankly for the benefits i have received from you, and to beg you to forgive my indiscretion." "you are a brave man, sir," said lord saltire. "i don't think you are an honest one. but i can respect manliness." "you have a great affection for charles ravenshoe, my lord?" "yes," said lord saltire; "i love charles ravenshoe more than any other human being." "perhaps the time may come, my lord, when he will need all your love and protection." "highly possible. i am in possession of the tenor of his father's will; and those who try to set that will aside, unless they have a very strong case, had better consider that charles is backed up by an amount of ready money sufficient to ruin the ravenshoe estate in law." "no attempt of the kind will be made, my lord. but i very much doubt whether your lordship will continue your protection to that young man. i wish you good afternoon." "that fellow," said lord saltire, "has got a card to play which i don't know of. what matter? i can adopt charles, and he may defy them. i wish i could give him my title; but that will be extinct. i am glad little mary is going to lady hainault. it will be the best place for her till she marries. i wish that fool of a boy had fallen in love with her. but he wouldn't." mackworth hurried away to his room; and, as he went, he said, "i have been a fool--a fool. i should have taken cuthbert's offer. none but a fool would have done otherwise. a cardinal's chair thrown to the dogs! "i could not do it this morning; but i can do it now. the son of a figurante, and without a father! perhaps he will offer it again. "if he does not, there is one thing certain. that young ruffian charles is ruined. ah, ah! my lord saltire, i have you there! i should like to see that old man's face when i play my last card. it will be a finer sight than charles's. you'll make him your heir, will you, my lord? will you make him your groom?" he went to his desk, took out an envelope, and looked at it. he looked at it long, and then put it back. "it will never do to tempt him with it. if he were to refuse his offer of this morning, i should be ruined. much better to wait and play out the ace boldly. i can keep my hold over _him_: and william is mine, body and soul, if he dies." with which reflections, the good father dressed for dinner. chapter xxvi. the grand crash. the funeral was over. charles had waited with poor weeping mary to see the coffin carried away under the dark grim archway of the vault, and had tried to comfort her who would not be comforted. and, when the last wild wail of the organ had died away, and all the dark figures but they two had withdrawn from the chapel, there stood those two poor orphans alone together. it was all over, and they began for the first time to realise it; they began to feel what they lost. king densil was dead, and king cuthbert reigned. when a prime minister dies, the world is shaken; when a county member dies, the county is agitated, and the opposition electors, till lately insignificant, rise suddenly into importance, and the possible new members are suddenly great men. so, when a mere country gentleman dies, the head of a great family dies, relations are changed entirely between some score or two of persons. the dog of to-day is not the dog of yesterday. servants are agitated, and remember themselves of old impertinences, and tremble. farmers wonder what the new squire's first move will be. perhaps even the old hound wonders whether he is to keep his old place by the fire or no; and younger brothers bite their nails, and wonder, too, about many things. charles wondered profoundly in his own room that afternoon, whither he had retired after having dismissed mary at her door with a kiss. in spite of his grief, he wondered what was coming, and tried to persuade himself that he didn't care. from this state of mind he was aroused by william, who told him that lord segur was going, and lord saltire with him, and that the latter wanted to speak to him. lord saltire had his foot on the step of the carriage. "charles, my dear boy," he said, "the moment things are settled come to me at segur castle. lord segur wants you to come and stay there while i am there." lord segur, from the carriage, hoped charles would come and see them at once. "and mind, you know," said lord saltire, "that you don't do anything without consulting me. let the little bird pack off to lady ascot's, and help to blow up the grooms. don't let her stay moping here. now, good-bye, my dear boy. i shall see you in a day or so." and so the old man was gone. and, as charles watched the carriage, he saw the sleek grey head thrust from the window, and the great white hand waved to him. he never forgot that glimpse of the grey head and the white hand, and he never will. a servant came up to him, and asked him, would he see mr. ravenshoe in the library? charles answered yes, but was in no hurry to go. so he stood a little longer on the terrace, watching the bright sea, and the gulls, and the distant island. then he turned into the darkened house again, and walked slowly towards the library door. some one else stood in the passage--it was william, with his hand on the handle of the door. "i waited for you, master charles," he said; "they have sent for me too. now you will hear something to your advantage." "i care not," said charles, and they went in. once, in lands far away, there was a sailor lad, a good-humoured, good-looking, thoughtless fellow, who lived alongside of me, and with whom i was always joking. we had a great liking for one another. i left him at the shaft's mouth at two o'clock one summer's day, roaring with laughter at a story i had told him; and at half-past five i was helping to wind up the shattered corpse, which when alive had borne his name. a flake of gravel had come down from the roof of the drive and killed him, and his laughing and story-telling were over for ever. how terrible these true stories are! why do i tell this one? because, whenever i think of this poor lad's death, i find myself not thinking of the ghastly thing that came swinging up out of the darkness into the summer air, but of the poor fellow as he was the morning before. i try to think how he looked, as leaning against the windlass with the forest behind and the mountains beyond, and if, in word or look, he gave any sign of his coming fate before he went gaily down into his tomb. so it was with charles ravenshoe. he remembers part of the scene that followed perfectly well; but he tries more than all to recall how cuthbert looked, and how mackworth looked before the terrible words were spoken. after it was all over he remembers, he tells me, every trifling incident well. but his memory is a little gone about the first few minutes which elapsed after he and william came into the room. he says that cuthbert was sitting at the table very pale, with his hands clasped on the table before him, looking steadily at him without expression on his face; and that mackworth leant against the chimney-piece, and looked keenly and curiously at him. charles went up silently and kissed his brother on the forehead. cuthbert neither moved nor spoke. charles greeted mackworth civilly, and then leant against the chimney-piece by the side of him, and said what a glorious day it was. william stood at a little distance, looking uneasily from one to another. cuthbert broke silence. "i sent for you," he said. "i am glad to come to you, cuthbert, though i think you sent for me on business, which i am not very well up to to-day." "on business," said cuthbert: "business which must be gone through with to-day, though i expect it will kill me." charles, by some instinct (who knows what? it was nothing reasonable, he says) moved rapidly towards william, and laid his hand on his shoulder. i take it, that it arose from that curious gregarious feeling that men have in times of terror. he could not have done better than to move towards his truest friend, whatever it was. "i should like to prepare you for what is to come," continued cuthbert, speaking calmly, with the most curious distinctness; "but that would be useless. the blow would be equally severe whether you expect it or not. you two who stand there were nursed at the same breast. that groom, on whose shoulder you have your hand now, is my real brother. you are no relation to me; you are the son of the faithful old servant whom we buried to-day with my father." charles said, ho! like a great sigh. william put his arm round him, and, raising his finger, and looking into his face with his calm, honest eyes, said with a smile-- "this was it then. we know it all now." charles burst out into a wild laugh, and said, "father mackworth's ace of trumps! he has inherited a talent for melodrama from his blessed mother. stop. i beg your pardon, sir, for saying that; i said it in a hurry. it was blackguardly. let's have the proofs of this, and all that sort of thing, and witnesses too, if you please. father mackworth, there have been such things as prosecutions for conspiracy. i have lord saltire and lord ascot at my back. you have made a desperate cast, sir. my astonishment is that you have allowed your hatred for me to outrun your discretion so far. this matter will cost some money before it is settled." father mackworth smiled, and charles passed him, and rang the bell. then he went back to william and took his arm. "fetch the fathers tiernay here immediately," said charles to the servant who answered the bell. in a few minutes the worthy priests were in the room. the group was not altered. father mackworth still leant against the mantel-piece, charles and william stood together, and cuthbert sat pale and calm with his hands clasped together. father tiernay looked at the disturbed group and became uneasy. "would it not be better to defer the settlement of any family disagreements to another day? on such a solemn occasion----" "the ice is broken, father tiernay," said charles. "cuthbert, tell him what you have told me." cuthbert, clasping his hands together, did so, in a low, quiet voice. "there," said charles, turning to father tiernay, "what do you think of that?" "i am so astounded and shocked, that i don't know what to say," said father tiernay; "your mind must be abused, my dear sir. the likeness between yourself and mr. charles is so great that i cannot believe it. mackworth, what have you to say to this?" "look at william, who is standing beside charles," said the priest, quietly, "and tell me which of those two is most like cuthbert." "charles and william are very much alike, certainly," said tiernay; "but----" "do you remember james horton, tiernay?" said mackworth. "surely." "did you ever notice the likeness between him and densil ravenshoe?" "i have noticed it, certainly; especially one night. one night i went to his cottage last autumn. yes--well?" "james horton was densil ravenshoe's half-brother. he was the illegitimate son of petre." "good god." "and the man whom you call charles ravenshoe, whom i call charles horton, is his son." charles was looking eagerly from one to the other, bewildered. "ask him, father tiernay," he said, "what proofs he has. perhaps he will tell us." "you hear what mr. charles says, mackworth. i address you because you have spoken last. you must surely have strong proofs for such an astounding statement." "i have his mother's handwriting," said father mackworth. "my mother's, sir," said charles, flushing up, and advancing a pace towards him. "you forget who your mother was," said mackworth. "your mother was norah, james horton's wife. she confessed to me the wicked fraud she practised, and has committed that confession to paper. i hold it. you have not a point of ground to stand on. fifty lord saltires could not help you one jot. you must submit. you have been living in luxury and receiving an expensive education when you should have been cleaning out the stable. so far from being overwhelmed at this, you should consider how terribly the balance is against you." he spoke with such awful convincing calmness that charles's heart died away within him. he knew the man. "cuthbert," he said, "you are a gentleman. is this true?" "god knows how terribly true it is," said cuthbert, quietly. then there was a silence, broken by charles in a strange thick voice, the like of which none there had heard before. "i want to sit down somewhere. i want some drink. will, my own boy, take this d----d thing from round my neck? i can't see; where is there a chair? oh, god!" he fell heavily against william, looking deadly white, without sense or power. and cuthbert looked up at the priest, and said, in a low voice-- "you have killed him." little by little he came round again, and rose on his feet, looking round him as a buck or stag looks when run to soil, and is watching to see which dog will come, with a piteous wild look, despairing and yet defiant. there was a dead silence. "are we to be allowed to see this paper?" said charles, at length. father mackworth immediately handed it to him, and he read it. it was completely conclusive. he saw that there was not a loophole to creep out of. the two tiernays read it, and shook their heads. william read it and turned pale. and then they all stood staring blankly at one another. "you see, sir," said father mackworth, "that there are two courses open to you. either, on the one hand, to acquiesce in the truth of this paper; or, on the other, to accuse me in a court of justice of conspiracy and fraud. if you were to be successful in the latter course, i should be transported out of your way, and the matter would end so. but any practical man would tell you, and you would see in your calmer moments, that no lawyer would undertake your case. what say you, father tiernay?" "i cannot see what case he has, poor dear," said father tiernay. "mackworth," he added, suddenly. father mackworth met his eye with a steady stare, and tiernay saw there was no hope of explanation there. "on the other hand," continued father mackworth, "if this new state of things is quietly submitted to (as it must be ultimately, whether quietly or otherwise you yourself will decide), i am authorised to say that the very handsomest provision will be made for you, and that, to all intents and purposes, your prospects in the world will not suffer in the least degree. i am right in saying so, i believe, mr. ravenshoe?" "you are perfectly right, sir," said cuthbert in a quiet, passionless voice. "my intention is to make a provision of three hundred a year for this gentleman, whom, till the last few days, i believed to be my brother. less than twenty-four hours ago, charles, i offered father mackworth ten thousand pounds for this paper, with a view to destroy it. i would, for your sake, charles, have committed an act of villainy which would have entailed a life's remorse, and have robbed william, my own brother, of his succession. you see what a poor weak rogue i am, and what a criminal i might become with a little temptation. father mackworth did his duty and refused me. i tell you this to show you that he is, at all events, sincere enough in his conviction of the truth of this." "you acted like yourself, cuthbert. like one who would risk body and soul for one you loved." he paused; but they waited for him to speak again. and very calmly, in a very low voice, he continued-- "it is time that this scene should end. no one's interest will be served by continuing it. i want to say a very few words, and i want them to be considered as the words, as it were, of a dying man; for no one here present will see me again till the day when i come back to claim a right to the name i have been bearing so long--and that day will be never." another pause. he moistened his lips, which were dry and cracked, and then went on-- "here is the paper, father mackworth; and may the lord of heaven be judge between us if that paper be not true!" father mackworth took it, and, looking him steadily in the face, repeated his words, and charles's heart sank lower yet as he watched him, and felt that hope was dead. "may the lord of heaven be judge between us two, charles, if that paper be not true! amen." "i utterly refuse," charles continued, "the assistance which mr. ravenshoe has so nobly offered. i go forth alone into the world to make my own way, or to be forgotten. cuthbert and william, you will be sorry for a time, but not for long. you will think of me sometimes of dark winter nights when the wind blows, won't you? i shall never write to you, and shall never return here any more. worse things than this have happened to men, and they have not died." all this was said with perfect self-possession, and without a failure in the voice. it was magnificent despair. father tiernay, looking at william's face, saw there a sort of sarcastic smile, which puzzled him amazingly. "i had better," said charles, "make my will. i should like william to ride my horse monté. he has thrown a curb, sir, as you know" he said, turning to william; "but he will serve you well, and i know you will be gentle with him." william gave a short, dry laugh. "i should have liked to take my terrier away with me, but i think i had better not. i want to have nothing with me to remind me of this place. my greyhound and the pointers i know you will take care of. it would please me to think that william had moved into my room, and had taken possession of all my guns, and fishing-rods, and so on. there is a double-barrelled gun left at venables', in st. aldate's, at oxford, for repairs. it ought to be fetched away. "now, sir," he said, turning to cuthbert, "i should like to say a few words about money matters. i owe about £ at oxford. it was a great deal more at one time, but i have been more careful lately. i have the bills upstairs. if that could be paid----" "to the utmost farthing, my dear charles," said cuthbert; "but----" "hush!" said charles, "i have five-and-twenty pounds by me. may i keep that?" "i will write you a check for five hundred. i shall move your resolution, charles," said cuthbert. "never, so help me god!" said charles; "it only remains to say good-bye. i leave this room without a hard thought towards any one in it. i am at peace with all the world. father mackworth, i beg your forgiveness. i have been often rude and brutal to you. i suppose that you always meant kindly to me. good-bye." he shook hands with mackworth, then with the tiernays; then he offered his hand to william, who took it smiling; and, lastly, he went up to cuthbert, and kissed him on the cheek, and then walked out of the door into the hall. william, as he was going, turned as though to speak to cuthbert, but cuthbert had risen, and he paused a moment. cuthbert had risen, and stood looking wildly about him; then he said, "oh, my god, he is gone!" and then he broke through them, and ran out into the hall, crying, "charles, charles, come back. only one more word, charles." and then they saw charles pause, and cuthbert kneel down before him, calling him his own dear brother, and saying he would die for him. and then father tiernay hastily shut the library door, and left those two wild hearts out in the old hall together alone. father tiernay came back to william, and took both his hands. "what are you going to do?" he said. "i am going to follow him wherever he goes," said william. "i am never going to leave him again. if he goes to the world's end, i will be with him." "brave fellow!" said tiernay. "if he goes from here, and is lost sight of, we may never see him again. if you go with him, you may change his resolution." "that i shall never do," said william; "i know him too well. but i'll save him from what i am frightened to think of. i will go to him now. i shall see you again directly; but i must go to him." he passed out into the hall. cuthbert was standing alone, and charles was gone. chapter xxvii. the coup de grace. in the long watches of the winter night, when one has awoke from some evil dream, and lies sleepless and terrified with the solemn pall of darkness around one--on one of those deadly, still dark nights, when the window only shows a murky patch of positive gloom in contrast with the nothingness of the walls, when the howling of a tempest round chimney and roof would be welcomed as a boisterous companion--in such still dead times only, lying as in the silence of the tomb, one realises that some day we shall lie in that bed and not think at all: that the time will come soon when we must die. our preachers remind us of this often enough, but we cannot realise it in a pew in broad daylight. you must wake in the middle of the night to do that, and face the thought like a man, that it will come, and come to ninety-nine in a hundred of us, not in a maddening clatter of musquetry as the day is won; or in carrying a line to a stranded ship, or in such like glorious times, when the soul is in mastery over the body, but in bed, by slow degrees. it is in darkness and silence only that we realise this; and then let us hope that we humbly remember that death has been conquered for us, and that in spite of our unworthiness we may defy him. and after that sometimes will come the thought, "are there no evils worse even than death?" i have made these few remarks (i have made very few in this story, for i want to suggest thought, not to supply it ready-made) because charles ravenshoe has said to me in his wild way, that he did not fear death, for he had died once already. i did not say anything, but waited for him to go on. "for what," he continued, "do you make out death even at the worst? a terror, then a pang, more or less severe; then a total severance of all ties on earth, an entire and permanent loss of everything one has loved. after that, remorse, and useless regret, and the horrible torture of missed opportunities without number thrust continually before one. the monotonous song of the fiends, 'too late! too late!' i have suffered all these things! i have known what very few men have known, and lived--despair; but perhaps the most terrible agony for a time was the feeling of _loss of identity_--that i was not myself; that my whole existence from babyhood had been a lie. this at times, at times only, mind you, washed away from me the only spar to which i could cling--the feeling that i was a gentleman. when the deluge came, that was the only creed i had, and i was left alone as it were on the midnight ocean, out of sight of land, swimming with failing strength." i have made charles speak for himself. in this i know that i am right. now we must go on with him through the gathering darkness without flinching; in terror, perhaps, but not in despair as yet. it never for one moment entered into his head to doubt the truth of what father mackworth had set up. if he had had doubts even to the last, he had none after mackworth had looked him compassionately in the face, and said, "god judge between us if this paper be not true!" though he distrusted mackworth, he felt that no man, be he never so profound an actor, could have looked so and spoken so if he were not telling what he believed to be the truth. and that he and norah were mistaken he justly felt to be an impossibility. no. he was the child of petre ravenshoe's bastard son by an irish peasant girl. he who but half an hour before had been heir to the proud old name, to the noble old house, the pride of the west country, to hundreds of acres of rolling woodland, to mile beyond mile of sweeping moorland, to twenty thriving farms, deep in happy valleys, or perched high up on the side of lofty downs, was now just this--a peasant, an impostor. the tenantry, the fishermen, the servants, they would come to know all this. had he died (ah! how much better than this), they would have mourned for him, but what would they say or think now? that he, the patron, the intercessor, the condescending young prince, should be the child of a waiting-woman and a gamekeeper. ah! mother, mother, god forgive you! adelaide: what would she think of this? he determined that he must go and see her, and tell her the whole miserable story. she was ambitious, but she loved him. oh yes, she loved him. she could wait. there were lands beyond the sea, where a man could win a fortune in a few years, perhaps in one. there were canada, and australia, and india, where a man needed nothing but energy. he never would take one farthing from the ravenshoes, save the twenty pounds he had. that was a determination nothing could alter. but why need he? there was gold to be won, and forest to be cleared, in happier lands. alas, poor charles! he has never yet set foot out of england, and perhaps never will. he never thought seriously about it but this once. he never had it put before him strongly by any one. men only emigrate from idleness, restlessness, or necessity; with the two first of these he was not troubled, and the last had not come yet. it would, perhaps, have been better for him to have gone to the backwoods or the diggings; but, as he says, the reason why he didn't was that he didn't. but at this sad crisis of his life it gave him comfort for a little to think about; only for a little, then thought and terror came sweeping back again. lord saltire? he would be told of this by others. it would be charles's duty not to see lord saltire again. with his present position in society, as a servant's son, there was nothing to prevent his asking lord saltire to provide for him, except--what was it? pride? well, hardly pride. he was humble enough, god knows; but he felt as if he had gained his goodwill, as it were, by false pretences, and that duty would forbid his presuming on that goodwill any longer. and would lord saltire be the same to a lady's-maid's son, as he would to the heir presumptive of ravenshoe? no; there must be no humiliation before those stern grey eyes. now he began to see that he loved the owner of those eyes more deeply than he had thought; and there was a gleam of pleasure in thinking that, when lord saltire heard of his fighting bravely unassisted with the world, he would say, "that lad was a brave fellow; a gentleman after all." marston? would this terrible business, which was so new and terrible as to be as yet only half appreciated--would it make any difference to him? perhaps it might. but, whether or no he would humble himself there, and take from him just reproaches for idleness and missed opportunities, however bitter they might be. and mary? poor little mary! ah! she would be safe with that good lady hainault. that was all. ah, charles! what pale little sprite was that outside your door now, listening, dry-eyed, terrified, till you should move? who saw you come up with your hands clutched in your hair, like a madman, an hour ago, and heard you throw yourself upon the floor, and has waited patiently ever since to see if she could comfort you, were it never so little? ah, charles! foolish fellow! thinking, thinking--now with anger, now with tears, and now with terror--till his head was hot and his hands dry, his thoughts began to run into one channel. he saw that action was necessary, and he came to a great and noble resolution, worthy of himself. all the world was on one side, and he alone on the other. he would meet the world humbly and bravely, and conquer it. he would begin at the beginning, and find his own value in the world, and then, if he found himself worthy, would claim once more the love and respect of those who had been his friends hitherto. how he would begin he knew not, nor cared, but it must be from the beginning. and, when he had come to this resolution, he rose up and faced the light of day once more. there was a still figure sitting in his chair, watching him. it was william. "william! how long have you been here?" "nigh on an hour. i came in just after you, and you have been lying on the hearthrug ever since, moaning." "an hour? is it only an hour?" "a short hour." "it seemed like a year. why, it is not dark yet. the sun still shines, does it?" he went to the window and looked out. "spring," he said, "early spring. fifty more of them between me and rest most likely. do i look older, william?" "you look pale and wild, but not older. i am mazed and stunned. i want you to look like yourself and help me, charles. we must get away together out of this house." "you must stay here, william; you are heir to the name and the house. you must stay here and learn your duty; i must go forth and dree my weary weird alone." "you must go forth, i know; but i must go with you." "william, that is impossible." "to the world's end, charles; i swear it by the holy mother of god." "hush! you don't know what you are saying. think of your duties." "i know my duty. my duty is with you." "william, look at the matter in another point of view. will cuthbert let you come with me?" "i don't care. i am coming." william was sitting where he had been in charles's chair, and charles was standing beside him. if william had been looking at charles, he would have seen a troubled thoughtful expression on his face for one moment, followed by a sudden look of determination. he laid his hand on william's shoulder, and said-- "we must talk this over again. i _must_ go to ranford and see adelaide at once, before this news gets there from other mouths. will you meet me at the old hotel in covent garden, four days from this time?" "why there?" said william. "why not at henley?" "why not at london, rather?" replied charles. "i must go to london. i mean to go to london. i don't want to delay about ranford. no; say london." william looked in his face for a moment, and then said,-- "i'd rather travel with you. you can leave me at wargrave, which is only just over the water from ranford, or at didcot, while you go on to ranford. you must let me do that, charles." "we will do that, william, if you like." "yes, yes!" said william. "it must be so. now you must come downstairs." "why?" "to eat. dinner is ready. i am going to tea in the servant's hall." "will mary be at dinner, william?" "of course she will." "will you let me go for the last time? i should like to see the dear little face again. only this once." "charles! don't talk like that. all that this house contains is yours, and will be as long as cuthbert and i are here. of course you must go. this must not get out for a long while yet--we must keep up appearances." so charles went down into the drawing-room. it was nearly dark; and at first he thought there was no one there, but, as he advanced towards the fireplace, he made out a tall, dark figure, and saw that it was mackworth. "i am come, sir," he said, "to dinner in the old room for the last time for ever." "god forbid!" said mackworth. "sir, you have behaved like a brave man to-day, and i earnestly hope that, as long as i stay in this house, you will be its honoured guest. it would be simply nonsensical to make any excuses to you for the part i have taken. even if you had not systematically opposed your interest to mine in this house, i had no other course open. you must see that." "i believe i owe you my thanks for your forbearance so long," said charles; "though that was for the sake of my father more than myself. will you tell me, sir, now we are alone, how long have you known this?" "nearly eighteen months," said father mackworth, promptly. mackworth was not an ill-natured man when he was not opposed, and, being a brave man himself, could well appreciate bravery in others. he had knowledge enough of men to know that the revelation of to-day had been as bitter a blow to a passionate, sensitive man like charles, as he could well endure and live. and he knew that charles distrusted him, and that all out-of-the-way expressions of condolence would be thrown away; and so, departing from his usual rule of conduct, he spoke for once in a way naturally and sincerely, and said: "i am very, very sorry. i would have done much to avoid this." then mary came in and the tiernays. cuthbert did not come down. there was a long, dull dinner, at which charles forced himself to eat, having a resolution before him. mary sat scared at the head of the table, and scarcely spoke a word, and, when she rose to go into the drawing-room again, charles followed her. she saw that he was coming, and waited for him in the hall. when he shut the dining-room door after him she ran back, and putting her two hands on his shoulders, said-- "charles! charles! what is the matter?" "nothing, dear; only i have lost my fortune; i am penniless." "is it all gone, charles?" "all. you will hear how, soon. i just come out to wish my bird good-bye. i am going to london to-morrow." "can't you come and talk to me, charles, a little?" "no; not to-night. not to-night." "you will come to see me at lady hainault's in town, charles?" "yes, my love; yes." "won't you tell me any more, charles?" "no more, my robin. it is good-bye. you will hear all about it soon enough." "good-bye." a kiss, and he was gone up the old staircase towards his own room. when he gained the first landing he turned and looked at her once more, standing alone in the centre of the old hall in the light of a solitary lamp. a lonely, beautiful little figure, with her arms drooping at her sides, and the quiet, dark eyes turned towards him, so lovingly! and there, in his ruin and desolation, he began to see, for the first time, what others, keener-eyed, had seen long ago. something that might have been, but could not be now! and so, saying, "i must not see her again," he went up to his own room, and shut the door on his misery. once again he was seen that night. william invaded the still-room, and got some coffee, which he carried up to him. he found him packing his portmanteau, and he asked william to see to this and to that for him, if he should sleep too long. william made him sit down and take coffee and smoke a cigar, and sat on the footstool at his feet, before the fire, complaining of cold. they sat an hour or two, smoking, talking of old times, of horses and dogs, and birds and trout, as lads do, till charles said he would go to bed, and william left him. he had hardly got to the end of the passage, when charles called him back, and he came. "i want to look at you again," said charles; and he put his two hands on william's shoulders, and looked at him again. then he said, "good night," and went in. william went slowly away, and, passing to a lower storey, came to the door of a room immediately over the main entrance, above the hall. this room was in the turret above the porch. it was cuthbert's room. he knocked softly, and there was no answer; again, and louder. a voice cried querulously, "come in," and he opened the door. cuthbert was sitting before the fire with a lamp beside him and a book on his knee. he looked up and saw a groom before him, and said, angrily-- "i can give no orders to-night. i will not be disturbed to-night." "it is me, sir," said william. cuthbert rose at once. "come here, brother," he said, "and let me look at you. they told me just now that you were with our brother charles." "i stayed with him till he went to bed, and then i came to you." "how is he?" "very quiet--too quiet." "is he going away?" "he is going in the morning." "you must go with him, william," said cuthbert, eagerly. "i came to tell you that i must go with him, and to ask you for some money." "god bless you. don't leave him. write to me every day. watch and see what he is inclined to settle to, and then let me know. you must get some education too. you will get it with him as well as anywhere. he must be our first care." william said yes. he must be their first care. he had suffered a terrible wrong. "we must get to be as brothers to one another, william," said cuthbert. "that will come in time. we have one great object in common--charles; and that will bring us together. the time was, when i was a fool, that i thought of being a saint, without human affections. i am wiser now. people near death see many things which are hidden in health and youth." "near death, cuthbert!" said william, calling him so for the first time. "i shall live, please god, to take your children on my knee." "it is right that you should know, brother, that in a few short years you will be master of ravenshoe. my heart is gone. i have had an attack to-night." "but people who are ill don't always die," said william. "holy virgin! you must not go and leave me all abroad in the world like a lost sheep." "i like to hear you speak like that, william. two days ago, i was moving heaven and earth to rob you of your just inheritance." "i like you the better for that. never think of that again. does mackworth know of your illness?" "he knows everything." "if charles had been a catholic, would he have concealed this?" "no; i think not. i offered him ten thousand pounds to hush it up." "i wish he had taken it. i don't want to be a great man. i should have been far happier as it was. i was half a gentleman, and had everything i wanted. shall you oppose my marrying when charles is settled?" "you must marry, brother. i can never marry, and would not if i could. you must marry, certainly. the estate is a little involved; but we can soon bring it right. till you marry, you must be contented with four hundred a year." william laughed. "i will be content and obedient enough, i warrant you. but, when i speak of marrying, i mean marrying my present sweetheart." cuthbert looked up suddenly. "i did not think of that. who is she?" "master evans's daughter, jane." "a fisherman's daughter," said cuthbert. "william, the mistress of ravenshoe ought to be a lady." "the master of ravenshoe ought to be a gentleman," was william's reply. "and, after your death (which i don't believe in, mind you), he won't be. the master of ravenshoe then will be only a groom; and what sort of a fine lady would he buy with his money, think you? a woman who would despise him and be ashamed of him. no, by st. george and the dragon, i will marry my old sweetheart or be single!" "perhaps you are right, william," said cuthbert; "and, if you are not, i am not one who has a right to speak about it. let us in future be honest and straightforward, and have no more miserable _esclandres_, in god's name. what sort of a girl is she?" "she is handsome enough for a duchess, and she is very quiet and shy." "all the better. i shall offer not the slightest opposition. she had better know what is in store for her." "she shall; and the blessing of all the holy saints be on you! i must go now. i must be up at dawn." "don't go yet, william. think of the long night that is before me. sit with me, and let me get used to your voice. tell me about the horses, or anything--only don't leave me alone yet." william sat down with him. they sat long and late. when at last william rose to go, cuthbert said-- "you will make a good landlord, william. you have been always a patient, faithful servant, and you will make a good master. our people will get to love you better than ever they would have loved me. cling to the old faith. it has served us well so many hundred years. it seems as if god willed that ravenshoe should not pass from the hands of the faithful. and now, one thing more; i must see charles before he goes. when you go to wake him in the morning, call me, and i will go with you. good night!" in the morning they went up together to wake him. his window was open, and the fresh spring air was blowing in. his books, his clothes, his guns and rods, were piled about in their usual confusion. his dog was lying on the hearthrug, and stretched himself as he came to greet them. the dog had a glove at his feet, and they wondered at it. the curtains of his bed were drawn close. cuthbert went softly to them and drew them aside. he was not there. the bed was smooth. "gone! gone!" cried cuthbert. "i half feared it. fly, william, for god's sake, to lord ascot's, to ranford; catch him there, and never leave him again. come, and get some money, and begone. you may be in time. if we should lose him after all--after all!" william needed no second bidding. in an hour he was at stonnington. mr. charles ravenshoe had arrived there at daybreak, and had gone on in the coach which started at eight. william posted to exeter, and at eleven o'clock in the evening saw lady ascot at ranford. charles ravenshoe had been there that afternoon, but was gone. and then lady ascot, weeping wildly, told him such news as made him break from the room with an oath, and dash through the scared servants in the hall and out into the darkness, to try to overtake the carriage he had discharged, and reach london. the morning before, adelaide had eloped with lord welter. chapter xxviii. flight. when william left charles in his room at ravenshoe, the latter sat down in his chair and began thinking. the smart of the blow, which had fallen so heavily at first, had become less painful. he knew by intuition that it would be worse on the morrow, and on many morrows; but at present it was alleviated. he began to dread sleeping, for fear of the waking. he dreaded the night and dreams; and, more than all, the morrow and the departure. he felt that he ought to see cuthbert again, and he dreaded that. he dreaded the servants seeing him go. he had a horror of parting from all he had known so long, formally. it was natural. it would be so much pain to all concerned; were it not better avoided? he thought of all these things, and tried to persuade himself that these were the reasons which made him do what he had as good as determined to do an hour or two before, what he had in his mind when he called william back in the corridor--to go away alone, and hide and mope like a wounded stag for a little time. it was his instinct to do so. perhaps it would have been the best thing for him. at all events, he determined on it, and packed up a portmanteau and carpet-bag, and then sat down again, waiting. "yes," he said to himself, "it will be better to do this. i must get away from william, poor lad. he must not follow my fortunes, for many reasons." his dog had been watching him, looking, with his bright loving eyes, first at him and then at his baggage, wondering what journey they were going on now. when charles had done packing, and had sat down again in his chair, before the fire, the dog leapt up in his lap unbidden, and laid his head upon his breast. "grip, grip!" said charles, "i am going away to leave you for ever, grip. dogs don't live so long as men, my boy; you will be quietly under the turf and at rest, when i shall have forty long years more to go through with." the dog wagged his tail, and pawed his waistcoat. he wanted some biscuit. charles got him some, and then went on talking. "i am going to london, old dog. i am going to see what the world is like. i sha'n't come back before you are dead, grip, i expect. i have got to win money and a name for the sake of one who is worth winning it for. very likely i shall go abroad, to the land where the stuff comes from they make sovereigns of, and try my luck at getting some of the yellow rubbish. and she will wait in the old house at ranford." he paused here. the thought came upon him, "would it not be more honourable to absolve adelaide from her engagement? was he acting generously in demanding of her to waste the best part of her life in waiting till a ruined man had won fortune and means?" the answer came. "she loves me. if i can wait, why not she?" "i have wronged her by such a thought, grip. haven't i, my boy?"--and so on. i needn't continue telling you the nonsense charles talked to his dog. men will talk nonsense to their dogs and friends when they are in love; and such nonsense is but poor reading at any time. to us who know what had happened, and how worthless and false adelaide was, it would be merely painful and humiliating to hear any more of it. i only gave you so much to show you how completely charles was in the dark, poor fool, with regard to adelaide's character, and to render less surprising the folly of his behaviour after he heard the news at ranford. charles judged every one by his own standard. she had told him that she loved him; and perhaps she did, for a time. he believed her. as for vanity, selfishness, fickleness, calculation, coming in and conquering love, he knew it was impossible in his own case, and so he conceived it impossible in hers. i think i have been very careful to impress on you that charles was not wise. at all events, if i have softened matters so far hitherto as to leave you in doubt, his actions, which we shall have to chronicle immediately, will leave not the slightest doubt of it. i love the man. i love his very faults in a way. he is a reality to me, though i may not have the art to make him so to you. his mad, impulsive way of forming a resolution, and his honourable obstinacy in sticking to that resolution afterwards, even to the death, are very great faults; but they are, more or less, the faults of men who have made a very great figure in the world, or i have read history wrong. men with charles ravenshoe's character, and power of patience and application superadded, turn out very brilliant characters for the most part. charles had not been drilled into habits of application early enough. densil's unthinking indulgence had done him much harm, and he was just the sort of boy to be spoilt at school--a favourite among the masters and the boys; always just up to his work and no more. it is possible that eton in one way, or rugby in another, might have done for him what shrewsbury certainly did not. at eton, thrown at once into a great, free republic, he might have been forced to fight his way up to his proper place, which, i believe, would not have been a low one. at rugby he would have had his place to win all the same; but to help him he would have had all the traditionary school policy which a great man has left behind him as an immortal legacy. it was not to be. he was sent to a good and manly school enough, but one where there was for him too little of competition. shrewsbury is, in most respects, the third of the _old_ schools in england; but it was, unluckily, not the school for him. he was too great a man there. at oxford, too, he hardly had a fair chance. lord welter was there before him, and had got just such a set about him as one would expect from that young gentleman's character and bringing up. these men were charles's first and only acquaintances at the university. what chance was there among them for correcting and disciplining himself? none. the wonder was, that he came out from among them without being greatly deteriorated. the only friend charles ever had who could guide him on the way to being a man was john marston. but john marston, to say the truth, was sometimes too hard and didactic, and very often roused charles's obstinacy through want of tact. marston loved charles, and thought him better than the ninety and nine who need no repentance; but it did not fall to marston's lot to make a man of charles. some one took that in hand who never fails. this is the place for my poor apology for charles's folly. if i had inserted it before, you would not have attended to it, or would have forgotten it. if i have done my work right, it is merely a statement of the very conclusion you must have come to. in the humiliating scenes which are to follow, i only beg you to remember that charles horton was charles ravenshoe once; and that, while he was a gentleman, the people loved him well. once, about twelve o'clock, he left his room, and passed through the house to see if all was quiet. he heard the grooms and footmen talking in the servants' hall. he stole back again to his room, and sat before the fire. in half an hour he rose again, and put his portmanteau and carpet-bag outside his room door. then he took his hat, and rose to go. one more look round the old room! the last for ever! the present overmastered the past, and he looked round almost without recognition. i doubt whether at great crises men have much time for recollecting old associations. i looked once into a room, which had been my home, ever since i was six years old, for five-and-twenty years, knowing i should never see it again. but it was to see that i had left nothing behind me. the coach was at the door, and they were calling for me. now i could draw you a correct map of all the blotches and cracks in the ceiling, as i used to see them when i lay in bed of a morning. but then, i only shut the door and ran down the passage, without even saying "good-bye, old bedroom." charles ravenshoe looked round the room thoughtlessly, and then blew out the candle, went out, and shut the door. the dog whined and scratched to come after him; so he went back again. the old room bathed in a flood of moonlight, and, seen through the open window, the busy chafing sea, calling to him to hasten. he took a glove from the table, and, laying it on the hearthrug, told the dog to mind it. the dog looked wistfully at him, and lay down. the next moment he was outside the door again. through long moonlit corridors, down the moonlit hall, through dark passages, which led among the sleeping household, to the door in the priest's tower. the household slept, old men and young men, maids and matrons, quietly, and dreamt of this and of that. and he, who was yesterday nigh master of all, passed out from among them, and stood alone in the world, outside the dark old house, which he had called his home. then he felt the deed was done. was it only the night-wind from the north that laid such a chill hand on his heart? busy waves upon the shore talking eternally--"we have come in from the atlantic, bearing messages; we have come over foundered ships and the bones of drowned sailors, and we tell our messages and die upon the shore." shadows that came sweeping from the sea, over lawn and flower-bed, and wrapped the old mansion like a pall for one moment, and then left it shining again in the moonlight, clear, pitiless. within, warm rooms, warm beds, and the bated breath of sleepers, lying secure in the lap of wealth and order. without, hard, cold stone. the great world around awaiting to devour one more atom. the bright unsympathising stars, and the sea, babbling of the men it had rolled over, whose names should never be known. now the park, with herds of ghostly startled deer, and the sweet scent of growing fern; then the rush of the brook, the bridge, and the vista of woodland above; and then the sleeping village. chapter xxix. charles's retreat upon london. passing out of the park, charles set down his burden at the door of a small farm-house at the further end of the village, and knocked. for some time he stood waiting for an answer, and heard no sound save the cows and horses moving about in the warm straw-yard. the beasts were in their home. no terrible new morrow for them. he was without in the street; his home irrevocable miles behind him; still not a thought of flinching or turning back. he knocked again. the door was unbarred. an old man looked out, and recognised him with wild astonishment. "mr. charles! good lord-a-mercy! my dear tender heart, what be doing out at this time a-night? with his portmantle, too, and his carpet-bag! come in, my dear soul, come in. an' so pale and wild! why, you'm overlooked, master charles." "no, master lee, i ain't overlooked. at least not that i know of----" the old man shook his head, and reserved his opinion. "----but i want your gig to go to stonnington." "to-night?" "ay, to-night. the coach goes at eight in the morning; i want to be there before that." "why do'ee start so soon? they'll be all abed in the chichester arms." "i know. i shall get into the stable. i don't know where i shall get. i must go. there is trouble at the hall." "ay! ay! i thought as much, and you'm going away into the world?" "yes." the old man said, "ay! ay!" again, and turned to go upstairs. then he held his candle over his head, and looked at charles; and then went upstairs muttering to himself. presently was aroused from sleep a young devonshire giant, half hercules, half antinoüs, who lumbered down the stairs, and into the room, and made his obeisance to charles with an air of wonder in his great sleepy black eyes, and departed to get the gig. of course his first point was ranford. he got there in the afternoon. he had in his mind at this time, he thinks (for he does not remember it all very distinctly), the idea of going to australia. he had an idea, too, of being eminently practical and business-like; and so he did a thing which may appear to be trifling, but which was important--one cannot say how much so. he asked for lord ascot instead of lady ascot. lord ascot was in the library. charles was shown in to him. he was sitting before the fire, reading a novel. he looked very worn and anxious, and jumped up nervously when charles was announced. he dropped his book on the floor, and came forward to him, holding out his right hand. "charles," he said, "you will forgive me any participation in this. i swear to you----" charles thought that by some means the news of what had happened at ravenshoe had come before him, and that lord ascot knew all about father mackworth's discovery. lord ascot was thinking about adelaide's flight; so they were at cross purposes. "dear lord ascot," said charles, "how could i think of blaming you, my kind old friend?" "it is devilish gentlemanly of you to speak so, charles," said lord ascot. "i am worn to death about that horse, haphazard, and other things; and this has finished me. i have been reading a novel to distract my mind. i must win the derby, you know; by gad, i must." "whom have you got, lord ascot?" "wells." "you couldn't do better, i suppose?" "i suppose not. you don't know--i'd rather not talk any more about it, charles." "lord ascot, this is, as you may well guess, the last time i shall ever see you. i want you to do me a favour." "i will do it, my dear charles, with the greatest pleasure. any reparation----" "hush, my lord! i only want a certificate. will you read this which i have written in pencil, and, if you conscientiously can, copy in your own hand, and sign it. also, if i send to you a reference, will you confirm it?" lord ascot read what charles had written, and said-- "yes, certainly. you are going to change your name then?" "i must bear that name, now; i am going abroad." lord ascot wrote-- "the undermentioned charles horton i have known ever since he was a boy. his character is beyond praise in every way. he is a singularly bold and dexterous rider, and is thoroughly up to the management of horses. "ascot." "you have improved upon my text, lord ascot," said charles. "it is like your kindheartedness. the mouse may offer to help the lion, my lord; and, although the lion may know how little likely it is that he should require help, yet he may take it as a sign of goodwill on the part of the poor mouse. now good-bye, my lord; i must see lady ascot, and then be off." lord ascot wished him kindly good-bye, and took up his novel again. charles went alone up to lady ascot's room. he knocked at the door, and received no answer; so he went in. lady ascot was there, although she had not answered him. she was sitting upright by the fire, staring at the door, with her hands folded on her lap. a fine brave-looking old lady at all times, but just now, charles thought, with that sweet look of pity showing itself principally about the corners of the gentle old mouth, more noble-looking than ever! "may i come in, lady ascot?" said charles. "my dearest own boy! you must come in and sit down. you must be very quiet over it. try not to make a scene, my dear. i am not strong enough. it has shaken me so terribly. i heard you had come, and were with ascot. and i have been trembling in every limb. not from terror so much of you in your anger, as because my conscience is not clear. i may have hidden things from you, charles, which you ought to have known." and lady ascot began crying silently. charles felt the blood going from his cheeks to his heart. his interview with lord ascot had made him suspect something further was wrong than what he knew of, and his suspicions were getting stronger every moment. he sat down quite quietly, looking at lady ascot, and spoke not one word. lady ascot, wiping her eyes, went on; and charles's heart began to beat with a dull heavy pulsation, like the feet of those who carry a coffin. "i ought to have told you what was going on between them before she went to old lady hainault. i ought to have told you of what went on before lord hainault was married. i can never forgive myself, charles. you may upbraid me, and i will sit here and make not one excuse. but i must say that i never for one moment thought that she was anything more than light-headed. i,--oh lord! i never dreamt it would have come to this." "are you speaking of adelaide, lady ascot?" said charles. "of course i am," she said, almost peevishly. "if i had ever----" "lady ascot," said charles, quietly, "you are evidently speaking of something of which i have not heard. what has adelaide done?" the old lady clasped her hands above her head. "oh, weary, weary day! and i thought that he had heard it all, and that the blow was broken. the cowards! they have left it to a poor old woman to tell him at last." "dear lady ascot, you evidently have not heard of what a terrible fate has befallen me. i am a ruined man, and i am very patient. i had one hope left in the world, and i fear that you are going to cut it away from me. i am very quiet, and will make no scene; only tell me what has happened." "adelaide!--be proud, charles, be angry, furious--you ravenshoes can!--be a man, but don't look like that. adelaide, dead to honour and good fame, has gone off with welter!" charles walked towards the door. "that is enough. please let me go. i can't stand any more at present. you have been very kind to me and to her, and i thank you and bless you for it. the son of a bastard blesses you for it. let me go--let me go!" lady ascot had stepped actively to the door, and had laid one hand on the door, and one on his breast. "you shall not go," she said, "till you have told me what you mean!" "how? i cannot stand any more at present." "what do you mean by being the son of a bastard?" "i am the son of james, mr. ravenshoe's keeper. he was the illegitimate son of mr. petre ravenshoe." "who told you this?" said lady ascot. "cuthbert." "how did he know it!" charles told her all. "so the priest has found that out, eh?" said lady ascot. "it seems true;" and, as she said so, she moved back from the door. "go to your old bedroom, charles. it will always be ready for you while this house is a house. and come down to me presently. where is lord saltire?" "at lord segur's." charles went out of the room, and out of the house, and was seen no more. lady ascot sat down by the fire again. "the one blow has softened the other," she said. "i will never keep another secret after this. it was for alicia's sake and for petre's that i did it, and now see what has become of it. i shall send for lord saltire. the boy must have his rights, and shall, too." so the brave old woman sat down and wrote to lord saltire. we shall see what she wrote to him in the proper place--not now. she sat calmly and methodically writing, with her kind old face wreathing into a smile as she went on. and charles, the madman, left the house, and posted off to london, only intent on seeking to lose himself among the sordid crowd, so that no man he had ever called a friend should set eyes on him again. chapter xxx. mr. sloane. charles ravenshoe had committed suicide--committed suicide as deliberately as any maddened wretch had done that day in all the wide miserable world. he knew it very well, and was determined to go on with it. he had not hung himself, or drowned himself, but he had committed deliberate suicide, and he knew--knew well--that his obstinacy would carry him through to the end. what is suicide, nine cases out of ten? any one can tell you. it is the act of a mad, proud coward, who flies, by his own deed, not from humiliation or disgrace, but, as he fancies, from feeling the consequences of them--who flies to unknown, doubtful evils, sooner than bear positive, present, undoubted ones. all this had charles done, buoying him up with this excuse and that excuse, and fancying that he was behaving, the cur, like bayard, or lieutenant willoughby--a greater than bayard--all the time. the above is charles's idea of the matter himself, put in the third person for form's sake. i don't agree with all he says about himself. i don't deny that he did a very foolish thing, but i incline to believe that there was something noble and self-reliant in his doing it. think a moment. he had only two courses open to him--the one (i put it coarsely) to eat humble-pie, to go back to cuthbert and mackworth, and accept their offers; the other to do as he had done--to go alone into the world, and stand by himself. he did the latter, as we shall see. he could not face ravenshoe, or any connected with it, again. it had been proved that he was an unwilling impostor, of base, low blood; and his sister--ah! one more pang, poor heart!--his sister ellen, what was she? little doubt--little doubt! better for both of them if they had never been born! he was going to london, and, perhaps, might meet her there! all the vice and misery of the country got thrown into that cesspool. when anything had got too foul for the pure country air, men said, away with it; throw it into the great dunghill, and let it rot there. was he not going there himself? it was fit she should be there before him! they would meet for certain! how would they meet? would she be in silks and satins, or in rags? flaunting in her carriage, or shivering in an archway? what matter? was not shame the heritage of the "lower orders"? the pleasures of the rich must be ministered to by the "lower orders," or what was the use of money or rank? he was one of the lower orders now. he must learn his lesson; learn to cringe and whine like the rest of them. it would be hard, but it must be learnt. the dogs rose against it sometimes, but it never paid. the devil was pretty busy with poor charles in his despair, you see. this was all he had left after three and twenty years of careless idleness and luxury. his creed had been, "i am a ravenshoe," and lo! one morning, he was a ravenshoe no longer. a poor crow, that had been fancying himself an eagle. a crow! "by heavens," he thought, "he was not even that." a nonentity, turned into the world to find his own value! what were honour, honesty, virtue to him? why, nothing--words! he must truckle and pander for his living. why not go back and truckle to father mackworth? there was time yet. no! why not? was it pride only? we have no right to say what it was. if it was only pride, it was better than nothing. better to have that straw only to cling to, than to be all alone in the great sea with nothing. we have seen that he has done nothing good, with circumstances all in his favour; let us see if he can in any way hold his own, with circumstances all against him. "america?" he thought once. "they are all gentlemen there. if i could only find her, and tear her jewels off, we would go there together. but she must be found--she must be found. i will never leave england till she goes with me. we shall be brought together. we shall see one another. i love her as i never loved her before. what a sweet, gentle little love she was! my darling! and, when i have kissed her, i never dreamed she was my sister. my pretty love! ellen, ellen, i am coming to you. where are you, my love?" he was alone, in a railway carriage, leaning out to catch the fresh wind, as he said this. he said it once again, this time aloud. "where are you, my sister?" where was she? could he have only seen! we may be allowed to see, though _he_ could not. come forward into the great babylon with me, while he is speeding on towards it; we will rejoin him in an instant. in a small luxuriously furnished hall, there stands a beautiful woman, dressed modestly in the garb of a servant. she is standing with her arms folded, and a cold, stern, curious look on her face. she is looking towards the hall-door, which is held open by a footman. she is waiting for some one who is coming in; and two travellers enter, a man and a woman. she goes up to the woman, and says, quietly, "i bid you welcome, madam." who are these people? is that waiting-woman ellen? and these travellers, are they lord welter and adelaide? let us get back to poor charles; better be with him than here! we must follow him closely. we must see why, in his despair, he took the extraordinary resolution that he did. not that i shall take any particular pains to follow the exact process of his mind in arriving at his determination. if the story has hitherto been told well it will appear nothing extraordinary, and, if otherwise, an intelligent reader would very soon detect any attempt at bolstering up ill-told facts by elaborate, soul-analysing theories. he could have wished the train would have run on for ever; but he was aroused by the lights growing thicker and more brilliant, and he felt that they were nearing london, and that the time for action was come. the great plunge was taken, and he was alone in the cold street--alone, save for the man who carried his baggage. he stood for a moment or so, confused with the rush of carriages of all sorts which were taking the people from the train, till he was aroused by the man asking him where he was to go to. charles said, without thinking, "the warwick hotel," and thither they went. for a moment he regretted that he had said so, but the next moment he said aloud, "let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die!" the man turned round and begged his pardon. charles did not answer him; and the man went on, wondering what sort of a young gentleman he had got hold of. the good landlord was glad to see him. would he have dinner?--a bit of fish and a lamb chop, for instance? then it suddenly struck charles that he was hungry--ravenous. he laughed aloud at the idea; and the landlord laughed too, and rubbed his hands. should it be whiting or smelts now? he asked. "anything," said charles, "so long as you feed me quick. and give me wine, will you, of some sort; i want to drink. give me sherry, will you? and i say, let me taste some now, and then i can see if i like it. i am very particular about my wine, you must know." in a few minutes a waiter brought in a glass of wine, and waited to know how charles liked it. he told the man he could go, and he would tell him at dinner-time. when the man was gone, he looked at the wine with a smile. then he took it up, and poured it into the coal-scuttle. "not yet," he said, "not yet! i'll try something else before i try to drink my troubles away." and then he plunged into the _times_. he had no sooner convinced himself that lord aberdeen was tampering with the honour of the country by not declaring war, than he found himself profoundly considering what had caused that great statesman to elope with adelaide, and whether, in case of a russian war, lady ascot would possibly convict father mackworth of having caused it. then lady ascot came into the room with a large bottle of medicine and a testament, announcing that she was going to attend a sick gun-boat. and then, just as he began to see that he was getting sleepy, to sleep he went, fast as a top. half an hour's sleep restored him, and dinner made things look different. "after all," he said, as he sipped his wine, "here is only the world on the one side and i on the other. i am utterly reckless, and can sink no further. i will get all the pleasure out of life that i can, honestly; for i am an honest man still, and mean to be. i love you madame adelaide, and you have used me worse than a hound, and made me desperate. if he marries you, i will come forward some day, and disgrace you. if you had only waited till you knew everything, i could have forgiven you. i'll get a place as a footman, and talk about you in the servant's hall. all london shall know you were engaged to me." "poor dear, pretty adelaide: as if i would ever hurt a hair of your head, my sweet love! silly----" the landlord came in. there was most excellent company in the smoking-room. would he condescend to join them? company and tobacco! charles would certainly join them; so he had his wine carried in. there was a fat gentleman, with a snub nose, who was a conservative. there was a tall gentleman, with a long nose, who was liberal. there was a short gentleman, with no particular kind of nose, who was radical. there was a handsome gentleman, with big whiskers, who was commercial; and there was a gentleman with bandy legs, who was horsy. i strongly object to using a slang adjective, if any other can be got to supply its place; but by doing so sometimes one avoids a periphrasis, and does not spoil one's period. thus, i know of no predicate for a gentleman with a particular sort of hair, complexion, dress, whiskers, and legs, except the one i have used above, and so it must stand. as providence would have it, charles sat down between the landlord and the horsy man, away from the others. he smoked his cigar, and listened to the conversation. the conservative gentleman coalesced with the liberal gentleman on the subject of lord aberdeen's having sold the country to the russians; the radical gentleman also come over to them on that subject; and for a time the opposition seemed to hold an overwhelming majority, and to be merely allowing aberdeen's government to hold place longer, that they might commit themselves deeper. in fact, things seemed to be going all one way, as is often the case in coalition ministries just before a grand crash, when the radical gentleman caused a violent split in the cabinet, by saying that the whole complication had been brought about by the machinations of the aristocracy--which assertion caused the conservative gentleman to retort in unmeasured language; and then the liberal gentleman, trying to trim, found himself distrusted and despised by both parties. charles listened to them, amused for the time to hear them quoting, quite unconsciously, whole sentences out of their respective leading papers, and then was distracted by the horsy man saying to him-- "darn politics. what horse will win the derby, sir?" "haphazard," said charles, promptly. this, please to remember, was lord ascot's horse, which we have seen before. the landlord immediately drew closer up. the horsy man looked at charles, and said, "h'm; and what has made my lord scratch him for the two thousand, sir?" and so on. we have something to do with haphazard's winning the derby, as we shall see; and we have still more to do with the result of charles's conversation with the "horsy man." but we have certainly nothing to do with a wordy discussion about the various horses which stood well for the great race (wicked, lovely darlings, how many souls of heroes have they sent to hades!), and so we will spare the reader. the conclusion of their conversation was the only important part of it. charles said to the horsy man on the stairs, "now you know everything. i am penniless, friendless, and nameless. can you put me in the way of earning my living honestly?" and he said, "i can, and i will. this gentleman is a fast man, but he is rich. you'll have your own way. maybe, you'll see some queer things, but what odds?" "none to me," said charles; "i can always leave him." "and go back to your friends, like a wise young gentleman, eh?" said the other, kindly. "i am not a gentleman," said charles. "i told you so before. i am a gamekeeper's son; i swear to you i am. i have been petted and pampered till i look like one, but i am not." "you are a deuced good imitation," said the other. "good night; come to me at nine, mind." * * * * * at this time, lady ascot had despatched her letter to lord saltire, and had asked for charles. the groom of the chambers said that mr. ravenshoe had left the house immediately after his interview with her ladyship, three hours before. she started up--"gone!--whither?" "to twyford, my lady." "send after him, you idiot! send the grooms after him on all my lord's horses. send a lad on haphazard, and let him race the train to london. send the police! he has stolen my purse, with ten thousand gold guineas in it!--i swear he has. have him bound hand and foot, and bring him back, on your life. if you stay there i will kill you!" the violent old animal nature, dammed up so long by creeds and formulas, had broken out at last. the decorous lady ascot was transformed in one instant into a terrible, grey-headed, magnificent old alecto, hurling her awful words abroad in a sharp, snarling voice, that made the hair of him that heard it to creep upon his head. the man fled, and shut lady ascot in alone. she walked across the room, and beat her withered old hands against the wall. "oh, miserable, wicked old woman!" she cried aloud. "how surely have your sins found you out! after concealing a crime for so many years, to find the judgment fall on such an innocent and beloved head! alicia, alicia, i did this for your sake. charles, charles, come back to the old woman before she dies, and tell her you forgive her." chapter xxxi. lieutenant hornby. charles had always been passionately fond of horses and of riding. he was a consummate horseman, and was so perfectly accomplished in everything relating to horses, that i really believe that in time he might actually have risen to the dizzy height of being stud-groom to a great gentleman or nobleman. he had been brought up in a great horse-riding house, and had actually gained so much experience, and had so much to say on matters of this kind, that once, at oxford, a promising young nobleman cast, so to speak, an adverse opinion of charles's into george simmond's own face. mr. simmonds looked round on the offender mildly and compassionately, and said, "if any undergraduate _could_ know, my lord, that undergraduate's name would be ravenshoe of paul's. but he is young, my lord; and, in consequence, ignorant." his lordship didn't say anything after that. i have kept this fact in the background rather, hitherto, because it has not been of any very great consequence. it becomes of some consequence now, for the first time. i enlarged a little on charles being a rowing man, because rowing and training had, for good or for evil, a certain effect on his character. (whether for good or for evil, you must determine for yourselves.) and i now mention the fact of his being a consummate horseman, because a considerable part of the incidents which follow arise from the fact. don't think for one moment that you are going to be bored by stable-talk. you will have simply none of it. it only amounts to this--that charles, being fond of horses, took up with a certain line of life, and in that line of life met with certain adventures which have made his history worth relating. when he met the "horsy" man next morning, he was not dressed like a gentleman. in his store he had some old clothes, which he used to wear at ravenshoe, in the merry old days when he would be up with daylight to exercise the horses on the moor--cord trousers, and so on--which, being now old and worn, made him look uncommonly like a groom out of place. and what contributed to the delusion was, that for the first time in his life he wore no shirt collar, but allowed his blue-spotted neckcloth to border on his honest red face, without one single quarter of an inch of linen. and, if it ever pleases your lordship's noble excellence to look like a blackguard for any reason, allow me to recommend you to wear a dark necktie and no collar. your success will be beyond your utmost hopes. charles met his new friend in the bar, and touched his hat to him. his friend laughed, and said, that would do, but asked how long he thought he could keep that sort of thing going. charles said, as long as was necessary; and they went out together. they walked as far as a street leading out of one of the largest and best squares (i mean b--lg--e sq--e, but i don't like to write it at full length), and stopped at the door of a handsome shop. charles knew enough of london to surmise that the first floor was let to a man of some wealth; and he was right. the door was opened, and his friend was shown up stairs, while he was told to wait in the hall. now charles began to perceive, with considerable amusement, that he was acting a part--that he was playing, so to speak, at being something other than what he really was, and that he was, perhaps, overdoing it. in this house, which yesterday he would have entered as an equal, he was now playing at being a servant. it was immensely amusing. he wiped his shoes very clean, and sat down on a bench in the hall, with his hat between his knees, as he had seen grooms do. it is no use wondering; one never finds out anything by that. but i do wonder, nevertheless, whether charles, had he only known in what relation the master of that house stood to himself, would or would not have set the house on fire, or cut its owner's throat. when he did find out, he did neither the one thing nor the other; but he had been a good deal tamed by that time. presently a servant came down, and, eyeing charles curiously as a prospective fellow-servant, told him civilly to walk up stairs. he went up. the room was one of a handsome suite, and overlooked the street. charles saw at a glance that it was the room of a great dandy. a dandy, if not of the first water, most assuredly high up in the second. two things only jurred on his eye in his hurried glance round the room. there was too much bric-a-brac, and too many flowers. "i wonder if he is a gentleman," thought charles. his friend of the night before was standing in a respectful attitude, leaning on the back of a chair, and charles looked round for the master of the house, eagerly. he had to cast his eyes downward to see him, for he was lying back on an easy chair, half hidden by the breakfast table. there he was--charles's master: the man who was going to buy him. charles cast one intensely eager glance at him, and was satisfied. "he will do at a pinch," said he to himself. there were a great many handsome and splendid things in that room, but the owner of them was by far the handsomest and most splendid thing there. he was a young man, with very pale and delicate features, and a singularly amiable cast of face, who wore a moustache, with the long whiskers which were just then coming into fashion; and he was dressed in a splendid uniform of blue, gold, and scarlet, for he had been on duty that morning, and had just come in. his sabre was cast upon the floor before him, and his shako was on the table. as charles looked at him, he passed his hand over his hair. there was one ring on it, but _such_ a ring! "that's a high-bred hand enough," said charles to himself. "and he hasn't got too much jewellery on him. i wonder who the deuce he is?" "this is the young man, sir," said charles's new friend. lieutenant hornby was looking at charles, and after a pause, said-- "i take him on your recommendation, sloane. i have no doubt he will do. he seems a good fellow. you are a good fellow, ain't you?" he continued, addressing charles personally, with that happy graceful insolence which is the peculiar property of prosperous and entirely amiable young men, and which charms one in spite of oneself. charles replied, "i am quarrelsome sometimes among my equals, but i am always good-tempered among horses." "that will do very well. you may punch the other two lads' heads as much as you like. they don't mind me; perhaps they may you. you will be over them. you will have the management of everything. you will have unlimited opportunities of robbing and plundering me, with an entire absence of all chance of detection. but you won't do it. it isn't your line, i saw at once. let me look at your hand." charles gave him the great ribbed paw which served him in that capacity. and hornby said-- "ha! gentleman's hand. no business of mine. don't wear that ring, will you? a groom mustn't wear such rings as that. any character?" charles showed him the letter lord ascot had written. "lord ascot, eh? i know lord welter, slightly." "the deuce you do," thought charles. "were you in lord ascot's stables?" "no, sir. i am the son of squire ravenshoe's gamekeeper. the ravenshoes and my lord ascot's family are connected by marriage. ravenshoe is in the west country, sir. lord ascot knows me by repute, sir, and has a good opinion of me." "it is perfectly satisfactory. sloane, will you put him in the way of his duties? make the other lads understand that he is master, will you? you may go." chapter xxxii. some of the humours of a london mews. so pursuing the course of our story, we have brought ourselves to the present extraordinary position. that charles ravenshoe, of ravenshoe, in the county devonshire, esquire, and some time of st. paul's college, oxford, has hired himself out as groom to lieutenant hornby, of the th hussars, and that also the above-named charles ravenshoe was not, and never had been charles ravenshoe at all, but somebody else all the time, to wit, charles horton, a gamekeeper's son, if indeed he was even this, having been christened under a false name. the situation is so extraordinary and so sad, that having taken the tragical view of it in the previous chapter, we must of necessity begin to look on the brighter side of it now. and this is the better art, because it is exactly what charles began to do himself. one blow succeeded the other so rapidly, the utter bouleversement of all that he cared about in the world. father, friends, position, mistress, all lost in one day, had brought on a kind of light-hearted desperation, which had the effect of making him seek company, and talk boisterously and loud all day. it was not unnatural in so young and vigorous a man. but if he woke in the night, there was the cold claw grasping his heart. well, i said we would have none of this at present, and we won't. patient old earth, intent only on doing her duty in her set courses, and unmindful of the mites which had been set to make love or war on her bosom, and the least of whom was worth her whole well-organised mass, had rolled on, and on, until by bringing that portion of her which contains the island of britain, gradually in greater proximity to the sun, she had produced that state of things on that particular part of her which is known among mortals as spring. now, i am very anxious to please all parties. some people like a little circumlocution, and for them the above paragraph was written; others do not, and for them, i state that it was the latter end of may, and beg them not to read the above flight of fancy, but to consider it as never having been written. it was spring. on the sea-coast, the watchers at the lighthouses and the preventive stations began to walk about in their shirt-sleeves, and trim up their patches of spray-beaten garden, hedged with tree-mallow and tamarisk, and to thank god that the long howling winter nights were past for a time. the fishermen shouted merrily one to another as they put off from the shore, no longer dreading a twelve hours' purgatory of sleet and freezing mist and snow; saying to one another how green the land looked, and how pleasant mackerel time was after all. their wives, light-hearted at the thought that the wild winter was past, and that they were not widows, brought their work out to the doors, and gossiped pleasantly in the sun, while some of the bolder boys began to paddle about in the surf, and try to believe that the gulf stream had come in, and that it was summer again, and not only spring. in inland country places the barley was all in and springing, the meadows were all bush-harrowed, rolled, and laid up for hay; nay, in early places, brimful of grass, spangled with purple orchises, and in moist rich places golden with marsh marigold, over which the south-west wind passed pleasantly, bringing a sweet perfume of growing vegetation, which gave those who smelt it a tendency to lean against gates, and stiles, and such places, and think what a delicious season it was, and wish it were to last for ever. the young men began to slip away from work somewhat early of an evening, not (as now) to the parade ground, or the butts, but to take their turn at the wicket on the green, where sir john (our young landlord) was to be found in a scarlet flannel shirt, bowling away like a catapult, at all comers, till the second bell began to ring, and he had to dash off and dress. now lovers walking by moonlight in deep banked lanes began to notice how dark and broad the shadows grew, and to wait at the lane's end by the river, to listen to the nightingale, with his breast against the thorn, ranging on from height to height of melodious passion, petulant at his want of art, till he broke into one wild jubilant burst, and ceased, leaving night silent, save for the whispering of new-born insects, and the creeping sound of reviving vegetation. spring. the great renewal of the lease. the time when nature-worshippers made good resolutions, to be very often broken before the leaves fall. the time the country becomes once more habitable and agreeable. does it make any difference in the hundred miles of brick and mortar called london, save, in so far as it makes every reasonable christian pack up his portmanteau and fly to the green fields, and lover's lanes before-mentioned (though it takes two people for the latter sort of business)? why, yes; it makes a difference to london certainly, by bringing somewhere about , people, who have got sick of shooting and hunting through the winter months, swarming into the west end of it, and making it what is called full. i don't know that they are wrong after all, for london is a mighty pleasant place in the season (we don't call it spring on the paving-stones). at this time the windows of the great houses in the squares begin to be brilliant with flowers; and, under the awnings of the balconies, one sees women moving about in the shadow. now, all through the short night, one hears the ceaseless low rolling thunder of beautiful carriages, and in the daytime also the noise ceases not. all through the west end of the town there is a smell of flowers, of fresh-watered roads, and macassar oil; while at covent garden, the scent of the peaches and pine-apples begins to prevail over that of rotten cabbage-stalks. the fiddlers are all fiddling away at concert pitch for their lives, the actors are all acting their very hardest, and the men who look after the horses have never a minute to call their own, day or night. it is neither to dukes nor duchesses, to actors nor fiddlers, that we must turn our attention just now, but to a man who was sitting in a wheelbarrow, watching a tame jackdaw. the place was a london mews, behind one of the great squares--the time was afternoon. the weather was warm and sunny. all the proprietors of the horses were out riding or driving, and so the stables were empty, and the mews were quiet. this was about a week after charles's degradation, almost the first hour he had to himself in the daytime, and so he sat pondering on his unhappy lot. lord ballyroundtower's coachman's wife was hanging out the clothes. she was an irishwoman off the estate (his lordship's irish residences, i see, on referring to the peerage, are, "the grove," blarney, and "swatewathers," near avoca). when i say that she was hanging out the clothes, i am hardly correct, for she was only fixing the lines up to do so, and being of short stature, and having to reach was naturally showing her heels, and the jackdaw, perceiving this, began to hop stealthily across the yard. charles saw what was coming, and became deeply interested. he would not have spoken for his life. the jackdaw sidled up to her, and began digging into her tendon achilles with his hard bill with a force and rapidity which showed that he was fully aware of the fact, that the amusement, like most pleasant things, could not last long, and must therefore be made the most of. some women would have screamed and faced round at the first assault. not so our irish friend. she endured the anguish until she had succeeded in fastening the clothes-line round the post, and then she turned round on the jackdaw, who had fluttered away to a safe distance, and denounced him. "bad cess to ye, ye impident divvle, sure it's sathan's own sister's son, ye are, ye dirty prothestant, pecking at the hales of an honest woman, daughter of my lord's own man, corny o'brine, as was a dale bether nor them as sits on whalebarrows, and sets ye on too't--" (this was levelled at charles, so he politely took off his cap, and bowed). "though, god forgive me, there's some sitting on whalebarrows as should be sitting in drawing-rooms, may be (here the jackdaw raised one foot, and said 'jark'). get out, ye baste; don't ye hear me blessed lady's own bird swearing at ye, like a gentleman's bird as he is. a pretty dear." this was strictly true. lord ballyroundtower's brother, the honourable frederick mulligan, was a lieutenant in the navy. a short time before this, being on the australian station, and wishing to make his sister-in-law a handsome present, he had commissioned a sydney jew bird-dealer to get him a sulphur-crested cockatoo, price no object, but the best talker in the colony. the jew faithfully performed his behest; he got him the best talking cockatoo in the colony, and the hon. fred brought it home in triumph to his sister-in-law's drawing-room in belgrave square. the bird was a beautiful talker. there was no doubt about that. it had such an amazingly distinct enunciation. but then the bird was not always discreet. nay, to go further, the bird never _was_ discreet. he had been educated by a convict bullock-driver, and finished off by the sailors on board h.m.s. _actæon_; and really, you know, sometimes he did say things he ought not to have said. it was all very well pretending that you couldn't hear him, but it rendered conversation impossible. you were always in agony at what was to come next. one afternoon, a great many people were there, calling. old lady hainault was there. the bird was worse than ever. everybody tried to avoid a silence, but it came inexorably. that awful old woman, lady hainault, broke it by saying that she thought fred mulligan must have been giving the bird private lessons himself. after that, you know, it wouldn't do. fred might be angry, but the bird must go to the mews. so there the bird was, swearing dreadfully at the jackdaw. at last, her ladyship's pug-dog, who was staying with the coachman for medical treatment, got excited, bundled out of the house, and attacked the jackdaw. the jackdaw formed square to resist cavalry, and sent the dog howling into the house again quicker than he came out. after which the bird barked, and came and sat on the dunghill by charles. the mews itself, as i said, was very quiet, with a smell of stable, subdued by a fresh scent of sprinkled water; but at the upper end it joined a street leading from belgrave square towards the park, which was by no means quiet, and which smelt of geraniums and heliotropes. carriage after carriage went blazing past the end of the mews, along this street, like figures across the disk of a magic lanthorn. some had scarlet breeches, and some blue; and there were pink bonnets, and yellow bonnets, and magenta bonnets; and charles sat on the wheelbarrow by the dunghill, and looked at it all, perfectly contented. a stray dog lounged in out of the street. it was a cur dog--that any one might see. it was a dog which had bit its rope and run away, for the rope was round its neck now; and it was a thirsty dog, for it went up to the pump and licked the stones. charles went and pumped for it, and it drank. then, evidently considering that charles, by his act of good nature, had acquired authority over its person, and having tried to do without a master already, and having found it wouldn't do, it sat down beside charles, and declined to proceed any further. there was a public-house at the corner of the mews, where it joined the street; and on the other side of the street you could see one house, no. . the footman of no. was in the area, looking through the railings. a thirsty man came to the public-house on horseback, and drank a pot of beer at a draught, turning the pot upside down. it was too much for the footman, who disappeared. next came a butcher with a tray of meat, who turned into the area of no. , and left the gate open. after him came a blind man, led by a dog. the dog, instead of going straight on, turned down the area steps after the butcher. the blind man thought he was going round the corner. charles saw what would happen; but, before he had time to cry out, the blind man had plunged headlong down the area steps and disappeared, while from the bottom, as from the pit, arose the curses of the butcher. charles and others assisted the blind man up, gave him some beer, and sent him on his way. charles watched him. after he had gone a little way, he began striking spitefully at where he thought his dog was, with his stick. the dog was evidently used to this amusement, and dexterously avoided the blows. finding vertical blows of no avail, the blind man tried horizontal ones, and caught an old gentleman across the shins, making him drop his umbrella and catch up his leg. the blind man promptly asked an alms from him, and, not getting one, turned the corner; and charles saw him no more. the hot street and, beyond, the square, the dusty lilacs and laburnums, and the crimson hawthorns. what a day for a bathe! outside the gentle surf, with the sunny headlands right and left, and the moor sleeping quietly in the afternoon sunlight, and lundy, like a faint blue cloud on the atlantic horizon, and the old house----he was away at ravenshoe on a may afternoon. they say poets are never sane; but are they ever mad? never. even old cowper saved himself from actual madness by using his imagination. charles was no poet; but he was a good day-dreamer, and so now, instead of maddening himself in his squalid brick prison, he was away in the old bay, bathing and fishing, and wandering up the old stream, breast high among king-fern under the shadowy oaks. bricks and mortar, carriages and footmen, wheelbarrows and dunghills, all came back in one moment, and settled on his outward senses with a jar. for there was a rattle of horse's feet on the stones, and the clank of a sabre, and lieutenant hornby, of the th hussars (prince arthur's own), came branking into the yard, with two hundred pounds' worth of trappings on him, looking out for his servant. he was certainly a splendid fellow, and charles looked at him with a certain kind of pride, as on something that he had a share in. "come round to the front door, horton, and take my horse up to the barracks" (the queen had been to the station that morning, and his guard was over). charles walked beside him round into grosvenor place. he could not avoid stealing a glance up at the magnificent apparition beside him; and, as he did so, he met a pair of kind grey eyes looking down on him. "you mustn't sit and mope there, horton," said the lieutenant; "it never does to mope. i know it is infernally hard to help it, and of course you can't associate with servants, and that sort of thing, at first; but you will get used to it. if you think i don't know you are a gentleman, you are mistaken. i don't know who you are, and shall not try to find out. i'll lend you books or anything of that sort; but you mustn't brood over it. i can't stand seeing my fellows wretched, more especially a fellow like you." if it had been to save his life, charles couldn't say a word. he looked up at the lieutenant and nodded his head. the lieutenant understood him well enough, and said to himself-- "poor fellow!" so there arose between these two a feeling which lightened charles's servitude, and which, before the end came, had grown into a liking. charles's vengeance was not for hornby, for the injury did not come from him. his vengeance was reserved for another, and we shall see how he took it. chapter xxxiii. a glimpse of some old friends. hitherto i have been able to follow charles right on without leaving him for one instant: now, however, that he is reduced to sitting on a wheelbarrow in a stable-yard, we must see a little less of him. he is, of course, our principal object; but he has removed himself from the immediate sphere of all our other acquaintances, and so we must look up some of them, and see how far they, though absent, are acting on his destiny--nay, we must look up every one of them sooner or later, for there is not one who is not in some way concerned in his adventures past and future. by reason of her age, her sex, and her rank, my lady ascot claims our attention first. we left the dear old woman in a terrible taking on finding that charles had suddenly left the house and disappeared. her wrath gave way to tears, and her tears to memory. bitterly she blamed herself now for what seemed, years ago, such a harmless deceit. it was not too late. charles might be found; would come back, surely--would come back to his poor old aunt! he would never--hush! it won't do to think of that! lady ascot thought of a brilliant plan, and put it into immediate execution. she communicated with mr. scotland yard, the eminent ex-detective officer, forwarding a close description of charles, and a request that he might be found, alive or dead, immediately. her efforts were crowned with immediate and unlooked-for success. in a week's time the detective had discovered, not one charles ravenshoe, but three, from which her ladyship might take her choice. but the worst of it was that neither of the three was charles ravenshoe. there was a remarkable point of similarity between charles and them, certainly; and that point was that they were all three young gentlemen under a cloud, and had all three dark hair and prominent features. here the similarity ended. the first of the cases placed so promptly before her ladyship by inspector yard presented some startling features of similarity with that of charles. the young gentleman was from the west of england, had been at college somewhere, had been extravagant ("god bless him, poor dear! when lived a ravenshoe that wasn't?" thought lady ascot), had been crossed in love, the inspector believed (lady ascot thought she had got her fish), and was now in the coldbath fields prison, doing two years' hard labour for swindling, of which two months were yet to run. the inspector would let her ladyship know the day of his release. this could not be charles: and the next young gentleman offered to her notice was a worse shot than the other. he also was dark-haired; but here at once all resemblance ceased. this one had started in life with an ensigncy in the line. he had embezzled the mess funds, had been to california, had enlisted, deserted, and sold his kit, been a billiard-marker, had come into some property, had spent it, had enlisted again, had been imprisoned for a year and discharged--here lady ascot would read no more, but laid down the letter, saying, "pish!" but the inspector's cup was not yet full. the unhappy man was acting from uncertain information, he says. he affirmed, throughout all the long and acrimonious discussion which followed, that his only instructions were to find a young gentleman with dark hair and a hook nose. if this be the case, he may possibly be excused for catching a curly-headed little jew of sixteen, who was drinking himself to death in a public-house off regent street, and producing him as charles ravenshoe. his name was cohen, and he had stolen some money from his father and gone to the races. this was so utterly the wrong article, that lady ascot wrote a violent letter to the ex-inspector, of such an extreme character, that he replied by informing her ladyship that he had sent her letter to his lawyer. a very pretty quarrel followed, which i have not time to describe. no tidings of charles. he had hidden himself too effectually. so the old woman wept and watched--watched for her darling who came not, and for the ruin that she saw settling down upon her house like a dark cloud, that grew evermore darker. and little mary had packed up her boxes and passed out of the old house, with the hard, bitter world before her. father mackworth had met her in the hall, and had shaken hands with her in silence. he loved her, in his way, so much, that he cared not to say anything. cuthbert was outside, waiting to hand her to her carriage. when she was seated he said, "i shall write to you, mary, for i can't say all i would." and then he opened the door and kissed her affectionately; then the carriage went on, and before it entered the wood she had a glimpse of the grey old house, and cuthbert on the steps before the porch, bareheaded, waving his hand; then it was among the trees, and she had seen the last of him for ever; then she buried her face in her hands, and knew, for the first time, perhaps, how well she had loved him. she was going, as we know, to be nursery-governess to the orphan children of lord hainault's brother. she went straight to london to assume her charge. it was very late when she got to paddington. one of lord hainault's carriages was waiting for her, and she was whirled through "the season" to grosvenor square. then she had to walk alone into the great lighted hall, with the servants standing right and left, and looking at nothing, as well-bred servants are bound to do. she wished for a moment that the poor little governess had been allowed to come in a cab. the groom of the chambers informed her that her ladyship had gone out, and would not be home till late; that his lordship was dressing; and that dinner was ready in miss corby's room whenever she pleased. so she went up. she did not eat much dinner; the steward's-room boy in attendance had his foolish heart moved to pity by seeing how poor an appetite she had, when he thought what he could have done in that line too. presently she asked the lad where was the nursery. the second door to the right. when all was quiet, she opened her door, and thought she would go and see the children asleep. at that moment the nursery-door opened, and a tall, handsome, quiet-looking man came out. it was lord hainault; she had seen him before. "i like this," said she, as she drew back. "it was kind of him to go and see his brother's children before he went out;" and so she went into the nursery. an old nurse was sitting by the fire sewing. the two elder children were asleep; but the youngest, an audacious young sinner of three, had refused to do anything of the kind until the cat came to bed with him. the nursery cat being at that time out a-walking on the leads, the nurserymaid had been despatched to borrow one from the kitchen. at this state of affairs mary entered. the nurse rose and curtsied, and the rebel clambered on her knee, and took her into his confidence. he told her that that day, while walking in the square, he had seen a chimney-sweep; that he had called to gus and flora to come and look; that gus had been in time and seen him go round the corner, but that flora had come too late, and cried, and so gus had lent her his hoop, and she had left off, &c., &c. after a time he requested to be allowed to say his prayers to her: to which the nurse objected on the theological ground that he had said them twice already that evening, which was once more than was usually allowed. soon after this the little head lay heavy on mary's arm, and the little hand loosed its hold on hers, and the child was asleep. she left the nursery with a lightened heart; but, nevertheless, she cried herself to sleep. "i wonder, shall i like lady hainault; charles used to. but she is very proud, i believe. i cannot remember much of her.--how those carriages growl and roll, almost like the sea at dear old ravenshoe." then, after a time, she slept. there was a light in her eyes, not of dawn, which woke her. a tall, handsome woman, in silk and jewels, came and knelt beside her and kissed her; and said that, now her old home was broken up, she must make one there, and be a sister to her, and many other kind words of the same sort. it was lady hainault (the long burton girl, as madam adelaide called her) come home from her last party; and in such kind keeping i think we may leave little mary for the present. chapter xxxiv. in which fresh mischief is brewed. charles's duties were light enough; he often wished they had been heavier. there were such long idle periods left for thinking and brooding. he rather wondered at first why he was not more employed. he never was in attendance on the lieutenant, save in the daytime. one of the young men under him drove the brougham, and was out all night and in bed all day; and the other was a mere stable-lad from the country. charles's duty consisted almost entirely in dressing himself about two o'clock, and loitering about town after his master; and, after he had been at this work about a fortnight, it seemed to him as if he had been at it a year or more. charles soon found out all he cared to know about the lieutenant. he was the only son and heir of an eminent solicitor, lately deceased, who had put him into the splendid regiment to which he belonged in order to get him into good society. the young fellow had done well enough in that way. he was amazingly rich, amazingly handsome, and passionately fond of his profession, at which he really worked hard; but he was terribly fast. charles soon found that out; and the first object which he placed before himself, when he began to awaken from the first dead torpor which came on him after his fall, was to gain influence with him and save him from ruin. "he is burning the candle at both ends," said charles. "he is too good to go to the deuce. in time, if i am careful, he may listen to me." and, indeed, it seemed probable. from the very first, hornby had treated charles with great respect and consideration. hornby knew he was a gentleman. one morning, before charles had been many days with him, the brougham had not come into the mews till seven o'clock; and charles, going to his lodgings at eight, had found him in uniform, bolting a cup of coffee before going on duty. there was a great pile of money, sovereigns and notes, on the dressing-table, and he caught charles looking at it. hornby laughed. "what are you looking at with that solemn face of yours?" said he. "nothing, sir," said charles. "you are looking at that money," said hornby; "and you are thinking that it would be as well if i didn't stay out all night playing--eh?" "i might have thought so, sir," said charles. "i did think so." "quite right, too. some day i will leave off, perhaps." and then he rattled out of the room, and charles watched him riding down the street, all blue, and scarlet, and gold, a brave figure, with the world at his feet. "there is time yet," said charles. the first time charles made his appearance in livery in the street he felt horribly guilty. he was in continual terror lest he should meet some one he knew; but, after a time, when he found that day after day he could walk about and see never a familiar face, he grew bolder. he wished sometimes he could see some one he knew from a distance, so as not to be recognised--it was so terrible lonely. day after day he saw the crowds pass him in the street, and recognised no one. in old times, when he used to come to london on a raid from oxford, he fancied he used to recognise an acquaintance at every step; but now, day after day went on, and he saw no one he knew. the world had become to him like a long uneasy dream of strange faces. after a very few days of his new life, there began to grow on him a desire to hear of those he had left so abruptly; a desire which was at first mere curiosity, but which soon developed into a yearning regret. at first, after a week or so, he began idly wondering where they all were, and what they thought of his disappearance; and at this time, perhaps, he may have felt a little conceited in thinking how he occupied their thoughts, and of what importance he had made himself by his sudden disappearance. but his curiosity and vanity soon wore away, and were succeeded by a deep gnawing desire to hear something of them all--to catch hold of some little thread, however thin, which should connect him with his past life, and with those he had loved so well. he would have died in his obstinacy sooner than move one inch towards his object; but every day, as he rode about the town, dressed in the livery of servitude, which he tried to think was his heritage, and yet of which he was ashamed, he stared hither and thither at the passing faces, trying to find one, were it only that of the meanest servant, which should connect him with the past. at last, and before long, he saw some one. one afternoon he was under orders to attend his master on horseback, as usual. after lunch, hornby came out, beautifully dressed, handsome and happy, and rode up grosvenor place into the park. at the entrance to rotten row he joined an old gentleman and his two daughters, and they rode together, chatting pleasantly. charles rode behind with the other groom, who talked to him about the coming derby, and would have betted against haphazard at the current odds. they rode up and down the row twice, and then hornby, calling charles, gave him his horse and walked about by the serpentine, talking to every one, and getting a kindly welcome from great and small, for the son of a great attorney, with wealth, manners, and person, may get into very good society, if he is worth it; or, quite possibly, if he isn't. then hornby and charles left the park, and, coming down grosvenor place, passed into pall mall. here hornby went into a club, and left charles waiting in the street with his horse half an hour or more. then he mounted again, and rode up st. james's street, into piccadilly. he turned to the left; and, at the bottom of the hill, not far from half-moon street, he went into a private house, and, giving charles his reins, told him to wait for him; and so charles waited there, in the afternoon sun, watching what went by. it was a sleepy afternoon, and the horses stood quiet, and charles was a contented fellow, and he rather liked dozing there and watching the world go by. there is plenty to see in piccadilly on an afternoon in the season, even for a passer-by; but, sitting on a quiet horse, with nothing to do or think about, one can see it all better. and charles had some humour in him, and so he was amused at what he saw, and would have sat there an hour or more without impatience. opposite to him was a great bonnet-shop, and in front of it was an orange-woman. a grand carriage dashed up to the bonnet-shop, so that he had to move his horses, and the orange-woman had to get out of the way. two young ladies got out of the carriage, went in, and (as he believes) bought bonnets, leaving a third, and older one, sitting in a back seat, who nursed a pug dog, with a blue riband. neither the coachman nor footman belonging to the carriage seemed to mind this lady. the footman thought he would like some oranges; so he went to the orange-woman. the orange-woman was irish, for her speech bewrayed her, and the footman was from the county clare; so those two instantly began comparing notes about those delectable regions, to such purpose, that the two ladies, having, let us hope, suited themselves in the bonnet way, had to open their own carriage-door and get in, before the footman was recalled to a sense of his duties--after which he shut the door, and they drove away. then there came by a blind man. it was not the same blind man that charles saw fall down the area, because that blind man's dog was a brown one, with a curly tail, and this one's dog was black with no tail at all. moreover, the present dog carried a basket, which the other one did not. otherwise they were so much alike (all blind men are), that charles might have mistaken one for the other. this blind man met with no such serious accident as the other, either. only, turning into the public-house at the corner, opposite mr. hope's, the dog lagged behind, and, the swing-doors closing between him and his master, charles saw him pulled through by his chain, and nearly throttled. next there came by lord palmerston, with his umbrella on his shoulder, walking airily arm-in-arm with lord john russell. they were talking together; and, as they passed, charles heard lord palmerston say that it was much warmer on this side of the street than on the other. with which proposition lord john russell appeared to agree; and so they passed on westward. after this there came by three prize fighters, arm-in-arm; each of them had a white hat and a cigar; two had white bull-dogs, and one a black-and-tan terrier. they made a left wheel, and looked at charles and his horses, and then they made a right wheel, and looked into the bonnet-shop; after which they went into the public-house into which the blind man had gone before; and, from the noise which immediately arose from inside, charles came to the conclusion that the two white bull-dogs and the black-and-tan terrier had set upon the blind man's dog, and touzled him. after the prize-fighters came mr. gladstone, walking very fast. a large newfoundland dog with a walking-stick in his mouth blundered up against him, and nearly threw him down. before he got under way again, the irish orange-woman bore down on him, and faced him with three oranges in each hand, offering them for sale. did she know, with the sagacity of her nation, that he was then on his way to the house, to make a great statement, and that he would want oranges? i cannot say. he probably got his oranges at bellamy's for he bought none of her. after him came a quantity of indifferent people; and then charles's heart beat high--for here was some one coming whom he knew with a vengeance. lord welter, walking calmly down the street, with his big chest thrown out, and his broad, stupid face in moody repose. he was thinking. he came so close to charles that, stepping aside to avoid a passer-by, he whitened the shoulder of his coat against the pipe-clay on charles's knee; then he stood stock still within six inches of him, but looking the other way towards the houses. he pulled off one of his gloves and bit his nails. though his back was towards charles, still charles knew well what expression was on his face as he did that. the old cruel lowering of the eyebrows, and pinching in of the lips was there, he knew. the same expression as that which marston remarked the time he quarrelled with cuthbert once at ravenshoe--mischief! he went into the house where charles's master, hornby, was; and charles sat and wondered. presently there came out on to the balcony above, six or seven well-dressed young men, who lounged with their elbows on the red cushions which were fixed to the railing, and talked, looking at the people in the street. lord welter and lieutenant hornby were together at the end. there was no scowl on welter's face now; he was making himself agreeable. charles watched him and hornby; the conversation between them got eager, and they seemed to make an appointment. after that they parted, and hornby came down stairs and got on his horse. they rode very slowly home. hornby bowed right and left to the people he knew but seemed absent. when charles took his horse at the door, he said suddenly to charles-- "i have been talking to a man who knows something of you, i believe--lord welter." "did you mention me to him, sir?" "no; i didn't think of it." "you would do me a great kindness if you would not do so, sir." "why," said hornby, looking suddenly up. "i am sorry i cannot enter into particulars, sir; but, if i thought he would know where i was, i should at once quit your service and try to lose myself once more." "lose yourself?" "yes, sir." "h'm!" said hornby, thoughtfully. "well, i know there is something about you which i don't understand. i ain't sure it is any business of mine though. i will say nothing. you are not a man to chatter about anything you see. mind you don't. you see how i trust you." and so he went in, and charles went round to the stable. "is the brougham going out to night?" he asked of his fellow-servant. "ordered at ten," said the man. "night-work again, i expect, i wanted to get out too. consume the darned card-playing. was you going anywhere to-night?" "nowhere," said charles. "it's a beautiful evening," said the man. "if you should by chance saunter up towards grosvenor square, and could leave a note for me, i should thank you very much; upon my soul i should." i don't think charles ever hesitated at doing a good-natured action in his life. a request to him was like a command. it came as natural to him now to take a dirty, scrawled love-letter from a groom to a scullery-maid as in old times it did to lend a man fifty pounds. he said at once he would go with great pleasure. the man (a surly fellow enough at ordinary times) thanked him heartily; and, when charles had got the letter, he sauntered away in that direction slowly, thinking of many things. "by jove," he said to himself, "my scheme of hiding does not seem to be very successful. little more than a fortnight gone, and i am thrown against welter. what a strange thing!" it was still early in the afternoon--seven o'clock, or thereabouts--and he was opposite tattersall's. a mail phaeton, with a pair of splendid horses, attracted his attention and diverted his thoughts. he turned down. two eminent men on the turf walked past him up the nearly empty yard, and he heard one say to the other-- "ascot will run to win; that i know. he _must_. if haphazard can stay, he is safe." to which the other said, "pish!" and they passed on. "there they are again," said charles, as he turned back. "the very birds of the air are talking about them. it gets interesting, though--if anything could ever be interesting again." st. george's hospital. at the door was a gaudily-dressed, handsome young woman, who was asking the porter could she see some one inside. no. the visiting hours were over. she stood for a few minutes on the steps, impatiently biting her nails, and then fluttered down the street. what made him think of his sister ellen? she must be found. that was the only object in the world, so to speak. there was nothing to be done, only to wait and watch. "i shall find her some day, in god's good time." the world had just found out that it was hungry, and was beginning to tear about in wheeled vehicles to its neighbours' houses to dinner. as the carriages passed charles, he could catch glimpses of handsome girls, all a mass of white muslin, swan's-down fans, and fal-lals, going to begin their night's work; of stiff dandies, in white ties, yawning already; of old ladies in jewels, and old gentlemen buttoned up across the chest, going, as one might say, to see fair play among the young people. and then our philosophical charles pleased himself by picturing how, in two months more, the old gentlemen would be among their turnips, the old ladies among their flowers and poor folks, the dandies creeping, creeping, weary hours through the heather, till the last maddening moment when the big stag was full in view, sixty yards off; and (prettiest thought of all), how the girls, with their thick shoes on, would be gossiping with old goody blake and harry gill, or romping with the village school-children on the lawn. right, old charles, with all but the dandies! for now the apotheosis of dandies was approaching. the time was coming when so many of them should disappear into that black thunder-cloud to the south, and be seen no more in park or club, in heather or stubble. but, in that same year, the london season went on much as usual; only folks talked of war, and the french were more popular than they are now. and through the din and hubbub poor charles passed on like a lost sheep, and left his fellow-servant's note at an area in grosvenor square. "and which," said he to the man who took it, with promises of instant delivery, "is my lord hainault's house, now, for instance?" lord hainault's house was the other side of the square; number something. charles thanked the man, and went across. when he had made it out he leant his back against the railings of the square, and watched it. the carriage was at the door. the coachman, seeing a handsomely-dressed groom leaning against the rails, called to him to come over and alter some strap or another. charles ran over and helped him. charles supposed her ladyship was going out to dinner. yes, her ladyship was now coming out. and, almost before charles had time to move out of the way, out she came, with her head in the air, more beautiful than ever, and drove away. he went back to his post from mere idleness. he wondered whether mary had come there yet or not. he had half a mind to inquire, but was afraid of being seen. he still leant against the railings of the gate, as i said, in mere idleness, when he heard the sound of children's voices in the square behind. "that woman," said a child's voice, "was a gipsy-woman. i looked through the rails, and i said, 'hallo, ma'am, what are you doing there?' and she asked me for a penny. and i said i couldn't give her anything, for i had given three halfpence to the punch and judy, and i shouldn't have any more money till next saturday, which was quite true, flora, as you know." "but, gus," said another child's voice, "if she had been a gipsy-woman she would have tried to steal you, and make you beg in the streets; or else she would have told your fortune in coffee-grounds. i don't think she was a real gipsy." "i should like to have my fortune told in the coffee-grounds," said gus; "but, if she had tried to steal me, i should have kicked her in the stomach. there is a groom outside there; let us ask him. grooms go to the races, and see heaps of gipsies! i say, sir." charles turned. a child's voice was always music to him. he had such a look on his face as he turned to them, that the children had his confidence in an instant. the gipsy question was laid before him instantly, by both gus and flora, with immense volubility, and he was just going to give an oracular opinion through the railings, when a voice--a low, gentle voice, which made him start--came from close by. "gus and flora, my dears, the dew is falling. let us go in." "there is miss corby," said gus. "let us run to her." they raced to mary. soon after the three came to the gate, laughing, and passed close to him. the children were clinging to her skirt and talking merrily. they formed a pretty little group as they went across the street, and mary's merry little laugh comforted him. "she is happy there," he said; "best as it is!" once, when half-way across the street, she turned and looked towards him, before he had time to turn away. he saw that she did not dream of his being there, and went on. and so charles sauntered home through the pleasant summer evening, saying to himself, "i think she is happy; i am glad she laughed." "three meetings in one day! i shall be found out, if i don't mind. i must be very careful." chapter xxxv. in which an entirely new, and, as will be seen hereafter, a most important character is introduced. the servants, i mean the stable servants, who lived in the mews where charles did, had a club; and, a night or two after he had seen mary in the square, he was elected a member of it. the duke's coachman, a wiry, grey, stern-looking, elderly man, waited upon him and informed him of the fact. he said that such a course was very unusual--in fact, without precedent. men, he said, were seldom elected to the club until they were known to have been in good service for some years; but he (coachman) had the ear of the club pretty much, and had brought him in triumphant. he added that he could see through a brick wall as well as most men, and that when he see a _gentleman_ dressed in a livery, moping and brooding about the mews, he had said to himself that he wanted a little company, such as it was, to cheer him up, and so he had requested the club, &c.; and the club had done as he told them. "now this is confoundedly kind of you," said charles; "but i am not a gentleman; i am a gamekeeper's son." "i suppose you can read greek, now, can't you?" said the coachman. charles was obliged to confess he could. "of course," said the coachman; "all gamekeepers' sons is forced to learn greek, in order as they may slang the poachers in an unknown tongue. fiddle-dedee! i know all about it; least-wise, guess. come along with me; why, i've got sons as old as you. come along." "are they in service?" said charles, by way of something to say. "two of 'em are, but one's in the army." "indeed!" said charles, with more interest. "ay; he is in your governor's regiment." "does he like it?" said charles. "i should like to know him." "like it?--don't he?" said the coachman. "see what society he gets into. i suppose there ain't no gentlemen's sons troopers in that regiment, eh? oh dear no. don't for a moment suppose it, young man. not at all." charles was very much interested by this news. he made up his mind there and then that he would enlist immediately. but he didn't; he only thought about it. charles found that the club was composed of about a dozen coachmen and superior pad-grooms. they were very civil to him, and to one another. there was nothing to laugh at. there was nothing that could be tortured into ridicule. they talked about their horses and their business quite naturally. there was an air of kindly fellowship, and a desire for mutual assistance among them, which, at times, charles had not noticed at the university. one man sang a song, and sang it very prettily, too, about stag-hunting. he had got as far as-- "as every breath with sobs he drew, the labouring buck strained full in view," when the door opened, and an oldish groom came in. the song was not much attended to now. when the singer had finished, the others applauded him, but impatiently; and then there was a general exclamation of "well?" "i've just come down from the corner. there has been a regular run against haphazard, and no one knows why. something wrong with the horse, i suppose, because there's been no run on any other in particular, only against him." "was lord ascot there?" said some one. "ah, that he was. wouldn't bet though, even at the long odds. said he'd got every sixpence he was worth on the horse, and would stand where he was; and that's true, they say. and master says, likewise, that lord welter would have taken 'em, but that his father stopped him." "that looks queerish," said some one else. "ay, and wasn't there a jolly row, too?" "who with?" asked several. "lord welter and lord hainault. it happened outside, close to me. lord hainault was walking across the yard, and lord welter came up to him and said, 'how d'ye do, hainault?' and lord hainault turned round and said, quite quiet, 'welter, you are a scoundrel!' and lord welter said, 'hainault, you are out of your senses;' but he turned pale, too, and he looked--lord! i shouldn't like to have been before him--and lord hainault says, 'you know what i mean;' and lord welter says, 'no, i don't; but, by gad, you shall tell me;' and then the other says, as steady as a rock, 'i'll tell you. you are a man that one daren't leave a woman alone with. where's that casterton girl? where's adelaide summers? neither a friend's house, nor your own father's house, is any protection for a woman against you.' 'gad,' says lord welter, 'you were pretty sweet on the last-named yourself, once on a time.'" "well!" said some one, "and what did lord hainault say?" "he said, 'you are a liar and a scoundrel, welter.' and then lord welter came at him; but lord ascot came between them, shaking like anything, and says he, 'hainault, go away, for god's sake; you don't know what you are saying.--welter, be silent.' but they made no more of he than----" (here our friend was at a loss for a simile). "but how did it end?" asked charles. "well," said the speaker, "general mainwaring came up, and laid his hand on lord welter's shoulder, and took him off pretty quiet. and that's all i know about it." it was clearly all. charles rose to go, and walked by himself from street to street, thinking. suppose he _was_ to be thrown against lord welter, how should he act? what should he say? truly it was a puzzling question. the anomaly of his position was never put before him more strikingly than now. what could he say? what could he do? after the first shock, the thought of adelaide's unfaithfulness was not so terrible as on the first day or two; many little unamiable traits of character, vanity, selfishness, and so on, unnoticed before, began to come forth in somewhat startling relief. anger, indignation, and love, all three jumbled up together, each one by turns in the ascendant, were the frames of mind in which charles found himself when he began thinking about her. one moment he was saying to himself, "how beautiful she was!" and the next, "she was as treacherous as a tiger; she never could have cared for me." but, when he came to think of welter, his anger overmastered everything, and he would clench his teeth as he walked along, and for a few moments feel the blood rushing to his head and singing in his ears. let us hope that lord welter will not come across him while he is in that mood, or there will be mischief. but his anger was soon over. he had just had one of these fits of anger as he walked along; and he was, like a good fellow, trying to conquer it, by thinking of lord welter as he was as a boy, and before he was a villain, when he came before st. peter's church, in eaton square, and stopped to look at some fine horses which were coming out of salter's. at the east end of st. peter's church there is a piece of bare white wall in a corner, and in front of the wall was a little shoeblack. he was not one of the regular brigade, with a red shirt, but an "arab" of the first water. he might have been seven or eight years old, but was small. his whole dress consisted of two garments; a ragged shirt, with no buttons, and half of one sleeve gone, and a ragged pair of trousers, which, small as he was, were too small for him, and barely reached below his knees. his feet and head were bare; and under a wild, tangled shock of hair looked a pretty, dirty, roguish face, with a pair of grey, twinkling eyes, which was amazingly comical. charles stopped, watching him, and, as he did so, felt what we have most of us felt, i dare say--that, at certain times of vexation and anger, the company and conversation of children is the best thing for us. the little man was playing at fives against the bare wall, with such tremendous energy, that he did not notice that charles had stopped, and was looking at him. every nerve in his wiry, lean little body was braced up to the game; his heart and soul were as deeply enlisted in it, as though he were captain of the eleven, or stroke of the eight. he had no ball to play with, but he played with a brass button. the button flew hither and thither, being so irregular in shape, and the boy dashed after it like lightning. at last, after he had kept up five-and-twenty or so, the button flew over his head, and lighted at charles's feet. as the boy turned to get it, his eyes met charles's, and he stopped, parting the long hair from his forehead, and gazing on him, till the beautiful little face--beautiful through dirt and ignorance and neglect--lit up with a smile, as charles looked at him, with the kind, honest old expression. and so began their acquaintance, almost comically at first. charles don't care to talk much about that boy now. if he ever does, it is to recall his comical, humorous sayings and doings in the first part of their strange friendship. he never speaks of the end, even to me. the boy stood smiling at him, as i said, holding his long hair out of his eyes; and charles looked on him and laughed, and forgot all about welter and the rest of them at once. "i want my boots cleaned," he said. the boy said, "i can't clean they dratted top-boots. i cleaned a groom's boots a toosday, and he punched my block because i blacked the tops. where did that button go?" and charles said, "you can clean the lower part of my boots, and do no harm. your button is here against the lamp-post." the boy picked it up, and got his apparatus ready. but, before he began, he looked up in charles's face, as if he was going to speak; then he began vigorously, but in half a minute looked up again, and stopped. charles saw that the boy liked him, and wanted to talk to him; so he began, severely-- "how came you to be playing fives with a brass button, eh?" the boy struck work at once, and answered, "i ain't got no ball." "if you begin knocking stamped pieces of metal about in the street," continued charles, "you will come to chuck-farthing, and from chuck-farthing to the gallows is a very short step indeed, i can assure you." the boy did not seem to know whether charles was joking or not. he cast a quick glance up at his face; but, seeing no sign of a smile there, he spat on one of his brushes, and said-- "not if you don't cheat, it aint." charles suffered the penalty, which usually follows on talking nonsense, of finding himself in a dilemma; so he said imperiously-- "i shall buy you a ball to-morrow; i am not going to have you knocking buttons about against people's walls in broad daylight, like that." it was the first time that the boy had ever heard nonsense talked in his life. it was a new sensation. he gave a sharp look up into charles's face again, and then went on with his work. "where do you live, my little manikin?" said charles directly, in that quiet pleasant voice i know so well. the boy did not look up this time. it was not very often, possibly, that he got spoken to so kindly by his patrons; he worked away, and answered that he lived in marquis court, in southwark. "why do you come so far, then?" asked charles. the boy told him why he plodded so wearily, day after day, over here in the west-end. it was for family reasons, into which i must not go too closely. somebody, it appeared, still came home, now and then, just once in a way, to see her mother, and to visit the den where she was bred; and there was still left one who would wait for her, week after week--still one pair of childish feet, bare and dirty, that would patter back beside her--still one childish voice that would prattle with her, on her way to her hideous home, and call her sister. "have you any brothers?" five altogether. jim was gone for a sojer, it appeared, and nipper was sent over the water. harry was on the cross-- "on the cross?" said charles. "ah!" the boy said, "he goes out cly-faking, and such. he's a prig, and a smart one, too. he's fly, is harry." "but what is cly-faking?" said charles. "why a-prigging of wipes, and sneeze-boxes, and ridicules, and such." charles was not so ignorant of slang as not to understand what his little friend meant now. he said-- "but _you_ are not a thief, are you?" the boy looked up at him frankly and honestly, and said-- "lord bless you, no! i shouldn't make no hand of that. i ain't brave enough for that!" he gave the boy twopence, and gave orders that one penny was to be spent in a ball. and then he sauntered listlessly away--every day more listless, and not three weeks gone yet. his mind returned to this child very often. he found himself thinking more about the little rogue than he could explain. the strange babble of the child, prattling so innocently, and, as he thought, so prettily, about vice, and crime, and misery; about one brother transported, one a thief--and you see he could love his sister even to the very end of it all. strange babble indeed from a child's lips. he thought of it again and again, and then, dressing himself plainly, he went up to grosvenor square, where mary would be walking with lord charles herries's children. he wanted to hear _them_ talk. he was right in his calculations; the children were there. all three of them this time; and mary was there too. they were close to the rails, and he leant his back on them, and heard every word. "miss corby," said gus, "if lady ascot is such a good woman, she will go to heaven when she dies?" "yes, indeed, my dear," said mary. "and, when grandma dies, will she go to heaven, too?" said the artful gus, knowing as well as possible that old lady hainault and lady ascot were deadly enemies. "i hope so, my dear," said mary. "but does lady ascot hope so? do you think grandma would be happy if----" it became high time to stop master gus, who was getting on too fast. mary having bowled him out, miss flora had an innings. "when i grow up," said flora, "i shall wear knee-breeches and top-boots, and a white bull-dog, and a long clay pipe, and i shall drive into henley on a market-day and put up at the catherine wheel." mary had breath enough left to ask why. "because farmer thompson at casterton dresses like that, and he is such a dear old darling. he gives us strawberries and cream; and in his garden are gooseberries and peacocks; and the peacock's wives don't spread out their tails like their husbands do--the foolish things. now, when i am married----" gus was rude enough to interrupt her here. he remarked-- "when archy goes to heaven, he'll want the cat to come to bed with him; and, if he can't get her, there'll be a pretty noise." "my dears," said mary, "you must not talk anymore nonsense; i can't permit it." "but, my dear miss corby," said flora, "we haven't been talking nonsense, have we? i told you the truth about farmer thompson." "i know what she means," said gus; "we have been saying what came into our heads, and it vexes her. it is all nonsense, you know, about your wearing breeches and spreading out your tail like a peacock; we mustn't vex her." flora didn't answer gus, but answered mary by climbing on her knee and kissing her. "tell us a story, dear," said gus. "what shall i tell?" said mary. "tell us about ravenshoe," said flora; "tell us about the fishermen, and the priest that walked about like a ghost in the dark passages; and about cuthbert ravenshoe, who was always saying his prayers; and about the other one who won the boat race." "which one?" said silly mary. "why, the other; the one you like best. what was his name?" "charles!" how quietly and softly she said it! the word left her lips like a deep sigh. one who heard it was a gentleman still. he had heard enough, perhaps too much, and walked away towards the stable and the public-house, leaving her in the gathering gloom of the summer's evening under the red hawthorns, and laburnums, among the children. and, as he walked away, he thought of the night he left ravenshoe, when the little figure was standing in the hall all alone. "she might have loved me, and i her," he said, "if the world were not out of joint; god grant it may not be so!" and although he said, "god grant that she may not," he really wished it had been so; and from this very time mary began to take adelaide's place in his heart. not that he was capable of falling in love with any woman at this time. he says he was crazy, and i believe him to a certain extent. it was a remarkably lucky thing for him that he had so diligently neglected his education. if he had not, and had found himself in his present position, with three or four times more of intellectual cravings to be satisfied, he would have gone mad, or taken to drinking. i, who write, have seen the thing happen. but, before the crash came, i have seen charles patiently spending the morning cutting gun-wads from an old hat, in preference to going to his books. it was this interest in trifles which saved him just now. he could think at times, and had had education enough to think logically; but his brain was not so active but that he could cut gun-wads for an hour or so; though his friend william could cut one-third more gun-wads out of an old hat than he. he was thinking now, in his way, about these children--about gus and flora on the one hand, and the little shoeblack on the other. both so innocent and pretty, and yet so different. he had taken himself from the one world and thrown himself into the other. there were two worlds and two standards--gentlemen and non-gentlemen. the "lower orders" did not seem to be so particular about the character of their immediate relations as the upper. that was well, for he belonged to the former now, and had a sister. if one of lord charles herries's children had gone wrong, gus and flora would never have talked of him or her to a stranger. he must learn the secret of this armour which made the poor so invulnerable. he must go and talk to the little shoeblack. he thought that was the reason why he went to look after the little rogue next day; but that was not the real reason. the reason was, that he had found a friend in a lower grade than himself, who would admire him and look up to him. the first friend of that sort he had made since his fall. what that friend accidentally saved him from, we shall see. chapter xxxvi. the derby. hornby was lying on his back on the sofa in the window and looking out. he had sent for charles, and charles was standing beside him; but he had not noticed him yet. in a minute charles said, "you sent for me, sir." hornby turned sharply round. "by jove, yes," he said, looking straight at him; "lord welter is married." charles did not move a muscle, and hornby looked disappointed. charles only said-- "may i ask who she is, sir?" "she is a miss summers. do you know anything of her?" charles knew miss summers quite well by sight--had attended her while riding, in fact. a statement which, though strictly true, misled hornby more than fifty lies. "handsome?" "remarkably so. probably the handsomest (he was going to say 'girl,' but said 'lady') i ever saw in my life." "h'm!" and he sat silent a moment, and gave charles time to think. "i am glad he has married her, and before to-morrow, too." "well," said hornby again, "we shall go down in the drag to-morrow. ferrers will drive, he says. i suppose he had better; he drives better than i. make the other two lads come in livery, but come in black trousers yourself. wear your red waistcoat; you can button your coat over it, if it is necessary." "shall i wear my cockade, sir?" "yes; that won't matter. can you fight?" charles said to himself, "i suppose we shall be in queer street to-morrow, then;" but he rather liked the idea. "i used to like it," said he aloud. "i don't think i care about it now. last year, at oxford, i and three other university men, three pauls and a brazenose, had a noble stramash on folly-bridge. that is the last fighting i have seen." "what college were you at?" said hornby, looking out at the window; "brazenose?" "paul's," said charles without thinking. "then you are the man welter was telling me about--charles ravenshoe." charles saw it was no good to fence, and said, "yes." "by jove," said hornby, "yours is a sad story. you must have ridden out with lady welter more than once, i take it." "are you going to say anything to lord welter, sir?" "not i. i like you too well to lose you. you will stick by me, won't you?" "i will," said charles, "to the death. but oh, hornby, for any sake mind those d----d bones!" "i will. but don't be an ass: i don't play half as much as you think." "you are playing with welter now, sir; are you not?" "you are a pretty dutiful sort of a groom, i don't think," said hornby, looking round and laughing good-naturedly. "what the dickens do you mean by cross-questioning me like that? yes, i am. there--and for a noble purpose too." charles said no more, but was well pleased enough. if hornby had only given him a little more of his confidence! "i suppose," said hornby, "if haphazard don't win to-morrow, lord ascot will be a beggar." "they say," said charles, "that he has backed his own horse through thick and thin, sir. it is inconceivable folly; but things could not be worse at ranford, and he stands to win some sum on the horse, as they say, which would put everything right; and the horse is a favourite." "favourites never win," said hornby; "and i don't think that lord ascot has so much on him as they say." so the next day they went to the derby. sir robert ferrer, of the guards drove (this is inkerman bob, and he has got a patent cork leg now, and a victoria cross, and goes a-shooting on a grey cob); and there was red maclean, on furlough from india; and there was lord swansea, youngest of existing guardsmen, who blew a horn, and didn't blow it at all well; and there were two of lieutenant hornby's brother-officers, besides the lieutenant: and behind, with hornby's two grooms and our own charles, dressed in sober black, was little dick ferrers, of the home office, who carried a peashooter, and pea-shot the noses of the leading horses of a dragful of plungers, which followed them--which thing, had he been in the army, he wouldn't have dared to do. and the plungers swore, and the dust flew, and the wind blew, and sir robert drove, and charles laughed, and lord swansea gave them a little music, and away they went to the derby. when they came on the course, charles and his fellow-servants had enough to do to get the horses out and see after them. after nearly an hour's absence he got back to the drag, and began to look about him. the plungers had drawn up behind them, and were lolling about. before them was a family party--a fine elderly gentleman, a noble elderly lady, and two uncommonly pretty girls; and they were enjoying themselves. they were too well bred to make a noise; but there was a subdued babbling sound of laughter in that carriage, which was better music than that of a little impish german who, catching charles's eye, played the accordion and waltzed before him, as did salome before herod, but with a different effect. the carriage beyond that was a very handsome one, and in it sat a lady most beautifully dressed, alone. by the step of the carriage were a crowd of men--hornby, hornby's brother-officers, sir robert ferrers, and even little dick ferrers. nay, there was a plunger there; and they were all talking and laughing at the top of their voices. charles, goose as he was, used to be very fond of dickens's novels. he used to say that almost everywhere in those novels you came across a sketch, may be unconnected with the story, as bold and true and beautiful as those chalk sketches of raphael in the taylor--scratches which, when once seen, you could never forget any more. and, as he looked at that lady in the carriage, he was reminded of one of dickens's master-pieces in that way, out of the "old curiosity shop"--of a lady sitting in a carriage all alone at the races, who bought nell's poor flowers, and bade her go home and stay there, for god's sake. her back was towards him, of course; yet he guessed she was beautiful. "she is a fast woman, god help her!" said he; and he determined to go and look at her. he sauntered past the carriage, and turned to look at her. it was adelaide. as faultlessly beautiful as ever, but ah--how changed! the winning petulance, so charming in other days, was gone from that face for ever. hard, stern, proud, defiant, she sat there upright, alone. fallen from the society of all women of her own rank, she knew--who better?--that not one of those men chattering around her would have borne to see her in the company of his sister, viscountess though she were, countess and mother of earls as she would be. they laughed, and lounged, and joked before her; and she tolerated them, and cast her gibes hither and thither among them, bitterly and contemptuously. it was her first appearance in the world. she had been married three days. not a woman would speak to her: lord welter had coarsely told her so that morning; and bitterness and hatred were in her heart. it was for this she had bartered honour and good fame. she had got her title, flung to her as a bone to a dog by welter; but her social power, for which she had sold herself, was lower, far lower, than when she was poor adelaide summers. it is right that it should be so, as a rule; in her case it was doubly right. charles knew all this well enough. and at the first glance at her face he knew that "the iron had entered into her soul" (i know no better expression), and he was revenged. he had ceased to love her, but revenge is sweet--to some. not to him. when he looked at her, he would have given his life that she might smile again, though she was no more to him what she had been. he turned, for fear of being seen, saying to himself,-- "poor girl! poor dear adelaide! she must lie on the bed she has made. god help her!" haphazard was the first favourite--_facile princeps_. he was at two and a half to one. bill sykes, at three and a half, was a very dangerous horse. then came carnarvon, lablache, lick-pitcher, ivanhoe, ben caunt, bath-bun, hamlet, allfours, and colonel sibthorp. the last of these was at twenty to one. ben caunt was to make the running for haphazard, so they said; and colonel sibthorp for bill sykes. so he heard the men talking round lady welter's carriage. hornby's voice was as loud as any one's, and a pleasant voice it was; but they none of them talked very low. charles could hear every word. "i am afraid lady welter will never forgive me," said hornby, "but i have bet against the favourite." "i beg your pardon," said adelaide. "i have bet against your horse, lady welter." "my horse?" said adelaide, coolly and scornfully. "my horses are all post-horses, hired for the day to bring me here. i hope none of them are engaged in the races, as i shall have to go home with a pair only, and then i shall be disgraced for ever." "i mean haphazard." "oh, that horse?" said adelaide; "that is lord ascot's horse, not mine. i hope you may win. you ought to win something, oughtn't you? welter has won a great deal from you, i believe." the facts were the other way. but hornby said no more to her. she was glad of this, though she liked him well enough, for she hoped that she had offended him by her insolent manner. but they were at cross-purposes. presently lord welter came swinging in among them; he looked terribly savage and wild, and charles thought he had been drinking. knowing what he was in this mood, and knowing also the mood adelaide was in, he dreaded some scene. "but they cannot quarrel so soon," he thought. "how d'ye do?" said lord welter to the knot of men round his wife's carriage. "lady welter, have your people got any champagne, or anything of that sort?" "i suppose so; you had better ask them." she had not forgotten what he had said to her that morning so brutally. she saw he was madly angry, and would have liked to make him commit himself before these men. she had fawned, and wheedled, and flattered for a month; but now she was lady welter, and he should feel it. lord welter looked still more savage, but said nothing. a man brought him some wine; and, as he gave it to him, adelaide said, as quietly as though she were telling him that there was some dust on his coat-- "you had better not take too much of it; you seem to have had enough already. sir robert ferrers here is very taciturn in his cups, i am told; but you make such a terrible to-do when you are drunk." they should feel her tongue, these fellows! they might come and dangle about her carriage-door, and joke to one another, and look on her beauty as if she were a doll; but they should feel her tongue; charles's heart sank within him as he heard her. only a month gone, and she desperate. but of all the mischievous things done on that race-course that day--and they were many--the most mischievous and uncalled-for was adelaide's attack upon sir robert ferrers, who, though very young, was as sober, clever, and discreet a young man as any in the guards, or in england. but adelaide had heard a story about him. to wit, that, going to dinner at greenwich with a number of friends, and having taken two glasses or so of wine at his dinner, he got it into his head that he was getting tipsy; and refused to speak another word all the evening for fear of committing himself. the other men laughed at ferrers. and lord welter chose to laugh too; he was determined that his wife should not make a fool of him. but now every one began to draw off and take their places for the race. little dick ferrers, whose whole life was one long effort of good nature, stayed by lady welter, though horribly afraid of her, because he did not like to see her left alone. charles forced himself into a front position against the rails, with his friend mr. sloane, and held on thereby, intensely interested. he was passionately fond of horse-racing; and he forgot everything, even his poor, kind old friend lord ascot, in scrutinising every horse as it came by from the warren, and guessing which was to win. haphazard was the horse, there could be no doubt. a cheer ran all along the line, as he came walking majestically down, as though he knew he was the hero of the day. bill sykes and carnarvon were as good as good could be; but haphazard was better. charles remembered lady ascot's tearful warning about his not being able to stay; but he laughed it to scorn. the horse had furnished so since then! here he came, flying past them like a whirlwind, shaking the earth, and making men's ears tingle with the glorious music of his feet on the turf. haphazard, ridden by wells, must win! hurrah for wells! as the horse came slowly past again, he looked up to see the calm stern face; but it was not there. there were lord ascot's colours, dark blue and white sash; but where was wells? the jockey was a smooth-faced young man, with very white teeth, who kept grinning and touching his cap at every other word lord ascot said to him. charles hurriedly borrowed sloane's card, and read, "lord ascot's haphazard----j. brooks." who, in the name of confusion, was j. brooks? all of a sudden he remembered. it was one of lord ascot's own lads. it was the very lad that rode haphazard on the day that adelaide and he rode out to the downs, at ranford, to see the horse gallop. lord ascot must be mad. "but wells was to have ridden haphazard, mr. sloane," said charles. "he wouldn't," said sloane, and laughed sardonically. but there was no time for charles to ask why he laughed, for the horses were off. those who saw the race were rather surprised that ben caunt had not showed more to the front at first to force the running; but there was not much time to think of such things. as they came round the corner, haphazard, who was lying sixth, walked through his horses and laid himself alongside of bill sykes. a hundred yards from the post, bill sykes made a push, and drew a neck a-head; in a second or so more haphazard had passed him, winning the derby by a clear length; and poor lord ascot fell headlong down in a fit, like a dead man. little dicky ferrers, in the excitement of the race, had climbed into the rumble of adelaide's carriage, peashooter and all; and, having cheered rather noisily as the favourite came in winner, he was beginning to wonder whether he hadn't made a fool of himself, and what lady welter would say when she found where he had got to, when lord welter broke through the crowd, and came up to his wife, looking like death. "get home, adelaide! you see what has happened, and know what to do. lady welter, if i get hold of that boy brooks, to-night, in a safe place, i'll murder him, by----!" "i believe you will, welter. keep away from him, unless you are a madman. if you anger the boy it will all come out. where is lord ascot?" "dead, they say, or dying. he is in a fit." "i ought to go to him, welter, in common decency." "go home, i tell you. get the things you know of packed, and taken to one of the hotels at london bridge. any name will do. be at home to-night, dressed, in a state of jubilation; and keep a couple of hundred pounds in the house. here, you fellows! her ladyship's horses--look sharp!" poor little dicky ferrers had heard more than he intended; but lord welter, in his madness, had not noticed him. he didn't use his peashooter going home, and spoke very little. there was a party of all of them in hornby's rooms that night, and dicky was so dull at first, that his brother made some excuse to get him by himself, and say a few eager, affectionate words to him. "dick, my child, you have lost some money. how much? you shall have it to-morrow." "not half a halfpenny, bob; but i was with lady welter just after the race, and i heard more than i ought to have heard." "you couldn't help it, i hope." "i ought to have helped it; but it was so sudden, i couldn't help it. and now i can't ease my mind by telling anybody." "i suppose it was some rascality of welter's," said sir robert, laughing. "it don't much matter; only don't tell any one, you know." and then they went in again, and dicky never told any one till every one knew. for it came out soon that lord ascot had been madly betting, by commission, against his own horse, and that forty years' rents of his estates wouldn't set my lord on his legs again. with his usual irresolution, he had changed his policy--partly owing, i fear, to our dear old friend lady ascot's perpetual croaking about "ramoneur blood," and its staying qualities. so, after betting such a sum on his own horse as gave the betting world confidence, and excusing himself by pleading his well-known poverty from going further, he had hedged, by commission; and, could his horse have lost, he would have won enough to have set matters right at ranford. he dared not ask a great jockey to ride for him under such circumstances, and so he puffed one of his own lads to the world, and broke with wells. the lad had sold him like a sheep. meanwhile, thinking himself a man of honour, poor fool, he had raised every farthing possible on his estate to meet his engagements on the turf in case of failure--in case of his horse winning by some mischance, if such a thing could be. and so it came about that the men of the turf were all honourably paid, and he and his tradesmen were ruined. the estates were entailed; but for thirty years ranford must be in the hands of strangers. lord welter, too, had raised money, and lost fearfully by the same speculation. there are some men who are always in the right place when they are wanted--always ready to do good and kind actions--and who are generally found "to the fore" in times of trouble. such a man was general mainwaring. when lord ascot fell down in a fit, he was beside him, and, having seen him doing well, and having heard from him, as he recovered, the fearful extent of the disaster, he had posted across country to ranford and told lady ascot. she took it very quietly. "win or lose," she said, "it is all one to this unhappy house. tell them to get out my horses, dear general, and let me go to my poor darling ascot. you have heard nothing of charles ravenshoe, general?" "nothing, my dear lady." charles had brushed his sleeve in the crowd that day, and had longed to take the dear old brown hand in his again, but dared not. poor charles! if he had only done so! so the general and lady ascot went off together, and nursed lord ascot; and adelaide, pale as death, but beautiful as ever, was driven home through the dust and turmoil, clenching her hands impatiently together at every stoppage on the road. chapter xxxvii. lord welter's mÉnage. there was a time, a time we have seen, when lord welter was a merry, humorous, thoughtless boy. a boy, one would have said, with as little real mischief in him as might be. he might have made a decent member of society, who knows? but to do him justice, he had had everything against him from his earliest childhood. he had never known what a mother was, or a sister. his earliest companions were grooms and gamekeepers; and his religious instruction was got mostly from his grandmother, whose old-fashioned sunday-morning lectures and collect learnings, so rigidly pursued that he dreaded sunday of all days in the week, were succeeded by cock-fighting in the croft with his father in the afternoon, and lounging away the evening among the stable-boys. as lord saltire once said, in the former part of this story, "ranford was what the young men of the day called an uncommon fast house." fast enough, in truth. "all downhill and no drag on." welter soon defied his grandmother. for his father he cared nothing. lord ascot was so foolishly fond of the boy that he never contradicted him in anything, and used even to laugh when he was impudent to his grandmother, whom, to do lord ascot justice, he respected more than any living woman. tutors were tried, of whom welter, by a happy combination of obstinacy and recklessness, managed to vanquish three, in as many months. it was hopeless. lord ascot would not hear of his going to school. he was his only boy, his darling. he could not part with him; and, when lady ascot pressed the matter, he grew obstinate, as he could at times, and said he would not. the boy would do well enough; he had been just like him at his age, and look at him now! lord ascot was mistaken. he had not been quite like lord welter at his age. he had been a very quiet sort of boy indeed. lord ascot was a great stickler for blood in horses, and understood such things. i wonder he could not have seen the difference between the sweet, loving face of his mother, capable of violent, furious passion though it was, and that of his coarse, stupid, handsome, gipsy-looking wife, and judged accordingly. he had engrafted a new strain of blood on the old staunton stock, and was to reap the consequences. what was to become of lord welter was a great problem, still unsolved; when, one night, shortly before charles paid his first visit to ranford, vice cuthbert, disapproved of, lord ascot came up, as his custom was, into his mother's dressing-room, to have half-an-hour's chat with her before she went to bed. "i wonder, mother dear," he said, "whether i ought to ask old saltire again, or not? he wouldn't come last time you know. if i thought he wouldn't come, i'd ask him." "you must ask him," said lady ascot, brushing her grey hair, "and he will come." "_very_ well," said lord ascot. "it's a bore; but you must have some one to flirt with, i suppose." lady ascot laughed. in fact, she had written before, and told him that he _must_ come, for she wanted him; and come he did. "now, maria," said lord saltire, on the first night, as soon as he and lady ascot were seated together on a quiet sofa, "what is it? why have you brought me down to meet this mob of jockeys and gamekeepers? a fortnight here, and not a soul to speak to, but mainwaring and yourself. after i was here last time, dear old lady hainault croaked out in a large crowd that some one smelt of the stable." "dear old soul," said lady ascot. "what a charming, delicate wit she has. you will have to come here again, though. every year, mind." "kismet," said lord saltire. "but what is the matter?" "what do you think of ascot's boy?" "oh, lord!" said lord saltire. "so i have been brought all this way to be consulted about a schoolboy. well, i think he looks an atrocious young cub, as like his dear mamma as he can be. i always used to expect that she would call me a pretty gentleman, and want to tell my fortune." lady ascot smiled: _she_ knew her man. she knew he would have died for her and hers. "he is getting very troublesome," said lady ascot. "what would you reco----" "send him to eton," said lord saltire. "but he is very high-spirited, james, and----" "_send him to eton._ do you hear, maria?" "but ascot won't let him go," said lady ascot. "oh, he won't, won't he?" said lord saltire. "now, let us hear no more of the cub, but have our picquet in peace." the next morning lord saltire had an interview with lord ascot, and two hours afterwards it was known that lord welter was to go to eton at once. and so, when lord welter met charles at twyford, he told him of it. at eton, he had rapidly found other boys brought up with the same tastes as himself, and with these he consorted. a rapid interchange of experiences went on among these young gentlemen; which ended in lord welter, at all events, being irreclaimably vicious. lord welter had fallen in love with charles, as boys do, and their friendship had lasted on, waning as it went, till they permanently met again at oxford. there, though their intimacy was as close as ever, the old love died out, for a time, amidst riot and debauchery. charles had some sort of a creed about women; lord welter had none. charles drew a line at a certain point, low down it might be, which he never passed; welter set no bounds anywhere. what lord hainault said of him at tattersall's was true. one day, when they had been arguing on this point rather sharply, charles said-- "if you mean what you say, you are not fit to come into a gentleman's house. but you don't mean it, old cock; so don't be an ass." he did mean it, and charles was right. alas! that ever he should have come to ravenshoe! lord welter had lived so long in the house with adelaide that he never thought of making love to her. they used to quarrel, like benedict and beatrice. what happened was her fault. she was worthless. worthless. let us have done with it. i can expand over lord saltire and lady ascot, and such good people, but i cannot over her, more than is necessary. two things lord welter was very fond of--brawling and dicing. he was an arrant bully, very strong, and perfect in the use of his fists, and of such courage and tenacity that, having once began a brawl, no one had ever made him leave it, save as an unqualified victor. this was getting well known now. since he had left oxford and had been living in london, he had been engaged in two or three personal encounters in the terribly fast society to which he had betaken himself, and men were getting afraid of him. another thing was, that, drink as he would, he never played the worse for it. he was a lucky player. sometimes, after winning money of a man, he would ask him home to have his revenge. that man generally went again and again to lord welter's house, in st. john's wood, and did not find himself any the richer. it was the most beautiful little gambling den in london, and it was presided over by one of the most beautiful, witty, fascinating women ever seen. a woman with whom all the men fell in love; so staid, so respectable, and charmingly behaved. lord welter always used to call her lady welter; so they all called her lady welter too, and treated her as though she were. but this lady welter was soon to be dethroned to make room for adelaide. a day or two before they went off together, this poor woman got a note from welter to tell her to prepare for a new mistress. it was no blow to her. he had prepared her for it for some time. there might have been tears, wild tears, in private; but what cared he for the tears of such an one? when lord welter and adelaide came home, and adelaide came with him into the hall, she advanced towards her, dressed as a waiting-woman, and said quietly, "you are welcome home, madam." it was ellen, and lord welter was the delinquent, as you have guessed already. when she fled from ravenshoe, she was flying from the anger of her supposed brother william; for he thought he knew all about it; and, when charles marston saw her passing round the cliff, she was making her weary way on foot towards exeter to join him in london. after she was missed, william had written to lord welter, earnestly begging him to tell him if he had heard of her. and welter had written back to him that he knew nothing, on his honour. alas for welter's honour, and william's folly in believing him! poor ellen! lord welter had thought that she would have left the house, and had good reason for thinking so. but, when he got home, there she was. all her finery cast away, dressed plainly and quietly. and there she stayed, waiting on adelaide, demure and quiet as a waiting-woman should be. adelaide had never been to ravenshoe, and did not know her. lord welter had calculated on her going; but she stayed on. why? you must bear with me, indeed you must, at such times as these. i touch as lightly as i can; but i have undertaken to tell a story, and i must tell it. these things are going on about us, and we try to ignore them, till they are thrust rudely upon us, as they are twenty times a year. no english story about young men could be complete without bringing in subjects which some may think best left alone. let us comfort ourselves with one great, undeniable fact--the immense improvement in morals which has taken place in the last ten years. the very outcry which is now raised against such relations shows plainly one thing at least--that undeniable facts are being winked at no longer, and that some reform is coming. every younger son who can command £ a year ought to be allowed to marry in his own rank in life, whatever that may be. they will be uncomfortable, and have to save and push; and a very good thing for them. they won't lose caste. there are some things worse than mere discomfort. let us look at bare facts, which no one dare deny. there is in the great world, and the upper middle-class world too, a crowd of cadets; younger sons, clerks, officers in the army, and so on; non-marrying men, as the slang goes, who are asked out to dine and dance with girls who are their equals in rank, and who have every opportunity of falling in love with them. and yet if one of this numerous crowd were to dare to fall in love with, and to propose to, one of these girls, he would be denied the house. it is the fathers and mothers who are to blame, to a great extent, for the very connexions they denounce so loudly. but yet the very outcry they are raising against these connexions is a hopeful sign. lieutenant hornby, walking up and down the earth to see what mischief he could get into, had done a smart stroke of business in that way, by making the acquaintance of lord welter at a gambling-house. hornby was a very good fellow. he had two great pleasures in life. one, i am happy to say, was soldiering, at which he worked like a horse, and the other, i am very sorry to say, was gambling, at which he worked a great deal harder than he should. he was a marked man among professional players. every one knew how awfully rich he was, and every one in succession had a "shy" at him. he was not at all particular. he would accept a battle with any one. gaming men did all sorts of dirty things to get introduced to him, and play with him. the greater number of them had their wicked will; but the worst of it was that he always won. sometimes, at a game of chance, he might lose enough to encourage his enemies to go on; but at games of skill no one could touch him. his billiard playing was simply masterly. and dick ferrers will tell you, that he and hornby, being once, i am very sorry to say, together at g--n--ch f--r, were accosted in the park by a skittle-sharper, and that hornby (who would, like faust, have played chess with old gooseberry) allowed himself to be taken into a skittle-ground, from which he came out in half an hour victorious over the skittle-sharper, beating him easily. in the heyday of his fame, lord welter was told of him, and saying, "give me the daggers," got introduced to him. they had a tournament at _écarté_, or billiards, or something or another of that sort, it don't matter; and lord welter asked him up to st. john's wood, where he saw ellen. he lost that night liberally, as he could afford to; and, with very little persuasion, was induced to come there the next. he lost liberally again. he had fallen in love with ellen. lord welter saw it, and made use of it as a bait to draw on hornby to play. ellen's presence was, of course, a great attraction to him, and he came and played; but unluckily for lord welter, after a few nights his luck changed, or he took more care, and he began to win again; so much so that, about the time when adelaide came home, my lord welter had had nearly enough of lieutenant hornby, and was in hopes that he should have got rid of ellen and him together; for his lordship was no fool about some things, and saw plainly this--that hornby was passionately fond of ellen, and, moreover, that poor ellen had fallen deeply in love with hornby. so, when he came home, he was surprised and angry to find her there. she would not go. she would stay and wait on adelaide. she had been asked to go; but had refused sharply the man she loved. poor girl, she had her reasons; and we shall see what they were. now you know what i meant when i wondered whether or no charles would have burnt hornby's house down if he had known all. but you will be rather inclined to forgive hornby presently, as charles did when he came to know everything. but the consequence of ellen's staying on as servant to adelaide brought this with it, that hornby determined that he would have the _entrée_ of the house at st. john's wood, at any price. lord welter guessed this, and guessed that hornby would be inclined to lose a little money in order to gain it. when he brushed charles's knee in piccadilly he was deliberating whether or no he should ask him back there again. as he stood unconsciously, almost touching charles, he came to the determination that he would try what bargain he could make with the honour of charles's sister, whom he had so shamefully injured already. and charles saw them make the appointment together in the balcony. how little he guessed for what! lord hainault was right. welter was a scoundrel. but hornby was not, as we shall see. hornby loved play for play's sake. and, extravagant dandy though he was, the attorney blood of his father came out sometimes so strong in him that, although he would have paid any price to be near, and speak to ellen, yet he could not help winning, to lord welter's great disgust, and his own great amusement. their game, i believe, was generally _picquet_ or _écarté_, and at both these he was lord welter's master. what with his luck and his superior play, it was very hard to lose decently sometimes; and sometimes, as i said, he would cast his plans to the winds and win terribly. but he always repented when he saw lord welter get savage, and lost dutifully, though at times he could barely keep his countenance. nevertheless the balance he allowed to lord welter made a very important item in that gentleman's somewhat precarious income. but, in spite of all his sacrifices, he but rarely got even a glimpse of ellen. and, to complicate matters, adelaide, who sat by and watched the play, and saw hornby purposely losing at times, got it into her silly head that he was in love with her. she liked the man--who did not? but she had honour enough left to be rude to him. hornby saw all this, and was amused. i often think that it must have been a fine spectacle, to see the honourable man playing with the scoundrel, and give him just as much line as he chose. and, when i call hornby an honourable man, i mean what i say, as you will see. this was the state of things when the derby crash came. at half-past five on that day, the viscountess welter dashed up to her elegant residence in st. john's wood, in a splendid barouche, drawn by four horses, and, when "her people" came and opened the door and let down the steps, lazily descended, and followed by her footman bearing her fal-lals, lounged up the steps as if life were really too _ennuyant_ to be borne any longer. three hours afterwards, a fierce, eager woman, plainly dressed, with a dark veil, was taking apartments in the bridge hotel, london bridge, for mr. and mrs. staunton, who were going abroad in a few days; and was overseeing, with her confidential servant, a staid man in black, the safe stowage of numerous hasped oak boxes, the most remarkable thing about which was their great weight. the lady was lady welter, and the man was lord welter's confidential scoundrel. the landlord thought they had robbed hunt and roskell's, and were off with the plunder, till he overheard the man say, "i think that is all, my lady;" after which he was quite satisfied. the fact was, that all the ascot race plate, gold salvers and épergnes, silver cups rough with designs of the chase, and possibly also some of the ascot family jewels, were so disgusted with the state of things in england, that they were thinking of going for a little trip on the continent. what should a dutiful wife do but see to their safe stowage? if any enterprising burglar had taken it into his head to "crack" that particular "crib" known as the bridge hotel, and got clear off with the "swag," he might have retired on the hard-earned fruits of a well-spent life into happier lands--might have been "run" for m.l.c., or possibly for congress in a year or two. who can tell? and, also, if lord welter's confidential scoundrel had taken it into his head to waylay and rob his lordship's noble consort on her way home--which he was quite capable of doing--and if he also had got clear off, he would have found himself a better man by seven hundred and ninety-four pounds, three half-crowns, and a threepenny-piece; that is, if he had done it before her ladyship had paid the cabman. but both the burglars and the valet missed the tide, and the latter regrets it to this day. at eleven o'clock that night, lady welter was lolling leisurely on her drawing-room sofa, quite bored to death. when lord welter, and hornby, and sir robert ferrers, and some dragoons came in, she was yawning, as if life was really too much of a plague to be endured. would she play loo? oh, yes; anything after such a wretched, lonely evening. that was the game where you had three cards, wasn't it, and you needn't go on unless you liked. would welter or some one lend her some money. she had got a threepenny-piece and a shilling somewhere or another, but that would not be enough, she supposed. where was sir robert's little brother! gone to bed? how tiresome; she had fallen in love with him, and had set her heart on seeing him to-night. and so on. lord welter gave her a key, and told her there was some money in his dressing-case. as she left the room, hornby, who was watching them, saw a quick look of intelligence pass between them, and laughed in his sleeve. i have been given to understand that guinea unlimited loo is a charming pursuit, soothing to the feelings, and highly improving to the moral tone. i speak from hearsay, as circumstances over which i have no control have prevented my ever trying it. but this i know--that, if lord welter's valet had robbed his master and mistress, when they went to bed that night, instead of netting seven hundred and ninety-four, seven, nine, he would have netted eleven hundred and forty-six, eight, six; leaving out the threepenny-piece. but he didn't do it; and lord and lady welter slept that sleep which is the peculiar reward of a quiet conscience undisturbed. but, next morning, when charles waited on hornby, in his dressing-room, the latter said-- "i shall want you to-night, lad. i thought i might have last night; but, seeing the other fellows went, i left you at home. be ready at half-past six. i lost a hundred and twenty pounds last night. i don't mean to afford it any longer. i shall stop it." "where are we to go to, sir?" "to st. john's wood. we shall be up late. leave the servant's hall, and come up and lie in the hall, as if you were asleep. don't let yourself be seen. no one will notice you." charles little thought where he was going. chapter xxxviii. the house full of ghosts. charles had really no idea where he was going. although he knew that hornby had been playing with lord welter, yet he thought, from what hornby had said, that he would not bring him into collision with him; and indeed he did not--only taking charles with him as a reserve in case of accidents, for he thoroughly distrusted his lordship. at half-past six in the evening hornby rode slowly away, followed by charles. he had told charles that he should dine in st. john's wood at seven, and should ride there, and charles was to wait with the horses. but it was nearly seven, and yet hornby loitered, and seemed undetermined. it was a wild, gusty evening, threatening rain. there were very few people abroad, and those who were rode or walked rapidly. and yet hornby dawdled irresolutely, as though his determination were hardly strong enough yet. at first he rode quite away from his destination, but by degrees his horse's head got changed into the right direction; then he made another détour, but a shorter one; at last he put spurs to his horse, and rode resolutely up the short carriage-drive before the door, and giving the reins to charles, walked firmly in. charles put up the horses and went into the servants' hall, or the room which answered that end in the rather small house of lord welter. no one was there. all the servants were busy with the dinner and charles was left unnoticed. by-and-by a page, noticing a strange servant in passing the door, brought him some beer, and a volume of the newgate calendar. this young gentleman called his attention to the print of a lady cutting up the body of her husband with a chopper, assisted by a young jew, who was depicted "walking off with a leg," like one of the fans (the use of which seems to be, to cool the warm imagination of other travellers into proper limits), while the woman was preparing for another effort. after having recommended charles to read the letterpress thereof, as he would find it tolerably spicy, he departed, and left him alone. the dinner was got over in time; and after a time there was silence in the house--a silence so great that charles rose and left the room. he soon found his way to another; but all was dark and silent, though it was not more than half-past nine. he stood in the dark passage, wondering where to go, and determined to turn back to the room from which he had come. there was a light there, at all events. there was a light, and the newgate calendar. the wild wind, that had eddied and whirled the dust at the street corners, and swept across the park all day, had gone down, and the rain had come on. he could hear it drip, drip, outside; it was very melancholy. confound the newgate calendar! he was in a very queer house, he knew. what did hornby mean by asking him the night before whether or no he could fight, and whether he would stick to him? drip, drip; otherwise a dead silence. charles's heart began to beat a little faster. where were all the servants? he had heard plenty of them half an hour ago. he had heard a french cook swearing at english kitchen-girls, and had heard plenty of other voices; and now--the silence of the grave. or of christie and manson's on saturday evening; or of the southern indian ocean in a calm at midnight; or of anything else you like; similes are cheap. he remembered now that hornby had said, "come and lie in the hall as if asleep; no one will notice you." he determined to do so. but where was it? his candle was flickering in its socket, and as he tried to move it, it went out. he could scarcely keep from muttering on oath, but he did. his situation was very uncomfortable. he did not know in what house he was--only that he was in a quarter of the town in which there were not a few uncommonly queer houses. he determined to grope his way to the light. he felt his way out of the room and along a passage. the darkness was intense, and the silence perfect. suddenly a dull red light gleamed in his eyes, and made him start. it was the light of the kitchen fire. a cricket would have been company, but there was none. he continued to advance cautiously. soon a ghostly square of very dim grey light on his left showed him where was a long narrow window. it was barred with iron bars. he was just thinking of this, and how very queer it was, when he uttered a loud oath, and came crashing down. he had fallen upstairs. he had made noise enough to waken the seven sleepers; but those gentlemen did not seem to be in the neighbourhood, or, at all events, if awakened gave no sign of it. dead silence. he sat on the bottom stair and rubbed his shins, and in spite of a strong suspicion that he had got into a scrape, laughed to himself at the absurdity of his position. "would it be worth while, i wonder," he said to himself, "to go back to the kitchen and get the poker? i'd better not, i suppose. it would be so deuced awkward to be caught in the dark with a poker in your hand. being on the premises for the purpose of committing a felony--that is what they would say; and then they would be sure to say that you were the companion of thieves, and had been convicted before. no. under this staircase, in the nature of things, is the housemaid's cupboard. what should i find there as a weapon of defence? a dust-pan. a great deal might be done with a dust-pan, mind you, at close quarters. how would it do to arrange all her paraphernalia on the stairs, and cry fire, so that mine enemies, rushing forth, might stumble and fall, and be taken unawares? but that would be acting on the offensive, and i have no safe grounds for pitching into any one yet." though charles tried to comfort himself by talking nonsense, he was very uncomfortable. staying where he was, was intolerable; and he hardly dared to ascend into the upper regions unbidden. besides, he had fully persuaded himself that a disturbance was imminent, and, though a brave man, did not like to precipitate it. he had mistaken the character of the house he was in. at last, taking heart, he turned and felt his way upstairs. he came before a door through the keyhole of which the light streamed strongly; he was deliberating whether to open it or not, when a shadow crossed it, though he heard no noise, but a minute after the distant sound of a closing door. he could stand it no longer. he opened the door, and advanced into a blaze of light. he entered a beautiful flagged hall, frescoed and gilded. there were vases of flowers round the walls, and strips of indian matting on the pavement. it was lit by a single chandelier, which was reflected in four great pier-glasses reaching to the ground, in which charles's top-boots and brown face were re-duplicated most startlingly. the _tout ensemble_ was very beautiful; but what struck charles was the bad taste of having an entrance-hall decorated like a drawing-room. "that is just the sort of thing they do in these places," he thought. there were only two hats on the entrance table; one of which he was rejoiced to recognise as that of his most respected master. "may the deuce take his silly noddle for bringing me to such a place!" thought charles. this was evidently the front hall spoken of by hornby; and he remembered his advice to pretend to go to sleep. so he lay down on three hall-chairs, and put his hat over his eyes. hall-chairs are hard; and, although charles had just been laughing at the proprietor of the house for being so lavish in his decorations, he now wished that he had carried out his system a little further, and had cushions to his chairs. but no; the chairs were _de rigueur_, with crests on the back of them. charles did not notice whose. if a man pretends to go to sleep, and, like the marchioness with her orange-peel and water, "makes believe very much," he may sometimes succeed in going to sleep in good earnest. charles imitated the thing so well, that in five minutes he was as fast off as a top. till a night or two before this, charles had never dreamt of ravenshoe since he had left it. when the first sharp sting of his trouble was in his soul, his mind had refused to go back further than to the events of a day or so before. he had dreamt long silly dreams of his master, or his fellow-servants, or his horses, but always, all through the night, with a dread on him of waking in the dark. but, as his mind began to settle and his pain got dulled, he began to dream about ravenshoe, and oxford, and shrewsbury again; and he no longer dreaded the waking as he did, for the reality of his life was no longer hideous to him. with the fatal "plasticity" of his nature, he had lowered himself, body and soul, to the level of it. but to-night, as he slept on these chairs, he dreamt of ravenshoe, and of cuthbert, and of ellen. and he woke, and she was standing within ten feet of him, under the chandelier. he was awake in an instant, but he lay as still as a mouse, staring at her. she had not noticed him, but was standing in profound thought. found, and so soon! his sister! how lovely she was, standing, dressed in light pearl grey, like some beautiful ghost, with her speaking eyes fixed on nothing. she moved now, but so lightly that her footfall was barely heard upon the matting. then she turned and noticed him. she did not seem surprised at seeing a groom stretched out asleep on the chairs--she was used to that sort of thing, probably--but she turned away, gliding through a door at the further end of the hall, and was gone. charles's heart was leaping and beating madly, but he heard another door open, and lay still. adelaide came out of a door opposite to the one into which ellen had passed. charles was not surprised. he was beyond surprise. but, when he saw her and ellen in the same house, in one instant, with the quickness of lightning, he understood it all. it was welter had tempted ellen from ravenshoe! fool! fool! he might have prevented it once if he had only guessed. if he had any doubt as to where he was now, it was soon dispelled. lord welter came rapidly out of the door after adelaide, and called her in a whisper, "adelaide." "well," she said, turning round sharply. "come back, do you hear?" said lord welter. "where the deuce are you going?" "to my own room." "come back, i tell you," said lord welter, savagely, in a low voice. "you are going to spoil everything with your confounded airs." "i shall not come back. i am not going to act as a decoy-duck to that man, or any other man. let me go, welter." lord welter was very near having to let her go with a vengeance. charles was ready for a spring, but watched, and waited his time. lord welter had only caught her firmly by the wrist to detain her. he was not hurting her. "look you here, my lady welter," he said slowly and distinctly. "listen to what i've got to say, and don't try the shadow of a tantrum with me, for i won't have it for one moment. i don't mind your chaff and nonsense in public; it blinds people, it is racy and attracts people; but in private i am master, do you hear? master. you know you are afraid of me, and have good cause to be, by jove. you are shaking now. go back to that room." "i won't, i won't, i won't. not without you, welter. how can you use me so cruelly, welter? oh, welter, how can you be such a villain?" "you conceited fool," said lord welter, contemptuously. "do you think he wants to make love to you?" "you know he does, welter; you know it," said adelaide, passionately. lord welter laughed good-naturedly. (he could be good-natured.) he drew her towards him and kissed her. "my poor little girl," he said, "if i thought that, i would break his neck. but it is utterly wide of the truth. look here, adelaide; you are as safe from insult as my wife as you were at ranford. what you are not safe from is my own temper. let us be friends in private and not squabble so much, eh? you are a good, shrewd, clever wife to me. do keep your tongue quiet. come in and mark what follows." they had not noticed charles, though he had been so sure that they would, that he had got his face down on the chair, covered with his arms, feigning sleep. when they went into the room again, charles caught hold of a coat which was on the back of a chair, and, curling himself up, put it over him. he would listen, listen, listen for every word. he had a right to listen now. in a minute a bell rang twice. almost at the same moment some one came out of the door through which lord welter had passed, and stood silent. in about two minutes another door opened, and some one else came into the hall. a woman's voice--ellen's--said, "oh, are you come again?" a man's voice--lieutenant hornby's--said in answer, "you see i am. i got lady welter to ring her bell twice for you, and then to stay in that room, so that i might have an interview with you." "i am obliged to her ladyship. she must have been surprised that i was the object of attraction. she fancied herself so." "she was surprised. and she was more so, when i told her what my real object was." "indeed," said ellen, bitterly. "but her ladyship's surprise does not appear to have prevented her from assisting you." "on the contrary," said hornby, "she wished me god speed--her own words." "sir, you are a gentleman. don't disgrace yourself and me--if i can be disgraced--by quoting that woman's blasphemy before me. sir, you have had your answer. i shall go." "ellen, you must stay. i have got this interview with you to-night, to ask you to be my wife. i love you as i believe woman was never loved before, and i ask you to be my wife." "you madman! you madman!" "i am no madman. i was a madman when i spoke to you before; i pray your forgiveness for that. you must forget that. i say that i love you as a woman was never loved before. shall i say something more, ellen?" "say on." "you love me." "i love you as man was never loved before; and i swear to you that i hope i may lie stiff and cold in my unhonoured coffin, before i'll ruin the man i love by tying him to such a wretch as myself." "ellen, ellen, don't say that. don't take such vows, which you will not dare to break afterwards. think, you may regain all that you have lost, and marry a man who loves you--ah, so dearly!--and whom you love too." "ay; there's the rub. if i did not love you, i would marry you to-morrow. regain all i have lost, say you? bring my mother to life again, for instance, or walk among other women again as an honest one? you talk nonsense, mr. hornby--nonsense. i am going." "ellen! ellen! why do you stay in this house? think once again." "i shall never leave thinking; but my determination is the same. i tell you, as a desperate woman like me dare tell you, that i love you far too well to ruin your prospects, and i love my own soul too well ever to make another false step. i stayed in this house because i loved to see you now and then, and hear your voice; but now i shall leave it." "see me once more, ellen--only once more!" "i will see you once more. i will tear my heart once more, if you wish it. you have deserved all i can do for you, god knows. come here the day after to-morrow; but come without hope, mind. a woman who has been through what i have can trust herself. do you know that i am a catholic?" "no." "i am. would you turn catholic if i were to marry you?" god forgive poor hornby! he said, "yes." what will not men say at such times? "did i not say you were a madman? do you think i would ruin you in the next world, as well as in this? go away, sir; and, when your children are round you, humbly bless god's mercy for saving you, body and soul, this night." "i shall see you again?" "come here the day after to-morrow; but come without hope." she passed through the door, and left him standing alone. charles rose from his lair, and, coming up to him, laid his hand on his shoulder. "you have heard all this," said poor hornby. "every word," said charles. "i had a right to listen, you know. she is my sister." "your sister?" then charles told him all. hornby had heard enough from lord welter to understand it. "your sister! can you help me, horton? surely she will hear reason from you. will you persuade her to listen to me?" "no," said charles. "she was right. you are mad. i will not help you do an act which you would bitterly repent all your life. you must forget her. she and i are disgraced, and must get away somewhere, and hide our shame together." what hornby would have answered, no man can tell; for at this moment adelaide came out of the room, and passed quickly across the hall, saying good night to him as she passed. she did not recognise charles, or seem surprised at seeing hornby talking to his groom. nobody who had lived in lord welter's house a day or two was surprised at anything. but charles, speaking to hornby more as if he were master than servant, said, "wait here;" and, stepping quickly from him, went into the room where lord welter sat alone, and shut the door. hornby heard it locked behind him, and waited in the hall, listening intensely, for what was to follow. "there'll be a row directly," said hornby to himself; "and that chivalrous fool, charles, has locked himself in. i wish welter did not send all his servants out of the house at night. there'll be murder done here some day." he listened and heard voices, low as yet--so low that he could hear the dripping of the rain outside. drip--drip! the suspense was intolerable. when would they be at one another's throats? chapter xxxix. charles's explanation with lord welter. there is a particular kind of ghost, or devil, which is represented by an isosceles triangle (more or less correctly drawn) for the body; straight lines turned up at the ends for legs; straight lines divided into five at the ends for arms; a round o, with arbitrary dots for the features, for a head; with a hat, an umbrella, and a pipe. drawn like this, it is a sufficiently terrible object. but, if you take an ace of clubs, make the club represent the head, add horns, and fill in the body and limbs as above, in deep black, with the feather end of the pen, it becomes simply appalling, and will strike terror into the stoutest heart. is this the place, say you, for talking such nonsense as this; if you must give us balderdash of this sort, could not you do so in a chapter with a less terrible heading than this one has? and i answer, why not let me tell my story my own way? something depends even on this nonsense of making devils out of the ace of clubs. it was rather a favourite amusement of charles's and lord welter's, in old times at ranford. they used, on rainy afternoon's, to collect all the old aces of clubs (and there were always plenty of them to be had in that house, god help it), and make devils out of them, each one worse than the first. and now, when charles had locked the door, and advanced softly up to welter, he saw, over his shoulder, that he had got an ace of clubs, and the pen and ink, and was making a devil. it was a trifling circumstance enough, perhaps; but there was enough of old times in it to alter the tone in which charles said, "welter," as he laid his hand on his shoulder. lord welter was a bully; but he was as brave as a lion, with nerves of steel. he neither left off his drawing, nor looked up; he only said--"charley, boy, come and sit down till i have finished this fellow. get an ace of clubs and try your own hand. i am out of practice." perhaps even lord welter might have started when he heard charles's voice, and felt his hand on his shoulder; but he had had one instant--only one instant--of preparation. when he heard the key turn in the door, he had looked in a pier-glass opposite to him, and seen who and what was coming, and then gone on with his employment. even allowing for this moment's preparation, we must give him credit for the nerve of one man in ten thousand; for the apparition of charles ravenshoe was as unlooked-for as that of any one of charles ravenshoe's remote ancestors. you see, i call him charles ravenshoe still. it is a trick. you must excuse it. charles did not sit down and draw devils; he said, in a quiet, mournful tone, "welter, welter, why have you been such a villain?" lord welter found that a difficult question to answer. he let it alone, and said nothing. "i say nothing about adelaide. you did not use me well there; for, when you persuaded her to go off with you, you had not heard of my ruin." "on my soul, charles, there was not much persuasion wanted there." "very likely. i do not want to speak about that, but about ellen, my sister. was anything ever done more shamefully than that?" charles expected some furious outbreak when he said that. none came. what was good in lord welter came to the surface, when he saw his old friend and playmate there before him, sunk so far below him in all that this world considers worth having, but rising so far above him in his fearless honour and manliness. he was humbled, sorry, and ashamed. bitter as charles's words were, he felt they were true, and had manhood enough left not to resent them. to the sensation of fear, as i have said before, lord welter was a total stranger, or he might have been nervous at being locked up in a room alone, with a desperate man, physically his equal, whom he had so shamefully wronged. he rose and leant against the chimney-piece, looking at charles. "i did not know she was your sister, charles. you must do me that justice." "of course you did not. if----" "i know what you are going to say--that i should not have dared. on my soul, charles, i don't know; i believe i dare do anything. but i tell you one thing--of all the men who walk this earth, you are the last i would willingly wrong. when i went off with adelaide, i knew she did not care sixpence for you. i knew she would have made you wretched. i knew better than you, because i never was in love with her, and you were, what a heartless ambitious jade it was! she sold herself to me for the title i gave her, as she had tried to sell herself to that solemn prig hainault, before. and i bought her, because a handsome, witty, clever wife is a valuable chattel to a man like me, who has to live by his wits." "ellen was as handsome and as clever as she. why did not you marry her?" said charles, bitterly. "if you will have the real truth, ellen would have been lady welter now, but----" lord welter hesitated. he was a great rascal, and he had a brazen front, but he found a difficulty in going on. it must be, i should fancy, very hard work to tell all the little ins and outs of a piece of villainy one has been engaged in, and to tell, as lord welter did on this occasion, the exact truth. "i am waiting," said charles, "to hear you tell me why she was not made lady welter." "what, you will have it, then? well, she was too scrupulous. she was too honourable a woman for this line of business. she wouldn't play, or learn to play--d--n it, sir, you have got the whole truth now, if that will content you." "i believe what you say, my lord. do you know that lieutenant hornby made her an offer of marriage to-night?" "i supposed he would," said lord welter. "and that she has refused him?" "i guessed that she would. she is your own sister. shall you try to persuade her?" "i would see her in her coffin first." "so i suppose." "she must come away from here, lord welter. i must keep her and do what i can for her. we must pull through it together, somehow." "she had better go from here. she is too good for this hole. i must make provision for her to live with you." "not one halfpenny, my lord. she has lived too long in dependence and disgrace already. we will pull through together alone." lord welter said nothing, but he determined that charles should not have his way in this respect. charles continued, "when i came into this room to-night i came to quarrel with you. you have not allowed me to do so, and i thank you for it." here he paused, and then went on in a lower voice, "i think you are sorry, welter; are you not? i am sure you are sorry. i am sure you wouldn't have done it if you had foreseen the consequences, eh?" lord welter's coarse under-lip shook for half a second, and his big chest heaved once; but he said nothing. "only think another time; that is all. now do me a favour; make me a promise." "i have made it." "don't tell any human soul you have seen me. if you do, you will only entail a new disguise and a new hiding on me. you have promised." "on my honour." "if you keep your promise i can stay where i am. how is--lady ascot?" "well. nursing my father." "is he ill?" "had a fit the day before yesterday. i heard this morning from them. he is much better, and will get over it." "have you heard anything from ravenshoe?" "not a word. lord saltire and general mainwaring are both with my father, in london. grandma won't see either me or adelaide. do you know that she has been moving heaven and earth to find you?" "good soul! i won't be found, though. now, good-night!" and he went. if any one had told him three months before that he would have been locked in the same room with a man who had done him such irreparable injury, and have left it at the end of half an hour with a quiet "good-night," he would most likely have beaten that man there and then. but he was getting tamed very fast. ay, he was already getting more than tamed; he was in a fair way to get broken-hearted. "i will not see her to-night, sir," he said to hornby, whom he found with his head resting on the table; "i will come to-morrow, and prepare her for leaving this house. you are to see her the day after to-morrow; but without hope, remember." he roused a groom from above the stable to help him to saddle the horses. "will it soon be morning?" he asked. "morning," said the lad; "it's not twelve o'clock yet. it's a dark night, mate, and no moon. but the nights are short now. the dawn will be on us before we have time to turn in our beds." he rode slowly home after hornby. "the night is dark, but the dawn will be upon us before we can turn in our beds!" only the idle words of a sleepy groom, yet they echoed in his ears all the way home. the night is dark indeed; but it will be darker yet before the dawn, charles ravenshoe. chapter xl. a dinner party among some old friends. lady hainault (_née_ burton, not the dowager) had asked some one to dinner, and the question had been whom to ask to meet him. mary had been called into consultation, as she generally was on most occasions, and she and lady hainault had made up a list together. every one had accepted, and was coming; and here were mary and lady hainault dressed for dinner, alone in the drawing-room with the children. "we could not have done better for him, mary, i think. you must go in to dinner with him." "is mary going to stop down to dinner?" said the youngest boy; "what a shame! i sha'n't say my prayers to-night if she don't come up." the straightforward gus let his brother know what would be the consequences of such neglect hereafter, in a plain-spoken way peculiarly his own. "gus! gus! don't say such things," said lady hainault. "the hymn-book says so, aunt," said gus, triumphantly; and he quoted a charming little verse of dr. watts's, beginning, "there is a dreadful hell." lady hainault might have been puzzled what to say, and mary would not have helped her, for they had had an argument about that same hymn-book (mary contending that one or two of the hymns were as well left alone at first), when flora struck in and saved her aunt, by remarking. "i shall save up my money and buy some jewels for mary like aunt's, so that when she stays down to dinner some of the men may fall in love with her, and marry her." "pooh! you silly goose," said gus, "those jewels cost sixty million thousand pounds a-piece. i don't want her to be married till i grow up, and then i shall marry her myself. till then, i shall buy her a yellow wig, like grandma hainault's, and then nobody will want to marry her." "be quiet, gus," said lady hainault. it was one thing to say "be quiet gus," and it was another thing to make him hold his tongue. but, to do gus justice, he was a good fellow, and never acted "_enfant terrible_" but to the most select and private audience. now he had begun: "i wish some one would marry grandma," when the door was thrown open, the first guest was announced, and gus was dumb. "general mainwaring." the general sat down between lady hainault and mary, and, while talking to them, reached out his broad brown hand and lifted the youngest boy on his knee, who played with his ribands, and cried out that he would have the orange and blue one, if he pleased; while gus and flora came and stood at his knee. he talked to them both sadly in a low voice about the ruin which had come on lord ascot. there was worse than mere ruin, he feared. he feared there was disgrace. he had been with him that morning. he was a wreck. one side of his face was sadly pulled down, and he stammered in his speech. he would get over it. he was only three-and-forty. but he would not show again in society, he feared. here was somebody else; they would change the subject. lord saltire. they were so glad to see him. every one's face had a kind smile on it as the old man came and sat down among them. his own smile was not the least pleasant of the lot, i warrant you. "so you are talking about poor ascot, eh?" he said. "i don't know whether you were or not; but, if you were, let us talk about something else. you see, my dear miss corby, that my prophecy to you on the terrace at ravenshoe is falsified. i said they would not fight, and lo, they are as good as at it." they talked about the coming war, and lord hainault came in and joined them. soon after, another guest was announced. lady ascot. she was dressed in dark grey silk, with her white hair simply parted under a plain lace cap. she looked so calm, so brave, so kind, so beautiful, as she came with firm strong step in at the door, that they one and all rose and came towards her. she had always been loved by them all; how much more deeply was she loved now, when her bitter troubles had made her doubly sacred! lord saltire gave her his arm, and she came and sat down among them with her hands calmly folded before her. "i was determined to come and see you to-night, my dear," she said. "i should break down if i couldn't see some that i loved. and to-night, in particular" (she looked earnestly at lord saltire). "is he come yet?" "not yet, dear grandma," said mary. "no one is coming besides, i suppose?" asked lady ascot. "no one; we are waiting for him." the door was opened once more, and they all looked curiously round. this time the servant announced, perhaps in a somewhat louder tone than usual, as if he were aware that they were more interested, "mr. ravenshoe." a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man came into the room, bearing such a wonderful likeness to charles ravenshoe, that lady hainault and general mainwaring, the only two who had never seen him before, started, and thought they saw charles himself. it was not charles, though; it was our old friend whilom pad-groom to charles ravenshoe, esquire, now himself william ravenshoe, esquire, of ravenshoe. he was the guest of the evening. he would be heir to ravenshoe himself some day; for they had made up their minds that cuthbert would never marry. ravenshoe, as cuthbert was managing it now, would be worth ten or twelve thousand a year, and, if these new tin lodes came to anything, perhaps twenty. he had been a stable-helper, said old lady hainault--the companion of the drunken riots of his foster-brother impostor, and that quiet gentlemanly creature welter. if he entered the house, she left it. to which young lady hainault had replied that some one must ask him to dinner in common decency, if it was only for the sake of that dear charles, who had been loved by every one who knew him. that she intended to ask him to dinner, and that, if her dear mother-in-law objected to meet him, why the remedy lay with herself. somebody must introduce him to some sort of society; and lord hainault and herself had made up their minds to do it, so that further argument on the subject would be wasted breath. to which the dowager replied that she really wished, after all, that hainault had married that pretty chit of a thing, adelaide summers, as he was thinking of doing; as she, the dowager, could not have been treated with greater insolence even by her, bold as she was. with which parthian piece of spite she had departed to casterton with miss hicks, and had so goaded and snapped at that unfortunate reduced gentlewoman by the way, that at last hicks, as her wont was, had turned upon her and given her as good as she brought. if the dowager could have heard lady hainault telling her lord the whole business that night, and joking with him about his alleged _penchant_ for adelaide, and heard the jolly laugh that those two good souls had about it, her ladyship would have been more spiteful still. but, nevertheless, lady hainault was very nervous about william. when mary was consulted, she promptly went bail for his good behaviour, and pled his case so warmly, that the tears stood in her eyes. her old friend william! what innocent plots she and he had hatched together against the priest in the old times. what a bond there was between them in their mutual love for him who was lost to them. but lady hainault would be on the safe side; and so only the party named above were asked. all old friends of the family. before dinner was announced, they were all at their ease about him. he was shy, certainly, but not awkward. he evidently knew that he was asked there on trial, and he accepted his position. but he was so handsome (handsomer than poor charles), he was so gentle and modest, and--perhaps, too, not least--had such a well-modulated voice, that, before the evening was over, he had won every one in the room. if he knew anything of a subject, he helped the conversation quietly, as well as he could; if he had to confess ignorance (which was seldom, for he was among well-bred people), he did so frankly, but unobtrusively. he was a great success. one thing puzzled him, and pleased him. he knew that he was a person of importance, and that he was the guest of the evening. but he soon found that there was another cause for his being interesting to them all, more powerful than his curious position, or his prospective wealth; and that was his connection with charles ravenshoe, now horton. _he_ was the hero of the evening. half william's light was borrowed from him. he quickly became aware of it, and it made him happy. how strange it is that some men have the power of winning such love from all they meet. i knew one, gone from us now by a glorious death, who had that faculty. only a few knew his great worth and goodness; and yet, as his biographer most truly says, those who once saw his face never forgot it. charles ravenshoe had that faculty also, though, alas! his value, both in worth and utility, was far inferior to that of the man to whom i have alluded above.[ ] but he had the same infinite kindness towards everything created; which is part of the secret. the first hint that william had, as to how deeply important a person charles was among the present company, was given him at dinner. various subjects had been talked of indifferently, and william had listened, till lord hainault said to william-- "what a strange price people are giving for cobs! i saw one sold to-day at tattersall's for ninety guineas." william answered, "good cobs are very hard to get, lord hainault. i could get you ten good horses, over fifteen, for one good cob." lord saltire said, "my cob is the best i ever had; and a sweet-tempered creature. our dear boy broke it for me at ravenshoe." "dear charles," said lady ascot. "what a splendid rider he was! dear boy! he got ascot to write him a certificate about that sort of thing, before he went away. ah, dear!" "i never thought," said lord saltire, quietly, "that i ever should have cared half as much for anybody as i do for that lad. do you remember, mainwaring," he continued, speaking still lower, while they all sat hushed, "the first night i ever saw him, when he marked for you and me at billiards, at ranford? i don't know why, but i loved the boy from the first moment i saw him. both there and ever afterwards, he reminded me so strongly of barkham. he had just the same gentle, winning way with him that barkham had. barkham was a little taller, though, i fancy," he went on, looking straight at lady ascot, and taking snuff. "don't you think so, maria?" no one spoke for a moment. lord barkham had been lord saltire's only son. he had been killed in a duel at nineteen, as i have mentioned before. lord saltire very rarely spoke of him, and, when he did, generally in a cynical manner. but general mainwaring and lady ascot knew that the memory of that poor boy was as fresh in the true old heart, after forty years, as it was on the morning when he came out from his dressing-room, and met them carrying his corpse upstairs. "he was a good fellow," said lord hainault, alluding to charles. "he was a very good fellow." "this great disappointment which i have had about him," said lord saltire, in his own dry tone, "is a just judgment on me for doing a good-natured and virtuous action many years ago. when his poor father densil was in prison, i went to see him, and reconciled him with his family. poor densil was so grateful for this act of folly on my part, that i grew personally attached to him; and hence all this misery. disinterested actions are great mistakes, maria, depend upon it." when the ladies were gone upstairs, william found lord saltire beside him. he talked to him a little time, and then finished by saying-- "you are modest and gentlemanly, and the love you bear for your foster-brother is very pleasing to me indeed. i am going to put it to the test. you must come and see me to-morrow morning. i have a great deal to say to you." "about him, my lord? have you heard of him?" "not a word. i fear he has gone to america or australia. he told lord ascot he should do so." "i'll hunt him to the world's end, my lord," said true william. "and cuthbert shall pray for me the while. i fear you are right. but we shall find him soon." when they went up into the drawing-room, mary was sitting on a sofa by herself. she looked up to william, and he went and sat down by her. they were quite away from the rest, together. "dear william," said mary, looking frankly at him, and laying her hand on his. "i am so glad," said william, "to see your sweet face again. i was down at ravenshoe last week. how they love you there! an idea prevails among old and young that dear cuthbert is to die, and that i am to marry you, and that we are to rule ravenshoe triumphantly. it was useless to represent to them that cuthbert would not die, and that you and i most certainly never would marry one another. my dearest jane evans was treated as a thing of nought. you were elected mistress of ravenshoe unanimously." "how is jane?" "pining, poor dear, at her school. she don't like it." "i should think not," said mary. "give my dear love to her. she will make you a good wife. how is cuthbert?" "very well in health. no more signs of his heart complaint, which never existed. but he is peaking at getting no tidings from charles. ah, how he loved him! may i call you 'mary'?" "you must not dare to call me anything else. no tidings of him yet?" "none. i feel sure he is gone to america. we will get him back, mary. never fear." they talked till she was cheerful, and at last she said-- "william, you were always so well-mannered; but how--how--have you got to be so gentlemanly in so short a time?" "by playing at it," said william, laughing. "the stud-groom at ravenshoe used always to say i was too much of a gentleman for him. in twenty years' time i shall pass muster in a crowd. good-night." and charles was playing at being something other than a gentleman all the time. we shall see who did best in the end. chapter xli. charles's second expedition to st. john's wood. what a happy place a man's bed is--probably the best place in which he ever finds himself. very few people will like to deny that, i think; that is to say, as a general rule. after a long day's shooting in cold weather, for instance; or half a night on deck among the ice, when the fog has lifted, and the ghastly cold walls are safe in sight; or after a fifty mile ride in the bush, under a pouring rain; or after a pleasant ball, when you have to pull down the blind, that the impudent sun may not roast you awake in two hours; for in all these cases, and a hundred more, bed is very pleasant; but you know as well as i do, that there are times when you would sooner be on a frozen deck, or in the wildest bush in the worst weather, or waltzing in the hall of eblis with vathek's mama, or almost in your very grave, than in bed and awake. oh, the weary watches! when the soul, which in sleep would leave the tortured body to rest and ramble off in dreams, holds on by a mere thread, yet a thread strong enough to keep every nerve in tense agony. when one's waking dreams of the past are as vivid as those of sleep, and there is always present, through all, the dreadful lurking thought that one is awake, and that it is all real. when, looking back, every kindly impulsive action, every heartily spoken word, makes you fancy that you have only earned contempt where you merit kindness. when the past looks like a hell of missed opportunities, and the future like another black hopeless hell of uncertainty and imminent misfortune of all kinds! oh, weary watches! let us be at such times on the bleakest hill-side, in the coldest night that ever blew, rather than in the warmest bed that money will buy. when you are going to have a night of this kind, you seldom know it beforehand, for certain. sometimes, if you have had much experience in the sort of thing--if you have lost money, or gone in debt, or if your sweetheart has cut you very often--you may at least guess, before you get your boots off, that you are going to have a night of it; in which case, read yourself to sleep _in bed_. never mind burning the house down (that would be rather desirable as a distraction from thought); but don't read till you are sleepy with your clothes on, and then undress, because, if you do, you will find, by the time you have undressed yourself, that you are terribly wide awake, and, when the candle is blown out, you will be all ready for a regular walpurgis night. charles, poor lad, had not as yet had much experience of walpurgis nights. before his catastrophe he had never had one. he had been used to tumble tired into his bed, and sleep a heavy dreamless sleep till an hour before waking. then, indeed, he might begin to dream of his horses, and his dogs, and so on, and then gradually wake into a state more sweet than the sweetest dream--that state in which sense is awake to all outward objects, but in which the soul is taking its few last airy flutters round its home, before coming to rest for the day. but, even since then, he had not had experience enough to make him dread the night. the night he came home from st. john's wood, he thought he would go to bed and sleep it off. poor fellow! a fellow-servant slept in the same room with him--the younger and better tempered of the two (though charles had no complaint against either of them). the lad was asleep; and, before charles put out the light, he looked at him. his cheek was laid on his arm, and he seemed so calm and happy that charles knew that he was not there, but far away. he was right. as he looked the lad smiled, and babbled out something in his dream. strange! the soul had still sufficient connection with the body to make it smile. "i wonder if miss martineau or mr. atkinson ever watched the face of one who slept and dreamt," said charles, rambling on as soon as he had got into bed. "pish! why that fellow's body is the mere tool of his soul. his soul is out a-walking, and his body is only a log. hey, that won't do; that's as bad as miss martineau. i should have said that his body is only a fine piece of clockwork. but clockwork don't smile of itself. my dear madam, and mr. atkinson, i am going to leave my body behind, and be off to ravenshoe in five minutes. that is to say, i am going to sleep." he was, was he? why no, not just at present. if he had meant to do so, he had, perhaps, better not have bothered himself about "letters on the laws of man's nature"; for, when he had done his profound cogitations about them, as above, he thought he had got a----well, say a pulex in his bed. there was no more a pulex than there was a scorpion; but he had an exciting chase after an imaginary one, like our old friend mr. sponge after an imaginary fox at laverick wells. after this, he had an irritation where he couldn't reach, that is to say, in the middle of his back: then he had the same complaint where he could reach, and used a certain remedy (which is a pretty way of saying that he scratched himself); then he had the cramp in his right leg; then he had the cramp in his left leg; then he grew hot all over, and threw the clothes off; then he grew cold all over, and pulled them on again; then he had the cramp in his left leg again; then he had another flea hunt, cramp, irritation in back, heat, cold, and so on, all over; and then, after half an hour, finding himself in a state of feverish despondency, he fell into a cheerful train of thought, and was quite inclined to look at his already pleasant prospects from a hopeful point of view. poor dear fellow! you may say that it is heartless to make fun of him just now, when everything is going so terribly wrong. but really my story is so very sad, that we must try to make a little feeble fun where we can, or it would be unreadable. he tried to face the future, manfully. but lo! there was no future to face--it was all such a dead, hopeless blank. ellen must come away from that house, and he must support her; but how? it would be dishonourable for him to come upon the ravenshoes for a farthing; and it would be dishonourable for her to marry that foolish hornby. and these two courses, being dishonourable, were impossible. and there he was brought up short. but would either course be dishonourable? yes, yes, was the answer each weary time he put the question to himself; and there the matter ended. was there one soul in the wide world he could consult? not one. all alone in the weary world, he and she. not one friend for either of them. they had made their beds, and must lie on them. when would the end of it all come? what would the end be? there was a noise in the street. a noise of a woman scolding, whose voice got louder and louder, till it rose into a scream. a noise of a man cursing and abusing her; then a louder scream, and a sound of blows. one, two, then a heavy fall, and silence. a drunken, homeless couple had fallen out in the street, and the man had knocked the woman down. that was all. it was very common. probably the woman was not much hurt. that sort of woman got used to it. the police would come and take them to the station. there they were. the man and woman were being taken off by two constables, scolding and swearing. well, well! was it to come to that? there were bridges in london, and under them runs the river. charles had come over one once, after midnight. he wished he had never seen the cursed place. he remembered a fluttering figure which had come and begged a halfpenny of him to pay the toll and get home. he had given her money, and then, by a sudden impulse, followed her till she was safe off the bridge. ugly thoughts, charles! ugly thoughts! will the dawn never come? why, the night is not half over yet. god in his mercy sets a limit to human misery in many ways. i do not believe that the condemned man, waiting through the weary night for the gallows, thinks all night through of his fate. we read generally in those accounts of the terrible last night (which are so rightly published in the newspapers--they are the most terrifying part of the punishment), that they conversed cheerfully, or slept, or did something, showing that they half forgot for a time what was coming. and so, before the little window grew to a lighter grey, poor charles had found some relief from his misery. he was between sleep and waking, and he had fulfilled his challenge to miss martineau, though later than he intended. he had gone to ravenshoe. there it was, all before him. the dawn behind the eastern headland had flooded the amphitheatre of hills, till the crags behind the house had turned from grey to gold, and the vane upon the priest's tower shone like a star. the sea had changed from black to purple, and the fishing-boats were stealing lazily homewards, over the gentle rolling ground-swell. the surf was whispering to the sand of their coming. as window after window blazed out before the sun, and as woodland and hill-side, stream and park, village and lonely farm in the distant valley, waked before the coming day, charles watched, in his mind's eye, the dark old porch, till there came out a figure in black, and stood solitary in the terrace gazing seawards. and as he said, "cuthbert," he fell into a dreamless, happy sleep. he determined that he would not go to see ellen till the afternoon. hornby was on duty in the morning, and never saw charles all day; he avoided him as though on purpose. charles, on his part, did not want to meet him till he had made some definite arrangement, and so was glad of it. but, towards two o'clock, it came across his mind that he would saunter round to st. peter's church, and see the comical little imp of a boy who was generally to be found there, and beguile a quarter of an hour by listening to his prattle. he had given up reading. he had hardly opened a book since his misfortune. this may seem an odd thing to have to record about a gentleman, and to a certain extent a scholar; but so it was. he wanted to lower himself, and he was beginning to succeed. there was an essential honesty in him, which made him hate to appear what he was not; and this feeling, carried to an absurd extent, prevented his taking refuge in the most obvious remedy for all troubles except hunger--books. he did not know, as i do, that determined reading--reading of anything, even the advertisements in a newspaper--will stop all cravings except those of the stomach, and will even soften them; but he guessed it, nevertheless. "why should i read?" said he. "i must learn to do as the rest of them." and so he did as the rest of them, and "rather loafed away his time than otherwise." and he was more inclined to "loaf" than usual this day, because he very much dreaded what was to come. and so he dawdled round to st. peter's church, and came upon his young friend, playing at fives with the ball he had given him, as energetically as he had before played with the brass button. shoeblacks are compelled to a great deal of unavoidable "loafing;" but certainly this one loafed rather energetically, for he was hot and frantic in his play. he was very glad to see charles. he parted his matted hair from his face, and looked at him admiringly with a pleasant smile; then he suddenly said-- "you was drunk last night, worn't you?" charles said, no--that he never got drunk. "worn't you really, though?" said the boy; "you look as tho' you had a been. you looks wild about the eyes;" and then he hazarded another theory to account for charles's appearance, which charles also negatived emphatically. "i gave a halpenny for this one," said the boy, showing him the ball, "and i spent the other halpenny." here he paused, expecting a rebuke, apparently; but charles nodded kindly at him, and he was encouraged to go on, and to communicate a piece of intelligence with the air of one who assumes that his hearer is _au fait_ with all the movements of the great world, and will be interested. "old biddy flanigan's dead." "no! is she?" said charles, who, of course, had not the wildest idea who she was, but guessed her to be an aged, and probably a dissipated irishwoman. "ah! i believe you," said the boy. "and they was a-waking on her last night, down in our court (he said, "daone in aour cawt"). they waked me sharp enough; but, as for she! she's fast." "what did she die of?" asked charles. "well, she died mostly along of mr. malone's bumble foot, i fancy. him and old biddy was both drunk a-fighting on the stairs, and she was a step below he; and he being drunk, and bumble-footed too, lost his balance, and down they come together, and the back of her head come against the door scraper, and there she was. wake she!" he added with scorn, "not if all the irish and rooshans in france was to put stones in their stockings, and howl a week on end, they wouldn't wake her." "did they put stones in their stockings?" asked charles, thinking that it was some papist form of penance. "miss ophelia flanigan, she put half a brick in her stocking end, so she did, and come at mr. malone for to break his head with it, and there were a hole in the stocking, and the brick flew out, and hit old denny moriarty in the jaw, and broke it. and he worn't a doing nothink, he worn't; but was sitting in a corner decent and quiet, blind drunk, a singing to his self; and they took he to guy's orspital. and the pleece come in, and got gallus well kicked about the head, and then they took they to guy's orspital; and then miss flanigan fell out of winder into the airy, and then they took she to guy's orspital; and there they is, the whole bilin of 'em in bed together, with their heads broke, a-eating of jelly and a-drinking of sherry wind; and then in comes a mob from rosemary lane, and then they all begins to get a bit noisy and want to fight, and so i hooked it." "then there are a good many irish in your court?" said charles. "irish! ah! i believe you. they're all irish there except we and billy jones's lot. the emperor of rooshar is a nigger; but his lot is mostly irish, but another bilin of irish from mr. malone's lot. and one on 'em plays the bagpipes, with a bellus, against the water-butt of a sunday evening, when they're off the lay. and mr. malone's lot heaves crockery and broken vegetables at him out of winder, by reason of their being costermongers, and having such things handy; so there's mostly a shine of a sunday evening." "but who are mr. malone, and billy jones, and the emperor of russia?" "they keeps lodging houses," said the boy. "miss ophelia flanigan is married on mr. malone, but she keeps her own name, because her family's a better one nor his'n, and she's ashamed of him. they gets on very well when they're sober, but since they've been a making money they mostly gets drunk in bed of a morning, so they ain't so happy together as they was." "does she often attack him with a brick in the foot of a stocking?" asked charles. "no," said the boy, "she said her papa had taught her that little game. she used to fist hold of the poker, but he got up to that, and spouted it. so now they pokes the fire with a mop-stick, which ain't so handy to hit with, and softer." charles walked away northward, and thought what a charming sort of person miss ophelia flanigan must be, and how he would rather like to know her for curiosity's sake. the picture he drew of her in his mind was not exactly like the original, as we shall see. it was very pleasant summer weather--weather in which an idle man would be inclined to dawdle, under any circumstances; and charles was the more inclined to dawdle, because he very much disliked the errand on which he went. he could loiter at street corners now with the best of them, and talk to any one who happened to be loitering there too. he was getting on. so he loitered at street corners and talked. and he found out something to-day for the first time. he had been so absorbed in his own troubles that all rumours had been to him like the buzzing of bees; but to-day he began to appreciate that this rumour of war was no longer a mere rumour, but likely to grow into an awful reality. if he were only free, he said to himself. if he could only provide for poor ellen. "gad, if they could get up a regiment of fellows in the same state of mind as i am!" he went into a public-house, and drank a glass of ale. they were talking of it there. "sir charles napier is to have the fleet," said one man, "and if he don't bring cronstadt about their ears in two hours, i am a dutchman. as for odessa----" a man in seedy black, who (let us hope) had seen better days, suggested sebastopol. the first man had not heard of sebastopol. it could not be a place of much importance, or he must have heard of it. talk to him about petersburg and moscow, and he would listen to you. this sort of talk, heard everywhere on his slow walk, excited charles; and thinking over it, he came to the door of lord welter's house, and rang. the door was barely opened, when he saw lord welter himself in the hall, who called to him by his christian name, and bade him come in. charles followed lord welter into a room, and, when the latter turned round, charles saw that he was disturbed and anxious. "charles," he said, "ellen is gone!" charles said "where?" for he hardly understood him. "where? god knows! she must have left the house soon after you saw her last night. she left this note for me. take it and read it. you see i am free from blame in this matter." charles took it and read it. "my lord, "i should have consented to accept the shelter of your roof for a longer period, were it not that, by doing so, i should be continually tempted to the commission of a dishonourable action--an action which would bring speedy punishment on myself, by ruining too surely the man whom, of all others in the world, i love and respect. "lieutenant hornby has proposed marriage to me. your lordship's fine sense of honour will show you at once how impossible it is for me to consent to ruin his prospects by a union with such a one as myself. distrusting my own resolution, i have fled, and henceforth i am dead to him and to you. "ah! welter, welter! you yourself might have been loved as he is, once; but that time is gone by for ever. i should have made you a better wife than adelaide. i might have loved you myself once, but i fell more through anger and vanity than through love. "my brother, he whom we call charles ravenshoe, is in this weary world somewhere. i have an idea that you will meet him. you used to love one another. don't let him quarrel with you for such a worthless straw as i am. tell him i always loved him as a brother. it is better that we should not meet yet. tell him that he must make his own place in the world before we meet, and then i have something to say to him. "mary, the mother of god, and the blessed saints before the throne, bless you and him, here and hereafter!" charles had nothing to say to lord welter, not one word. he saw that the letter was genuine. he understood that welter had had no time to tell her of his coming, and that she was gone; neither welter nor he knew where, or were likely to know; that was all. he only bid him good-bye, and walked home again. when you know the whole story, you will think that charles's run of ill luck at this time is almost incredible; but i shall call you to witness that it is not so. this was the first stroke of real ill luck that he had had. all his other misfortunes came from his mad determination of alienating himself from all his friends. if he had even left lord welter free to have mentioned that he had been seen, all might have gone well, but he made him promise secrecy; and now, after having, so to speak, made ill luck for himself, and lamented over it, here was a real stroke of it with a vengeance, and he did not know it. he was not anxious about ellen's future; he felt sure at once that she was going into some roman catholic refuge, where she would be quiet and happy. in fact, with a new fancy he had in his head, he was almost content to have missed her. and ellen, meanwhile, never dreamt either of his position or state of mind, or she would have searched him out at the end of the world. she thought he was just as he always had been, or, perhaps, turning his attention to some useful career with cuthbert's assistance; and she thought she would wait, and wait she did; and they went apart, not to meet till the valley of the shadow of death had been passed, and life was not so well worth having as it had been. but as for our old friend father mackworth. as i said once before, "it's no use wondering, but i do wonder," whether father mackworth, had he known how near ellen and charles had been to meeting the night before, would not have whistled "lillibulero," as uncle toby did in times of dismay; that is, if he had known the tune. chapter xlii. ravenshoe hall, during all this. the villagers at ravenshoe, who loved charles, were very much puzzled and put out by his sudden disappearance. although they had little or no idea of the real cause of his absence, yet it was understood to be a truth, not to be gainsayed, that it was permanent. and as it was a heavily-felt misfortune to them, and as they really had no idea why he was gone, or where he was gone to, it became necessary that they should comfort themselves by a formula. at which time master lee up to slarrow, erected the theory, that master charles was gone to the indies--which was found to be a doctrine so comfortable to the souls of those that adopted it, as being hazy and vague, and as leaving his return an open question, that it was unanimously adopted; and those who ventured to doubt it, were treated as heretics and heathens. it was an additional puzzle to them to find that william had turned out to be a gentleman, and a ravenshoe, a fact which could not, of course, be concealed from them, though the other facts of the case were carefully hushed up--not a very difficult matter in a simple feudal village, like ravenshoe. but, when william appeared, after a short absence, he suffered greatly in popularity, from the belief that he had allowed charles to go to the indies by himself. old master james lee of tor head, old master james lee of withycombe barton, and old master james lee up to slarrow, the three great quidnuncs of the village, were sunning themselves one day under the wall which divides part of the village from the shore, when by there came, talking earnestly together, william and john marston. the three old men raised their hats, courteously. they were in no distinguishable relation to one another, but, from similarity of name and age, always hunted in a leash. (sporting men will notice a confusion here about the word "leash," but let it pass.) when no one was by, i have heard them fall out and squabble together about dates, or such like; but, when others were present, they would, so to speak, trump one another's tricks to any amount. and if, on these occasions, any one of the three took up an untenable position, the other two would lie him out of it like jesuits, and only fall foul of him when they were alone together--which, to say the least of it, was neighbourly and decent. "god save you, gentlemen," said old master lee up to slarrow, who was allowed to commit himself by the other two, who were waiting to be "down on him" in private. "any news from the indies lately?" william and marston stopped, and william said-- "no, master lee, we have not heard from captain archer for seven months, or more." "i ask your pardon," said lee up to slarrow; "i warn't a speaking of he. i was speaking of our own darling boy, master charles. when be he a-coming back to see we?" "when, indeed!" said william. "i wish i knew, master lee." "they indies," said the old man, "is well enough; but what's he there no more than any other gentleman? why don't he come home to his own. who's a-keeping on him away?" william and john marston walked on without answering. and then the two other master lees fell on to master lee up to slarrow, and verbally ill-treated him--partly because he had got no information out of william, and partly because, having both sat quiet and given him plenty of rope, he had not hanged himself. master lee up to slarrow had evil times of it that blessed spring afternoon, and ended by "dratting" both his companions, for a couple of old fools. after which, they adjourned to the public-house and hard cider, sent them to drink for their sins. "they'll never make a scholar of me, marston," said william; "i will go on at it for a year, but no more, i shall away soon to hunt up charles. is there any police in america?" marston answered absently, "yes; he believed so;" but was evidently thinking of something else. they had gone sauntering out for a walk together. marston had come down from oxford the day before (after an examination for an exeter fellowship, i believe) for change of air; and he thought he would like to walk with william up to the top of the lofty promontory, which bounded ravenshoe bay on the west, and catch the pleasant summer breeze coming in from the atlantic. on the loftiest point of all, with the whispering blue sea on three sides of them, four hundred feet below, there they sat down on the short sheep-eaten turf, and looked westward. cape after cape stretched away under the afternoon sun, till the last seemed only a dark cloud floating on the sea. beyond that cape there was nothing but water for three thousand weary miles. the scene was beautiful enough, but very melancholy; a long coastline trending away into dim distance, on a quiet sunny afternoon, is very melancholy. indeed, far more melancholy than the same place in a howling gale: when the nearest promontory only is dimly visible, a black wall, echoing the thunder of bursting waves, and when sea, air, and sky, like the three furies, are rushing on with mad, destructive unanimity. they lay, these two, on the short turf, looking westward; and, after a time, john marston broke silence. he spoke very low and quietly, and without looking at william. "i have something very heavy on my mind, william. i am not a fool, with a morbid conscience, but i have been very wrong. i have done what i never can undo. i loved that fellow, william!" william said "ay." "i know what you would say. you would say, that every one who ever knew charles loved him; and you are right. he was so utterly unselfish, so entirely given up to trying to win others, that every one loved him, and could not help it. the cleverest man in england, with all his cleverness, could not gain so many friends as charles." william seemed to think this such a self-evident proposition, that he did not think it worth while to say anything. "and charles was not clever. and what makes me mad with myself is this. i had influence over him, and i abused it. i was not gentle enough with him. i used to make fun of him, and be flippant, and priggish, and dictatorial, with him. god help me! and now he has taken some desperate step, and, in fear of my ridicule, has not told me of it. i felt sure he would come to me, but i have lost hope now. may god forgive me--god forgive me!" in a few moments, william said, "if you pause to think, marston, you will see how unjust you are to yourself. he could not be afraid of me, and yet he has never come near me." "of course not," said marston. "you seem hardly to know him so well as i. he fears that you would make him take money, and that he would be a burthen on you. i never expected that he would come back to you. he knows that you would never leave him. he knows, as well as you know yourself, that you would sacrifice all your time and your opportunities of education to him. and, by being dependent on you, he would be dependent on father mackworth--the only man in the world he dislikes and distrusts." william uttered a form of speech concerning the good father, which is considered by foreigners to be merely a harmless national _façon de parler_--sometimes, perhaps, intensive, when the participle is used, but in general no more than expletive. in this case, the speaker was, i fear, in earnest, and meant what he said most heartily. marston never swore, but he certainly did not correct william for swearing, in this case, as he should have done. there was a silence for a time. after a little, william laid his hand on marston's shoulder, and said-- "he never had a truer friend than you. don't you blame yourself?" "i do; and shall, until i find him." "marston," said william, "what _has_ he done with himself? where the deuce is he gone?" "lord saltire and i were over the same problem for two hours the other night, and we could make nothing of it, but that he was gone to america or australia. he hardly took money enough with him to keep him till now. i can make nothing of it. do _you_ think he would be likely to seek out welter?" "if he were going to do so, he would have done so by now, and we must have heard of it. no," said william. "he was capable of doing very odd things," said marston. "do you remember that easter vacation, when he and lord welter and mowbray went away together?" "remember!" said william. "why i was with them; and glorious fun it was. rather fast fun though--too fast by half. we went up and lived on the severn and avon canal, among the bargeman, dressing accordingly. charles had nothing to do with that folly, beyond joining in it, and spending the day in laughing. that was lord welter's doing. the bargees nicknamed lord welter 'the sweep,' and said he was a good fellow, but a terrible blackguard. and so he was--for that time, at all events." marston laughed, and, after a time, said, "did he ever seem to care about soldiering? do you think he was likely to enlist?" "it is possible," said william; "it is quite possible. yes, he has often talked to me about soldiering. i mind--i remember, i should say--that he once was hot about going into the army, but he gave it up because it would have taken him away from mr. ravenshoe too much." they turned and walked homewards, without speaking a word all the way. on the bridge they paused and leant upon the coping, looking into the stream. all of a sudden, william laid his hand on marston's arm, and looking in his face, said-- "every day we lose, i feel he is getting farther from us. i don't know what may happen. i shall go and seek him. i will get educated at my leisure. only think of what may be happening now! i was a fool to have given it up so soon, and to have tried waiting till he came to us. he will never come. i must go and fetch him. here is cuthbert, too, good fellow, fretting himself to death about it. let us go and talk to him." and john marston said, "right, true heart; let us go." of all their acquaintances, there was only one who could have given them any information--lord welter; and he, of all others, was the very last they dreamt of going to. you begin to see, i dare say, that, when charles is found, my story will nearly be at an end. but my story is not near finished yet, i assure you. standing where they were on the bridge, they could look along the village street. it was as neat a street as one ever sees in a fishing village; that is to say, rather an untidy one, for of all human employments, fishing involves more lumber and mess than any other. everything past use was "hit," as they say in berkshire, out into the street; and of the inorganic part of this refuse, that is to say, tiles, bricks, potsherds, and so on, the children built themselves shops and bazaars, and sold one another the organic orts, that is to say, cabbage-stalks, fish-bones, and orange-peel, which were paid for in mussel-shells. and, as marston and william looked along this street, as one may say, at high market time, they saw cuthbert come slowly riding along among the children, and the dogs, and the pigs, and the herring-bones, and brickbats. he was riding a noble horse, and was dressed with his usual faultless neatness and good taste, as clean as a new pin from top to toe. as he came along, picking his way gently among the children, the fishermen and their wives came out right and left from their doors, and greeted him kindly. in olden times they would not have done this, but it had got about that he was pining for the loss of his brother, and their hearts had warmed to him. it did not take much to make their hearts warm to a ravenshoe; though they were sturdy, independent rogues enough at times. i am a very great admirer of the old feudal feeling, when it is not abused by either party. in parts of australia, where it, or something near akin to it, is very strong indeed, i have seen it act on high and low most beneficially; giving to the one side a sense of responsibility, and to the other a feeling of trust and reliance. "here's 'captain dash,' or 'colonel blank,' or 'mr. so-and-so,' and he won't see me wronged, i know. i have served him and his father for forty year, and he's a _gentleman_, and so were his father before him." that is a sort of thing you will hear often enough in australia. and even on the diggings, with all the leaven of americanism and european radicalism one finds there, it is much easier for a warden to get on with the diggers if he comes of a known colonial family, than if he is an unknown man. the old colonial diggers, the people of the greatest real weight, talk of them, and the others listen and mark. all people, prate as they may, like a guarantee for respectability. in the colonies, such a guarantee is given by a man's being tolerably well off, and "come of decent people." in england, it is given, in cases, by a man and a man's forefathers having been good landlords and honest men. such a guarantee is given by such people as the ravenshoes, but that is not the whole secret of _their_ influence. that comes more from association--a feeling strong enough, as one sees, to make educated and clever men use their talents and eloquence towards keeping a school in a crowded unhealthy neighbourhood, instead of moving it into the country; merely because, as far as one can gather from their speeches, they were educated at it themselves, twenty years ago. hereby visiting the sins of the fathers on the children with a vengeance! "somewhat too much of this." it would be stretching a point to say that cuthbert was a handsome man, though he was very near being so, indeed. he was tall, but not too slender, for he had developed in chest somewhat since we first knew him. his face was rather pale, but his complexion perfectly clear; save that he had a black mark round his eyes. his features were decidedly marked, but not so strongly as charles's; and there was an air of stately repose about him, showing itself in his way of carrying his head perfectly upright, and the firm, but not harsh, settling of his mouth, with the lower lip slightly pouting, which was very attractive. he was a consummate horseman, too, and, as i said, perfectly dressed; and, as he came towards them, looking apparently at nothing, both william and marston thought they had never seen a finer specimen of a gentleman. he had strangely altered in two months. as great a change had come over him as comes over a rustic when the drill-sergeant gets him and makes a soldier of him. there is the same body, the same features, the same hair and eyes. bill jones is bill jones, if you are to believe his mother. but bill jones the soldier is not bill jones the ploughboy. he is quite a different person. so, since the night when charles departed, cuthbert had not been the cuthbert of former times. he was no longer wayward and irritable; he was as silent as ever, but he had grown so staid, so studiously courteous to every one, so exceedingly humble-minded and patient with every one, that all save one or two wondered at the change in him. he had been passionately fond of charles, though he had seldom shown it, and was terribly cut up at his loss. he had greatly humiliated himself to himself by what was certainly his felonious offer to father mackworth; and he had found the estate somewhat involved, and had determined to set to work and bring it to rights. these three causes had made cuthbert ravenshoe a humbler and better man than he had ever been before. "william," he said, smiling kindly on him, "i have been seeing after your estate for you. it does me good to have some one to work for. you will die a rich man." william said nothing. one of cuthbert's fixed notions was, that he would die young and childless. he claimed to have a heart-complaint, though it really appeared without any foundation. it was a fancy which william had combated at first, but now acquiesced in, because he found it useless to do otherwise. he dismounted and walked with him. "cuthbert," said william, "we have been thinking about charles." "i am always thinking about him," said cuthbert; "is there no way of finding him?" "i am going. i want you to give me some money and let me go." "you had better go at once, william. you had better try if the police can help you. we are pretty sure that he has gone to america, unless he has enlisted. in either case, it is very possible we may find him. aunt ascot would have succeeded, if she had not lost her temper. don't you think i am right, my dear marston?" "i do, indeed, ravenshoe," said marston. "don't you think now, mr. mackworth, that, if a real push is made, and with judgment, we may find charles again?" they had reached the terrace, and father mackworth was standing in front of the porch. he said he believed it was perfectly possible. "nay," he said, "possible! i am as sure of seeing charles horton back here again as i am that i shall eat my dinner to-day." "and i," said cuthbert, "am equally sure that we shall see poor ellen back some day. poor girl! she shall have a warm welcome." father mackworth said he hoped it might be so. and the lie did not choke him. "we are going to send william away again to look after him, father," said cuthbert. "he had much better stay at home and mind his education," said mackworth. william had his back towards them, and was looking out to sea, whistling. when the priest spoke he turned round sharply, and said-- "hey? what's that?" the priest repeated it. "i suppose," said william, "that that is more my business than yours, is it not? i don't intend to go to school again, certainly not to you." cuthbert looked from one to the other of them, and said nothing. a few days before this william and the priest had fallen out; and mackworth, appealing, had been told with the greatest kindness and politeness by cuthbert that he could not interfere. that william was heir to ravenshoe, and that he really had no power over him whatever. mackworth had said nothing then, but now he had followed cuthbert into the library, and, when they were alone, said-- "cuthbert, i did not expect this from you. you have let him insult me twice, and have not corrected him." cuthbert put his back against the door, and said-- "now you don't leave this room till you apologise for these wicked words. my dear old fellow, what a goose you are! have not you and he always squabbled? do fight it out with him, and don't try and force me to take a side. i ain't going to do it, you know, and so i tell you plainly. give it to him. who can do it so well as you? remember what an altered position he is in. how can you expect me to take your part against him?" father mackworth cleared his brow, and said, laughing, "you are right, cuthbert. i'll go about with the rogue. he is inclined to kick over the traces, but i'll whip him in a little. i have had the whip-hand of every ravenshoe i have had to deal with yet, yourself included, and it's hard if i am to be beat by this new whipper-snapper." cuthbert said affectionately to him, "i think you love me, mackworth. don't quarrel with him more than you can help. i know you love me." and so cuthbert went to seek john marston. love him! ay, that he did. john mackworth could be cruel, hard, false, vindictive. he could cheat, and he could lie, if need were. he was heartless and ambitious. but he loved cuthbert. it was a love which had taken a long time growing, but there it was, and he was half ashamed of it. even to himself he would try to make out that it was mere selfishness and ambition--that he was gentle with cuthbert, because he must keep his place at ravenshoe. even now he would try to persuade himself that such was the case--perhaps the more strongly because he began to see now that there was a soft spot in his heart, and that cuthbert was master of it. since the night when cuthbert had offered him ten thousand pounds, and he had refused it, cuthbert had never been the same to him. and mackworth, expecting to find his influence increased, found to his astonishment that from that moment it was _gone_. cuthbert's intensely sensitive and proud nature revolted from the domination of a man before whom he had so lowered himself; and firmly, though humbly now, for he was altered by seeing how nearly he had been a villain, he let him see that he would walk in future in his own strength. father mackworth saw soon that ravenshoe was a comfortable home for him, but that his power was gone. unless! and yet he knew he could exercise a power little dreamt of. it is in the power, possibly, of a condemned man to burn the prison down, and possibly his interest; but he has compunctions. mackworth tried to persuade himself that the reason he did not use his power was that it would not be advisable. he was a cipher in the house, and knew by instinct that he would never be more. but in reality, i believe, he let his power sleep for cuthbert's sake. "who could have thought," he said, "that the very thing which clenched my power, as i thought, should have destroyed it? are not those people fools who lay down rules for human action? why, no. they are possibly right five times out of ten. but as for the other five! bah! "no, i won't allow that. it was my own fault. i should have known his character better. but there, i could not have helped it, for he did it himself. i was passive." and cuthbert followed marston into the hall, and said, "you are not going away because william goes, marston?" "do you want me?" said marston. "yes," said cuthbert. "you must stay with me. my time is short, and i must know as much of this world as i may. i have much to do; you must help me. i will be like a little child in your hands. i will die in the old faith; but i will learn something new." and so marston stayed with him, and they two grew fast friends. cuthbert had nothing to learn in this management of his estate; there he was marston's master; but all that a shrewd young man of the world could teach a bookworm, so much cuthbert got from marston. marston one day met the village doctor, the very man whom we saw at the beginning of the book, putting out william (whom we then supposed to be charles) to nurse. marston asked him, "was there any reality in this heart-complaint of cuthbert's?" "not the very faintest shadow of a reality," said the doctor. "it is the most tiresome whimsy i ever knew. he has persuaded himself of it, though. he used to be very hypochondriac. he is as likely to live till eighty as you are." chapter xliii. the meeting. there was ruin in the ascot family, we know. and lord ascot, crippled with paralysis at six-and-forty, was lying in south audley street, nursed by lady ascot. the boxes, which we saw packed ready for their foreign tour at the london bridge hotel, were still there--not gone abroad yet, for the simple reason that herodias had won the oaks, and that lord welter had won, some said seven, others said seventy thousand pounds. (he had really won nine). so the boxes might stay where they were a few days, and he might pursue his usual avocations in peace, all his debts of honour being satisfied. he had barely saved himself from being posted. fortunately for him, he had, on the derby, betted chiefly with a few friends, one of whom was hornby; and they waited and said nothing till after the oaks, when they were paid, and welter could hold up his head again. he was indebted to the generosity of hornby and sir charles ferrars for his honour--the very men whom he would have swindled. but he laughed and ate his dinner, and said they were good fellows, and thought no more of it. the bailiffs were at ranford. the servants were gone, and the horses were advertised at tattersall's already. it was reported in the county that an aged jew, being in possession, and prowling about the premises, had come into the poultry-yard, and had surreptitiously slain, cooked, and essayed to eat, the famous cock "sampson," the champion bird of england, since his match with "young countryman." on being informed by the old keeper that my lord had refused sixty guineas for him a few weeks before, he had (so said the county) fled out of the house, tearing his hair, and knocked old lady hainault, who had also come prowling over in her pony-carriage, down the steps, flat on her back. miss hicks, who was behind with her shawls, had picked her up, they said, and "caught it." if adelaide was beautiful everywhere, surely she was more beautiful on horseback than anywhere else, and no one knew it better than herself. she was one of the few who appeared in the park in a low-crowned hat--a "wide-awake." they are not _de rigueur_ even yet, i believe; but adelaide was never very particular, so long as she could look well. she had found out how splendid her perfect mask looked under the careless, irregular curves of such a head-dress, and how bright her banded hair shone in contrast with a black ostrich feather which drooped on her shoulder. and so she had taken to wear one since she had been lady welter, and had appeared in the park in it twice. lord welter bethought himself once in these times--that is, just after the oaks--that he would like to take his handsome wife out, and show her in the park. his hornby speculation had turned out ill; in fact, hornby had altogether made rather a handsome sum out of him, and he must look for some one else. the some one else, a young austrian, pscechenyi by name, a young fellow of wealth, had received his advances somewhat coldly, and it became necessary to hang out adelaide as a lure. lord welter was aware that, if he had asked adelaide to come and ride with him, on the ground of giving her an afternoon's amusement, and tried to persuade her to it by fair-spoken commonplaces, she would probably not have come; and so he did nothing of the kind. he and his wife thoroughly understood one another. there was perfect confidence between them in everything. towards one another they were perfectly sincere; and this very sincerity begot a feeling of trust between them, which ultimately ripened into something better. they began life together without any professions of affection; but out of use, and a similarity of character, there grew a liking in the end. she knew everything about lord welter, save one thing, which she was to know immediately, and which was of no importance; and she was always ready to help him, provided, as she told him, "he didn't humbug," which his lordship, as we know, was not inclined to do, without her caution. lord welter went into her dressing-room, in the morning, and said-- "here's a note from pscechenyi. he won't come to-night." "indeed!" said adelaide, brushing her hair. "i did not give him credit for so much sense. really, you know, he can't be such a fool as he looks." "we must have him," said lord welter. "of course we must," said adelaide. "i really cannot allow such a fat goose to run about with a knife and fork in him any longer. heigh ho! let's see. he affects lady brittlejug, don't he? i am going to her party to-night, and i'll capture him for you, and bring him home to you from under her very nose. now, do try and make a better hand of him than you did of hornby, or we shall all be in the workhouse together." "i'll do my best," said lord welter, laughing. "but look here. i don't think you'll catch him so, you know. she looks as well as you by candlelight; but she can't ride a hang. come out in the park this afternoon. he will be there." "very well," said adelaide; "i suppose you know best. i shall be glad of a ride. half-past two, then." so, at the time appointed, these two innocent lambkins rode forth to take the air. lord welter, big, burly, red-faced, good-humoured, perfectly dressed, and sitting on his horse as few others could sit, the model of a frank english nobleman. adelaide, beautiful and fragile beyond description, perfect in dress and carriage, riding trustingly and lovingly in the shadow of her lord, the happy, timid bride all over. they had no groom. what should a poor simple couple like them want with a groom? it was a beautiful sight, and many turned to look at them. but lord saltire, who was looking out of the drawing-room window of lord ascot's house in south audley street, as they passed, turned to marston, and said very emphatically-- "now, i do really wonder what infernal mischief those two are after. there is an air of pastoral simplicity about their whole get-up, which forebodes some very great--very great"--here he paused, took snuff, and looked marston straight in the face--"obliquity of moral purpose." meanwhile the unconscious innocents sauntered on into the park, under the marble arch, and down towards rotten row. when they got into the row, they had a canter. there was pscechenyi riding with hornby and miss buckjumper, but they gave them the "go by," and went sortly on towards kensington gate. "who is the woman in the hat and feathers?" said everybody who didn't know. "lady welter" said everybody who did; and, whatever else they said of her, they all agreed that she was wonderfully beautiful, and rode divinely. when they came slowly back, they found hornby and the austrian were standing against the rail, talking to some ladies. they drew close up, and entered into conversation; and adelaide found herself beside miss buckjumper, now lady handlycross. adelaide was somewhat pleased to find herself at the side of this famous horsewoman and beauty. she was so sure that comparisons would be favourable to herself. and they were. if ever an exquisitely-formed nose was, so to speak put out of joint, that nose was in the middle of miss buckjumper's face that day. nevertheless, she did not show anything. she had rather a respect for adelaide, as being a successful woman. was not she herself cantering for a coronet? there was very soon a group round them, and lord welter's hoarse, jolly laugh was heard continually. people, who were walking in the park to see the great people, paused outside the circle to look at her, and repassed again. mr. pelagius j. bottom, of new york, whose father emigrated to athens, and made a great fortune at the weaving business in the time of king theseus, got on a bench, and looked at her through a double-barrelled opera-glass. there never was such a success. the austrian thought no more of hornby's cautions, thought no more of miss buckjumper or lady brittlejug. he was desperately in love, and was dying for some excuse to withdraw his refusal of this morning. pelagius jas. bottom would have come, and mortgaged the paternal weaving business at the dice, but unfortunately his letters of introduction, being all addressed to respectable people, did not include one to lord and lady welter. all the young fellows would have come and played all night, till church-time next morning, for her sake. as lord welter candidly told her that night, she was the best investment he had ever made. they did not want all the young fellows though. too many cooks spoil the broth. they only wanted the young austrian, and so lord welter said, after a time, "i was in hopes of seeing you at my house last night." that was quite enough. fifty hornbys would not have stopped him now. still they stood there talking. adelaide was almost happy. which of these staid women had such power as she? there was a look of pride and admiration even on lord welter's stupid face. yes, it was a great success. suddenly all people began to look one way and come towards the rails, and a buzz arose, "the queen--the queen!" adelaide turned just as the outriders were opposite to her. she saw the dark claret-coloured carriage, fifty yards off, and she knew that lady emily montford, who had been her sister bridesmaid at lady hainault's wedding, was in waiting that day. hornby declares the whole thing was done on purpose. let us be more charitable, and suppose that her horse was startled at the scarlet coats of the outriders; however it was, the brute took fright, stood on its hind legs, and bolted straight towards the royal carriage. she reined it up within ten feet of the carriage step, plunging furiously. raising her whip hand to push her hat more firmly on, she knocked it off, and sat there bareheaded, with one loop of her hair fallen down, a sight which no man who saw it ever forgot. she saw a look of amazed admiration in the queen's face. she saw lady emily's look of gentle pity. she saw her majesty lean forward, and ask who it was. she saw her name pass lady emily's lips, and then she saw the queen turn with a frown, and look steadily the other way. wrath and rage were in her heart, and showed themselves one instant in her face. a groom had run out and picked up her hat. she bent down to take it from him, and saw that it was charles ravenshoe. her face grew soft again directly. poor thing! she must have had a kind heart after all, crusted over as it was with vanity, pride, and selfishness. now, in her anger and shame, she could have cried to see her old love so degraded. there was no time for crying, or for saying more than a few sharp words, for they were coming towards her. "what nonsense is this, charles?" she said. "what is this masquerade? are you come to double my shame? go home and take that dress off and burn it. is your pride dead, that you disgrace yourself like this in public? if you are desperate, as you seem, why are you not at the war? they want desperate men there. oh! if i was a man!" they parted then! no one but lord welter and hornby knew who charles was. the former saw that adelaide had recognised him, and, as they rode simply home together, said-- "i knew poor charles was a groom. he saw his sister the other night at our house. i didn't tell you; i hardly know why. i really believe, do you know, that the truth of the matter is, adelaide, that i did not want to vex you. now!" he looked at her as if he thought she would disbelieve him, but she said-- "nay, i do believe you, welter. you are not an ill-natured man, but you are selfish and unprincipled. so am i, perhaps to a greater extent than you. at what time is that fool of a german coming?" "at half-past eleven." "i must go to that woman brittlejug's party. i must show there, to keep friends with her. she has such a terrible tongue, i will be back by twelve or so." "i wish you could stay at home." "i really dare not, my dear welter. i must go. i will be back in good time." "of course you will please yourself about it," said lord welter, a thought sulkily. and, when he was by himself he said-- "she is going to see charles ravenshoe. well, perhaps she ought. she treated him d----d bad! and so did i." chapter xliv. another meeting. lord ascot had been moved into south audley street, his town house, and lady ascot was there nursing him. general mainwaring was off for varna. but lord saltire had been a constant visitor, bringing with him very often marston, who was, you will remember, an old friend of lady ascot. it was not at all an unpleasant house to be in. lord ascot was crippled--he had been seized with paralysis at epsom; and he was ruined. but every one knew the worst, and felt relieved by thinking that things could get no worse than worst, and so must get better. in fact, every one admitted to the family party about that time remembered it as a very happy and quiet time indeed. lord ascot was their first object, of course; and a more gentle and biddable invalid than the poor fellow made can hardly be conceived. he was passionately fond of reading novels (a most reprehensible practice), and so was easily amused. lord saltire and he would play picquet: and every evening there would be three hours of whist, until the doctor looked in the last thing, and lord ascot was helped to bed. marston was always set to play with lord ascot, because lord saltire and lady ascot would not play against one another. lord saltire, was, of course, one of the best players in europe; and i really believe that lady ascot was not the worst by any means. i can see the party now. i can see lady ascot laying down a card, and looking at the same time at her partner, to call his attention to her lead. and i can see lord saltire take out his snuff-box threat, as if he were puzzled, but not alarmed. william would come sometimes and sit quietly behind marston, or lord saltire, watching the game. in short, they were a very quiet pleasant party indeed. one night--it was the very night on which adelaide had lost her hat in the park--there was no whist. marston had gone down to oxford suddenly, and william came in to tell them so. lady ascot was rather glad, she said, for she had a friend coming to tea, who did not play whist; so lord saltire and lord ascot sat down to picquet, and william talked to his aunt. "who is your friend, maria?" asked lord saltire. "a mr. bidder, a minister. he has written a book on the revelations, which you really ought to read, james; it would suit you." they both laughed. "about the seven seals, hey?" said lord saltire; "'_septem phocæ_,' as i remember machynleth translated it at eton once. we called him 'vitulina' ever after. the name stuck to him through life with some of us. a capital name for him, too! his fussy blundering in this war-business is just like his old headlong way of looking out words in his dictionary. he is an ass, maria; and i will bet fifty pounds that your friend, the minister, is another." "how can you know? at all events, the man he brings with him is none." "another minister?" "yes, a moravian missionary from australia." "then certainly another ass, or he would have gone as missionary to a less abominably detestable hole. they were all burnt into the sea there the other day. immediately after which the river rose seventy feet, and drowned the rest of them." soon after were announced mr. bidder and mr. smith. mr. bidder was an entirely unremarkable man; but mr. smith was one of the most remarkable men i have ever seen, or rather heard--for externally there was nothing remarkable about him, except a fine forehead, and a large expressive grey eye, which, when he spoke to you, seemed to come back from a long distance, and fix itself upon yours. in manners he was perfect. he was rather taciturn, though always delighted to communicate information about his travels, in a perfectly natural way. if one man wanted information on botany, or what not, he was there to give it. if another wanted to hear about missionary work, he was ready for him. he never spoke or acted untruthfully for one instant. he never acted the free and easy man of the world as some religious gentlemen of all sects feel it necessary to do sometimes, imitating the real thing as well as paul bedford would imitate fanny ellsler. what made him remarkable was his terrible earnestness, and the feeling you had, that his curious language was natural, and meant something; something very important indeed. he has something to do with the story. the straws in the gutter have to do with the history of a man like charles, a man who leaves all things to chance. and this man smith is very worthy of notice, and so i have said thus much about him, and am going to say more. mr. bidder was very strong on the russian war, which he illustrated by the revelations. he was a good fellow, and well-bred enough to see that his friend smith was an object of greater interest to lady ascot than himself; so he "retired into" a book of prints, and left the field clear. mr. smith sat by lady ascot, and william drew close up. lady ascot began by a commonplace, of course. "you have suffered great hardships among those savages, mr. smith, have you not?" "hardships! oh, dear no, my dear lady. our station was one of the pleasantest places in the whole earth i believe; and we had a peaceful time. when the old man is strong in me i wish i was back there." "you did not make much progress with them, i believe?" "none whatever. we found out after a year or two that it was hopeless to make them understand the existence of a god; and after that we stayed on to see if we could bring them to some knowledge of agriculture, and save them from their inevitable extermination, as the new zealanders have been saved." "and to no purpose?" "none. for instance, we taught them to plant our potatoes for us. they did it beautifully, but in the night they dug them up and ate them. and in due season we waited that our potatoes should grow, and they grew not. then they came to brother hillyar, my coadjutor, an old man, now ruling ten cities for his master, and promised for rewards of flour to tell him why the potatoes did not grow. and he, loving them, gave them what they desired. and they told him that they dug them up while we slept. and for two days i went about my business, laughing in secret places, for which he tried to rebuke me, but could not, laughing himself. the lord kept him waiting long, for he was seventy-four; but, doubtless, his reward is the greater." william said, "you brought home a collection of zoological specimens, i think. they are in the museum." "yes. but what i could not bring over were my live pets. i and my wife had a menagerie of our own--a great number of beasts----" mr. bidder looking up from his book, catching the last sentence only, said the number of the beast was ; and, then turning round, held himself ready to strike into the conversation, thinking that the time was come when he should hide his light no longer. "the natives are very low savages, are they not, mr. smith?" said william. "i have heard that they cannot count above ten." "not so far as that," said mr. smith. "the tribe we were most among used to express all large unknown quantities by 'eighty-four;'[ ] it was as _x_ and _y_ to them. that seems curious at first, does it not?" william said it did seem curious, their choosing that particular number. but mr. bidder, dying to mount his hobby-horse, and not caring how, said it was not at all curious. if you multiplied the twelve tribes of israel into the seven cities of refuge, there you were at once. mr. smith said he thought he had made a little mistake. the number, he fancied, was ninety-four. lord saltire, from the card-table, said that that made the matter clearer than before, for if you placed the ten commandments to the previous result you arrived at ninety-four, which was the number wanted. and his lordship, who had lost, and was consequently possibly cross, added that, if you divided the whole by the five foolish virgins, and pitched tobit's dog, neck and heels into the result, you would find yourself much about where you started. mr. bidder, who, as i said, was a good fellow, laughed, and mr. smith resumed the conversation once more; lord saltire seemed interested in what he said, and did not interfere with him. "you buried poor mrs. smith out there," said lady ascot. "i remember her well. she was very beautiful as a girl." "very beautiful," said the missionary. "yes; she never lost her beauty, do you know. that climate is very deadly to those who go there with the seeds of consumption in them. she had done a hard day's work before she went to sleep, though she was young. don't you think so, lady ascot?" "a hard day's work; a good day's work, indeed. who knows better than i?" said lady ascot. "what an awakening it must be from such a sleep as hers!" "beyond the power of human tongue to tell," said the missionary, looking dreamily as at something far away. "show me the poet that can describe in his finest language the joy of one's soul when one wakes on a summer's morning. who, then, can conceive or tell the unutterable happiness of the purified soul, waking face to face with the king of glory?" lord saltire looked at him curiously, and said to himself, "this fellow is in earnest. i have seen this sort of thing before. but seldom! yes, but seldom!" "i should not have alluded to my wife's death," continued the missionary, in a low voice, "but that her ladyship introduced the subject. and no one has a better right to hear of her than her kind old friend. she fell asleep on the sabbath evening after prayers. we moved her bed into the verandah, lady ascot, that she might see the sunlight fade out on the tops of the highest trees--a sight she always loved. and from the verandah we could see through the tree stems mount joorma, laid out in endless folds of woodland, all purple and gold. and i thought she was looking at the mountain, but she was looking far beyond that, for she said, 'i shall have to wait thirty years for you, james, but i shall be very happy and very busy. the time will go quick enough for me, but it will be a slow, weary time for you, my darling. go home from here, my love, into the great towns, and see what is to be done there.' and so she went to sleep. "i rebelled for three days. i went away into the bush, with satan at my elbow all the time, through dry places, through the forest, down by lonely creeksides, up among bald volcanic downs, where there are slopes of slippery turf, leading down to treacherous precipices of slag; and then through the quartz ranges, and the reedy swamps, where the black swans float, and the spur-winged plover hovers and cackles; all about i went among the beasts and the birds. but on the third day the lord wearied of me, and took me back, and i lay on his bosom again like a child. he will always take you home, my lord, if you come. after three days, after thrice twenty years, my lord. time is nothing to him." lord saltire was looking on him with kindly admiration. "there is something in it, my lord. depend upon it that it is not all a dream. would not you give all your amazing wealth, all your honours, everything, to change places with me?" "i certainly would," said lord saltire. "i have always been of opinion that there was something in it. i remember," he continued, turning to william, "expressing the same opinion to your father in the fleet prison once, when he had quarrelled with the priests for expressing some opinions which he had got from me. but you must take up with that sort of thing very early in life if you mean it to have any reality at all. i am too old now!"[ ] lord saltire said this in a different tone from his usual one. in a tone that we have never heard him use before. there was something about the man smith which, in spite of his quaint language, softened every one who heard him speak. lady ascot says it was the grace of god. i entirely agree with her ladyship. "i came home," concluded the missionary, "to try some city work. my wife's nephew, john marston, whom i expected to see here to-night, is going to assist me in this work. there seems plenty to do. we are at work in southwark, at present." possibly it was well that the company, more particularly lady ascot, were in a softened and forgiving mood. for, before any one had resumed the conversation, lord ascot's valet stood in the door, and, looking at lady ascot with a face which said as plain as words, "it is a terrible business, my lady, but i am innocent," announced-- "lady welter." lord saltire put his snuff-box into his right-hand trousers' pocket, and his pocket handkerchief into his left, and kept his hands there, leaning back in his chair, with his legs stretched out, and a smile of infinite wicked amusement on his face. lord ascot and william stared like a couple of gabies. lady ascot had no time to make the slightest change, either in feature or position, before adelaide, dressed for the evening in a cloud of white and pink, with her bare arms loaded with bracelets, a swansdown fan hanging from her left wrist, sailed swiftly into the room, with outstretched hands, bore down on lady ascot, and began kissing her, as though the old lady were a fruit of some sort, and she were a dove pecking at it. "dearest grandma!"--peck. "so glad to see you!"--peck. "couldn't help calling in on you as i went to lady brittlejug's--and how well you are looking!"--peck, peck. "i can spare ten minutes--do tell me all the news, since i saw you. my dear lord ascot, i was so sorry to hear of your illness, but you look better than i expected. and how do _you_ do, my dear lord saltire?" lord saltire was pretty well, and was delighted to see lady welter apparently in the enjoyment of such health and spirits, and so on, aloud. but, secretly, lord saltire was wondering what on earth could have brought her here. perhaps she only wanted to take lady ascot by surprise, and force her into a recognition of her as lady welter. no. my lord saw there was something more than that. she was restless and absent with lady ascot. her eye kept wandering in the middle of all her rattling talk; but, wherever it wandered, it always came back to william, of whom she had hitherto taken no notice whatever. "she has come after him. for what?" thought my lord. "i wonder if the jade knows anything of charles." lady ascot had steeled herself against this meeting. she had determined, firstly, that no mortal power should ever induce her to set eyes on adelaide again; and, secondly, that she, lady ascot, would give her, adelaide, a piece of her mind, which she should never forget to her dying day. the first of these rather contradictory determinations had been disposed of by adelaide's audacity; and as for the second--why, the piece of lady ascot's mind which was to be given to adelaide was somehow not ready; but, instead of it, only silent tears, and withered, trembling fingers, which wandered lovingly over the beautiful young hand, and made the gaudy bracelets on the wrist click one against the other. "what could i say, brooks? what could i do?" said lady ascot to her maid that night, "when i saw her own self come back, with her own old way? i love the girl more than ever, brooks, i believe. she beat me. she took me by surprise. i could not resist her. if she had proposed to put me in a wheelbarrow, and wheel me into the middle of that disgraceful, that detestable woman brittlejug's drawing-room, there and then, i should have let her do it, i believe. i might have begged for time to put on my bonnet; but i should have gone." she sat there ten minutes or more, talking. then she said that it was time to go, but that she should come and see lady ascot on the morrow. then she turned to william, to whom she had not been introduced, and asked, would he see her to her carriage? lord saltire was next the bell, and looking her steadily in the face, raised his hand slowly to pull it. adelaide begged him eagerly not to trouble himself; he, with a smile, promptly dropped his hand, and out she sailed on william's arm, lord saltire holding the door open, and shutting it after her, with somewhat singular rapidity. "i hope none of those fools of servants will come blundering upstairs before she has said her say," he remarked, aloud. "give us some of your south african experiences, mr. smith. did you ever see a woman beautiful enough to go clip a lion's claws singlehanded, eh?" william, convoying adelaide downstairs, had got no farther than the first step, when he felt her hand drawn from his arm; he had got one foot on the step below, when he turned to see the cause of this. adelaide was standing on the step above him, with her glorious face bent sternly, almost fiercely, down on his, and the hand from which the fan hung pointed towards him. it was as beautiful a sight as he had ever seen, and he calmly wondered what it meant. the perfect mouth was curved in scorn, and from it came sharp ringing words, decisive, hard, clear, like the sound of a hammer on an anvil. "are you a party to this shameful business, sir? you, who have taken his name, and his place, and his prospects in society. you, who professed, as i hear, to love him like another life, dearer than your own. you, who lay on the same breast with him--tell me, in god's name, that you are sinning in ignorance." william, as i have remarked before, had a certain amount of shrewdness. he determined to let her go on. he only said, "you are speaking of charles ravenshoe." "ay," she said, sharply; "of charles ravenshoe, sir--ex-stable-boy. i came here to-night to beard them all; to ask them did they know, and did they dare to suffer it. if they had not given me an answer, i would have said such things to them as would have made them stop their ears. lord saltire has a biting tongue, has he? let him hear what mine is. but when i saw you among them, i determined to save a scene, and speak to you alone. shameful----" william looked quietly at her. "will your ladyship remark that i, that all of us, have been moving heaven and earth to find charles ravenshoe, and that we have been utterly unable to find him? if you have any information about him, would it not be as well to consider that the desperation caused by your treatment of him was the principal cause of his extraordinary resolution of hiding himself? and, instead of scolding me and others, who are doing all we can, to give us all the information in your power?" "well, well," she said, "perhaps you are right. consider me rebuked, will you have the goodness? i saw charles ravenshoe to-day." "to-day!" "ay, and talked to him." "how did he look? was he pale? was he thin? did he seem to want money? did he ask after me? did he send any message? can you take me to where he is? did he seem much broken down? does he know we have been seeking him? lady welter, for god's sake, do something to repair the wrong you did him, and take me to where he is." "i don't know where he is, i tell you. i saw him for just one moment. he picked up my hat in the park. he was dressed like a groom. he came from i know not where, like a ghost from the grave. he did not speak to me. he gave me my hat, and was gone. i do not know whose groom he is, but i think welter knows. he will tell me to-night. i dared not ask him to-day, lest he should think i was going to see him. when i tell him where i have been, and describe what has passed here, he will tell me. come to me to-morrow morning, and he shall tell you; that will be better. you have sense enough to see why." "i see." "another thing. he has seen his sister ellen. and yet another thing. when i ran away with lord welter, i had no idea of what had happened to him--of this miserable _esclandre_. but you must have known that before, if you were inclined to do me justice. come to-morrow morning. i must go now." and so she went to her carriage by herself after all. and william stood still on the stairs, triumphant. charles was as good as found. the two clergymen passed him on their way downstairs, and bade him good-night. then he returned to the drawing-room, and said-- "my lord, lady welter has seen charles to-day, and spoken to him. with god's help, i will have him here with us to-morrow night." it was half-past eleven. what charles, in his headlong folly and stupidity, had contrived to do before this time, must be told in another chapter--no, i have not patience to wait. my patience is exhausted. one act of folly following another so fast would exhaust the patience of job. if one did not love him so well, one would not be so angry with him. i will tell it here and have done with it. when he had left adelaide, he had gone home with hornby. he had taken the horses to the stable; he had written a note to hornby. then he had packed up a bundle of clothes, and walked quietly off. round by st. peter's church--he had no particular reason for going there, except, perhaps, that his poor foolish heart yearned that evening to see some one who cared for him, though it were only a shoeblack. there was still one pair of eyes which would throw a light for one instant into the thick darkness which was gathering fast around him. his little friend was there. charles and he talked for a while, and at last he said-- "you will not see me again. i am going to the war. i am going to windsor to enlist in the hussars, to-night." "they will kill you," said the boy. "most likely," said charles. "so we must say good-bye. mind, now, you go to the school at night, and say that prayer i gave you on the paper. we must say good-bye. we had better be quick about it." the boy looked at him steadily. then he began to draw his breath in long sighs--longer, longer yet, till his chest seemed bursting. then out it all came in a furious hurricane of tears, and he leant his head against the wall, and beat the bricks with his clenched hand. "and i am never to see you no more! no more! no more!" "no more," said charles. but he thought he might soften the poor boy's grief; and he did think, too, at the moment, that he would go and see the house where his kind old aunt lived, before he went away for ever; so he said-- "i shall be in south audley street, , to-morrow at noon. now, you must not cry, my dear. you must say good-bye." and so he left him, thinking to see him no more. once more, charles, only once more, and then god help you! he went off that night to windsor, and enlisted in the th hussars. chapter xlv. half a million. and so you see here we are all at sixes and sevens once more. apparently as near the end of the story as when i wrote the adventures of alured ravenshoe at the court of henry the eighth in the very first chapter. if charles had had a little of that worthy's impudence, instead of being the shy, sensitive fellow he was, why, the story would have been over long ago. in point of fact, i don't know that it would ever have been written at all. so it is best as it is for all parties. although charles had enlisted in hornby's own regiment he had craftily calculated that there was not the slightest chance of hornby's finding it out for some time. hornby's troop was at the regent's park. the head-quarters were at windsor, and the only officer likely to recognise him was hornby's captain. and so he went to work at his new duties with an easy mind, rather amused than otherwise, and wondering where and when it would all end. from sheer unadulterated ignorance, i cannot follow him during the first week or so of his career. i have a suspicion almost amounting to a certainty, that, if i could, i should not. i do not believe that the readers of ravenshoe would care to hear about sword-exercise, riding-school, stable-guard, and so on. i can, however, tell you thus much, that charles learnt his duties in a wonderfully short space of time, and was a great favourite with high and low. when william went to see adelaide by appointment the morning after his interview with her, he had an interview with lord welter, who told him in answer to his inquiries, that charles was groom to lieutenant hornby. "i promised that i would say nothing about it," he continued, "but i think i ought; and lady welter has been persuading me to do so, if any inquiries were made, only this morning. i am deuced glad, ravenshoe, that none of you have forgotten him. it would be a great shame if you had. he is a good fellow, and has been infernally used by some of us--by me, for instance." william, in his gladness, said, "never mind, my lord; let bygones be bygones. we shall all be to one another as we were before, please god. i have found charles, at all events; so there is no gap in the old circle, except my father's. i had a message for lady welter." "she is not down; she is really not well this morning, or she could have seen you." "it is only this. lady ascot begs that she will come over to lunch. my aunt wished she would have stopped longer last night." "your aunt?" "my aunt, lady ascot." "ah! i beg pardon; i am not quite used to the new state of affairs. was lady welter with lady ascot last night?" william was obliged to say yes, but felt as if he had committed an indiscretion by having said anything about it. "the deuce she was!" said lord welter. "i thought she was somewhere else. tell my father that i will come and see him to-day, if he don't think it would be too much for him." "ah, lord welter! you would have come before, if you had known----" "i know--i know. you must know that i had my reasons for not coming. well, i hope that you and i will be better acquainted in our new positions; we were intimate enough in our old." when william was gone, lord welter went up to his wife's dressing-room and said-- "lady welter, you are a jewel. if you go on like this, you will be recognised, and we shall die at ranford--you and i--a rich and respectable couple. if 'ifs and ands were pots and pans,' lady welter, we should do surprisingly well. if, for instance, lord saltire could be got to like me something better than a mad dog, he would leave my father the whole of his landed estate, and cut charles horton, whilom ravenshoe, off with the comparatively insignificant sum of eighty thousand pounds, the amount of his funded property. eh! lady welter?" adelaide actually bounded from her chair. "are you drunk, welter?" she said. "seeing that it is but the third hour of the day, i am not, lady welter. neither am i a fool. lord saltire would clear my father now, if he did not know that it would be more for my benefit than his. i believe he would sooner leave his money to a hospital than see me get one farthing of it." "welter," said adelaide, eagerly, "if charles gets hold of lord saltire again, he will have the whole; the old man adores him. i know it; i see it all now; why did i never think of it before. he thinks he is like lord barkham, his son. there is time yet. if that man william ravenshoe comes this morning, you must know nothing of charles. mind that. nothing. they must not meet. he may forget him. mind, welter, no answer!" she was walking up and down the room rapidly now, and lord welter was looking at her with a satirical smile on his face. "lady welter," he said, "the man william ravenshoe has been here and got his answer. by this time, charles is receiving his lordship's blessing." "fool!" was all that adelaide could say. "well, hardly that," said lord welter. "at least, _you_ should hardly call me so. i understood the position of affairs long before you. i was a reckless young cub not to have paid lord saltire more court in old times; but i never knew the state of our affairs till very shortly before the crash came, or i might have done so. in the present case, i have not been such a fool. charles is restored to lord saltire through my instrumentality. a very good basis of operations, lady welter." "at the risk of about half a million of money," remarked adelaide. "there was no risk in the other course, certainly," said lord welter, "for we should never have seen a farthing of it. and besides, lady welter----" "well!" "i have your attention. good. it may seem strange to you, who care about no one in heaven or earth, but i love this fellow, this charles horton. i always did. he is worth all the men i ever met put together. i am glad to have been able to give him a lift this morning. even if i had not been helping myself, i should have done it all the same. that is comical, is it not? for lord saltire's landed property i shall fight. the campaign begins at lunch to-day, lady welter; so, if you will be so good as to put on your full war-paint and feathers, we will dig up the tomahawk, and be off on the war-trail in your ladyship's brougham. good-bye for the present." adelaide was beaten. she was getting afraid of her husband--afraid of his strong masculine cunning, of his reckless courage, and of the strange apparition of a great brutal _heart_ at the bottom of it all. what were all her fine-spun female cobwebs worth against such a huge, blundering, thieving hornet as he? chapter xlvi. to lunch with lord ascot. that same day, lord saltire and lady ascot were sitting in the drawing-room window, in south audley street, alone. he had come in, as his custom was, about eleven, and found her reading her great old bible; he had taken up the paper and read away for a time, saying that he would not interrupt her; she, too, had seemed glad to avoid a _tête-à-tête_ conversation, and had continued; but, after a few minutes, he had dropped the paper, and cried-- "the deuce!" "my dear james," said she, "what is the matter?" "matter! why, we have lost a war-steamer, almost without a shot fired. the russians have got the _tiger_, crew and all. it is unbearable, maria; if they are going to blunder like this at the beginning, where will it end?" lord saltire was disgusted with the war from the very beginning, in consequence of the french alliance, and so the present accident was as fuel for his wrath. lady ascot, as loyal a soul as lived, was possibly rather glad that something had taken up lord saltire's attention just then, for she was rather afraid of him this morning. she knew his great dislike for lord welter, and expected to be scolded for her weakness with regard to adelaide the night before. moreover, she had the guilty consciousness that she had asked adelaide to come to lunch that morning, of which he did not yet know. so she was rather glad to have a subject to talk of, not personal. "and when did it happen, my dear james?" she asked. "on the twelfth of last month, lady ascot. come and sit here in the window, and give an account of yourself, will you have the goodness?" now that she saw it must come, she was as cool and as careless as need be. he could not be hard on her. charles was to come home to them that day. she drew her chair up, and laid her withered old hand on his, and the two grey heads were bent together. grey heads but green hearts. "look at old daventry," said lord saltire, "on the other side of the way. don't you see him, maria, listening to that organ? he is two years older than i am. he looks younger." "i don't know that he does. he ought to look older. she led him a terrible life. have you been to see him lately?" "what business is that of yours? so you are going to take welter's wife back into your good graces, eh, my lady?" "yes, james." "'yes, james!' i have no patience with you. you are weaker than water. well, well, we must forgive her, i suppose. she has behaved generous enough about charles, has she not? i rather admire her scolding poor william ravenshoe. i must renew our acquaintance." "she is coming to lunch to-day." "i thought you looked guilty. is welter coming?" lady ascot made no reply. neither at that moment would lord saltire have heard her if she had. he was totally absorbed in the proceedings of his old friend lord daventry, before mentioned. that venerable dandy had listened to the organ until the man had played all his tunes twice through, when he had given him half-a-crown, and the man had departed. immediately afterwards, a punch and judy had come, which punch and judy was evidently an acquaintance of his; for, on descrying him, it had hurried on with its attendant crowd, and breathlessly pitched itself in front of him, let down its green curtains, and plunged at once _in medias res_. the back of the show was towards lord saltire; but, just as he saw punch look round the corner, to see which way the devil was gone, he saw two pickpockets advance on lord daventry from different quarters, with fell intentions. they met at his tail-coat pocket, quarrelled, and fought. a policeman bore down on them; lord daventry was still unconscious, staring his eyes out of his head. the affair was becoming exciting, when lord saltire felt a warm tear drop on his hand. "james," said lady ascot, "don't be hard on welter. i love welter. there is good in him; there is, indeed. i know how shamefully he has behaved; but don't be hard on him, james." "my dearest maria," said lord saltire, "i would not give you one moment's uneasiness for the world. i do not like welter. i dislike him. but i will treat him for your sake and ascot's as though i loved him--there. now about charles. he will be with us to-day, thank god. what the deuce are we to do?" "i cannot conceive," said lady ascot; "it is such a terrible puzzle. one does not like to move, and yet it seems such a sin to stand still." "no answer to your advertisement, of course?" said lord saltire. "none whatever. it seems strange, too, with such a reward as we have offered; but it was worded so cautiously, you see." lord saltire laughed. "cautiously, indeed. no one could possibly guess what it was about. it was a miracle of obscurity; but it won't do to go any further yet." after a pause, he said--"you are perfectly certain of your facts, maria, for the fiftieth time." "perfectly certain. i committed a great crime, james. i did it for alicia's sake. think what my bringing up had been, how young i was, and forgive me if you can; excuse me if you cannot." "nonsense about a great crime, maria. it was a great mistake, certainly. if you had only had the courage to have asked petre one simple question! alicia never guessed the fact, of course?" "never." "do you think, maria, that by any wild possibility james or nora knew?" "how could they possibly? what a foolish question." "i don't know. these roman catholics do strange things," said lord saltire, staring out of window at the crowd. "if she knew, why did she change the child?" "eh?" said lord saltire, turning round. "you have not been attending," said lady ascot. "no, i have not," said lord saltire; "i was looking at daventry." "do you still," said lord saltire, "since all our researches and failures, stick to the belief that the place was in hampshire?" "i do indeed, and in the north of hampshire too." "i wonder," said lord saltire, turning round suddenly, "whether mackworth knows?" "of course he does," said lady ascot, quietly. "hum," said lord saltire, "i had a hold over that man once; but i threw it away as being worthless. i wish i had made a bargain for my information. but what nonsense; how can he know?" "know?" said lady ascot, scornfully; "what is there a confessor don't know? don't tell me that all mackworth's power came from finding out poor densil's _faux pas_. the man had a sense of power other than that." "then he never used it," said lord saltire. "densil, dear soul, never knew." "i said a _sense_ of power," said lady ascot, "which gave him his consummate impudence. densil never dreamt of it." at this point the policeman had succeeded in capturing the two pickpockets, and was charging them before lord daventry. lord daventry audibly offered them ten shillings a-piece to say nothing about it; at which the crowd cheered. "would it be any use to offer money to the priest--say ten thousand pounds or so?" said lord saltire. "you are a religious woman, maria, and as such are a better judge of a priest's conscience than i. what do you think?" "i don't know," said lady ascot. "i don't know but what the man is high-minded, in his heathenish way. you know cuthbert's story of his having refused ten thousand pounds to hush up the matter about charles. his information would be a blow to the popish church in the west. he would lose position by accepting your offer. i don't know what his position may be worth. you can try him, if all else fails; not otherwise, i should say. we must have a closer search." "when you come to think, maria, he can't know. if densil did not know, how could he?" "old clifford might have known, and told him." "if we are successful, and if adelaide has no children--two improbable things--" said lord saltire, "why then----" "why then----" said lady ascot. "but at the worst you are going to make charles a rich man. shall you tell william?" "not yet. cuthbert should never be told, i say; but that is charles's business. i have prepared william." "cuthbert will not live," said lady ascot. "not a chance of it, i believe. marston says his heart-complaint does not exist, but i think differently." at this moment, lord daventry's offer of money having been refused, the whole crowd moved off in procession towards the police-station. first came three little girls with big bonnets and babies, who, trying to do two things at once--to wit, head the procession by superior speed, and at the same time look round at lord daventry and the pickpockets--succeeded in neither, but only brought the three babies' heads in violent collision every other step. next came lord daventry, resigned. next the policeman, with a pickpocket in each hand, who were giving explanations. next the boys; after them, the punch and judy, which had unfortunately seen the attempt made, and must to the station as a witness, to the detriment of business. bringing up the rear were the british public, who played practical jokes with one another. the dogs kept a parallel course in the gutter, and barked. in turning the first corner, the procession was cut into, and for a time thrown into confusion, by a light-hearted costermonger, who, returning from a successful market with an empty barrow, drove it in among them with considerable velocity. after which, they disappeared like the baseless fabric of a dream, only to be heard of again in the police reports. "lord and lady welter." lord saltire had seen them drive up to the door; so he was quite prepared. he had been laughing intensely; but quite silently, at poor lord daventry's adventures, and so, when he turned round, he had a smile on his face. adelaide had done kissing lady ascot, and was still holding both her hands with a look of intense mournful affection. lord saltire was so much amused by adelaide's acting, and her simplicity in performing before himself, that, when he advanced to lord welter, he was perfectly radiant. "well, my dear scapegrace, and how do _you_ do?" he said, giving his hand to lord welter; "a more ill-mannered fellow i never saw in my life. to go away and hide yourself with that lovely young wife of yours, and leave all us oldsters to bore one another to death. what the deuce do you mean by it, eh, sir?" lord welter did not reply in the same strain. he said-- "it is very kind of you to receive me like this. i did not expect it. allow me to tell you, that i think your manner towards me would not be quite so cordial if you knew everything; there is a great deal that you don't know, and which i don't mean to tell you." it is sometimes quite impossible, even for a writer of fiction, a man with _carte blanche_ in the way of invention, to give the cause, for a man's actions. i have thought and thought, and i cannot for the life of me tell you why lord welter answered lord saltire like that, whether it was from deep cunning or merely from recklessness. if it was cunning, it was cunning of a high order. it was genius. the mixture of respect and kindness towards the person, and of carelessness about his favour was--well--very creditable. lord saltire did not think he was acting, and his opinion is of some value, i believe. but then, we must remember that he was prepared to think the best of lord welter that day, and must make allowances. i am not prepared with an opinion; let every man form his own. i only know that lord saltire tapped his teeth with his snuff-box and remained silent. lord welter, whether consciously or no, was nearer the half of a million of money than he had ever been before. but adelaide's finer sense was offended at her husband's method of proceeding. for one instant, when she heard him say what he did, she could have killed him. "reckless, brutal, selfish," she said fiercely to herself, "throwing a duke's fortune to the winds by sheer obstinacy." (at this time she had picked up lady ascot's spectacles, and was playfully placing them on her venerable nose.) "i wish i had never seen him. he is maddening. if he only had some brains, where might not we be?" but the conversation of that morning came to her mind with a jar, and the suspicion with it, that he had more brains of a sort than she; that, though they were on a par in morality, there was a strength about him, against which her finesse was worthless. she knew she could never deceive lord saltire, and there was lord saltire tapping him on the knee with his snuff-box, and talking earnestly and confidentially to him. she was beginning to respect her husband. _he_ dared face that terrible old man with his hundreds of thousands; _she_ trembled in his presence. let us leave her, fooling our dear old friend to the top of her bent, and hear what the men were saying. "i know you have been, as they say now, 'very fast,'" said lord saltire, drawing nearer to him. "i don't want to ask any questions which don't concern me. you have sense enough to know that it is worth your while to stand well with me. will you answer me a few questions which do concern me?" "i can make no promises, lord saltire. let me hear what they are, will you?" "why," said lord saltire, "about charles ravenshoe." "about charles!" said lord welter, looking up at lord saltire. "oh, yes; any number. i have nothing to conceal there. of course you will know everything. i had sooner you knew it from me than another." "i don't mean about adelaide; let that go by. perhaps i am glad that that is as it is. but have you known where charles was lately? your wife told william to come to her this morning; that is why i ask." "i have known a very short time. when william ravenshoe came this morning, i gave him every information. charles will be with you to-day." "i am satisfied." "i don't care to justify myself, but if it had not been for me you would never have seen him. and more. i am not the first man, lord saltire, who has done what i have done." "no, of course not," said lord saltire. "i can't fling the first stone at you; god forgive me." "but you must see, lord saltire, that i could not have guessed that ellen was his sister." "hey?" said lord saltire. "say that again." "i say that, when i took ellen horton away from ravenshoe, i did not know that she was charles's sister." lord saltire fell back in his chair, and said-- "good god!" "it is very terrible, looked at one way, lord saltire. if you come to look at it another, it amounts to this, that she was only, as far as i knew, a gamekeeper's daughter. do you remember what you said to charles and me when we were rusticated?" "yes. i said that one vice was considered more venial than another vice nowadays; and i say so still. i had sooner that you had died of delirium tremens in a ditch than done this." "so had not i, lord saltire. when i became involved with adelaide, i thought ellen was provided for; i, even then, had not heard this _esclandre_ about charles. she refused a splendid offer of marriage before she left me." "we thought she was dead. where is she gone?" "i have no idea. she refused everything. she stayed on as adelaide's maid, and left us suddenly. we have lost all trace of her." "what a miserable, dreadful business!" said lord saltire. "very so," said lord welter. "hadn't we better change the subject, my lord?" he added, drily. "i am not at all sure that i shall submit to much more cross-questioning. you must not push me too far, or i shall get savage." "i won't," said lord saltire. "but, welter, for god's sake, answer me two more questions. not offensive ones, on my honour." "fifty, if you will; only consider my rascally temper." "yes, yes! when ellen was with you, did she ever hint that she was in possession of any information about the ravenshoes?" "yes; or rather, when she went, she left a letter, and in it she said that she had something to tell charles." "good, good!" said lord saltire. "she may know. we must find her. now, charles is coming here to-day. had you better meet him, welter?" "we have met before. all that is past is forgiven between us." "met!" said lord saltire, eagerly. "and what did he say to you? was there a scene, welter?" lord welter paused before he answered, and lord saltire, the wise, looked out of the window. once lord welter seemed going to speak, but there was a catch in his breath. the second attempt was more fortunate. he said, in a low voice-- "why, i'll tell you, my lord. charles ravenshoe is broken-hearted." "lord and lady hainault." and miss corby, and gus, and flora, and archy, the footman might have added, but was probably afraid of spoiling his period. it was rather awkward. they were totally unexpected, and lord hainault and lord welter had not met since lord hainault had denounced lord welter at tattersall's. it was so terribly awkward that lord saltire recovered his spirits, and looked at the two young men with a smile. the young men disappointed him, however, for lord hainault said, "how d'ye do, welter?" and lord welter said, "how do, hainault?" and the matter was settled, at all events for the present. when all salutations had been exchanged among the ladies, and archy had hoisted himself up into mary's lap, and lady hainault had imperially settled herself in a chair, with flora at her knee, exactly opposite adelaide, there was a silence for a moment, during which it became apparent that gus had a question to ask of lady ascot. mary trembled, but the others were not quite sorry to have the silence broken. gus, having obtained leave of the house, wished to know whether or not satan, should he repent of his sins, would have a chance of regaining his former position? "that silly scotch nursemaid has been reading burns's poems to him, i suppose," said lady hainault; "unless mary herself has been doing so. mary prefers anything to watts's hymns, lady ascot." "you must not believe one word lady hainault says, lady ascot," said mary. "she has been shamefully worsted in an argument, and she is resorting to all sorts of unfair means to turn the scales. i never read a word of burns's poems in my life." "you will be pleased not to believe a single word miss corby says, lady ascot," said lady hainault. "she has convicted herself. she sings, 'the banks and braes of bonny doon'--very badly, i will allow, but still she sings it." there was a laugh at this. anything was better than the silence which had gone before. it became evident that lady hainault would not speak to adelaide. it was very uncomfortable. dear mary would have got up another friendly passage of arms with lady hainault, but she was too nervous. she would have even drawn out gus, but she saw that gus, dear fellow, was not in a humour to be trusted that morning. he evidently was aware that the dogs of war were loose, and was champing the bit like a war-horse. lady ascot was as nervous as mary, dying to say something, but unable. lady hainault was calmly inexorable, adelaide sublimely indifferent. if you will also consider that lady ascot was awaiting news of charles--nay, possibly charles himself--and that, in asking adelaide to lunch, she had overlooked the probability that william would bring him back with him--that lord welter had come without invitation, and that the hainaults wore totally unexpected--you will think that the dear old lady was in about as uncomfortable a position as she could be, and that any event, even the house catching fire, must change matters for the better. not at all. they say that, when things come to the worst, they must mend. that is undeniable. but when are they at the worst? who can tell that? lady ascot thought they were at the worst now, and was taking comfort. and then the footman threw open the door, and announced-- "lady hainault and miss hicks." at this point lady ascot lost her temper, and exclaimed aloud, "this is too much!" they thought old lady hainault did not hear her; but she did, and so did hicks. they heard it fast enough, and remembered it too. in great social catastrophes, minor differences are forgotten. in the indian mutiny, people spoke to one another, and made friends, who were at bitterest variance before. there are crises so terrible that people of all creeds and shades of political opinion must combine against a common enemy. this was one. when this dreadful old woman made her totally unexpected entrance, and when lady ascot showed herself so entirely without discretion as to exclaim aloud in the way she did, young lady hainault and adelaide were so horrified, so suddenly quickened to a sense of impending danger, that they began talking loudly and somewhat affectionately to one another. and young lady hainault, whose self-possession was scattered to the four winds by this last misfortune, began asking adelaide all about lady brittlejug's drum, in full hearing of her mamma-in-law, who treasured up every word she said. and, just as she became conscious of saying wildly that she was so sorry she could not have been there--as if lady brittlejug would ever have had the impudence to ask her--she saw lord saltire, across the room, looking quietly at her, with the expression on his face of one of the idols at abou simbel. turn lady ascot once fairly to bay, you would (if you can forgive slang) get very little change out of her. she came of valiant blood. no headstall was ever yet known to refuse his fence. even her poor brother, showing as he did traces of worn-out blood (the men always go a generation or two before the women), had been a desperate rider, offered to kick fouquier tinville at his trial, and had kept simon waiting on the guillotine while he pared his nails. her ladyship rose and accepted battle; she advanced towards old lady hainault, and, leaning on her crutched stick, began-- "and how do you do, my dear lady hainault?" she thought lady hainault would say something very disagreeable, as she usually did. she looked at her, and was surprised to see how altered she was. there was something about her looks that lady ascot did not like. "my dear lady ascot," said old lady hainault, "i thank you. i am a very old woman. i never forget my friends, i assure you. hicks, is lord hainault here?--i am very blind, you will be glad to hear, lady ascot. hicks, i want lord hainault, instantly. fetch him to me, you stupid woman. hainault! hainault!" our lady hainault rose suddenly, and put her arm round her waist. "mamma," she said, "what do you want!" "i want hainault, you foolish girl. is that him? hainault, i have made the will, my dear boy. the rogue came to me, and i told him that the will was made, and that britten and sloane had witnessed it. did i do right or not, eh? ha! ha! i followed you here to tell you. don't let that woman ascot insult me, hainault. she has committed a felony, that woman. i'll have her prosecuted. and all to get that chit alicia married to that pale-faced papist, petre ravenshoe. she thinks i didn't know it, does she? i knew she knew it well enough, and i knew it too, and i have committed a felony too, in holding my tongue, and we'll both go to bridewell, and----" lord saltire here came up, and quietly offered her his arm. she took it and departed, muttering to herself. i must mention here, that the circumstance mentioned by old lady hainault, of having made a will, had nothing to do with the story. a will had existed to the detriment of lady hainault and miss hicks, and she had most honourably made another in their favour. lady ascot would have given worlds to unsay many things she had heretofore said to her. it was evident that poor old lady hainault's mind was failing. lady ascot would have prayed her forgiveness on her knees, but it was too late. lady hainault never appeared in public again. she died a short time after this, and, as i mentioned before, left poor miss hicks a rich woman. very few people knew how much good there was in the poor old soul. let the casterton tenantry testify. on this occasion her appearance had, as we have seen, the effect of reconciling lady hainault and adelaide. a very few minutes after her departure william entered the room, followed by hornby, whom none of them had ever seen before. they saw from william's face that something fresh was the matter. he introduced hornby, who seemed concerned, and then gave an open note to lord saltire. he read it over, and then said-- "this unhappy boy has disappeared again. apparently his interview with you determined him, my dear lady welter. can you give us any clue? this is his letter:" "dear lieutenant,--i must say good-bye even to you, my last friend. i was recognised in your service to-day by lady welter, and it will not do for me to stay in it any longer. it was a piece of madness ever taking to such a line of life." [here there were three lines carefully erased. lord saltire mentioned it, and hornby quietly said, "i erased those lines previous to showing the letter to any one; they referred to exceedingly private matters." lord saltire bowed and continued.] "a hundred thanks for your kindness; you have been to me more like a brother than a master. we shall meet again, when you little expect it. pray don't assist in any search after me; it will be quite useless. charles horton." adelaide came forward as pale as death. "i believe i am the cause of this. i did not dream it would have made him alter his resolution so suddenly. when i saw him yesterday he was in a groom's livery. i told him he was disgracing himself, and told him, if he was desperate, to go to the war." they looked at one another in silence. "then," lady ascot said, "he has enlisted, i suppose. i wonder in what regiment?--could it be in yours, mr. hornby?" "the very last in which he would, i should say," said hornby, "if he wants to conceal himself. he must know that i should find him at once." so lady ascot was greatly pooh-poohed by the other wiseacres, she being right all the time. "i think," said lord saltire to lady ascot, "that perhaps we had better take mr. hornby into our confidence." she agreed, and, after the hainaults and welters were gone, hornby remained behind with them, and heard things which rather surprised him. "inquiries at the depôts of various regiments would be as good a plan as any. meanwhile i will give any assistance in my power. pray, would it not be a good plan to advertise for him, and state all the circumstances of the case?" "why, no," said lord saltire, "we do not wish to make known all the circumstances yet. other interests have to be consulted, and our information is not yet complete. complete! we have nothing to go on but mere surmise." "you will think me inquisitive," said hornby. "but you little know what a right (i had almost said) i have to ask these questions. does the present mr. ravenshoe know of all this?" "not one word." and so hornby departed with william, and said nothing at all about ellen. as they left the door a little shoeblack looked inquisitively at them, and seemed as though he would speak. they did not notice the child. he could have told them what they wanted to know, but how were they to guess that? impossible. actually, according to the sagacious welter, half a million pounds, and other things, going a-begging, and a dirty little shoeblack the only human being who knew where the heir was! a pig is an obstinate animal, likewise a sheep; but what pig or sheep was ever so provoking in its obstinacy as charles in his good-natured, well-meaning, blundering stupidity? in a very short time you will read an advertisement put into _the times_ by lady ascot's solicitor, which will show the reason for some of the great anxiety which she and others felt to have him on the spot. at first lady ascot and lord saltire lamented his absence, from the hearty goodwill they bore him; but, as time wore on, they began to get deeply solicitous for his return for other reasons. lady ascot's hands were tied. she was in a quandary, and, when the intelligence came of his having enlisted, and there seemed nearly a certainty of his being shipped off to foreign parts, and killed before she could get at him, she was in a still greater quandary. suppose, before being killed, he was to marry some one? "good heavens, my dear james, was ever an unfortunate wretch punished so before for keeping a secret?" "i should say not, maria," said lord saltire, coolly. "i declare i love the lad the better the more trouble he gives one. there never was such a dear obstinate dog. welter has been making his court, and has made it well--with an air of ruffian-like simplicity, which was charming, because novel. i, even i, can hardly tell whether it was real or not. he has ten times the brains of his shallow-pated little wife, whose manoeuvres, my dear maria, i should have thought even you, not ordinarily a sagacious person, might have seen through." "i believe the girl loves me; and don't be rude, james." "i believe she don't care twopence for you; and i shall be as rude as i please, maria." poor lord ascot had a laugh at this little battle between his mother and her old friend. so lord saltire turned to him and said-- "at half-past one to-morrow morning you will be awakened by three ruffians in crape masks, with pistols, who will take you out of bed with horrid threats, and walk you upstairs and down in your shirt, until you have placed all your money and valuables into their hands. they will effect an entrance by removing a pane of glass, and introducing a small boy, disguised as a shoeblack, who will give them admittance." "good gad!" said lord ascot, "what are you talking about?" "don't you see that shoeblack over the way?" said lord saltire. "he has been watching the house for two hours; the burglars are going to put him in at the back-kitchen window. there comes daventry back from the police-station. i bet you a sovereign he has his boots cleaned." poor lord ascot jumped at the bet like an old war-horse. "i'd have given you three to one if you had waited." lord daventry had indeed re-appeared on the scene; his sole attendant was one of the little girls with a big bonnet and a baby, before mentioned, who had evidently followed him to the police-station, watched him in, and then accompanied him home, staring at him as at a man of dark experiences, a man not to be lost sight of on any account, lest some new and exciting thing should befall him meanwhile. this young lady, having absented herself some two hours on this errand, and having thereby deprived the baby of its natural nourishment, was now suddenly encountered by an angry mother, and, knowing what she had to expect, was forced to "dodge" her infuriated parent round and round lord daventry, in a way which made that venerable nobleman giddy, and caused him to stop, shut his eyes, and feebly offer them money not to do it any more. ultimately the young lady was caught and cuffed, the baby was refreshed, and his lordship free. lord saltire won his pound, to his great delight. such an event as a shoeblack in south audley street was not to be passed by. lord daventry entered into conversation with our little friend, asked him if he went to school? if he could say the lord's prayer? how much he made in the day? whether his parents were alive? and ultimately had his boots cleaned, and gave the boy half-a-crown. after which he disappeared from the scene, and, like many of our large staff of supernumeraries, from this history for evermore--he has served his turn with us. let us dismiss the kind-hearted old dandy with our best wishes. lord saltire saw him give the boy the half-crown. he saw the boy pocket it as though it were a halfpenny: and afterwards continue to watch the house, as before. he was more sure than ever that the boy meant no good. if he had known that he was waiting for one chance of seeing charles again, perhaps he would have given him half-a-crown himself. what a difference one word from that boy would have made in our story! when they came back from dinner, there was the boy still lying on the pavement, leaning against his box. the little girl who had had her ears boxed came and talked to him for a time, and went on. after a time she came back with a quartern loaf in her hand, the crumbs of which she picked as she went along, after the manner of children sent on an errand to the baker's. when she had gone by, he rose and leant against the railings, as though lingering, loth to go. once more, later, lord saltire looked out, and the boy was still there. "i wonder what the poor little rogue wants?" said lord saltire; "i have half a mind to go and ask him." but he did not. it was not to be, my lord. you might have been with charles the next morning at windsor. you might have been in time if you had; you will have a different sort of meeting with him than that, if you meet him at all. beyond the grave, my lord, that meeting must be. possibly a happier one, who knows? who dare say? the summer night closed in, but the boy lingered yet, to see, if perchance he might, the only friend he ever had; to hear, if he might, the only voice which had ever spoken gently and kindly to him of higher things: the only voice which had told him that strange, wild tale, scarce believed as yet, of a glorious immortality. the streets began to get empty. the people passed him-- "ones and twos, and groups; the latest said the night grew chill, and hastened; but he loitered; whilst the dews fell fast, he loitered still." chapter xlvii. lady hainault's blotting-book. in the natural course of events, i ought now to follow charles in his military career, step by step. but the fact is that i know no more about the details of horse-soldiering than a marine, and therefore i cannot. it is within the bounds of possibility that the reader may congratulate himself on my ignorance, and it may also be possible that he has good reason for so doing. within a fortnight after hornby's introduction to lord saltire and lady ascot, he was off with the head-quarters of his regiment to varna. the depôt was at windsor, and there, unknown to hornby, was charles, drilling and drilling. two more troops were to follow the head-quarters in a short time, and so well had charles stuck to his duty that he was considered fit to take his place in one of them. before his moustaches were properly grown, he found himself a soldier in good earnest. in all his troubles this was the happiest time he had, for he had got rid of the feeling that he was a disgraced man. if he must wear a livery, he would wear the queen's; there was no disgrace in that. he was a soldier, and he would be a hero. sometimes, perhaps, he thought for a moment that he, with his two thousand pounds' worth of education, might have been better employed than in littering a horse, and swash-bucklering about among the windsor taverns; but he did not think long about it. if there were any disgrace in the matter, there was a time coming soon, by all accounts, when the disgrace would be wiped out in fire and blood. on sunday, when he saw the eton lads streaming up to the terrace, the old shrewsbury days, and the past generally, used to come back to him rather unpleasantly; but the bugle put it all out of his head again in a moment. were there not the three most famous armies in the world gathering, gathering, for a feast of ravens? was not the world looking on in silence and awe, to see england, france, and russia locked in a death-grip? was not he to make one at the merry meeting? who could think at such a time as this? the time was getting short now. in five days they were to start for southampton, to follow the head-quarters to constantinople, to varna, and so into the dark thunder-cloud beyond. he felt as certain that he would never come back again, as that the sun would rise on the morrow. he made the last energetic effort that he made at all. it was like the last struggle of a drowning man. he says that the way it happened was this. and i believe him, for it was one of his own mad impulses, and, like all his other impulses, it came too late. they came branking into some pot-house, half a dozen of them, and talked aloud about this and that, and one young lad among them said, that "he would give a thousand pounds, if he had it, to see his sister before he went away, for fear she should think that he had gone off without thinking of her." charles left them, and walked up the street. as he walked, his purpose grew. he went straight to the quarters of a certain cornet, son to the major of the regiment, and asked to speak to him. the cornet, a quiet, smooth-faced boy, listened patiently to what he had to say, but shook his head and told him he feared it was impossible. but, he said, after a pause, he would help him all he could. the next morning he took him to the major while he was alone at breakfast, and charles laid his case before him so well, that the kind old man gave him leave to go to london at four o'clock, and come back by the last train that same evening. the duchess of cheshire's ball was the last and greatest which was given that season. it was, they say, in some sort like the duchess of richmond's ball before waterloo. the story i have heard is, that lord george barty persuaded his mother to give it, because he was sure that it would be the last ball he should ever dance at. at all events it was given, and he was right; for he sailed in the same ship with charles four days after, and was killed at balaclava. however, we have nothing to do with that. all we have to do with is the fact, that it was a very great ball indeed, and that lady hainault was going to it. some traditions and customs grow by degrees into laws, ay, and into laws less frequently broken than those made and provided by parliament. allow people to walk across the corner of one of your fields for twenty years, and there is a right of way, and they may walk across that field till the crack of doom. allow a man to build a hut on your property, and live in it for twenty years, and you can't get rid of him. he gains a right there. (i never was annoyed in either of these ways myself, for reasons which i decline to mention; but it is the law, i believe.) there is no law to make the young men fire off guns at one's gate on the th of november, but they never miss doing it. (i found some of the men using their rifles for this purpose last year, and had to fulminate about it.) to follow out the argument, there was no rule in lord hainault's house that the children should always come in and see their aunt dress for a ball. but they always did; and lady hainault herself, though she could be perfectly determined, never dared to question their right. they behaved very well. flora brought in a broken picture-broom, which, stuck into an old straw hat of archy's, served her for feathers. she also made unto herself a newspaper fan. gus had an old twelfth-cake ornament on his breast for a star, and a tape round his neck for a garter. in this guise they represented the duke and duchess of cheshire, and received their company in a corner, as good as gold. as for archy, he nursed his cat, sucked his thumb, and looked at his aunt. mary was "by way of" helping lady hainault's maid, but she was very clumsy about it, and her hands shook a good deal. lady hainault, at last looking up, saw that she was deadly pale, and crying. so, instead of taking any notice, she dismissed the children as soon as she could, as a first step towards being left alone with mary. gus and flora, finding that they must go, changed the game, and made believe that they were at court, and that their aunt was the queen. so they dexterously backed to the door, and bowed themselves out. archy was lord chamberlain, or gold stick, or what not, and had to follow them in the same way. he was less successful, for he had to walk backwards, sucking his thumb, and nursing his cat upside down (she was a patient cat, and was as much accustomed to be nursed that way as any other). he got on very well till he came to the door, when he fell on the back of his head, crushing his cat and biting his thumb to the bone. gus and flora picked him up, saying that lord chamberlains never cried when they fell on the backs of their heads. but archy, poor dear, was obliged to cry a little, the more so as the dear cat had bolted upstairs, with her tail as big as a fox's, and archy was afraid she was angry with him, which seemed quite possible. so mary had to go out and take him to the nursery. he would stop his crying, he said, if she would tell him the story of ivedy avedy. so she told it him quite to the end, where the baffled old sorcerer, gongolo, gets into the plate-warmer, with his three-farthings and the brass soup-ladle, shuts the door after him, and disappears for ever. after which she went down to lady hainault's room again. lady hainault was alone now. she was sitting before her dressing-table, with her hands folded, apparently looking at herself in the glass. she took no notice of what she had seen; though, now they were alone together, she determined that mary should tell her what was the matter--for, in truth, she was very anxious to know. she never looked at mary when she came in; she only said-- "mary, my love, how do i look?" "i never saw you look so beautiful before," said mary. "i am glad of that. hainault is so ridiculously proud of me, that i really delight in looking my best. now, mary, let me have the necklace; that is all, i believe, unless you would like me to put on a little rouge." mary tried to laugh, but could not. her hands were shaking so that the jewels were clicking together as she held them. lady hainault saw that she must help her to speak, but she had no occasion; the necklace helped her. it was a very singular necklace, a hainault heirloom, which lady hainault always wore on grand occasions to please her husband. there was no other necklace like it anywhere, though some folks who did not own it said it was old-fashioned, and should be reset. it was a collar of nine points, the ends of brilliants, running upwards as the points broadened into larger rose diamonds. the eye, catching the end of the points, was dazzled with yellow light, which faded into red as the rays of the larger roses overpowered the brilliants; and at the upper rim the soft crimson haze of light melted, overpowered, into nine blazing great rubies. it seemed, however, a shame to hide such a beautiful neck by such a glorious bauble. mary was trying to clasp it on, but her fingers failed, and down went the jewels clashing on the floor. the next moment she was down too, on her knees, clutching lady hainault's hand, and saying, or trying to say, in spite of a passionate burst of sobbing, "lady hainault, let me see him; let me see him, or i shall die." lady hainault turned suddenly upon her, and laid her disengaged hand upon her hair. "my little darling," she said, "my pretty little bird." "you must let me see him. you could not be so cruel. i always loved him, not like a sister, oh! not like a sister, woe to me. as you love lord hainault; i know it now." "my poor little mary. i always thought something of this kind." "he is coming to-night. he sails to-morrow or next day, and i shall never see him again." "sails! where for?" "i don't know; he does not say. but you must let me see him. he don't dream i care for him, lady hainault. but i must see him, or i shall die." "you shall see him; but who is it? any one i know?" "who is it? who could it be but charles ravenshoe?" "good god! coming here to-night! mary, ring the bell for alwright. send round to south audley street for lord saltire, or william ravenshoe, or some of them. they are dying to catch him. there is something more in their eagerness than you or i know of. send at once, mary, or we shall be too late. when does he come? get up, my dear. my poor little mary. i am so sorry. is he coming here? and how soon will he come, dear? do be calm. think what we may do for him. he should be here now. stay, i will write a note--just one line. where is my blotting-book? alwright, get my blotting-book. and stay; say that, if any one calls for miss corby, he is to be shown into the drawing-room at once. let us go there, mary." alwright had meanwhile, not having heard the last sentence, departed to the drawing-room, and possessed herself of lady hainault's portfolio, meaning to carry it up to the dressing-room; then she had remembered the message about any one calling being shown up to the drawing-room, and had gandered down to the hall to give it to the porter; after which she gandered upstairs to the dressing-room again, thinking that lady hainault was there, and missing both her and mary from having gone downstairs. so, while she and mary were looking for the blotting-book impatiently in the drawing-room, the door was opened, and the servant announced, "a gentleman to see miss corby." he had discreetly said a gentleman, for he did not like to say an hussar. mary turned round and saw a man all scarlet and gold before her, and was frightened, and did not know him. but when he said "mary," in the old, old voice, there came such a rush of bygone times, bygone words, scenes, sounds, meetings and partings, sorrows and joys, into her wild, warm little heart, that, with a low, loving, tender cry she ran to him and hid her face on his bosom.[ ] and lady hainault swept out of the room after that unlucky blotting-book. and i intend to go after her, out of mere politeness, to help her to find it. i will not submit to be lectured for making an aposiopesis. if any think they could do this business better than i, let them communicate with the publishers, and finish the story for themselves. i decline to go into that drawing-room at present. i shall wander upstairs into my lady's chamber, after that goosey-gander alwright, and see what she has done with the blotting-book. lady hainault found the idiot of a woman in her dressing-room, looking at herself in the glass, with the blotting-book under her arm. the maid looked as foolish as people generally do who are caught looking at themselves in the glass. (how disconcerting it is to be found standing on a chair before the chimney-glass, just to have a look at your entire figure before going to a party!)[ ] but lady hainault said nothing to her; but, taking the book from under her arm, she sat down and fiercely scrawled off a note to lord saltire, to be opened by any of them, to say that charles ravenshoe was then in her house, and to come in god's name. "i have caged their bird for them," she said out loud when she had just finished and was folding up the letter; "they will owe me a good turn for this." the maid, who had no notion anything was the matter, had been surreptitiously looking in the glass again, and wondering whether her nose was really so very red after all. when lady hainault spoke thus aloud to herself, she gave a guilty start, and said, "immediately, my lady," which you will perceive was not exactly appropriate to the occasion. "don't be a goose, my good old alwright, and don't tread on my necklace, alwright; it is close at your feet." so it was. lying where mary had dropped it. alwright thought she must have knocked it off the dressing-table; but when lady hainault told her that miss corby had dropped it there, alwright began to wonder why her ladyship had not thought it worth while to pick it up again. "put it on while i seal this letter will you? i cannot trust you, alwright; i must go myself." she went out of the room and quickly down stairs to the hall. all this had taken but a few minutes; she had hurried as much as was possible, but the time seems longer to us, because, following my usual plan of playing the fool on important occasions, i have been telling you about the lady's-maid's nose. she went down quickly to the hall, and sent off one of the men to south audley street, with her note, giving him orders to run all the way, and personally to see lady ascot, or some one else of those named. after this she came upstairs again. when she came to the drawing-room door, charles was standing at it. "lady hainault," he said, "would you come here, please? poor mary has fainted." "poor thing," said lady hainault. "i will come to her. one word, mr. ravenshoe. oh, do think one instant of this fatal, miserable resolution of yours. think how fond we have all been of you. think of the love that your cousin and lady ascot bear for you, and communicate with them. at all events, stay ten minutes more, and see one of them. i must go to poor mary." "dear lady hainault, you will not change my resolution to stand alone. there is a source of disgrace you probably know nothing of. besides, nothing short of an order in council could stop me now. we sail for the east in twenty-four hours." they had just time for this, very hurriedly spoken, for poor little mary had done what she never had done before in her life, fainted away. lady hainault and charles went into the drawing-room. just before this, alwright, coming downstairs, had seen her most sacred mistress standing at the drawing-room door, talking familiarly and earnestly to a common soldier. her ladyship had taken his hand in hers, and was laying her other hand upon his breast. alwright sat down on the stairs. she was a poor feeble thing, and it was too much for her. she was casterton-bred, and had a feeling for the honour of the family. her first impulse was to run to lord hainault's dressing-room door and lock him in. her next was to rock herself to and fro and moan. she followed the latter of these two impulses. meanwhile, lady hainault had succeeded in bringing poor mary to herself. charles had seen her bending over the poor little lifeless body, and blessed her. presently lady hainault said, "she is better now, mr. ravenshoe; will you come and speak to her?" there was no answer. lady hainault thought charles was in the little drawing-room, and had not heard her. she went there. it was dimly lighted, but she saw in a moment that it was empty. she grew frightened, and hurriedly went out on to the stairs. there was no one there. she hurried down, and was met by the weeping alwright. "he is safe out of the house, my lady," said that brilliant genius. "i saw him come out of the drawing-room, and i ran down and sent the hall porter on a message, and let him out myself. oh, my lady! my lady!" lady hainault was a perfect-tempered woman, but she could not stand this. "alwright," she said, "you are a perfect, hopeless, imbecile idiot. go and tell his lordship to come to me instantly. instantly! do you hear? i wouldn't," she continued to herself when alwright was gone, "face lord saltire alone after this for a thousand pounds." what was the result of charles's interview with mary? simply this. the poor little thing had innocently shown him, in a way he could not mistake, that she loved him with all her heart and soul. and, when he left that room, he had sworn an oath to himself that he would use all his ingenuity to prevent her ever setting eyes on him again. "i am low and degraded enough now," he said to himself; "but if i gave that poor innocent child the opportunity of nourishing her love for me, i should be too low to live." he did not contemplate the possibility, you see, of raising himself to her level. no. he was too much broken down for that. hope was dead within him. he had always been a man of less than average strength of will; and two or three disasters--terrible disasters they were, remember--had made him such as we see him, a helpless, drifting log upon the sea of chance. what lord welter had said was terribly true, "charles ravenshoe is broken-hearted." but to the very last he was a just, honourable, true, kind-hearted man. a man in ten thousand. call him fool, if you will. i cannot gainsay you there. but when you have said that you have finished. did he love mary? yes, from this time forward, he loved her as she loved him; and, the darker the night grew, that star burned steadily and more steadily yet. never brighter, perhaps, than when it gleamed on the turbid waters, which whelm the bodies of those to whose eyesight all stars have set for ever. chapter xlviii. in which cuthbert begins to see things in a new light. the stream at ravenshoe was as low as they had ever seen it, said the keeper's boys, who were allowed to take artists and strangers up to see the waterfall in the wood. the artists said that it was more beautiful than ever; for now, instead of roaring headlong over the rocks in one great sheet beneath the quivering oak leaves, it streamed and spouted over and among the black slabs of slate in a million interlacing jets. yes, the artists were quite satisfied with the state of things; but the few happy souls who had dared to ask cuthbert for a day or so of salmon-fishing were not so well satisfied by any means. while the artists were saying that this sort of thing, you know, was the sort of thing to show one how true it was that beauty, life, and art, were terms co-ordinate, synonymous, inseparable--that these made up the sum of existence--that the end of existence was love, and what was love but the worship of the beautiful (or something of this sort, for your artist is but a mortal man, like the rest of us, and is apt, if you give him plenty of tobacco on a hot day, to get uncommon hazy in his talk)--while, i say, the artists were working away like mad, and uttering the most beautiful sentiments in the world, the anglers were, as old master lee up to slarrow would have said, "dratting" the scenery, the water, the weather, the beer, and existence generally, because it wouldn't rain. if it had rained, you see, the artists would have left talking about the beautiful, and begun "dratting" in turn; leaving the anglers to talk about the beautiful as best they might. which fact gives rise to moral reflections of the profoundest sort. but every one, except the discontented anglers, would have said that it was heavenly summer weather. the hay was all got in without one drop of rain on it. and now, as one glorious, cloudless day succeeded another, all the land seemed silently swelling with the wealth of the harvest. fed by gentle dews at night, warmed by the genial sun by day, the corn began to turn from grey to gold, and the distant valleys which spread away inland, folded in the mighty grey arms of the moor, shone out gallantly with acre beyond acre of yellow wheat and barley. a still, happy time. and the sea! who shall tell the beauty of the restless atlantic in such weather? for nearly three weeks there was a gentle wind, now here, now there, which just curled the water, and made a purple shadow for such light clouds as crept across the blue sky above. night and morning the fishing-boats crept out and in. never was such a fishing season. the mouth of the stream was crowded with salmon, waiting to get up the first fresh. you might see them as you sailed across the shallow sand-bank, the delta of the stream, which had never risen above the water for forty years, yet which now, so still had been the bay for three weeks, was within a foot of the surface at low tide. a quiet, happy time. the three old master lees lay all day on the sand, where the fishing-boats were drawn up, and had their meals brought to them by young male relatives, who immediately pulled off every rag of clothes they had, and went into the water for an hour or two. the minding of these 'ere clothes, and the looking out to sea, was quite enough employment for these three old cronies. they never fell out once for three weeks. they used to talk about the war, or the cholera, which was said to be here, or there, or coming, or gone. but they cared little about that. ravenshoe was not a cholera place. it had never come there before, and they did not think that it was coming now. they were quite right; it never came. cuthbert used his influence, and got the folks to move some cabbage stalks, and rotten fish, just to make sure, as he said. they would have done more for him than that just now; so it was soon accomplished. the juvenile population, which is the pretty way of saying the children, might have offered considerable opposition to certain articles of merchandise being removed without due leave obtained and given; but, when it was done, they were all in the water as naked as they were born. when it was over they had good sense enough to see that it could not be helped. these sweeping measures of reform, however, are apt to bear hard on particular cases. for instance, young james lee, great-grandson of master james lee up to slarrow, lost six dozen (some say nine, but that i don't believe) of oyster-shells, which he was storing up for a grotto. cuthbert very properly refunded the price of them, which amounted to twopence. "nonsense, again," you say. why, no! what i have written above is not nonsense. the whims and oddities of a village; which one has seen with one's own eyes, and heard with one's own ears, are not nonsense. i knew, when i began, what i had to say in this chapter, and i have just followed on a train of images. and the more readily, because i know that what i have to say in this chapter must be said without effort to be said well. if i thought i was writing for a reader who was going to criticise closely my way of telling my story, i tell you the honest truth, i should tell my story very poorly indeed. of course i must submit to the same criticism as my betters. but there are times when i feel that i must have my reader go hand in hand with me. to do so, he must follow the same train of ideas as i do. at such times i write as naturally as i can. i see that greater men than i have done the same. i see that captain marryat, for instance, at a particular part of his noblest novel, "the king's own," has put in a chapter about his grandmother and the spring tides, which, for perfect english and rough humour, it is hard to match anywhere. i have not dared to play the fool, as he has, for two reasons. the first, that i could not play it so well, and the second, that i have no frightful tragedy to put before you, to counterbalance it, as he had. well, it is time that this rambling came to an end. i hope that i have not rambled too far, and bored you. that would be very unfortunate just now. ravenshoe bay again, then--in the pleasant summer drought i have been speaking of before. father mackworth and the two tiernays were lying on the sand, looking to the sea. cuthbert had gone off to send away some boys who were bathing too near the mouth of the stream and hunting his precious salmon. the younger tiernay had recently taken to collect "common objects of the shore"--a pleasant, healthy mania which prevailed about that time. he had been dabbling among the rocks at the western end of the bay, and had just joined his brother and father mackworth with a tin-box full of all sorts of creatures, and he turned them out on the sand and called their attention to them. "a very good morning's work, my brother," he said. "these anemones are all good and rare ones." "bedad," said the jolly priest, "they'd need be of some value, for they ain't pretty to look at; what's this cockle now wid the long red spike coming out of him?" "cardium tuberculatum." "see here, mackworth," said tiernay, rolling over toward him on the sand with the shell in his hand. "here's the rid-nosed oysther of carlingford. ye remember the legend about it, surely?" "i don't, indeed," said mackworth, angrily, pretty sure that father tiernay was going to talk nonsense, but not exactly knowing how to stop him. "not know the legend!" said father tiernay. "why, when saint bridget was hurrying across the sand, to attend st. patrick in his last illness, poor dear, this divvle of a oysther was sunning himself on the shore, and, as she went by, he winked at her holiness with the wicked eye of 'um, and he says, says he, 'nate ankles enough, anyhow,' he says. 'ye're drunk, ye spalpeen,' says st. bridget, 'to talk like that to an honest gentlewoman.' 'sorra a bit of me,' says the oysther. 'ye're always drunk,' says st. bridget. 'drunk yourself,' says the oysther; 'i'm fastin from licker since the tide went down.' 'what makes your nose so red, ye scoundrel?' says st. bridget: 'no ridder nor yer own,' says the oysther, getting angry. for the saint was stricken in years, and red-nosed by rayson of being out in all weathers, seeing to this and to that. 'yer nose is red through drink,' says she, 'and yer nose shall stay as rid as mine is now, till the day of judgment.' and that's the legend about st. bridget and the carlingford oysther, and ye ought to be ashamed that ye never heard it before." "i wish, sir," said mackworth, "that you could possibly stop yourself from talking this preposterous, indecent nonsense. surely the first and noblest of irish saints may claim exemption from your clumsy wit." "begorra, i'm catching it, mr. ravenshoe," said tiernay. "what for?" said cuthbert, who had just come up. "why, for telling a legend. sure, i made it up on the spot. but it is none the worse for that; d'ye think so, now?" "not much the better, i should think," said cuthbert, laughing. "allow me to say," said mackworth, "that i never heard such shameless, blasphemous nonsense in my life." the younger tiernay was frightened, and began gathering up his shells and weeds. his handsome weak face was turned towards the great, strong, coarse face of his brother, with a look of terror, and his fingers trembled as he put the sea-spoils into his box. cuthbert, watching them both, guessed that sometimes father tiernay could show a violent, headlong temper, and that his brother had seen an outbreak of this kind and trembled for one now. it was only a guess, probably a good one; but there were no signs of such an outbreak now. father tiernay only lay back on the sand and laughed, without a cloud on his face. "bedad," he said, "i've been lying on the sand, and the sun has got into my stomach and made me talk nonsense. when i was a gossoon, i used to sleep with the pig; and it was a poor, feeble-minded pig, as never got fat on petaty skins. if folly's catchin', i must have caught it from that pig. did ye ever hear the legend of st. laurence o'toole's wooden-legged sow, mackworth?" it was evident, after this, that the more mackworth fulminated against good father tiernay's unutterable nonsense, the more he would talk; so he rose and moved sulkily away. cuthbert asked him, laughing, what the story was. "faix," said tiernay, "i ain't sure, principally because i haven't had time to invent it; but we've got rid of mackworth, and can now discourse reasonable." cuthbert sent a boy up to the hall for some towels, and then lay down on the sand beside tiernay. he was very fond of that man in spite of his reckless irish habit of talking nonsense. he was not alone there. i think that every one who knew tiernay liked him. they lay on the sand together those three; and, when father mackworth's anger had evaporated, he came back and lay beside him. tiernay put his hand out to him, and mackworth shook it, and they were reconciled. i believe mackworth esteemed tiernay, though they were so utterly unlike in character and feeling. i know that tiernay had a certain admiration for mackworth. "do you think, now," said tiernay, "that you englishmen enjoy such a scene and such a time as this as much as we irishmen do? i cannot tell. you talk better about it. you have a dozen poets to our one. our best poet, i take it, is tommy moore. you class him as third-rate; but i doubt, mind you, whether you feel nature as acutely as we do." "i think we do," said cuthbert, eagerly. "i cannot think that you can feel the beauty of the scene we are looking at more deeply than i do. you feel nature as in 'silent o'moyle'; we feel it as in keats' 'st. agnes' eve!'" he was sitting up on the sand, with his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. none of them spoke for a time; and he, looking seaward, said idly, in a low voice-- "'st. agnes' eve. ah! bitter chill it was. the owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; the hare limped, trembling, through the frozen grass; and drowsy was the flock in woolly fold.'" what was the poor lad thinking of? god knows. there are times when one can't follow the train of a man's thoughts--only treasure up their spoken words as priceless relics. his beautiful face was turned towards the dying sun, and in that face there was a look of such kindly, quiet peace, that they who watched it were silent, and waited to hear what he would say. the western headland was black before the afternoon sun, and, far to sea, lundy lay asleep in a golden haze. all before them the summer sea heaved between the capes, and along the sand, and broke in short crisp surf at their feet, gently moving the seaweed, the sand, and the shells. "'st. agnes' eve,'" he said again. "ah, yes! that is one of the poems written by protestants which help to make men catholics. nine-tenths of their highest religious imagery is taken from catholicism. the english poets have nothing to supply the place of it. milton felt it, and wrote about it; yes, after ranging through all heathendom for images he comes home, to us at last:-- "'let my due feet never fail to walk the studious cloisters pale, and love the high embowed roof, with antique pillars massy proof, and storied windows, richly dight, casting a dim religious light.'" "yes; he could feel for that cloister life. the highest form of human happiness! we have the poets with us, at all events. why, what is the most perfect bijou of a poem in the english language? tennyson's 'st. agnes.' he had to come to us." the poor fellow looked across the sea, which was breaking in crisp ripples at his feet among the seaweed, the sand, and the shells; and as they listened, they heard him say, almost passionately-- "'break up the heavens, oh, lord! and far through all yon starlight keen draw me, thy bride, a glittering star in raiment white and clean.' "they have taken our churches from us, and driven us into birmingham-built chapels. they sneer at us, but they forget that we built their arches and stained their glass for them. art has revenged herself on them for their sacrilege by quitting earth in disgust. they have robbed us of our churches and our revenues, and turned us out on the world. ay, but we are revenged. they don't know the use of them now they have got them; and the only men who could teach them, the tractarians, are abused and persecuted by them for their superior knowledge." so he rambled on, looking seaward; at his feet the surf playing with the sand, the seaweed, and the shells. he made a very long pause, and then, when they thought that he was thinking of something quite different, he suddenly said-- "i don't believe it matters whether a man is buried in the chancel or out of it. but they are mad to discourage such a feeling as that, and not make use of it. am i the worse man because i fancy that, when i lay there so quiet, i shall hear above my head the footfalls of those who go to kneel around the altar? what is it one of them says-- "'or where the kneeling hamlet drains the chalice of the grapes of god.'" he very seldom spoke so much as this. they were surprised to hear him ramble on so; but it was an afternoon in which it was natural to sit upon the shore and talk, saying straight on just what came uppermost--a quiet, pleasant afternoon; an afternoon to lie upon the sand and conjure up old memories. "i have been rambling, haven't i," he said presently. "have i been talking aloud, or only thinking?" "you have been talking," said tiernay, wondering at such a question. "have i? i thought i had been only thinking. i will go and bathe, i think, and clear my head from dreams. i must have been quoting poetry, then," he added, smiling. "ay, and quoting it well, too," said tiernay. a young fisherman was waiting with a boat, and the lad had come with his towels. he stepped lazily across the sand to the boat, and they shoved off. besides the murmur of the surf upon the sand, playing with the shells and seaweed; besides the shouting of the bathing boys; besides the voices of the home-returning fishermen, carried sharp and distinct along the water; besides the gentle chafing of the stream among the pebbles, was there no other sound upon the beach that afternoon? yes, a sound different to all these. a loud-sounding alarm drum, beating more rapidly and furiously each moment, but only heard by one man, and not heeded by him. the tide drawing eastward, and a gentle wind following it, hardly enough to fill the sails of the lazy fishing-boats and keep them to their course. here and there among the leeward part of the fleet, you might hear the sound of an oar working in the row-locks, sleepily coming over the sea and mingling harmoniously with the rest. the young man with cuthbert rowed out a little distance, and then they saw cuthbert standing in the prow undressing himself. the fishing-boats near him luffed and hurriedly put out oars, to keep away. the squire was going to bathe, and no ravenshoe man was ill-mannered enough to come near. those on the shore saw him standing stripped for one moment--a tall majestic figure. then they saw him plunge into the water and begin swimming. and then;--it is an easy task to tell it. they saw his head go under water, and, though they started on their feet and waited till seconds grew to minutes and hope was dead, it never rose again. without one cry, without one struggle, without even one last farewell wave of the hand, as the familiar old landscape faded on his eyes for ever, poor cuthbert went down; to be seen no more until the sea gave up its dead. the poor wild, passionate heart had fluttered itself to rest for ever. the surf still gently playing with the sand, the sea changing from purple to grey, and from grey to black, under the fading twilight. the tide sweeping westward towards the tall black headland, towards the slender-curved thread of the new moon, which grew more brilliant as the sun dipped to his rest in the red atlantic. groups of fishermen and sea boys and servants, that followed the ebbing tide as it went westward, peering into the crisping surf to see something they knew was there. one group that paused among the tumbled boulders on the edge of the retreating surges, under the dark promontory, and bent over something which lay at their feet. the naked corpse of a young man, calm and beautiful in death, lying quiet and still between two rocks, softly pillowed on a bed of green and purple seaweed. and a priest that stood upon the shore, and cried wildly to the four winds of heaven. "oh, my god, i loved him! my god! my god! i loved him!" chapter xlix. the second column of "the times" of this date, with other matters. "tomato. slam the door!" "edward. come at once; poor maria is in sad distress. toodlekins stole!!!!" "j. b. can return to his deeply afflicted family if he likes, or remain away if he likes. the a f, one and all, will view either course with supreme indifference. should he choose the former alternative, he is requested to be as quick as possible. if the latter, to send the key of the cellaret." "lost. a little black and tan lady's lap dog. its real name is pussy, but it will answer to the name of toodlekins best. if any gentleman living near kensal green, or kentish town, should happen, perfectly accidentally of course, to have it in his possession, and would be so good as to bring it to , sloane street, i would give him a sovereign and welcome, and not a single question asked, upon my honour." it becomes evident to me that the dog toodlekins mentioned in the second advertisement, is the same dog alluded to in the fourth; unless you resort to the theory that two dogs were stolen on the same day, and that both were called toodlekins. and you are hardly prepared to do that, i fancy. consequently, you arrive at this, that the "maria" of the second advertisement is the "little black and tan lady" of the fourth. and that, in , she lived at , sloane street. who was she? had she made a fortune by exhibiting herself in a caravan, like mrs. gamp's spotted negress, and taken a house in sloane street, for herself, toodlekins, and the person who advertised for edward to come and comfort her? again, who was edward? was he her brother? was he something nearer and dearer? was he enamoured of her person or her property? i fear the latter. who could truly love a little black and tan lady? again. the wording of her advertisement gives rise to this train of thought. two persons must always be concerned in stealing a dog--the person who steals the dog, and the person who has the dog stolen; because, if the dog did not belong to any one, it is evident that no one could steal it. to put it more scientifically, there must be an active and a passive agent. now, i'll bet a dirty old dishcloth against the _new york herald_, which is pretty even betting, that our little black and tan friend, maria, had been passive agent in a dog-stealing case more than once before this, or why does she mention these two localities? but we must get on to the other advertisements. "lost. a large white bull-dog, very red about the eyes: desperately savage. answers to the name of 'billy.' the advertiser begs that any person finding him will be very careful not to irritate him. the best way of securing him is to make him pin another dog, and then tie his four legs together and muzzle him. any one bringing him to the coach and horses, st. martin's lane, will be rewarded." he seems to have been found the same day, and by some one who was a bit of a wag; for the very next advertisement runs thus: "found. a large white bull-dog, very red about the eyes; desperately savage. the owner can have him at once, by applying to queen's mews, belgrave street, and paying the price of the advertisement and the cost of a new pad groom, aged , as the dog has bitten one so severely about the knee that it is necessary to sell him at once to drive a cab." "lost. somewhere between mile-end road and putney bridge, an old leathern purse, containing a counterfeit sixpence, a lock of hair in a paper, and a twenty-pound note. any one bringing the note to , tylney street, mayfair, may keep the purse and the rest of its contents for their trouble." this was a very shabby advertisement. the next, though coming from an attorney's office, is much more munificent. it quite makes one's mouth water, and envy the lucky fellow who would answer it. "one hundred guineas reward. register wanted. to parish clerks. any person who can discover the register of marriage between petre ravenshoe, esq. of ravenshoe, in the county of devon, and maria dawson, which is supposed to have been solemnised in or about the year , will receive the above reward, on communicating with messrs. compton and brogden, solicitors, , lincoln's inn fields." tomato slammed the door as he was told. edward dashed up to , sloane street, in a hansom cab, just as the little black and tan lady paid one sovereign to a gentleman in a velveteen shooting-coat from kentish town, and hugged toodlekins to her bosom. j. b. came home to his afflicted family with the key of the cellaret. the white bull-dog was restored to the prize-fighter, and the groom-lad received shin-plaster and was sent home tipsy. nay, even an honest man, finding that the note was stopped, took it to tylney street, and got half-a-crown. but no one ever answered the advertisement of lord saltire's solicitor about the marriage register. the long summer dragged on. the square grew dry and dusty; business grew slack, and the clerks grew idle; but no one came. as they sat there drinking ginger-beer, and looking out at the parched lilacs and laburnums, talking about the theatres, and the war, and the cholera, it grew to be a joke with them. when any shabby man in black was seen coming across the square, they would say to one another, "here comes the man to answer lord saltire's advertisement." many men in black, shabby and smart, came across the square and into the office; but none had a word to say about the marriage of petre ravenshoe with maria dawson, which took place in the year . once, during that long sad summer, the little shoeblack thought he would saunter up to the house in south audley street, before which he had waited so long one night to meet charles, who had never come. not perhaps with any hope. only that he would like to see the place which his friend had appointed. he might come back there some day; who could tell? almost every house in south audley street had the shutters closed. when he came opposite lord ascot's house, he saw the shutters were closed there too. but more; at the second storey there was a great painted board hung edgeways, all scarlet and gold. there was some writing on it, too, on a scroll. he could spell a little now, thanks to the ragged-school, and he spelt out "christus salvator meus." what could that mean? he wondered. there was an old woman in the area, holding two of the rails in her hands, and resting her chin on the kerb-stone, looking along the hot desolate street. our friend went over and spoke to her. "i say, missus," he said, "what's that thing up there?" "that's the scutching, my man," said she. "the scutching?" "ah! my lord's dead. died last friday week, and they've took him down to the country house to bury him." "my lord?" said the boy; "was he the one as used to wear top-boots, and went for a soger?" the old woman had never seen my lord wear top-boots. had hearn tell, though, as his father used to, and drive a coach and four in 'em. none of 'em hadn't gone for soldiers, neither. "but what's the scutching for?" asked the boy. they put it for a year, like for a monument, she said. she couldn't say what the writing on it meant. it was my lord's motter, that was all she knowd. and, being a tender-hearted old woman, and not having the fear of thieves before her eyes, she had taken him down into the kitchen and fed him. when he returned to the upper regions, he was "collared" by a policeman, on a charge of "area sneaking," but, after explanations, was let go, to paddle home, barefooted, to the cholera-stricken court where he lived, little dreaming, poor lad, what an important part he was accidentally to play in this history hereafter. they laid poor lord ascot to sleep in the chancel at ranford, and lady ascot stood over the grave like a grey, old storm-beaten tower. "it is strange, james," she said to lord saltire that day, "you and i being left like this, with the young ones going down around us like grass. surely our summons must come soon, james. it's weary, weary waiting." chapter l. shreds and patches. lord welter was now lord ascot. i was thinking at one time that i would continue to call him by his old title, as being the one most familiar to you. but, on second thoughts, i prefer to call him by his real name, as i see plainly that to follow the other course would produce still worse confusion. i only ask that you will bear his change of title in mind. the new lady ascot i shall continue to call adelaide, choosing rather to incur the charge of undue familiarity with people so far above me in social position, than to be answerable for the inevitable confusion which would be caused by my speaking, so often as i shall have to speak, of two ladies ascot, with such a vast difference between them of age and character. colonel whisker, a tenant of lord ascot's, had kindly placed his house at the disposal of his lordship for his father's funeral. never was there a more opportune act of civility, for ranford was dismantled; and the doors of casterton were as firmly closed to adelaide as the gates of the great mosque at ispahan to a christian. two or three days after lord ascot's death, it was arranged that he should be buried at ranford. that night the new lord ascot came to his wife's dressing-room, as usual, to plot and conspire. "ascot," said she, "they are all asked to casterton for the funeral. do you think she will ask me?" "oh dear no," said lord ascot. "why not?" said adelaide. "she ought to. she is civil enough to me." "i tell you i know she won't. he and i were speaking about it to-day." he was looking over her shoulder into the glass, and saw her bite her lip. "ah," said she. "and what did he say?" "oh, he came up in his infernal, cold, insolent way, and said that he should be delighted to see me at casterton during the funeral, but lady hainault feared that she could hardly find rooms for lady ascot and her maid." "did you knock him down? did you kick him? did you take him by the throat and knock his hateful head against the wall?" said adelaide, as quietly as if she was saying "how d'ye do?" "no, my dear, i didn't," said lord ascot. "partly, you see, because i did not know how lord saltire would take it. and remember, adelaide, i always told you that it would take years, years, before people of that sort would receive you." "what did you say to him?" "well, as much as you could expect me to say. i sneered as insolently, but much more coarsely, than he could possibly sneer; and i said that i declined staying at any house where my wife was not received. and so we bowed and parted." adelaide turned round and said, "that was kind and manly of you, welter. i thank you for that, welter." and so they went down to colonel whisker's cottage for the funeral. the colonel probably knew quite how the land lay, for he was a man of the world, and so he had done a very good-natured action just at the right time. she and lord ascot lived for a fortnight there, in the most charming style; and adelaide used to make him laugh, by describing what it was possible the other party were doing up at the solemn old casterton. she used to put her nose in the air and imitate young lady hainault to perfection. at another time she would imitate old lady hainault and her disagreeable sayings equally well. she was very amusing that fortnight, though never affectionate. she knew that was useless; but she tried to keep lord ascot in good humour with her. she had a reason. she wanted to get his ear. she wanted him to confide entirely to her the exact state of affairs between lord saltire and himself. here was lord ascot dead, charles ravenshoe probably at alyden in the middle of the cholera, and lord saltire's vast fortune, so to speak, going a-begging. if he were to be clumsy now--now that the link formed by his father, lord ascot, between him and lord saltire was taken away--they were ruined indeed. and he was so terribly outspoken! and so she strained her wits, till her face grew sharp and thin, to keep him in good humour. she had a hard task at times; for there was something lying up in the deserted house at ranford which made lord ascot gloomy and savage now and then, when he thought of it. i believe that the man, coarse and brutal as he was, loved his father, in his own way, very deeply. a night or so after the funeral, there was a dressing-room conference between the two; and, as the conversation which ensued was very important, i must transcribe it carefully. when he came up to her, she was sitting with her hands folded on her lap, looking so perfectly beautiful that lord ascot, astonished and anxious as he was at that moment, remarked it, and felt pleased at, and proud of, her beauty. a greater fool than she might probably have met him with a look of love. she did not. she only raised her great eyes to his, with a look of intelligent curiosity. he drew a chair up close to her, and said-- "i am going to make your hair stand bolt up on end, adelaide, in spite of your bandoline." "i don't think so," said she; but she looked startled, nevertheless. "i am. what do you think of this?" "this? i think that is the _times_ newspaper. is there anything in it?" "read," said he, and pointed to the list of deaths. she read. "drowned, while bathing in ravenshoe bay, cuthbert ravenshoe, esq., of ravenshoe hall. in the faith that his forefathers bled and died for.--r.i.p." "poor fellow!" she said, quietly. "so _he's_ gone, and brother william, the groom, reigns in his stead. that is a piece of nonsense of the priests about their dying for the faith. i never heard that any of them did that. also, isn't there something wrong about the grammar?" "i can't say," said lord ascot. "i was at eton, and hadn't the advantage that you had of learning english grammar. did you ever play the game of trying to read the _times_ right across, from one column to another, and see what funny nonsense it makes?" "no. i should think it was good fun." "do it now." she did. exactly opposite the announcement of cuthbert's death was the advertisement we have seen before--lord saltire's advertisement for the missing register. she was attentive and eager enough now. after a time, she said, "oho!" lord ascot said, "hey! what do you think of that, lady ascot?" "i am all abroad." "i'll see if i can fetch you home again. petre ravenshoe, in , married a milkmaid. she remembered the duties of her position so far as to conveniently die before any of the family knew what a fool he had made of himself; but so far forgot them as to give birth to a boy, who lived to be one of the best shots, and one of the jolliest old cocks i ever saw--old james, the ravenshoe keeper. now, my dearly beloved grandmother ascot is, at this present speaking, no less than eighty-six years old, and so, at the time of the occurrence, was a remarkably shrewd girl of ten. it appears that petre ravenshoe, sneaking away here and there with his pretty protestant wife, out of the way of the priests, and finding life unendurable, not having had a single chance to confess his sins for two long years, came to the good-natured sir cingle headstall, grandmamma's papa, and opened his griefs, trying to persuade him to break the matter to that fox-hunting old turk of a father of his, howard. sir cingle was too cowardly to face the old man for a time; and before the pair of them could summon courage to speak, the poor young thing died at manger hall, where they had been staying with the headstalls some months. this solved the difficulty, and nothing was said about the matter. petre went home. they had heard reports about his living with a woman and having had a baby born. they asked very few questions about the child or his mother, and of course it was all forgotten conveniently, long before his marriage with my grandaunt, lady alicia staunton, came on the tapis, which took place in , when grandma was fourteen years of age. now grandma had, as a girl of ten, heard this marriage of petre ravenshoe with maria dawson discussed in her presence, from every point of view, by her father and petre. night and morning, at bed-time, at meal-times, sober, and very frequently drunk. she had heard every possible particular. when she heard of his second marriage (my mouth is as dry as dust with this talking; ring the bell, and send your maid down for some claret and water)--when she heard of his second marriage, she never dreamt of saying anything, of course--a chit of fourteen, with a great liability to having her ears boxed. so she held her tongue. when, afterwards, my grandfather made love to her, she held it the tighter, for my grandaunt's sake, of whom she was fond. petre, after a time, had the boy james home to ravenshoe, and kept him about his own person. he made him his gamekeeper, treated him with marked favour, and so on; but the whole thing was a sort of misprision of felony, and poor silly old grandma was a party to it." "you are telling this very well, ascot," said adelaide. "i will, as a reward, go so far out of my usual habits as to mix you some claret and water. i am not going to be tender, you know; but i'll do so much. now that's a dear, good fellow; go on." "now comes something unimportant, but inexplicable. old lady hainault knew it, and held _her_ tongue. how or why is a mystery we cannot fathom, and don't want to. grandma says that she would have married petre herself, and that her hatred for grandma came from the belief that grandma could have stopped the marriage with my grandaunt by speaking. after it was over, she thinks that lady hainault had sufficient love left for petre to hold her tongue. but this is nothing to the purpose. this james, the real heir of ravenshoe, married an english girl, a daughter of a steward on one of our irish estates, who had been born in ireland, and was called nora. she was, you see, irish enough at heart; for she committed the bull of changing her own child, poor dear charles, the real heir, for his youngest cousin, william, by way of bettering his position, and then confessed the whole matter to the priest. now this new discovery would blow the honest priest's boat out of the water; but----" "yes!" "why, grandma can't, for the life of her, remember where they were married. she is certain that it was in the north of hampshire, she says. why or wherefore, she can't say. she says they resided the necessary time, and were married by license. she says she is sure of it, because she heard him, more than once, say to her father that he had been so careful of poor maria's honour, that he sent her from ravenshoe to the house of the clergyman who married them, who was a friend of his; farther than this she knows nothing." "hence the advertisement, then. but why was it not inserted before?" "why, it appears that, when the whole _esclandre_ took place, and when you, my lady ascot, jilted the poor fellow for a man who is not worth his little finger, she communicated with lord saltire at once, and the result was, that she began advertising in so mysterious a manner that the advertisement was wholly unintelligible. it appears that she and lord saltire agreed not to disturb cuthbert till they were perfectly sure of everything. but, now he is dead, lord saltire has insisted on instantly advertising in a sensible way. so you see his advertisement appears actually in the same paper which contains cuthbert's death, the news of which william got the night before last by telegraph." "william, eh? how does he like the cup being dashed from his lips like this?" lord ascot laughed. "that ex-groom is a born fool, lady ascot. he loves his foster-brother better than nine thousand a year, lady ascot. he is going to start to varna, and hunt him through the army and bring him back." "it is incredible," said adelaide. "i don't know. i might have been such a fool myself once, who knows?" "who knows indeed," thought adelaide, "who knows now?" "so," she said aloud, "charles is heir of ravenshoe after all." "yes. you were foolish to jilt him." "i was. is alyden healthy?" "you know it is not. our fellows are dying like dogs." "do they know what regiment he is in?" "they think, from lady hainault's and mary corby's description, that it is the th." "why did not william start on this expedition before?" "i don't know. a new impulse. they have written to all sorts of commanding officers, but he won't turn up till he chooses, if i know him right." "if william brings him back?" "why, then he'll come into nine, or more probably twelve thousand a year. for those tin lodes have turned up trumps." "and the whole of lord saltire's property?" "i suppose so." "and we remain beggars?" "i suppose so," said lord ascot. "it is time to go to bed, lady ascot." this is exactly the proper place to give the results of william's expedition to varna. he arrived there just after the army had gone forward. some men were left behind invalided, among whom were two or three of the th. one of these william selected as being a likely man from whom to make inquiries. he was a young man, and, likely enough, a kind-hearted one; but when he found himself inquired of by a handsome, well-dressed young gentleman, obviously in search of a missing relative, a lying spirit entered into him, and he lied horribly. it appeared that he had been the intimate and cherished comrade of charles horton (of whom he had never heard in his life). that they had ridden together, drunk together, and slept side by side. that he had nursed him through the cholera, and then (seeing no other way out of the maze of falsehood in which he had entangled himself), that he assisted to bury him with his own hands. lastly, lying on through mere recklessness, into desperation, and so into a kind of sublimity, he led william out of the town, and pointed out to him charles's untimely grave. when he saw william pick some dry grass from the grave, when he saw him down on his knees, with his cheek on the earth, then he was sorry for what he had done. and, when he was alone, and saw william's shadow pass across the blazing white wall, for one instant, before he went under the dark gateway of the town, then the chinking gold pieces fell from his hand on the burning sandy ground, and he felt that he would have given them, and ten times more, to have spoken the truth. so charles was dead and buried, was he? not quite yet, if you please. who is this riding, one of a gallant train, along the shores of the bay of eupatoria towards some dim blue mountains? who is this that keeps looking each minute to the right, at the noble fleet which is keeping pace with the great scarlet and blue rainbow which men call the allied armies? at the great cloud of smoke floating angrily seaward, and the calm waters of the bay beaten into madness by three hundred throbbing propellers? chapter li. in which charles comes to life again. ha! this was a life again. better this than dawdling about at the heels of a dandy, or sitting on a wheelbarrow in a mews! there is a scent here sweeter than that of the dunghill, or the dandy's essences--what is it? the smell of tar, and bilge water, and red herrings. there is a fresh whiff of air up this narrow street, which moves your hair, and makes your pulse quicken. it is the free wind of the sea. at the end of the street are ships, from which comes the clinking of cranes; pleasanter music sometimes than the song of nightingales. down the narrow street towards the wharf come the hussars. charles is among them. on the wharf, in the confusion, foremost, as far as he dare, to assist. he was known as the best horseman in the troop, and, as such, was put into dangerous places. he had attracted great attention among the officers by his fearlessness and dexterity. the captain had openly praised him; and, when the last horse had been slung in, and the last cheer given, and the great ship was away down the river, on her message of wrath, and woe, and glory, charles was looking back at southampton spires, a new man with a new career before him. the few months of degradation, of brooding misery, of listlessness and helplessness he had gone through, made this short episode in his life appear the most happy and most beautiful of all. the merest clod of a recruit in the regiment felt in some way ennobled and exalted: but as for charles, with his intensely, sensitive, romantic nature, he was quite, as the french say, _tête montée_. the lowest menial drudgery was exalted and glorified. groom his horse and help clean the deck? why not? that horse must carry him in the day of the merry meeting of heroes. hard living, hard work, bad weather, disease, death: what were they, with his youth, health, strength, and nerve? not to be thought of save with a smile. yes! this expedition of his to the crimea was the noblest, and possibly the happiest in his life. to use a borrowed simile, it was like the mournful, beautiful autumn sunset, before the dark night closes in. he felt like a boy at midsummer, exploring some wood, or distant valley, watched from a distance long, and at last attained; or as one feels when, a stranger in a new land, one first rides forth alone into the forest on some distant expedition, and sees the new world, dreamt of and longed for all one's life, realised in all its beauty and wonder at last; and expanding leaf by leaf before one. in a romantic state of mind. i can express it no better. and really it is no wonder that a man, not sea-sick, should have been in a state of wonder, eager curiosity, kindliness, and, above all, high excitement--which four states of mind, i take it, make up together the state of mind called romantic, quixotic, or chivalrous; which is a very pleasant state of mind indeed. for curiosity, there was enough to make the dullest man curious. where were they going? where would the blow be struck? where would the dogs of war first fix their teeth? would it be a campaign in the field, or a siege, or what? for kindliness: were not his comrades a good set of brave, free-hearted lads, and was not he the favourite among them? as for wonder and excitement, there was plenty of that, and it promised to last. why, the ship herself was a wonder. the biggest in the world, carrying men and horses; and every man in the ship knew, before she had been five hours at sea, that that quiet-looking commander of hers was going to race her out under steam the whole way. who could tire of wondering at the glimpse one got down the iron-railed well into the machinery, at the busy cranks and leaping pistons, or, when tired of that, at the strange dim vista of swinging horses between decks? wonder and excitement enough here to keep twenty don quixotes going! her very name too was romantic--himalaya. a north-east wind and a mountain of rustling white canvas over head. blue water that seethed and creamed, and roared past to leeward. a calm, and the lizard to the north, a dim grey cape. a south-west wind, and above a mighty cobweb of sailless rigging. top-gallant masts sent down and yards close hauled. still, through it all, the busy clack and rattle of the untiring engine. a dim wild sunset, and scudding prophet clouds that hurried from the west across the crimson zenith, like witches towards a sabbath. a wind that rose and grew as the sun went down, and hummed loud in the rigging as the bows of the ship dipped into the trough of the waves, and failed almost into silence as she raised them. a night of storm and terror: in the morning, the tumbling broken seas of biscay. a few fruit brigs scudding wildly here and there; and a cape on a new land. a high round down, showing a gleam of green among the flying mists. sail set again before a northerly wind, and the ship rolling before it like a jolly drunkard. then a dim cloud of smoke before them. then the great steamer _bussorah_, thundering forward against the wind, tearing furiously at the leaping seas with her iron teeth. a hurried glimpse of fluttering signals, and bare wet empty decks; and, before you had time to say what a noble ship she was, and what good weather she was making of it, only a cloud of smoke miles astern. now, a dark line, too faint for landsmen's eyes, far ahead, which changed into a loom of land, which changed into a cloud, which changed into a dim peak towering above the sea mists, which changed into a tall crag, with a town, and endless tiers of white fortification--gibraltar. then a strong west wind for three days, carrying the ship flying before it with all plain sail set. and each day, at noon, a great excitement on the quarter-deck, among the officers. on the third day much cheering and laughter, and shaking of hands with the commander. charles, catching an opportunity, took leave to ask his little friend the cornet, what it meant. the _himalaya_ had run a thousand miles in sixty-three hours.[ ] and now at sunrise an island is in sight, flat, bald, blazing yellow in the morning sun, with a solitary, flat-topped mass of buildings just in the centre, which the sailors say is civita vecchia; and, as they sweep round the southern point of it, a smooth bay opens, and there is a flat-roofed town rising in tiers from the green water--above heavier fortifications than those of gibralter, charles thinks, but wrongly. right and left, two great forts, st. elmo and st. angelo, say the sailors; and that flight of stone steps, winding up into the town, is the nix mangare stairs. a flood of historical recollections comes over charles, and he recognises the place as one long known and very dear to him. on those very stairs, mr. midshipman easy stood and resolved that he would take a boat and sail to gozo. what followed on his resolution is a matter of history. other events have taken place at malta, about which charles was as well informed as the majority, but charles did not think of them; not even of st. paul and the viper, or the old windy dispute, in greek testament lecture, at oxford, between this melita and the other one off the coast of illyricum. he thought of midshipman easy, and felt as if he had seen the place before. i suppose that, if i knew my business properly, i should at this point represent charles as falling down the companion-ladder and spraining his ankle, or as having over-eaten himself, or something of that sort, and so pass over the rest of the voyage by saying that he was confined to his bunk, and saw no more of it. but i am going to do nothing of the sort, for two reasons. in the first place, because he did not do anything of the kind; and in the next, because he saw somebody at constantinople, of whom i am sure you will be glad to hear again. charles had seen tenedos golden in the east, and lemnos purple in the west, as the sun went down; then, after having steamed at half-speed through the dardanelles, was looking the next evening at constantinople, and at the sun going down behind the minarets, and at all that sort of thing, which is no doubt very beautiful, but of which one seems to have heard once or twice before. the ship was lying at anchor, with fires banked, and it was understood that they were waiting for a queen's messenger. they could see their own boat, which they had sent to wait for him at seraglio point. one of the sailors had lent charles a telescope--a regular old brute of a telescope, with a crack across the object-glass. charles was looking at the boat with it, and suddenly said, "there he is." he saw a small grey-headed man, with moustaches, come quickly down and get into the boat, followed by some turks with his luggage. this was colonel oldhoss, the queen's messenger; but there was another man with him, whom charles recognised at once. he handed the telescope to the man next him, and walked up and down the deck rapidly. "i _should_ like to speak to him," he thought, "if it were only one word. dear old fellow. but then he will betray me, and they will begin persecuting me at home, dear souls. i suppose i had better not. no. if i am wounded and dying i will send for him. i will not speak to him now." the queen's messenger and his companion came on board, and the ship got under way and steamed through the bosphorus out into the wild seething waves of the "fena kara degniz," and charles turned in without having come near either of them. but in the chill morning, when the ship's head was north-west, and the dawn was flushing up on the distant thracian sierra, charles was on deck, and, while pausing for an instant in his duties, to look westward, and try to remember what country and what mountains lay to the north-west of constantinople, a voice behind him said quietly, "go, find me captain croker, my man." he turned, and was face to face with general mainwaring. it was only for an instant, but their eyes met; the general started, but he did not recognise him. charles's moustache had altered him so much that it was no great wonder. he was afraid that the general would seek him out again, but he did not. these were busy times. they were at varna that night. men were looking sourly at one another. the french expedition had just come in from kustendji in a lamentable state, and the army was rotting in its inactivity. you know all about that as well as i can tell you; what is of more importance to us is, that lieutenant hornby had been down with typhus, and was recovering very slowly, so that charles's chances of meeting him were very small. what am i to do with this three weeks or more at varna to which i have reduced charles, you, and myself? say as little about it as need be, i should say. charles and his company were, of course, moved up at once to the cavalry camp at devna, eighteen miles off, among the pleasant hills and woodlands. once, his little friend, the young cornet, who had taken a fancy for him, made him come out shooting with him to carry his bag. and they scrambled and clambered, and they tore themselves with thorns, and they fell down steep places, and utterly forgot their social positions towards one another. and they tried to carry home every object which was new to them, including a live turtle and a basaltic column. and they saw a green lizard, who arched his tail and galloped away like a racehorse, and a grey lizard, who let down a bag under his chin and barked at them like a dog. and the cornet shot a quail, and a hare, and a long-tailed francolin, like a pheasant, and a wood-pigeon. and, lastly, they found out that, if you turned over the stones, there were scorpions under them, who tucked their claws under their armpits, as a man folds his arms, and sparred at them with their tails, drawing their sting in and out, as an experienced boxer moves his left hand when waiting for an attack. altogether, they had a glorious day in a new country, and did not remember in what relation they were to one another till they topped the hill above devna by moonlight, and saw the two long lakes, stretching towards the sea, broken here and there into silver ripples by the oars of the commissariat boats. a happy innocent schoolboy day--the sort of day which never comes if we prepare for it and anticipate it, but which comes without warning, and is never forgotten. another day the cornet had business in varna, and he managed that charles should come with him as orderly; and with him, as another orderly, went the young lad who spoke about his sister in the pot-house of windsor; for this lad was another favourite of the cornet's, being a quiet, gentlemanly lad, in fact a favourite with everybody. a very handsome lad, too. and the three went branking bravely down the hill-side, through the woodlands, over the streaming plain, into the white dirty town. and the cornet must stay and dine with the mess of the nd, and so charles and the other lad might go where they would. and they went and bathed, and then, when they had dressed, they stood together under the burning white wall, looking over the wicked black sea, smoking. and charles told his comrade about ravenshoe, about the deer, and the pheasants, and the blackcock, and about the big trout that lay nosing up into the swift places, in the cool clear water. and suddenly the lad turned on him, with his handsome face livid with agony and horror, and clutched him convulsively by both arms, and prayed him, for god almighty's sake---- there, that will do. we need not go on. the poor lad was dead in four hours. the cholera was very prevalent at varna that month, and those who dawdled about in the hot sun, at the mouth of the filthy drains of that accursed hole, found it unto their cost. we were fighting, you see, to preserve the town to those worthless dirty turks, against the valiant, noble, but, i fear, equally dirty russians. the provoking part of the russian war was, that all through we respected and liked our gallant enemies far more than we did the useless rogues for whom we were fighting. moreover, our good friends the french seem to have been more struck by this absurdity than ourselves. i only mentioned this sad little incident to show that this devna life among the pleasant woodlands was not all sunshine; that now and then charles was reminded, by some tragedy like this, that vast masses of men were being removed from ordinary occupations and duties into an unusual and abnormal mode of life; and that nature was revenging herself for the violation of her laws. you see that we have got through this three weeks more pleasantly than they did at varna. charles was sorry when the time came for breaking up the camp among the mountain woodlands. the more so, as it had got about among the men that they were only to take sebastopol by a sudden attack in the rear, and spend the winter there. there would be no work for the cavalry, every one said. it is just worthy of notice how, when one once begins a vagabond life, one gets attached to a place where one may chance to rest even for a week. when one gets accustomed to a change of locality every day for a long while, a week's pause gives one more familiarity with a place than a month's residence in a strange house would give if one were habitually stationary. this remark is almost a platitude, but just worth writing down. charles liked devna, and had got used to it, and parted from it as he would from a home. this brings us up to the point where, after his death and burial, i have described him as riding along the shore of the bay of eupatoria, watching the fleet. the th had very little to do. they were on the extreme left; on the seventeenth they thought they were going to have some work, for they saw of the lancers coming in, driving a lot of cattle before them, and about , cossacks hanging on their rear. but, when some light dragoons rode leisurely out to support them, the cossacks rode off, and the th were still condemned to inactivity. hornby had recovered, and was with the regiment. he had not recognised charles, of course. even if he had come face to face with him, it was almost unlikely that he would have recognised him in his moustache. they were not to meet as yet. in the evening of the nineteenth there was a rumble of artillery over the hill in front of them, which died away in half an hour. most of the rest of the cavalry were further to the front of the extreme left, and were "at it," so it was understood, with the cossacks. but the th were still idle. on the morning of the twentieth, charles and the rest of them, sitting in their saddles, heard the guns booming in front and on the right. it became understood among the men that the fleet was attacking some batteries. also, it was whispered that the russians were going to stand and fight. charles was sixth man from the right of the rear rank of the third troop. he could see the tails of the horses immediately before him, and could remark that his front-rank man had a great patch of oil on the right shoulder of his uniform. he could also see hornby in the troop before him. these guns went moaning on in the distance till half-past one; but still they sat there idle. about that time there was a new sound in the air, close on their right, which made them prick up their ears and look at one another. even the head of the column could have seen nothing, for they were behind the hill. but all could hear, and guess. we all know that sound well enough now. you hear it now, thank god, on every village green in england when the cricket is over. crack, crack! crack, crack! the noise of advancing skirmishers. and so it grew from the right towards the front, towards the left, till the air was filled with the shrill treble of musketry. then, as the french skirmished within reach of the artillery, the deep bass roared up, and the men, who dared not whisper before, could shout at one another without rebuke. louder again, as our artillery came into range. all the air was tortured with concussion. charles would have given ten years of his life to know what was going on on the other side of the hill. but no. there they sat, and he had to look at the back of the man before him; and at this time he came to the conclusion that the patch of grease on his right shoulder was of the same shape as the map of sweden. a long weary two hours or more was spent like this. charles, by looking forward and to the right, between the two right-hand men of the troop before him, could see the ridge of the hill, and see the smoke rising from beyond it, and drifting away to the left before the sea-breeze. he saw an aide-de-camp come over that ridge and dismount beside the captain of hornby's troop, loosening his girths. they laughed together; then the captain shouted to hornby, and he laughed and waved his sword over his head. after this, he was reduced to watching the back of the man before him, and studying the map of sweden. it was becoming evident that the map of north america, if it existed, must be on his left shoulder, under his hussar jacket, and that the pacific islands must be round in front, about his left breast, when the word was given to go forward. they advanced to the top of the hill, and wheeled. charles, for one instant, had a glimpse of the valley below, seething and roaring like a volcano. everywhere bright flashes of flame, single, or running along in lines, or blazing out in volleys. the smoke, driven to the left by the wind, hung across the valley like a curtain. on the opposite hill a ring of smoke and fire, and in front of it a thin scarlet line disappearing. that was all. the next moment they wheeled to the right, and charles saw only the back of the man before him, and the patch of grease on his shoulder. but that night was a night of spurs for them. hard riding for them far into the night. the field of the alma had been won, and they were ordered forward to harass the cossacks, who were covering the rear of the russian army. they never got near them. but ever after, when the battle of the alma was mentioned before him, charles at once used to begin thinking of the map of sweden. chapter lii. what lord saltire and father mackworth said when they looked out of the window. "and how do you do, my dear sir?" said lord saltire. "i enjoy the same perfect health as ever, i thank you, my lord," said father mackworth. "and allow me to say, that i am glad to see your lordship looking just the same as ever. you may have forgotten that you were the greatest benefactor that i ever had. i have not." "nay, nay," said lord saltire. "let bygones be bygones, my dear sir. by-the-bye, mr. mackworth--lord hainault." "i am delighted to see you at casterton, mr. mackworth," said lord hainault. "we are such rabid protestants here, that the mere presence of a catholic ecclesiastic of any kind is a source of pleasurable excitement to us. when, however, we get among us a man like you--a man of whose talents we have heard so much, and a man personally endeared to us, through the love he bore to one of us who is dead, we give him a threefold welcome." lord saltire used, in his _tête-à-têtes_ with lady ascot, to wish to gad that hainault would cure himself of making speeches. he was one of the best fellows in the world, but he would always talk as if he was in the house of lords. this was very true about lord hainault; but, although he might be a little stilted in his speech, he meant every word he said, and was an affectionate, good-hearted man, and withal, a clever one. father mackworth bowed, and was pleased with the compliment. his nerve was in perfect order, and he was glad to find that lord hainault was well inclined towards him, though just at this time the most noble the marquis of hainault was of less importance to him than one of the grooms in the stable. what he required of himself just now was to act and look in a particular way, and to do it naturally and without effort. his genius rose to the situation. he puzzled lord saltire. "this is a sad business," said lord saltire. "a bitter business," said mackworth. "i loved that man, my lord." he looked suddenly up as he said it, and lord saltire saw that he was in earnest. he waited for him to go on, watching him intently with his eyelids half dropped over his grey eagle eyes. "that is not of much consequence, though," said father mackworth. "speaking to a man of the world, what is more to the purpose is, to hear what is the reason of your lordship's having sought this interview. i am very anxious to know that, and so, if i appear rude, i must crave forgiveness." lord saltire looked at him minutely and steadily. how mackworth looked was of more importance to lord saltire than what he said. on the other hand, mackworth every now and then calmly and steadily raised his eyes to lord saltire's, and kept them fixed there while he spoke to him. "not at all, my dear sir," said lord saltire. "if you will have business first, however, which is possibly the best plan, we will have it, and improve our acquaintance afterwards. i asked you to come to me to speak of family matters. you have seen our advertisement?" "i have, indeed," said mackworth, looking up with a smile. "i was utterly taken by surprise. do you think that you can be right about this marriage?" "oh! i am sure of it," said lord saltire. "i cannot believe it," said mackworth. "and i'll tell you why. if it ever took place i _must_ have heard of it. father clifford, my predecessor, was petre ravenshoe's confessor. i need not tell you that he must have been in possession of the fact. your knowledge of the world will tell you how impossible it is that, in a house so utterly priest-ridden as the house of ravenshoe, an affair of such moment could be kept from the knowledge of the father-confessor. especially when the delinquent, if i may so express myself, was the most foolishly bigoted, and cowardly representative of that house which had appeared for many generations. i assure you, upon my honour, that clifford _must_ have known it. and, if he had known of it, he must have communicated it to me. no priest could possibly have died without leaving such a secret to his successor; a secret which would make the owner of it--that is, the priest--so completely the master of ravenshoe and all in it. i confessed that man on his death-bed, my lord," said mackworth, looking quietly at lord saltire, with a smile, "and i can only tell you, if you can bring yourself to believe a priest, that there was not one word said about his marriage." "no?" said lord saltire, pensively looking out of the window. "and yet lady ascot seems so positive." "i sincerely hope," said mackworth, "that she may be wrong. it would be a sad thing for me. i am comfortable and happy at ravenshoe. poor dear cuthbert has secured my position there during my lifetime. the present mr. ravenshoe is not so tractable as his brother, but i can get on well enough with him. but in case of this story being true, and mr. charles horton coming back, my position would be untenable, and ravenshoe would be in protestant hands for the first time in history. i should lose my home, and the church would lose one of its best houses in the west. the best, in fact. i had sooner be at ravenshoe than at segur. i am very much pleased at your lordship's having sought this conference. it shows you have some trust in me, to consult me upon a matter in which my own interests are all on one side." lord saltire bowed. "there is another way to look at the matter, too, my dear sir. if we prove our case, which is possible, and in case of our poor dear charles dying or getting killed, which is probable, why then william comes in for the estate again. suppose, now, such a possibility as his dying without heirs; why, then, miss ravenshoe is the greatest heiress in the west of england. have you any idea where miss ravenshoe is?" both lord saltire and lord hainault turned on him as the former said this. for an instant mackworth looked inquiringly from one to the other, with his lips slightly parted, and said, "miss ravenshoe?" then he gave a half-smile of intelligence, and said, "ah! yes; i was puzzled for a moment. yes, in that case poor ellen would be miss ravenshoe. yes, and the estate would remain in catholic hands. what a prospect for the church! a penitent heiress! the management of £ , a year! forgive my being carried away for a moment. you know i am an enthusiastic churchman. i have been bound, body and soul, to the church from a child, and such a prospect, even in such remote perspective, has dazzled me. but i am afraid i shall see rather a large family of ravenshoes between me and such a consummation. william is going to marry." "then you do not know where poor ellen is?" said lord saltire. "i do not," said mackworth; "but i certainly shall try to discover, and most certainly i shall succeed. william might die on this very expedition. you might prove your case. if anything were to happen to william, i most certainly hope you may, and will give you every assistance. for half a loaf is better than no bread. and besides, charles also might be killed, or die of cholera. as it is, i shall not move in the matter. i shall not help you to bring a protestant to ravenshoe. now, don't think me a heartless man for talking like this; i am nothing of the kind. but i am talking to two very shrewd men of the world, and i talk as a man of the world; that is all." at this point lord hainault said, "what is that?" and left the room. lord saltire and mackworth were alone together. "now, my dear sir," said lord saltire, "i am glad you have spoken merely as a man of the world. it makes matters so much easier. you could help us if you would." mackworth laughed. "of course i could, my lord. i could bring the whole force of the catholic church, at my back, to give assistance. with our powers of organisation, we could discover all about the marriage in no time (if it ever took place, which i don't choose to believe just now). why, it would pay us to search minutely every register in england, if it were to keep such a house in the hands of the church. but the catholic church, in my poor person, politely declines to move all its vast machinery, to give away one of its best houses to a protestant." "i never supposed that the dear old lady would do anything of the kind. but, as for mr. mackworth, will nothing induce _him_ to move _his_ vast machinery in our cause?" "i am all attention, my lord." "in case of our finding charles, then?" "yes," said mackworth, calmly. "twenty thousand?" "no," said mackworth. "it wouldn't do. twenty million wouldn't do. you see there is a difference between a soldier disguising himself, and going into the enemy's camp, to lie, and it may be, murder, to gain information for his own side, and the same soldier deserting to the enemy, and giving information. the one is a hero, and the other a rogue. i am a hero. you must forgive me for putting matters so coarsely, but you distrust me so entirely that i am forced to do so." "i do not think you have put it so coarsely," said lord saltire. "i have to ask your forgiveness for this offer of money, which you have so nobly refused. they say every man has his price. if this is the case, yours is a very high one, and you should be valued accordingly." "now, my lord, before we conclude this interview, let me tell you two things, which may be of advantage to you. the first is, that you cannot buy a jesuit." "a jesuit!" "ay. and the next thing is this. this marriage of petre ravenshoe is all a fiction of lady ascot's brain. i wish you good morning, my lord." there are two sides to every door. you grant that. a man cannot be in two places at once. you grant that, without the exception made by the irish member. very well then. i am going to describe what took place on both sides of the library door at the conclusion of this interview. which side shall i describe first? that is entirely as i choose, and i choose to describe the outside first. the side where father mackworth was. this paragraph and the last are written in imitation of the shandean-southey-doctorian style. the imitation is a bad one, i find, and approaches nearer to the lower style known among critics as swivellerism; which consists in saying the first thing that comes into your head. any style would be quite allowable, merely as a rest to one's aching brain, after the dreadfully keen encounter between lord saltire and father mackworth, recorded above. when mackworth had closed the library door behind him, he looked at it for a moment, as if to see it was safe, and then his whole face underwent a change. it grew haggard and anxious, and, as he parted his lips to moisten them, the lower one trembled. his eyes seemed to grow more prominent, and a leaden ring began to settle round them; he paused in a window, and raised his hand towards his head. when he had raised it half way he looked at it; it was shaking violently. "i am not the man i was," he said. "these great field-days upset me. my nerve is going, god help me. it is lucky that i was really puzzled by his calling her miss ravenshoe. if i had not been all abroad, i could never have done so well. i must be very careful. my nerve ought not to go like this. i have lived a temperate life in every way. possibly a little too temperate. i won't go through another interview of this kind without wine. it is not safe. "the chances are ten to one in favour of one never hearing of charles again, shot and steel and cholera. then william only to think of. in that case i am afraid i should like to bring in the elder branch of the family, to that young gentleman's detriment. i wish my nerve was better; this irritability increases on me in spite of all my care. i wish i could stand wine. "ravenshoe, with ellen for its mistress, and mackworth living there as her master! a penitential devotee, and a clever man for confessor! and twelve thousand a year! if we jesuits were such villains as the protestants try to make us out, master william would be unwise to live in the house with me. "i wonder if lord saltire guesses that i hold the clue in my hand. i can't remember the interview, or what i said. my memory begins to go. they should put a younger man in such a place. but i would not yield to another man. no. the stakes are too high. i wish i could remember what i said. "does william dream that, in case of charles's death, he is standing between me and the light? at all events, lord saltire sees it. i wonder if i committed myself. i remember i was very honest and straightforward? what was it i said at last? i have an uneasy feeling about that, but i can't remember. "i hope that butler will keep the girl well in hand. if i was to get ill, it would all rest with him. god! i hope i shall not get ill." now we will go to the other side of the door. lord saltire sat quietly upright in his chair until the door was safely closed. then he took a pinch of snuff. he did not speak aloud, but he looked cunningly at the door, and said to himself-- "odd!" another pinch of snuff. then he said aloud, "uncommon curious, by ged." "what is curious?" said lord hainault, who had come into the room. "why, that fellow. he took me in to the last moment. i thought he was going to be simply honest; but he betrayed himself by over-eagerness at the end. his look of frank honesty was assumed; the real man came out in the last sentence. you should have seen how his face changed, when he turned sharply on me, after fancying he had lulled suspicion to sleep, and told me that the marriage was a fiction. he forgot his manners for the first time, and laid his hand upon my knee." lord hainault said, "do you think that he knows about the marriage?" "i am sure he does. and he knows where ellen is." "why?" "because i am sure of it." "that is hardly a reason, my dear lord saltire. don't you think, eh?" "think what?" "think that you are--well," said lord hainault, in a sort of desperation, "are not you, my dear lord, to put it very mildly, generalising from an insufficient number of facts? i speak with all humility before one of the shrewdest men in europe; but don't you think so?" "no, i don't," said lord saltire. "i bow," said lord hainault. "the chances are ten to one that you are right, and i am wrong. did you make the offer?" "yes." "and did he accept it?" "of course he didn't. i told you he wouldn't." "that is strange, is it not?" "no," said lord saltire. lord hainault laughed, and then lord saltire looked up and laughed too. "i like being rude to you, hainault. you are so solemn." "well," said lord hainault with another hearty laugh. "and what are we to do now?" "why, wait till william comes back," said lord saltire. "we can do nothing till then, my dear boy. god bless you, hainault. you are a good fellow." when the old man was left alone, he rose and looked out of the window. the bucks were feeding together close under the windows; and, farther off, under the shadow of the mighty cedars, the does and fawns were standing and lying about lazily, shaking their broad ears and stamping their feet. out from the great rhododendron thickets, right and left of the house, the pheasants were coming to spend the pleasant evening-tide in running to and fro, and scratching at the ant-hills. the rabbits, too, were showing out among the grass, scuttling about busily. the peacock had lit down from the stable roof, and was elegantly picking his way and dragging his sweeping train among the pheasants and the rabbits; and on the topmost, copper-red, cedar-boughs, some guinea fowl were noisily preparing for roost. one hundred yards from the window the park seemed to end, for it dropped suddenly down in a precipitous, almost perpendicular slope of turf, three hundred and fifty feet high, towards the river, which you could see winding on for miles through the richly wooded valley; a broad riband of silver, far below. beyond, wooded hills: on the left, endless folds of pearl-coloured downs; to the right, the town, a fantastic grey and red heap of buildings, lying along from the river, which brimmed full up to its wharves and lane ends; and, over it, a lazy cloud of smoke, from which came the gentle booming of golden-toned bells. casterton is not a show place. lord hainault has a whim about it. but you may see just such a scene, with variations, of course, from park-place, or hedsor, or chiefden, or fifty other houses on the king of rivers. i wonder when the tour of the thames will become fashionable. i have never seen anything like it, in its way. and i have seen a great many things. lord saltire looked out on all this which i have roughly described (for a reason). and, as he looked, he spoke to himself, thus, or nearly so-- "and so i am the last of them all; and alone. hardly one of them left. hardly one. and their sons are feeding their pheasants, and planting their shrubberies still, as we did. and the things that were terrible realities for us, are only printed words for them, which they try to realise, but cannot. the thirty mad long years, through which we stood with our backs to the wall, and ticketed as "the revolutionary wars," and put in a pigeon-hole. i wish they would do us justice. we _were_ right. hainault's pheasants prove it. they must pay their twenty million a year, and thank us that they have got off so easy. "i wonder what _they_ would do, in such a pinch as we had. they seem to be as brave as ever; but i am afraid of their getting too much unbrutalised for another struggle like ours. i suppose i am wrong, for i am getting too old to appreciate new ideas, but i am afraid of our getting too soft. it is a bygone prejudice, i am afraid. one comfort is, that such a struggle can never come again. if it did, they might have the will to do all that we did, and more, but have they the power? this extension of the suffrage has played the devil, and now they want to extend it farther, the madmen! they'll end by having a house full of whigs. and then--why, then, i suppose, there'll be nothing but whigs in the house. that seems to me near about what will happen. well! well! i was a whig myself once on a time. "all gone. every one of them. and i left on here, in perfect health and preservation, as much an object of wonder to the young ones as a dodo would be to a poultry-fancier. before the effect of our deeds has been fully felt, our persons have become strange, and out of date. but yet i, strange to say, don't want to go yet. i want to see that ravenshoe boy again. gad! how i love that boy. he has just barkham's sweet, gentle, foolish way with him. i determined to make him my heir from the first time i saw him at ranford, if he turned out well. if i had announced it, everything would have gone right. what an endless series of unlucky accidents that poor boy has had. "just like barkham. the same idle, foolish, lovable creature, with anger for nothing; only furious, blind indignation for injustice and wrong. i wish he would come back. i am getting aweary of waiting. "i wonder if i shall see barkham again, just to sit with my arm on his shoulder, as i used to on the terrace in old times. only for one short half-hour----" i shall leave off here. i don't want to follow the kind old heathen through his vague speculations about a future state. you see how he had loved his son. you see why he loved charles. that is all i wished to show you. "and if charles don't come back? by gad! i am very much afraid the chances are against it. well, i suppose, if the poor lad dies, i must leave the money to welter and his wife, if it is only for the sake of poor ascot, who was a good fellow. i wonder if we shall ever get at the bottom of this matter about the marriage. i fancy not, unless charles dies, in which case ellen will be re-instated by the priest. "i hope william will make haste back with him. old fellows like me are apt to go off in a minute. and if he dies and i have not time to make a will, the whole goes to the crown, which will be a bore. i would sooner welter had it than that." lord saltire stood looking out of the library window, until the river looked like a chain of crimson pools, stretching westward towards the sinking sun. the room behind him grew dark, and the marble pillars, which divided it in unequal portions, stood like ghosts in the gloom. he was hidden by the curtain, and presently he heard the door open, and a light footstep stealthily approaching over the turkey carpet. there was a rustle of a woman's dress, and a moving of books on the centre table, by some hand which evidently feared detection. lord saltire stepped from behind his curtain, and confronted mary corby. chapter liii. captain archer turns up. "do not betray me, my lord," said mary, from out of the gloom. "i will declare your malpractices to the four winds of heaven, miss corby, as soon as i know what they are. why, why do you come rustling into the room, like a mouse in the dark? tell me at once what this hole-and-corner work means." "i will not, unless you promise not to betray me, lord saltire." "now just think how foolish you are. how can i possibly make myself particeps, of what is evidently a most dark and nefarious business, without knowing beforehand what benefit i am to receive? you offer me no share of booty; you offer me no advantage, direct or indirect, in exchange for my silence, except that of being put into possession of facts which it is probably dangerous to know anything about. how can you expect to buy me on such terms as these?" "well, then, i will throw myself on your generosity. i want _blackwood_. if i can find _blackwood_ now, i shall get a full hour at it to myself while you are all at dinner. do you know where it is?" "yes," said lord saltire. "do tell me, please. i do so want to finish a story in it. please to tell me where it is." "i won't." "why not? how very unkind. we have been friends eight months now, and you are just beginning to be cross to me. you see how familiarity breeds contempt; you used to be so polite." "i shan't tell you where _blackwood_ is," said lord saltire, "because i don't choose. i don't want you to have it. i want you to sit here in the dark and talk to me, instead of reading it." "i will sit and talk to you in the dark; only you must not tell ghost stories." "i want you to sit in the dark," said lord saltire, "because i want to be '_vox et præterea nihil_.' you will see why, directly. my dear mary corby, i want to have some very serious talk with you. let us joke no more." mary settled herself at once into the arm-chair opposite lord saltire, and, resting her cheek on her hand, turned her face towards the empty fireplace. "now, my dear lord saltire," she said, "go on. i think i can anticipate what you are going to say." "you mean about charles." "yes." "ah, that is only a part of what i have to say. i want to consult you there, certainly; but that is but a small part of the business." "then i am curious." "do you know, then, i am between eighty and ninety years old?" "i have heard so, my lord." "well then, i think that the voice to which you are now listening will soon be silent for ever; and do not take offence; consider it as a dead man's voice, if you will." "i will listen to it as the voice of a kind living friend," said mary. "a friend who has always treated me as a reasonable being and an equal." "that is true, mary; you are so gentle and so clever, that is no wonder. see here, you have no private fortune." "i have my profession," said mary, laughing. "yes, but your profession is one in which it is difficult to rise," said lord saltire, "and so i have thought it necessary to provide for you in my will. for i must make a new one." poor mary gave a start. the announcement was so utterly unexpected. she did not know what to say or what to think. she had had long night thoughts about poverty, old age, a life in a garret as a needlewoman, and so on; and had many a good cry over them, and had never found any remedy for them except saying her prayers, which she always found a perfect specific. and here, all of a sudden, was the question solved! she would have liked to thank lord saltire. she would have liked to kiss his hand; but words were rather deficient. she tried to keep her tears back, and she in a way succeeded; then in the honesty of her soul she spoke. "i will thank you more heartily, my lord, than if i went down on my knees and kissed your feet. all my present has been darkened by a great cloud of old age and poverty in the distance. you have swept that cloud away. can i say more?" "on your life, not another word. i could have over-burdened you with wealth, but i have chosen not to do so. twenty thousand pounds will enable you to live as you have been brought up. believe an old man when he says that more would be a plague to you." "twenty thousand pounds!" "yes. that will bring you in, you will find, about six hundred a year. take my word for it, it is quite enough. you will be able to keep your brougham, and all that sort of thing. believe me, you would not be happy with more." "more!" said mary, quietly. "my lord, look here, and see what you have done. when the children are going to sleep, i sit, and sew, and sing, and, when they are gone to sleep, i still sit, and sew, and think. then i build my spanish castles; but the highest tower of my castle has risen to this--that in my old age i should have ten shillings a week left me by some one, and be able to keep a canary bird, and have some old woman as pensioner. and now--now--now. oh! i'll be quiet in a moment. don't speak to me for a moment. god is very good." i hope lord saltire enjoyed his snuff. i think that, if he did not, he deserved to. after a pause mary began again. "have i left on you the impression that i am selfish? i am almost afraid i have. is it not so? i have one favour to ask of you. will you grant it?" "certainly i will." "on your honour, my lord." "on my honour." "reduce the sum you have mentioned to one-fourth. i have bound you by your honour. oh, don't make me a great heiress; i am not fit for it." lord saltire said, "pish! if you say another word i will leave you ten thousand more. to the deuce with my honour; don't talk nonsense." "you said you were going to be quiet in a moment," he resumed presently. "are you quiet now?" "yes, my lord, quiet and happy." "are you glad i spoke to you in the dark?" "yes." "you will be more glad that it was in the dark directly. is charles ravenshoe quite the same to you as other men?" "no," said mary; "that he most certainly is not. i could have answered that question _to you_ in the brightest daylight." "humph!" said lord saltire. "i wish i could see him and you comfortably married, do you know? i hope i speak plain enough. if i don't, perhaps you will be so good as to mention it, and i'll try to speak a little plainer." "nay; i quite understand you. i wonder if you will understand me, when i say that such a thing is utterly and totally out of the question." "i was afraid so. you are a pair of simpletons. my dear daughter (you must let me call you so), you must contemplate the contingency i have hinted at in the dark. i know that the best way to get a man rejected, is to recommend him; i therefore, only say, that john marston loves you with his whole heart and soul, and that he is a _protégé_ of mine." "i am speaking to you as i would to my own father. john marston asked me to be his wife last christmas, and i refused him." "oh, yes. i knew all about that the same evening. it was the evening after they were nearly drowned out fishing. then there is no hope of a reconsideration there?" "not the least," said mary. "my lord, i will never marry." "i have not distressed you?" "certainly not. you have a right to speak as you have. i am not a silly hysterical girl either, that i cannot talk on such subjects without affectation. but i will never marry; i will be an old maid. i will write novels, or something of that sort. i will not even marry captain archer, charm he never so wisely." "captain archer! who on earth is captain archer?" "don't you know captain archer, my lord?" replied mary, laughing heartily, but ending her laugh with a short sob. "avast heaving! bear a hand, my hearties, and let us light this taper. i think you ought to read his letter. he is the man who swam with me out of the cruel sea, when the _warren hastings_ went down. that is who he is, lord saltire." and at this point, little mary, thoroughly unhinged by this strange conversation, broke down, and began crying her eyes out, and putting a letter into his hand, rose to leave the room. he held the door open for her. "my dear mary," he said, "if i have been coarse or rude, you must try to forgive me." "your straightforward kindness," she said, "is less confusing than the most delicate finesse." and so she went. captain archer is one of the very best men i know. if you and i, reader, continue our acquaintance, you will soon know more of him than you have been able to gather from the pages of ravenshoe. he was in person perhaps the grandest and handsomest fellow you ever saw. he was gentle, brave, and courteous. in short, the best example i have ever seen of the best class of sailor. by birth he was a gentleman, and he had carefully made himself a gentleman in manners. neither from his dress, which was always scrupulously neat and in good taste, nor from his conversation, would you guess that he was a sailor, unless in a very select circle, where he would, if he thought it pleased or amused, talk salt water by the yard. the reason why he had written to mary in the following style was, that he knew she loved it, and he wished to make her laugh. lord saltire set him down for a mad seaman, and nothing more. you will see that he had so thoroughly obscured what he meant to say, that he left mary with the very natural impression that he was going to propose to her. he had done it, he said, from port philip heads, in sixty-four days, at last, in consequence of one of his young gentlemen (merchant midshipmen) having stole a black cat in flinder's-lane, and brought her aboard. he had caught the westerly wind off the leuwin and carried it down to °, through the ice, and round the horn, where he had met a cyclone, by special appointment, and carried the outside edge of it past the auroras. that during this time it had blown so hard, that it was necessary for three midshipmen to be on deck with him night and day, to hold his hair on. that, getting too near the centre, he had found it necessary to lay her to, which he had successfully done, by tying one of his false collars in the fore weather-rigging. and so on. giving an absurd account of his whole voyage, evidently with the intention of making her laugh. he concluded thus: "and now, my dear mary, i am going to surprise you. i am getting rich, and i am thinking of getting married. have you ever thought of such a thing? your present dependence must be irksome. begin to contemplate a change to a happier and freer mode of life. i will explain more fully when i come to you. i shall have much to tell you which will surprise you; but you know i love you, and only study your happiness. when the first pang of breaking off old associations is over, the new life, to such a quiet spirit as yours, becomes at first bearable, then happy. a past is soon created. think of what i have said, before i come to you. your future, my dear, is not a very bright one. it is a source of great anxiety to me, who love you so dearly--you little know how dearly." i appeal to any young lady to say whether or no dear mary was to blame if she thought good, blundering archer was going to propose to her. if they give it against her, and declare that there is nothing in the above letter leading to such a conclusion, i can only say that lord saltire went with her and with me, and regarded the letter as written preparatory to a proposal. archer's dismay, when we afterwards let him know this, was delightful to behold. his wife was put in possession of the fact, by some one who shall be nameless, and i have heard that jolly soul use her information against him in the most telling manner on critical occasions. but, before captain archer came, there came a letter from william, from varna, announcing charles's death of cholera. there are melancholy scenes, more than enough, in this book, and alas! one more to come: so i may spare you the description of their woe at the intelligence, which we know to be false. the letter was closely followed by william himself, who showed them the grass from his grave. this helped to confirm their impression of its truth, however unreasonable. lord saltire had a correspondence with the horse guards, long and windy, which resulted, after months, in discovering that no man had enlisted in the th under the name of horton. this proved nothing, for charles might have enlisted under a false name, and yet might have been known by his real name to an intimate comrade. lord saltire wrote to general mainwaring. but, by the time his letter reached him, that had happened which made it easy for a fool to count on his fingers the number of men left in the th. among the dead or among the living, no signs of charles ravenshoe. general mainwaring was, as we all know, wounded on cathcart's hill, and came home. the news which he brought about the doings of the th we shall have from first hand. but he gave them no hope about charles. lord saltire and general mainwaring had a long interview, and a long consultation. lord hainault and the general witnessed his will. there were some legacies to servants; twenty thousand pounds to miss corby; ten thousand to john marston; fifty thousand pounds to lady ascot; and the rest, amounting in one way or another, to nearly five hundred thousand pounds, was left to lord ascot (our old acquaintance, lord welter) and his heirs for ever. there was another clause in the will, carefully worded--carefully guarded about by every legal fence which could be erected by law, and by money to buy that law--to the effect that, if charles should reappear, he was to come into a fortune of eighty thousand pounds, funded property. now please to mark this. lord ascot was informed by general mainwaring that, the death of charles ravenshoe being determined on as being a fact, lord saltire had made his will in his (lord ascot's) favour. i pray you to remember this. lord ascot knew no particulars, only that the will was in his favour. if you do not keep this in mind, it would be just as well if there had been no lord welter at all in the story. ravenshoe and its poor twelve thousand a year begin to sink into insignificance, you see. but still we must attend to it. how did charles's death affect mackworth? rather favourably. the property could not come into the hands of a protestant now. william was a staunch catholic, though rebellious and disagreeable. if anything happened to him, why, then there was ellen to be produced. things might have been better, certainly, but they were certainly improved by that young cub's death, and by the cessation of all search for the marriage register. and so on. if you care to waste time on it, you may think it all through for yourselves, as did not father mackworth. and i'll tell you why. father mackworth had had a stroke of paralysis, as men will have, who lead, as he did, a life of worry and excitement, without taking proper nourishment; and he was lying, half idiotic, in the priest's tower at ravenshoe. chapter liv. charles meets hornby at last oh for the whispering woodlands of devna! oh for the quiet summer evenings above the lakes, looking far away at the white-walled town on the distant shore! no more hare-shooting, no more turtle-catching, for you, my dear charles. the allies had determined to take sebastopol, and winter in the town. it was a very dull place, every one said; but there was a race-course, and there would be splendid boat-racing in the harbour. the country about the town was reported to be romantic, and there would be pleasant excursions in the winter to simpheropol, a gayer town than sebastopol, and where there was more society. they were not going to move till the spring, when they were to advance up the valley of the dnieper to moscow, while a flying column was to be sent to follow the course of the don, cross to the volga at suratow, and so penetrate into the ural mountains and seize the gold mines, or do something of this sort; it was all laid out quite plain. now, don't call this _ex post facto_ wisdom, but just try to remember what extravagant ideas every non-military man had that autumn about what our army would do. the ministers of the king of lernè never laid down a more glorious campaign than we did. "i will," says poor picrochole, "give him fair quarter, and spare his life--i will rebuild solomon's temple--i will give you caramania, syria, and all palestine." "ha! sire," said they, "it is out of your goodness. grammercy, we thank you." we have had our little lesson about that kind of amusement. there has been none of it in this american business; but our good friends the other side of the atlantic are worse than they were in the time of the pogram defiance. either they don't file their newspapers, or else they console themselves by saying that they could have done it all if they had liked. it now becomes my duty to use all the resources of my art to describe charles's emotions at the first sight of sebastopol. such an opportunity for the display of beautiful language should not be let slip. i could do it capitally by buying a copy of mr. russell's "war," or even by using the correspondence i have on the table before me. but i think you will agree with me that it is better left alone. one hardly likes to come into the field in that line after russell. balaclava was not such a pleasant place as devna. it was bare and rocky, and everything was in confusion, and the men were dying in heaps of cholera. the nights were beginning to grow chill, too, and charles began to dream regularly that he was sleeping on the bare hill-side, in a sharp frost, and that he was agonisingly cold about the small of his back. and the most singular thing was, that he always woke and found his dream come true. at first he only used to dream this dream towards morning; but, as october began to creep on, he used to wake with it several times in the night, and at last hardly used to go to sleep at all for fear of dreaming it. were there no other dreams? no. no dreams, but one ever-present reality. a dull aching regret for a past for ever gone. a heavy deadly grief, lost for a time among the woods of devna, but come back to him now amidst the cold, and the squalor, and the sickness of balaclava. a brooding over missed opportunities, and the things that might have been. sometimes a tangled puzzled train of thought, as to how much of this ghastly misery was his own fault, and how much accident. and above all, a growing desire for death, unknown before. and all this time, behind the hill, the great guns--which had begun a fitful muttering when they first came there, often dying off into silence--now day by day, as trench after trench was opened, grew louder and more continuous, till hearing and thought were deadened, and the soul was sick of their never-ceasing melancholy thunder. and at six o'clock on the morning of the seventeenth, such an infernal din began as no man there had ever heard before, which grew louder and louder till nine, when it seemed impossible that the ear could bear the accumulation of sound; and then suddenly doubled, as the _agamemnon_ and the _montebello_, followed by the fleets, steamed in, and laid broadside-to under the forts. four thousand pieces of the heaviest ordnance in the world were doing their work over that hill, and the th stood dismounted and listened. at ten o'clock the earth shook, and a column of smoke towered up in the air above the hill, and as it began to hang motionless, the sound of it reached them. it was different from the noise of guns. it was something new and terrible. an angry hissing roar. an hour after they heard that twenty tons of powder were blown up in the french lines. soon after this, though, there was work to be done, and plenty of it. the wounded were being carried to the rear. some cavalry were dismounted, and told off for the work. charles was one of them. the wind had not yet sprung up, and all that charles saw for the moment was a valley full of smoke, and fire, and sound. he caught the glimpse of the spars and funnel of a great liner above the smoke to the left; but directly after they were under fire, and the sickening day's work began. death and horror in every form, of course. the wounded lying about in heaps. officers trying to compose their faces, and die like gentlemen. old indian soldiers dying grimly as they had lived; and lads, fresh from the plough last year, listed at the market-cross some unlucky saturday, sitting up staring before them with a look of terror and wonder: sadder sight than either. but everywhere all the day, where the shot screamed loudest, where the shell fell thickest, with his shako gone, with his ambrosial curls tangled with blood, with his splendid gaudy fripperies soiled with dust and sweat, was hornby, the dandy, the fop, the dicer; doing the work of ten, carrying out the wounded in his arms, encouraging the dying, cheering on the living. "i knew there was some stuff in him," said charles, as he followed him into the crown battery; just at that time the worst place of all, for the _the twelve apostles_ had begun dropping red-hot shot into it, and exploded some ammunition, and killed some men. and they had met a naval officer, known to hornby, wounded, staggering to the rear, who said, "that his brother was knocked over, and that they wanted to make out he was dead, but he had only fainted." so they went back with him. the officer's brother was dead enough, poor fellow; but as charles and hornby bent suddenly over to look at him, their faces actually touched. hornby did not recognise him. he was in a state of excitement, and was thinking of no one less than charles, and charles's moustaches had altered him, as i said before. if their eyes had met, i believe hornby would have known him; but it was not to be till the th, and this was only the th. if hornby could only have known him, if they could only have had ten minutes' talk together, charles would have known all that we know about the previous marriage of his grandfather: and, if that conversation had taken place, he would have known more than any of them, for hornby knew something which he thought of no importance, which was very important indeed. he knew where ellen was. but charles turned his face away, and the recognition did not take place. poor charles said afterwards that it was all a piece of luck--that "the stars in their courses fought against sisera." it is not the case. he turned away his eyes, and avoided the recognition. what he meant is this:-- as hornby's face was touching his, and they were both bending over the dead man, whom they could hardly believe to be dead, the men behind them fired off the great lancaster in the next one-gun battery. "crack!" and they heard the shell go piff, piff, piff, piff, and strike something. and then one man close to them cried, "god almighty!" and another cried, "christ!" as sailors will at such awful times; and they both leapt to their feet. above the smoke there hung, a hundred feet in the air, a something like a vast black pine-tree; and before they had time to realise what had happened, there was a horrible roar, and a concussion which made them stagger on their legs. a shell from the lancaster had blown up the great redoubt in front of the redan wall, and every russian gun ceased firing. and above the sound of the allied guns rose the cheering of our own men, sounding, amidst the awful bass, like the shrill treble of school-children at play. charles said afterwards that this glorious accident prevented their recognition. it is not true. he prevented it himself, and took the consequences. but hornby recognised him on the twenty-fifth in this wise:-- the first thing in the morning, they saw, on the hills to the right, russian skirmishers creeping about towards them, apparently without an object. they had breakfast, and took no notice of them till about eight o'clock, when a great body of cavalry came slowly, regiment by regiment, from behind a hill near the turks. then gleaming batteries of artillery; and lastly, an endless column of grey infantry, which began to wheel into line. and when charles had seen some five or six grey batallions come swinging out, the word was given to mount, and he saw no more, but contemplated the tails of horses. and at the same moment the guns began an irregular fire on their right. almost immediately the word was given to advance, which they did slowly. charles could see hornby just before him, in his old place, for they were in column. they crossed the plain, and went up the crest of the hill, halting on the high road. here they sat for some time, and the more fortunate could see the battle raging below to the right. the english seemed getting rather the worst of it. they sat there about an hour and a half; and all in a moment, before any one seemed to expect it, some guns opened on them from the right; so close that it made their right ears tingle. a horse from the squadron in front of charles bolted from the ranks, and nearly knocked down hornby. the horse had need to bolt, for he carried a dead man, who in the last spasm had pulled him on his haunches, and struck his spurs deep into his sides. charles began to guess that they were "in for it" at last. he had no idea, of course, whether it was a great battle or a little one; but he saw that the th had work before them. i, of course, have only to speak of what charles saw with his own eyes, and what therefore bears upon the story i am telling you. that was the only man he saw killed at that time, though the whole brigade suffered rather heavily by the russian cannonade at that spot. very shortly after this they were told to form line. of course, when this manoeuvre was accomplished, charles had lost sight of hornby. he was sorry for this. he would have liked to know where he was; to help him if possible, should anything happen to him; but there was not much time to think of it, for directly after they moved forward at a canter. in the front line were the th hussars and the th light dragoons, and in the second where the th hussars,[ ] the th hussars, and the th dragoons. charles could see thus much, now they were in line. they went down hill, straight towards the guns, and almost at once the shot from them began to tell. the men of the th and th began to fall terribly fast. the men in the second line, in which charles was, were falling nearly as fast, but this he could not remark. he missed the man next him on the right, one of his favourite comrades, but it did not strike him that the poor fellow was cut in two by a shot. he kept on wishing that he could see hornby. he judged that the affair was getting serious. he little knew what was to come. he had his wish of seeing hornby, for they were riding up hill into a narrowing valley, and it was impossible to keep line. they formed into column again, though men and horses were rolling over and over at every stride, and there was hornby before him, sailing along as gallant and gay as ever. a fine beacon to lead a man to a glorious death. and, almost the next moment, the batteries right and left opened on them. those who were there engaged can give us very little idea of what followed in the next quarter of an hour. they were soon among guns--the very guns that had annoyed them from the first; and infantry beyond opened fire on them. there seems to have been a degree of confusion at this point. charles, and two or three others known to him, were hunting some russian artillerymen round their guns, for a minute or so. hornby was among them. he saw also at this time his little friend the cornet, on foot, and rode to his assistance. he caught a riderless horse, and the cornet mounted. then the word was given to get back again; i know not how; i have nothing to do with it. but, as they turned their faces to get out of this horrible hell, poor charles gave a short, sharp scream, and bent down in his saddle over his horse's neck. it was nothing. it was only as if one were to have twenty teeth pulled out at once. the pain was over in an instant. what a fool he was to cry out! the pain was gone again, and they were still under fire, and hornby was before him. how long? how many minutes, how many hours? his left arm was nearly dead, but he could hold his reins in a way, and rode hard after hornby, from some wild instinct. the pain had stopped, but was coming on again as if ten thousand red-hot devils were pulling at his flesh, and twenty thousand were arriving each moment to help them. his own friends were beside him again, and there was a rally and a charge. at what? he thought for an instant. at guns? no. at men this time, russian hussars--right valiant fellows, too. he saw hornby in the thick of the _mêlée_, with his sword flickering about his head like lightning. he could do but little himself; he rode at a russian and unhorsed him; he remembers seeing the man go down, though whether he struck at him, or whether he went down by the mere superior weight of his horse, he cannot say. this i can say, though, that, whatever he did, he did his duty as a valiant gentleman; i will go bail for that much. they beat them back, and then turned. then they turned again and beat them back once more. and then they turned and rode. for it was time. charles lost sight of hornby till the last, when some one caught his rein and turned his horse, and then he saw that they were getting into order again, and that hornby was before him, reeling in his saddle. as the noise of the battle grew fainter behind them, he looked round to see who was riding beside him, and holding him by the right arm. it was the little cornet. charles wondered why he did so. "you're hard hit, simpson," said the cornet. "never mind. keep your saddle a little longer. we shall be all right directly." his faculties were perfectly acute, and, having thanked the cornet he looked down and noticed that he was riding between him and a trooper, that his left arm was hanging numbed by his side, and that the trooper was guiding his horse. he saw that they had saved him, and even in his deadly agony he was so far his own old courteous self, that he turned right and left to them, and thanked them for what they had done for him. but he had kept his eyes fixed on hornby, for he saw that he was desperately hit, and he wanted to say one or two words to him before either of them died. soon they were among english faces, and english cheers rang out in welcome to their return, but it was nothing to him; he kept his eye, which was growing dim, on hornby, and, when he saw him fall off his saddle into the arms of a trooper, he dismounted too and staggered towards him. the world seemed to go round and round, and he felt about him like a blind man. but he found hornby somehow. a doctor, all scarlet and gold, was bending over him, and charles knelt down on the other side, and looked into the dying man's face. "do you know me, lieutenant?" he said, speaking thick like a drunken man, but determined to hold out. "you know your old servant, don't you?" hornby smiled as he recognised him, and said, "ravenshoe." but then his face grew anxious, and he said, "why did you hide yourself from me? you have ruined everything." he could get no further for a minute, and then he said-- "take this from round my neck and carry it to her. tell her that you saw me die, and that i was true to our compact. tell her that my share of our purification was complete, for i followed duty to death, as i promised her. she has a long life of weary penance before her to fulfil our bargain. say i should wish her to be happy, only that i know she cannot be. and also say that i see now, that there is something better and more desirable than what we call happiness. i don't know what it is, but i suspect it is what we call duty." here the doctor said, "they are at it again, and i must go with them. i can do no good here for the poor dear fellow. take what he tells you off his neck, in my presence, and let me go." the doctor did it himself. when the great heavy gold stock was unbuttoned, hornby seemed to breathe more freely. the doctor found round his neck a gold chain, from which hung a photograph of ellen, and a black cross. he gave them to charles, and departed. once more charles spoke to hornby. he said, "where shall i find her?" hornby said, "why, at hackney, to be sure; did you not know she was there?" and afterwards, at the very last, "ravenshoe, i should have loved you; you are like her, my boy. don't forget." but charles never heard that. they found hornby dead and cold, with his head on charles's lap, and charles looked so like him that they said, "this man is dead too; let us bury him." but a skilful doctor there present said, "this man is not dead, and will not die;" and he was right. oh, but the sabres bit deep that autumn afternoon! there were women in minsk, in moglef, in tchernigof, in jitemir, in polimva, whose husbands were hussars--and women in taganrog, in tcherkask, in sanepta, which lies under the pleasant slate mountains, whose husbands and sons were cossacks--who were made widows that day. for that day's work there was weeping in reed-thatched hovels of the don, and in the mud-built shanties of the dnieper. for the th lancers, the scots greys, the st royals, and the th enniskillens--"these terrible beef-fed islanders" (to use the words of the _northern bee_)--were upon them; and volhynia and hampshire, renfrewshire and grodno, podolia and fermanagh, were mixed together in one common ruin. still, they say, the princess petrovitch, on certain days, leaves her carriage, and walks a mile through the snow barefoot, into alexandroski, in memory of her light-haired handsome young son, whom hornby slew at balaclava. and i myself know the place where lady allerton makes her pilgrimage for those two merry boys of hers who lie out on the crimean hill. alas! not side by side. up and down, in all weathers, along a certain gravel walk, where the chalk brook, having flooded the park with its dammed-up waters, comes foaming and spouting over a cascade, and hurries past between the smooth-mown lawns of the pleasance. in the very place where she stood when the second letter came. and there, they say, she will walk at times, until her beauty and her strength are gone, and her limbs refuse to carry her. karlin karlinoff was herding strange-looking goats on the suratow hill-side, which looks towards the melancholy volga on one side, and the reedy ural on the other, when the pulk came back, and her son was not with them. eliza jones had got on her husband's smock-frock, and was a-setting of beans, when the rector's wife came struggling over the heavy lands and water-furrows, and broke the news gently, and with many tears. karlin karlinoff drove her goats into the mud-walled yard that night, though the bittern in the melancholy fen may have been startled from his reeds by a cry more wild and doleful than his own; and eliza jones went on setting her beans, though they were watered with her tears. what a strange, wild business it was! the extreme east of europe against the extreme west. men without a word, an idea, a habit, or a hope in common, thrown suddenly together to fight and slay; and then to part, having learned to respect one another better, in one year of war, than ever they had in a hundred years of peace. since that year we have understood eylau and borodino, which battles were a puzzle to some of us before that time. the french did better than we, which was provoking, because the curs began to bark--spanish curs, for instance; american curs; the lower sort of french cur; and the irish curs, who have the strange habit of barking the louder the more they are laughed at, and who, now, being represented by about two hundred men among six million, have rather a hard time of it. they barked louder, of course, at the indian mutiny. but they have all got their tails between their legs now, and are likely to keep them there. we have had our lesson. we have learnt that what our fathers told us was true--that we are the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. this, you will see, bears all upon the story i am telling you. well, in a sort of way. though i do not exactly see how. i could find a reason, if you gave me time. if you gave me time, i could find a reason for anything. however, the result is this, that our poor charles had been struck by a ball in the bone of his arm, and that the splinters were driven into the flesh, though the arm was not broken. it was a nasty business, said the doctors. all sorts of things might happen to him. only one thing was certain, and that was that charles ravenshoe's career in the army was over for ever. chapter lv. archer's proposal. six weeks had passed since the date of captain archer's letter before he presented himself in person at casterton. they were weary weeks enough to mary, lord saltire, and lady ascot. lady ascot was staying on at casterton, as if permanently, at the earnest request of lord and lady hainault; and she stayed on the more willingly that she and mary might mingle their tears about charles ravenshoe, whom they were never to see again. the "previous marriage affair" had apparently fallen through utterly. all the advertisements, were they worded never so frantically, failed to raise to the surface the particular parish-clerk required; and lady ascot, after having propounded a grand scheme for personally inspecting every register in the united kingdom, which was pooh-poohed by lord saltire, now gave up the matter as a bad job; and lord saltire himself began to be puzzled and uneasy, and once more to wonder whether or no maria was not mistaken after all. mackworth was still very ill, though slowly recovering. the younger tiernay, who was nursing him, reported that his head seemed entirely gone, although he began to eat voraciously, and, if encouraged, would take exercise. he would now walk far and fast, in silence, with the kind priest toiling after him. but his wilful feet always led him to the same spot. whether they rambled in the park, whether they climbed the granite tors of the moor, or whether they followed the stream up through the woods, they always ended their walk at the same place--at the pool among the tumbled boulders, under the dark western headland, where cuthbert's body had been found. and here the priest would sit looking seaward, as if his life and his intellect had come to a full stop here, and he was waiting patiently till a gleam of light should come from beyond. william was at ravenshoe, in full possession of the property. he had been born a gamekeeper's son, and brought up as a groom. he had now £ , a year; and was going to marry the fisherman's daughter, his own true love; as beautiful, as sweet-tempered a girl as any in the three kingdoms. it was one of the most extraordinary rises in life that had ever taken place. youth, health, and wealth--they must produce happiness. why no, not exactly in this case. he believed charles was dead, and he knew, if that was the case, that the property was his; but he was not happy. he could not help thinking about charles. he knew he was dead and buried, of course; but still he could not help wishing that he would come back, and that things might be again as they had been before. it is not very easy to analyse the processes of the mind of a man brought up as william was. let us suppose that, having been taught to love and admire charles above all earthly persons, his mind was not strong enough to disabuse himself of the illusion. i suppose that your african gets fond of his fetish. i take it that, if you stole his miserable old wooden idol in the night, though it might be badly carved, and split all up the back by the sun, and put in its place an old chelsea shepherdess, he would lament his graven image, and probably break the fifty guineas' worth of china with his club. i know this, however, that william would have given up his ten thousand a year, and have trusted to his brother's generosity, if he could have seen him back again. in barbarous, out-of-the-way places, like the west of devonshire, the feudal feeling between foster-brothers is still absurdly strong. it is very ridiculous, of course. nothing can be more ridiculous or unnecessary than the lightning coming down the dining-room chimney and sending the fire-irons flying about the cat's ears. but there it is, and you must make the best of it. we are now posted up well enough in the six weeks which preceded the arrival of the mysterious archer. he deferred his arrival till his honeymoon was completed. his mysterious letter to mary partly alluded to his approaching marriage with jane blockstrop--daughter of lieutenant blockstrop of the coast guard, and niece of rear-admiral blockstrop, who, as captain blockstrop, had the _tartar_ on the australian station--and partly to something else. we shall see what directly. for, when mary came down to see him in the drawing-room, there was with him, besides his wife, whom he introduced at once, a very tall and handsome young man, whom he presented to her as her cousin, george corby. did charles turn in his pallet at scutari? did he turn over and stare at the man in the next bed, who lay so deadly still, and who was gone when he woke on the weary morrow? there was no mystery about george corby's appearance. when mary's father, captain corby, had gone to india, his younger brother, george's father, had gone to australia. this younger brother was a somewhat peevish, selfish man, and was not on the best of terms with captain corby. he heard, of course, of the wreck of the _warren hastings_, and the loss of his brother. he also informed himself that his niece was saved, and was the protected favourite of the ravenshoes. he had then said to himself, "i am needy. i have a rising family. she is better off than i can make her. let her stay there." and so he let her stay there, keeping himself, however, to do him justice, pretty well informed of her position. he had made the acquaintance of captain archer, at melbourne, on his first voyage to that port, in the end of ; laid the whole matter before him, and begged him not to break it to her at present. captain archer had readily promised to say nothing, for he saw mary the lady of a great house, with every prospect, as he thought, of marrying the heir. but when he saw mary, after the break-up, in grosvenor square, a nursery governess, he felt that he ought to speak, and set sail from the port of london with a full determination of giving a piece of his mind to her uncle, should he hesitate to acknowledge her. he had no need to say much. mr. corby, though a selfish, was not an unkind man, by any means. and, besides, he was now very wealthy, and perfectly able to provide for his niece. so, when archer had finished his story, he merely said, "i suppose i had better send over george to see if he will fall in love with her. that will be the best thing, i take it. she must not be a governess to those swells. they might slight or insult her. take george over for me, will you, my dear soul, and see how it is likely to go. at all events, bring her back to me. possibly i may not have done my duty by her." george was called in from the rocking-chair in the verandah to receive instructions. he was, so his father told him, to go to europe with captain archer, and, as captain archer was going to get married and miss a voyage, he might stay till he came back. first and foremost, he was to avail himself of his letters of introduction, and get into the good society that his father was able to command for him. under this head of instruction he was to dance as much as possible, and to ride to the fox-hounds, taking care not to get too near to the hounds, or to rush at his fences like a madman, as all australians did. secondly, he was, if possible, to fall in love with his cousin mary corby, marry her, bring her back, and reside _pro tem._ at toorallooralyballycoomefoozleah, which station should be swept and garnished for his reception, until the new house at the juggerugahugjug crossing-place was finished. thirdly, he might run across to the saxony ram sales, and, if he saw anything reasonable, buy, but be careful of pink ears, for they wouldn't stand the grampian frosts. fourthly, he was not to smoke without changing his coat, or to eat the sugar when any one was looking. fifthly, he was to look out for a stud horse, and might go as far as five hundred. such a horse as allow me, ask mamma, or pam's mixture would do.[ ] and so on, like the directions of the aulic council to the archduke. he was not to go expressly to durham; but, if he found himself in that part of the world, he might get a short-horned bull. he need not go to scotland unless he liked; but, if he did, he might buy a couple of collies, &c., &c. george attended the ram sales in saxony, and just ran on to vienna, thinking, with the philosophy of an australian, that, if he _did_ fall in love with his cousin, he might not care to travel far from her, and that therefore she might "keep." however, he came at last, when archer had finished his honeymoon; and there he was in the drawing-room at casterton. mary was not very much surprised when it was all put before her. she had said to charles, in old times, "i know i have relations somewhere; when i am rich they will acknowledge me;" and, just for one instant, the suspicion crossed her mind that her relations might have heard of the fortune lord saltire had left her. it was unjust and impossible, and in an instant she felt it to be so. possibly the consciousness of her injustice made her reception of her cousin somewhat warmer. he was certainly very handsome and very charming. he had been brought up by his father the most punctilious dandy in the southern hemisphere, and thrown from a boy among the best society in the colony; so he was quite able to make himself at home everywhere. if there was a fault in his manner, it was that there was just a shade too much lazy ease in the presence of ladies. one has seen that lately, however, in other young gentlemen, not educated in the bush, to a greater extent: so we must not be hard upon him. when lady hainault and lady ascot heard that a cousin of mary's had just turned up from the wilds of australia, they looked at one another in astonishment, and agreed that he must be a wild man. but, when they had gone down and sat on him, as a committee of two, for an hour, they both pronounced him charming. and so he was. lord hainault, on receiving this report, could do no less than ask him to stay a day or two. and so his luggage was sent for to twyford, and the good archer left, leaving him in possession. lord saltire had been travelling round to all his estates. he had taken it into his head, about a month before this, that it was time that he should get into one of his great houses, and die there. he told lady ascot so, and advised her to come with him; but she still held on by lord charles herries' children, and mary, and said she would wait. so he had gone away, with no one but his confidential servant. he had gone to cottingdean first, which stands on the banks of the wannet, at the foot of the north hampshire mountains. well, cottingdean did seem at first sight a noble lair for an old lion to crawl away to, and die in. there was a great mile-long elm avenue, carried, utterly regardless of economy, over the flat valley, across the innumerable branches of the river; and at the last the trees ran up over the first great heave of the chalk hill: and above the topmost boughs of those which stood in the valley, above the highest spire of the tallest poplar in the water-meadow, the old grey house hung aloft, a long irregular façade of stone. behind were dark woods, and above all a pearl-green line of down. but cottingdean wouldn't do. his lordship's man simpson knew it wouldn't do from the first. there were draughts in cottingdean, and doors that slammed in the night, and the armour in the great gallery used suddenly to go "clank" at all hours, in a terrible way. and the lady ancestress of the seventeenth century, who carried her head in a plate before her, used to stump upstairs and downstairs, from twelve o'clock to one, when she was punctually relieved from duty by the wicked old ancestor of the sixteenth century, who opened the cellar door and came rattling his sword against the banisters up all the staircase till he got to the north-east tower, into which he went and slammed the door; and, when he had transacted his business, came clanking down again: when he in turn was relieved by an [greek: oi polloi] of ghosts, who walked till cockcrow. simpson couldn't stand it. no more could lord saltire, though possibly for different reasons than simpson's. the first night at cottingdean lord saltire had his writing-desk unpacked, and took therefrom a rusty key. he said to simpson, "you know where i am going. if i am not back in half an hour, come after me." simpson knew where he was going. lord barkham had been staying here at cottingdean just before he went up to town, and was killed in that unhappy duel. the old servants remembered that, when lord barkham went away that morning, he had taken the key of his room with him, and had said, in his merry way, that no one was going in there till he came back the next week, for he had left all his love-letters about. lord saltire had got the key, and was going to open the room the first time for forty years. what did the poor old man find there? probably nothing more than poor barkham had said--some love-letters lying about. when the room was opened afterwards, by the new master of cottingdean, we found only a boy's room, with fishing-rods and guns lying about. in one corner were a pair of muddy top-boots kicked off in a hurry, and an old groom remembered that lord barkham had been riding out the very morning he started for london. but, amidst the dust of forty years, we could plainly trace that some one had, comparatively recently, moved a chair up to the fireplace; and on the cold hearth there was a heap of the ashes of burnt paper. lord saltire came back to simpson just as his half-hour was over, and told him in confidence that the room he had been in was devilish draughty, and that he had caught cold in his ear. cottingdean would not do after this. they departed next morning. they must try marksworth. marksworth, lord saltire's north country place, is in cumberland. if you are on top of the coach, going northward, between hiltonsbridge and copley beck, you can see it all the way for three miles or more, over the stone walls. the mountains are on your left; to the right are endless unbroken level woodlands; and, rising out of them, two miles off, is a great mass of grey building, from the centre of which rises a square norman keep, ninety feet high, a beacon for miles even in that mountainous country. the hilton and copley beck join in the park, which is twelve miles in circumference, and nearly all thick woodland. beyond the great tower, between it and the further mountains, you catch a gleam of water. this is marksmere, in which there are charr. the draughts at marksworth were colder and keener than the draughts at cottingdean. lord saltire always hated the place: for the truth is this, that although marksworth looked as if it had stood for eight hundred years, every stone in it had been set up by his father, when he, lord saltire, was quite a big boy. it was beautifully done; it was splendidly and solidly built--probably the best executed humbug in england; but it was not comfortable to live in. a nobleman of the nineteenth century, stricken in years, finds it difficult to accommodate himself in a house the windows of which are calculated to resist arrows. at the time of the eglinton tournament, lord saltire challenged the whole tory world in arms, to attack marksworth in the ante-gunpowder style of warfare; his lordship to provide eatables and liquor to besiegers and besieged; probably hoping that he might get it burnt down over his head, and have a decent excuse for rebuilding it in a more sensible style. the challenge was not accepted. "the trouble," said certain tory noblemen, "of getting up the old tactics correctly would be very great; and the expense of having the old engines of war constructed would be enormous. besides, it might come on to rain again, and spoil the whole affair." marksworth wouldn't do. and then simpson suggested his lordship's town house in curzon street, and lord saltire said "hey?" and simpson repeated his suggestion, and lord saltire said "hah!" as charles's luck would have it, he liked the suggestion, and turned south, coming to casterton on his way to london. he arrived at casterton a few days after george corby. when he alighted at the door, lord hainault ran down the steps to greet him, for this pair were very fond of one another. lord hainault, who was accused by some people of "priggishness," was certainly not priggish before lord saltire. he was genial and hearty. there was a slight crust on lord hainault. because he had held his own among the clever commoners at the university, he fancied himself a little cleverer than he was. he in his heart thought more of his second, than marston did of his double first, and possibly showed it among his equals. but before an acknowledged superior, like lord saltire, this never showed. when lord saltire talked wisely and shrewdly (and who could do so better than he?), he listened; when lord saltire was cross, he laughed. on this occasion lord saltire was cross. he never was cross to any one but lady ascot, lord hainault, and marston. he knew they liked it. "good ged, hainault," he began, "don't stand grinning there, and looking so abominably healthy and happy, or i will drive away again and go on to london. nothing can be in worse taste than to look like that at a man whom you see is tired, and cold, and peevish. you have been out shooting, too. don't deny it; you smell of gunpowder." "did you _never_ shoot?" said lord hainault, laughing. "i shot as long as i could walk, and therefore i have a right to nourish envy and all uncharitableness against those who can still do so. i wish you would be cross, hainault. it is wretched manners not to be cross when you see a man is trying to put you out of temper." "and how _are_ you, my dear lad?" continued lord saltire, when he had got hold of his arm. "how is lady ascot? and whom have you got here?" "we are all very well," said lord hainault; "and we have got nobody." "well done," said lord saltire. "i thought i should have found the house smelling like a poulterer's shop on guy fawkes's day, in consequence of your having got together all the hawbucks in the country for pheasant shooting. i'll go upstairs, my dear boy, and change, and then come down to the library fire." and so he did. there was no one there, and he sank into a comfortable chair, with a contented "humph!" in front of the fire, beside a big round table. he had read the paper in the train; so he looked for a book. there was a book on the table beside him--ruskin's "modern painters," which had pictures in it; so he took out his great gold glasses, and began turning it over. a man's card fell from it. he picked it up and read it. "mr. charles ravenshoe." poor charles! that spring, you remember, he had come over to see adelaide, and, while waiting to see old lady hainault, had held his card in his hand. it had got into the book. lord saltire put the book away, put up his glasses, and walked to the window. and charles lay in his bed at scutari, and watched the flies upon the wall. "i'll send up for little mary," said lord saltire. "i want to see the little bird. poor charles!" he looked out over the landscape. it was dull and foggy. he wandered into the conservatory, and idly looked out of the glass door at the end. then, as he looked, he said, suddenly, "gadzooks!" and then, still more briskly, "the deuce!" there was a splendid show of chrysanthemums in the flower-garden, but they were not what his lordship exclaimed at. in the middle of the walk was mary corby, leaning on the arm of a very handsome young man. he was telling some very animated story, and she was looking up into his face with sparkling eyes. "othello and desdemona! death and confusion!" said lord saltire. "here's a pretty kettle of fish! maria must be mad!" he went back into the library. lord hainault was there. "hainault," said he, quietly, "who is that young gentleman, walking with mary corby in the garden?" "oh! her cousin. i have not had time to tell you about it." which he did. "and what sort of fellow is he?" said lord saltire. "a yahoo, i suppose?" "not at all. he is a capital fellow--a perfect gentleman. there will be a match, i believe, unless you put a stop to it. you know best. we will talk it over. it seems to me to offer a good many advantages. i think it will come off in time. it is best for the poor little thing to forget poor ravenshoe, if she can." "yes, it will be best for her to forget poor ravenshoe, if she can," repeated lord saltire. "i wish her to do so. i must make the young fellow's acquaintance. by-the-bye, what time does your post go out?" "at five." "have you no morning post?" "yes. we can send to henley before nine." "then i shall not plague myself with writing my letter now. i should like to see this young fellow, hainault." george corby was introduced. lord saltire seemed to take a great fancy to him. he kept near him all the evening, and listened with great pleasure to his australian stories. george corby was, of course, very much flattered by such attention from such a famous man. possibly he might have preferred to be near mary; but old men, he thought, are exacting, and it is the duty of gentlemen to bear with them. so he stayed by him with good grace. after a time, lord saltire seemed to see that he had an intelligent listener. and then the others were astonished to hear lord saltire do what he but seldom did for them--use his utmost powers of conversation; use an art almost forgotten, that of _talking_. to this young man, who was clever and well educated, and, like most "squatters," perhaps a _trifle_ fond of hearing of great people, lord saltire opened the storehouse of his memory, of a memory extending over seventy years; and in a clear, well modulated voice, gave him his recollection of his interviews with great people--conversations with sièyes, talleyrand, with madame de staël, with robespierre, with egalité, with alexander, and a dozen others. george was intensely eager to hear about marat. lord saltire and his snuff-box had not penetrated into the lair of that filthy wolf, but he had heard much of him from many friends, and told it well. when the ladies rose to go to bed, george corby was astonished; he had forgotten mary, had never been near her the whole evening, and he had made an engagement to drive lord saltire the next morning up to wargrave in a pony-chaise, to look at barrymore house, and the place where the theatre stood, and where the game of high jinks had been played so bravely fifty years before. and, moreover, he and lord saltire were, the day after, to make an excursion down the river and see medmenham, where once jack wilkes and the devil had held court. mary would not see much of him at this rate for a day or two. it was a great shame of this veteran to make such a fool of the innocent young bushman. there ought to be fair play in love or war. his acquaintance, talleyrand, could not have been more crafty. i am so angry with him that i will give the letter he wrote that night _in extenso_, and show the world what a wicked old man he was. when he went to his room, he said to simpson, "i have got to write a letter before i go to bed. i want it to go to the post at henley before nine. i don't want it to lie in the letter-box in the hall. i don't want them to see the direction. what an appetite you would have for your breakfast, simpson, if you were to walk to henley." and simpson said, "very good, my lord." and lord saltire wrote as follows:-- "my dear lad,--i have been travelling to my places, looking for a place to die in. they are all cold and draughty, and won't do. i have come back to casterton. i must stay here at present on your account, and i am in mortal fear of dying here. nothing, remember, can be more unmannerly or rude than falling ill, and dying, in another man's house. i know that i should resent such a proceeding myself as a deliberate affront, and i therefore would not do it for the world. "you must come here to me _instantly_; do you hear? i am keeping the breach for you at all sacrifices. until you come, i am to be trundled about this foggy valley in pony carriages through the day, and talk myself hoarse all the evening, all for your sake. a cousin of mary corby's has come from australia. he is very handsome, clever, and gentlemanly, and i am afraid she is getting very fond of him. "this must not be, my dear boy. now our dear charles is gone, you must, if possible, marry her. it is insufferable that we should have another disappointment from an interloper. i don't blame you for not having come before. you were quite right, but don't lose a moment now. leave those boys of yours. the dirty little rogues must get on for a time without you. don't think that i sneer at the noble work that you and your uncle are doing; god almighty forbid; but you must leave it for a time, and come here. "don't argue or procrastinate, but come. i cannot go on being driven all over the country in november to keep him out of the way. besides, if you don't come soon, i shall have finished all my true stories, and have to do what i have never done yet--to lie. so make haste, my dear boy. "yours affectionately, "saltire." on the second day from this lord saltire was driven to medmenham by george corby, and prophesied to him about it. when they neared home, lord saltire grew distraught for the first time, and looked eagerly towards the terrace. as they drove up, john marston ran down the steps to meet them. lord saltire said, "thank god!" and walked up to the hall-door between the two young men. "are you staying in london?" said george corby. "yes. i am living in london," said john marston. "an uncle of mine, a moravian missionary from australia, is working at a large ragged school in the borough, and i am helping him." "you don't surely mean james smith?" said corby. "indeed i do." "your uncle? well, that is very strange. i know him very well. my father fought his battle for him when he was at variance with the squatters about.... he is one of the best fellows in the world. i am delighted to make your acquaintance." lord saltire said to lord hainault, when they were alone together--"you see what a liberty i have taken, having my private secretary down in this unceremonious way. do ask him to stay." "you know how welcome he is for his own sake. do you think you are right?" "i think so." "i am afraid you are a little too late," said lord hainault. alas! poor charles. chapter lvi. scutari. alas! poor charles. while they were all dividing the spoil at home, thinking him dead, where was he? at scutari. what happened to him before he got there, no one knows or ever will know. he does not remember, and there is no one else to tell. he was passed from hand to hand and put on board ship. here fever set in, and he passed from a state of stupid agony into a state of delirium. he may have lain on the pier in the pouring rain, moistening his parched lips in the chilling shower; he may have been jolted from hospital to hospital, and laid in draughty passages, till a bed was found for him; as others were. but he happily knew nothing of it. things were so bad with him now that it did not much matter how he was treated. read lord sidney osborne's "scutari and its hospitals," and see how he _might_ have been, and probably was. it is no part of our duty to dig up and exhibit all that miserable mismanagement. i think we have learnt our lesson. i think i will go bail it don't happen again. before charles knew where he was, there was a great change for the better. the hospital nurses arrived early in november. he thinks that there were faint gleams of consciousness in his delirium. in the first, he says he was lying on his back, and above him were the masts and spars of a ship, and a sailor-boy was sitting out on a yard in the clear blue, mending a rope or doing something. it may have been a dream or not. afterwards there were periods, distinctly remembered, when he seemed conscious--conscious of pain and space, and time--to a certain extent. at these times he began to understand, in a way, that he was dead, and in hell. the delirium was better than this at ordinary times, in spite of its headlong incongruities. it was not so unbearable, save at times, when there came the feeling, too horrible for human brain to bear, of being millions and millions of miles, or of centuries, away, with no road back; at such times there was nothing to be done but to leap out of bed, and cry aloud for help in god's name. then there came a time when he began, at intervals, to see a great vaulted arch overhead, and to wonder whether or no it was the roof of the pit. he began, after studying the matter many times, to find that pain had ceased, and that the great vaulted arch was real. and he heard low voices once at this time--blessed voices of his fellow-men. he was content to wait. at last, his soul and consciousness seemed to return to him in a strange way. he seemed to pass out of some abnormal state into a natural one. for he became aware that he was alive; nay, more, that he was asleep, and dreaming a silly, pleasant dream, and that he could wake himself at any time. he awoke, expecting to awake in his old room at ravenshoe. but he was not there, and looked round him in wonder. the arch he remembered was overhead. that was real enough. three people were round his bed--a doctor in undress, a grey-haired gentleman who peered into his face, and a lady. "god bless me!" said the doctor. "we have fetched him through. look at his eyes, just look at his eyes. as sane an eye as yours or mine, and the pulse as round as a button." "do you know us, my man?" said the gentleman. it was possible enough that he did not, for he had never set eyes on him before. the gentleman meant only, "are you sane enough to know your fellow-creatures when you see one?" charles thought he must be some one he had met in society in old times and ought to recognise. he framed a polite reply, to the effect that he hoped he had been well since he met him last, and that, if he found himself in the west, he would not pass ravenshoe without coming to see him. the doctor laughed. "a little abroad, still, i daresay; i have pulled you through. you have had a narrow escape." charles was recovered enough to take his hand and thank him fervently, and whispered, "would you tell me one thing, sir? how did lady hainault come here?" "lady hainault, my man?" "yes; she was standing at the foot of the bed." "that is no lady hainault, my man; that is miss nightingale. do you ever say your prayers?" "no." "say them to-night before you go to sleep, and remember her name in them. possibly they may get to heaven the quicker for it. good-night." prayers forgotten, eh! how much of all this misery lay in that, i wonder? how much of this dull, stupid, careless despair--earth a hopeless, sunless wilderness, and heaven not thought of? read on. but, while you read, remember that poor charles had had no domestic religious education whatever. the vicar had taught him his catechism and "his prayers." after that, shrewsbury and oxford. read on, but don't condemn; at least not yet. that he thanked god with all the earnestness of his warm heart that night, and remembered that name the doctor told him, you may be sure. but, when the prayer was finished, he began to think whether or no it was sincere, whether it would not be better that he should die, and that it should be all over and done. his creed was, that, if he died in the faith of christ, bearing no ill will to any one, having repented of his sins, it would not go ill with him. would it not be better to die now that he could fulfil those conditions, and not tempt the horrible black future? certainly. in time he left watching the great arch overhead, and the creeping shadows, and the patch of light on the wall, which shaped itself into a faint rhomboid at noon, and crept on till it defined itself into a perfect square at sundown, and then grew golden and died out. he began to notice other things. but till the last there was one effect of light and shadow which he always lay awake to see--a faint flickering on the walls and roof, which came slowly nearer, till a light was in his eyes. we all know what that was. it has been described twenty times. i can believe that story of the dying man kissing the shadow on the wall. when miss nightingale and her lamp are forgotten, it will be time to consider whether one would prefer to turn turk or mormon. he began to take notice that there were men in the beds beside him. one, as we know, had been carried out dead; but there was another in his place now. and one day there was a great event; when charles woke, both of them were up, sitting at the side of their beds, ghastly shadows, and talking across him. the maddest musician never listened to the "vox humana" stop at haarlem, with such delight as charles did to these two voices. he lay for a time hearing them make acquaintance, and then he tried to sit up and join. he was on his left side, and tried to rise. his left arm would not support him, and he fell back, but they crept to him and set him up, and sat on his bed. "right again, eh, comrade?" said one. "i thought you was gone, my lad. but i heard the doctor say you'd get through. you look bravely. time was when you used to jump out of bed, and cry on god a'mighty. many a time i've strove to help ye. the man in _his_ bed died while you was like that: a fusilier guards man. what regiment?" "i am of the th," said charles. "we had a bit of a brush with the enemy on the twenty-fifth. i was wounded there. it was a pretty little rattle, i think, for a time, but not of very much importance, i fancy." the man who had first spoken laughed; the other man, a lad who had a round face once, perhaps, but which now was a pale death's head, with two great staring eyes, speaking with a voice which charles knew at once to be a gentleman's, said, "don't you know then that that charge of yours is the talk of europe? that charge will never be forgotten while the world is round. six hundred men against ten battalions. good god! and you might have died there, and not known it." "ah, is it so?" said charles. "if some could only know it!" "that is the worst of it," said the young man. "i have enlisted under a false name, and will never go home any more. never more. and she will never know that i did my duty." and after a time he got strong again in a way. a bullet, it appears, had struck the bone of his arm, and driven the splinters into the flesh. fever had come on, and his splendid constitution, as yet untried, save by severe training, had pulled him through. but his left arm was useless. the doctor looked at it again and again, and shook his head. the two men who were in the beds on each side of him were moved before him. they were only there a fortnight after his coming to himself. the oldest of the two went first, and two or three days after the younger. the three made all sorts of plans for meeting in england. alas, what chance is there for three soldiers to meet again, unless by accident? at home it would have taken three years to have made these three men such hearty friends as they had become in a fortnight. friendships are made in the camp, in the bush, or on board ship, at a wonderful rate. and, moreover, they last for an indefinite time. for ever, i fancy: for these reasons. time does not destroy friendship. time has nothing whatever to do with it. i have heard an old man of seventy-eight talking of a man he had not seen for twelve years, and before that for twenty-five, as if they were young men together. craving for his company, as if once more they were together on the deck of the white-sailed yacht, flying before the easterly wind between hurstcastle and sconce point. mere continual familiarity, again, does not hurt friendship, unless interests clash. diversity of interests is the death-blow of friendship. one great sacrifice may be made--two, or even three; but after the first, two men are not to one another as they were before. where men are thrown intimately together for a short time, and part have only seen the best side of one another, or where men see one another frequently, and have not very many causes of difference, friendship will flourish for ever. in the case of love it is very different, and for this obvious reason, which i will explain in a few pages if---- i entered into my own recognisances, in an early chapter of this story, not to preach. i fear they are escheated after this short essay on friendship, coming, as it does, exactly in the wrong place. i must only throw myself on the court, and purge myself of my contempt by promising amendment. poor charles after a time was sent home to fort pitt. but that mighty left arm, which had done such noble work when it belonged to no. in the oxford university eight, was useless, and charles simpson, trooper in the th, was discharged from the army, and found himself on christmas eve in the street in front of the waterloo station, with eighteen shillings and ninepence in his pocket, wondering blindly what the end of it all would be, but no more dreaming of begging from those who had known him formerly than of leaping off waterloo bridge. perhaps not half so much. chapter lvii. what charles did with his last eighteen shillings. charles's luck seemed certainly to have deserted him at last. and that is rather a serious matter, you see; for, as he had never trusted to anything but luck, it now follows that he had nothing left to trust to, except eighteen shillings and ninepence and his little friend the cornet, who had come home invalided and was living with his mother in hyde park gardens. let us hope, reader, that you and i may never be reduced to the patronage of a cornet of hussars, and eighteen shillings in cash. it was a fine frosty night, and the streets were gay and merry. it was a sad christmas for many thousands; but the general crowd seemed determined not to think too deeply of these sad accounts which were coming from the crimea just now. they seemed inclined to make christmas christmas, in spite of everything; and perhaps they were right. it is good for a busy nation like the english to have two great festivals, and two only, the object of which every man who is a christian can understand, and on these occasions to put in practice, to the best of one's power, the lesson of goodwill towards men which our lord taught us. we english cannot stand too many saints' days. we decline to stop business for st. blaise or st. swithin; but we can understand christmas and easter. the foreign catholics fiddle away so much time on saints' days that they are obliged to work like the israelites in bondage on sunday to get on at all. i have as good a right to prophesy as any other freeborn englishman who pays rates and taxes; and i prophesy that, in this wonderful resurrection of ireland, the attendance of the male population at church on week-days will get small by degrees and beautifully less. one man, charles ravenshoe, has got to spend his christmas with eighteen shillings and a crippled left arm. there is half a million of money or so, and a sweet little wife, waiting for him if he would only behave like a rational being; but he will not, and must take the consequences. he went westward, through a kind of instinct, and he came to belgrave square, where a certain duke lived. there were lights in the windows. the duke was in office, and had been called up to town. charles was glad of this; not that he had any business to transact with the duke, but a letter to deliver to the duke's coachman. this simple circumstance saved him from being much nearer actual destitution than i should have liked to see him. the coachman's son had been wounded at balaclava, and was still at scutari, and charles brought a letter from him. he got an english welcome, i promise you. and, next morning, going to hyde park gardens, he found that his friend the cornet was out of town, and would not be back for a week. at this time the coachman became very useful. he offered him money, house-room, employment, everything he could possibly get for him; and charles heartily and thankfully accepted house-room and board for a week. at the end of a week he went back to hyde park gardens. the cornet was come back. he had to sit in the kitchen while his message was taken upstairs. he merely sent up his name, said he was discharged, and asked for an interview. the servants found out that he had been at the war, in their young master's regiment, and they crowded round him, full of sympathy and kindness. he was telling them how he had last seen the cornet in the thick of it on the terrible th, when they parted right and left, and in dashed the cornet himself, who caught him by both hands. "by gad, i'm so glad to see you. how you are altered without your moustache! look you here, you fellows and girls, this is the man that charged up to my assistance when i was dismounted among the guns, and kept by me, while i caught another horse. what a cropper i went down, didn't i? what a terrible brush it was, eh? and poor hornby, too! it is the talk of europe, you know. you remember old devna, and the galloping lizard, eh?" and so on, till they got upstairs; and then he turned on him, and said, "now, what are you going to do?" "i have got eighteen shillings." "will your family do nothing for you?" "did hornby tell you anything about me, my dear sir?" said charles, eagerly. "not a word. i never knew that hornby and you were acquainted, till i saw you together when he was dying." "did you hear what we said to one another?" "not a word. the reason i spoke about your family is, that no one, who had seen so much of you as i, could doubt that you were a gentleman. that is all. i am very much afraid i shall offend you----" "that would not be easy, sir." "well, then, here goes. if you are utterly hard up, take service with me. there." "i will do so with the deepest gratitude," said charles. "but i cannot ride, i fear. my left arm is gone." "pish! ride with your right. it's a bargain. come up and see my mother. i must show you to her, you know, because you will have to live here. she is deaf. now you know the reason why the major used to talk so loud." charles smiled for an instant; he did remember that circumstance about the cornet's respected and gallant father. he followed the cornet upstairs, and was shown into the drawing-room, where sat a very handsome lady, about fifty years of age, knitting. she was not only stone deaf, but had a trick of talking aloud, like the old lady in "pickwick," under the impression that she was only thinking, which was a very disconcerting habit indeed. when charles and the cornet entered the room, she said aloud, with amazing distinctness, looking hard at charles, "god bless me! who has he got now? what a fine gentlemanly-looking fellow. i wonder why he is dressed so shabbily." after which she arranged her trumpet, and prepared to go into action. "this, mother," bawled the cornet, "is the man who saved me in the charge of balaclava." "do you mean that that is trooper simpson?" said she. "yes, mother." "then may the blessing of god almighty rest upon your head!" she said to charles. "that time will come, trooper simpson, when you will know the value of a mother's gratitude. and when that time comes think of me. but for you, trooper simpson, i might have been tearing my grey hair this day. what are we to do for him, james? he looks ill and worn. words are not worth much. what shall we do?" the cornet put his mouth to his mother's trumpet, and in an apologetic bellow, such as one gets from the skipper of a fruit brig, in the bay of biscay, o! when he bears up to know if you will be so kind as to oblige him with the longitude; roared out: "he wants to take service with me. have you any objection?" "of course not, you foolish boy," said she. "i wish we could do more for him than that." and then she continued, in a tone slightly lowered, but perfectly audible, evidently under the impression that she was thinking to herself: "he is ugly, but he has a sweet face. i feel certain he is a gentleman who has had a difference with his family. i wish i could hear his voice. god bless him! he looks like a valiant soldier. i hope he won't get drunk, or make love to the maids." charles had heard every word of this before he had time to bow himself out. and so he accepted his new position with dull carelessness. life was getting very worthless. he walked across the park to see his friend the coachman. the frost had given, and there was a dull dripping thaw. he leant against the railings at the end of the serpentine. there was still a great crowd all round the water; but up the whole expanse there were only four skaters, for the ice was very dangerous and rotten, and the people had been warned off. one of the skaters came sweeping down to within a hundred yards of where he was--a reckless, headlong skater, one who would chance drowning to have his will. the ice cracked every moment and warned him, but he would not heed, till it broke, and down he went; clutching wildly at the pitiless, uptilted slabs which clanked about his head, to save himself; and then with a wild cry disappeared. the icemen were on the spot in a minute; and, when five were past, they had him out, and bore him off to the receiving-house. a gentleman, a doctor apparently, who stood by charles, said to him, "well, there is a reckless fool gone to his account, god forgive him!" "they will bring him round, won't they?" said charles. "ten to one against it," said the doctor. "what right has he to calculate on such a thing, either? why, most likely there will be half a dozen houses in mourning for that man to-morrow. he is evidently a man of some mark. i can pity his relations in their bereavement, sir, but i have precious little pity for a reckless fool." and so charles began to serve his friend the cornet, in a way--a very poor way, i fear, for he was very weak and ill, and could do but little. the deaf lady treated him like a son, god bless her! but charles could not recover the shock of his fever and delirium in the crimea. he grew very low-spirited and despondent by day, and worst of all, he began to have sleepless nights--terrible nights. in the rough calculation he had made of being able to live through his degradation, and get used to it, he had calculated, unwittingly, on perfect health. he had thought that in a few years he should forget the old life, and become just like one of the grooms he had made his companions. this had now become impossible, for his health and his nerve were gone. he began to get afraid of his horses; that was the first symptom. he tried to fight against the conviction, but it forced itself upon him. when he was on horseback, he found that he was frightened when anything went wrong; his knees gave way on emergency, and his hand was irresolute. and, what is more, be sure of this, that, before he confessed the fact to himself, the horses had found it out, and "taken action on it," or else may i ride a donkey, with my face towards the tail, for the rest of my life. and he began to see another thing. now, when he was nervous, in ill health, and whimsical, the company of men among whom he was thrown as fellow-servants became nearly unbearable. little trifling acts of coarseness, unnoticed when he was in good health and strong, at the time he was with poor hornby, now disgusted him. most kind-hearted young fellows, brought up as he had been, are apt to be familiar with, and probably pet and spoil, the man whose duty it is to minister to their favourite pleasures, be he gamekeeper, or groom, or cricketer, or waterman. nothing can be more natural, or, in proper bounds, harmless. charles had thought that, being used to these men, he could live with them, and do as they did. for a month or two, while in rude coarse health, he found it was possible; for had not lord welter and he done the same thing for amusement? but now, with shattered nerves, he found it intolerable. i have had great opportunities of seeing gentlemen trying to do this sort of thing--i mean in australia--and, as far as my experience goes, it ends in one of two ways. either they give it up as a bad job, and assume the position that superior education gives them, or else they take to drink, and go, not to mince matters, to the devil. what charles did, we shall see. nobody could be more kind and affectionate than the cornet and his deaf mother. they guessed that he was "somebody," and that things were wrong with him; though, if he had been a chimney-sweep's son, it would have made no difference to them, for they were "good people." the cornet once or twice invited his confidence; but he was too young, and charles had not the energy to tell him anything. his mother, too, asked him to tell her if anything was wrong in his affairs, and whether she could help him; and possibly he might have been more inclined to confide in her, than in her son. but who could bellow such a sad tale of misery through an ear-trumpet? he held his peace. he kept ellen's picture, which he had taken from hornby. he determined he would not go and seek her. she was safe somewhere, in some catholic asylum. why should he re-open her grief? but life was getting very, very weary business. by day, his old favourite pleasure of riding had become a terror, and at night he got no rest. death forty good years away, by all calculation. a weary time. he thought himself humbled, but he was not. he said to himself that he was prevented from going back, because he had found out that mary was in love with him, and also because he was disgraced through his sister; and both of these reasons were, truly, most powerful with him. but, in addition to this, i fear there was a great deal of obstinate pride, which thing is harder to beat out of a man than most things. and, now, after all this half-moralising narrative, an important fact or two. the duke was very busy, and stayed in town, and, as a consequence, the duke's coachman. moreover, the duke's coachman's son came home invalided, and stayed with his father; and charles, with the hearty approval of the cornet, used to walk across the park every night to see him, and talk over the campaign, and then look in at the servants' club, of which he was still a member. and the door of the servants' club room had glass windows to it. and i have noticed that anybody who looks through a glass window (under favourable circumstances) can see who is on the other side. i have done it myself more than once. chapter lviii. the north side of grosvenor square. john marston's first disappointment in life had been his refusal by mary. he was one of those men, brought up in a hard school, who get, somehow, the opinion that everything which happens to a man is his own fault. he used to say that every man who could play whist could get a second if he chose. i have an idea that he is in some sort right. but he used to carry this sort of thing to a rather absurd extent. he was apt to be hard on men who failed, and to be always the first to say, "if he had done this, or left that alone, it would not have been so," and he himself, with a calm clear brain and perfect health, had succeeded in everything he had ever tried at, even up to a double first. at one point he was stopped. he had always given himself airs of superiority over charles, and had given him advice, good as it was, in a way which would have ruined his influence with nine men out of ten; and suddenly he was brought up. at the most important point in life, he found charles his superior. charles had won a woman's love without knowing it, or caring for it; and he had tried for it, and failed. john marston was an eminently noble and high-minded man. his faults were only those of education, and his faults were very few. when he found himself rejected, and found out why it was so--when he found that he was no rival of charles, and that charles cared naught for poor mary--he humbly set his quick brain to work to find out in what way charles, so greatly his inferior in intellect, was superior to him in the most important of all things. for he saw that charles had not only won mary's love, but the love of every one who knew him; whereas he, john marston, had but very few friends. and, when he once set to work at this task, he seemed to come rapidly to the conclusion that charles was superior to him in everything except application. "and how much application should i have had," he concluded, "if i had not been a needy man?" so you see that his disappointment cured him of what was almost his only vice--conceit. everything works together for good, for those who are really good. hitherto, john marston has led only the life that so many young englishmen lead--a life of study, combined with violent, objectless, physical exertion as a counterpoise. he had never known what enthusiasm was, as yet. there was a vast deal of it somewhere about him; in his elbows or his toes, or the calves of his legs, or somewhere, as events prove. if i might hazard an opinion, i should say that it was stowed away somewhere in that immensely high, but somewhat narrow, forehead of his. before he tried love-making, he might have written the calmest and most exasperating article in the _saturday review_. but, shortly after that, the tinder got a-fire; and the man who set it on fire was his uncle smith, the moravian missionary. for this fellow, smith, had, as we know, come home from australia with the dying words of his beautiful wife ringing in his ears: "go home from here, my love, into the great towns, and see what is to be done there." and he had found his nephew, john marston. and, while marston listened to his strange, wild conversation, a light broke in upon him. and what had been to him merely words before this, now became glorious, tremendous realities. and so those two had gone hand in hand down into the dirt and profligacy of southwark, to do together a work the reward of which comes after death. there are thousands of men at such work now. we have no more to do with it than to record the fact, that these two were at it heart and hand. john marston's love for mary had never waned for one instant. when he had found that, or thought he had found that, she loved charles, he had, in a quiet, dignified way, retired from the contest. he had determined that he would go away, and work at ragged schools, and so on, and try to forget all about her. he had begun to fancy that his love was growing cool, when lord saltire's letter reached him, and set it all a-blaze again. this was unendurable--that a savage from the southern wilds should step in like this, without notice. he posted off to casterton. mary was very glad to see him; but he had proposed to her once, and, therefore, how could she be so familiar with him as of yore? notwithstanding this, john was not so very much disappointed at his reception; he had thought that matters were even worse than they were. after dinner, in the drawing-room, he watched them together. george corby was evidently in love. he went to mary, who was sitting alone, the moment they came from the dining-room. mary looked up, and caught his eyes as he approached; but her eyes wandered from him to the door, until they settled on john himself. she seemed to wish that he would come and talk to her. he had a special reason for not doing so: he wanted to watch her and george together. so he stayed behind, and talked to lord hainault. lord saltire moved up beside lady ascot. lady hainault had the three children--archy in her lap, and gus and flora beside her. in her high and mighty way she was amusing them, or rather trying to do so. lady hainault was one of the best and noblest women in the world, as you have seen already; but she was not an amusing person. and no one knew it better than herself. her intentions were excellent: she wanted to leave mary free from the children until their bed-time, so that she might talk to her old acquaintance, john marston; for, at the children's bed-time, mary would have to go with them. even lady hainault, determined as she was, never dared to contemplate putting those children to bed without mary's assistance. she was trying to tell them a story out of her own head, but was making a dreadful mess of it; and she was quite conscious that gus and flora were listening to her with contemptuous pity. so they were disposed. lord saltire and lady ascot were comfortably out of hearing. we had better attend to them first, and come round to the others afterwards. lady ascot began. "james," she said, "it is perfectly evident to me that you sent for john marston." "well, and suppose i did?" said lord saltire. "well, then, why did you do so?" "maria," said lord saltire, "do you know that sometimes you are intolerably foolish? cannot you answer that question for yourself?" "of course i can," said lady ascot. "then why the deuce did you ask me?" that was a hard question to answer, but lady ascot said: "i doubt if you are wise, james. i believe it would be better that she should go to australia. it is a very good match for her." "it is not a good match for her," said lord saltire, testily. "to begin with, first-cousin marriages are an invention of the devil. third and lastly, she sha'n't go to that infernal hole. sixthly, i want her, now our charles is dead, to marry john marston; and, in conclusion, i mean to have my own way." "do you know," said lady ascot, "that he proposed to her before, and was rejected?" "he told me of it the same night," said lord saltire. "now, don't talk any more nonsense, but tell me this: is she bitten with that young fellow?" "not deeply, as yet, i think," said lady ascot. "which of them has the best chance?" said lord saltire. "james," said lady ascot, repeating his own words, "do you know that sometimes you are intolerably foolish? how can i tell?" "which would you bet on, miss headstall?" asked lord saltire. "well, well!" said lady ascot, "i suppose i should bet on john marston." "and how long are you going to give sebastopol, lord hainault?" said john marston. "what do you think about the greek kalends, my dear marston?" said lord hainault. "why, no. i suppose we shall get it at last. it won't do to have it said that england and france----" "say france and england just now," said lord hainault. "no, i will not. it must not be said that england and france could not take a black sea fortress." "we shall have to say it, i fear," said lord hainault. "i am not quite sure that we english don't want a thrashing." "i am sure we do," said marston, "but we shall never get one. that is the worst of it." "my dear marston," said lord hainault, "you have a clear head. will you tell me this: do you believe that charles ravenshoe is dead?" "god bless me, lord hainault, have you any doubts?" "yes." "so have i," said marston, turning eagerly towards him. "i thought you had all made up your minds. if there is any doubt, ought we not to mention it to lord saltire?" "i think that he has doubts himself. i may tell you that he has secured to him, in case of his return, eighty thousand pounds." "he would have made him his heir, i suppose," said john marston; "would he not?" "yes: i think i am justified in saying yes." "and so all the estates go to lord ascot, in any case?" "unless in case of charles's re-appearance before his death; in which case i believe he will alter his will." "then if charles be alive, he had better keep out of lord ascot's way on dark nights, in narrow lanes," said john marston. "you are mistaken there," said lord hainault, thoughtfully. "ascot is a bad fellow. i told him so once in public, at the risk of getting an awful thrashing. if it had not been for mainwaring i should have had sore bones for a twelvemonth. but--but--well, i was at eton with ascot, and ascot was and is a great blackguard. but, do you know, he is to some a very affectionate fellow. you know he was adored at eton." "he was not liked at oxford," said marston. "i never knew any good of him. he is a great rascal." "yes," said lord hainault, "i suppose he is what you would call a great rascal. yes; i told him so, you know. and i am not a fighting man, and that proves that i was strongly convinced of the fact, or i should have shirked my duty. a man in my position don't like to go down to the house of lords with a black eye. but i doubt if he is capable of any deep villainy yet. if you were to say to me that charles would be unwise to allow ascot's wife to make his gruel for him, i should say that i agreed with you." "there you are certainly right, my lord," said john marston, smiling. "but i never knew lord ascot spare either man or woman." "that is very true," said lord hainault. "do you notice that we have been speaking as if charles ravenshoe were not dead?" "i don't believe he is," said john marston. "nor i, do you know," said lord hainault; "at least only half. what a pair of ninnies we are! only ninety men of the th came out of that balaclava charge. if he escaped the cholera, the chances are in favour of his having been killed there." "what evidence have we that he enlisted in that regiment at all?" "lady hainault's and mary's description of his uniform, which they never distinctly saw for one moment," said hainault. "_violà tout._" "and you would not speak to lord saltire?" "why, no. he sees all that we see. if he comes back, he gets eighty thousand pounds. it would not do either for you or me to press him to alter his will. do you see?" "i suppose you are right, lord hainault. things cannot go very wrong either way. i hope mary will not fall in love with that cousin of hers," he added, with a laugh. "are you wise in persevering, do you think?" said lord hainault, kindly. "i will tell you in a couple of days," said john marston. "is there any chance of seeing that best of fellows, william ravenshoe, here?" "he may come tumbling up. he has put off his wedding, in consequence of the death of his half-brother. i wonder if he was humbugged at varna?" "nothing more likely," said marston. "where is lord welter?" "in paris--plucking geese." just about this time, all the various groups in the drawing-room seemed to come to the conclusion that the time had arrived for new combinations, to avoid remarks. so there was a regular pass-in-the-corner business. john marston went over to mary; george corby came to lord hainault; lord saltire went to lady hainault, who had archy asleep in her lap; and gus and flora went to lady ascot. "at last, old friend," said mary to john marston. "and i have been watching for you so long. i was afraid that the time would come for the children to go to bed, and that you would never come and speak to me." "lord hainault and i were talking politics," said marston. "that is why i did not come." "men must talk politics, i suppose," said mary. "but i wish you had come while my cousin was here. he is so charming. you will like him." "he seems to be a capital fellow," said marston. "indeed he is," said mary. "he is really the most lovable creature i have met for a long time. if you would take him up, and be kind to him, and show him life, from the side from which _you_ see it, you would be doing a good work; and you would be obliging _me_. and i know, my dear friend, that you like to oblige me." "miss corby, you know that i would die for you." "i know it. who better? it puzzles me to know what i have done to earn such kindness from you. but there it is. you will be kind to him." marston was partly pleased and partly disappointed by this conversation. would you like to guess why? yes. then i will leave you to do so, and save myself half a page of writing. only saying this, for the benefit of inexperienced novel-readers, that he was glad to hear her talk in that free and easy manner about her cousin; but would have been glad if she had not talked in that free and easy manner to himself. nevertheless, there was evidently no harm done as yet. that was a great cause of congratulation; there was time yet. gus and flora went over to lady ascot. lady ascot said, "my dears, is it not near bed-time?" just by way of opening the conversation--nothing more. "lawks a mercy on me, no," said flora. "go along with you, do, you foolish thing." "my dear! my dear!" said lady ascot. "she is imitating old alwright," explained gus. "she told me she was going to. lord saltire says, 'maria! maria! maria!--you are intolerably foolish, maria!'" "don't be naughty, gus," said lady ascot. "well, so he did, for i heard him. don't mind us; we don't mean any harm. i say, lady ascot, has she any right to bite and scratch?" "who?" said lady ascot. "why, that flora. she bit alwright because she wouldn't lend her mrs. moko." "oh, you dreadful fib!" said flora. "oh, you wicked boy! you know where you'll go to if you tell such stories. lady ascot, i didn't bite her; i only said she ought to be bit. she told me that she couldn't let me have mrs. moko, because she was trying caps on her. and then she told nurse that i should never have her again, because i squeezed her flat. and so she told a story. and it was not i who squeezed her flat, but that boy, who is worse than ananias and sapphira. and i made a bogey of her in the nursery door, with a broom and a counterpane, just as he was coming in. and he shut the door on her head, and squeezed a piece of paint off her nose as big as half-a-crown." lady ascot was relieved by being informed that the mrs. moko aforesaid was only a pasteboard image, the size of life, used by the lady's maid for fitting caps. there were many evenings like this; a week or so was passed without any change. at last there was a move towards london. the first who took flight was george corby. he was getting dissatisfied, in his sleepy semi-tropical way, with the state of affairs. it was evident that, since john marston's arrival, he had been playing, with regard to mary, second fiddle (if you can possibly be induced to pardon the extreme coarseness of the expression). one day, lord saltire asked him to take him for a drive. they went over to dismantled ranford, and lord saltire was more amusing than ever. as they drove up through the dense larch plantation, on the outskirt of the park, they saw marston and mary side by side. george corby bit his lip. "i suppose there is something there, my lord?" said he. "oh dear, yes; i hope so," said lord saltire. "oh, yes, that is a very old affair." so george corby went first. he did not give up all hopes of being successful, but he did not like the way things were going. his english expedition was not quite so pleasant as he intended it to be. he, poor fellow, was desperately in love, and his suit did not seem likely to prosper. he was inclined to be angry with lord saltire. "he should not have let things go so far," thought george, "without letting him know;" quite forgetting that the mischief was done before lord saltire's arrival. lord saltire and john marston moved next. lord saltire had thought it best to take his man simpson's advice, and move into his house in curzon street. he had asked john to come with him. "it is a very nice little house," he said; "deuced well aired, and that sort of thing; but i know i shall have a creeping in my back when i go back for the first week, and fancy there is a draught. this will make me peevish. i don't like to be peevish to my servants, because it is unfair; they can't answer one. i wish you would come and let me be peevish to you. you may just as well. it will do you good. you have got a fancy for disciplining yourself, and all that sort of thing; and you will find me capital practice for a week or so in a fresh house. after that i shall get amiable, and then you may go. you may have the use of my carriage, to go and attend to your poor man's plaster business in southwark, if you like. i am not nervous about fever or vermin. besides, it may amuse me to hear all about it. and you can bring that cracked uncle of yours to see me sometimes; his scriptural talk is very piquant." lord and lady hainault moved up into grosvenor square too, for parliament was going to meet rather early. they persuaded lady ascot to come and stay with them. after a few days, william made his appearance. "well, my dear ravenshoe," said lord hainault, "and what brings you to town?" "i don't know," said william. "i cannot stay down there. lord hainault, do you know i think i am going cracked?" "why, my dear fellow, what do you mean?" "i have got such a strange fancy in my head, i cannot rest." "what is your fancy?" said lord hainault. "stay; may i make a guess at it?" "you would never dream what it is. it is too mad." "i will guess," said lord hainault. "your fancy is this:--you believe that charles ravenshoe is alive, and you have come up to london to take your chance of finding him in the streets." "but, good god!" said william, "how have you found this out? i have never told it even to my own sweetheart." "because," said lord hainault, laying his hand on his shoulder, "i and john marston have exactly the same fancy. that is why." and charles so close to them all the time. creeping every day across the park to see the coachman and his son. every day getting more hopeless. all energy gone. wit enough left to see that he was living on the charity of the cornet. there were some splinters in his arm which would not come away, and kept him restless. he never slept now. he hesitated when he was spoken to. any sudden noise made him start and look wild. i will not go on with the symptoms. things were much worse with him than we have ever seen them before. he, poor lad, began to wonder whether it would come to him to die in a hospital or---- those cursed bridges! why did they build such things? who built them? the devil. to tempt ruined, desperate men, with ten thousand fiends gnawing and sawing in their deltoid muscles, night and day. suppose he had to cross one of these by night, would he ever get to the other side? or would angels from heaven come down and hold him back? the cornet and his mother had a conversation about him. bawled the cornet into the ear-trumpet: "my fellow simpson is very bad, mother. he is getting low and nervous, and i don't like the looks of him." "i remarked it myself," said the lady. "we had better have bright. it would be cheaper to pay five guineas, and get a good opinion at once." "i expect he wants a surgeon more than a doctor," said the cornet. "well, that is the doctor's business," said the old lady. "drop a line to bright, and see what he says. it would be a burning shame, my dear--enough to bring down the wrath of god upon us--if we were to let him want for anything, as long as we have money. and we have plenty of money. more than we want. and if it annoys him to go near the horses, we must pension him. but i would rather let him believe that he was earning his wages, because it might be a weight on his mind if he did not. see to it the first thing in the morning. remember balaclava, james! remember balaclava! if you forget balaclava, and what trooper simpson did for you there, you are tempting god to forget you." "i hope he may when i do, mother," shouted the cornet. "i remember balaclava--ay, and devna before." there are such people as these in the world, reader. i know some of them. i know a great many of them. so many of them, in fact, that this conclusion has been forced upon me--that the world is _not_ entirely peopled by rogues and fools; nay, more, that the rogues and fools form a contemptible minority. i may become unpopular, i may be sneered at by men who think themselves wiser for coming to such a conclusion; but i will not retract what i have said. the good people in the world outnumber the bad, ten to one, and the ticket for this sort of belief is "optimist." this conversation between the cornet and his mother took place at half-past two. at that time charles had crept across the park to the mews, near belgrave square, to see his friend the duke's coachman and his son. may i be allowed, without being accused of writing a novel in the "confidential style," to tell you that this is the most important day in the whole story. at half-past two, william ravenshoe called at lord hainault's house in grosvenor square. he saw lady ascot. lady ascot asked him what sort of weather it was out of doors. william said that there was a thick fog near the river, but that on the north side of the square it was pleasant. so lady ascot said she would like a walk, if it were only for ten minutes, if he would give her his arm; and out they went. mary and the children came out too, but they went into the square. lady ascot and william walked slowly up and down the pavement alone, for lady ascot liked to see the people. up and down the north side, in front of the house. at the second turn, when they were within twenty yards of the west end of the square, a tall man with an umbrella over his shoulder came round the corner, and leant against the lamp-post. they both knew him in an instant. it was lord ascot. he had not seen them. he had turned to look at a great long-legged chestnut that was coming down the street, from the right, with a human being on his back. the horse was desperately vicious, but very beautiful and valuable. the groom on his back was neither beautiful nor valuable, and was losing his temper with the horse. the horse was one of those horses vicious by nature--such a horse as rarey (all honour to him) can terrify into submission for a short time; and the groom was a groom, not one of our country lads, every one of whose virtues and vices have been discussed over and over again at the squire's dinner-table, or about whom the rector had scratched his head, and had had into his study for private exhortation or encouragement. not one of the minority. one of the majority, i fear very much. reared, like a dog, among the straw, without education, without religion, without self-respect--worse broke than the horse he rode. when i think of all that was said against grooms and stable-helpers during the rarey fever, i get very angry, i confess it. one man said to me, "when we have had a groom or two killed, we shall have our horses treated properly." look to your grooms, gentlemen, and don't allow such a blot on the fair fame of england as some racing stables much longer, or there will be a heavy reckoning against you when the books are balanced. but the poor groom lost his temper with the horse, and beat it over the head. and lord ascot stayed to say, "d---- it all, man, you will never do any good like that," though a greater fiend on horseback than lord ascot i never saw. this gave time for lady ascot to say, "come on, my dear ravenshoe, and let us speak to him." so on they went. lord ascot was so busy looking at the horse and groom, that they got close behind him before he saw them. nobody being near, lady ascot, with a sparkle of her old fun, poked him in the back with her walking-stick. lord ascot turned sharply and angrily round, with his umbrella raised for a blow. when he saw who it was, he burst out into a pleasant laugh. "now, you grandma," he said, "you keep that old stick of yours quiet, or you'll get into trouble. what do you mean by assaulting the head of the house in the public streets? i am ashamed of you. you, ravenshoe, you egged her on to do it. i shall have to punch your head before i have done. how are you both?" "and where have you been, you naughty boy?" said lady ascot. "at paris," said that ingenuous nobleman, "dicing and brawling, as usual. nobody can accuse me of hiding _my_ talents in a napkin, grandma. those two things are all i am fit for, and i certainly do them with a will. i have fought a duel, too. a yankee doodle got it into his head that he might be impertinent to adelaide; so i took him out and shot him. don't cry, now. he is not dead. he'll walk lame though, i fancy, for a time. how jolly it is to catch you out here! i dread meeting that insufferable prig hainault, for fear i should kick him. give me her arm, my dear ravenshoe." "and where is adelaide?" said lady ascot. "up at st. john's wood," said he. "do steal away, and come and see her. grandma, i was very sorry to hear of poor charles's death--i was indeed. you know what it has done for me; but, by gad, i was very sorry." "dear welter--dear ascot," said lady ascot, "i am sure you were sorry. oh! if you would repent, my own dear. if you would think of the love that christ bore you when he died for you. oh, ascot, ascot! will nothing save you from the terrible hereafter?" "i am afraid not, grandma," said lord ascot. "it is getting too cold for you to stay out. ravenshoe, my dear fellow, take her in." and so, after a kind good-bye, lord ascot walked away towards the south-west. i am afraid that john marston was right. i am afraid he spoke the truth when he said that lord ascot was a savage, untameable blackguard. chapter lix. lord ascot's crowning act of folly. lord ascot, with his umbrella over his shoulder, swung on down the street, south-westward. the town was pleasant in the higher parts, and so he felt inclined to prolong his walk. he turned to the right into park lane. he was a remarkable-looking man. so tall, so broad, with such a mighty chest, and such a great, red, hairless, cruel face above it, that people, when he paused to look about him, as he did at each street corner, turned to look at him. he did not notice it; he was used it. and, besides, as he walked there were two or three words ringing yet in his ears which made him look less keenly than usual after the handsome horses and pretty faces which he met in his walk. "oh, ascot, ascot! will nothing save you from the terrible hereafter?" "confound those old women, more particularly when they take to religion. always croaking. and grandma ascot, too, as plucky and good an old soul as any in england--as good a judge of a horse as william day--taking to that sort of thing. hang it! it was unendurable. it was bad taste, you know, putting such ideas into a fellow's head. london was dull enough after paris, without that." so thought lord ascot, as he stood in front of dudley house, and looked southward. the winter sun was feebly shining where he was, but to the south there was a sea of fog, out of which rose the wellington statue, looking more exasperating than ever, and the two great houses at the albert gate. "this london is a beastly hole," said he. "i have got to go down into that cursed fog. i wish tattersall's was anywhere else." but he shouldered his umbrella again, and on he went. opposite st. george's hospital there were a number of medical students. two of them, regardless of the order which should always be kept on her majesty's highway, were wrestling. lord ascot paused for a moment to look at them. he heard one of the students who were looking on say to another, evidently about himself-- "by gad! what preparations that fellow would cut up into." "ah!" said another, "and wouldn't he cuss and d---- under the operation neither." "i know who that is," said a third. "that's lord ascot; the most infernal, headlong, gambling savage in the three kingdoms." so lord ascot, in the odour of sanctity, passed down into tattersall's yard. there was no one in the rooms. he went out into the yard again. "hullo, you sir! have you seen mr. sloane?" "mr. sloane was here not ten minutes ago, my lord. he thought your lordship was not coming. he is gone down to the groom's arms." "where the deuce is that?" "in chapel street, at the corner of the mews, my lord. fust turning on the right, my lord." lord ascot had business with our old acquaintance, mr. sloane, and went on. when he came to the public-house mentioned (the very same one in which the servants' club was held, to which charles belonged), he went into the bar, and asked of a feeble-minded girl, left accidentally in charge of the bar--"where was mr. sloane?" and she said, "upstairs, in the club-room." lord ascot walked up to the club-room, and looked in at the glass door. and there he saw sloane. he was standing up, with his hand on a man's shoulder, who had a map before him. right and left of these two men were two other men, an old one and a young one, and the four faces were close together; and while he watched them, the man with the map before him looked up, and lord ascot saw charles ravenshoe, pale and wan, looking like death itself, but still charles ravenshoe in the body. he did not open the door. he turned away, went down into the street, and set his face northward. so he was alive, and----there were more things to follow that "and" than he had time to think of at first. he had a cunning brain, lord ascot, but he could not get at his position at first. the whole business was too unexpected--he had not time to realise it. the afternoon was darkening as he turned his steps northwards, and began to walk rapidly, with scowling face and compressed lips. one or two of the students still lingered on the steps of the hospital. the one who had mentioned him by name before said to his fellows, "look at that lord ascot. what a devil he looks! he has lost some money. gad! there'll be murder done to-night. they oughtn't to let such fellows go loose!" charles ravenshoe alive. and lord saltire's will. half a million of money. and charley ravenshoe, the best old cock in the three kingdoms. of all his villainies--and, god forgive him, they were many--the one that weighed heaviest on his heart was his treatment of charles. and now---- the people turned and looked after him as he hurled along. why did his wayward feet carry him to the corner of curzon street? that was not his route to st. john's wood. the people stared at the great red-faced giant, who paused against the lamp-post irresolute, biting his upper lip till the blood came. how would they have stared if they had seen what i see.[ ] there were two angels in the street that wretched winter afternoon, who had followed lord ascot in his headlong course, and paused here. he could see them but dimly, or only guess at their existence, but i can see them plainly enough. one was a white angel, beautiful to look at, who stood a little way off, beckoning to him, and pointing towards lord saltire's house; and the other was black, with its face hid in a hood, who was close beside him, and kept saying in his ear, "half a million! half a million!" a strange apparition in curzon street, at four o'clock on a january afternoon! if you search the files of the papers at this period, you will find no notice of any remarkable atmospheric phenomena in curzon street that afternoon. but two angels were there, nevertheless, and lord ascot had a dim suspicion of it. a dim suspicion of it! how could it be otherwise, when he heard a voice in one ear repeating lady ascot's last words, "what can save you from the terrible hereafter?" and in the other the stealthy whisper of the fiend, "half a million! half a million!" he paused, only for a moment, and then headed northward again. the black angel was at his ear, but the white one was close to him--so close, that when his own door opened, the three passed in together. adelaide, standing under the chandelier in the hall, saw nothing of the two spirits; only her husband, scowling fiercely. she was going upstairs to dress, but she paused. as soon as lord ascot's "confidential scoundrel," before mentioned, had left the hall, she came up to him, and in a whisper, for she knew the man was listening, said: "what is the matter, welter?" he looked as if he would have pushed her out of the way. but he did not. he said: "i have seen charles ravenshoe." "when?" "to-night." "good god! then it is almost a matter of time with us," said adelaide. "i had a dim suspicion of this, ascot. it is horrible. we are ruined." "not yet," said lord ascot. "there is time--time. he is obstinate and mad. lord saltire might die----" "well?" "either of them," she hissed out. "is there no----" "no what?" "there is half a million of money," said adelaide. "well?" "all sorts of things happen to people." lord ascot looked at her for an instant, and snarled out a curse at her. john marston was perfectly right. he was a savage, untameable blackguard. he went upstairs into his bedroom. the two angels were with him. they are with all of us at such times as these. there is no plagiarism here. the fact is too old for that. up and down, up and down. the bedroom was not long enough; so he opened the door of the dressing-room; and that was not long enough; and so he opened the door of what had been the nursery in a happier household than his; and walked up and down through them all. and adelaide sat below, before a single candle, with pale face and clenched lips, listening to his footfall on the floor above. she knew as well as if an angel had told her what was passing in his mind as he walked up and down. she had foreseen this crisis plainly--you may laugh at me, but she had. she had seen that if, by any wild conjunction of circumstances, charles ravenshoe were alive, and if he were to come across him before lord saltire's death, events would arrange themselves exactly as they were doing on this terrible evening. there was something awfully strange in the realisation of her morbid suspicions. yes, she had seen thus far, and had laughed at herself for entertaining such mad fancies. but she had seen no further. what the upshot would be was hidden from her like a dark veil, black and impenetrable as the fog which was hanging over waterloo bridge at that moment, which made the squalid figure of a young, desperate girl show like a pale, fluttering ghost, leading a man whom we know well, a man who followed her, on the road to--what? the rest, though, seemed to be, in some sort, in her own hands. wealth, position in the world, the power of driving her chariot over the necks of those who had scorned her--the only things for which her worthless heart cared--were all at stake. "he will murder me," she said, "_but he shall hear me_." still, up and down, over head, his heavy footfall went to and fro. seldom, in any man's life, comes such a trial as his this night. a good man might have been hard tried in such circumstances. what hope can we have of a desperate blackguard like lord ascot? he knew lord saltire hated him; he knew that lord saltire had only left his property to him because he thought charles ravenshoe was dead; and yet he hesitated whether or no he should tell lord saltire that he had seen charles, and ruin himself utterly. was he such an utter rascal as john marston made him out? would such a rascal have hesitated long? what could make a man without a character, without principle, without a care about the world's opinion, hesitate at such a time as this? i cannot tell you. he was not used to think about things logically or calmly: and so, as he paced up and down, it was some time before he actually arranged his thoughts. then he came to this conclusion, and put it fairly before him--that, if he let lord saltire know that charles ravenshoe was alive, he was ruined; and that, if he did not, he was a villain. let us give the poor profligate wretch credit for getting even so far as this. there was no attempt to gloss over the facts, and deceive himself. he put the whole matter honestly before him. he would be a fool if he told lord saltire. he would be worse than a fool, a madman--there was no doubt about that. it was not to be thought about. but charles ravenshoe! how pale the dear old lad looked. what a kind, gentle old face it was. how well he could remember the first time he ever saw him. at twyford, yes; and, that very same visit, how he ran across the billiard-room, and asked him who lord saltire was. yes. what jolly times there were down in devonshire, too. those claycomb hounds wanted pace, but they were full fast enough for the country. and what a pottering old rascal charley was among the stone walls. rode through. yes. and how he'd mow over a woodcock. fire slap through a holly bush. ha! and suppose they proved this previous marriage. why, then he would be back at ravenshoe, and all things would be as they were. but suppose they couldn't---- lord ascot did not know that eighty thousand pounds were secured to charles. by gad! it was horrible to think of. that it should be thrown on him, of all men, to stand between old charley and his due. if it were any other man but him---- reader, if you do not know that a man will act from "sentiment" long, long years after he has thrown "principle" to the winds, you had better pack up your portmanteau, and go and live five years or more among australian convicts and american rowdies, as a friend of mine did. the one long outlives the other. the incarnate devils who beat out poor price's brains with their shovels, when they had the gallows before them, consistently perjured themselves in favour of the youngest of the seven, the young fiend who had hounded them on. why there never was such a good fellow as that charley. that easter vacation--hey! among the bargees, hang it, what a game it was----i won't follow out his recollections here any further. skittle-playing and fighting are all very well; but one may have too much of them. "i might still do this," thought lord ascot: "i might----" at this moment he was opposite the dressing-room door. it was opened, and adelaide stood before him. beautiful and terrible, with a look which her husband had, as yet, only seen shadowed dimly--a look which he felt might come there some day, but which he had never seen yet. the light of her solitary candle shone upon her pale face, her gleaming eyes, and her clenched lip; and he saw what was written there, and for one moment quailed. ("if you were to say to me," said lord hainault once, "that charles would be unwise to let ascot's wife make his gruel for him, i should agree with you.") only for one moment! then he turned on her and cursed her. "what, in the name of hell, do you want here at this moment?" "you may murder me if you like, ascot; but, before you have time to do that, you shall hear what i have got to say. i have been listening to your footsteps for a weary hour, and i heard irresolution in every one of them. ascot, don't be a madman!" "i shall be soon, if you come at such a time as this, and look like that. if my face were to take the same expression as yours has now, lady ascot, these would be dangerous quarters for you." "i know that," said she. "i knew all that before i came up here to-night, ascot. ascot, half a million of money----" "why, all the devils in the pit have been singing that tune for an hour past. have you only endangered your life to add your little pipe to theirs?" "i have. won't you hear me?" "no. go away." "are you going to do it." "most likely not. you had better go away." "you might give him a hundred thousand pounds, you know, ascot. four thousand a year. the poor dear fellow would worship you for your generosity. he is a very good fellow, ascot." "you had better go away," said he, quietly. "not without a promise, ascot. think----" "now go away. this is the last warning i give you. madwoman!" "but, ascot----" "take care; it will be too late for both of us in another moment." she caught his eye for the first time, and fled for her life. she ran down into the drawing-room, and threw herself into a chair. "god preserve me!" she said; "i have gone too far with him. oh, this lonely house!" every drop of blood in her body seemed to fly to her heart. there were footsteps outside the door. oh, god! have mercy on her; he was following her. where were the two angels now, i wonder? he opened the door, and came towards her slowly. if mortal agony can atone for sin, she atoned for all her sins in that terrible half-minute. she did not cry out; she dared not; she writhed down among the gaudy cushions, with her face buried in her hands, and waited--for what? she heard a voice speaking to her. it was not his voice, but the kind voice of old lord ascot, his dead father. it said-- "adelaide, my poor girl, you must not get frightened when i get in a passion. my poor child, you have borne enough for me; i would not hurt a hair of your head." he kissed her cheek, and adelaide burst into a passion of sobs. after a few moments those sobs had ceased, and lord ascot left her. he did not know that she had fainted away. she never told him that. where were the angels now? angels!--there was but one of them left. which one was that, think you? hurrah! the good angel. the black fiend with the hood had sneaked away to his torment. and, as lord ascot closed the door behind him, and sped away down the foggy street, the good one vanished too; for the work was done. ten thousand fiends would not turn him from his purpose now. hurrah! * * * * * "simpson," said lord saltire, as he got into bed that evening, "it won't last much longer." "what will not last, my lord?" said simpson. "why, me," said lord saltire, disregarding grammar. "don't set up a greengrocer's shop, simpson, nor a butter and egg shop, in berkeley street, if you can help it, simpson. if you must keep a lodging-house, i should say jermyn street; but don't let me influence you. i am not sure that i wouldn't sooner see you in brook street, or conduit street. but don't try pall mall, that's a good fellow; or you'll be getting fast men, who will demoralise your establishment. a steady connection among government clerks, and that sort of person, will pay best in the long run." "my dear lord--my good old friend, why should you talk like this to-night?" "because i am very ill, simpson, and it will all come at once; and it may come any time. when they open lord barkham's room, at cottingdean, i should like you and mr. marston to go in first, for i may have left something or another about." an hour or two after, his bell rang, and simpson, who was in the dressing-room, came hurriedly in. he was sitting up in bed, looking just the same as usual. "my good fellow," he said, "go down and find out who rung and knocked at the door like that. did you hear it?" "i did not notice it, my lord." "butchers, and bakers, and that sort of people, don't knock and ring like that. the man at the door now brings news, simpson. there is no mistake about the ring of a man who comes with important intelligence. go down and see." he was not long gone. when he came back again, he said-- "it is lord ascot, my lord. he insists on seeing you immediately." "up with him, simpson--up with him, my good fellow. i told you so. this gets interesting." lord ascot was already in the doorway. lord saltire's brain was as acute as ever; and as lord ascot approached him, he peered eagerly and curiously at him, in the same way as one scrutinises the seal of an unopened letter, and wonders what its contents may be. lord ascot sat down by the bed, and whispered to the old man; and, when simpson saw his great coarse, red, hairless, ruffianly face actually touching that of lord saltire, so delicate, so refined, so keen, simpson began to have a dim suspicion that he was looking on rather a remarkable sight. and so he was. "lord saltire," said lord ascot, "i have seen charles ravenshoe to-night." "you are quite sure?" "i am quite sure." "ha! ring the bell, simpson." before any one had spoken again, a footman was in the room. "bring the major-domo here instantly," said lord saltire. "you know what you have done, ascot," said lord saltire. "you see what you have done. i am going to send for my solicitor, and alter my will." "of course you are," said lord ascot. "do you dream i did not know that before i came here?" "and yet you came?" "yes; with all the devils out of hell dragging me back." "as a matter of curiosity, why?" said lord saltire. "oh, i couldn't do it, you know. i've done a good many dirty things; but i couldn't do that, particularly to that man. there are some things a fellow can't do, you know." "where did you see him?" "at the groom's arms, belgrave mews; he was there not three hours ago. find a man called sloane, a horse-dealer; he will tell you all about him; for he was sitting with his hand on his shoulder. his address is twenty-seven, new road." at this time the major-domo appeared. "take a cab at once, and _fetch_ me--you understand when i say _fetch_--mr. brogden, my solicitor. mr. compton lives out of town, but he lives over the office in lincoln's inn. if you can get hold of the senior partner, he will do as well. put either of them in a cab, and pack them off here. then go to scotland yard; give my compliments to inspector field; tell him a horrible murder has been committed, accompanied by arson, forgery, and regrating, with a strong suspicion of sorning, and that he must come at once." that venerable gentleman disappeared, and then lord saltire said-- "do you repent, ascot?" "no," said he. "d---- it all, you know, i could not do it when i came to think of it. the money would never have stayed with me, i take it. good-night." "good-night," said lord saltire; "come the first thing in the morning." and so they parted. simpson said, "are you going to alter your will to-night, my lord? won't it be a little too much for you?" "it would be if i was going to do so, simpson; but i am not going to touch a line of it. i am not sure that half a million of money was ever, in the history of the world, given up with better grace or with less reason. he is a noble fellow; i never guessed it; he shall have it--by jove, he shall have it! i am going to sleep. apologise to brogden, and give the information to field; tell him i expect charles ravenshoe here to-morrow morning. good-night." simpson came in to open the shutters next morning; but those shutters were not opened for ten days, for lord saltire was dead. dead. the delicate waxen right hand, covered with rings, was lying outside on the snow-white sheet, which was unwrinkled by any death agony; and on the pillow was a face, beautiful always, but now more beautiful, more calm, more majestic than ever. if his first love, dead so many years, had met him in the streets but yesterday, she would not have known him; but if she could have looked one moment on the face which lay on that pillow, she would have seen once more the gallant young nobleman who came a-wooing under the lime-trees sixty years agone. the inspector was rapid and dexterous in his work. he was on charles ravenshoe's trail like a bloodhound, eager to redeem the credit which his coadjutor, yard, had lost over the same case. but his instructions came to him three hours too late. chapter lx. the bridge at last. the group which lord ascot had seen through the glass doors consisted of charles, the coachman's son, the coachman, and mr. sloane. charles and the coachman's son had got hold of a plan of the battle of balaclava, from the _illustrated london news_, and were explaining the whole thing to the two older men, to their great delight. the four got enthusiastic and prolonged the talk for some time; and, when it began to flag, sloane said he must go home, and so they came down into the bar. here a discussion arose about the feeding of cavalry horses, in which all four were perfectly competent to take part. the two young men were opposed in argument to the two elder ones, and they were having a right pleasant chatter about the corn or hay question in the bar, when the swing doors were pushed open, and a girl entered and looked round with that bold, insolent expression one only sees among a certain class. a tawdry draggled-looking girl, finely-enough dressed, but with everything awry and dirty. her face was still almost beautiful; but the cheekbones were terribly prominent, and the hectic patch of red on her cheeks, and the parched cracked lips, told of pneumonia developing into consumption. such a figure had probably never appeared in that decent aristocratic public-house, called the groom's arms, since it had got its licence. the four men ceased their argument and turned to look at her; and the coachman, a family man with daughters, said, "poor thing!" with a brazen, defiant look she advanced to the bar. the barmaid, a very beautiful, quiet-looking, london-bred girl, advanced towards her, frightened at such a wild, tawdry apparition, and asked her mechanically what she would please to take. "i don't want nothing to drink, miss," said the girl; "least-ways, i've got no money; but i want to ask a question. i say, miss, you couldn't give a poor girl one of them sandwiches, could you? you would never miss it, you know." the barmaid's father, the jolly landlord, eighteen stone of good humour, was behind his daughter now. "give her a porkpie, jane, and a glass of ale, my girl." "god almighty bless you, sir, and keep her from the dark places where the devil lies a-waiting. i didn't come here to beg--it was only when i see them sandwiches that it came over me--i come here to ask a question. i know it ain't no use. but you can't see him--can't see him--can't see him," she continued, sobbing wildly, "rattling his poor soul away, and not do as he asked you. i didn't come to get out for a walk. i sat there patient three days, and would have sat there till the end, but he would have me come. and so i came; and i must get back--get back." the landlord's daughter brought her some food, and as her eyes gleamed with wolfish hunger, she stopped speaking. it was a strange group. she in the centre, tearing at her food in a way terrible to see. behind, the calm face of the landlord, looking on her with pity and wonder; and his pretty daughter, with her arm round his waist, and her head on his bosom, with tears in her eyes. our four friends stood to the right, silent and curious--a remarkable group enough; for neither the duke's coachman, nor mr. sloane, who formed the background, were exactly ordinary-looking men; and in front of them were charles and the coachman's son, who had put his hand on charles's right shoulder, and was peering over his left at the poor girl, so that the two faces were close together--the one handsome and pale, with the mouth hidden by a moustache; the other, charles's, wan and wild, with the lips parted in eager curiosity, and the chin thrust slightly forward. in a few minutes the girl looked round on them. "i said i'd come here to ask a question; and i must ask it and get back. there was a gentleman's groom used to use this house, and i want him. his name was charles horton. if you, sir, or if any of these gentlemen, know where i can find him, in god almighty's name tell me this miserable night." charles was pale before, but he grew more deadly pale now; his heart told him something was coming. his comrade, the coachman's son, held his hand tighter still on his shoulder, and looked in his face. sloane and the coachman made an exclamation. charles said quietly, "my poor girl, i am the man you are looking for. what, in god's name, do you want with me?" and, while he waited for her to answer, he felt all the blood in his body going towards his heart. "little enough," she said. "do you mind a little shoeblack boy as used to stand by st. peter's church?" "do i?" said charles, coming towards her. "yes, i do. my poor little lad. you don't mean to say that you know anything about him?" "i am his sister, sir; and he is dying; and he says he won't die not till you come. and i come off to see if i could find you. will you come with me and see him?" "will i come?" said charles. "let us go at once. my poor little monkey. dying, too!" "poor little man," said the coachman. "a many times, i've heard you speak of him. let's all go." mr. sloane and his son seconded this motion. "you mustn't come," said the girl. "there's a awful row in the court to-night; that's the truth. he's safe enough with me; but if you come, they'll think a mob's being raised. now, don't talk of coming." "you had better let me go alone," said charles. "i feel sure that it would not be right for more of us to follow this poor girl than she chooses. i am ready." and so he followed the girl out into the darkness; and, as soon as they were outside, she turned and said to him-- "you'd best follow me from a distance. i'll tell you why; i expect the police wants me, and you might get into trouble from being with me. remember, if i am took, it's marquis court, little marjoram street, and it's the end house, exactly opposite you as you go in. if you stands at the archway, and sings out for miss ophelia flanigan, she'll come to you. but if the row ain't over, you wait till they're quiet. whatever you do, don't venture in by yourself, however quiet it may look; sing out for her." and so she fluttered away through the fog, and he followed, walking fast to keep her in sight. it was a dreadful night. the fog had lifted, and a moaning wind had arisen, with rain from the south-west. a wild, dripping, melancholy night, without rain enough to make one think of physical discomfort, and without wind enough to excite one. the shoeblacks and the crossing-sweepers were shouldering their brooms and their boxes, and were plodding homewards. the costermongers were letting their barrows stand in front of the public-houses, while they went in to get something to drink, and were discussing the price of vegetables, and being fetched out by dripping policemen, for obstructing her majesty's highway. the beggars were gathering their rags together, and posting homewards; let us charitably suppose, to their bit of fish, with guinea-fowl and sea-kale afterwards, or possibly, for it was not late in february, to their boiled pheasant and celery sauce. every one was bound for shelter but the policemen. and charles--poor, silly, obstinate charles, with an earl's fortune waiting for him, dressed as a groom, pale, wan, and desperate--was following a ruined girl, more desperate even than he, towards the bridge. yes; this is the darkest part of my whole story. since his misfortunes he had let his mind dwell a little too much on these bridges. there are very few men without a cobweb of some sort in their heads, more or less innocent. charles had a cobweb in his head now. the best of men might have a cobweb in his head after such a terrible breakdown in his affairs as he had suffered; more especially if he had three or four splinters of bone in his deltoid muscle, which had prevented his sleeping for three nights. but i would sooner that any friend of mine should at such times take to any form of folly (such even as having fifty french clocks in the room, and discharging the butler if they did not all strike at once, as one good officer and brave fellow did) rather than get to thinking about bridges after dark, with the foul water lapping and swirling about the piers. i have hinted to you about this crotchet of poor charles for a long time; i was forced to do so. i think the less we say about it the better. i call you to witness that i have not said more about it than was necessary. at the end of arabella row, the girl stopped, and looked back for him. the mews' clock was overhead, a broad orb of light in the dark sky. ten minutes past ten. lord ascot was sitting beside lord saltire's bed, and lord saltire had rung the bell to send for inspector field. she went on, and he followed her along the mall. she walked fast, and he had hard work to keep her in sight. he saw her plainly enough whenever she passed a lamp. her shadow was suddenly thrown at his feet, and then swept in a circle to the right, till it overtook her, and then passed her, and grew dim till she came to another lamp, and then came back to his feet, and passed on to her again, beckoning him on to follow her, and leading her--whither? how many lamps were there? one, two, three, four; and then a man lying asleep on a bench in the rain, who said, with a wild, wan face, when the policeman roused him, and told him to go home, "my home is in the thames, friend; but i shall not go there to-night, or perhaps to-morrow." "his home was in the thames." the thames, the dear old happy river. the wonder and delight of his boyhood. that was the river that slept in crystal green depths, under the tumbled boulders fallen from the chalk cliff, where the ivy, the oak, and the holly grew; and then went spouting, and raging, and roaring through the weirs at casterton, where he and welter used to bathe, and where he lay and watched kind lord ascot spinning patiently through one summer afternoon, till he killed the eight-pound trout at sundown. that was the dear old thames. but that was fifty miles up the river, and ages ago. now, and here, the river had got foul, and lapped about hungrily among piles, and barges, and the buttresses of bridges. and lower down it ran among mud banks. and there was a picture of one of them, by dear old h. k. browne, and you didn't see at first what it was that lay among the sedges, because the face was reversed, and the limbs were---- they passed in the same order through spring gardens into the strand. and then charles found it more troublesome than ever to follow the poor girl in her rapid walk. there were so many like her there: but she walked faster than any of them. before he came to the street which leads to waterloo bridge, he thought he had lost her; but when he turned the corner; and as the dank wind smote upon his face, he came upon her, waiting for him. and so they went on across the bridge. they walked together now. was she frightened, too? when they reached the other end of the bridge, she went on again to show the way. a long way on past the waterloo station, she turned to the left. they passed out of a broad, low, noisy street, into other streets, some quiet, some turbulent, some blazing with the gas of miserable shops, some dark and stealthy, with only one or two figures in them, which disappeared round corners, or got into dark archways as they passed. charles saw that they were getting into "queer street." how that poor gaudy figure fluttered on! how it paused at each turning to look back for him, and then fluttered on once more! what innumerable turnings there were! how should he ever find his way back--back to the bridge? at last she turned into a street of greengrocers, and marine-store keepers, in which the people were all at their house doors looking out; all looking in one direction, and talking so earnestly to one another, that even his top-boots escaped notice: which struck him as being remarkable, as nearly all the way from waterloo bridge a majority of the populace had criticised them, either ironically; or openly, in an unfavourable manner. he thought they were looking at a fire, and turned his head in the same direction; he only saw the poor girl, standing at the mouth of a narrow entry, watching for him. he came up to her. a little way down a dark alley was an archway, and beyond there were lights, and a noise of a great many people shouting, and talking, and screaming. the girl stole on, followed by charles a few steps, and then drew suddenly back. the whole of the alley, and the dark archway beyond, was lined with policemen. a brisk-looking, middle-sized man, with intensely black scanty whiskers, stepped out, and stood before them. charles saw at once that it was the inspector of police. "now then, young woman," he said sharply, "what are you bringing that young man here for, eh?" she was obliged to come forward. she began wringing her hands. "mr. inspector," she said, "sir, i wish i may be struck dead, sir, if i don't tell the truth. it's my poor little brother, sir. he's a dying in number eight, sir, and he sent for this young man for to see him, sir. oh! don't stop us, sir. s'elp me----" "pish!" said the inspector; "what the devil is the use of talking this nonsense to me? as for you, young man, you march back home double quick. you've no business here. it's seldom we see a gentleman's servant in such company in this part of the town." "pooh! pooh! my good sir," said charles; "stuff and nonsense. don't assume that tone with me, if you will have the goodness. what the young woman says is perfectly correct. if you can assist me to get to that house at the further end of the court, where the poor boy lies dying, i shall be obliged to you. if you can't, don't express an opinion without being in possession of circumstances. you may detain the girl, but i am going on. you don't know who you are talking to." how the old oxford insolence flashed out even at the last. the inspector drew back and bowed. "i must do my duty, sir. dickson!" dickson, in whose beat the court was, as he knew by many a sore bone in his body, came forward. he said, "well, sir, i won't deny that the young woman is bess, and perhaps she may be on the cross, and i don't go to say that what with flimping, and with cly-faking, and such like, she mayn't be wanted some day like her brother the nipper was; but she is a good young woman, and a honest young woman in her way, and what she says this night about her brother is gospel truth." "flimping" is a style of theft which i have never practised, and, consequently, of which i know nothing. "cly-faking" is stealing pocket-handkerchiefs. i never practised this either, never having had sufficient courage or dexterity. but, at all events, police-constable dickson's notion of "an honest young woman in her way" seems to me to be confused and unsatisfactory in the last degree. the inspector said to charles, "sir, if gentlemen disguise themselves they must expect the police to be somewhat at fault till they open their mouths. allow me to say, sir, that in putting on your servant's clothes you have done the most foolish thing you possibly could. you are on an errand of mercy, it appears, and i will do what i can for you. there's a doctor and a scripture reader somewhere in the court now, so our people say. _they_ can't get out. i don't think you have much chance of getting in." "by jove!" said charles, "do you know that you are a deuced good fellow? i am sorry that i was rude to you, but i am in trouble, and irritated. i hope you'll forgive me." "not another word, sir," said the inspector. "come and look here, sir. you may never see such a sight again. _our_ people daren't go in. this, sir, is, i believe, about the worst court in london." "i thought," said charles, quite forgetting his top-boots, and speaking, "_de haut en bas_" as in old times--"i thought that your rosemary lane carried off the palm as being a lively neighbourhood." "lord bless you," said the inspector, "nothing to this;--look here." they advanced to the end of the arch, and looked in. it was as still as death, but it was as light as day, for there were candles burning in every window. "why," said charles, "the court is empty. i can run across. let me go; i am certain i can get across." "don't be a lunatic, sir;" said the inspector, holding him tight; "wait till i give you the word, unless you want six months in guy's hospital." charles soon saw the inspector was right. there were three houses on each side of the court. the centre one on the right was a very large one, which was approached on each side by a flight of three steps, guarded by iron railings, which, in meeting, formed a kind of platform or rostrum. this was mr. malone's house, whose wife chose, for family reasons, to call herself miss ophelia flanigan. the court was silent and hushed, when, from the door exactly opposite to this one, there appeared a tall and rather handsome young man, with a great frieze coat under one arm, and a fire-shovel over his shoulder. this was mr. dennis moriarty, junior. he advanced to the arch, so close to charles and the inspector that they could have touched him, and then walked down the centre of the court, dragging the coat behind him, lifting his heels defiantly high at every step, and dexterously beating a "chune on the bare head of um wid the fire-shovel. hurroo!" he had advanced half-way down the court without a soul appearing, when suddenly the enemy poured out on him in two columns, from behind two doorways, and he was borne back, fighting like a hero with his fire-shovel, into one of the doors on his own side of the court. the two columns of the enemy, headed by mr. phelim o'neill, uniting, poured into the doorway after him, and from the interior of the house arose a hubbub, exactly as though people were fighting on the stairs. at this point there happened one of those mistakes which so often occur in warfare, which are disastrous at the time, and inexplicable afterwards. can any one explain why lord lucan gave that order at balaclava? no. can any one explain to me why, on this occasion, mr. phelim o'neill headed the attack on the staircase in person, leaving his rear struggling in confusion in the court, by reason of their hearing the fun going on inside, and not being able to get at it? i think not. such was the case, however, and, in the midst of it, mr. malone, howling like a demon, and horribly drunk, followed by thirty or forty worse than himself, dashed out of a doorway close by, and before they had time to form line of battle, fell upon them hammer and tongs. i need not say that after this surprise in the rear, mr. phelim o'neill's party had very much the worst of it. in about ten minutes, however, the two parties were standing opposite one another once more, inactive from sheer fatigue. at this moment miss ophelia flanigan appeared from the door of no. --the very house that poor charles was so anxious to get to--and slowly and majestically advanced towards the rostrum in front of her own door, and ascending the steps, folded her arms and looked about her. she was an uncommonly powerful, red-faced irishwoman; her arms were bare, and she had them akimbo, and was scratching her elbows. every schoolboy knows that the lion has a claw at the end of his tail with which he lashes himself into fury. when the experienced hunter sees him doing that, he, so to speak, "hooks it." when miss flanigan's enemies saw her scratching her elbows, they generally did the same. she was scratching her elbows now. there was a dead silence. one woman in that court, and one only, ever offered battle to the terrible miss ophelia: that was young mrs. phaylim o'nale. on the present occasion she began slowly walking up and down in front of the expectant hosts. while miss flanigan looked on in contemptuous pity, scratching her elbows, mrs. o'neill opened her fire. "pussey, pussey!" she began, "kitty, kitty, kitty! miaow, miaow!" (mr. malone had accumulated property in the cat's meat business.) "morraow, ye little tabby divvle, don't come anighst her, my kitleen avourneen, or yill be convarted into sassidge mate, and sowld to keep a drunken one-eyed old rapparee, from the county cark, as had two months for bowling his barrer sharp round the corner of park lane over a ould gineral officer, in a white hat and a green silk umbereller; and as married a red-haired woman from the county waterford, as calls herself by her maiden name, and never feels up to fighting but when the licker's in her, which it most in general is, pussey; and let me see the one of malone's lot or moriarty's lot ather, for that matter, as will deny it. miaow!" miss ophelia flanigan blew her nose contemptuously. some of the low characters in the court had picked her pocket. mrs. o'neill quickened her pace and raised her voice. she was beginning again, when the poor girl who was with charles ran into the court and cried out, "miss flanigan! i have brought him; miss flanigan!" in a moment the contemptuous expression faded from miss flanigan's face. she came down off the steps and advanced rapidly towards where charles stood. as she passed mrs. o'neill she said, "whist now, biddy o'nale, me darlin. i ain't up to a shindy to-night. ye know the rayson." and mrs. o'neill said, "ye're a good woman, ophelia. sorra a one of me would have loosed tongue on ye this night, only i thought it might cheer ye up a bit after yer watching. don't take notice of me, that's a dear." miss flanigan went up to charles, and, taking him by the arm, walked with him across the court. it was whispered rapidly that this was the young man who had been sent for to see little billy wilkins, who was dying in no. . charles was as safe as if he had been in the centre of a square of the guards. as he went into the door, they gave him a cheer; and, when the door closed behind him, they went on with their fighting again. charles found himself in a squalid room, about which there was nothing remarkable but its meanness and dirt. there were four people there when he came in--a woman asleep by the bed, two gentlemen who stood aloof in the shadow, and the poor little wan and wasted boy in the bed. charles went up and sat by the bed; when the boy saw him he made an effort, rose half up, and threw his arms round his neck. charles put his arm round him and supported him--as strange a pair, i fancy, as you will meet in many long days' marches. "if you would not mind, miss flanigan," said the doctor, "stepping across the court with me, i shall be deeply obliged to you. you, sir, are going to stay a little longer." "yes, sir," said the other gentleman, in a harsh, unpleasant voice; "i shall stay till the end." "you won't have to stay very long, my dear sir," said the doctor. "now, miss flanigan, i am ready. please to call out that the doctor is coming through the court, and that, if any man lays a finger on him, he will exhibit croton and other drastics to him till he wishes he was dead, and after that, throw in quinine till the top of his head comes off. _allons_, my dear madam." with this dreadful threat the doctor departed. the other gentleman, the scripture reader, stayed behind, and sat in a chair in the further corner. the poor mother was sleeping heavily. the poor girl who had brought charles, sat down in a chair and fell asleep with her head on a table. the dying child was gone too far for speech. he tried two or three times, but he only made a rattle in his throat. after a few minutes he took his arms from round charles's neck, and, with a look of anxiety, felt for something by his side. when he found it he smiled, and held it towards charles. well, well; it was only the ball that charles had given him---- charles sat on the bed, and put his left arm round the child, so that the little death's head might lie upon his breast. he took the little hand in his. so they remained. how long? i know not. he only sat there with the hot head against his heart, and thought that a little life, so strangely dear to him, now that all friends were gone, was fast ebbing away, and that he must get home again that night across the bridge. the little hand that he held in his relaxed its grasp, and the boy was dead. he knew it, but he did not move. he sat there still with the dead child in his arms, with a dull terror on him when he thought of his homeward journey across the bridge. some one moved and came towards him. the mother and the girl were still asleep--it was the scripture reader. he came towards charles, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. and charles turned from the dead child, and looked up into his face--into the face of john marston. chapter lxi. saved. with the wailing mother's voice in their ears, those two left the house. the court was quiet enough now. the poor savages who would not stop their riot lest they should disturb the dying, now talked in whispers lest they should awaken the dead. they passed on quickly together. not one word had been uttered between them--not one--but they pushed rapidly through the worst streets to a better part of the town, charles clinging tight to john marston's arm, but silent. when they got to marston's lodgings, charles sat down by the fire, and spoke for the first time. he did not burst out crying, or anything of that sort. he only said quietly-- "john, you have saved me. i should never have got home this night." but john marston, who, by finding charles, had dashed his dearest hopes to the ground, did not take things quite so quietly. did he think of mary now? did he see in a moment that his chance of her was gone? and did he not see that he loved her more deeply than ever? "yes," i answer to all these three questions. how did he behave now? why, he put his hand on charles's shoulder, and he said, "charles, charles, my dear old boy, look up and speak to me in your dear old voice. don't look wild like that. think of mary, my boy. she has been wooed by more than one, charles; but i think that her heart is yours yet." "john," said charles, "that is what has made me hide from you all like this. i know that she loves me above all men. i dreamt of it the night i left ravenshoe. i knew it the night i saw her at lord hainault's. and partly that she should forget a penniless and disgraced man like myself, and partly (for i have been near the gates of hell to-night, john, and can see many things) from a silly pride, i have spent all my cunning on losing myself--hoping that you would believe me dead, thinking that you would love my memory, and dreading lest you should cease to love me." "we loved your memory well enough, charles. you will never know how well, till you see how well we love yourself. we have hunted you hard, charles. how you have contrived to avoid us, i cannot guess. you do not know, i suppose, that you are a rich man?" "a rich man?" "yes. even if lord saltire does not alter his will, you come into three thousand a year. and, besides, you are undoubtedly heir to ravenshoe, though one link is still wanting to prove that." "what do you mean?" "there is no reasonable doubt, although we cannot prove it, that your grandfather petre was married previously to his marriage with lady alicia staunton, that your father james was the real ravenshoe, and that ellen and yourself are the elder children, while poor cuthbert and william----" "cuthbert! does he know of this? i will hide again; i will never displace cuthbert, mind you." "charles, cuthbert will never know anything about it. cuthbert is dead. he was drowned bathing last august." hush! there is something, to me, dreadful in a man's tears. i dare say that it was as well, that night, that the news of cuthbert's death should have made him break down and weep himself into quietness again like a child. i am sure it was for the best. but it is the sort of thing that good taste forbids one to dwell upon or handle too closely. when he was quiet again, john went on: "it seems incredible that you should have been able to elude us so long. the first intelligence we had of you was from lady ascot, who saw you in the park." "lady ascot? i never saw my aunt in the park." "i mean adelaide. she is lady ascot now. lord ascot is dead." "another of them!" said charles. "john, before you go on, tell me how many more are gone." "no more. lady ascot and lord saltire are alive and well. i was with lord saltire to-day, and he was talking of you. he has left the principal part of his property to ascot. but, because none of us would believe you dead, he has made a reservation in your favour of eighty thousand pounds." "i am all abroad," said charles. "how is william?" "he is very well, as he deserves to be. noble fellow! he gave up everything to hunt you through the world like a bloodhound and bring you back. he never ceased his quest till he saw your grave at varna." "at varna!" said charles; "why, we were quartered at devna." "at devna! now, my dear old boy, i am but mortal; do satisfy my curiosity. what regiment did you enlist in?" "in the th." "then how, in the name of all confusion," cried john marston, "did you miss poor hornby?" "i did not miss hornby," said charles, quietly. "i had his head in my lap when he died. but now tell me, how on earth did you come to know anything about him?" "why, ascot told us that you had been his servant. and he came to see us, and joined in the chase with the best of us. how is it that he never sent us any intelligence of you?" "because i never went near him till the film of death was on his eyes. then he knew me again, and said a few words which i can understand now. did he say anything to any of you about ellen?" "about ellen?" "yes. did ascot ever say anything either?" "he told lord saltire, what i suppose you know----" "about what?" "about ellen." "yes, i know it all." "and that he had met you. now tell me what you have been doing." "when i found that there was no chance of my remaining _perdu_ any longer, and when i found that ellen was gone, why, then i enlisted in the th...." he paused here, and hid his face in his hands for some time. when he raised it again his eyes were wilder, and his speech more rapid. "i went out with tom sparks and the roman-nosed bay horse; and we ran a thousand miles in sixty-three hours. and at devna we got wood-pigeons; and the cornet went down and dined with the nd at varna; and i rode the roman-nosed bay, and he carried me through it capitally, i ask your pardon, sir, but i am only a poor discharged trooper. i would not beg, sir, if i could help it; but pain and hunger are hard things to bear, sir." "charles, charles, don't you know me?" "that is my name, sir. that is what they used to call me. i am no common beggar, sir. i was a gentleman once, sir, and rode a-horseback after a blue greyhound, and we went near to kill a black hare. i have a character from lord ascot, sir. i was in the light cavalry charge at balaclava. an angry business. they shouldn't get good fellows to fight together like that. i killed one of them, sir. hornby killed many, and he is a man who wouldn't hurt a fly. a sad business!" "charles, old boy, be quiet." "when you speak to me, sir, of the distinction between the upper and lower classes, i answer you, that i have had some experience in that way of late, and have come to the conclusion that, after all, the gentleman and the cad are one and the same animal. now that i am a ruined man, begging my bread about the streets, i make bold to say to you, sir, hoping that your alms may be none the less for it, that i am not sure that i do not like your cad as well as your gentleman, in his way. if i play on the one side such cards as my foster-brother william and tom sparks, you, of course, trump me with john marston and the cornet. you are right; but they are all four good fellows. i have been to death's gate to learn it. i will resume my narrative. at devna the cornet, besides wood-pigeons, shot a francolin----" it is just as well that this sort of thing did not come on when charles was going home alone across the bridge; that is all i wished to call your attention to. the next morning, lord and lady hainault, old lady ascot, william, mary, and father tiernay, were round his bed, watching the hot head rolling from side to side upon the pillow, and listening to his half-uttered delirious babble, gazing with a feeling almost of curiosity at the well-loved face which had eluded them so long. "oh, hainault! hainault!" said lady ascot, "to find him like this after all! and saltire dead without seeing him! and all my fault, my fault. i am a wicked old woman; god forgive me!" lord hainault got the greatest of the doctors into a corner, and said:-- "my dear dr. b----, will he die?" "well, yes," said the doctor; "to you i would sooner say yes than no, the chances are so heavy against him. the surgeons like the look of things still less than the physicians. you must really prepare for the worst." chapter lxii. mr. jackson's big trout. of course, he did not die; i need not tell you that. b---- and p. h---- pulled him through, and shook their honest hands over his bed. poor b---- is reported to have winked on this occasion; but such a proceeding was so unlike him, that i believe the report must have come round to us through one of the american papers--probably the same one which represented the prince of wales hitting the duke of newcastle in the eye with a champagne cork. however, they pulled him through; and, in the pleasant spring-time, he was carried down to casterton. things had gone so hard with him, that the primroses were in blossom on the southern banks before he knew that lord saltire was dead, and before he could be made to understand that he was a rich man. from this much of the story we may safely deduce this moral, "that, if a young gentleman gets into difficulties, it is always as well for him to leave his address with his friends." but, as young gentlemen in difficulties generally take particularly good care to remind their friends of their whereabouts, it follows that this story has been written to little or no purpose. unless, indeed, the reader can find for himself another moral or two; and i am fool enough to fancy that he may do that, if he cares to take the trouble. casterton is built on arches, with all sorts of offices and kitchens under what would naturally be the ground floor. the reason why casterton was built on arches (that is to say, as far as you and i are concerned) is this: that charles, lying on the sofa in lord hainault's study, could look over the valley and see the river; which, if it had been built on the ground, he could not have done. from this window he could see the great weirs spouting and foaming all day; and, when he was carried up to bed, by william and lord hainault, he could hear the roar of them rising and pinking, as the night-wind came and went, until they lulled him to sleep. he lay here one day, when the doctors came down from london. and one of them put a handkerchief over his face, which smelt like chemical experiments, and somehow reminded him of dr. daubeny. and he fell asleep; and when he awoke, he was suffering pain in his left arm--not the old dull grinding pain, but sharper; which gradually grew less as he lay and watched the weirs at casterton. they had removed the splinters of bone from his arm. he did not talk much in this happy quiet time. william and lady ascot were with him all day. william, dear fellow, used to sit on a footstool, between his sofa and the window, and read the _times_ to him. william's education was imperfect, and he read very badly. he would read mr. russell's correspondence till he saw charles's eye grow bright, and heard his breath quicken, and then he would turn to the list of bankrupts. if this was too sad he would go on to the share list, and pound away at that, till charles went to sleep, which he generally did pretty quickly. about this time--that is to say, well in the spring--charles asked two questions:--the first was, whether or no he might have the window open; the next, whether lord hainault would lend him an opera-glass? both were answered in the affirmative. the window was opened, and lord hainault and william came in, bearing, not an opera-glass, but a great brass telescope, on a stand--a thing with an eight-inch object-glass, which had belonged to old lord hainault, who was a cambridge man, and given to such vanities. this was very delightful. he could turn it with a move of his hand on to any part of the weirs, and see almost every snail which crawled on the burdocks. the very first day he saw one of the men from the paper-mill come to the fourth weir, and pull up the paddles to ease the water. the man looked stealthily around, and then raised a wheel from below the apron, full of spawning perch. and this was close time! oho! then, a few days after, came a tall, grey-headed gentleman, spinning a bleak for trout, who had with him a lad in top-boots, with a landing-net. and this gentleman sent his bait flying out here and there across the water, and rattled his line rapidly into the palm of his hand in a ball, like a consummate master, as he was. (king among fishermen, prince among gentlemen, you will read these lines, and you will be so good as to understand that i am talking of you.) and this gentleman spun all day and caught nothing. but he came the next day to the same place, and spun again. the great full south-westerly wind was roaring up the valley, singing among the budding trees, and carrying the dark, low, rainless clouds swiftly before it. at two, just as lady ascot and william had gone to lunch, and after charles had taken his soup and a glass of wine, he, lying there, and watching this gentleman diligently, saw his rod bend, and his line tighten. the lad in the top-boots and the landing-net leaped up from where he lay; there was no doubt about it now. the old gentleman had got hold of a fish, and a big one. the next twenty minutes were terrible. the old gentleman gave him the but, and moved slowly down along the camp-shuting, and charles followed him with the telescope, although his hand was shaking with excitement. after a time, the old gentleman began to wind up his reel, and then the lad, top-boots, and the landing-net, and all, slipped over the camp-shooting (will anybody tell me how to spell that word? _camps-heading_ won't do, my dear sir, all things considered), and lifted the fish (he was nine pound) up among the burdocks at the old gentleman's feet. charles had the whole group in the telescope--the old gentleman, the great trout, and the dripping lad, taking off his boots, and emptying the water out of them. but the old gentleman was looking to his right at somebody who was coming, and immediately there came into the field of the telescope a tall man in a velvet coat, with knee-breeches and gaiters, and directly afterwards, from the other side, three children and a young lady. the gentleman in the knee-breeches bowed to the young lady, and then they all stood looking at the trout. charles could see them quite plainly. the gentleman in velveteen and small-clothes was lord ascot, and the young lady was mary. he did not look through the telescope any more; he lay back, and tried to think. presently afterwards old lady ascot came in, and settled herself in the window, with her knitting. "my dear," she said, "i wonder if i fidget you with my knitting-needles? tell me if i do, for i have plenty of other work." "not at all, dear aunt; i like it. you did nineteen rows this morning, and you would have done twenty-two if you had not dropped a stitch. when i get stronger i shall take to it myself. there would be too much excitement and over-exertion in it for me to begin just now." lady ascot laughed; she was glad to see him trying even such a feeble joke. she said-- "my dear, mr. jackson has killed a trout in the weirs just now, nine pounds." "i know," said charles; "i did not know the weight, but i saw the fish. aunt, where is welter--i mean, ascot?" "well, he is at ranford. i suppose you know, my dear boy, that poor james left him nearly all his fortune. nearly five hundred thousand pounds' worth, with cottingdean and marksworth together. all the ranford mortgages are paid off, and he is going on very well, my dear. i think they ought to give him his marquisate. james might have had it ten times over, of course, but he used to say, that he had made himself the most notorious viscount in england, and that if he took an earldom, people would forget who he was." "i wish he would come to see me, aunt. i am very fond of welter." i can't help it; he said so. remember how near death's door he had been. think what he had been through. how he had been degraded, and kicked about from pillar to post, like an old shoe; and also remember the state he was in when he said it. i firmly believe that he had at this time forgotten everything, and that he only remembered lord ascot as his old boy love, and his jolly college companion. you must make the best of it, or the worst of it for him, as you are inclined. he said so. and in a very short time lady ascot found that she wanted some more wool, and hobbled away to get it. after a time, charles heard a man come into the room. he thought it was william; but it was not. this man came round the end of the sofa, and stood in the window before him. lord ascot. he was dressed as we know, having looked through charles's telescope, in a velveteen coat, with knee breeches and leathern gaiters. there was not much change in him since the old times; only his broad, hairless face seemed redder, his lower jaw seemed coarser and more prominent, his great eyebrows seemed more lowering, his vast chest seemed broader and deeper, and altogether he looked rather more like a mighty, coarse, turbulent blackguard than ever. "well, old cock," he said, "so you are on your back, hey?" "welter," said charles, "i am so glad to see you again. if you would help me up, i should like to look at you." "poor old boy," said lord ascot, putting his great arm round him, and raising him. "so! there you are, my pippin. what a good old fellow you are, by gad! so you were one of the immortal six hundred, hey? i thought you would turn up somewhere in queer street, with that infernal old hook nose of yours. i wish i had taken to that sort of thing, for i am fond of fighting. i think, now i am rich and respectable, i shall subsidise a prize-fighter to pitch into me once a fortnight. i wish i had been respectable enough for the army; but i should always have been in trouble with the commander-in-chief for dicing and brawling, i suppose. well, old man, i am devilish glad to see you again. i am in possession of money which should have been yours. i did all i could for you, charles; you will never know how much. i tried to repair the awful wrong i did you unconsciously. i did a thing in your favour i tremble to think of now, but which, god help me, i would do again. you don't know what i mean. if old saltire had not died so quick, you would have known." he was referring to his having told lord saltire that he had seen charles. in doing that, remember, he had thought that he was throwing half a million to the winds. i only tell you that he was referring to this, for fear you should not gather it from his own brutal way of speaking. i wonder how the balance will stand against lord ascot at last? who ever could have dreamt that his strong animal affection for his old friend could have led him to make a sacrifice which many a more highly organised man would have evaded, glossing over his conscience by fifty mental subterfuges? "however, my dear fellow," he continued, "it comes to this: i have got the money; i shall have no children; and i shall make no will; therefore it all comes to you, if you outlive me. about the title i can't say. the lawyers must decide about that. no one seems to know whether or not it descends through the female branch. by-the-bye, you are not master of ravenshoe yet, though there seems no doubt that grandma is right, and that the marriage took place. however, whether the estate goes to you or to william, i offer the same advice to both of you: if you get my money, don't spend it in getting the title. you can get into the house of commons easy enough, if you seem to care about that sort of fun; and fellows i know tell me that you get much better amusement there for your money than in the other place. i have never been to the house of lords since the night i took my seat. it struck me as being slow. the fellows say that there is never any chaff, or personalities, or calling to order, or that sort of thing there, which seem to me to be half the fun of the fair. but, of course, you know more about this than i." charles, in a minute, when he had ineffectually tried to understand what lord ascot had been saying, collected his senses sufficiently to say: "welter, old boy, look here, for i am very stupid. why did you say that you should have no children?" "of course i can't; have they told you nothing?" "is adelaide dead, welter?" asked charles, plucking at the buttons of his coat nervously. "they ought to have told you, charles," said lord ascot, turning to the window. "now tell me something. have you any love left for her yet?" "not one spark," said charles, still buttoning and unbuttoning his coat. "if i ever am a man again, i shall ask mary corby to marry me. i ought to have done so sooner, perhaps. but i love your wife, welter, in a way; and i should grieve at her death, for i loved her once. by gad! yes; you know it. when did she die?" "she is not dead, charles." "now, don't keep me like this, old man; i can't stand it. she is no more to me than my sister--not so much. tell me what is the matter at once; it can't be worse than what i think." "the truth is very horrible, charles," said lord ascot, speaking slowly. "she took a fancy that i should buy back her favourite old irish mare, 'molly asthore,' and i bought it for her; and we went out hunting together, and we were making a nick, and i was getting the gate open for her, when the devil rushed it; and down they came on it together. and she broke her back--oh, god! oh, god!--and the doctor says she may live till seventy, but that she will never move from where she lies--and just as i was getting to love her so dearly----" charles said nothing; for with such a great brutal blackguard as lord ascot sobbing passionately at the window, it was as well to say nothing; but he thought, "here's work to the fore, i fancy, after a life of laziness. i have been the object of all these dear soul's anxiety for a long time. she must take my place now." chapter lxiii. in which gus cuts flora's doll's corns. that afternoon charles said nothing more, but lay and looked out of the window at the rhododendrons just bursting into bloom, at the deer, at the rabbits, at the pheasants; and beyond, where the park dipped down so suddenly, at the river which spouted and foamed away as of old; and to the right, at the good old town of casterton, and at the blue smoke from its chimneys, drifting rapidly away before the soft south-westerly wind; and he lay and looked at these and thought. and before sundown an arch arose in the west which grew and spread; an arch of pale green sky, which grew till it met the sun, and then the wet grass in the park shone out all golden, and the topmost cedar boughs began to blaze like burnished copper. and then he spoke. he said, "william, my dear old friend--loved more deeply than any words can tell--come here, for i have something to say to you." and good william came and stood beside him. and william looked at him, and saw that his face was animated, and that his eyes were sparkling. and he stood and said not a word, but smiled and waited for him to go on. and charles said, "old boy, i have been looking through that glass to-day, and i saw mr. jackson catch the trout, and i saw welter, and i saw mary; and i want you to go and fetch mary here." and william straightway departed; and as he went up the staircase he met the butler, and he looked so happy, so radiant, and so thoroughly kind-hearted and merry, that the butler, a solemn man, found himself smiling as he drew politely aside to let him pass. i hope you like this fellow, william. he was, in reality, only a groom, say you. well, that is true enough. a fellow without education or breeding, though highly born. but still, i hope you like him. i was forgetting myself a little, though. at this time he is master of ravenshoe, with certainly nine, and probably twelve, thousand a year--a most eminently respectable person. one year's income of his would satisfy a man i know, very well, and yet i am talking of him apologetically. but then we novel writers have an unlimited command of money, if we could only realise it. however, this great capitalist went upstairs towards the nursery; and here i must break off, if you please, and take up the thread of my narrative in another place (i don't mean the house of lords). in point of fact there had been a shindy (i use the word advisedly, and will repeat it)--a shindy, in the nursery that evening. the duty of a story-teller is to stick in a moral reflection wherever he can, and so at this place i pitchfork in this caution to young governesses, that nothing can be more incautious or reprehensible, than to give children books to keep them quiet without first seeing what these books are about. mary was very much to blame in this case (you see i tell the truth, and spare nobody). gus, flora, and archy had been out to walk with her, as we know, and had come home in a very turbulent state of mind. they had demanded books as the sole condition on which they would be good; and mary, being in a fidget about her meeting with lord ascot, over the trout, and being not quite herself, had promptly supplied gus with a number of _blackwood's magazine_, and flora with a "shakspeare." this happened early in the afternoon. remember this; for if we are not particular in our chronology, we are naught. gus turned to the advertisements. he read, among other things, a testimonial to a great corn-cutter, from a potentate who keeps a very small army, and don't mean any harm:-- "(translation.) "professor homberg has cut my corns with a dexterity truly marvellous. (signed) "napoleon." from a country baronet:-- "i am satisfied with professor homberg. (signed) "pitchcroft cockpole, bart." from a bishop in the south sea islands:-- "professor homberg has cut my corns in a manner which does equal honour to his head and his heart. (signed) "rangehaieta." (his real name is jones, but that is neither here nor there); and in the mean time flora had been studying a certain part of "king lear." later in the afternoon, it occurred to gus that he would like to be a corn-cutter and have testimonials. he proposed to cut nurse's corns, but she declined, assigning reasons. failing here, he determined to cut flora's doll's corns, and, with this view, possessed himself of her person during flora's temporary absence. he began by snicking the corner of her foot off with nurse's scissors. then he found that the sawdust dribbled out at the orifice. this was very delightful. he shook her, and it dribbled faster. then he cut the other foot off and shook her again. and she, not having any stitches put in about the knee (as all dolls should), lost, not only the sawdust from her legs, but also from her stomach and body, leaving nothing but collapsed calico and a bust, with an undisturbed countenance of wax above all. at this time flora had rushed in to the rescue; she felt the doll's body, and she saw the heap of sawdust; whereupon she, remembering her "king lear," turned on him and said scornfully: "nero is an angler in the lake of darkness." at this awful taunt, gus butted her in the stomach, and she got hold of him by the hair. archy, excited for the first time in his life, threw a box of ninepins at them, which exploded. mary rushed in to separate them, and at the same moment in came william with a radiant face, and he quietly took mary round the waist (like his impudence), and he said, "my dear creature, go down to charles, and leave these turks to me." and she left these turks to him. and he sat on a chair and administered justice; and in a very few minutes, under the influence of that kind, happy, sunny face of his, flora had kissed gus, and archy had cuddled up on his knee, and was sucking his thumb in peace. and going down to the hall, he found lady ascot hobbling up and down, taking her afternoon's exercise, and she said to him, "ravenshoe, you best and kindest of souls, she is there with him now. my dear, we had better not move in this matter any more. i tried to dispossess you before i knew your worth and goodness, but i will do nothing now. he is rich, and perhaps it is better, my dear, that ravenshoe should be in papist hands--at least, in such hands as yours." he said, "my dear madam, i am not ravenshoe. i feel sure that you are right. we must find ellen." and mary came out and came toward them; and she said, "lady ascot and mr. ravenshoe, charles and i are engaged to be married." chapter lxiv. the allied armies advance on ravenshoe. "how near the end we are getting, and yet so much to come! never mind. we will tell it all naturally and straightforwardly, and then there will be nothing to offend you." by-and-bye it became necessary that charles should have air and exercise. his arm was well. every splinter had been taken out of it, and he must lie on the sofa no longer. so he was driven out through pleasant places, through the budding spring, in one of lord hainault's carriages. all the meadows had been bush-harrowed and rolled long ago, and now the orchises and fritillaries were beginning to make the grass look purple. lady hainault had a low carriage and a pair of small cobs, and this was given up to charles; lady hainault's first coachman declined to drive her ladyship out in the daytime, for fear that the second coachman (a meritorious young man of forty) should frighten charles by a reckless and inexperienced way of driving. consequently lady hainault went a buying flannel petticoats and that sort of thing, for the poor people in casterton and henley, driven by her second coachman; and charles was trundled all over the country by the first coachman, in a low carriage with a pair of cobs. but lady hainault was as well pleased with the arrangement as the old coachman himself, and so it is no business of ours. for the curious thing was, that no one who ever knew charles would have hesitated for an instant in giving up to him his or her bed, or dinner, or carriage, or any other thing in this world. for people are great fools, you know. perhaps the reason of it was, that every one who made charles's acquaintance, knew by instinct that he would have cut off his right hand to serve them. i don't know why it was. but there is the fact. sometimes lady ascot would go with him and sometimes william. and one day, when william was with him, they were bowling quietly along a by-road on the opposite side of the water from henley. and in a secret place, they came on a wicked old gentleman, breaking the laws of his country, and catching perch in close time, out of a punt, with a chair, and a stone bottle, and a fisherman from maidenhead, who shall be nameless, but who must consider himself cautioned. the rajah of ahmednuggur lives close by there; and he was reading the _times_, when charles asked the coachman to pull up, that he might see the sport. the rajah's attention was caught by seeing the carriage stopped; and he looked through a double-barrelled opera-glass, and not only saw charles and william in the carriage, but saw, through the osiers, the hoary old profligate with his paternoster pulling the perch out as fast as he could put his line in. fired by a virtuous indignation (i wish every gentleman on the thames would do likewise), he ran in his breeches and slippers down the lawn, and began blowing up like old gooseberry. the old gentleman who was fishing looked at the rajah's redbrick house, and said, "if my face was as ugly as that house, i would wear a green veil;" but he ordered the fisherman to take up the rypecks, and he floated away down stream. and as charles and william drove along, charles said, "my dear boy, there could not be any harm in catching a few roach. i should so like to go about among pleasant places in a punt once more." when they got home the head keeper was sent for. charles told him that he would so much like to go fishing, and that a few roach would not make much difference. the keeper scornfully declined arguing about the matter, but only wanted to know what time mr. ravenshoe would like to go, adding, that any one who made objections would be brought up uncommon short. so william and he went fishing in a punt, and one day charles said, "i don't care about this punt-fishing much. i wish--i wish i could get back to the trout at ravenshoe." "do you really mean that?" said william. "ah, willy!" said charles. "if i could only see it again!" "how i have been waiting to hear you say that!" said william. "come to your home with me; why, the people are wondering where we are. my darling bird will be jealous, if i stay here much longer. come down to my wedding." "when are you to be married, william?" "on the same day as yourself," said william, sturdily. said charles, "put the punt ashore, will you?" and they did. and charles, with his nose in the air, and his chest out, walked beside william across the spring meadows, through the lengthening grass, through the calthas, and the orchises, and the ladies' slippers, and the cowslips, and the fritillaries, through the budding flower garden which one finds in spring among the english meadows, a hale, strong man. and when they had clomb the precipitous slope of the deer-park, charles picked a rhododendron flower, and put it in his button-hole, and turned round to william, with the flush of health on his face, and said-- "brother, we will go to ravenshoe, and you will be with your love. shall we be married in london?" "in st. petersburgh, if you like, now i see you looking your old self again. but why?" "a fancy of mine. when i remember what t went through in london through my own obstinacy, i should like to take my revenge on the place, by spending the happiest day of my life there. do you agree?" "of course." "ask lady ascot and mary and the children down to ravenshoe. lady hainault will come too, but he can't. and have general mainwaring and the tiernays. have as many of the old circle as we can get." "this is something like life again," said william. "remember, charles, i am not spending the revenues of ravenshoe. they are yours. i know it. i am spending about £ a year. when our grandfather's marriage is proved, you will provide for me and my wife, i know that. be quiet. but we shall never prove that till we find ellen." "find ellen!" exclaimed charles, turning round. "i will not go near ellen yet." "do you know where she is?" asked william, eagerly. "of course i do," said charles. "she is at hackney. hornby told me so when he was dying. but let her be for a time." "i tell you," said william, "that i am sure that she knows everything. at hackney!" the allied powers, general mainwaring, lady ascot, lord hainault, and william, were not long before they searched every hole and corner of hackney, in and out. there was only one nunnery there, but, in that nunnery, there was no young lady at all resembling ellen. the priests, particularly father mackworth's friend butler, gave them every assistance in their power. but it was no good. as charles and william were in the railway carriage going westward, charles said-- "well, we have failed to find ellen. mackworth, poor fellow, is still at ravenshoe." "yes," said william, "and nearly idiotic. all his fine-spun cobwebs cast to the winds. but he holds the clue to the mystery, or i am mistaken. the younger tiernay takes care of him. he probably won't know you. but charles, when you come into ravenshoe, keep a corner for mackworth." "he ought to be an honoured guest of the house as long as he lives," said charles. "you still persist in saying that ravenshoe is mine." "i am sure it is," said william. and, at the same time, william wrote to two other people telling all about the state of affairs, and asking them to come and join the circle. and john marston came across into my room, and said, "let us go." and i said, "my dear john, we ought to go. it is not every day that we see a man, and such a man, risen from the dead, as charles ravenshoe." and so we went. chapter lxv. father mackworth puts the finishing touch on his great piece of embroidery. and so we went. at ravenshoe were assembled general mainwaring, lady ascot, mary, gus, flora, archy and nurse, william, charles, father tiernay and father murtagh tiernay, john marston, and tommy cruse from clovelly, a little fisherboy, cousin of jane evans's--jane evans, who was to be mrs. ravenshoe. it became necessary that jane evans should be presented to lady ascot. she was only a fisherman's daughter, but she was wonderfully beautiful, and gentle, and good. william brought her into the hall one evening, when every one was sitting round the fire; and he said, "my dear madam, this is my wife that is to be." nothing more. and the dear old woman rose and kissed her, and said, "my love, how wonderfully pretty you are. you must learn to love me, you know, and you must make haste about it, because i am a very old woman, and i sha'n't live very long." so jane sat down by mary, and was at home, though a little nervous. and general mainwaring came and sat beside her, and made himself as agreeable as very few men beside him know how to. and the fisherboy got next to william, and stared about with his great black eyes, like a deer in a flower-garden. (you caught that face capitally, mr. hook, if you will allow me to say so--best painter of the day!) jane evans was an immense success. she had been to school six months at exeter, and had possibly been drilled in a few little matters; such as how to ask a gentleman to hold her fan; how to sit down to the piano when asked to sing (which she couldn't do); how to marshal her company to dinner; how to step into the car of a balloon; and so on. things absolutely necessary to know, of course, but which had nothing to do with her success in this case; for she was so beautiful, gentle, and winning, that she might have done anything short of eating with her knife, and would have been considered nice. had she a slight devonshire accent? well, well! do you know, i rather like it. i consider it equally so good with the scotch, my dear. i could linger and linger on about this pleasant spring at old ravenshoe, but i must not. you have been my companion so long that i am right loth to part with you. but the end is very near. charles had his revenge upon the trout. the first day after he had recovered from his journey, he and william went out and did most terrible things. william would not carry a rod, but gave his to the servant, and took the landing-net. that ravenshoe stream carries the heaviest fish in devonshire. charles worked up to the waterfall, and got nineteen, weighing fourteen pounds. then they walked down to the weir above the bridge, and then charles's evil genius prompted him to say, "william, have you got a salmon-fly in your book?" and william told him that he had, but solemnly warned him of what would happen. charles was reckless and foolish. he, with a twelve-foot trout rod, and thirty yards of line, threw a small salmon fly under the weir above the bridge. there was a flash on the water. charles's poor little reel began screaming, and the next moment the line came "flick" home across his face, and he said, "by gosh, what a fool i was," and then he looked up to the bridge, and there was father mackworth looking at him. "how d'ye do, my dear sir," said charles. "glad to see you out. i have been trying to kill a salmon with trout tackle, and have done quite the other thing." father mackworth looked at him, but did not speak a word. then he looked round, and young murtagh tiernay came up and led him away; and charles got up on the road and watched the pair going home. and as he saw the tall narrow figure of father mackworth creeping slowly along, dragging his heels as he went, he said, "poor old fellow, i hope he will live to forgive me." father mackworth, poor fellow, dragged his heels homeward; and when he got into his room in the priest's tower, murtagh tiernay said to him, "my dear friend, you are not angry with me? i did not tell you that he was come back, i thought it would agitate you." and father mackworth said slowly, for all his old decisive utterance was gone, "the virgin bless you, you are a good man." and father mackworth spoke truth. both the tiernays were good fellows, though papists. "let me help you off with your coat," said murtagh, for mackworth was standing in deep thought. "thank you," said mackworth. "now, while i sit here, go and fetch your brother." murtagh tiernay did as he was told. in a few minutes our good jolly old irish friend was leaning over mackworth's chair. "ye're not angry that we didn't tell ye there was company?" he said. "no, no," said mackworth. "don't speak to me, that's a good man. don't confuse me. i am going. you had better send murtagh out of the room." father murtagh disappeared. "i am going," said mackworth. "tiernay, we were not always good friends, were we?" "we are good friends, any way, now, brother," said tiernay. "ay, ay, you are a good man. i have done a wrong. i did it for the sake of the church partly, and partly----well, i was very fond of cuthbert. i loved that boy, tiernay. and i spun a web. but it has all got confused. it is on this left side which feels so heavy. they shouldn't make one's brains in two halves, should they?" "begorra no. it's a burning shame," said father tiernay, determining, like a true irishman, to agree with every word said, and find out what was coming. "that being the case, my dear friend," said poor mackworth, "give me the portfolio and ink, and we will let our dear brother butler know, _de profundis clamavi_, that the time is come." father tiernay said, "that will be the proper course," and got him pen and ink, fully assured that another fit was coming on, and that he was wandering in his mind; but still watching to see whether he would let out anything. a true irishman. mackworth let out nothing. he wrote, as steadily as he could, a letter of two lines, and put it in an envelope. then he wrote another letter of about three lines, and enclosed the whole in a larger envelope, and closed it. then he said to father tiernay, "direct it to butler, will you, my dear friend; you quite agree that i have done right?" father tiernay said that he had done quite right; but wondered what the dickens it was all about. we soon found out. but we walked, and rode, and fished, and chatted, and played billiards, and got up charades with lady ascot for an audience; not often thinking of the poor paralytic priest in the lonely tower, and little dreaming of the mine which he was going to spring under our feet. the rows (there is no other expression) that used to go on between father tiernay and lady ascot were as amusing as anything i ever heard. i must do tiernay the justice to say that he was always perfectly well bred, and also, that lady ascot began it. her good temper, her humour, and her shrewdness were like herself; i can say no more. tiernay dodged, and shuffled, and went from pillar to post, and was as witty and good-humoured as an irishman can be; but i, as a staunch protestant, am of opinion that lady ascot, though nearly ninety, had the best of it. i daresay good father tiernay don't agree with me. the younger tiernay was always in close attendance on mackworth. every one got very fond of this young priest. we used to wait until father mackworth was reported to be in bed, and then he was sent for. and generally we used to make an excuse to go into the chapel, and lady ascot would come, defiant of rheumatism, and we would get him to the organ. and then--oh, lord! how he would make that organ speak, and plead, and pray, till the prayer was won. and then, how he would send aggregated armies of notes, marching in vast battalions one after another, out into space, to die in confused melody; and then, how he would sound the trumpet to recall them, and get no answer but the echo of the roof. ah, well, i hope you are fond of music, reader. but one night we sent for him, and he could not come. and later we sent again, but he did not come; and the man we had sent, being asked, looked uneasy, and said he did not know why. by this time the ladies had gone to bed. general mainwaring, charles, william, john marston, and myself, were sitting over the fire in the hall, smoking, and little tommy cruse was standing between william's knees. the candles and the fire were low. there was light outside from a clouded moon, so that one could see the gleam of the sea out of the mullioned windows. charles was stooping down, describing the battle of the alma on the hearthrug, and william was bending over, watching him, holding the boy between his knees, as i said. general mainwaring was puffing his cigar, and saying, "yes, yes; that's right enough;" and marston and i were, like william, looking at charles. suddenly the boy gave a loud cry, and hid his face in william's bosom. i thought he had been taken with a fit. i looked up over general mainwaring's head, and i cried out, "my god! what is this?" we were all on our legs in a moment, looking the same way. at the long low mullioned window which had been behind general mainwaring. the clouded moonlight outside showed us the shape of it. but between us and it there stood three black figures, and as we looked at them, we drew one towards the other, for we were frightened. the general took two steps forward. one of the figures advanced noiselessly. it was dressed in black, and its face was shrouded in a black hood. in that light, with that silent, even way of approaching, it was the most awful figure i ever saw. and from under its hood came a woman's voice, the sound of which made the blood of more than one to stand still, and then go madly on again. it said:-- "i am ellen ravenshoe. my sins and my repentance are known to some here. i have been to the war, in the hospitals, till my health gave way, and i came home but yesterday, as it were, and i have been summoned here. charles, i was beautiful once. look at this." and she drew her hood back, and we looked at her in the dim light. beautiful once! ay, but never so beautiful as now. the complexion was deadly pale, and the features were pinched, but she was more beautiful than ever. i declare i believe that if we had seen a ring of glory round her head at that moment none of us would have been surprised. just then, her beauty, her nun's dress, and the darkness of the hall, assisted the illusion, probably; but there was really something saint-like and romantic about her, for an instant or so, which made us all stand silent. alas! there was no ring of glory round her head. poor ellen was only bearing the cross; she had not won the crown. charles was the first who spoke or moved; he went up to her, and kissed her, and said, "my sweet sister, i knew that if i ever saw you again i should see you in these weeds. my dear love, i am so glad to see you. and oh, my sister, how much more happy to see you dressed like that----" (of course he did not use exactly those words, but words to that effect, only more passionate and even less grammatical. i am not a shorthand writer. i only give you the substance of conversations in the best prose i can command.) "charles," said she, "i do right to wear weeds, for i am the widow of--(never mind what she said; that sort of thing very properly jars on protestant ears). i am a sister of the society of mercy of st. bridget, and i have been to the east, as i told you: and more than once i must have been into the room where you lay, to borrow things, or talk with english catholic ladies, and never guessed you were there. after hornby had found me at hackney, i got leave from father butler to join an irish sisterhood; for our mother was irish in speech and in heart, you remember, though not by birth. i have something to say--something very important. father mackworth, will you come here? are all here intimate friends of the family? will you ask any of them to leave the hall, charles?" "not one," said charles. "is one of those dark figures which have frightened us so much father mackworth? my dear sir, i am so sorry. come to the fire; and who is the other?" "only murtagh tiernay," said a soft voice. "why did you stand out there these few minutes? father mackworth, your arm." william and charles helped him in towards the fire. he looked terribly ill and ghastly. the dear old general took him from them, and sat him down in his own chair by the fire; and there he sat looking curiously around him, with the light of the wood fire and the candles strong on his face, while ellen stood behind him, with her hood thrown back, and her white hands folded on her bosom. if you have ever seen a stranger group than we were, i should be glad to hear of it. poor mackworth seemed to think that it was expected of him to speak. he looked up to general mainwaring, and he said-- "i hope you are better of your wound, sir. i have had a sharp stroke of paralysis, and i have another coming on, sir, and my memory is going. when you meet my lord saltire, whom i am surprised to find absent to-night, you will tell him that i presented my compliments, and thought that he had used me very well on the whole. had she not better begin, sir? or it may be too late; unless you would like to wait for lord saltire." father murtagh tiernay knelt down and whispered to him. "ay! ay!" he said, "dead--ay! so he is, i had forgotten. we shall all be dead soon. some of us will to hell, general, and some to heaven, and all to purgatory. i am a priest, sir. i have been bound body and soul to the church from a child, and i have done things which the church will disapprove of when they are told, though not while they are kept secret; and i tell them because the eyes of a dead man, of a man who was drowned bathing in the bay, haunt me day and night, and say, speak out!--murtagh!" little tiernay was kneeling beside him, and called his attention to him. "you had better give me the wine; for the end is getting very near. tell her to begin." and while poor mackworth was taking some wine (poor fellow, it was little enough he had taken in his lifetime), ellen began to speak. i had some notion that we should know everything now. we had guessed the truth for a long while. we had guessed everything about petre ravenshoe's marriage. we believed in it. we seemed to know all about it, from lady ascot. no link was wanting in the chain of proof, save one, the name of the place in which that marriage took place. that had puzzled every one. lady ascot declared it was a place in the north of hampshire, as you will remember, but every register had been searched there, without result. so conceive how we all stared at poor ellen when she began to speak, wondering whether she knew as much as ourselves, or even more. "i am miss ravenshoe," she said quietly. "my brother charles there is heir to this estate; and i have come here to-night to tell you so." there was nothing new here. we knew all about that. i stood up and put my arm through charles ravenshoe's, and william came and laid his hand upon my shoulder. the general stood before the fire, and ellen went on. "petre ravenshoe was married in to maria dawson, and his son was james ravenshoe, my father, who was called horton, and was densil ravenshoe's gamekeeper. i have proof of this." so had we. we knew all this. what did she know more? it was intolerable that she was to stop just here, and leave the one awful point unanswered. i forgot my good manners utterly; i clutched charles's arm tighter, and i cried out-- "we know about the marriage, miss ravenshoe; we have known of it a long while. but where did it take place, my dear young lady? where?" she turned on me and answered, wondering at my eagerness. _i_ had brought out the decisive words at last, the words that we had been dying to hear for sixth months; she said-- "at finchampstead, in berkshire; i have a copy of the certificate with me." i let go of charles's arm, and fell back in my chair. my connection with this story is over (except the trouble of telling it, which i beg you won't mention, for it has given me as much pleasure as it has you; and that, if you look at it in a proper point of view, is quite just, for very few men have a friend who has met with such adventures as charles ravenshoe, who will tell them all about it afterwards). i fell back in my chair, and stared at poor father mackworth as if he were a copper disk, and i was trying to get into a sufficiently idiotic state to be electro-biologised. "i have very little more to tell," said ellen. "i was not aware that you knew so much. from mr. william marston's agitation, i conclude that i have supplied the only link which was missing. i think that father mackworth wishes to explain to you why he sent for me to come here to-night. if he feels himself able to do so now, i shall be glad to be dismissed." father mackworth sat up in his chair, and spoke at once. he had gathered himself up for the effort, and went through it well, though with halting and difficult speech. "i knew of petre ravenshoe's marriage from father clifford, with all the particulars. it had been confessed to him. he told it to me the day mrs. ravenshoe died, after densil ravenshoe had told me that his second son was to be brought up to the protestant faith. i went to him in a furious passion, and he told me about this previous marriage which had been confessed to him, to quiet me. it showed me, that if the worst were to happen, and cuthbert were to die, and ravenshoe go to a protestant, i could still bring in a catholic as a last resource. for if cuthbert had died, and norah had not confessed about the changing of the children, i should have brought in james, and after him william, both catholics, believing him to be the son of james and norah. do you understand? "why did i not? i loved that boy cuthbert. and it was told under seal of confession, and must not be used save in deadly extremity, and william was a turbulent boy. which would have been the greater crime at that time? it was only a choice of evils, for the church is very dear to me. "then norah confessed to me about the change of children, and then i saw, that by speaking of petre ravenshoe's marriage i should only bring in a protestant heir. but i saw, also, that, by using her confession only, i could prove charles ravenshoe to be merely a gamekeeper's son, and turn him out into the world, and so i used it, sir. you used to irritate and insult me, sir," he said, turning to charles, "and i was not so near death then as now. if you can forgive me, in god's name say so." charles went over to him, and put his arm round him "forgive you?" he said; "dear mackworth, can you forgive me?" "well, well!" he continued, "what have i to forgive, charles? at one time, i thought if i spoke that it would be better, because ellen, the only daughter of the house, would have had a great dower, as ravenshoe girls have. but i loved cuthbert too well. and lord welter stopped my even thinking of doing so, by coming to ravenshoe. and--and--we are all gentlemen here. the day that you hunted the black hare, i had been scolding her for writing to him. and william and i made her mad between us, and she ran away to him. and she is with the army now, charles. i should not fetch her back, charles. she is doing very good work there." by this time she had drawn the black hood over her face, and was standing behind him, motionless. "i will answer any more questions you like to-morrow. petre ravenshoe's marriage took place at finchampstead, remember. charles, my dear boy, would you mind kissing me? i think i always loved you, charles. murtagh tiernay, take me to my room." and so he went tottering away through the darkness. charles opened the door for him. ellen stood with her hood over her face, motionless. "i can speak like this with my face hidden," she said. "it is easy for one who has been through what i have, to speak. what i have been you know, what i am now is--(she used one of those roman catholic forms of expression, which are best not repeated too often). i have a little to add to this statement. william was cruel to me. you know you were. you were wrong. i will not go on. you were awfully unjust--you were horribly unjust. the man who has just left the room had some slight right to upbraid me. you had none. you were utterly wrong. mackworth, in one way, is a very high-minded honourable man. you made me hate you, william. god forgive me. i have forgiven you now." "yes; i was wrong," said william, "i was wrong. but ellen, ellen! before old friends, only with regard to the person." "when you treated me so ill, i was as innocent as your mother, sir. let us go on. this man mackworth knew more than you. we had some terrible scenes together about lord welter. one day he lost his temper, and became theatrical. he opened his desk and showed me a bundle of papers, which he waved in the air, and said they contained my future destiny. the next day i went to the carpenter's shop and took a chisel. i broke open his desk, and possessed myself of them. i found the certificate of petre ravenshoe's marriage. i knew that you, william, as i thought, and i were the elder children. but i loved cuthbert and charles better than you or myself, and i would not speak. when, afterwards, father butler told me while i was with lord welter, before i joined the sisters, of the astounding fact of the change of children, i still held my peace, because i thought charles would be the better of penance for a year or so, and because i hesitated to throw the power of a house like this into heretic hands, though it were into the hands of my own brother. mackworth and butler were to some extent enemies, i think; for butler seems not to have told mackworth that i was with him for some time, and i hardly know how he found it out at last. three days ago i received this letter from mackworth, and after some hesitation i came. for i thought that the church could not be helped by wrong, and i wanted to see that he concealed nothing. here it is. i shall say no more." and she departed, and i have not seen her since. perhaps she is best where she is. i got a sight of the letter from father mackworth. it ran thus-- "come here at once, i order you. i am going to tell the truth. charles has come back. i will not bear the responsibility any longer." poor mackworth! he went back to his room, attended by the kind-hearted young priest, who had left his beloved organ at segur, to come and attend to him. lord segur pished and pshawed, and did something more, which we won't talk about, for which he had to get absolution. but murtagh tiernay stayed at ravenshoe, defying his lordship, and his lordship's profane oaths, and making the ravenshoe organ talk to father mackworth about quiet churchyards and silent cloisters; and sometimes raging on until the poor paralytic priest began to see the great gates rolled back, and the street of the everlasting city beyond, crowded with glorious angels. let us leave these two to their music. before we went to town for the wedding, we were sitting one night, and playing at loo, in the hall. (not guinea unlimited loo, as they used to play at lord welter's, but penny loo, limited to eighteen pence.) general mainwaring had been looed in miss four times running, making six shillings (an almost impossible circumstance, but true), and lady ascot had been laughing at him so, that she had to take off her spectacles and wipe them, when murtagh tiernay came into the hall, and took away charles, and his brother father tiernay. the game was dropped soon after this. at ravenshoe there was an old-fashioned custom of having a great supper brought into the hall at ten. a silly old custom, seeing that every one had dined at seven. supper was brought in, and every one sat down to table. all sorts of things were handed to one by the servants, but no one ate anything. no one ever did. but the head of the table was empty, charles was absent. after supper was cleared away, every one drew in a great circle round the fire, in the charming old-fashioned way one sees very seldom now, for a talk before we went to bed. but nobody talked much. only lady ascot said, "i shall not go upstairs till he comes back. general, you may smoke your cigar, but here i sit." general mainwaring would not smoke his cigar, even up the chimney. almost before he had time to say so, charles and father tiernay came into the room, without saying a word, and charles, passing through the circle, pushed the logs on the hearth together with his foot. "charles," said lady ascot, "has anything happened?" "yes, aunt." "is he dead?" "yes, aunt." "i thought so," said lady ascot, "i hope he has forgiven me any hard thoughts i had of him. i could have been brought to love that man in time. there were a great many worse men than he, sir," she added, in her old clear ringing tones, turning to father tiernay. "there were a great many worse men than he." "there were a great many worse men, lady ascot," said father tiernay. "there have been many worse men with better opportunities. he was a good man brought up in a bad school. a good man spoilt. general mainwaring, you who are probably more honoured than any man in england just now, and are worthy of it; you who can't stop at a street corner without a crowd getting together to hurrah to you; you, the very darling of the nation, are going to oxford to be made an honorary doctor of laws. and when you go into that theatre, and hear the maddening music of those boys' voices cheering you: then, general, don't get insane with pride, like herod, but think what you might have been with mackworth's opportunities." i think we all respected the irishman for speaking up for his friend, although his speech might be extravagant. but i am sure that no one respected him more sincerely than our valiant, humble, old friend, general mainwaring. chapter lxvi. gus and flora are naughty in church, and the whole business comes to an end. charles's purpose of being married in london held good. and i need not say that william's held good too. shall i insult your judgment by telling you that the whole story of petre ravenshoe's marriage at finchampstead was true? i think not. the register was found, the lawyers were busy down at ravenshoe, for every one was anxious to get up to london, and have the two marriages over before the season was too far advanced. the memorabilia about this time at ravenshoe, were--the weather was glorious. (i am not going to give you any more about the two capes, and that sort of thing. you have had those two capes often enough. and i am reserving my twenty-ninth description of the ravenshoe scenery for the concluding chapter.) the weather, i say, was glorious. and i was always being fetched in from the river, smelling fishy, and being made to witness deeds. i got tired of writing my name. i may have signed away the amount of the national debt in triplicate, for anything i know (or care. for you can't get blood out of a stone). i signed some fifty of them, i think. but i signed two which gave me great pleasure. the first was a rent-charge on ravenshoe of two thousand a year, in favour of william ravenshoe. the second was a similar deed of five hundred a year in favour of miss ravenshoe. we will now have done with all this sordid business, and go on. the ladies had all left for town, to prepare for the ceremony. there was a bachelors' house at ravenshoe for the last time. the weather was hot. charles ravenshoe, general mainwaring, and the rest, were all looking out of the dining-room windows towards the sea, when we were astonished by seeing two people ride up on to the terrace, and stop before the porch. a noble-looking old gentleman, in a blue coat and brass buttons, knee-breeches and gaiters, on a cob, and a beautiful boy of sixteen on a horse. _i_ knew well enough who it was, and i said, ho! but the others wondered. william would have known, had he been looking out of window just then, but by the time he got there, the old gentleman and the boy were in the porch, and two of charles's men were walking the horses up and down. "now, who the deuce is this?" said charles. "they haven't come far; but i don't know them. i seem to know the old man, somehow; but i can't remember." we heard the old gentleman's heavy step along the hall, and then the door was thrown open, and the butler announced, like a true devonshire man-- "mr. humby to hele!" the old gentleman advanced with a frank smile and took charles's hand, and said, "welcome home, sir; welcome to your own; welcome to ravenshoe. a protestant at ravenshoe at last. after so many centuries." everybody had grown limp and faint when they heard the awful name of humby, that is to say, every one but me. of course i had nothing to do with fetching him over. not at all. this was the first time that a humby had had friendly communication with a ravenshoe for seven hundred and eighty-nine years. the two families had quarrelled in , in consequence of john humby having pushed against kempion ravenshoe, in the grand rush across the senlac, at the battle of hastings. kempion ravenshoe had asked john humby where he was shoving to, and john humby had expressed a wish to punch kempion ravenshoe's head (or do what went for the same thing in those times. i am no antiquarian). the wound was never healed. the two families located themselves on adjoining estates in devonshire immediately after the conquest, but never spoke till , when lionel humby bit his thumb at our old friend, alured ravenshoe, in cardinal wolsey's antechamber, at hampton, and alured ravenshoe asked him, what the devil he meant by that. they fought in twickenham meadow, but held no relations for two hundred and fourteen years, that is to say, till , when ambrose ravenshoe squeezed an orange at chichester humby, at an election dinner in stonnington, and body fortescue went out as second to chichester humby, and lord segur to ambrose ravenshoe. after this the families did not speak again for one hundred and ten years, that is to say, till the time we are speaking of, the end of april, , when james humby to hele frightened us all out of our wits, by coming into the dining-room at ravenshoe, in a blue coat and brass buttons, and shaking hands with charles, and saying, beside what i have written above-- "mrs. humby and my daughters are in london for the season, and i go to join them the day after to-morrow. there has been a slight cloud between the two houses lately" (that is to say, as we know it, for seven hundred and eighty-nine years. but what is time?) "and i wish to remove it. i am not a very old man, but i have my whimsies, my dear sir. i wish my daughters to appear among miss corby's bridesmaids, and do you know, i fancy when you get to london that you will find the whole matter arranged." who was to resist this? old humby went up in the train with all of us the next day but one. and if i were asked to pick out the most roystering, boisterous, jolly old county member in england, scotland, or ireland, i should pick out old humby of hele. what fun he made at the stations where the express stopped! the way he allowed himself to be fetched out of the refreshment-room by the guard, and then, at the last moment, engaged him in a general conversation about the administration of the line, until the station-master was mad, and an accident imminent, was worthy of a much younger man, to say the least. but then, in a blue coat and brass buttons, with drab small clothes, you may do anything. they are sure to take you for a swell. if i, william marston, am ever old enough, and fat enough, and rich enough, i shall dress like that myself, for reasons. if my figure does not develop, i shall try black br--ch--s and gaiters, with a shovel hat, and a black silk waistcoat buttoned up under my throat. that very often succeeds. either are better than pegtops and a black bowler hat, which strike no awe into the beholders. when we all got to town, we were, of course, very busy. there was a great deal of millinery business. old humby insisted on helping at it. one day he went to madame tulle's, in conduit street, with his wife and two daughters, and asked me to come too, for which i was sorry at first, for he behaved very badly, and made a great noise. we were in a great suite of rooms on the first floor, full of crinolines and that sort of thing, and there were a great many people present. i was trying to keep him quiet, for he was cutting a good many clumsy jokes, as an old-fashioned country squire will. everybody was amused with him, and thoroughly appreciated his fun, save his own wife and daughters, who were annoyed; so i was trying to keep him quiet, when a tall, brown-faced, handsome young man came up to me and said-- "i beg a thousand pardons; but is not your name marston?" i said, "yes." "you are a first cousin of john marston, are you not?--of john marston, whom i used to meet at casterton?" i said, "yes; that john marston was my cousin." but i couldn't remember my man, for all that. "you don't remember me! i met you once at old captain archer's, at lashbrook, for ten minutes. my wife has come here to buy fal-lals for charles ravenshoe's wedding. he is going to marry my cousin. my name is george corby. i have married miss ellen blockstrop, daughter of admiral blockstrop. her eldest sister married young captain archer of the merchant service." i felt very faint, but i congratulated him. the way those australians do business shames us old-country folk. to get over a heavy disappointment and be married in two months and a week is very creditable. "we bushmen are rough fellows," he said. (his manners were really charming. i never saw them beaten.) "but you old-country fellows must excuse us. will you give me the pleasure of your acquaintance? i am sure you must be a good fellow, for your cousin is one of the best fellows i ever knew." "i should be delighted." and i spoke the truth. "i will introduce you to my wife directly," he said; "but the fact is, she is just now having a row with madame tulle, the milliner here. my wife is a deuced economical woman, and she wants to show at the ravenshoe wedding in a white moiré-antique, which will only cost fifty guineas, and which she says will do for an evening dress in australia afterwards. and the frenchwoman won't let her have it for the purpose, because she says it is incorrect. and i hope to gad the frenchwoman will win, because my wife will get quite as good a gown to look at for twenty guineas or so." squire humby begged to be introduced. which i did. "i am glad, sir," he said, "that my daughters have not heard your conversation. it would have demoralised them, sir, for the rest of their lives. i hope they have not heard the argument about the fifty-guinea gown. if they have, i am a ruined man. it was one of you australians who gave twelve hundred guineas for the bull, 'master butterfly,' the day before yesterday?" "well, yes," said george corby, "i bought the bull. he'll pay, sir, handsomely, in our part of the world." "the devil he will," said squire humby. "you don't know an opening for a young man of sixty-five, with a blue coat and brass buttons, who understands his business, in your part of the country, do you?" and so on. the weddings took place at st. peter's, eaton square. if the ghost of the little shoeblack had been hovering round the wall where he had played fives with the brass button, he might have almost heard the ceremony performed. mary and charles were not a handsome couple. the enthusiasm of the population was reserved for william and jane evans, who certainly were. it is my nature to be a jack-of-all-trades, and so i was entrusted with old master evans, jane's father, a magnificent old sea-king, whom we have met before. we two preferred to go to church quietly before the others, and he, refusing to go into a pew, found himself a place in the free seats, and made himself comfortable. so i went out into the porch, and waited till they came. i waited till the procession had gone in, and then i found that the tail of it was composed of poor lord charles herries' children, gus, flora, and archy, with their nurse. if a bachelor is worth his salt, he will make himself useful. i saw that nurse was in distress and anxious, so i stayed with her. archy was really as good as gold till he met with his accident. he walked up the steps with nurse as quiet as possible. but even at first i began to get anxious about gus and flora. they were excited. gus wouldn't walk up the steps; but he put his two heels together, and jumped up them one at a time, and flora walked backwards, looking at him sarcastically. at the top step but one gus stumbled; whereupon flora said, "goozlemy, goozlemy, goozlemy." and gus said, "you wait a minute, my lady, till we get into church," after which awful speech i felt as if i was smoking in a powder magazine. i was put into a pew with gus, and flora, and archy. nurse, in her modesty, went into the pew behind us. i am sorry to say that these dear children, with whom i had had no previous acquaintance, were very naughty. the ceremony began by archy getting too near the edge of his hassock, falling off, pitching against the pew door, bursting it open, and flying out among the free seats, head foremost. nurse, a nimble and dexterous woman, dashed out, and caught him up, and actually got him out of the church door before he had time to fetch his breath for a scream. gus and flora were left alone with me. flora had a great scarlet and gold church service. as soon as she opened it, she disconcerted me by saying aloud, to an imaginary female friend, "my dear, there is going to be a collection; and i have left my purse on the piano." at this time, also, gus, seeing that the business was well begun, removed to the further end of the pew, sat down on the hassock, and took from his trousers' pocket a large tin trumpet. i broke out all over in a cold perspiration as i looked at him. he saw my distress, and putting it to his lips, puffed out his cheeks. flora administered comfort to me. she said, "you are looking at that foolish boy. perhaps he won't blow it, after all. he mayn't if you don't look at him. at all events, he probably won't blow it till the organ begins; and then it won't matter so much." matters were so hopeless with me that i looked at old master evans. he had bent down his head on to the rail of the bench before him. his beautiful daughter had been his only companion at home for many years, for his wife had died when jane was a little bare-legged thing, who paddled in the surf. it had been a rise in life for her to marry mr. charles ravenshoe's favourite pad-groom. and just now she had walked calmly and quietly up the aisle, and had stopped when she came to where he sat, and had pushed the honiton-lace veil from her forehead, and kissed his dear old cheek: and she would walk back directly as mrs. william ravenshoe. and so the noble old privateer skipper had bent down, and there was nothing to be seen there but a grey head and broad shoulders, which seemed to shake. and so i looked up to the east end. and i saw the two couples kneeling before the clergyman. and when i, knowing everything as i did, saw charles kneeling beside mary corby, with lord ascot, great burly, brutal giant, standing behind him, i said something which is not in the marriage service of the church of england. after it all, to see him and her kneeling so quietly there together! we were all happy enough that day. but i don't think that any one was much happier than i. for i knew more than any one. and also, three months from that time, i married my present wife, eliza humby. and the affair had only been arranged two days. so i was in good spirits. at least i should have been, if it had not been for lord charles herries' children. i wish those dear children (not meaning them any harm) had been, to put it mildly, at play on the village green, that blessed day. when i looked at gus again, he was still on the hassock, threatening propriety with his trumpet. i hoped for the best. flora had her prayer-book open, and was playing the piano on each side of it, with her fingers. after a time she looked up at me, and said out loud-- "i suppose you have heard that archy's cat has kittened?" i said, "no." "oh, yes, it has," she said. "archy harnessed it to his meal cart, which turns a mill, and plays music when the wheels go round; and it ran downstairs with the cart; and we heard the music playing as it went; and it kittened in the wood-basket immediately afterwards; and alwright says she don't wonder at it; and no more do i; and the steward's-room boy is going to drown some. but you mustn't tell archy, because, if you do, he won't say his prayers; and if he don't say his prayers, he will," &c., &c. very emphatically and in a loud tone of voice. this was very charming. if i could only answer for gus, and keep flora busy, it was wildly possible that we might pull through. if i had not been a madman, i should have noticed that gus had disappeared. he had. and the pew door had never opened, and i was utterly unconscious. gus had crawled up, on all fours, under the seat of the pew, until he was opposite the calves of his sister's legs, against which calves, _horresco referens_, he put his trumpet and blew a long shrill blast. flora behaved very well and courageously. she only gave one long, wild shriek, as from a lunatic in a padded cell at bedlam, and then, hurling her prayer-book at him, she turned round and tried to kick him in the face. this was the culminating point of my misfortunes. after this, they behaved better. i represented to them that every one was just coming out of the vestry, and that they had better fight it out in the carriage going home. gus only made an impertinent remark about flora's garters, and flora only drew a short, but trenchant, historical parallel between gus and judas iscariot; when the brides and bridegrooms came down the aisle, and we all drove off to charles's house in eaton square. and so, for the first time, i saw all together, with my own eyes, the principal characters in this story. only one was absent. lord saltire. i had seen him twice in my life, and once had the honour of a conversation with him. he was a man about five feet eleven, very broad shouldered, and with a very deep chest. as far as the animal part of him went, i came to the conclusion, from close and interested examination for twenty minutes, that he had, fifty or sixty years before, been a man with whom it would have been pleasanter to argue than to box. his make was magnificent. phrenologically speaking, he had a very high square head, very flat at the sides: and, when i saw him, when he was nearly eighty, he was the handsomest old man i had ever seen. he had a florid, pure complexion. his face was without a wrinkle. his eyebrows were black, and his hair seemed to refuse to be grey. there was as much black as grey in it to the last. his eye was most extraordinary--a deep blue-grey. i can look a man as straight in the face as any one; but when lord saltire turned those eyes on me three or four times in the course of our interview, i felt that it was an effort to meet them. i felt that i was in the presence of a man of superior vitality to my own. we were having a talk about matters connected with charles ravenshoe, which i have not mentioned, because i want to keep myself, william marston, as much out of this story as possible. and whenever this terrible old man looked at me, asking a question, i felt my eyebrows drawing together, and knew that i was looking _defiantly_ at him. he was the most extraordinary man i ever met. he never took office after he was forty. he played with politics. he was in heart, i believe (no one knows), an advanced whig. he chose to call himself tory. he played the radical game very deep, early in life, and, i think, he got disgusted with party politics. the last thing the old radical atheist did in public life was to rally up to the side of the duke in opposition to the reform bill. and another fact about him is, that he had always a strong personal affection for sir francis. he was a man of contradictions, if one judges a man by whig and tory rules; but he was a great loss to the public business of the country. he might have done almost anything in public life, with his calm clear brain. my cousin john thinks that lord barkham's death was the cause of his retirement. so much about lord saltire. of the other characters mentioned in this story, i will speak at once, just as i saw them sitting round the table at charles and william ravenshoe's wedding. i sat beside eliza humby. she was infinitely the most beautiful, clever, and amiable being that the world ever produced. (but that is my business, not yours.) charles ravenshoe sat at the head of the table, and i will leave him alone for a minute. i will give you my impressions of the other characters in this story, as they appeared to me. mary was a very charming-looking little person indeed, very short, and with small features. i had never seen her before, and had never heard any one say that she was pretty. i thought her very pretty indeed. jane evans was an exceedingly beautiful devonshire girl. my eye did not rest very long on her. it came down the table to william, and there it stopped. i got eliza humby to speak to him, and engage him in conversation while i looked at him. i wanted to see whether there was anything remarkable in his face, for a more remarkable instance of disinterested goodwill than his determining to find charles and ruin himself, i never happened to have heard of. well, he was very handsome and pleasing, with a square determined look about the mouth, such as men brought up among horses generally have. but i couldn't understand it, and so i spoke to him across lizzie, and i said, casting good manners to the winds, "i should think that the only thing you regretted to-day was, that you had not been alongside of charles at balaclava;" and then i understood it, for when i mentioned charles and balaclava, i saw for one instant not a groom, but a poet. although, being a respectable and well-conducted man, he has never written any poetry, and probably never will. then i looked across the table at lady ascot. they say that she was never handsome. i can quite believe that. she was a beautiful old woman certainly, but then all old women are beautiful. her face was very square, and one could see that it was capable of very violent passion; or could, knowing what one did, guess so. otherwise there was nothing very remarkable about her except that she was a remarkably charming old lady. she was talking to general mainwaring, who was a noble-looking old soldier. nothing more. in fact, the whole group were less remarkable and tragical-looking than i thought they would have been. i was disappointed until i came to lord ascot, and then i could not take my eyes off him. there was tragedy enough there. there was coarse brutality and passion enough, in all conscience. and yet that man had done what he had done. here was a puzzle with a vengeance. lord ascot, as i saw him now, for the first time, was simply a low-bred and repulsive-looking man. in stature he was gigantic, in every respect save height. he was about five feet nine, very deep about the chest. his hair was rather dark, cut close. his face was very florid, and perfectly hairless. his forehead was low. his eyes were small, and close together. his eyebrows were heavy, and met over his nose, which was short and square. his mouth was large; and when you came to his mouth, you came to the first tolerable feature in his face. when he was speaking to no one in particular, the under lip was set, and the whole face, i am sorry to say, was the sort of face which is quite as often seen in the dock, as in the witness-box (unless some gentleman has turned queen's evidence). and this was the man who had risked a duke's fortune, because "there were some things a fellow couldn't do, you know." it was very puzzling till he began to speak about his grandmother, and then his lower lip pouted out, his eyebrows raised, his eyes were apart, and he looked a different man. is it possible that if he had not been brought up to cock-fighting and horse-racing, among prize-fighters and jockeys, that he might have been a different man? i can't say, i am sure. lord and lady hainault were simply a very high-bred, very handsome, and very charming pair of people. i never had the slightest personal acquaintance with either of them. my cousin knows them both very intimately, and he says there are not two better people in the world. charles ravenshoe rose to reply to general mainwaring's speech, proposing the brides and bridegrooms, and i looked at him very curiously. he was pale, from his recent illness, and he never was handsome. but his face was the face of a man whom i should fancy most people would get very fond of. when we were schoolfellows at shrewsbury, he was a tall dark-haired boy, who was always laughing, and kicking up a row, and giving his things away to other fellows. now he was a tall, dark, melancholy-looking man, with great eyes and lofty eyebrows. his vivacity, and that carriage which comes from the possession of great physical strength, were gone; and while i looked at him, i felt ten years older. why should i try to describe him further? he is not so remarkable a man as either lord ascot or william. but he was the best man i ever knew. he said a few kind hearty words, and sat down, and then lord ascot got up. and i took hold of lizzie's hand with my left; and i put my right elbow on the table and watched him intensely, with my hand shading my face. he had a coat buttoned over his great chest, and as he spoke he kept on buttoning and unbuttoning it with his great coarse hand. he said-- "i ain't much hand at this sort of thing. i suppose those two marstons, confound them, are saying to themselves that i ought to be, because i am in the house of lords. that john marston is a most impudent beggar, and i shall expect to see his friend to-morrow morning. he always was, you know. he has thwarted me all through my life. i wanted charles ravenshoe to go to the deuce, and i'll be hanged if he'd let him. and it is not to be borne." there was a general laugh at this, and lord ascot stretched his hand across general mainwaring, and shook hands with my cousin. "you men just go out of the room, will you?" (the servants departed, and lord ascot went to the door to see they were not listening. i thought some revelation was coming, but i was mistaken.) "you see i am obliged to notice strangers, because a fellow may say things among old friends which he don't exactly care to before servants. "it is all very well to say i'm a fool. that is very likely, and may be taken for granted. but i am not such a fool as not to know that a very strong prejudice exists against me in the present society." every one cried out, "no, no!" of all the great wedding breakfasts that season, this was certainly the most remarkable. lord ascot went on. he was getting the savage look on his face now. "well, well! let that pass. look at that man at the head of the table--the bridegroom. look at him. you wonder that i did what i did. i'll tell you why. i love that fellow. he is what i call a man, general mainwaring. i met that fellow at twyford years ago, and he has always been the same to me since. you say i served him badly once. that is true enough. you insulted me once in public about it, hainault. you were quite right. say you, i should not talk about it to-day. but when we come to think how near death's gates some of us have been since then, you will allow that this wedding day has something very solemn about it. "my poor wife has broken her back across that infernal gate, and so she could not come. i must ask you all to think kindly of that wife of mine. you have all been very kind to her since her awful accident. she has asked me to thank you. "i rose to propose a toast, and i have been carried away by a personal statement, which, at every other wedding breakfast i ever heard of, it would be a breach of good manners to make. it is not so on this occasion. terrible things have befallen every one of us here present. and i suppose we must try all of us to--hey!--to--hah!--well, to do better in future. "i rose, i said, to propose a toast. i rose to propose the most blameless and excellent woman i ever knew. i propose that we drink the health of my grandmother, lady ascot." and oh! but we leapt to our feet and drank it. manners to the winds, after what we had gone through. there was that solemn creature, lord hainault, with his champagne glass in his hand, behaving like a schoolboy, and giving us the time. and then, when her dear grey head was bent down over the table, buried in her hands, my present father-in-law, squire humby, leapt to his feet like a young giant, and called out for three times three for lord ascot. and we had breath enough left to do that handsomely, i warrant you. the whole thing was incorrect in the highest degree, but we did it. and i don't know that any of us were ashamed of it afterwards. and while the carriages were getting ready, charles said, would we walk across the square. and we all came with him. and he took us to a piece of dead white wall, at the east end of st. peter's church, opposite the cab-stand. and then he told us the story of the little shoeblack, and how his comical friendship for that boy had saved him from what it would not do to talk about. * * * * * but there is a cloud on charles ravenshoe's face, even now. i saw him last summer lying on the sand, and playing with his eldest boy. and the cloud was on him then. there was no moroseness, no hardness in the expression; but the face was not the merry old face i knew so well at shrewsbury and oxford. there is a dull, settled, dreaming melancholy there still. the memory of those few terrible months has cast its shadow upon him. and the shadow will lie, i fancy, upon that forehead, and will dim those eyes, until the forehead is smoothed in the sleep of death, and the eyes have opened to look upon eternity. good-bye. ward, lock and bowden, ltd., london, new york and melbourne. footnotes: [ ] the best banisters for sliding down are broad oak ones, with a rib in the middle. this new narrow sort, which is coming in, are wretched. [ ] the short description of the university boat-race which begins this chapter was written two years ago, from the author's recollections of the race of . it would do for a description of this year's race, quite as well as of any other year, substituting "cambridge" for "oxford," according to the year. [ ] i mean c. m. [ ] a fact with regard to one tribe, to the author's frequent confusion. any number above two, whether of horses, cattle, or sheep, was always represented as being eighty-four. invariably, too, with an adjective introduced after the word "four," which we don't use in a drawing-room. [ ] once for all, let me call every honest reader to witness, that, unless i speak in the first person, i am not bound to the opinions of any one of the characters in this book. i have merely made people speak, i think, as they would have spoken. even in a story, consisting so entirely of incident as this, i feel it necessary to say so much, for no kind of unfairness is so common as that of identifying the opinions of a story-teller with those of his _dramatis personæ_. [ ] as a matter of curiosity i tried to write this paragraph from the word "mary," to the word "bosom," without using a single word derived from the latin. after having taken all possible pains to do so, i found there were eight out of forty-eight. i think it is hardly possible to reduce the proportion lower, and i think it is undesirable to reduce it so low. [ ] which is a crib from sir e. b. l. b. l. [ ] the most famous voyage of the _himalaya_, from cork to varna in twelve days with the fifth dragoon guards, took place in june. the voyage here described, is, as will be perceived a subsequent one, but equally successful, apparently. [ ] if one has to raise an imaginary regiment, one must put it in an imaginary place. the th dragoons must try to forgive me. [ ] these names actually occur, side by side, in my newspaper (_the field_), to which i referred for three names. they are in training by henry hall, at hambleton, in yorkshire. surely men could find better names for their horses than such senseless ones as these. i would that was all one had to complain of. i hope the noble old sport is not on its last legs. but one trembles to think what will become of it, when the comparatively few high-minded men who are keeping things straight are gone. [ ] perhaps a reference to "the wild huntsman" will stop all criticism at this point. a further reference to "faust" will also show that i am in good company. satan sanderson * * * * * books by hallie erminie rives (mrs. post wheeler) a furnace of earth hearts courageous illustrated by a. b. wenzell the castaway illustrated by howard chandler christy tales from dickens illustrated by reginald b. birch satan sanderson illustrated by a. b. wenzell * * * * * [illustration] satan sanderson by hallie erminie rives author of the castaway, hearts courageous, etc. with illustrations by a. b. wenzell indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company august press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n. y. contents chapter page i as a man sows ii doctor moreau iii the coming of a prodigal iv the lane that had no turning v the bishop speaks vi what came of a wedding vii out of the dark viii "am i my brother's keeper?" ix after a year x the game xi hallelujah jones takes a hand xii the fall of the curtain xiii the closed door xiv the woman who remembered xv the man who had forgotten xvi the awakening xvii at the turn of the trail xviii the strength of the weak xix the evil eye xx mrs. halloran tells a story xxi a visit and a violin xxii the passing of prendergast xxiii a race with death xxiv on smoky mountain xxv the open window xxvi like a thief in the night xxvii into the golden sunset xxviii the tenantless house xxix the call of love xxx in a forest of arden xxxi the revelation of hallelujah jones xxxii the white horse skin xxxiii the renegade xxxiv the temptation xxxv felder takes a case xxxvi the hand at the door xxxvii the penitent thief xxxviii a day for the state xxxix the unsummoned witness xl fate's way xli felder walks with doctor brent xlii the reckoning xliii the little gold cross xliv the impostor xlv an appeal to cÆsar xlvi face to face xlvii between the millstones xlviii the verdict xlix the crimson disk l when dreams come true satan sanderson chapter i as a man sows "_to my son hugh, in return for the care and sorrow he has caused me all the days of his life, for his dissolute career and his desertion, i do give and bequeath the sum of one thousand dollars and the memory of his misspent youth._" it was very quiet in the wide, richly furnished library. the may night was still, but a faint suspiration, heavy with the fragrance of jasmin flowers, stirred the venetian blind before the open window and rustled the moon-silvered leaves of the aspens outside. as the incisive professional pronouncement of the judge cut through the lamp-lighted silence, the grim, furrowed face with its sunken eyes and gray military mustaches on the pillow of the wheel-chair set more grimly; a girl seated in the damask shadow of the fire-screen caught her breath; and from across the polished table the reverend henry sanderson turned his handsome, clean-shaven face and looked at the old man. a peevish misogynist the neighborhood labeled the latter, with the parish chapel for hobby, and for thorn-in-the-flesh this only son hugh, a black sheep whose open breaches of decorum the town had borne as best it might, till the tradition of his forebears took him off to an eastern university. a reckless life there and three wastrel years abroad, had sent him back to resume his peccadilloes on a larger scale, to quarrel bitterly with his father, and to leave his home in anger. in what rough business of life was hugh now chewing the cud of his folly? harry sanderson was wondering. "wait," came the querulous voice from the chair. "write in 'graceless' before the word 'desertion'." "_for his dissolute career and his--graceless--desertion_," repeated the lawyer, the parchment crackling under his pen. the stubborn antagonism that was a part of david stires' nature flared under the bushy eyebrows. "as a man sows!" he said, a kind of bitter jocularity in the tone. "that should be the text, if this sermon of mine needed any, sanderson! it won't have as large an audience as your discourses draw, but it will be remembered by one of its hearers, at least." judge conwell glanced curiously at harry sanderson as he blotted the emendation. he knew the liking of the cross-grained and taciturn old invalid--st. james' richest parishioner--for this young man of twenty-five who had come to the parish only two months before, fresh from his theological studies, to fill a place temporarily vacant--and had stayed by sheer force of personality. he wondered if, aside from natural magnetic qualities, this liking had not been due first of all to the curious resemblance between the young minister and the absent son whom david stires was disinheriting. for, as far as mold of feature went, the young minister and the ne'er-do-well might have been twin brothers; yet a totally different manner and coloring made this likeness rather suggestive than striking. no one, perhaps, had ever interested the community more than had harry sanderson. he had entered upon his duties with the marks of youth, good looks, self-possession and an ample income thick upon him, and had brought with him a peculiar charm of manner and an apparent incapacity for doing things in a hackneyed way. convention sat lightly upon harry sanderson. he recognized few precedents, either in the new methods and millinery with which he had invested the service, or in his personal habits. instead of attending the meeting of st. andrew's guild, after the constant custom of his predecessor, he was apt to be found playing his violin (a passion with him) in the smart study that adjoined the gothic chapel where he shepherded his fashionable flock, or tramping across the country with a briar pipe in his mouth and his brown spaniel "rummy" nosing at his heels. his athletic frame and clean-chiselled features made him a rare figure for the reading-desk, as his violin practice, the cut of his golf-flannels, the immaculate elegance of his motor-car--even the white carnation he affected in his buttonhole--made him for the younger men a goodly pattern of the cloth; and it had speedily grown to be the fashion to hear the brilliant young minister, to memorize his classical aphorisms or to look up his latest quotation from keats or walter pater. so that harry sanderson, whose innovations had at first disturbed and ruffled the sensibilities of those who would have preferred a fogy, in the end had drifted, apparently without special effort, into a far wider popularity than that which bowed to the whim of the old invalid in the white house in the aspens. something of all this was in the lawyer's mind as he paused--a perfunctory pause--before he continued: "_... i do give and bequeath the sum of one thousand dollars, and the memory of his misspent youth._" harry sanderson's eyes had wandered from the chair to the slim figure of the girl who sat by the screen. this was jessica holme, the orphaned daughter of a friend of the old man's early years, who had recently come to the house in the aspens to fill the void left by hugh's departure. harry could see the contour of throat and wrists, the wild-rose mesh of the skin against the romney-blue gown, the plenteous red-bronze hair uncoiled and falling in a single braid, and the shadowy pathos of her eyes. clear hazel eyes they were, wide and full, but there was in them no depth of expression--for jessica holme was blind. as the crisp deliberate accent pointed the judicial period, as with a subterranean echo of irrefutable condemnation, harry saw her under lip indrawn, her hands clasp tightly, then unclasp in her lap. pliant, graceful hands, he thought, which even blindness could not make maladroit. in the chapel porch stood the figure of an angel which she had modelled solely by the wonderful touch in the finger-tips. "go on," rasped the old man. "_the residue of my estate, real and personal, i do give and bequeath to my ward, jessica holme, to be and become--_" he broke off suddenly, for the girl was kneeling by the chair, groping for the restless hand that wandered on the afghan, and crying in a strained, agitated voice: "no ... no ... you must not! please, please! i never could bear it!" "why not?" the old man's irritant query was belligerent. "why not? what is there for you to bear, i'd like to know!" "he is your son!" "in the eyes of the law, yes. but not otherwise!" his voice rose. "what has he done to deserve anything from me? what has he had all his life but kindness? and how has he repaid it? by being a waster and a prodigal. by setting me in contempt, and finally by forsaking me in my old age for his own paths of ribaldry." the girl shook her head. "you don't know where he is now, or what he is doing. oh, he was wild and reckless, i have no doubt. but when he quarrelled and left you, wasn't it perhaps because he was too quick-tempered? and if he hasn't come back, isn't it perhaps because he is too proud? why, he wouldn't be your son if he weren't proud! no matter how sorry he might be, it would make no difference then. i could give him the money you had given me, but i couldn't change the fact. you, his own father, would have disowned him, disinherited him, taken away his birthright!" "and richly he'd deserve it!" he snapped, his bent fingers plucking angrily at the wool of the afghan. "he doesn't want a father or a home. he wants his own way and a freedom that is license! i know him. you don't; you never saw him." "i never saw you either," she said, a little sadly. "come," he answered a shade more gently. "i didn't mean your eyes, my dear! i mean that you never met him in your life. he had shaken off the dust of his feet against this house before you came to brighten it, jessica. i've not forgiven him seven times; i've forgiven him seventy times seven. but he doesn't want forgiveness. to him i am only 'the old man' who refused to 'put up' longer for his fopperies and extravagances! when he left this house six months ago, he declared he would never enter it again. very well--let him stay away! he shan't come back when i am in my grave, to play ducks and drakes with the money he misuses! and i've fixed it so that you won't be able to give it away either, jessica. give me the pen," he said to the judge, "and, sanderson, will you ring? we shall need the butler to witness with you." as harry sanderson rose to his feet the girl, still kneeling, turned half about with a hopeless gesture. "oh, won't you help me?" she said. she spoke more to herself, it seemed, than to either of the men who waited. harry's face was in the shadow. the lawyer with careful deliberation was putting a new pen into the holder. "sanderson," said the old man with bitter fierceness, lifting his hand, "i dare say you think i am hard; but i tell you there has never been a day since hugh was born when i wouldn't have laid down my life for him! you are so like! when i look at you, i seem to see him as he might have been but for his own wayward choice! if he were only as like you in other things as he is in feature! you are nearly the same age; you went to the same college, i believe; you have had the same advantages and the same temptations. yet you, an orphan, come out a divinity student, and hugh--my son!--comes out a roisterer with gambling debts, a member of the 'fast set,' one of a dissolute fraternity known as 'the saints,' whose very existence, no doubt, was a shame to the institution!" harry sanderson turned slowly to the light. a strange panorama in that moment had flashed through his brain--kaleidoscopic pictures of an earlier reckless era when he had not been known as the "reverend henry sanderson." an odd, sensitive flush burned his forehead. the hand he had outstretched to the bell-cord dropped to his side, and he said, with painful steadiness: "i think i ought to say that i was the founder, and at the time you speak of, the abbot of the saints." the pen rattled against the mahogany, as the man of law leaned back to regard the speaker with a stare of surprise whetted with a keen edge of satiric amusement. the old man sat silent, and the girl crouched by the chair with parted lips. the look in harry's face was not now that of the decorative young churchman of the sabbath surplice. it held a keen electric sense of the sharp contrasts of life, touched with a wakeful pain of conscience. "i was in the same year with hugh," harry went on. "we sowed our wild oats together--a tidy crop, i fancy, for us both. that page of my life is pasted down. i speak of it now because it would be cowardly not to. i have not seen hugh since college closed four years ago. but then i was all you have called him--a waster and a prodigal. and i was more; for while others followed, i led. at college i was known as 'satan sanderson'." he stopped. the old man cleared his throat, but did not speak. he was looking at harry fixedly. in the pause the girl found his gnarled hand and laid her cheek against it. harry leaned an elbow upon the mantelpiece as he continued, in a low voice: "colleges are not moral strait-jackets. men have there to cast about, try themselves and find their bearings. they are in hand-touch with temptation, and out of earshot of the warnings of experience. the mental and moral machine lacks a governor. slips of the cog then may or may not count seriously to character in the end. they sometimes signify only a phase. they may be mere idiosyncrasy. i have thought that it stood in this case," he added with the glimmer of a smile, "with satan sanderson; he seems to me from this focus to be quite another individual from the present rector of st. james." "it is only the hugh of the present that i am dealing with," interposed the old man. for david stires was just and he was feeling a grim respect for harry's honesty. harry acknowledged the brusque kindliness of the tone with a little motion of the hand. as he spoke he had been feeling his way through a maze of contradictory impulses. for a moment he had been back in that old irresponsible time; the hugh he had known then had sprung to his mind's eye--an imitative idler, with a certain grace and brilliancy of manner that made him hail-fellow-well-met, but withal shallow, foppish and incorrigible, a cheap and shabby imitator of the outward manner, not the inner graces, of good-fellowship. yet hugh had been one of his own "fast set"; they had called him "satan's shadow," a tribute to the actual resemblance as well as to the palpable imitation he affected. harry shivered a little. the situation seemed, in antic irony, to be reversing itself. it was as if not alone hugh, but he, harry sanderson, in the person of that past of his, was now brought to bar for judgment in that room. for the instant he forgot how utterly characterless hugh had shown himself of old, how devoid of all desire for rehabilitation his present reputation in the town argued him. at that moment it seemed as if in saving hugh from this condemnation, he was pleading for himself as he had been--for the further chance which he, but for circumstances, perhaps, had needed, too. his mind, working swiftly, told him that no appeal to mere sentiment would suffice--he must touch another note. as he paused, his eyes wandered to an oil portrait on the wall, and suddenly he saw his way. "you," he said, "have lived a life of just and balanced action. it is bred in the bone. you hate all loose conduct, and rightly. you hate it most in hugh for the simple reason that he is your son. the very relation makes it more impossible to countenance. he should be like you--of temperate and prudent habit. but did you and he start on equal terms? your grandfather was a standish; your ancestry was undiluted puritan. did hugh have all your fund of resistance?" the old man's gaze for the first time left harry's face. it lifted for an instant to the portrait at which harry had glanced--a picture of hugh's dark gipsy-like mother, painted in the month of her marriage, and the year of her death--and in that instant the stern lines about the mouth relaxed a little. harry had laid his finger on the deepest cord of feeling in the old man's gruff nature. the glow that had smoldered in the cavernous eyes faded and a troubled cloud came to belie their former wrath. "'as a man sows,' you say, and you deny him another seeding and it may be a better harvest. you shut the door;--and if you shut it, it may not swing open again! with me it was the turning of a long lane. hugh perhaps has not turned--yet." a breath of that past life had swept anew over harry, the old shuddering recoil again had rushed upon him. it gave his voice a curious energy as he ended: "and i have seen how far a man may go and yet--come back!" there was a pause. the judge had an inspiration. he folded the parchment, and rose. "perhaps it would be as well," he said in a matter-of-fact way, "if the signing be left open for the present. last testaments, whatever their provisions, are more or less serious matters, and in your case,"--he nodded toward the occupant of the chair--"there is not the element of necessitous haste. of course," he added tentatively, "i am at your service at any time." he rose as he spoke, and laid the document on the table. for a moment david stires sat in silence. then he said, with a glint of the old ironic fire: "you should have been a special pleader, sanderson. there's no client too bad for them to make out a case for! well ... well ... we won't sign to-night. i will read it over again when i am more equal to it." his visitors made their adieux, and as the door closed upon them, the girl came to the wheel-chair and wistfully drew the parchment from his hands. "you're a good girl, jessica," he said, "too good to a rascal you've never known. but there--go to your room, child. i can ring for blake when i want anything." for long the old man sat alone, musing in his chair, his eyes on the painted portrait on the wall. the image there was just as young and fair and joyous as though yesterday she had stood in bridal white beside him, instead of so long ago--so long ago! his lips moved. "in return for the care and sorrow," he muttered, "all the days of his life!" at length he sighed and took up a magazine. he was thinking of harry sanderson. "how like!" he said aloud. "so sanderson sowed his wild oats, too!... when he stood there, with the light on his face--when he talked--i--i could almost have thought it was hugh!" [illustration] chapter ii doctor moreau harry sanderson and the judge parted at the gate, and harry walked slowly home in the moonlight. the youthful follies that he had resurrected when he had called himself his old nickname of "satan sanderson" he had left so far behind him, had buried so deep, that the ironic turn of circumstance that had dragged them into view, sorry skeletons, seemed intrusive and malicious. not that he was desirous of sailing under false colors; he had brought into his new career more than a _soupçon_ of the old indifference to popular estimation, the old propensity to go his own way and to care very little what others thought of him. the sting was a nearer one; it was his own present of fair example and good repute that recoiled with a fastidious sense of abasement from the recollection. as he stood in the library, his hand on the mantelpiece, he had been painfully conscious of detail. he remembered vividly the half amused smile of the lawyer, the silent, listening attitude of the girl crouched by the wheel-chair. he had seen jessica holme scarcely a half-dozen times, then only at service, or driving behind the stires bays. that moment when she had thrown herself beside the old man's chair to plead for the son she had never seen--an instant revelation wrought by the strenuous agitation of the moment--had been illuminative; it had given him a lightning-like glimpse into the unplummeted deeps of womanly unselfishness and sympathy. he flushed suddenly. he had not realized that she was so beautiful. what a tragedy to be blind, for a woman with temperament, talent and heart! to be sightless to the beauty of such a perfect night, with that silver bridge of stars, those far hills rising like purple tulips--an alluring night for those who saw! the picture she had made, kneeling with the lamplight rosying in her hair, hung before him. the flower-scent with which the room had been full was in his nostrils, and verses flashed into his mind: and i swear, as i thought of her thus, in that hour, and of how, after all, old things were best, that i smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower which she used to wear in her breast. under his thought the lines repeated themselves in a mystical monotone. he had saved an old college-mate from possible disinheritance and the grind of poverty, for david stires' health was precarious. he thought of this with a tinge of satisfaction. the least of that peculiar clan, one who had held his place, not by likable qualities but by a versatile talent for entertainment, hugh stires yet deserved thus much. harry sanderson had never shirked an obligation. "as a man sows"--the old man's words recurred to him. did any man reap what he sowed, after all? was he, the "satan sanderson" that was, getting his deserts? "if there is a providence that parcels out our earthly rewards and penalties," he said to himself, "it has missed me! if there is any virtue in example, i ought to be the black sheep. hugh never influenced anybody; he was a natural camp-follower. i was in the van. all i said was a sneer, all i did a challenge to respectability. yet here i am, a shepherd of the faithful, a brother of aaron!" harry stepped more briskly along the gas-lighted square, nodding now and then to an acquaintance, and bowing on a crossing to a carriage that bowled by with the wife of the very reverend, the bishop of the diocese. as he passed a darkened entrance, a door with a small barred window in its upper panel opened, and a man came into the street--a man light and fair with watery blue eyes and a drooping, blond mustache. he lifted his silk hat with a faded, chesterfieldian grace as he came down the steps with outstretched hand. "my dear sanderson!" he said effusively. "in the interest of sweetness and light, where did you stumble on your new chauffeur? his style is the admiration of the town. next to having your gift of eloquence, i can think of nothing so splendid as possessing such a _tonneau_! the city is in your debt; you have shown it that even a cleric can be 'fast' without reproach!" harry sanderson saw the weak features and ingratiating smile, the clayey, dry-lined skin and restless eyes, but he did not seem to see the extended hand. he did not smile at the badinage as he replied evenly: "my chauffeur, doctor, is a finn; and his style is his own. i see, however, that i must decrease his speed-limit." doctor moreau stood a moment looking after him, his womanish hands clenching and his cynical glance full of an evil light. "the university prig!" he said under his breath. "doesn't he take himself for the whole thing, with his money and his buttonhole bouquet, and his smug self-righteousness! he thinks i'm hardly fit to speak to since i've had to quit the hospital! i'd like to take him down a peg!" he watched the alert, ministerial figure till it rounded the corner. he looked up and down the street, hesitating; then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned and reëntered the door with the narrow barred window. chapter iii the coming of a prodigal the later night was very still and the moon, lifting like a paper lantern over the aspen tops, silvered all the landscape. in its placid radiance the white house loomed in a ghostly pallor. the windows of one side were blank, but behind the library shade the bulbous lamp still drowsed like a monster glow-worm. from the shadowy side of the building stretched a narrow l, its front covered by a rose-trellis, whose pale blossoms in the soft night air mingled their delicate fragrance with that of the jasmin. save for the one bright pane, there seemed now no life or movement in the house. but outside, in the moonlight, a lurching, shabbily-clothed figure moved, making his uncertain way with the deliberation of composed inebriety. the sash of the window was raised a few inches and he nodded sagely at the yellow shade. "gay old silver-top!" he hiccoughed; "see you in the morning!" he capsized against an althea bush and shook his head with owlish gravity as he disentangled himself. then he staggered serenely to the rose-trellis, and, choosing its angle with an assurance that betrayed ancient practice, climbed to the upper window, shot its bolt with a knife, and let himself in. he painstakingly closed both windows and inner blinds, before he turned on an electric light. in the room in which he now stood he had stored his boyish treasures and shirked his maturer tasks. it should have had deeper human associations, too, for once, before the house had been enlarged to its present proportions, that chamber had been his mother's. the _maréchal niel_ rose that clambered to the window-sill had been planted by her hand. in that room he had been born. and in it had occurred that sharp, corrosive quarrel with his father on the night he had flung himself from the house vowing never to return. as hugh stires stood looking about him, it seemed for an instant to his clouded senses that the past six months of wandering and unsavory adventure were a dream. there was his bed, with its clean linen sheets and soft pillows. how he would like to lie down just as he was and sleep a full round of the clock! last night he had slept--where had he slept? he had forgotten for the moment. he looked longingly at the spotless coverlid. no; some one might appear, and it would not do to be seen in his present condition. it was scarcely ten. time enough for that afterward. he drew out the drawer of a chiffonier, opened a closet and gloated over the order and plenty of their contents. he made difficult selection from these, and, steadying his progress by wall and chair, opened the door of an adjoining bath-room. it contained a circular bath with a needle shower. without removing his clothing, he climbed into this, balancing himself with an effort, found and turned the cold faucet, and let the icy water, chilled from artesian depths, trickle over him in a hundred stinging needle-points. it was a very different figure that reëntered the larger room a half-hour later, from the slinking mud-lark that had climbed the rose-trellis. the old hugh lay, a heap of soiled and sodden garments; the new stood forth shaven, fragrant with fresh linen and clean and fit apparel. the maudlin had vanished, the gaze was unvexed and bright, the whole man seemed to have settled into himself, to have grown trim, nonchalant, debonair. he held up his hand, palm outward, between the electric globe and his eye--there was not a tremor of nerve or muscle. he smiled. no headache, no fever, no uncertain feet or trembling hands or swollen tongue, after more than a week of deep potations. he could still "sober-up" as he used to do (with blake the butler to help him) when it had been a mere matter of an evening's tipsiness! and how fine it felt to be decently clad again! he crossed to a cheval-glass. the dark handsome face that looked out at him was clean-cut and aristocratic, perfect save for one blemish--a pale line that slanted across the right brow, a birth-mark, resembling a scar. all his life this mark had been an eyesore to its owner. it had a trick of turning an evil red under the stress of anger or emotion. on the features, young and vigorous as they were, subtle lines of self-indulgence had already set themselves, and beneath their expression, cavalier and caressing, lay the unmistakable stigmata of inherited weakness. but these the gazer did not see. he regarded himself with egotistic complacency. here he was, just as sound as ever. he had had his fling, and taught "the governor" that he could get along well enough without any paternal help if he chose. needs must when the devil drives, but his father should never guess the coarse and desperate expediences that had sickened him of his bargain, or the stringent calculation of his return. he was no milksop, either, to come sneaking to him with his hat in his hand. when he saw him now, he would be dressed as the gentleman he was! he attentively surveyed the room. it was clean and dusted--evidently it had been carefully tended. he might have stepped out of it yesterday. there in a corner was his banjo. on the edge of a silver tray was a half-consumed cigar. it crumbled between his fingers. he had been smoking that cigar when his father had entered the room on that last night. there, too, was the deck of cards he had angrily flung on to the table when he left. not a thing had been disturbed--yes, one thing. his portrait, that had hung over his bed, was not in its place. a momentary sense of trepidation rushed through him. could his father really have meant all he had said in his rage? did he really mean to disown him? for an instant he faced the hall door with clenched hands. somewhere in the house, unconscious of his presence, was that ward of whose coming he had learned. moreau was a good friend to have warned him! was she part of a plan of reprisal--her presence there a tentative threat to him? could his father mean to adopt her? might that great house, those grounds, the bulk of his wealth, go to her, and he, the son, be left in the cold? he shivered. perhaps he had stayed away too long! [illustration] as he turned again, he heard a sound in the hall. he listened. a light step was approaching--the swish of a gown. with a sudden impulse he stepped into the embrasure of the window, as the figure of a girl paused at the door. he felt his face flush; she had thrown a crimson kimono over her white night-gown, and the apparition seemed to part the dusk of the doorway like the red breast of a robin. she held in her hands a bunch of the pale _maréchal niel_ roses, and his eye caught the long rebellious sweep of her bronze hair, and the rosy tint of bare feet through the worsted meshes of her night-slippers. to his wonder the sight of the lighted room seemed to cause her no surprise. for an instant she stood still as though listening, then entered and placed the roses in a vase on a reading-stand by the bedside. hugh gasped. to reach the stand the girl had passed the spot where he stood, but she had taken no note of him. her gaze had gone by him as if he had been empty air. then he realized the truth; jessica holme was blind! moreau's letter had given him no inkling of that. so this was the girl with whom his father now threatened him! was she counting on his not coming back, waiting for the windfall? she was blind--but she was beautiful! suppose he were to turn the tables on the old man, not only climb back into his good graces through her, but even-- the thin line on his brow sprang suddenly scarlet. what a supple, graceful arm she had! how adroit her fingers as they arranged the rose-stems! was he already wholly blackened in her opinion? what did she think of him? why did she bring those flowers to that empty room? could it have been she who had kept it clean and fresh and unaltered against his return? a confident, daring look grew in his eyes; he wished she could see him in that purple tie and velvet smoking-jacket! what an opportunity for a romantic self-justification! should he speak? suppose it should frighten her? chance answered him. his respiration had conveyed to her the knowledge of a presence in the room. he heard her draw a quick breath. "some one is here!" she whispered. he started forward. "wait! wait!" he said in a loud whisper, as she sprang back. but the voice seemed to startle her the more, and before he could reach her side she was gone. he heard her flying steps descend the stair, and the opening and closing of a door. the sudden flight jarred hugh's pleasurable sense of novelty. he thrust his hands deep into his pockets. now he was in for it! she would alarm the house, rouse the servants--he should have a staring, domestic audience for the imminent reconciliation his sobered sense told him was so necessary. why could he not slip back into the old rut, he thought sullenly, without such a boring, perfunctory ceremony? he had intended to postpone this, if possible, until a night's sleep had fortified him. but now the sooner the ordeal was over, the better! shrugging his shoulders, he went quickly down the stair to the library. he had known exactly what he should see there--the vivid girl with the hue of fright in her cheeks, the shaded lamp, the wheel-chair, and the feeble old man with his furrowed face and gray mustaches. what he himself should say he had not had time to reflect. the figure in the chair looked up as the door opened. "hugh!" he cried, and half lifted himself from his seat. then he settled back, and the sunken, indomitable eyes fastened themselves on his son's face. hugh was melodramatic--cheaply so. he saw the girl start at the name, saw her hands catch at the kimono to draw its folds over the bare white throat, saw the rich color that flooded her brow. he saw himself suddenly the moving hero of the stagery, the tractive force of the situation. real tears came to his eyes--tears of insincere feeling, due partly to the cheap whisky he had drunk that day, whose outward consequences he had so drastically banished, and partly to sheer nervous excitation. "father!" he said, and came and caught the gaunt hand that shook against the chair. then the deeps of the old man's heart were suddenly broken up. "my son!" he cried, and threw his arms about him. "hugh--my boy, my boy!" jessica waited to hear no more. thrilling with gladness, and flushing with the sudden recollection of her bare throat and feet, she slipped away to her room to creep into bed and lie wide-eyed and thinking. what did he look like? of his face she had never seen even a counterfeit presentment. through what adventures had he passed? now that he had come home, forgiving and forgiven, would he stay? he had been in his room when she entered it with the roses--must have guessed, if he had not already known, that she was blind. would he guess that she had cared for that room, had placed fresh flowers there often and often? since she had come to the house in the aspens jessica had found the imagined figure of hugh a dominant presence in a horizon lightened with a throng of new impressions. the direful catastrophe of her blindness--it had been the sudden result of an accident--had fallen like a thunderbolt upon a nature elastic and joyous. it had brought her face to face with a revelation of mental agony, made her feel herself the hapless martyr of that curt thing called chance; one moment seeing a universe unfolding before her in line and hue, the next feeling it thrust rudely behind a gruesome blank of darkness. the two years that followed had been a period when despair had covered her; when specialists had peered with cunning instruments into her darkened eyes, to utter hopeful platitudes--and to counsel not at all. then into her own painful self-absorption had intruded her father's death, and the very hurt of this, perhaps, had been a salving one. it had of necessity changed her whole course of living. in her new surroundings she had taken up life once more. her alert imagination had begun to stir, to turn diffidently to new channels of exploration and interest. she had always lived largely in books and pictures, and her world was still full of ideals and of brave adventures. gratitude had made her love the morose old invalid with his crabbed tempers; and the wandering son, choosing for pride's sake a resourceless battle with the world--the very mystery of his whereabouts--had taken strong hold of her imagination. of the quarrel which had preceded hugh's departure, she had made her own version. that he should have come back on this very night, when the disinheritance she had dreaded had been so nearly consummated, seemed now to have an especial and an appealing significance. presently she rose, slipped on the red kimono, and, taking a key from the pocket of her gown, stole from the room. she ascended a stairway and unlocked the door of a wide, bare attic where the moonlight poured through a skylight in the roof upon an unfinished statue. in this statue she had begun to fashion, in the imagined figure of hugh, her conception of the prodigal son; not the battered and husk-filled wayfarer of the parable, but a figure of character and pathos, erring through youthful pride and spirit. the unfinished clay no eyes had seen, for those walls bounded her especial domain. carefully, one by one, she unwound the wet cloths that swathed the figure. in the streaming radiance of the night, the clay looked white as snow and she a crimson ghost. she passed her fingers lightly over the features. was the real hugh's face like that? one day, perhaps, her own eyes would tell her, and she would finish it. then she might show it to him, but not now. she replaced the coverings, relocked the door, and went softly down to her bed. when hugh went shamefacedly up the stair from the library, the artificial glow that had tingled to his finger-tips had faded. the poise of mind, the certitude of all the faculties of eye and hand that his icy bath had given him, were yielding. the penalties he had dislodged were returning reinforced. he was rapidly becoming drunk. he groped his way to his room, turned out the light, threw himself fully dressed upon the bed, and slept the deep sleep of deferred intoxication. chapter iv the lane that had no turning on a june day a month later, harry sanderson sat in his study, looking out of the window across the dim summer haze of heat, negligently smoking. on the distant hill overlooking the town was the cemetery, flanked by fields of growing corn where sulky, round-shouldered crows quarrelled and pilfered. he could see the long white marl road, bending in a broad curve between clover-stippled meadows, to skirt the willow-green bluff above the river. there, miles away, on the high bank, he could distinguish the railroad bridge, a long black skeleton spanning "the hole," a deep, fish-haunted pool, the deepest spot in the river for fifty miles. from the nearer, elm-shaded streets came the muffled clack of trade and the discordant treble of a huckster, somewhere a trolley-bell was buzzing angrily, and the impudent scream of a blue jay sheared across the monotone. harry's gaze went past the streets--past the open square, with its chapel spire lifting from a beryl sea of foliage--to a white colonial porch, peering from between aspens that quivered in the tremulous sunlight. the dog on the rug rose, stretching, and came to thrust an eager insinuating muzzle into its master's lap. rummy whined, the stubby tail wagged, but his master paid no heed, and with dejected ears, he slunk out into the sunshine. harry was looking, with brows gathered to a frown, at the far-away porch. the look was full of a troubled question, a vague misgiving, an interrogative anxiety. he was thinking of a night when he had saved the son of that house from the calamity of disinheritance--to what end? for since that moonlighted evening of the will-making harry had learned that the long lane had had no true turning for hugh. he had sifted him through and through. at college he had put him down for a weakling--unballasted, misdemeanant. now he knew him for what he really was--a moral mollusk, a scamp in embryo, a decadent, realizing an ugly propensity to a deplorable _finale_. a consistent career of loose living had carried hugh far since those college days when he had been dubbed "satan's shadow." while to harry sanderson the eccentric and agnostical had then been, as it were, the mask through which his temperament looked at life, to hugh it had spelled shipwreck. harry sanderson had done broadly as he pleased. he had entertained whom he listed; had gone "slumming"; had once boxed to a finish, for a wager, a local pugilist whose acquaintance he affected, known as "gentleman jim." he had been both the hardest hitter and the hardest drinker in his class, yet withal its most brilliant student. native character had enabled him to persist, as the exasperating function of success which dissipation declined to eliminate. but the same natural gravitation which in spite of all aberration had given harry sanderson classical honors, had brought hugh stires to the imminent brink of expulsion. and since that time, without the character which belonged to harry as a possession, hugh had continued to drift aimlessly on down the broad lax way of profligacy. the conditions he found upon his return, however, had opened hugh's eyes to the perilous strait in which he stood. he was a materialist, and the taste he had had of deprivation had sickened him. in the first revulsion, when the contrast between recent famine and present plenty was strong upon him, he had been at anxious pains to make himself secure with his father--and with jessica holme. harry's mental sight--keen as the hunter's sight on the rifle-barrel--was sharpened by his knowledge of the old hugh, an intuitive knowledge gained in a significant formative period. he saw more clearly than the townfolk who, in a general way, had known hugh stires all their lives. week by week harry had seen him regain lost ground in his father's esteem; day by day he had seen him making studious appeal to all that was romantic in jessica, climbing to the favor of each on the ladder of the other's regard. hugh was naturally a _poseur_, with a keen sense of effect. he could be brilliant at will, could play a little on piano, banjo and violin, could sing a little, and had himself well in hand. and feeling the unconscious cord of romance vibrate to his touch, he had played upon it with no unskilful fingers. jessica was comparatively free from that coquetry by means of which a woman's instinct experiments in emotion. although she had been artist enough before the cloistered years of her blindness to know that she was comely, she had never employed that beauty in the ordinary blandishments of girlish fascination. but steadily and unconsciously she had turned in her darkness more and more to the bright and tender air with which hugh clothed all their intercourse. her blindness had been of too short duration to have developed that fine sense-perception with which nature seeks to supplement the darkened vision. the ineradicable marks which ill-governed living had set in hugh's face--the self-indulgence and egotism--she could not see. she mistook impulse for instinct. she read him by the untrustworthy light of a colorful imagination. she deemed him high-spirited and debonair, a prince charming, whose prideful rebellion had been atoned for by a touching and manly surrender. all this harry had watched with a painful sense of impotence, and this feeling was upon him to-day as he stared out from the study toward the white porch, glistening in the sun. at length, with a little gesture expressive at once of helplessness and puzzle, he turned from the window, took his violin and began to play. he began a barcarole, but the music wandered away, through insensible variations, into a moving minor, a composition of his own. it broke off suddenly at a dog's fierce snarl from the yard, and the rattle of a thrown pebble. immediately a knock came at the door, and a man entered. "don't stop," said the new-comer. "i've dropped in for only a minute! that's an ill-tempered little brute of yours! if i were you, i'd get rid of him." harry sanderson laid the violin carefully in its case and shut the lid before he answered. "rummy is impulsive," he said dryly. "how is your father to-day, hugh?" the other tapped the toe of his shining patent-leather with his cane as he said with a look of ill-humor: "about as well as usual. he's planning now to put me in business, and expects me to become a staid pillar of society--'like sanderson,' as he says forty times a week. how do you do it, harry? there isn't an old lady in town who thinks her parlor carpet half good enough for you to walk on! you're only a month older than i am, yet you can wind the whole vestry, and the bishop to boot, around your finger!" "i wasn't aware of the idolatry." harry laughed a little--a distant laugh. "you are observant, hugh." "oh, anybody can see it. i'd like to know how you do it. it was always so with you, even at college. you could do pretty much as you liked, and yet be popular, too. why, there was never a jamboree complete without you and your violin at the head of the table." "that is a long time ago," said harry. "more than four years. four years and a month to-morrow, since that last evening of college. yet i imagine it will be longer before we forget it! i think of it still, sometimes, in the night--" hugh went on more slowly,--"that last dinner of the saints, and poor archie singing with that wobbly smilax wreath over one eye and the claret spilled down his shirt-front--then the sudden silence like a wet blanket! i can see him yet, when his head dropped. he seemed to shrivel right up in his chair. how horrible to die like that! i didn't touch a drink for a month afterward!" he shivered slightly, and walked to the window. harry did not speak. the words had torn the network of the past as sheet-lightning tears the summer dusk; had called up a ghost that he had labored hard to lay--a memory-specter of a select coterie whose wild days and nights had once revolved about him as its central sun. the sharp tragedy of that long-ago evening had been the awakening. the swift, appalling catastrophe had crashed into his career at the pivotal moment. it had shocked him from his orbit and set him to the right-about-face. and the moral _bouleversement_ had carried him, in abrupt recoil, into the ministry. an odd confusion blurred his vision. perhaps to cover this, he crossed the room to a small private safe which stood open in the corner, in which he kept his tithes and his charities. when hugh, shrugging his shoulders as if to dismiss the unwelcome picture he had painted, turned again, harry was putting into it some papers from his pocket. hugh saw the action; his eyes fastened on the safe avidly. "i say," he said after a moment's pause, as harry made to shut its door, "can you loan me another fifty? i'm flat on my uppers again, and the old man has been tight as nails with me since i came back. i'm sure to be able to return it with the rest, in a week or two." harry stretched his hand again toward the safe--then drew it back with compressed lips. he had met hugh with persistent courtesy, and the other had found him sufficiently obliging with loans. of late, however, his nerves had been on edge. the patent calculation of hugh's course had sickened, and his flippant cynicism had jarred and disconcerted him. a growing sense of security, too, had made hugh less circumspect. more than once during the past month harry had seen him issue from the shadowed door whose upper panel held the little barred window--the door at which doctor moreau had entrance, though decent doors were closed in his face. hugh's lowered gaze saw the arrested movement and his cheek flushed. "oh, if it's inconvenient, i won't trouble you for the accommodation," he said. "i dare say i can raise it." the attempt at nonchalance cost him a palpable effort. comparatively small as the amount was, he needed it. he was in sore straits. by hook or crook he must stave off an evil day whose approach he knew not how to meet. "it isn't that it is inconvenient, hugh," said harry. "it's that i can't approve your manner of living lately, and--i don't know where the fifty is going." the mark on hugh's brow reddened. "i wasn't aware that i was expected to render you an accounting," he said sulkily, "if i do borrow a dollar or two now and then! what if i play cards, and drink a little when i'm dry? i've got to have a bit of amusement once in a while between prayers. you liked it yourself well enough, before you discovered a sudden talent for preaching!" "some men hide their talents under a napkin," said harry. "you drown yours--in a bottle. you have been steadily going downhill. you are deceiving your father--and others--with a pretended reform which isn't skin-deep! you have made them believe you are living straight, when you are carousing; that you keep respectable company, when you have taken up with a besotted and discredited gambler!" "i suppose you mean doctor moreau," returned hugh. "there are plenty of people in town who are worse than he is." "he is a quack--dropped from the hospital staff for addiction to drugs, and expelled from his club for cheating at cards." "he's down and out," said hugh sullenly, "and any cur can bite him. he never cheated me, and i find him better company than your sanctimonious, psalm-singing sort. i'm not going to give him the cold shoulder because everybody else does. i never went back on a friend yet. i'm not that sort!" a steely look had come to harry sanderson's eyes; he was thinking of the house in the aspens. while he talked, shooting pictures had been flashing through his mind. now, at the boast of this eager protester of loyalty, this recreant who "never went back on a friend," his face set like a flint. "you never had a friend, hugh," he said steadily. "you never really loved anybody or anything but yourself. you are utterly selfish. you are deliberately lying, every hour you live, to those who love you. you are playing a part--for your own ends! you were only a good imitation of a good fellow at college. you are a poor imitation of a man of honor now." hugh rose to his feet, as he answered hotly: "and what are you, i'd like to know? just because i take my pleasure as i please, while you choose to make a stained-glass cherub of yourself, is no reason why i'm not just as good as you! i knew you well enough before you set up for such a pattern. you didn't go in much then for a theological diet. pshaw!" he went on, snapping his fingers toward the well-stocked book-shelves. "i wonder how much of all that you really believe!" harry passed the insolence of the remark. he flecked a bit of dust from his sleeve before he answered, smiling a little disdainfully: "and how much do _you_ believe, hugh?" "i believe in running my own affairs, and letting other people run theirs! i don't believe in talking cant, and posing as a little-tin-god-on-wheels! if i lived in a glass-house, i'd be precious careful not to throw stones!" harry sanderson was staring at him curiously now--a stare of singular inquiry. this shallow witness of his youthful misconduct, then, judged him by himself; deemed him a mere masquerader in the domino of decorous life, carrying the reckless and vicious humors of his nonage into the wider issues of living, and clothing an arrant hypocrisy under the habit of one of god's ministers! the elastic weight of air in the study seemed suddenly grown suffocating. he reached and flung open the chapel door, and stood looking across the choir, through the mellow light of the duskily tinted nave, solemn as with the hush of past prayer. on this interior had been lavished the special love of the invalid, who had given of his riches that this place for the comfort of souls might be. it was an expanse of dim colors and dark woodwork. at its eastern end was the high altar, with tall flowers in stately gilt vases on either side, and a brass lectern glimmered near-by. in the western wall was set a great rose-window of rich stained glass--a picture of the eternal tragedy of calvary. as harry stood gazing into the mellow light, hugh paced moodily up and down behind him. suddenly he caught harry's arm and pointed. harry turned and looked. above the mantel was set a mirror, and from where they stood, this reflected hugh's face. it startled harry, for some trick of the atmosphere, or the sunlight falling through the painted glass, lightening the sallow face and leaving the hair in deeper shade--as a cunning painter by a single line will alter a whole physiognomy--had for the instant wiped out all superficial unresemblance and left a weird likeness. as hugh's mocking countenance looked from the oval frame, harry had a queer sensation as if he were looking at his own face, with some indefinable smear of attaint upon it--the trail of evil. as he drew away from the other's touch, his eye followed the bar of amber light to the rose-window in the chapel; it was falling through the face of the unrepentant thief. the movement broke the spell. when he looked again the eerie impression of identity was gone. hugh had felt the recoil. "not complimented, eh?" he said with a half-sneer. "too bad the prodigal should resemble satan sanderson, the fashionable parish rector who waves his arms so gracefully in the pulpit, and preaches such nice little sermons! you didn't mind it so much in the old days! pardon me," he added with malice, "i forgot. it's the 'reverend henry' at present, of course! i imagine your friends don't call you 'satan' now." "no," returned harry quietly. "they don't call me 'satan' now!" he went back to the safe. the movement set hugh instantly to regretting his hasty tongue. if he had only assumed penitence, instead of flying into a passion, he might have had the money he wanted just as well as not! "there's no sense in us two quarrelling," he said hastily. "we've been friends a long time. i'm sure i didn't intend to when i came in. i suppose you're right about some things, and probably dropping moreau wouldn't hurt me any. i'm sorry i said all i did. only--the money seemed such a little thing, and i--i needed it." harry stood an instant with his hand on the knob, then instead of closing the door, he drew out a little drawer. he lifted a packet of crisp yellow-backs and slowly counted out one hundred dollars. "i'm trying to believe you mean what you say, hugh," he said. hugh's fingers closed eagerly over the crackling notes. "now that's white of you, after everything i said! you're a good fellow, harry, after all, and i'll always say so. i wish old gooseberry was half as decent in a money way. he seems to think fifty dollars a week is plenty till i marry and settle down. he talks of retiring then, and i suppose he'll come down handsomely, and give me a chance to look my debts in the face." he pocketed the money with an air of relief and picked up his hat and cane. just then from the dusty street came the sound of carriage-wheels and the click of the gate-latch. "it's bishop ludlow," he said, glancing through the window. "he's coming in. i think i'll slip out the side way. thanks for the loan and--i'll think over what you've said!" avoiding the bishop, hugh stepped toward the gate. the money was in his pocket. well, one of these days he would not have to grovel for a paltry fifty dollars! he would be his own master, and could afford to let harry sanderson and everybody else think what they liked. "so i'm playing a part, am i!" he said to himself. "why should your holiness trouble yourself over it, if i am! not because you're so careful of the governor's feelings; not by a long shot! it's because you choose to think jessica holme is too good for me! that's where the shoe pinches! perhaps you'd like to play at that game yourself, eh?" he walked jauntily up the street--toward the door with the little barred window. "the old man is fond of her. he thinks i mean to settle down and let the moss grow over my ears, and he'll do the proper thing. it'll be a good way to put my head above water and keep it there. it must be soon, though!" a smile came to his face, a pretentious, boastful smile, and his shining patent-leathers stepped more confidently. "she's the finest-looking girl in this town, even without her eyes. she may get back her sight sometime. but even if she doesn't, blindness in a wife might not be such a bad thing, after all!" chapter v the bishop speaks inside the study, meanwhile, the bishop was greeting harry sanderson. he had officiated at his ordination and liked him. his eyes took in the simple order of the room, lingering with a light tinge of disapproval upon the violin case in the corner, and with a deeper shade of question upon the jewel on the other's finger--a pigeon-blood ruby in a setting curiously twisted of the two initial letters of his name. there came to his mind for an instant a whisper of early prodigalities and wildnesses which he had heard. for the lawyer who had listened to harry sanderson's recital on the night of the making of the will had not considered it a professional disclosure. he had thought it a "good story," and had told it at his club, whence it had percolated at leisure through the heavier strata of town-talk. the tale, however, had seemed rather to increase than to discourage popular interest in harry sanderson. the bishop knew that those whose approval had been withheld were in the hopeless minority, and that even these could not have denied that he possessed desirable qualities--a manner by turns sparkling and grave, picturesqueness in the pulpit, and the unteachable tone of blood--and had infused new life into a generally sleepy parish. he had dismissed the whisper with a smile, but oddly enough it recurred to him now at sight of the ruby ring. "i looked in to tell you a bit of news," said the bishop. "i've just come from david stires--he has a letter from van lennap, the great eye-surgeon of vienna. he disagrees with the rest of them--thinks jessica's case may not be hopeless." the cloud that hugh's call had left on harry's countenance lifted. "thank god!" he said. "will she go to him?" the bishop looked at him curiously, for the exclamation seemed to hold more than a conventional relief. "he is to be in america next month. he will come here then to examine, and perhaps to operate. an exceptional girl," went on the bishop, "with a remarkable talent! the angel in the chapel porch, i suppose you know, is her modelling, though that isn't just masculine enough in feature to suit me. the scriptures are silent on the subject of woman-angels in heaven; though, mind you, i don't say they're not common on earth!" the bishop chuckled mildly at his own epigram. "poor child!" he continued more soberly. "it will be a terrible thing for her if this last hope fails her, too! especially now, when she and hugh are to make a match of it." harry's face was turned away, or the bishop would have seen it suddenly startled. "to make a match of it!" to hide the flush he felt staining his cheek, harry bent to close the safe. a something that had darkled in some obscure depth of his being, whose existence he had not guessed, was throbbing now to a painful resentment. jessica was to marry hugh! "a handsome fellow--hugh!" said the bishop. "he seems to have returned with a new heart--a brand plucked from the burning. you had the same _alma mater_, i think you told me. your influence has done the boy good, sanderson!" he laid his hand kindly on the other's shoulder. "the fact that you were in college together makes him look up to you--as the whole parish does," he added. harry was setting the combination, and did not answer. but through the turmoil in his brain a satiric voice kept repeating: "no, they don't call me 'satan' now!" chapter vi what came of a wedding the white house in the aspens was in gala attire. flowers--great banks of bloom--were massed in the hall, along the stairway and in the window-seats, and wreaths of delicate fern trembled on the prim-hung chandeliers. over all breathed the sweet fragrance of jasmin. musicians sat behind a screen of palms in a corridor, and a long scarlet carpet strip ran down the front steps to the driveway, up which passed bravely dressed folk, arriving in carriages and on foot, to witness the completion of a much-booted romance. for a fortnight this afternoon's event had been the chat of the town, for david stires, who to-day retired from active business, was its magnate, the owner of its finest single estate and of its most important bank. from his scapegrace boyhood hugh stires had made himself the subject of uncomfortable discussion. his sudden disappearance after the rumored quarrel with his father, and the advent of jessica holme, had furnished the community sufficient material for gossip. the wedding had capped this gossip with an appropriate climax. tongues had wagged over its pros and cons--for hugh's past had induced a wholesome skepticism of his future. but the carping were willing to let bygones be bygones, and the wiseacres, to whose experience marriage stood as a sedative for the harum-scarum, augured well. there was an additional element of romance, too, in the situation; for jessica, who had never yet seen her lover, would see her husband. the great surgeon on whose prognostication she had built so much, had arrived and had operated. he was not alone an eminent consultant in diagnosis, but an operator of masterly precision, whose daring of scalpel had made him well-nigh a last resort in the delicate adventurings of eye surgery. the experiment had been completely successful, and jessica's hope of vision had become a sure and certain promise. to see once again! to walk free and careless! to mold the plastic clay into the shapes that thronged her brain! to finish the statue which she had never yet shown to any one, in the great sky-lighted attic! to see flowers, and the sunset, the new green of the trees in spring, and the sparkle of the snow in winter, and people's faces!--to see hugh! that had been at the core of her thought when it reeled dizzily back from the merciful oblivion of the anesthetic, to touch the strange gauze wrappings on her eyes--the tight bandage that must stay for so long, while nature plied her silent medicaments of healing. meanwhile the accepted lover had become the importunate one. the operation over, there had remained many days before the bandages could be removed--before jessica could be given her first glimpse of the world for nearly three years. hugh had urged against delay. if he had stringent reasons of his own, he was silent concerning them. and jessica, steeped in the delicious wonder of new and inchoate sensations, had yielded. so it had come about that the wedding was to be on this hot august afternoon, although it would be yet some time before the eye-bandages might be laid aside, save in a darkened room. in her girlish, passionate ideality, jessica had offered a sacrifice to her sentiment. she had promised herself that the first form her new sight should behold should be, not her lover, but her husband! the idea pleased her sense of romance. so, hugging the fancy, she had denied herself. she was to see hugh for the first time in a shaded room, after the glare and nervous excitement of the ceremony. gossip had heard and had seized upon this tidbit with relish. the blind marriage--a bride with hoodwinked eyes, who had never seen the man she was to marry--the moment's imperfect vision of him, a poor dole for memory to carry into the honeymoon--these ingredients had given the occasion a titillating sense of the extraordinary and romantic, and sharpened the buzz of the waiting guests, as they whiled away the irksome minutes. it was a sweltering afternoon, and in the wide east parlor, limp handkerchiefs and energetic fans fought vainly against the intolerable heat. there, as the clock struck six, a hundred pairs of eyes galloped between two centers of interest: the door at which the bride would enter, and the raised platform at the other end of the room where, prayer-book in hand, in his wide robes and flowing sleeves, harry sanderson had just taken his stand. perhaps more looked at harry than at the door. he seemed his usual magnetic self as he stood there, backed by the flowers, his waving brown hair unsmoothed, the ruby-ring glowing dull-red against the dark leather of the book he held. few felt it much a matter of regret that the humdrum and less personable bishop of the diocese should be away at convocation, since the young rector furnished the final esthetic touch to a perfectly appointed function. but harry sanderson was far from feeling the grave, alien, figure he appeared. in the past weeks he had waged a silent warfare with himself, bitterer because repressed. the strange new thing that had sprung up in him he had trampled mercilessly under. from the thought that he loved the promised wife of another, a quick, fastidious sense in him recoiled abashed. this painful struggle had been sharpened by his sense of hugh's utter worthlessness. to that rustling assemblage, the man who was to make those solemn promises was david stires' son, who had had his fling, turned over his new leaf becomingly, and was now offering substantial hostages to good repute. to him, harry sanderson, he was a _flâneur_, a marginless gambler in the futures of his father's favor and a woman's heart. he had shrunk from the ceremony, but circumstances had constrained him. there had been choice only between an evasion--to which he would not stoop--and a flat refusal, the result of which would have been a footless scandal--ugly town-talk--a sneer at himself and his motives--a quietus, possibly, to his whole career. so now he stood to face a task which was doubly painful, but which he would go through with to the bitter end! only a moment harry stood waiting; then the palm-screened musicians began the march, and hugh took his place, animated and assured, looking the flushed and expectant bridegroom. at the same instant the chattering and hubbub ceased; jessica, on the arm of the old man, erect but walking feebly with his cane, was advancing down the roped lane. she was in simple white, the point-lace on the frock an heirloom. her bronze hair was drawn low, hiding much of the disfiguring bandage, under which her lips were parted in a half-smile, human, intimate and eager, full of the hope and intoxication of living. harry's eyes dropped to the opened book, though he knew the office by heart. he spoke the time-worn adjuration with clear enunciation, with almost perfunctory distinctness. he did not look at hugh. "_if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace._" in the pause--the slightest pause--that turned the page, he felt an insane prompting to tear off his robes, to proclaim to this roomful of heated, gaping, fan-fluttering humanity, that he himself, a minister of the gospel, the celebrant of the rite, knew "just cause"! the choking impulse passed. the periods rolled on--the long white glove was slipped from the hand, the ring put on the finger, and the pair, whom god and harry sanderson had joined together, were kneeling on the white satin prie-dieu with bowed heads under the final invocation. as they knelt, choir voices rose: "o perfect love, all human thought transcending, lowly we kneel in prayer before thy throne--" then, while the music lingered, the hush of the room broke in a confused murmur; the white ribbon-wound ropes were let down, and a voluble wave of congratulators swept over the spot. in a moment more harry found himself laying off his robes in the next room. with a sigh of relief, he stepped through the wide french window into the garden, fresh with the scent of growing things and the humid odors of the soil. the twitter and bustle he had left came painfully out to him, and a whiff of evening coolness breathed through the oppressive air. the strain over, he longed for the solitude of his study. but david stires had asked him to remain for a final word, since bride and groom were to leave on an early evening train; the old man was to accompany them a part of the journey, and "the stires place" was to be closed for an indefinite period. harry found a bench and sat down, where camelias dropped like blood. what would jessica suffer in the inevitable awakening, when the tinted petals of her dreams were shattered and strewn? for the first time he looked down through his sore sense of outrage and protest to deeps in himself--as a diver peers through a water-glass to the depths of a river troubled and opaque, dimly descrying vague shapes of ill. poetry, passion and dreams had been his also, but he had dreamed too late! it was not long before the sound of gay voices and of carriage-wheels came around the corner of the house, for the reception was to be curtailed. there had been neither bridesmaids nor groomsmen, and there was no skylarking on the cards; the guests, who on lesser occasions would have lingered to throw rice and old shoes, departed from the house in the aspens with primness and dignity. one by one he heard the carriages roll down the graveled driveway. a bicycle careened across the lawn from a side-gate, carrying a bank messenger--the last shaft of commerce before old david stires washed his tenacious mind of business. a few moments later the messenger reappeared and rode away whistling. a last chime of voices talking together--harry could distinguish hugh's voice now--and at length quiet told him the last of the guests were gone. thinking that he would now see his old friends for a last farewell, he rose and went slowly back through the french window. the east room was empty, save for servants who were gathering some of the cut flowers for themselves. he stood aimlessly for a few moments looking about him. a white carnation lay at the foot of the dais, fallen from jessica's shower-bouquet. he picked this up, abstractedly smelled its perfume, and drew the stem through his buttonhole. then, passing into the next room, he found his robes leisurely and laid them by--he had now only to embellish the sham with his best wishes! all at once he heard voices in the library. he opened the door and entered. harry sanderson stopped stock-still. in the room sat old david stires in his wheel-chair opposite his son. he was deadly pale, and his fierce eyes blazed like fire in tinder. and what a hugh! not the indolently gay prodigal harry had known in the past, nor the flushed bridegroom of a half-hour ago! it was a cringing, a hang-dog hugh now; with a slinking dread in the face--a trembling of the hands--a tense expectation in the posture. the thin line across his brow was a livid pallor. his eyes lifted to harry's for an instant, then returned in a kind of fascination to a slip of paper on the desk, on which his father's forefinger rested, like a nail transfixing an animate infamy. "sanderson," said the old man in a low, hoarse, unnatural voice, "come in and shut the door. god forgive us--we have married jessica to a common thief! hugh--my son, my only child, whom i have forgiven beyond all reckoning--has forged my name to a draft for five thousand dollars!" chapter vii out of the dark for a moment there was dead silence in the room. in the hall the tall clock struck ponderously, and a porch blind slammed beneath a caretaker's hand. harry's breath caught in his throat, and the old man's eye again impaled his hapless son. hugh threw up his head with an attempt at jauntiness, but with furtive apprehension in every muscle--for he could not solve the look he saw on his father's face--and said: "you act as if it were a cool million! i'm no worse than a lot who have better luck than i. suppose i did draw the five thousand?--you were going to give me ten for a wedding present. i had to have the money then, and you wouldn't have given it to me. you know that as well as i do. besides, i was going to take it up myself and you would never have been the wiser. he promised to hold it--it's a low trick for him to round on me like this. i'll pay him off for it sometime! i don't see that it's anybody else's business but ours, anyway," he continued, with a surly glance at harry. harry had been staring at him, but with a vision turned curiously backward--a vision that seemed to see hugh standing at a carpeted dais in a flower-hung room, while his own voice said out of a lurid shadow: "_wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband...._" "stay, sanderson," said the old man; then turning to hugh: "who advanced you money on this and promised to 'hold it'?" "doctor moreau." "he profited by it?" "he got his margin," said hugh sullenly. "how much margin did he get?" "a thousand." "where is the rest?" david stires' voice was like a whip of steel. hugh hesitated a moment. he had still a few hundreds in pocket, but he did not mention them. "i used most of it. i--had a few debts." "debts of honor, i presume!" hugh's sensibility quivered at the fierce, grating irony of the inquiry. "if you'd been more decent with spending-money," he said with a flare of the old effrontery, "i'd have been all right! ever since i came home you've kept me strapped. i was ashamed to stick up any more of my friends. and of course i couldn't borrow from jessica." "ashamed!" exclaimed the old man with harsh sternness. "you are without the decency of shame! if you were capable of feeling it, you would not mention her name now!" hugh thought he saw a glimmer through the storm-cloud. jessica was his anchor to windward. what hurt him, would hurt her. he would pull through! "well," he said, "it's done, and there's no good making such a row about it. she's my wife and she'll stand by me, if nobody else does!" no one had ever seen such a look on david stires' face as came to it now--a sudden blaze of fury and righteous scorn, that burned it like a brand. "you impudent blackguard! you drag my name in the gutter and then try to trade on my self-respect and jessica's affection. you thought you would take it up yourself--and i would be none the wiser! and if i did find it out, you counted on my love for the poor deluded girl you have married, to make me condone your criminality--to perjure myself--to admit the signature and shield you from the consequences. you imagine because you are my son, that you can do this thing and all still go on as before! do you suppose i don't consider jessica? do you think because you have fooled and cheated her--and me--and married her, that i will give her now to a caught thief--a common jailbird?" hugh started. a sickly pallor came to his sallow cheek. that salient chin, that mouth close-gripped--those words, vengeful, vindictive, the utterance of a wrath so mighty in the feeble frame as to seem almost uncouth--smote him with a mastering terror. a jailbird! that was what his father called _him_! did he mean to give him up, then? to have him arrested--tried--put in prison? when he had canvassed the risks of discovery, he had imagined a scene, bitter anger--perhaps even disinheritance. his marriage to jessica, he had reckoned, would cover that extremity. but he had never thought of something worse. now, for the first time, he saw himself in the grip of that impersonal thing known as the law--handcuffs on his wrists, riding through the streets in the "black-maria"--standing at the dock an outcast, gazed at with contempt by all the town--at length sitting in a cell somewhere, no more pleasures or gaming, or fine linen, but dressed in convict's dress, loose, ill-shapen, hanging on him like bags, with broad black-and-white stripes. he had been through the penetentiary once. he remembered the sullen, stolid faces, the rough, hobnailed shoes, the cropped heads! his mind turned from the picture with fear and loathing. in the thoughts that were darting through hugh's mind, there was none now of regret or of pity for jessica. his fear was the fear of the trapped spoiler, who discerns capture and its consequent penalties in the patrolling bull's-eye flashed upon him. he studied his father with hunted, calculating eyes, as the old man turned to harry sanderson. "sanderson," said david stires, once more in his even, deadly voice, "jessica is waiting in the room above this. she will not understand the delay. will you go to her? make some excuse--any you can think of--till i come." harry nodded and left the room, shutting the door carefully behind him, carrying with him the cowering helpless look with which hugh saw himself left alone with his implacable judge. what to say to her? how to say it? as he passed the hall, the haste of demolition had already begun. florists' assistants were carrying the plants from the east room, and through the open door a man was rolling up the red carpet. the cluttered emptiness struck him with a sense of fateful symbolism--as though it shadowed forth the shattering of jessica's ordered dream of happiness. he mounted the stair as if a pack swung from his shoulders. he paused a moment at the door, then knocked, turned the knob, and entered. [illustration] there, in the middle of the blue-hung room, in her wedding-dress, with her bandaged eyes, and her bridal bouquet on the table, stood jessica. twilight was near, but even so, all the shutters were drawn save one, through which a last glow of refracted sunlight sifted to fall upon his face. her hands were clasped before her, he could hear her breathing--the full hurried respiration of expectancy. then, while his hand closed the door behind him, a thing unexpected, anomalous, happened--a thing that took him as utterly by surprise as if the solid floor had yawned before him. slim fingers tore away the broad encircling bandage. she started forward. her arms were flung about his neck. "hugh!... hugh!" she cried. "my husband!" the paleness was stricken suddenly from harry's face. an odd, dazed color--a flush of mortification, of self-reproach, flooded it from chin to brow. despite himself, he had felt his lips molding to an answering kiss beneath her own. he drew a gasping breath, his hand nervously caught the bandage, replaced it over the eyes, and tied it tightly, putting down her protesting hands. "oh, hugh," she pleaded, "not for a moment--not when i am so happy! your face is what i dreamed it must be! why did you make me wait so long? and i can see, hugh! i can really see! let it stay off, just for one little moment more!" he held her hands by force. "jessica--wait!" he said in a broken whisper. "you must not take it off again--not now!" an incredible confusion enveloped him--his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. not only had the painful _contretemps_ nonplussed and dismayed him; not only had it heightened and horrified the realization of what she must presently be told. it had laid a careless hand upon his own secret, touching it with an almost vulgar mockery. it had overthrown in an instant the barricades he had been piling. the pressure of those lips on his had sent coursing to the furthest recesses of his nature a great wave which dikes nor locks might ever again forbid. her look, leaping to his face, had not noted the ministerial dress, nor in the ecstasy of the moment did she catch the agitation in his voice; or if she did, she attributed it to a feeling like her own. she was laughing happily, while he stood, trembling slightly, holding himself with an effort. "what a dear goose you are!" she said. "the light didn't hurt them--indeed, indeed! only to think, hugh! your wife will have her sight! do go and tell your father! he will be waiting to know!" harry made some incoherent reply. he was desperately anxious to get away--his thought was a snarl of tatters, threaded by one lucid purpose: to spare her coming self-abasement this sardonic humiliation. he did not think of a time in the future, when her error must naturally disclose itself. the tangle spelled _now_. not to tell her--not to let her know! he almost ran from the room and down the stair. chapter viii "am i my brother's keeper?" at the foot of the landing he paused, drawing a deep breath as if to lift a weight of air. he needed to get his bearings--to win back a measure of calmness. as he stood there, hugh came from the library. his head was down and he went furtively and slinkingly, as though dreading even a casual regard. he snatched his hat from the rack, passed out of the house, and was swallowed up in the dusk. david stires had followed his son into the hall. he answered the gloomy question in harry's eyes: "he is gone," he said, "and i hope to heaven i may never see his face again!" then, slowly and feebly, he ascended the stair. the library windows were shadowed by shrubbery, and the sunset splintered against the wall in a broad stripe, like cloth of crimson silk. harry leaned his hot forehead against the chill marble of the mantelpiece and gazed frowningly at the dark korean desk--an antique gift of his own to david stires--where the slip of paper still lay that had spelled such ruin and shame. from the rear of the house came the pert, tittering laugh of a maid bantering an expressman, and the heavy, rattling thump of rolled trunks. there was something ghastly in the incomprehension of all the house save the four chief actors of the melodrama. the travesty was over, the curtain rung down to clapping of hands, the scene-shifters clearing away--and behind all, in the wings, unseen by any spectator, the last act of a living tragedy was rushing to completion. ten, fifteen minutes passed, and old david stires reëntered the room, went feebly to his wheel-chair, and sat down. he sat a moment in silence, looking at a portrait of jessica--a painting by altsheler that hung above the mantel--in a light fleecy gown, with one white rose in the bronze hair. when he spoke the body's infirmity had become all at once pitifully apparent. the fiery wrath seemed suddenly to have burned itself out, leaving only dead ashes behind. his eyes had shrunk away into almost empty sockets. the authority had faded from his face. he was all at once a feeble, gentle-looking, ill, old man, with white mustaches and uncertain hands, dressed in ceremonial broadcloth. "i have told her," he said presently, in a broken voice. "you are kind, sanderson, very kind. god help us!" "what has god to do with it?" fell a voice behind them. harry faced about. it was jessica, as he had first seen her in the upper room, with the bandage across her eyes. "what has god to do with it?" she repeated, in a hard tone. "perhaps mr. sanderson can tell us. it is in his line!" "please--" said harry. he could not have told what he would have asked, though the accent was almost one of entreaty. the harsh satire touched his sacred calling; coming from her lips it affronted at once his religious instinct and his awakened love. it was all he said, for he stopped suddenly at sight of her face, pain-frosted, white as the folded cloth. "oh," she said, turning toward the voice, "i remember what you said that night, right here in this very room--that you sowed your wild oats at college with hugh--that they were 'a tidy crop'! you were strong, and he was weak. you led, and he followed. you were 'satan sanderson,' abbot of the saints, the set in which he learned gambling. why, it was in your rooms that he played his first game of poker--he told me so himself! and now he has gone to be an outcast, and you stand in the pulpit in a cassock, you, the 'reverend henry sanderson'! you helped to make him what he has become! can you undo it?" harry was looking at her with a stricken countenance. he had no answer ready. the wave of confusion that had submerged him when he had restored the bandage to her eyes had again welled over him. he stood shocked and confounded. his hand fumbled at his lapel, and the white carnation, crushed by his fingers, dropped at his feet. "i am not excusing hugh now," she went on wildly. "he has gone beyond excuse or forgiveness. he is as dead to me as though i had never known him, though the word you spoke an hour ago made me his wife. i shall have that to remember all my life--that, and the one moment i had waited for so long, for my first sight of his face, and my bride's kiss! i must carry it with me always. i can never wipe that face from my brain, or the sting of that kiss from my lips--the kiss of a forger--of my husband!" the old man groaned. "i didn't know he had seen her!" he said helplessly. "jessica, hugh's sin is not sanderson's fault!" in her bitter words was an injustice as passionate as her pain, but for her life she could not help it. she was a woman wrenched and torn, tortured beyond control, numb with anguish. every quivering tendril of feeling was a live protest, every voice of her soul was crying out against the fact. in those dreadful minutes when her mind took in the full extent of her calamity, hugh's past intimacy and present grim contrast with harry sanderson had mercilessly thrust themselves upon her, and her agony had seared the swift antithesis on her brain. to harry sanderson, however, her words fell with a wholly disproportionate violence. it had never occurred to him that he himself had been individually and actively the cause of hugh's downfall. the accusation pierced through the armor of self-esteem that he had linked and riveted with habit. the same pain of mind that had spurred him, on that long-ago night, to the admission she had heard, had started to new life a bared, a scathed, a rekindling sin. "it is all true," he said. it was the inveterate voice of conscience that spoke. "i have been deceiving myself. i was my brother's keeper! i see it now." she did not catch the deep compunction in the judicial utterance. in her agony the very composure and restraint cut more deeply than silence. she stood an instant quivering, then turned, and feeling blindly for the door, swept from their sight. white and breathless, jessica climbed the stair. in her room, she took a key from a drawer and ran swiftly to the attic-studio. she unlocked the door with hurried fingers, tore the wrappings from the tall white figure of the prodigal son, and found a heavy mallet. she lifted this with all her strength, and showered blow upon blow on the hard clay, her face and hair and shimmering train powdered with the white dust, till the statue lay on the floor, a heap of tumbled fragments. fateful and passionate as the scene in the library had been, her going left a pall of silence in the room. harry sanderson looked at david stires with pale intentness. "yet i would have given my life," he said in a low voice, "to save her this!" something in the tone caught the old man. he glanced up. "i never guessed!" he said slowly. "i never guessed that you loved her, too." but harry had not heard. he did not even know that he had spoken aloud. david stires turned his wheel-chair to the korean desk, touching the bell as he did so. he took up the draft and put it into his pocket. he pressed a spring, a panel dropped, and disclosed a hidden drawer, from which he took a crackling parchment. it was the will against whose signing harry had pleaded months before in that same room. the butler entered. "witness my signature, blake," he said, and wrote his name on the last page. "mr. sanderson will sign with you." an hour later the fast express that bore jessica and david stires was shrieking across the long skeleton railroad bridge, a dotted trail of fire against the deepening night. the sound crossed the still miles. it called to harry sanderson, where he sat in his study with the evening paper before him. it called his eyes from a paragraph he was reading through a painful mist--a paragraph under heavy leads, on its front page: this city has seldom seen so brilliant a gathering as that witnessed, late this afternoon, at the residence of the groom, the marriage of mr. hugh stires and miss jessica holme, both of this place. the ceremony was performed by the reverend henry sanderson, rector of st. james. the groom is the son of one of our leading citizens, and the beauty and talent of the bride have long made her noted. the happy couple, accompanied by the groom's father, left on an early train, carrying with them the congratulations and good wishes of the entire community. a full account of the wedding will be given in to-morrow morning's issue. chapter ix after a year night had fallen. the busy racket of wheeled traffic was still, the pavements were garish with electric light, windows were open, and crowds jostled to and fro on the cool pavements. but harry sanderson, as he walked slowly back from a long ramble in knickerbockers and norfolk jacket over the hills, was not thinking of the sights and sounds of the pleasant evening. he had tramped miles since sundown, and had returned as he set out, gloomy, unrequited, a follower of a baffled quest. even the dog at his heels seemed to partake of his master's mood; he padded along soberly, forging ahead now and again to look up inquiringly at the preoccupied face. set back from the street in a wide estate of trees and shrubbery, stood a great white-porched house that gloomed darkly from amid its aspens. not a light had twinkled from it for nearly a year. the little city had wondered at first, then by degrees had grown indifferent. the secret of that prolonged honeymoon, that dearth and absence, harry sanderson and the bishop alone could have told. for the bishop knew of hugh's criminal act; he was named executor of the will that lay in the korean chest, and him david stires had written the truth. his heart had gone out with pity for jessica, and understanding. the secret he locked in his own breast, as did harry sanderson, each thinking the other ignorant of it. since that wedding-day no shred of news had come to either. harry had wished for none. to think of jessica was a recurrent pang, and yet the very combination of the safe in his study he had formed of the letters of her name! in each memory of her he felt the fresh assault of a new and tireless foe--the love which he must deny. until their meeting his moral existence had been strangely without struggle. when at a single blow he had cut away, root and branch, from his old life, he had left behind him its vices and temptations. that life had been, as he himself had dimly realized at the time, a phase, not a quality, of his development. it had known no profound emotions. the first deep feeling of his experience had come with that college catastrophe which had brought the abrupt change to all his habits of living. he did not know that the impulse which then drew him to the church was the gravitational force of an austere ancestry, itself an inheritance from a long line of sectarian progenitors--an archbishop of canterbury among them--reaching from colony times, when king george had sent the first sanderson, a virile, sport-loving churchman, to the tobacco emoluments of the old dominion. he did not know that in the reaction the pendulum of his nature was swinging back along an old groove in obeisance to the subtle call of blood. in his new life, problems were already solved for him. he had only to drift with the current of tradition, whereon was smooth sailing. and so he had drifted till that evening when "satan sanderson," dead and done and buried, had risen in his grave-clothes to mock him in the person of hugh. each hour since then had sensitized him, had put him through exercises of self-control. and then, with that kiss of jessica's, had come the sudden illumination that had made him curse the work of his hands--that had shown him what had dawned for him, too late! outcast and criminal as he was, castaway, who had stolen a bank's money and a woman's love, hugh was still her husband. hugh's wife--what could she be to him? and this fevered conflict was shot through with yet another pang; for the waking smart of compunction which had risen at jessica's bitter cry, "you helped to make him what he has become!" would not down. that cry had shown him, in one clarifying instant, the follies and delinquencies of his early career reduplicated as through the facets of a crystal, and in the polarized light of conscience, hugh--loafer, gambler and thief--stood as the type and sign of an enduring accusation. but if the recollection of that wedding-day and its aftermath stalked always with him--if that kiss had seemed to cling again and again to his lips as he sat in the quiet of his study--no one guessed. he seldom played his violin now, but he had shown no outward sign. as time went on, he had become no less brilliant, though more inscrutable; no less popular, save perhaps to the parish heresy-hunter for whom he had never cared a straw. but beneath the surface a great change had come to harry sanderson. to-night, as he wended his way past the house in the aspens, through the clatter and commotion of the evening, there was a kind of glaze over his whole face--a shell of melancholy. judge conwell drove by in his dog-cart, with the superintendent of the long, low hospital. the man of briefs looked keenly at the handsome face on the pavement. "seems the worse for wear," he remarked sententiously. the surgeon nodded wisely. "that's the trouble with most of you professional people," he said; "you think too much!" the judge clucked to his mare and drove on at a smart trot. the friendly, critical eye clove to the fact; it discerned the mental state of which gloom, depression and insomnia were but the physical reagents. harry had lately felt disquieting symptoms of strain--irritable weakness, fitful repose, a sense of vague, mysterious messages in a strange language never before heard. he had found that the long walks no longer brought the old reaction--that even the swift rush of his motor-car, as it bore him through the dusk of an evening, gave him of late only a momentary relief. to-morrow began his summer vacation, and he had planned a month's pedestrian outing through the wide ranch valleys and the further ranges, and this should set him up again. now, however, as he walked along, he was bitterly absorbed in thoughts other than his own needs. he passed more than one acquaintance with a stare of non-recognition. one of these was the bishop, who turned an instant to look after him. the bishop had seen that look frequently of late, and had wondered if it betokened physical illness or mental unquiet. more than once he had remembered with a sigh the old whisper of harry sanderson's early wildness. but he knew youth and its lapses, and he liked and respected him. only two days before, on the second anniversary of harry's ordination, he had given him for his silken watch-guard a little gold cross engraved with his name, and containing the date. the bishop had seen his gift sparkling against harry's waistcoat as he passed. he walked on with a puzzled frown. the bishop was pursy and prosy, conventional and somewhat stereotyped in ideas, but he was full of the milk of human kindness. now he promised himself that when the hour's errand on which he was hastening was done, he would stop at the study and if he found harry in, would have a quiet chat with him. perhaps he could put his finger on the trouble. at a crossing, the sight of a knot of people on the opposite side of the street awoke harry from his abstraction. they had gathered around a peripatetic street preacher, who was holding forth in a shrill voice. beside him, on a short pole, hung a dripping gasoline flare, and the hissing flame lit his bare head, his thin features, his long hair, and his bony hands moving in vehement gestures. a small melodeon on four wheels stood beside him, and on its front was painted in glaring white letters: "hallelujah jones." "_suffer me that i may speak; and after that i have spoken, mock on._" job, xxi, from over the way harry gazed at the tall, stooping figure, pitilessly betrayed by the thin alpaca coat, at the ascetic face burned a brick-red from exposure to wind and sun, at the flashing eyes, the impassioned earnestness. he paused at the curb and listened curiously, for hallelujah jones with his evangelism mingled a spice of the rancor of the socialist. in his thinking, the rich and the wicked were mingled inextricably in the great chastisement. he was preaching now from his favorite text: _woe to them that are at ease in zion_. harry smiled grimly. he had always been "at ease in zion." he wore sumptuous clothes--the ruby in his ring would bring what this plodding exhorter would call a fortune. at this moment, hede, his dapper finn chauffeur, was polishing the motor-car for him to take his cool evening spin. that very afternoon he had put into the little safe in the chapel study two thousand dollars in gold, which he had drawn, a part for his charities and quarterly payments and a part to take with him for the exigencies of his trip. the street evangelist over there, preaching paradise and perdition to the grinning yokels, often needed a square meal, and was lucky if he always knew where he would sleep. yet did the reverend henry sanderson, after all, get more out of life than hallelujah jones? the thread of his thought broke. the bareheaded figure had ended his harangue. the eternal fires were banked for a time, while, seated on a camp-stool at his crazy melodeon, he proceeded to transport his audience to the heavenly meads of the new jerusalem. he began a "gospel song" that everybody knew: "i saw a wayworn traveller, the sun was bending low. he overtopped the mountain and reached the vale below. he saw the golden city, his everlasting home, and shouted as he journeyed, 'deliverance will come! "'palms of victory, crowns of glory! palms of victory, i shall wear!'" the voice was weather-cracked, and the canvas bellows of the instrument coughed and wheezed, but the music was infectious, and half from overflowing spirits, and half from the mere swing of the melody, the crowd chanted the refrain: "'palms of victory; crowns of glory! palms of victory, i shall wear!'" two, three verses of the old-fashioned hymn he sang, and after each verse more of the bystanders--some in real earnestness, some in impious hilarity--shouted in the chorus: "'palms of victory, i shall wear!'" harry walked on in a brown study, the refrain ringing through his brain. there came to him the memory of hugh's old sneer as he looked at his book-shelves--whereon nietzsche and pascal sat cheek by jowl with _theron ware_ and _robert elsmere_--"i wonder how much of all that you really believe!" how much _did_ he really believe? "i used to read thomas à kempis then," he said to himself, "and jonathan edwards; now i read rénan and the _origins of christian mythology_!" at the chapel-gate lounged his chauffeur, awaiting orders. "bring the car round, hede," said harry, "and i shan't need you after that to-night. i'll drive her myself. you can meet me at the garage." hede, the dapper, good-looking scandinavian, touched his glossy straw hat respectfully. it was a piece of luck that his master had not planned a motor trip instead of a tour afoot. for a month, after to-night, his time was his own. his quarter's wages were in his pocket, and he slapped the wad with satisfaction as he sauntered off to the bowling-alley. the study was pitch-dark, and rummy halted on the threshold with a low, ominous growl as harry fumbled for the electric switch. as he found and pressed it and the place flooded with light, he saw a figure there--the figure of a man who had been sitting alone--beside the empty hearth, who rose, shrinking back from the sudden brilliancy. it was hugh stires. chapter x the game harry sanderson stared at the apparition with a strange feeling, like rising from the dead. there flashed into his mind the reflection he had seen once in the mirror above the mantel--the face on which fell the amber ray from the chapel window, shining through the figure of the unrepentant thief--the face that had seemed so like his own! the likeness, however, was not so startling now. the aristocratic features were ravaged like a nicked blade. dissipation, exposure, shame and unbridled passion had each set its separate seal upon the handsome countenance. hugh's clothes were shabby-genteel and the old slinking grace of wearing them was gone. a thin beard covered his chin, and his shifty look, as he turned it first on harry and then nervously over his shoulder, had in it a hunted dread, a dogging terror, constant and indefinable. from bad to worse had been a swift descent for hugh stires. the wave of feeling ebbed. harry drew the window-curtains, swung a shade before the light, and motioned to the chair. "sit down," he said. hugh looked his old friend in the face a moment, then his unsteady glance fell to the white carnation in his lapel as he said: "i suppose you wonder why i have come here." harry did not answer the implied question. his scrutiny was deliberate, critical and inquiring. "what have you been doing the last year?" he asked. "a little of everything," replied hugh. "i ran a bucket-shop with moreau in sacramento for a while. then i went over in the mining country. i took up a claim at smoky mountain--that's worth something, or may be sometime." "why did you leave it?" hugh touched his parched lips with his tongue--again that nervous, sidelong look, that fearful glance over his shoulder. "i had no money to work it. i had to live. besides, i'm tired of the whole thing." the backward glance, the look of dread, were tangible tokens. harry translated them: "you are not telling the truth," he said shortly. "what have you _done_?" hugh flinched, but he made sullen answer: "nothing. what should i have done?" "that is what i am now inquiring of myself," said harry. "your face is a book for any one to read. i see things written on it, hugh--things that tell a story of wrong-doing. you are afraid." hugh shivered under the regard. did his face really tell so much? "i don't care to be seen in town," he said. "you wouldn't either, probably, under the circumstances." his gaze dropped to his frayed coat-sleeve. in his craven fear of something that he dared not name even to himself, and in his wretched need, he remembered a night once before, when he had sidled into town drunken and soiled--to a luxurious room, a refreshing bath, clean linen and a welcome. abject drops of self-pity started in his eyes. "you're the only one in the world i dared come to," he said miserably. "i've walked ten miles to-day, for i haven't a red cent in my pocket. nor even decent clothes," he ended. "that can be partly remedied," said harry after a pause. he took a dark coat from its hook and tossed it to him. "put that on," he said. "you needn't return it." hugh caught the garment. in another moment he had exchanged it for the one he wore, and was emptying the old coat's pockets. "don't sneak!" said harry with sudden contempt. "don't you suppose i know a deck of cards when i see it?" the thin scar on hugh's brow reddened. he thrust into his pocket the pasteboards he had made an instinctive move to conceal and buttoned the coat around him. it fitted sufficiently. his eyes avoided the well-set figure standing in white negligée shirt, norfolk jacket and leather belt. as they had been wont to do in the comfortable past, they fixed themselves on the little safe. "look here, harry," he began, "you were a good fellow in the old days. i'm sorry i never paid you the money i borrowed. i would have, but for--what happened. but you won't go back on me now, will you? i want to get out of the country and begin over again somewhere. will you loan me the money to do it?" hugh was eager and voluble now. the man to whom he appealed was his forlorn hope. he had come with no intention of throwing himself upon his father's mercy. he had wished to see anybody in the world but him. in his urgent need, he had had a wild thought of appealing to jessica, or at worst to get speech with blake, the old butler who many a time of old had hidden his backslidings from the parental eye. but he had found the white house in the aspens closed and desolate, the servants gone. harry sanderson was his last resort. "if you will, i'll never forget it, harry!" he cried. "never, the longest day i live! i'll use every dollar of it just as i say! i will, on my honor!" but the sight of the poker deck had been steel to harry's soul. it had touched an excoriated spot that in the past months had grown as sensitive as an exposed nerve. the pictured squares were the ironic badge of hugh's incorrigibility. they had ruined him, and the ruin had broken his father's heart, and wrecked the life of jessica holme. and out of this havoc a popular rector named harry sanderson had emerged pitifully the worse. "honor!" he said. "have you enough to swear by? you are what you are because you are a bad egg! you were born a gentleman, but you choose to be a rogue. do you know the meaning of the word honor, or right, or justice? have you a single purpose of mind which isn't crooked?" "you're just like the rest, then," hugh retorted. "just because i did that one thing, you'll give me no more chance. yet the first thing i did with that money was to square myself. i paid every debt of honor i had. that's why i'm in the hole now. but i get no credit for it, even from you. i wish you could put yourself in my place!" harry had been looking steadily at the sallow face with its hoof-print of the satyr, not seeing it, but hearing his own voice say to jessica: "i was my brother's keeper! i see it now." and out of the distance, it seemed, his voice answered: "put myself in your place! i wish i could! i wish to god i could!" the exclamation was involuntary, automatic, the cumulative expression of every throe of conscience harry had endured since then, the voice of that remorse that had cried insistently for reparation, dinning in his ears the fateful question that god asked of cain! suddenly a whirl of rage seized him, unmeasured, savage, malicious. he had despised hugh, now he hated him; hated him because he was jessica's husband, and more than all, because he was the symbol of his own self-abasement. a dare-devil side of the old satan sanderson that he had chained and barred, rose up and took him by the throat. he struck the oak wainscoting with his fist, feeling a red mist grow before his eyes. "so you paid every 'debt of honor' you had, eh? you acknowledge a gamester's honor, but not the obligation of right action between man and man! very well! give me that pack of cards. you want money--here it is!" he swiftly turned the clicking combination of the safe, wrenched open the door and took out two heavy canvas bags. he snapped the cord from the neck of one of these and a ringing stream of double-eagles swept jingling on the table. he dipped his hand in the yellow pile. a thought mad as the hoofs of runaway horses was careening through his brain. he felt an odd lightness of mind, a tense tingling of every nerve and muscle. "here is two thousand dollars!--yours, if you win it! for you shall play for it, you gambler who pays his debts of 'honor' and no other! you shall play fair and straight, if you never play again!" hugh gazed at harry in a startled way. this was not the ministerial harry sanderson he had known--this _gauche_ figure, with the white infuriate face, the sparkling eyes and the strange, veiled look. this reminded him of the reckless spirit of his college days, that he had patterned after and had stood in awe of. only he had never seen him look so then. could harry be in earnest? hugh glanced from him to the pile of coin and back again. his fingers itched. "how can i play," he said, "when you know very well i haven't a _sou markee_?" harry stuffed the gold back into the bag. he snatched the cards from hugh's hand and a box of waxen envelope wafers from his desk. there was a strange light in his eye, a tremor in his fingers. "it is i who play with money!" he said. "my gold against your counters! each of those hundred red disks represents a day of your life--a day, do you understand?--a red day of your sin! a day of yours against a double-eagle! what you win you keep. but for every counter i win, you shall pay me one straight, white day, a clean day, lived for decency and for the right!" he was the old satan sanderson now, with the blood bubbling in his veins--the satan sanderson who could "talk like bob ingersoll or an angel," as the college saying was--the cool, daring, enigmatical abbot of the saints, primed for any audacity. it was the old character again, but curiously changed. the new overlaid it. under the spur of some driving impulse the will was travelling along a disused and preposterous channel to a paramount end. hugh's eyes were fastened on the gold in harry's fingers. two thousand dollars! if luck came his way he could go far on that--far enough to escape the nameless terror that pursued him in every shadow. money against red wafers? why, it was plenty if he won, and if he lost he had staked nothing. what a fool harry was! harry saw the shrewd, calculating look that came to his eyes. he caught his wrist. "not here!" he said hoarsely. he flung open the chapel door and pushed him inside. he seized one of the altar candles, lit it with a match and stuck it upright in its own wax on the small communion table that stood just inside the altar-rail, with the cards, the red wafers and the bags of coin. he dragged two chairs forward. "now," he said in a strained voice, "put up your hand--your right hand--and swear before this altar, on the gambler's honor you boast of, win or lose, to abide by this game!" hugh shrank. he was superstitious. the calculating look had fled. he glanced half fearfully about him--at harry's white face--at the high altar with its vases of august lilies--at the great rose-window, now a mass of white, opaque blotches on which the three black crosses stood out with weird distinctness--at the lurking, unlighted shadows in the corners. he looked longingly at the gold, shining yellow in the candle-light. it fascinated him. he lifted his hand. it was trembling. "i swear i will!" he said. "i'll stand by the cards, harry, and for every day you win, i'll walk a chalk line--so help me god!" harry sanderson sat down. he emptied one of the bags at his elbow, and pushed the box of wafers across the table. he shuffled the cards swiftly and cut. "your deal!" he said. chapter xi hallelujah jones takes a hand hallelujah jones had finished his labor for the night. the crowd had grown restive, and finally melted away, and, his audience gone, he folded the camp-stool, turned off the gasoline flare, shut down the lid of his melodeon, and trundled it up the street. a goodly number of coppers had rattled into his worn hat, and to the workman belonged his wage. there was a little settlement on the river, a handful of miles away, and the trudge under the stars would be cool and pleasant. if he grew tired, there was his blanket strapped atop the melodeon, and the open night was dry and balmy. as he pushed up the street he came to a great motor-car standing at the curb under the maples. there was no one in it, but somewhere in its interior a muffled whirring throb beat evenly like a double, metallic heart. he stopped and regarded it inquisitively; a rich man's property, to be sure! he looked up--it was at the gate of the chapel. no doubt it belonged to the fashionable rector who had been pointed out to him on the street the day before. he remembered the young, handsome face, the stylish broadcloth. he thought he would have liked to lean over the reverend henry sanderson's shoulder and lay his finger on a text: _how hardly shall a rich man enter into the kingdom of heaven_. yet it was a beautiful edifice that wealth had built there for christ! he saw dimly the stone angel standing in the porch, and, leaving his melodeon on the pavement, entered the gate to examine it. he noticed now a dim flicker that lit one corner of the great rose-window. moving softly over the cropped grass, he approached, tilted one of the hinged panels, and peered in. two men were there, behind the altar-railing, seated at the communion table. hallelujah jones started back. there on the table was a bag of coin, cards and counters. they were playing--he heard the fall of the cards on the hard wood, saw the gleam of a gold-piece, the smear of melted wax marring the polished oak. the reddish glow of the candle was reflected on the players' faces. well he knew the devil's tools: had he not sung and exhorted in black hill mining camps and prayed in frontier faro "joints"? they were gambling! at god's holy altar, and on christ's table! who would dare such a profanation? he craned his neck. suddenly he gave a smothered cry. the player facing him he recognized--it was the rector himself! he bent forward, gazing with a tense and horrified curiosity. in that hazard within the altar-rail strange forces were contending, whose meaning he could not fathom. between the two men who played, not a word had been spoken save those demanded by the exigencies of the game. harry had seemed to act almost automatically, but his mind was working clearly, his hand was firm and cool as the blossom on his coat; he made his play with that old steely nonchalance with which, once upon a time, he had staked--and lost--so often. but in his brain a thousand spindles were whirring, a maze of refractory images was rushing past him into an eddying phantasmagoria. a kind of exaltation possessed him. he was putting his past into the dice-box to redeem a soul in pawn, fighting the devil with his own fire, gambling for god! five times, ten times, the cards had changed hands, and with every deal he lost. the gold disks had slipped steadily across the table. but harry had seemed to be looking beyond the ebb and flow of the jettons and the pale face opposite him that gloated over its yellow pile. though that pile grew larger and larger, harry's face had never changed. hugh's was the shaking hand when he discarded, the convulsed features when he scanned his draw, the desperate anxiety when for a moment fortune seemed to waver. he had never in his life had such luck! he swept his winnings into his pockets with a discordant laugh as he noted that, of the contents of the opened bag, harry had but one double-eagle remaining. harry paused an instant. he snapped the little gold cross he wore from its silken tether and set it upright by him on the table. his hand won, and the next, and the next. hugh hoarded his gold: he staked the red wafers--each one a day! he had won almost a thousand dollars, but the second bag had not yet been opened, and the vampire intoxication was running molten-hot in his veins. the untouched bag drew him as the magnet mountain drew the adventurous sindbad--he could have snatched it in his eagerness. but the luck had changed; his red counters diminished, melted; he would soon have to draw on his real winnings. cold beads of sweat broke on his forehead. neither had heard the creak of the rose-window as the hinged panel drew back. neither saw the face pressed against the aperture. neither guessed the wild and terrible thoughts that were raging through the mind of the solitary watcher as he peered and peered. this minister! this corrupt, ungodly shepherd! he could be neither hanged nor put in jail, yet he committed a crime for which hell itself scarce held adequate penalty and punishment! the street preacher's eyes dilated, the hand that held the panel trembled, spots of unhealthy white sprang into his burning cheeks. the flaring candles--the table with its carven legend, _this do in remembrance of me_--the little gold cross, set there, it seemed to him, in a satanic derision! it was the evil the apostle paul wrestled against, of "wicked spirits in high places." it was sacrilege! it was blasphemy! it was the arch-fiend laughing, making a mock of god's own altar with the guilty pleasures of the pit--a very sacrament of the damned! scarce knowing what he did, he closed the panel softly and ran across the chapel lawn. on the pavement outside he met a man approaching. it was the bishop, on his way to his contemplated chat with harry sanderson. the excited evangelist did not know the man, but his eye caught the ministerial dress, the plain, sturdy piety of the face. in his zeal he saw an instrument to his hand. he grasped the bishop's arm. "quick! quick!" he gasped. "there's devil's work doing in there! come and see!" he fairly pulled him inside the gate. the puzzled bishop saw the intense excitement of the other's demeanor. he saw the faint glow in the corner of the rose-window. were there thieves after the altar-plate? he shook off the eager hand that was drawing him toward the window. "not there--come this way!" he said, and hurried toward the porch. he tried the chapel door--it was fast. he had a key to this in his pocket. he inserted it with caution, opened the door noiselessly and went in, the street preacher at his heels. what the bishop saw was photographed instantaneously on his mind in fiery, indelible colors. it ate into his soul like hot iron into quivering flesh, searing itself upon his memory. it was destined to haunt his sleep for many months afterward, a phantom of regret and shame. he was, in his way, a man of the world, travelled, sophisticated, acquainted with sin in unexpected forms and places. but this sight, in all its coarse suggestion of license, in its harrowing implication of hidden vice and hypocrisy, was damning and appalling. the evangelist of the pave had been horrified, shocked to word and action; the bishop was frozen, inarticulate, impaled. for any evil in hugh stires he was prepared--since the forgery. but hugh's companion now was the man whom he himself had ordained and anointed, by the laying on of hands, with the chrism of his holy ministry. it was sin, then, that had set the look he had marvelled at in harry sanderson's face--sin, flaunting, mocking and terrible! he whom the church had ordained to shepherd its little ones, to comfort its afflicted, to give in marriage and to bless, to hold before the world the white and stainless banner--a renegade, polluting the sanctuary! a priest apostate, surprised in a hideous revel, gambling, as the roman soldiers gambled for the seamless garment, at the foot of the cross! an irrepressible exclamation burst from his lips. with the sound both men at the table started to their feet. hugh, with a single glance behind him, uttering a wild laugh, leaped the railing, dashed through the study, and vanished into the night; harry, as though suddenly turned to stone, stood staring at the accusatory figure, with the eager form of the evangelist behind it. it was as if the horror on the stern, set face of the bishop mirrored itself instantaneously upon his countenance, his imagination opening in a shocked, awed way to the concentrated light of feeling, so that he stood bewildered in the paralysis of a like dismay. to the bishop it seemed the attitude of guilt detected. what was harry sanderson thinking, as, under that speechless regard, he mechanically gathered the scattered cards and lifted the little cross and the unopened bag of double-eagles from the table? where was the odd excitement, the strange exaltation that had possessed him? the spindles in his brain had stilled, and an algid calm had succeeded, as abrupt as the quiet, deadly assurance with which his mind now saw the pit into which his own feet had led him. the paradoxical impulse that had bred this sinister topsyturvydom had fallen away. the same judicial harry sanderson who had said to jessica, "i was my brother's keeper," arraigned and judged himself, and pronounced the sentence on the bishop's face conclusive, irrefutable, without the power of explanation or appeal. he blew out the candle, replaced it carefully in its altar bracket, made shift to wipe the wax from the table, and slowly, half blindly, and without a word, went into the study. the bishop came forward, drew the key from the inside of the study door, closed it and locked it from the chapel side. harry did not turn, but he was acutely conscious of every sound. he heard the door shut sharply, the harsh grate of the key in the lock, and the sound came to him like the last sentence--the realization of a soul on whom the gate of the good closes for ever. in the dark silence of the chapel hallelujah jones smote his thin hands together approvingly, as he followed the bishop to the outer door. there the older man laid his hand on his shoulder. "_let him that thinketh he standeth_," he said, "_take heed lest he fall_! let not this knowledge be spread abroad that it make the unrighteous to blaspheme. when you pray for your own soul to-night, pray for the soul of that man from whom god's face is turned away!" something in the churchless evangelist bowed to the voice of ecclesiastical authority. he went without a word. in the study harry sanderson stood for a moment with the cards and the bag of double-eagles in his hand. in his soft shirt and disordered hair, with his preternaturally bright eyes, the white blossom on his lapel, and the brilliant light upon his face, he might have been that satin-sleeved colonial ancestor of his, in dissolute maturity, coming from an unclerical bout at loo, two hundred years ago. finally he put the cards and the canvas bag methodically into the safe and closed it. then he knelt by his desk and said, clearly and aloud--to that cold inner symbol of consciousness in his soul: "o god, i do not know if thou art, as has been said, a seer of the good that is in the bad, and of the bad that is in the good, and a lover of them both. but i know that i am in a final extremity. i can no longer do my labor consistently before the world and before thee. if i am delivered, it must be by some way of thine own that i can not conceive, for i can not help myself. amen." he rose to his feet, mechanically put on a coat that was lying on a chair--hugh's coat, but he did not notice this--and bareheaded passed out to the street. the motor-car stood there. he took his place in the forward seat, and threw on the power. barking joyously, rummy, the brown spaniel, tore out of the gate, but his master did not stop. the little creature pursued the moving car, made a frantic leap to gain his seat, but missed, and the huge armored wheel struck and hurled him to the gutter. harry did not hear the sharp yelp of pain; his hand was on the lever, pushing it over, over, to its last notch, and the great mechanism, responding with a leap, sped away, faster and faster, through the night. chapter xii the fall of the curtain harry sanderson was acting in a kind of fevered dream. his head and hands were bare, his face white and immobile, and his eyes stared straight before him with the persistent fixity of the sleep-walker's. they did not see a bowed, plodding figure pushing a rickety, wheeled melodeon, who scurried from before the hurtling weight that had all but run him down. nor could they see far behind in the eddying dust a little dog, moaning, limping piteously on three legs, with tongue lolling and shaggy coat caked with mud--following the hopeless, bird-like flight. one mile, two miles, three miles. the streets were far behind now. the country road spun before him, a dusty white ribbon, along which the dry battered corn rattled as if in a surge of torrid wind. the great motor-car was reeling off the distance like a maddened thing, swooping through the haloed dark, the throttle out, the lever pushed to its utmost limit of speed, rocking drunkenly, every inch of tested steel ringing and throbbing. yet harry's fingers had no tremor, no hesitancy, no lack of cunning. his heart was beating measuredly. he kept the road by a kind of instinct as rudimentary as that which points the homing carrier-pigeon. he seemed to be moving in a mental world created by some significant clairvoyancy, in which the purpose operated without recourse to the spring of reason. the light of neurasthenia burned behind his eyelids; he felt at once a consuming flame within, a paralyzing frost without. the light autumn mist drenched him like a fine, sifting rain; the wheel-flung dust adhered like yellow mud, and above the clatter of the exhaust the still air shrieked past like a shrewd wind. five miles, through the dark, under the breathless, expectant stars. the car was on the broad curve now, where the road bent to the bluff above the river to pass the skeleton railroad bridge. but harry knew neither place nor time. he was conscious only of motion--swift, swallow-like, irresistible--this, and the racing pictures in his brain, stencilled on the blur of night that closed around him. these pictures came and went; the last revel of the saints when he was satan sanderson--hugh sneering at his calling--jessica facing him with unbandaged eyes--hallelujah jones, preaching on the street corner. the figure of the street evangelist recurred again and again with a singular persistency. it grew more tangible! it threatened him! something in harry's brain seemed to snap. a tiny shutter, like that of a camera, fell down. his hands dropped from the steering-wheel, and, swaying in his seat, he began to sing, in a voice made high and uneven by the speed of the car: "palms of victory, crowns of glory! palms of victory, i shall wear!" he sang but the three lines. for suddenly the car left the road--the inflated tires rebounded from the steel ridge of the railroad track--the forward axle caught an iron signal post--and the great motor-car, its shattered lamp jingling like a gong, its pistons thrusting in midair, reared on two wheels, hurling its occupant out like a pebble thrown from a sling, half-turned, and, leaving a trail of sparks like the tail of a rocket behind it, plunged heavily over the rim of the bluff into the river. a moment later the deep black waters of "the hole" had closed above the mass of sentient steel. the swift current had smoothed away every trace of the strange monster it had engulfed, and there, by the side of the track, huddled against the broken signal post, his clothing plastered with mud and grime, motionless, and with a nasty cut on the temple, lay harry sanderson. chapter xiii the closed door a long saturating peace, a deep and drenching darkness, had folded harry sanderson. dully at first, at length more insistently and sharply, a rhythmic pulsing sound began to annoy the quietude. k-track, k-track, k-track--it grew louder; it grew more momentous and material; it irritated the calm that had wrapped the animate universe. shreds of confusing impression had begun to arrange themselves on a void of nothingness, blurred inchoate images to struggle through a delicious sensation of indifference and repose. outlines were filling, contours growing distinct; the brain was beginning to resume its interrupted function. as though from an immeasurable distance he heard a low continuous roar, and now and again, through the roar, nearer voices. harry awoke. his mind awoke, but his eyes did not open at once, for the gentle swaying that cradled him was pleasant and the muffled clack and hum soothed him like opium. he was as serenely comfortable as a stevedore who dozes out of the long stupefaction of exhaustion to the realization that the day is a holiday. his blood was coursing like quicksilver. he felt a buoyancy, a volatile pleasure, a sense of complete emancipation from all that clogged and cloyed--the sensuous delight of the full pulse and the perfect bodily mechanism. he opened his eyes. it was daylight. he was lying on dusty boards that rattled and vibrated beneath him--the floor of an empty freight car in motion. the sliding door was part-way open, and through it was borne the moist air of a river bay and the purring wash of the tide. a small brown dog, an abject, muddied and shivering morsel, was snuggled close to his side. it whined, as if with joy to see his eyes opened, and its stubby tail beat the floor. harry turned his head. two men in dingy garments were seated on the floor a little distance away, thumbing a decrepit pack of cards over an empty box. he could see both side-faces, one weather-beaten and good-humored, the other crafty--knights of the road. the sudden movement had sent a momentary twinge to his temple; he put up his hand--it touched a coarse handkerchief that had been bound tightly about it. the corner hung down--it was soiled and stiff with blood. what was he doing there? where was he? _who was he?_ it came to him with a start that he actually for the moment did not know who he was--that he had ridiculously slipped the leash of his identity. he smiled at his predicament. he would lie quietly for a few moments and it would come: of course it would come! yet it did not come, though he lay many moments, the fingers of his mind fumbling for the latch of the closed door. he had waked perfectly well--all save the slight cut on his temple, and that was clearly superficial, a mere scratch. not a trouble or anxiety marred his soul; his mind was as clear and light as a lark's. body and brain together felt as if they had never had a serious ache in the world. but all that had preceded his awakening was gone from him as completely as though it had had no existence. his mind, so far as memory of incident was concerned, was wiped clean, as a wet sponge wipes off a slate. yet he felt no trouble or anxiety. that part of his brain which had vibrated to these emotions was, as it were, under a curious anesthesia. goaded and overkeyed into a state of hypertension, it had retaliated with insensibility. all that had vexed and hurt was gone into the limbo with its own disturbing memories. stealthily he rose to a sitting posture and, with a frown of humorous perplexity, took a swift and silent inventory. here he was, in a freight car, speeding somewhere or other, with a sore and damaged skull. the dog clearly belonged to him, or he to the dog--there was an old intimacy in the fawning fondness of the amber eyes. yonder were two tramps, diverting themselves in their own way, irresponsible and questionable birds of passage. he scanned his own clothing. it was little better than theirs. his coat was threadbare, and with mud, oil and coal-dust, was in a more disreputable state. his wristbands were grimy, and one cuff-link had been torn away. he had no hat. he bethought himself of his pockets, and went through them methodically one by one. they yielded several dollars in coin, a penknife and a tiny gold cross, but not a letter, not a scrap of paper, nothing to serve him. the gleam of a ring on his finger caught his eye; he rubbed away the dirt and carefully examined it, wondering if the stone was real. his hand was slightly cut and swollen, and the circlet would not come off, but by shifting it slightly he could see the white depression made by long wear. the setting was an odd one, formed of the twisted letters h. s. those naturally should be his initials, but there he stopped. he repeated to himself all the names he could think of beginning with s, but they told him nothing. he looked himself over again, carefully, reflectively--many a time of old he had regarded himself with the same amused, fastidious tolerance when dressed for a "slumming" expedition--his head a little to one side, the ghost of a smile on his lips. he put out his hand and laid it on the spaniel's head. its rough tongue licked his fingers; it held up one forepaw mutely and lamely. he drew the feverish, dirty little creature into his lap and examined the limp member. it was broken. "poor little beggar!" said he under his breath. "so you've been knocked out, too!" with his knife he cut a piece from the lining of his coat and with a splinter of wood from the floor he set the fractured bone and wrapped the leg tightly. the dog submitted without a whimper, and when he set it down, it lay quietly beside him, watching him with affectionate canine solicitude. "i wonder who we are, you and i," muttered harry sanderson whimsically. "i wonder!" his gaze turned to where he could see the sunshine dancing and shimmering from the tremulous water. he sniffed the warm air--it was clear and sweet. not a cloud was in the perfect sky. how fine he felt, broken head and all! he looked across the car, where the card players were still absorbed. over the shoulder of one he could see the hand he held--a queen, two aces, a seven and a deuce. for an instant something in his brain snapped and crackled like the sputtering spark of an incomplete insulation--for an instant the fingers almost touched the latch of the closed door. then the sensation faded, and left a blank as before. he rose to his feet and walked forward. the players looked around. one of them nodded approvingly. "right as a trivet!" he said. "i made a pretty good job of that cut of yours. hurt you much?" "no," said harry. "i'm obliged to you for the attention." "foolish to walk on a railroad track," the other went on. "by your looks, you've been on the road long enough to know better. we figgered it out that you was just a-going to cross the railroad bridge when the freight raised merry hell with you. we stopped to tank there and we picked you up, you and your four-legged mate. must have been a bit squiffy, eh?" he winked, and took a flask from his pocket. "have a hair of the dog that bit you?" he said. harry took the flask, and, wiping the top on his sleeve, uncorked it. something in the penetrating odor of the contents seemed to cleave through far mental wastes to an intimate, though mysterious goal. he put it to his lips and drank thirstily. as the burning liquid scorched his throat, a recrudescence of old impulses surged up through the crust of more modern usage. mentally, characteristically, he was once more the incongruous devil-may-care figure in whom conspicuous achievement and contradictory excesses had walked hand in hand. the harry sanderson of the new, remorseful, temperate life, of chastened impulses, of rote and rule and reformed habit--the rector of st. james--had been lost on that wild night ride. the man who had awakened in the freight car was the satan sanderson of four years before, who, under stress of mental illness and its warped purview, in that strenuous scene in the chapel, had regained his ancient governance. harry handed back the flask with a long breath. there was a composed yet reckless light in his eye--the old veiled gleam of vagary, and paradox, and escapade. he seated himself beside them. "thank you," he said. "with your permission, gentlemen, i will take a hand in the game." chapter xiv the woman who remembered since that tragical wedding-day at the white house in the aspens, jessica had passed through a confusion of experiences. she had always lived much in herself, and to her natural reserve her blindness had added. as a result her knowledge both of herself and of life had been superficial. she had been drawn to hugh by both the weakest and the noblest in her, in a self-obliterating worship that had counted her restored sight only an ornament and glory for her love. in the baleful hour of enlightenment she had been lost, whirled away, out into the storm and void, every landmark gone, every light extinguished, her feet set in the "abomination of desolation." the first bitter shock of the catastrophe, however, seemed to burn up in her the very capacity for further poignant suffering, and she went through the motions of life apathetically. change of scene and the declining health of david stires occupied, fortunately, much of her waking thoughts. after the first few months of travel he failed steadily. his citric-acid moods were forgotten, his harsh tempers put aside. hour after hour he lay in his chair, gazing out from the wide sun parlor of the sanatorium on the crest of smoky mountain, whither their journeying had finally brought them. he had never spoken of hugh. but jessica, sitting each day beside him, reading to him till he dropped asleep, seeing the ever-increasing sadness in his face, knew the hidden canker that gnawed his heart. to the northward the slope of the mountain fell gradually to fields of violet-eyed alfalfa, and twice a day a self-important little donkey-engine drew a single car up and down between the great glass building on the ridge and the junction of the northern railroad. this view did not attract her; she liked best the southern exposure, with its flushed, serrated snow-peaks in the distance, the warmer brown shadows of the gulch-seamed hills unrolling at her feet, and at their base the treeless, busy little county-seat two miles away. in time her fiercer pain had dulled, and her imagination--naturally so importunate--had begun to seize upon her surroundings. in the summer season the sanatorium had few guests, and for this she was thankful. doctor brent, its head, rallying her on her paleness, drove her out of doors with good-natured severity, and when she was not with david stires she walked or rode for hours at a time over the mountain trails. breathing in the crisp air of altitude her spirits grew more buoyant. the beauty of shrub and flower, of cloud and sky, began to call to her, and the breath of october found a tinge of color in her cheek. she fed the squirrels, listened to the pert chirp of the whisky-jack and the whirring drum of the partridge, or sat on a hidden elevation which she named "the knob," facing across the shallow valley to the south. the knob overlooked a little grassy shelf a few hundred feet below, where stood a miner's cabin, with weed-grown gravel heaps near by, in front of which a tree bore the legend, painted roughly on a board: "the little paymaster claim." from its point of vantage, too, unobserved, she could look down into the gulch far below, where yellowish-brown cones reared like gigantic ant-hills--the ear-marks of the placer miner--and gray streaks indicated the flumes in which, by tortuous meanderings, the water descended to do its work in the sluices. she could even watch the toiling miners, hoisting the gravel by windlasses, or shovelling it into the long narrow boxes through which the foaming water raced. so limpid was the air that in the little town she could distinguish each several building lining the single straight street--a familiar succession of gilded café, general emporium and drug store, with the dull terra cotta "depot" at one end, and on the other, on a sunburned acre of its own, the glaring white court-house, flanked by the post-office and the jail. she could see the clouds of dust, the wagons hitched at the curb and the drab figures grouped at the corners or passing in and out of doorways. her interest had opened eagerly to these scenes. the solitudes soothed and the life of the community below, frankly primitive and uncomplicated, attracted her. between the town of smoky mountain and the expensive sanatorium on the ridge a great social gulf was fixed; the latter's patrons for the most part came and went by the narrow-gage road that linked with the northern junction; the settlement far below was only a feature of the panorama for which they paid so well. even doctor brent--who had perched this place of healing where his patients could breathe air fresh from the pacific and cooled by the snow-peaks--knew it chiefly through two of its citizens, mrs. halloran, the capable, bustling wife of the proprietor of the mountain valley house, the town's single hostelry, who brewed old-fashioned blackberry wine and cordials for his patients, and tom felder, a young lawyer whom he had known on the coast before ill health had sent him to hang out his shingle in a more genial altitude. the latter sometimes came for a chat with the physician, and on one of these calls jessica and he had met. she had liked his keen, good-humored face and waving, slightly graying hair. she had met him once since on the mountain road, and he had walked with her and told her quaint stories of the townspeople. she did not guess that more than once since then he had walked there hoping to meet her again. he had taken her to mrs. halloran, whose heart she had won by praise of her cherry cordial. as mrs. halloran said afterward: "'twas no flirt with the bottle and make love to the spoon! she ain't a bit set up. take the word i give you, tom felder, an' go and swap lies with the doctor at the santaranium soon again. ye can do worse." this had been jessica's first near acquaintance with the town, but since that time she had often reined up at the door of the neat hotel to pass a word with mrs. halloran or to ask for another bottle of the cherry cordial, which the sick man she daily tended found grateful to his jaded palate. "it brings back my boyhood," david stires said to her one afternoon, tapping the bottle by his wheel-chair. "that was before the chemist married the vintner's daughter. somehow this has the old taste." "it is nearly gone," she said. "i'll get another bottle--i am going for a ride now. i think it does you good." "before you go," he said, "fetch my writing-case and i will dictate a letter." she brought and opened it with a trouble at her heart, for the request showed his increasing weakness. until to-day the few letters he had written had been done with his own hand. thinking of this as she waited, her fingers nervously plucked at the inside of the leather cover. the morocco flap fell and disclosed a slip of paper. it was a canceled bank-draft. it bore hugh's name, and across its face, in david stires' crabbed hand, written large, was the venomous word _forgery_. the room swam before her eyes. only by a fierce effort could she compel her pen to trace the dictated words. hugh's misdeed, evil as it was, had been to her but an abstract crime; now it suddenly lay bare before her, a concrete expression of coarse thievery, a living symbol of crafty simulation. scarce knowing why she did it, she drew the draft covertly from its receptacle, and slipped it into her bosom. her fingers trembled as they replaced the flap, and her face was pale when she put away the writing-case and went to don her habit. the evidence of hugh's sin! as the horse pounded down the winding road, she held her hand hard against her breast, as though it were a live coal that she would press into her flesh in self-torture. that paper must remain, as the sin that made it remained--the sign-manual of her dishonor and loss! the man whose hand had penned its lying signature was the man she had thought she loved. by that act he had thrust himself from her for ever. yet he lived. somewhere in the world he walked, in shame and degradation, beyond the pale of honorable living--and she was his wife! _she was his wife!_ the words hummed in the hoof-beats and taunted her. the odors of the balsam boughs about her became all at once the scent of jasmin, the sigh of the wind turned to the chanting of choir voices, and beneath her closed eyelids came a face seen but once, but never to be erased or forgotten, a face startled, quivering with a strange, remorseful flush--which she had not guessed was guilt! _she was his wife!_ though she called herself jessica holme, yet, in the law, his name and fame were hers. there was deep in her the unreasoned, intuitive regard, handed down through inflexible feminine generations, for the relentless mandate, "let not man put asunder;" but she had no finical conception of woman's duty to convention. to break the bond? to divorce the husband to whom she was wife in name only? that would be to spread abroad the disgrace under which she cringed! she thought of the old man she had left--uncomplaining, growing feebler every day. to shame him before the world, whose ancestors had been upright and clean-handed? to add the final sting to his sufferings--who had done her only good? no, she could not do that. time must solve the problem for her in some other way. the main street of the town was busy, yet quiet withal, with the peculiar quiet which marks the absence of cobblestone and trolley-bell. farmers from outlying fruit ranches gossiped on the court-house square; here and there a linen collar and white straw hat betokened the professional man or drummer; and miners in overalls and thong-laced boots kept a-swing the rattan half-doors of the saloons. "look at that steady hand, now, an' her hair as red as glory!" said mrs. halloran, gazing admiringly from the doorstep where she had been chatting with tom felder. "ye needn't stare yer gray eyes out though, or she'll stop at th' joolry shop to buy ye a ring--to shame ye fer jest hankerin' and sayin' nothin'!" felder laughed as he crossed the street, raising his felt hat gallantly to the approaching rider. mrs. halloran was a privileged character. the ravage of drudgery had not robbed her of comeliness that gave her face an indian summer charm, and she was as kindly as her husband was morose. it was not michael halloran who kept the mountain valley house popular! the old woman hurried to the curb and tied the horse as jessica dismounted. "how did ye guess i made some more this day?" she exclaimed. "sure, if ye drink it yerself, my dearie, them cheeks is all th' trade-mark i need!" she led the way into the little carpeted side room, by courtesy denominated "the parlor." "i'll go an' put it up in two shakes," she said. "sit ye down an' i'll not be ten minutes." so saying she bustled away. left alone, jessica gazed abstractedly about her. her mind was still full of the painful reflections of her ride. a door opened from the room into the office. it was ajar; she stepped close and looked in. a group of miners lounged in the space before the front windows--familiarly referred to by its habitués as "the amen corner"--chatting and watching the passers-by. suddenly she clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. a name had been spoken--the name that was in her thought--the name of "hugh stires." she leaned forward, listening breathlessly. "i wonder where the young blackleg's been," said one, peering through the windows. "he'd better have stayed away for good, i'm thinking. what does he want to come back for, to a place where there aren't three men who will take a drink with him?" the reply was as contemptuous. "we get some rare black sheep in the hills!" the voice spoke meaningly. "if i had my way, he'd leave this region almighty quick!" jessica looked about her an instant wildly, guiltily. she could not be mistaken in the name! was hugh here, whither by the veriest accident she had come--here in this very town that she had gazed down upon every day for weeks? _was he?_ she pressed her cold hands to her colder cheeks. the contempt in the voices had smitten through her like a sword. a revulsion seized her. no, no, it could not be! she had not heard aright. it was only a fancy! but she had an overwhelming desire to satisfy herself with her own eyes. from where she stood she could not see the street. she bethought herself of the upper balcony. swiftly, on tiptoe, she crossed to the hall door, threw it open, and ran hastily up the stair. chapter xv the man who had forgotten if the man who had been the subject of the observations jessica had heard had been less absorbed, as he walked leisurely along on the opposite side of the street, he would have noticed the look of dislike in the eyes of those he passed. they drew away from him, and one spoke--to no one in particular and with an oath offensive and fervid. but weather-beaten, tanned, indifferently clad, and with a small brown dog following him, the new-comer passed along, oblivious to the sidelong scrutiny. he did not stare about him after the manner of a stranger, though, so far as he knew, he had never been in the place before. so far as he knew--for harry sanderson had no memories save those which had begun on a certain day a month before in a box-car. he walked with eyes on the pavement, absorbed in thoughts of his own. but harry sanderson now was not the man who had ridden into oblivion in the motor-car. the rector of st. james was in a strange eclipse. mentally and externally he had reverted to the old satan sanderson, of the brilliant flashing originality, of the curt risk and daring. the deeply human and sensitive side, that had developed during his divinity years, was in abeyance; it showed itself only in the affection he bestowed on the little nameless dog that followed him like a brown, shaggy shadow. he was like that old self of his, and yet, if he had but known it, he was wonderfully like some one else, too--some one who had belonged to the long ago and garbled past that still eluded him; some one who had been a part also of the life of this very town, till a little over a month before, when he had left it with dread dogging his footsteps! curious coincidences had wrought together for this likeness. in the past weeks harry had grown perceptibly thinner. a spare beard was now on his chin, and the fiery sun that had darkened his cheeks to sallow had lightened his brown hair a shade. the cut on his brow had healed to the semblance of a thin red birth-mark. most of all, the renaissance of the old character had given his look, to the casual eye, a certain flare and jauntiness, which dissipation and license, unclogged now with memory or compunction, had matured and vitalized. his was now a replica of the face he had once seen, in that lost life of his, mirrored in his chapel study--his own face, with the trail of evil upon it, and yet weirdly like hugh stires'. fate--or god!--was doing strange things for harry sanderson! harry's game of cards in the freight-car had been a sequent of the game in the chapel. it was an instinctive effort of the newly-stirring consciousness to relink the broken chain, utilizing the mental formula which had been stamped deeply upon it when the curtain of oblivion descended--which had persisted, as the photograph of the dead retina shows the scene upon which the living eye last looked. the weeks that followed were reversionary. rebellion against convention, dissipation--these had been the mask through which the odd temperament of satan sanderson had looked at life. this mask had fallen before a career of new meanings and motives. these blotted suddenly out with their inspirations and habits, and, the old spring touched, the mind had automatically resumed its old viewpoint. he had studied himself with a sardonic, _ex parte_ interest. he had found at his disposal a well-stocked mind, a copious vocabulary. terms of science, historic references, the thousand and one allusions of the daily newspaper that the unlearned pass over, all had their significance for him. he was no superficial observer, and readily recognized the evidences of mental culture. but the cord that had bound all together into character had snapped. he was a ship without a rudder; a derelict, drifting with the avid winds of chance on the tide of fate. a thousand ways he had turned and turned. a thousand tricks he had tried to cajole the unwilling memory. all were vain. when he had awakened in the freight-car, many miles had lain between him and his vanished history, between him and st. james parish, the town he had impressed, the desolate white house in the aspens, the chapel service and surplice, and the swift and secret-keeping river. between him and all that these things had meant, there lay a gulf of silence and blankness as wide as infinity itself. but drifting, adventuring, blown by the gipsy wind of chance, learning the alphabet and the rule of three of "the road," the man was at once a part of it and apart from it. the side that rejoiced in the liberty and madcap adventure was overlaid by another darkling side whose fingers were ever feeling for the lost latch. in the nomad weeks of wind and sun, as the tissues of the brain grew slowly back to a state of normal action, the mind seized again and again upon the bitter question of his identity. it had obtruded into clicking leagues on steel-rails, into miles afoot by fruit-hung lanes, on white pacific shell-roads under cedar branches, on busy highways. it had stalked into days of labor in hop-fields, work with hand and foot that brought dreamless sleep and generous wage; into nights of less savory experience in city purlieus, where a self-forgotten man gamed and drank, recklessly, audaciously, forbiddingly. who was he? from what equation of life had he been eliminated? had he loved anything or anybody? had he a friend, any friend, in the world? at first it was not often that he cared; only occasionally some deep-rooted instinct would stir, subtly conscious, without actual contrast, of the missed and evaded. but he came to ask it no longer quizzically or sardonically, but gloomily and fiercely. and lacking answer, the man of no yesterdays had plunged on toward the ardent, alien to-morrow, and further into audacious folly. he had drunk deeper, the sign-posts of warning were set in his countenance, and his smile had grown as dangerous as a sunstroke. the man of no memories gave no heed to the men on the street who looked at him askance. he sauntered along unconsciously, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. with a casual glance at the hotel across the way, he entered a saloon, where a score of patrons were standing at the bar, or shaking dice noisily at the tables ranged against the wall. the bartender nodded to his greeting--the slightest possible nod. the dog who had followed him into the place leaped up against him, its forepaws on his knee. "brandy, if you please," said the new arrival, and poured indolently from the bottle set before him. the conversation in the room had chilled. to its occupants the man who had entered was no stranger; he was hugh stires, returned unwelcome to a place from which he had lately vanished. moreover, what they felt for him was not alone the crude hatred which the honest toiler feels for the trickster who gains a living by devious knaveries. there was an uglier suspicion afloat of hugh stires! a blue-shirted miner called gruffly for his score, threw down the silver and went out, slamming the swing-door. another glowered at the new arrival, and ostentatiously drew his glass farther along the bar. the new-comer regarded none of them. he poured his glass slowly full, sipped from it, and holding it in his hand, turned and glanced deliberately about the place. he looked at everybody in the room, suddenly sensible of the hostile atmosphere, with what seemed a careless amusement. then he raised his glass. "will you join me, gentlemen?" he said. there was but one response. a soiled, shambling figure, blear, white-haired and hesitating, with a battered violin under its arm, slouched from a corner and grasped eagerly for the bottle the bartender contemptuously pushed toward him. no one else moved. the man who waited studied the roomful with a disdainful smile, with eyes sparkling like steel points. he as wholly misunderstood their dislike as they misconstrued his effrontery--did not guess that to them he stood as one whom they had known and had good reason to despise. their attitude struck him as so manifestly unreasonable and absurd--so primarily the sulky hatred of the laborious boor for the manifestly more flippant member of society--that it diverted him. he had drunk at bar-rooms in many strange places; never before had he encountered a community like this. his veiled, insolent smile swept the room. "a spirit of brotherhood almost christian!" he said. "if i observe that the town's brandy is of superior vintage to its breeding, let me not be understood as complimenting the former without reservation. i have drunk better brandy; i have never seen worse manners!" he looked smilingly at the soiled figure beside him--a fragment of flotsam tossed on the tide of failure. "i erred in my general salutation," he said. "gentility is, after all, less a habit than an instinct." he lifted his glass--to the castaway. "i drink to the health of the only other gentleman present," he said, and tossed the drink off. a snort and a truculent shuffle came from the standing men. their faces were dark. tom felder, the lawyer, entered the saloon just in time to see big devlin, the owner of the corner dance-hall, rise from a table, rolling up flannel sleeves along tattooed arms. he saw him stride forward and, with a well-directed shove, send the shambling inebriate reeling across the floor. "two curs at the bar are enough at a time!" quoth devlin. then the lawyer saw an extraordinary thing. the emptied glass rang sharply on the bar, the arm that held it straightened, the lithe form behind it seemed to expand--and the big bulk of devlin went backward through the doorway, and collapsed in a sprawling heap on the pavement. "for my part," said an even, infuriate voice from the threshold, "i prefer but one." the face the roomful saw now as they pushed to the outer air, and which turned on the flocking crowd, bore anything but the slinking look they had been used to see on the face of hugh stires. the smile that meant danger played over it; there was both calculation and savagery in it. it was the look of the man to whom all risks are alike, to whom nothing counts. in the instant confusion, every one there recognized the element of hardihood dumfounded. here was one who, as barney mcginn, the freighter, said afterward, "hadn't the sand of a sick coyote," bearding a bully and the most formidable antagonist the town afforded. devlin himself was not overpopular; his action had been plainly enough a play to the galleries; and courage--that animal attribute which no circumstance or condition can rob of due admiration--had appeared in an unexpected quarter. but the man they despised had infuriated them with insult, and devlin had the sympathy that clings to a fair cause. an ugly growl was running through the crowd, and several started forward. even when tom felder put up his hand with a sharp, indignant exclamation, they fell back with an unwilling compulsion. the prostrate man was on his feet in an instant, wiping the blood from a cleft lip, and peeled off his vest with a vile epithet. "that is incidentally a venturesome word to select from your vocabulary," said the even voice, a sort of detonation in it. "you will feel like apologizing presently." devlin came on with a bull-like rush. the lawyer's eye, shrewdly gaging the situation, gave the slighter man short shrift, and for several intense seconds every breath stopped. those seconds called up from some mysterious covert all the skill and strength of the old hard-hitting satan sanderson, all the science of parry and feint learned in those bluff college bouts with the gloves with gentleman jim. and this hidden reserve rushed into combat with an avid thirst and wild ferocity as strange as the steady eye and hand that cloaked them beneath a sardonic coolness. it was a short, sharp contest. not a blow broke the guard of the man whose back was to the doorway--on the other hand, devlin's face was puffed and bleeding. when for a breath he drew back, gulping, a sudden glint of doubt and fear had slipped beneath the blood and sweat. the end came quickly. harry stepped to meet him, there was a series of swift passes--then one, two, lightning-like blows, and devlin went down white and stunned in the dust of the roadway. so high was the tension and so instantaneous the close, that for a moment the crowd was noiseless, the spell still upon them. in that moment tom felder came hastily forward, for, though sharing the general dislike, admiration was strong in him, and, knowing the temper of the bystanders, he expected trouble. the man who had administered devlin's punishment, however, did not see his approach. he was looking somewhere above their heads--at the upper balcony of the hotel opposite--staring, in a kind of strained and horrified expectancy, at a girl who leaned forward, her hands clenching the balustrade, her eyes fixed on his face. the late sunlight on her hair made it gleam like burnished copper over her green riding-habit, and her cheeks were blanched. there was something in that face, in that intense look, that seemed to cleave the gray veil that swathed harry sanderson's past. somewhere, buried in some cell of his brain, a forgotten memory tugged at its shackles--a memory of a time when, thousands and thousands of years ago, he had been something more than the initials "h. s." the look pierced through the daredevil present in which the mind astray had roved reckless and insensate, to a deeper stratum in which slept maturer qualities of refined taste, of dignity and of repute. it stripped off the protecting cicatrice and left him enveloped in an odd embarrassment. a flush burned his face. only an instant the gaze hung between them. it served as a distraction, for other eyes had raced to the balcony. loud voices were suddenly hushed, for there was not wanting in the crowd that instinctive regard for the proprieties which belongs to communities where gentlewomen are few. in that instant felder put his hand on the arm of the staring man and drew him to the door of the hotel. "inside, quickly!" he said under his breath, for a rumble from the crowd told him the girl had left the balcony above. he pushed the other through the doorway and turned for a second on the threshold. "whatever private feelings you may have," he said in a tone that all heard, "don't disgrace the town. fair play--no matter who he is! mcginn, i should think you, at least, were big enough to settle your grudges without the help of a crowd." the freighter reddened angrily for a second, then with a shame-faced laugh, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. the lawyer went in, shutting the hotel door behind him. chapter xvi the awakening the man whose part the lawyer had taken had yielded to his touch almost dazedly as the girl disappeared. the keen, pleasurable tang of danger which had leaped in his blood when he faced the enmity of the crowded street--the reckless zest with which he would have met any odds and any outcome with the same smile, and gone down if need be fighting like the tiger in the jungle--had been pierced through by that look from the balcony. his poise for a puzzling moment had been shaken, his self-command overthrown. feeling a dull sense of anger at the curious embarrassment upon him, he went slowly through the office to the desk, and with his back to the room, lit a cigar. the action was half mechanical, but to the men gathered at the windows, as they got down from the chairs on which they had been standing, interested spectators of the proceedings outside, it seemed a pose of gratuitous insolence. tom felder, entering, saw it with something of resentment. "that was a close squeak," he said. "do you realize that? in five minutes more you'd have been handled a sight worse than you handled your man, let me tell you!" the man of no memories smiled, the same smile that had infuriated the bar-room--and yet somehow it was more difficult to smile now. "is it possible," he asked, "that through an unlucky error i have trounced the local archbishop?" felder looked at him narrowly. beneath the sarcasm he distinguished unfamiliarity, aloofness, a genuine astonishment. the appearance in the person of hugh stires of the qualities of nerve and courage had surprised him out of his usual indifference. the "tinhorn gambler" had fought like a man. his present _sang-froid_ was as singular. had he been an absolute stranger in the town he might have acted and spoken no differently. felder's smooth-shaven, earnest face was puzzled as he answered curtly: "you've trounced a man who will remember it a long time." "ah?" said the man addressed easily. "he has a better memory than i, then!" he gazed over the heads of the silent roomful to the simmering street where devlin, with the aid of a supporting arm, was staggering into the saloon in which his humiliation had begun. "they seem agitated," he said. the feeling of embarrassment was passing, the old daring was lifting. his glance, scanning the room, set itself on a shabby, blear figure in the background, apologetic yet keenly and pridefully interested. a whimsical light was in his eye. he crossed to him and, reaching out his hand, drew the violin from under his arm. "music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," he said, and, opening the door, he tucked the instrument under his chin and began to play. what absolute contempt of danger, what insane prompting possessed him, can scarcely be imagined. as he stood there on the threshold with that veiled smile, he seemed utterly careless of consequence, beckoning attack, flaunting an egregious impertinence in the face of anger and dislike. felder looked for a quick end to the folly, but he saw the men in the street, even as they moved forward, waver and pause. with almost the first note, it had come to them that they were hearing music such as the squeaking fiddles of the dance-halls never knew. those on the opposite pavement crossed over, and men far down the street stood still to listen. more than the adept's cunning, that had at first tingled in his fingers at sight of the instrument, was in harry sanderson's playing. the violin had been the single passion which the old satan sanderson had carried with him into the new career. the impulse to "soothe the savage breast" had been a flare of the old character he had been reliving; but the music, begun in bravado, swept him almost instantly beyond its bounds. he had never been an indifferent performer; now he was playing as he had never played in his life, with inspiration and abandon. there was a diabolism in it. he had forgotten the fight, the crowd, his own mocking mood. he had forgotten where he was. he was afloat on a fluctuant tide of melody that was carrying him back--back--into the far-away past--toward all that he had loved and lost! "it's _home, sweet home_," said barney mcginn,--"no, it's _annie laurie_. no, it's--hanged if i know what it is!" the player himself could not have told him. he was in a kind of tranced dream. the self-made music was calling with a sweet insistence to buried things that were stirring from a long sleep. it sent a gulp into the throat of more than one standing moveless in the street. it brought a suspicious moisture to tom felder's eyes. it drew mrs. halloran from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. it called to a girl who crouched in the upper hall with her miserable face buried in her hands, drew her down the stair to the office door, her eyes wide with a breathless wonder, her face glistening with feeling. from the balcony jessica had witnessed the fight without understanding its meaning. a fascination she could not gainsay had glued her eyes to the struggle. it was he--it was the face she knew, seen but once for a single moment in the hour of her marriage, but stamped indelibly upon her memory. it was no longer smooth-shaven, and it was changed, evilly changed. but it was the same! there was recklessness and mockery in it, and yet strength, not weakness. shunned and despised as he might be--the chief actor, as it seemed to her, in a cheap and desperate bar-room affray, a coarse affair of fisticuffs in the public street--yet there was something intrepid in his bearing, something splendid in his victory. in spite of the sharp, momentary sense of antagonism that had bruised her inmost fiber, when the brutal bulk of his opponent fell she could have wept with relief! then, suddenly, she had found that look chaining her own. it had given her a strange thrill, had both puzzled and touched her. she had dragged her eyes away with a choking sensation, a sense of helplessness and capture. when the violin sounded, a resistless rush of feeling had swept her to the lower door, where she stood behind the spectators, spellbound. in the man who played, weird forces were contending. the feel of the polished wood on his cheek, the odor of the resined catgut in his nostrils, were plucking, plucking at the closed door. a new note crept to the strings. they had spoken pathos--now they told of pain. all the struggle whose very meaning was forgotten, the unrequital, the baffled quest, the longing of that last year which had been born of a woman's kiss in a darkened room, never voiced in that lost life, poured forth broken, inarticulate. to jessica, standing with hands close-clasped, it seemed the agony of remorse for a past fall, the cry of a forlorn soul, knowing itself cast out, appealing to its good angel for pity and pardon. hugh had often played to her, lightly, carelessly, as he did all things. she had deemed it only one of his many clever, amateurish accomplishments. now it struck her with a pang that there had been in him a deeper side that she had not guessed. since her wedding-day she had thought of her marriage as a loathed bond, from which his false pretense had absolved her. now a doubt of her own position assailed her. had loneliness and outlawry driven him into the career that had made him shunned even in this rough town--a course which she, had she been faithful to her vow "for better, for worse," might have turned to his redemption? god forgave, but she had not forgiven! smarting tears scorched her eyelids. for harry sanderson the music was the imprisoned memory, crying out strongly in the first tongue it had found. but the ear was alien, the mind knew no by-path of understanding. it was a blind wave, feeling round some under-sea cavern of suffering. beneath the pressure the closed door yielded, though it did not wholly open. the past with its memories remained hidden, but through the rift, miraculously called by the melody, the real character that had been the reverend henry sanderson came forth. the perplexed phantom that had been moving down the natural declivity of resurrected predisposition, fell away. the slumbering qualities that had stirred uneasily at sight of the face on the balcony, awoke. who he was and had been he knew no more than before; but the new writhing self-consciousness, starting from its sleep, with almost a sense of shock, became conscious of the gaping crowd, the dusty street, the red sunset, and of himself at the end of a vulgar brawl, sawing a violin in silly braggadocio in a hotel doorway. the music faltered and broke off. the bow dropped at his feet. he picked it up fumblingly and turned back into the office, as a man entered from a rear door. the new-comer was michael halloran, the hotel's proprietor, short, thick-set and surly. asleep in his room, he had neither seen the fracas nor heard the playing. he saw instantly, however, that something unusual was forward, and, blinking on the threshold, caught sight of the man who was handing the violin back to its owner. he clenched his fist with a scowl and started toward him. his wife caught his arm. "oh, michael, michael!" she cried. "say nothing, lad! ye should have heard him play!" "play!" he exclaimed. "let him go fiddle to his side-partner prendergast and the other riffraff he's run with the year past!" he turned blackly to harry. "take yourself from this house, hugh stires!" he said. "whether all's true that's said of you i don't say, but you'll not come here!" harry had turned very white. with the spoken name--a name how familiar!--his eyes had fallen to the ring on his finger--the ring with the initials h. s. a sudden comprehension had darted to his mind. a score of circumstances that had seemed odd stood out now in a baleful light. the looks of dislike in the bar-room--the attitude of the street--this angry diatribe--all smacked of acquaintance, and not alone acquaintance, but obloquy. his name was hugh stires! he belonged to this very town! and he was a man hated, despised, forbidden entrance to an uncouth hostelry, an unwelcome visitant even in a bar-room! an hour earlier the discovery would not so have appalled him. but the violin music, in the emergence of the real harry sanderson, had, as it were, flushed the mind of its turgid silt of devil-may-care and left it quick and quivering. he turned to felder and said in a low voice--to him, not to the hotel-keeper, or to the roomful: "when i entered this town to-day, i did not know my name, or that i had ever set foot in it before. i was struck by a train a month ago, and remember nothing beyond that time. it seems that the town knows me better than i know myself." halloran looked about him with a laugh of derision and incredulity, but few joined in it. those who had heard the playing realized that in some eerie way the personality of the man they had known had been altered. before the painful, shocked intensity of his face, the lawyer felt his instant skepticism fraying. this was little like acting! he felt an inclination to hold out his hand, but something held him back. harry sanderson turned quietly and walked out of the door. pavement and street were a hubbub of excited talk. the groups parted as he came out, and he passed between them with eyes straight before him. as he turned down the street, a fragment of quartz, thrown with deliberate and venomous aim, flew from the saloon doorway. it grazed his head, knocking off his hat. tom felder had seen the flying missile, and he leaped to the center of the street with rage in his heart. "if i find out who threw that," he said, "i'll send him up for it, so help me god!" harry stooped and picked up his hat, and as he put it on again, turned a moment toward the crowd. then he walked on, down the middle of the street, his eyes glaring, his face white, into the dusky blue of the falling twilight. chapter xvii at the turn of the trail the scene in the hotel office had left jessica in a state of mental distraction in which reason was in abeyance. in the confusion she had slipped into the little sitting-room unnoticed, feeling a sense almost of physical sickness, to sit in the half-light, listening to the diminishing noises of the spilling crowd. she was wind-swept, storm-tossed, in the grip of primal emotions. the surprise had shocked her, and the strange appeal of the violin had disturbed her equipoise. the significant words of awakening spoken in the office had come to her distinctly. in their light she had read the piteous puzzle of that gaze that had held her motionless on the balcony. hugh had forgotten the past--all of it, its crime, its penalty. in forgetting the past, he had forgotten even her, his wife! yet in some mysterious way her face had been familiar to him; it had touched for an instant the spring of the befogged memory. as she spurred through the transient twilight past the selvage of the town and into the somber mountain slope, she struck the horse sharply with her crop. he who had entrapped her, who had married her under the shadow of a criminal act, who had broken her future with his, when his whole bright life had crashed down in black ruin--could such a one look as he had looked at her? could he make such music that had wrung her heart? all at once the horse shied violently, almost unseating her. a man was lying by the side of the road, tossing and muttering to himself. she forced the unwilling animal closer, and, leaning from the saddle, saw who it was. in a moment she was off and beside the prostrate form, a spasm of dread clutching at her throat at sight of the nerveless limbs, the chalky pallor of the brow, the fever spots in the cheeks. a wave of pity swept over her. he was ill and alone; he could not be left there--he must have shelter. she looked fearfully about her. what could she do? in that town, whose intolerance and dislike she had seen so actively demonstrated, was there no one who would care for him? she turned her head, listening to a nearing sound--footsteps were plodding up the road. she called, and presently a pedestrian emerged from the half-dark and came toward her. he bent over the form she showed him. "it's stires," he said with a chuckle. "i heard he'd come back." the chuckle turned to a cough, and he shook his head. "this is sad! you could never believe how i have labored with the boy, but"--he turned out his hands--"you see, there is the temptation. it is his unhappy weakness." jessica remembered the yellow, smirking face now. she had passed him on the day tom felder had walked with her from the mountain valley house, and the lawyer had told her he lived in the cabin just below the knob, where she so often sat. she felt a quiver of repulsion. "he is not intoxicated," she said coldly. "he is ill. you know him, then?" "know him!" he echoed, and laughed--a dry, cackling laugh. "i ought to. and i guess he knows me." he shook the inert arm. "get up, hugh!" he said. "it's prendergast!" there flashed through her mind the phrase of the surly hotel-keeper: "his side-partner, prendergast!" could it be? had hugh really lived in the cabin on which she had so often peered down during those past weeks? and with this chosen crony! she touched prendergast's arm. "he is ill, i say," she repeated. "he must be cared for at once. your cabin is on the hillside, isn't it?" "_his_ cabin," he corrected. "a rough place, but it has sheltered us both. i am but guide, philosopher and friend." she bit her lips. "lift him on my horse," she said. she stooped and put her hands under the twitching shoulders. "i will help you. i am quite strong." with her aid he lifted the swaying form on to the saddle and supported it while jessica led the way up the darkening road. "here is the cut-off," he said presently. "ah, you know it!" for she had turned into the side-path that led along the hill, under the gray, snake-like flume--the shortest route to the grassy shelf on which the cabin stood. the by-way was steep and rugged, and rhododendron clumps caught at her ankles, and once she heard a snake slip over the dry rustle of leaves, but she went on rapidly, dragging at the bridle, turning back now and then anxiously to urge the horse to greater speed. she scarcely heard the offensively honied compliments which prendergast offered to her courage and resource. her pulses were throbbing unsteadily, her mind in a ferment. it seemed an eternity they climbed; in reality it was scarcely twenty minutes before they reached the grassy knoll and the cabin whose crazy swinging door stood wide to the night air. she tied the horse, went in and at prendergast's direction found matches and lit a candle. the bare, two-room interior it revealed, was unkempt and disordered. rough bunks, a table and a couple of hewn chairs were almost its only furniture. the window was broken and the roof admitted sun and rain. prendergast laid the man they had brought on one of the bunks and threw over him a shabby blanket. "my dear young lady," he said, "you are a good samaritan. how shall we thank you, my poor friend here and i?" jessica had taken money from her pocket and now she held it out to him. "he must have a doctor," she said. "you must fetch one." the yellow eyes fastened on the bill, even while his gesture protested. "you shame me!" he exclaimed. "and yet you are right; it is for him." he folded it and put it into his pocket. "as soon as i have built a fire, i will go for our local _medico_. he will not always come at the call of the luckless miner. all are not so charitable as you." he untied her horse and extended a hand, but she mounted without his help. "he will thank you one day--this friend of mine," he said, "far better than i can do." "it is not at all necessary to tell him," she replied frigidly. "the sick are always to be helped, in every circumstance." she gave her horse the rein as she spoke and turned him up the steep path that climbed back of the cabin, past the knob, and so by a narrow trail to the mountain road. emmet prendergast stood listening to the dulling hoof-beats a moment, then reëntered the cabin. the man on the bunk had lifted to a sitting position, his eyes were open, dazed and staring. "that's right," the older man said. "you're coming round. how does it feel to be back in the old shebang? can't guess how you got here, can you? you were towed on horseback by a beauty, hughey, my boy--a rip-staving beauty! i'll tell you about it in the morning, if you're good." the man he addressed made no answer; his eyes were on the other, industrious and bewildered. "i heard about the row," went on prendergast. "they didn't think it was in you, and neither did i." he looked at him cunningly. "neither did moreau, eh, eh? you're a clever one, hugh, but the lost-memory racket won't stand you in anything. you hadn't any call to get scared in the first place--_i_ don't tell all i know!" he shoved the candle nearer on the table. "there's a queer look in your face, hugh!" he said, with a clumsy attempt at kindness. "that rock they threw must have hurt you. feel sort of dizzy, eh? never mind, i'll show you a sight for sore eyes. you went off without your share of the last swag, but i've saved it for you. prendergast wouldn't cheat a pal!" from a cranny in the clay-chinked wall he took a chamois-skin bag. it contained a quantity of gold-dust and small nuggets, which he poured into a miner's scales on the table and proceeded to divide in two portions. this accomplished, he emptied one of the portions on to a paper and pushed it out. "that's yours," he said. harry's eyes were on his with a piercing intensity now, as though they looked through him to a vast distance beyond. he was staring through a gray mist, at something far off but significant that eluded his direct vision. the board table, the yellow gold, the flickering candle-light recalled something horrifying, in some other world, in some other life, millions of ages ago. he lurched to his feet, overturning the table. the gold-dust rattled to the floor. "your deal!" he said. then with a vague laugh, he fell sidewise upon the bunk. emmet prendergast stared at him with a look of amazement on his yellow face. "he's crazy as a chicken!" he said. he sat watching him a while, then rose and kindled a fire on the unswept hearth. from a litter of cans and dented utensils in a corner he proceeded to cook himself supper, after which he carefully brushed up the scattered gold-dust and returned it all to its hiding-place. lastly he rummaged on a shelf and found a phial; this proved to be empty, however, and he set it on the table. "i guess you'll do well enough without any painkiller," he said to himself. "doctors are expensive. anyway, i'll be back by midnight." he threw more wood on the fire, blew out the candle, and, closing the door behind him, set off down the trail to the town--where a faro-bank soon acquired the bill jessica had given him. chapter xviii the strength of the weak it was pitch-dark when jessica reached the sanatorium, though she went like a whirlwind, the chill damp smell of the dewy balsams in her nostrils, the dust rising ghost-like behind the rapid hoofs. she found david stires anxious and peevish over her late coming. sitting beside him as he ate his supper, and reading to him afterward, she had little time for coherent thought; all the while she was maintaining her self-control with an effort. since she had ridden away that afternoon, she felt as if years had gone over her with all their changes. she was oppressed with a new sense of fate, of power beyond and stronger than herself, and her mind was enveloped in a haze of futurity. she felt a relief when the old man grew tired and was wheeled to his bedroom. left alone, her reflections returned. she began to be tortured. she tried to read--the printed characters swam beyond her comprehension. at length she drew a hood over her head and stole out on to the wide porch. it was only nine o'clock, and along the gravel paths that wound among the shrubbery a few dim forms were strolling--she caught the scent of a cigar and the sound of a woman's laugh. the air was crisp and bracing, with a promise of frost and painted leaves. she gazed down across the dark gulches toward the town, a straggling design pricked in blinking yellow points. halfway between, folded in the darkness, lay the green shelf and the cabin to which her thought recurred with a kind of compulsion. her eyes searched the darkness anxiously. he had seemed dangerously ill; he might die, perhaps. if he did, what would it be for her, his wife, but freedom from a galling bond? she thought of the violin playing. had that been but the soul's swan-song, the last cry of his stained and desolate spirit before it passed from this world that knew its temptation and its fall? if she could only know what the doctor had said! there was no moon, but the stars were glowing like tiny, green-gilt coals, and the yellow road lay plain and clear. with a sudden determination she drew her light cloak closely about her, stepped down, sped across the grass to a footpath, and so to the road. as she ran on down the curving stretch under the trees, moving like a hastening, gray phantom through a purple world of shadows, the crackling slip of bank-paper that lay in her bosom seemed to burn her flesh. she was stealing away to gaze upon the outcast who had shamed and humbled her--going, she knew not why, with burning cheeks and hammering heart. she slipped through the side trail to the cabin with a choking sensation. she stole to the window and peered in--in the firelight she could see the form on the bunk, tossing and muttering. otherwise the place was empty. she lifted the latch softly and entered. the strained anxiety of jessica's look relaxed as she gazed about her. she saw the phial on the table--the doctor had been there, then. if he were in serious case, prendergast would be with him. she threw back her hood, drew one of the chairs to the side of the bunk and sat down, her eyes fixed on his face. the weakness and helplessness of his posture struck through and through her. two sides of her were struggling in a chaotic combat for mastery. "i hate you! i hate you!" she said under her breath, clenching her cold hand. "i _must_ hate you! you stole my love and put it under your feet! you have disgraced my present and ruined my future! what if you have forgotten the past--your crime? does that make you the less guilty, or me the less wretched?" but withal a silent voice within her gave the lie to her vehemence. some element of her character that had been rigid and intact was crumbling down. an old, sweet something, that a dreadful mill had ground and crushed and annihilated, was rising whole and undefiled, superior to any petty distinction, regardless of all that lifted combative in her inheritance, not to be gainsaid or denied. she leaned closer, listening to the incoherent words and broken phrases borne on the turbid channels of fever. but she could not link them together into meaning. only one name he spoke clearly over and over again--the name hugh stires--repeated with the dreary monotony of a child conning a lesson. she noted the mark across his brow. before her marriage, in her blindness, she had used to wonder what it was like. it was not in the least disfiguring--it gave a touch of the extraordinary. it was so small she did not wonder that in that ecstatic moment of her bride's kiss she had not seen it. slowly, half fearfully, she stretched out her hand and laid it on his. as if at the touch the mutterings ceased. the eyes opened, and a confused, troubled look crept to them. then they closed again, and the look faded out into a peace that remained. jessica dropped to her knees and buried her face in the blanket, burning and chilling with an indescribable sensation of mingled pain and pleasure. she scarcely knew what she was thinking. it seemed to her that his very weakness and helplessness voiced again the something that had sounded in the music of the violin, when the buried, forgotten past had cried out its pain and shame and plea, half unconsciously--to her! a thrill ran through her, the sense of moral power of the weak over the strong, of the feminine over the masculine. a rising flush stained her cheeks. with a sudden impulse, and with a guilty backward glance, she bent and touched her lips to his forehead. she drew back quickly, her face flooded with color, caught her breath, then, drawing her hood over her head, went swiftly to the door and was swallowed up in the darkness. chapter xix the evil eye harry sanderson, harking back from the perilous pathway of fever, was to see himself in the light of reawakened instincts. the man of no memories, in his pointless wanderings, had felt dissatisfaction, a fierce resentment, a savage unrest, but morally he had not suffered. the spiritual elements of the maturer growth had slept. at a woman's look they had awakened, to rise to full stature under the strange spell of melody. when the real, remorseful nature, newly emerged, found itself an object of animadversion and contempt, face to face with a past of shame and reproach, the shock had been profound. the stirring of the old conscience was as painful as is the first gasp of air to the drowned lung. it had thrown the brain into a fever to whose fierce onslaught the body had temporarily succumbed. when, toward midnight, the fever ebbed, he had fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion, from which he opened his eyes next morning upon the figure of prendergast, sitting pipe in mouth in the sunny doorway. he lifted himself on his elbow. that crafty face had been inexplicably woven with the delirious fantasies of his fever. where and when had he known it? then in a great wave welled over him the memory of his last conscious hours--the scene in the saloon, the fight, the music, the sudden appalling discovery of his name and repute. he remembered the sickening wave of self-disgust, the fierce agony of resentment that had beat in his every vein as he walked up the darkening street. he remembered the thrown quartz. no doubt another missile had struck home, or he had been set upon, kicked and pommelled into insensibility. this old man--a miner probably, for there were picks and shovels in the corner--had succored him. he had been ill, there was lassitude in every limb, and shadowy recollections tantalized him. as in the garish day one mistily recalls a dream of the night before, he retained a dim consciousness of a woman's face--the face he had seen on the balcony--leaning near him, bringing into a painful disorder a sense of grateful coolness, of fragrance, and of rest. he turned his head. through the window he could see the blue, ravined mountain--a slope of verdure soaked in placid, yellow sunshine, rising gradually to the ridge, peaceful and arcadian. as he stared again at the seated figure, the grim fact reared like a grisly specter, deriding, thrusting its haggard presence upon him. in this little community, which apparently he had forsaken and to which he had by chance returned, he stood a rogue and a scoundrel, a thing to point the finger at and to avoid! the question that had burned his brain to fire flamed up again. the town despised him. what had been his career? how had he become a pariah? and by what miracle had he been so altered as to look upon himself with loathing? he was dimly conscious withal that some fundamental change had passed over him, though how or when he could not tell. some mysterious moral alchemy had transmuted his elements. what he had been he was no more. he was no longer even the man who had awakened in the box-car. yet the debts of the unknown yesterday must be paid in the coin of the known to-day! he lifted himself upright, dropping his feet to the floor. at the movement the man on the doorstep rose quickly and came forward. "you're better, hugh," he said. "take it easy, though. don't get up just yet--i'm going to cook you some breakfast." he turned to the hearth, kicked the smoldering log-ends together and set a saucepan on them. "you'll be stronger when you've got something between your ribs," he added. "how long have i been lying here?" asked harry. "only since last night. you've had a fever." "where is my dog?" "dog?" said the other. "i never knew you had one." harry's lips set bitterly. it had fared more hardly, then, than he. it had been a ready object for the crowd to wreak their hatred upon, because it belonged to him--because it was hugh stires' dog! he leaned back a moment against the cabin wall, with closed eyes, while prendergast stirred the heating mixture, which gave forth a savory aroma. "is this your cabin, my friend?" the figure bending over the hearth straightened itself with a jerk and the blinking yellow eyes looked hard at him. prendergast came close to the bunk. "that's the game you played in the town," he said with a surly sneer. "it's all right for those that take it in, but you needn't try to bamboozle me, pretending you don't know your own claim and cabin! i'm no such fool!" a dull flush came to harry's face. here was a page from that iniquitous past that faced him. his own cabin? and his own claim? well, why not? "you are mistaken," he said calmly. "i am not pretending. i can not remember you." prendergast laughed in an ugly, derisive way. "i suppose you've forgotten the half-year we've lived here together, and the gold-dust we've gathered in now and again--slipped it all, have you?" harry stood up. the motion brought a temporary dizziness, but it passed. he walked to the door and gazed out on the pleasant green of the hillside. on a tree near-by was nailed a rough, weather-beaten board on which was scrawled "the little paymaster claim." he saw the grass-grown gravel-trenches, evidence of abandoned work. he had been a miner. that in itself was honest toil. across the waving foliage he could look down to the distant straggling street with its huddles of houses and its far-off swinging signs. some of these signs hung above resorts of clicking wheels and green baize tables; more than once in the past month on such tables he had doubled many times over a paltry stake with that satiric luck which smiles on the uncaring. his eye ran back up the slope. "the claim is good, then," he said over his shoulder. "we found the pay?" prendergast contemplated him a moment in grim silence, with a scowl. "you're either really fuddled, hugh," he said then, "or else you're a star play-actor, and up to something deep. well, have it your own way--it's all the same to me. but you can't pull the wool over my eyes long!" there was mockery and threat in his tone, but more than both, the evil intimacy in his words gave harry a qualm of disgust. this man had been his associate. that one hour in the town had shown him what his own life there had been. what should he do? forsake for ever the neighborhood where he had made his blistering mark? fling all aside and start again somewhere? and leave behind this disgraceful present, with that face that had looked into his from above the dusty street? if fate intended that, why had it turned him back? why had he been plucked rudely from his purpose and set once more here, where every man's hand was against him--every one but this sorry comrade? there was in him an intuitive obstinacy, a steadfastness under stress which approved this drastic coercion. if such was the bed he had made, he would lie in it. he would drink the gall and vinegar without whimpering. whatever lay behind, he would live it down. this man at least had befriended him. he turned into the room. "perhaps i shall remember after a while." he took the saucepan from prendergast's hand. "i'll cook the breakfast," he said. prendergast filled his pipe and watched him. "i guess there _are_ bats in your belfry, sure enough, hugh," he said at length. "you never offered to do your stint before." chapter xx mrs. halloran tells a story from the moment her kiss fell upon the forehead of the delirious man in the cabin, jessica began to be a prey to new emotions, the significance of which she did not comprehend. she was no longer a child; she had attained to womanhood on that summer's wedding-day that seemed so far away. but her woman's heart was untried, and it felt itself opening to this new experience with a strange confusion. that kiss, she told herself that night, had been given to her dead ideal, that had lain there in its purifying grave-clothes of forgetfulness. yet it burned on her lips, as that other kiss in a darkened room had burned afterward, but with a sense of pleasure, not of hurt. it took her back into crimson meadows with her lost girlhood and its opaled outlook--and hugh. then the warring emotions racked her again; she felt a whirl of anger at herself, of hot impatience, of mortification, of self-pity, and of stifled longing for she knew not what. but largest of all in her mind next day was anxiety. she must know how he fared. in the open daylight she could not approach the cabin, but she reflected that the doctor had been there, and no doubt had carried some report of him to the town. so, as the morning grew, she rode down the mountain, ostensibly to get the cherry cordial she had left behind her the day before--really to satisfy her hunger for news. as it happened, mrs. halloran's first greeting set her anxiety at rest. prendergast had bought some tobacco at the general store an hour before, while she had been making her daily order, and the store-keeper had questioned him. prendergast had a fawning liking for the notice of his fellows--save for his saloon cronies, few enough in the town, where it was currently reported that he had a prison record in arkansas, ever exchanged more than a nod with him--and he had responded eagerly to the civil inquiries. to an interested audience he had told of the finding of hugh on the mountain road in a sort of crazy fever, and enlarged upon the part the girl on horseback had played. hugh was all right now, he said, except that he didn't remember him, or the cabin, or smoky mountain. here was new interest. though her name was known to few, jessica had come to be a familiar figure on the streets--she was the only lady rider the place knew--and the description was readily recognizable without the name which mrs. halloran supplied. in an hour the story had found a hundred listeners, and as jessica rode by that day, many a passer-by had turned to gaze after her. what prendergast had said mrs. halloran told her in a breath. before she finished she found that jessica had not heard of the incident in the saloon which had precipitated the fight with devlin, and with sympathetic rhetoric mrs. halloran told this, too. "he deserved it, ye see, dearie," she finished. "but no less was it a brave thing that--what ye did last night, alone on the mountain with them two, an' countin' yerself as safe as if ye were in god's pocket! to hear that scalawag prendergast talk, he's been hugh stires' good angel--the oily hypocrite! an' do ye think it's true that he's lost his memory--stires, i mean--an' don't know nothin' that's ever happened with him? could that be, do ye think?" "i've often heard of such a thing, mrs. halloran," responded jessica. her heart was throbbing painfully. "but why does smoky mountain hate him so? what has he done?" mrs. halloran shook her head. "i never knew anything myself," she said judiciously. "i reckon the town allus counted him just a general low-down. the rest is only suspicion an' give the dog a bad name." there had been comfort for jessica in this interview. the burden of that illness off her mind--she had not realized how great a load this had been till it was lifted--she turned eagerly toward this rift in the cloud of infamy that seemed to envelop the reputation of the man whose life her own had again so strangely touched. she was feeling a new kinship with the town; it was now not alone a spot upon which she had loved to gaze from the height; it was the place wherein the man she had once loved had lived and moved. mrs. halloran's story had materially increased the poignant force of her pity. what had seemed to her a vulgar brawl, had been in reality a courageous and unselfish championship of a defenseless outcast. thinking of this, the self-blame and contrition which she had felt when she listened to the violin assailed her anew, till she seemed a very part of the guilt, an equal sinner by omission. yet she rode homeward that day with almost a light heart. chapter xxi a visit and a violin prendergast's first view had been one of suspicion, but this had been shaken, and thereafter he had studied harry with a sneering tolerance. there had been little talk between them during the meal which the younger man had cooked, taking the saucepan from the other's hands. shrinking acutely from the details of the dismal past which he must learn, harry had asked no questions and prendergast had maintained a morose silence. the latter had soon betaken himself down the mountain--to his audience in the general store. as harry stood in the cabin doorway, looking after him, toward the town glistening far below in the morning sunlight, he thought bitterly of his reception there. "they all knew me," he thought; "every one knew me, on the street, in the hotel. they know me for what i have been to them. yet to me it is all a blank! what shameful deeds have i done?" he shrank from memory now! "what was i doing so far away, where was i going, on the night when i was picked up beside the railroad track? i may be a drunkard," he said to himself. "no, in the past month i have drunk hard, but not for the taste of the liquor! i may be a gambler--the first thing i remember is that game of cards in the box-car! i may be a cheat, a thief. yet how is it possible for bad deeds to be blotted out and leave no trace? actions breed habit, if they do not spring from it, and habit, automatically repeated, becomes character. i feel no inherent propensity to rob, or defraud. shall i? will these things come back to me if my memory does? shall i become once more one with this vile old man, my 'side-partner,' to share the evil secrets that i see in his eyes--as i must once have shared them?" he shuddered. there welled over him again, full force, the passionate resentment, the agony of protest, that had been the gift of the resuscitated character. he found himself fighting a wild desire to fling his resolution behind him and fly from his reputation and its penalties. in the battle that he fought now he turned, even in his weakness, to manual labor, striving to dull his thought with mechanical movement. he cleaned and put to rights both rooms and sorted their litter of odds and ends. but at times the inclination to escape became well-nigh insupportable. when the conflict was fiercest he would think of a girl's face, once seen, and the thought would restrain him. who was she? why had her look pierced through him? in that hateful career that seemed so curiously alien, could she have had a part? he did not know that she of whom he wondered, in the bitterest of those hours had been very near him--that on her way up the mountain she had stolen down to the knob to look through the parted bushes to the cabin with the blue spiral rising from its chimney. he could not guess that she gazed with a strained, agitated interest, a curiosity even more intense than his own, the look of a heart that was strangely learning itself with mingled and tremulous emotions. though the homely task to which he turned failed to allay his struggle, by nightfall harry had put the warring elements under. when prendergast returned at supper-time the candle was lighted in its wall-box, the dinted tea-kettle was singing over a crackling fire, and harry was perspiring over the scouring of the last utensil. prendergast looked the orderly interior over on the threshold with a contemptuous amusement. "almost thought i was in church," he said. he took off his coat and lazily watched the other cook the frugal evening meal. "excuse my not volunteering," he observed; "you do it so nicely i'm almost afraid you'll have another attack of that forgettery of yours, and go back to the old line." presently he looked at the bunk, clean and springy with fresh cut spruce-shoots. he went to it, knelt down and thrust an arm into the empty space beneath it. he got up hastily. "what have you done with that?" he demanded with an angry snarl. "with what?" harry turned his head, as he set two tin plates on the bare table. "with what was under here." "there was nothing there but an old horse skin," said harry. "it is hanging on the side of the cabin." with an oath prendergast flung open the door and went outside. he reëntered quickly with the white hide in his arms, wrapped it in a blanket and thrust it back under the bunk. "has any one been here to-day--since you put it out there?" he asked quickly. "no," said harry, surprised. "why?" prendergast chuckled. the chuckle grew to a guffaw and he sat down, slapping his thigh. presently he went to the wall, took the chamois-skin bag from its hiding-place and poured some of its yellow contents into his palm. "that's why. do you remember that, eh?" harry looked at it. "gold-dust," he said. "i seem to recall that. i am going to begin work in the trench to-morrow; there should be more where that came from." prendergast poured the gold back into the bag with a cunning look. the other had asked for no share of it. at that moment he decided to say nothing of the evening before, of the girl or the horseback journey--lest hugh, cudgelling his brains, might remember he had been offered a half. if hugh's peculiar craziness wanted to dig in the dirt, very well. it might be profitable for them both. he put the pouch into his pocket with a grin. "there's plenty more where that came from, all right," he said, "and i'll teach you again how to get it, one of these days." prendergast said little during the meal. when the table was cleared he lit his pipe and took from a shelf a board covered with penciled figures and scrutinized it. "hope you remember how to play old sledge," he said. "when we stopped last game you owed me a little over seventeen thousand dollars. if you forget it isn't a cash game some day and pay up, why, i won't kick," he added with rough jocularity. he threw a pack of cards on to the table and drew up the chairs. harry did not move. as they ate he had been wondering how long he could abide that sinister presence. the garish cards themselves now smote him with a shrinking distaste. as he was about to speak a knock came at the cabin door and prendergast opened it. the visitor harry recognized instantly; it was the man who had called for fair play at the fight before the saloon, who had drawn him into the hotel. felder carried a bundle under his arm. he nodded curtly to prendergast and addressed himself to harry. "i am the bearer of a gift from some one in the town," he said. "i have been asked to deliver this to you." he put the bundle into the other's hands. harry drew up one of the chairs hastily. "please sit down," he said courteously. he looked at the bundle curiously. "_et eos dona ferentes_," he said slowly. "a gift from some one in the town!" a keen surprise flashed into the lawyer's glance. "the quotation is classic," he said, "but it need not apply here." he took the bundle, unwrapped it and disclosed a battered violin. "let me explain," he continued. "for the owner of this you fought a battle yesterday. you tested its tone a little later--it seems that you are a master of the most difficult of instruments. there was a time, i believe, when the old man was its master also; he was once, they say, the conductor of an orchestra in san francisco. drink and the devil finally brought him down. for three years past he has lived in smoky mountain. nobody knows his name--the town has always called him 'old despair.' you did him what is perhaps the first real kindness he has ever known at its hands. he has done the only thing he could to requite it." harry had colored painfully as felder began to speak. the words brought back that playing and its strange rejuvenescence of emotion, with acute vividness. his voice was unsteady as he answered: "i appreciate it--i am deeply grateful--but it is quite impossible that i accept it from him." "you need not hesitate," said the lawyer. "old despair needs it no longer. he died last night in devlin's dance-hall, where he played--when he was sober enough--for his lodging. i happened to be near-by, and i assure you it was his express wish that i give the violin to you." rising, he held out his hand. "good night," he said. "i hope your memory will soon return. the town is much interested in your case." the flush grew deeper in harry's cheek, though he saw there was nothing ironical in the remark. "i scarcely hope so much," he replied. "i am learning that forgetfulness has its advantages." as the door closed behind the visitor, prendergast kicked the chair back to the table. "you're getting on!" he sneered, his oily tone forgotten. "damn his impertinence! he didn't offer to shake with _me_! come on and play." harry opened the door again and sat down on the cool step, the violin in his hands. "i think i don't care for the cards to-night," he said. "i'd rather play this." chapter xxii the passing of prendergast the little town had been unconsciously grateful for its new sensation. the return of hugh stires and his apparent curious transformation was the prime subject of conversation. for a half-year the place had known but one other event as startling: that was the finding, some months before, of a dead body--that of a comparative stranger in the place--thrust beneath a thicket on smoky mountain, on the very claim which now held prendergast and his partner. the "amen corner" of the mountain valley house had discussed the pros and cons exhaustively. there were many who sneered at the loss of memory and took their cue from devlin who, smarting from his humiliation and nursing venom, revamped suspicions wherever he showed his battered face. in his opinion hugh stires was "playing a slick game." "your view is colored by your prejudices, devlin," said felder. "he's been a blackleg in the past--granted. but give the devil his due. as for the other ugly tale, there's no more evidence against him than there is against you or me!" "they didn't find the body on _my_ ground," had been the other's surly retort, "and _i_ didn't clear out the day before, either!" the phenomenon, however, whether credited or pooh-poohed, was a drawing card. more than a few found occasion to climb the mountain by the hillside trail that skirted the lonely cabin. these, as likely as not, saw prendergast lounging in the doorway smoking, while the younger man worked, leading a trench along the brow of the hill to bring the water from its intake--which harry's quick eye had seen was practicable--and digging through the shale and gravel to the bed-rock, to the sparse yellow grains that yielded themselves so grudgingly. some of the pedestrians nodded, a few passed the time of day, and to each harry returned his exact coin of salutation. the spectacle of hugh stires, who had been used to pass his days in the saloons and his nights in even less becoming resorts, turned practical miner, added a touch of _opera bouffe_ to the situation that, to a degree, modulated the rigor of dispraise. it was the consensus of opinion that the new hugh stires seemed vastly different from the old; that if he were "playing a game," it was a curious one. the casual espionage prendergast observed with a scowl, as he watched harry's labors--when he was at the cabin, for after the first few days he spent most of his time in haunts of his own in the town, returning only at meal-time, gruff and surly. harry, however, recognized nothing unusual in the curious glances. he worked on, intent upon his own problem of dark contrasts. on the one side was a black record, exemplified in prendergast, clouded infamy, a shuddering abhorrence of his past self as he saw it through the pitiless lens of public opinion; on the other was a grim constancy of purpose, a passionate wish to reconstruct the warped structure of life of which he found himself the tenant, days of healthful, peace-inspiring toil, a woman's face that threaded his every thought. as he wielded his pick in the trench or laboriously washed out the few glistening grains that now were to mean his daily sustenance, he turned often to gaze up the slope where, set in its foliage, the glass roof of the sanatorium sparkled softly through the indian haze. strange that the sight should mysteriously suggest the face that haunted him! emmet prendergast saw the abstracted regard as he came up the trail from the town. he was in an ugly humor. the bag of gold-dust which he had shown to harry he had not returned to the hiding-place in the wall, and with this in his pocket the faro-table had that day tempted him. the pouch was empty now. harry's back was toward him, and the gold-pan in which he had been washing the gravel lay at his feet. with a noiseless, mirthless laugh prendergast stole into the cabin and reached down from the shelf the bottle into which each day harry had poured his scanty findings. he weighed it in his hand--almost two ounces, a little less than twenty dollars. he hastily took the empty bag from his pocket. but just then a shadow darkened the doorway and harry entered. he saw the action, and, striding forward, took the bottle from the other's hand. prendergast turned on him, a sinister snarl under his affectation of surprise. "can't you attend to your own rat-killing?" he growled. "i guess i've got a right to what i need." "not to that," said harry quietly. "we shall touch the bottom of the flour sack to-morrow. you expect to get your meals here, i presume." "i still look forward to that pleasure," answered prendergast with an evil sneer. "three meals a day and a rotten roof over my head. when i think of the little i have done to deserve it, the hospitality overcomes me! all i have done is to keep you from starving to death and out of quod at the same time. i only taught you a safe way to beat the game--an easier one than you seem to know now--and to live on easy street!" "i am looking for no easy way," responded harry, "whatever you mean by that. i expect to earn my living as i'm earning it now--it's an honest method, at all events." "you've grown all-fired particular since you lost your memory," retorted prendergast, his eyes narrowing. "you'll be turning dominie one of these days! perhaps you expect to get the town to take up with you, and to make love to the beauty in the green riding-habit that brought you here on her horse the night you were out of your head!" harry started. "what do you mean?" he asked thickly. prendergast's oily manner was gone now. his savage temper came uppermost. "i forgot you didn't know about that," he scoffed. "i made a neat story of it in the town. they've been gabbling about it ever since." harry caught his breath. as through a mist he saw again that green habit on the hotel balcony--that face that had haunted his waking consciousness. it had not been prendergast alone, then, who had brought him here. and her act of charity had been made, no doubt, a thing for the tittering of the town, cheapened by chatter, coarsened by joke! "i wonder if she'd done it if she'd known all i know," continued the other malevolently. "you'd better go up to the sanatorium, hugh, and give her a nice sweet kiss for it!" a lust of rage rose in harry's throat, but he choked it down. his hand fell like iron on prendergast's shoulder, and turned him forcibly toward the open door. his other hand pointed, and his suppressed voice said: "this cabin has grown too small for us both. the town will suit you better." prendergast shrank before the wrath-whitened face, the dangerous sparkle in the eyes. "you've got through with me," he glowered, "and you think you can go it alone." the old suspicion leaped in the malicious countenance. "well, it won't pay you to try it yet. i know too much! do you understand? _i know too much!_" harry went out of the cabin. at the door he turned. "if there is anything you own here," he said, "take it with you. you needn't be here when i come back." his fingers shaking with the black rage in his heart, prendergast gathered his few belongings, rolled them in the white horse-skin which he drew from beneath his bunk, and wrapped the whole in a blanket. he fastened the bundle in a pack-strap, slung it over his shoulder, and left the cabin. harry was seated on one of the gravel-heaps, some distance away, looking out over the valley, his back toward him. as he took the steep path leading toward the little town prendergast shot the figure an envenomed look. "what's your scheme, i wonder?" he muttered darkly. "whatever it is, i'll find out, never fear! and if there's anything in it, you'll come down from that high horse!" he settled his burden and went rapidly down the trail, turning over in his mind his future schemes. as it chanced, there was one who saw his vindictive face. jessica, crouched on the knob, had seen him come and now depart, pack on back, and guessed that the pair had parted company. her whole being flamed with sympathy. she could see his malignant scowl plainly from where she leaned, screened by the bushes. it terrified her. what had passed between them in the cabin? she left the knob wondering. all that evening she was ill at ease. at midnight, sleepless, she was looking out from her bedroom window across the phantom-peopled shadows, where on the face of the pale sky the stars trembled like slow tears. anxiety and dread were in her heart; a pale phantom of fear seemed lurking in the shadows; the night was full of dread. chapter xxiii a race with death on the day following the expulsion of prendergast, harry woke restless and unrefreshed. fleeting sensations mocked him--a disturbing conviction that the struggling memory in some measure had succeeded in reasserting itself in the shadowy kingdom of sleep. waking, the apparitions were fled again into their obscurity, leaving only the wraiths of recollection to startle and disquiet. a girl's face hovered always before him--ruling his consciousness as it had ruled his sleeping thought. "is it only fancy?" he asked himself. "or is it more? it was there--my memory--in shreds and patches, on my sleep; now when i wake, it is only the fraying mist of dreams.... dreams!" he drew a deep breath. "yet the overmastering sense of reality remains. last night i walked in intimate, forgotten ways--and she was in them--_she!_" he flushed, an odd, sensitive flush. "dreams!" he said. "all dreams and fancies!" at length he took down from its shelf the bottle he had rescued from prendergast's intention and emptied it of its glistening grains--enough to replenish his depleted stock of provisions. he paused a moment as he put on his hat, smiling whimsically, a little sadly. he dreaded entering the town. but there could be no remedy in concealment. if he was to live and work there, appear he must on the streets sooner or later. smoky mountain must continue to think of him as it might; what he was from that time on, was all that could count to him. if he had but known it, there was good reason for hesitation to-day. early that morning an angry rumor had disturbed the town; the sluice of the hydraulic company had been robbed again. some two months previously there had occurred a series of depredations by which the company had suffered. the boxes were not swept of their golden harvest each day, and in spite of all precautions, coarse gold had disappeared mysteriously from the riffles--this, although armed men had watched all night. there had been much guess-work. the cabin on the hillside was the nearest habitation--the company's flume disgorged its flood in the gulch beneath it--and suspicion had eventually pointed its way. the sudden ceasing of the robberies with the disappearance of hugh stires had given focus to this suspicion. now, almost coincident with his return, the thievery had recommenced. it had been a red-letter day for devlin and his ilk who cavilled at the more charitable. of all this, however, the object of their "i-told-you-so" was serenely ignorant. as harry walked briskly down the mountain, a feeling of unreality stole upon him. the bell was ringing in the steeple of the little catholic church below, and the high metallic sound came to him with a mysterious and potential familiarity. with the first note, his hand in his pocket closed upon an object he always carried--the little gold cross he had found there when he awakened in the freight-car, the only token he possessed of his vanished past. more than once it had been laid for a mascot on the faro-table or the roulette-board with his last coin. always it had brought the stake back, till he had gained a whimsical belief in its luck. he drew it out now and looked at it. "strange that the sound of a bell always reminds me of that," he muttered. "association of ideas, i fancy, since there is a cross on the church steeple. and what is there in that bell? it is a faint sound even from here, yet night after night, up there in the cabin, that far-off peal has waked me suddenly from sleep. why is it, i wonder?" entering the town, there were few stirring on the sunny streets, but he could not but be aware that those he met stopped to gaze after him. some, indeed, followed. his first objective point was a jeweler's, where he could turn his gold-dust into readier coin for needful purchases. he saw a sign next the mountain valley house, and entered. the jeweler weighed the dust with a distrustful frown, but harry's head was turned away. he was reading a freshly printed placard tacked on the wall--an offer of reward for the detection of the sluice thief. he read it through mechanically, for as he read there came from the street outside a sound that touched a muffled chord in his brain. it was the exhaust of a motor-car. he thrust the money the goldsmith grudgingly handed him into his pocket and turned to the door. a long red automobile had stopped at the curb. two men whom it carried were just entering the hotel. harry had seen many such machines in his wanderings, and they had aroused no baffling instinct of habitude. but the old self was stirring now, every sense alert. hour by hour he had found himself growing more delicately susceptible to subtle mental impressions, haunted by shadowy reminders of things and places. something in the sight of the long, low "racer" reminded him--of what? his eye traced its polished lines, noting its cunning mechanism, its build for silent speed, with the eager lighting of a connoisseur. he took a step toward it, oblivious to all about him. he did not note that men were gathering, that the nearest saloon was emptying of its occupants. nor did he see a girl on horseback, with a tiny child before her on the saddle, who reined up sharply opposite. the rider was jessica; the child, an ecstatic five-year-old she had picked up on the fringe of the town, to canter in with her hands gripping the pommel of the saddle. she saw harry's position instantly and guessed it perilous. what did the men mean to do? she leaned forward, a swift apprehension in her face. harry came back suddenly to a realization of his surroundings. he looked about him, startled, his cheek darkening its red, every muscle instinctively tightening. he saw danger in the lowering faces, and the old lust of daring leaped up instantly to grapple with the rejuvenated character. devlin's voice came over the heads of the crowd as, burly and shirt-sleeved, he strode across the street: "hand over the dust you've stolen before you are tarred and feathered, hugh stires!" harry looked at him surprised, his mind instantly recurring to the placard he had seen. here was a tangible accusation. "i have stolen nothing," he responded quietly. "where did he get what he just sold me?" the jeweler's sour query rose behind him from the doorway. "we'll find that out!" was the rough rejoinder. in face of his threatening peril, jessica forgot all else--the restive horse, the child. she sprang to the ground, her face pained and indignant, and started to run across the street. but with a cry of dismay she turned back. the horse had caught sight of the red automobile, and, snorting and wild-eyed, had swung into the roadway. "it's devlin's kid!" some one cried out, and devlin, turning, went suddenly ashen. the baby was the one soft spot in his ruffianly heart. he sprang toward the animal, but the movement and the hands clutching at the bridle sent it to a leaping terror. in another instant it had broken through the ring of bystanders, and, frenzied at its freedom, dashed down the long, level street with the child clinging to the saddle-pommel. it was all the work of a moment, one of panic and confusion, through which rang jessica's scream of remorse and fright. torpor held the crowd--all save one, whose action followed the scream as leap follows the spur. in a single step harry gained the automobile. with an instantaneous movement he pushed the lever down and jerked the throttle wide. the machine bounded into its pace, the people rolling back before it, and, gathering headway, darted after the runaway. the spectators stood staring. "he'll never catch him," said michael halloran, who had joined the crowd. "funeral hollow's only a mile away." with others he hurried to the hotel balcony, where he could watch the exciting race. jessica stood stock-still, as blanched as devlin, wringing her hands. harry sanderson had acted with headlong intention, without calculation, almost without consciousness of mental process. standing on the pavement, with the subtle lure of the motor creeping in his veins, his whole body responding--as his fingers had tingled at sight of the violin--to the muffled vibrations of that halted bundle of steel, in the sharp exigency he had answered an overmastering impulse. in the same breath he had realized jessica's presence and the child's peril, both linked in that anguished cry. with the first bound of the car under him, as the crowd was snatched behind, a weird, exultant thrill shot through every nerve. each bolt and bar he knew as one would tell his fingers. somewhere, at some time, he had known such flight--through mellow sunlight, with the air singing past. where? when? not for the fraction of a second, however, did his gaze waver. he knew that the flat on which the town was built fell away in a hollow ravine to the southward--he could see it from the cabin doorway--a stretch of breakneck road only a mile ahead. could the child hold on? could he distance those frenzied hoofs in time? the arrow of the indicator stole forward on the dial. far behind, as the crowd watched, a cry rose from the hotel balcony. it was barney mcginn, the freighter, with a glass at his eye. "he's gaining!" he shouted. "he has almost overtaken the horse!" the horse's first fury of speed was tiring. the steel steed was creeping closer. a thunder of hoofs in pursuit would have maddened the flying animal, but the gliding thing that was now so close to him came on with noiseless swiftness. harry had reserved, with the nicety of a practised hand, a last increment of speed. with the front wheels at the horse's flank, he drew suddenly on this. as the car responded, he swerved it sharply in, and, holding with one hand, leaned far out from the step, and lifted the child from the saddle. the automobile halted again before the hotel amid a hush. the men who a little while before had been ripe for violence, now stood in shamefaced silence. it was jessica who ran forward and took the child, still sobbing a little, from harry's hands. one long look passed between them--a look on her part brimming with a great gratitude for his lifting of her weight of dread and compunction, and with something besides that mantled her cheeks with rich color. she kissed the child and placed her in her father's arms. devlin's countenance broke up. he struggled to speak, but could not, and, burying his face in the child's dress and crying like a baby, he crossed the street hastily to his own door. harry stepped to the pavement with a dull kind of embarrassment at the manifold scrutiny. he had misconstrued jessica's flushing silence, and the inference stung. the fierce zest was gone, and the rankling barb of accusation smarted. he should apologize to the owner, he reflected satirically, for helping himself to the automobile--he who stole gold-dust, he at whose door the town laid its unferreted thieveries! he who was the scapegoat for the town's offenses! that owner, in very fact, stood just then in the hotel doorway regarding him with interest. he was the sheriff of the county. he was about to step forward, when an interruption occurred. a scuffle and a weak bark sounded, and a lean brown streak shot across the pavement. "rummy!" cried harry. "rummy!" through some chink of the dead wall in his brain the name slipped out, a tiny atom of flotsam retrieved from the wreck of memory. that was all, but to the animal which had just found its lost master, the word meant a sublimation of delight, the clearing of the puzzle of namelessness that had perplexed its canine brain. the dog's heaven was reached! down on his knees on the pavement went harry, with his arms about the starved, palpitating little creature, and his cheek against its shaggy coat. in another moment he had picked it up in his arms and was walking up the street. late that night tom felder, sitting in his office, heard the story of the runaway from the sheriff's lips. he himself had been in court at the time. "and the horse?" he asked. "in the hollow, with his back broken," said the sheriff. the lawyer sprang from his chair. "good god!" he exclaimed. "how can a man like that ever have been a scoundrel?" the sheriff relit his dead cigar reflectively. "it's a curious thing," he said. "they are saying on the street that he's sent prendergast packing. he'll have to watch out--the old tarantula will sting him if he can!" harry sanderson went back to his cabin with a strange feeling of exaltation and disappointment--exaltation at the recurrence of something of his old adventures, disappointment at the flushed silence with which jessica had received the child. chapter xxiv on smokey mountain jessica bore back from the town that afternoon a spirit of tremulous gladness. in the few moments of that thrilling ride and rescue, a mysterious change had been wrought in her. in the past days her soul had been possessed by a painful agitation which she did not attempt to analyze. at moments the ingrained hatred of hugh's act, the resentment that had been the result of that year of pain, had risen to battle for the inherent justice of things. at such times she was restless and _distraite_, sitting much alone, and puzzling david stires by meaningless responses. she could not tell him that the son whose name he never took upon his lips was so near: that he whose crime his father's pride of name had hidden, through all the months since then, had gone down with the current, shunned by honest folk, adding to his one dismal act the weight of persistent repetition! she could not tell him this, even though that son now lived without memory of the evil he had done; though he struggled under a cloud of hatred, reaching out to clean deed and high resolve. now, however, all distrust and trepidation had vanished. strangely and suddenly the complex warfare in her mind had stilled. standing with mrs. halloran, she had listened to the comment with shining eyes. not that she distinguished any sudden and violent _volte-face_ of opinion to turn persecution to popularity and make the reprobate of to-day the favorite of to-morrow. but in its very reserve she instinctively felt a new tension of respect. suspicion and dislike aside, there was none there who would again hinder the man who had made that race with death! for her own part, she only knew that she had no longer fear of soul or sense of irrevocable loss, or suffering. what were those old bible words about being born again? what was that rebirth but a divine forgetting, a wiping out, a "remembering no more?" if it was the memory of his shame that had dragged him down, that memory was gone, perhaps for ever. the hugh she now loved was not the hugh who had sinned! she sat by david stires that evening chatting gaily--he had been much weaker and more nervous of late and she would not have him told of the runaway--talking of cheerful things, radiating a glow from her own happiness that warmed the softly-lighted sick-room. all the while her heart was on the hillside where a rough cabin held him who embodied for her all the mystery and meaning of life. by a kind of clairvoyance she saw him sitting in the snug firelight, thinking perhaps of the instant their eyes had met. she did not guess that for him that moment had held an added pang. so the hours had passed, and the sun, when it rose next day, shone on a freshly created world. the wind no longer moaned for the lost legends of the trees. there was a bloom on every flowering bush, a song in the throat of every bird. she was full of new feelings that yielded in their sway only to new problems that loomed on her mental horizon. as the puzzle of the present cleared, the future was become the all-dominating thing. she knew now that she had never hated, had never really ceased to love. and hugh? love was not a mere product of times and places. it was only the memory that was gone, his love lived on underneath. surely that was what the violin--what the look on his face had said! when the broken chain was welded, he would know her! would it be chance--some sudden mental shock--that would furnish the clue? she had heard of such things. but suppose he did not recover his memory. in the very nature of the case, he must sometime learn the facts of his past. was it not better to know the very worst it contained now, to put all behind him, and face a future that held no hidden menace? she alone could tell him what had clouded his career--the thing whose sign and symbol was the forged draft. she carried the slip of paper in the bosom of her dress, and every day she took it out and looked at it as at some maleficent relic. it was a token of the old buried misery that, its final purpose accomplished, should be forgotten for ever. how to convey the truth with as little pain as might be--this was the problem--and she had found the solution. she would leave the draft secretly in the cabin, where he must see it. it bore his own name, and the deadly word david stires' cramped fist had written across it, told its significant story. how it got there hugh would not question; it would be to him only a detail of his forgotten life there. she was glad when in the late afternoon doctor brent came for his chat with david stires, and the latter sent her out for a walk. it was a garlanded day, a day of clear blue spaces between lavender clouds lolling in the sky, and over all the late summer landscape a dull gold wash of sun. there had long ceased to be for her any direction save one--down the mountain road to where a rambling, overgrown path led to the little grassy plateau with its jutting rock, which was her point of observation. she did not keep to the main road, but chose a short-cut through the thick underbrush that brought her more quickly to the knob. there she sat down, and, parting the bushes, peered through them. all was quiet. no wisp of smoke curled from the cabin chimney, no work was forward; for harry had climbed far up the mountain, alone with his thoughts. it was a favorable opportunity. jessica had the fateful draft in her hand as she ran quickly down the trail and across the cleared space to the cabin door. it was wide open. peering warily she saw that both rooms were empty, and, with a guilty last glance about her, she entered. a smile curved her lips as she saw the plain neatness of the interior; the scoured cooking-utensils, the coarse mackinaw clothing hung from wooden pegs, the clean bacon suspended from the rafters. a nail in the wall held an old violin, and beneath it was a shelf of books. to these, battered and dog-eared novels rescued from the mildewed litter of the cabin, harry had turned eagerly in the long evenings for lack of mental pabulum. she took one from the meager row, and opened it curiously. it was _david copperfield_, and she saw with kindling interest that heavy lines were drawn along certain of the pages. the words that had been marked revealed to the loving woman something of his soul. she looked about her. where should she put the draft? he had left a marker in the book; he would open it again, no doubt. she laid the draft between the printed leaves, beyond the marker. then, replacing the volume on the shelf, she ran from the door and hastened back up the steep trail to the knob. leaning back against the warm rock, lapped in the serene peacefulness of the spot, jessica fell into reverie. never since her wedding-day had she said to herself boldly: "i love him!"--never till yesterday. now all was changed. her thought was a tremulous assurance: "i shall stay here near him day after day, watching. some day his memory will come back, and then my love will comfort him. the town will forget it has hated, and will come to honor him. sometime, seeing how he is changed, his father will forgive him and take him back, and we shall all three go home to the white house in the aspens. if not, then my place will still be with hugh! perhaps we shall live here. perhaps a cabin like that will be home, and i shall live with him, and work with him, and care for him." thus she dreamed--a new day-dream, unravaged by the sordid tests of verity. so absorbed was she that she did not hear a step approaching over the springy moss--a sharply drawn breath, as the intruder stifled an exclamation. she had drawn her handkerchief across her eyes against the dancing glimmer of sunlight. suddenly it dropped to her lap, and she half turned. in the instant of surprise, as harry's look flashed into hers, a name sprang unbidden to her lips--a name that struck his strained face to sudden whiteness, ringing in his ears like the note of a sunken bell. all that was clamoring in him for speech rushed into words. "you call my name!" he cried. "you know me! have i ever been 'hugh' to you? is that what your look said to me? is that why your face has haunted me? tell me, i pray you!" she had struggled to her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom. the surprise had swung her from her moorings. her heart had been so full in her self-communings that now, between the impulse toward revealment and the warning of caution, she stood confused. "i had never seen you in the town before that day," she said. "i am stopping there"--she pointed to the ridge above, where the roof of the sanatorium glistened in the sunlight. "i was at the hotel by merest accident when--you played." the light died in his eyes. he turned abruptly and stared across the foliaged space. there was a moment's pause. "forgive me!" he said at length, in a voice curiously dull. "you must think me a madman to be talking to you like this. to be sure, every one knows me. it is not strange that you should have spoken my name. it was a sudden impulse to which i yielded. i had imagined ... i had dreamed ... but no matter. only, your face--that white band across your eyes--your voice--they came to me like something far away that i have known. i was mistaken. i was crazy to think that you--" he stopped. a wave of sympathy passed over her. she felt a mad wish to throw all aside, to cry to him: "you _did_ know me! you loved me once! i am jessica--i am your wife!" so intense was her emotion that it seemed to her as if she had spoken his name again audibly, but her lips had not moved, and the tap of a woodpecker on a near-by trunk sounded with harsh distinctness. "i have wanted to speak to you," she said, after an instant in which she struggled for self-control. "you did a brave thing yesterday--a splendid thing. it saved me from sorrow all my life!" he put aside her thanks with a gesture. "you saved me also. you found me ill and suffering and your horse carried me to my cabin." "i want to tell you," she went on hastily, her fingers lacing, "that i do not judge you as others do. i know about your past life--what you have forgotten. i know you have put it all behind you." his face changed swiftly. to-day the determination with which he had striven to put from his mind the problem of his clouded past had broken down. in the light of the charge which had been flung in his teeth the afternoon before, his imagination had dwelt intolerably on it. "better to have ended it all under the wheels of the freight-engine," he had told himself. "what profit to have another character, if the old lies chuckling in the shadow, an old-man-of-the-sea, a lurking thing, like a personal devil, to pull me down!" in these gloomy reflections her features had recurred with a painful persistence. he had had a bad half-hour on the mountain, and now, before her look and tone, the ever-torturing query burst its bonds. "you know!" he said hoarsely. "yet you say that? they stoned me in the street the day i came back. yesterday they counted me a thief. it is like a hideous nightmare that i can't wake from. who am i? where did i come from? i dare not ask, for fear of further shame! can you imagine what that means?" he broke off, leaning an unsteady hand against a tree. "i've no excuse for this raving!" he said, in a moment, his face turned away. "i have seen you but twice. i do not even know your name. i am a man snatched out of the limbo and dropped into hell, to watch the bright spirits passing on the other side of the gulf!" pain lay very deep in the words, and it pierced her like a bodily pang, so close did she seem to him in spirit. she felt in it unrest, rebellion, the shrinking sensibility that had writhed in loneliness, and the longing for new foothold on the submerged causeway of life. she came close to him and touched his arm. "i know all that you suffer," she said. "you are doing the strong thing, the brave thing! the man in you is not astray now; it was lost, but it has found its way back. when your memory comes, you will see that it is fate that has been leading you. there was nothing in your past that can not be buried and forgotten. what you have been you will never be again. i know that! i saw you fight devlin and i know why you did it. i heard you play the violin! whatever has been, i have faith in you now!" she spoke breathlessly, in very abandon, carried away by her feeling. as she spoke he had turned toward her, his paleness flushed, his eyes leaping up like hungry fires, devouring her face. at the look timidity rushed upon her. she stopped abruptly and took a startled step from him. he turned from her instantly, his hands dropped at his sides. the word that had almost sprung to speech had slipped back into the void. "i thank you for the charity you have for me," he said, "which i in no way deserve. i ... i shall always remember it." she hesitated an instant, made as if to speak. then, turning, she went quickly from him. at the edge of the bushes she stopped with a sudden impulse. she looked at the handkerchief she held in her hand. some tiny lettering was embroidered in its corner, the word _jessica_. she looked back--he had not moved. rolling it into a ball, she threw it back, over the bushes, then ran on hastily through the trees. after a time harry turned slowly, his shoulders lifting in a deep respiration. he drew his hand across his brow as though to dispel a vision. this was the first time he had hit upon the place. he saw the flat ledge, with the bushes twisted before it for a screen. she had known the place before, then! the white and filmy cambric caught his eye, lying at the base of the great, knob-like rock. he went to it, picked it up, and looked at it closely. "jessica!" he whispered. the name clung about him; the very leaves repeated it in music. he had a curious sensation as if, while she spoke, that very name had half framed itself in some curtained recess of his thought. he pressed the handkerchief to his face. the faint perfume it exhaled, like the dust of dead roses, gave him a ghostly impression of the familiar. he thought of what she had said; she had not known him! and yet that look, the strange dreaming sense of her presence, his name on her lips in the moment of bewilderment! he struck his forehead sharply with his open hand. "fool!" he said, with a bitter laugh. "fool!" chapter xxv the open window over the sanatorium on the ridge sleep had descended. on its broad grounds there was no light of moon or stars, and its chamber windows were dark, save where here and there the soft glow of a night-lamp sifted through a shutter. the evening had closed gloomily, breeding storm. the air was sultry and windless, and now and then sheet-lightning threw into blunt relief the dark bodies of the trees. inside the building all slumbered, soundly or fitfully as health or illness decreed, carrying the humors of the stirring day into the wider realm of sleep. jessica had closed her eyes, thinking of a time when secrecy would all be ended, disguise done, when she would wear again the ring she had taken off in bitterness, when indeed and in name she would be a wife before the world. she had picked a great bowl of wild star-jasmin and set it by her bedside and the room was sweet with the delicate scent. the odor carried her irresistibly back to the far-away mansion that had since seemed a haunted dwelling, to the days of her blindness and of hugh's courtship. before she extinguished the light she searched in a drawer and found her wedding-ring--the one she had worn for less than an hour. it was folded away in a box which she had not opened since the dreadful day when she had broken in pieces her model of the prodigal son. when she crept into bed, the ring was on her finger. she had fallen asleep with her cheek resting on it. she awoke with a start, with a vague, inexplicable uneasiness, an instinct that the night had voiced an unusual sound. she sat up in bed, staring into the dark depths of the room. her instant thought had been of david stires, but the tiny bell on the wall whose wire led to his bedroom was not vibrating. she listened a moment, but there was only a deep silence. slipping out of bed, she crossed the room and parted the curtain from before the tall french window. the room was on the ground floor and the window gave directly on the lawn. the wind seemed dead, and the world outside--the broad, cleared expanse of trees and shrubs, and the descending forest that closed it round--was wrapped in a dense blackness. while she gazed there came a sudden yellow flare of lightning and far-distant mutter of thunder spoke behind the hills. still with the unreasoning uneasiness holding her, she groped to the door, drew the bolt and looked out into the wide, softly carpeted hall, lighted dimly by a lamp set just at the turn of the staircase. all at once a shiver ran through her. there, a dozen steps away, the light full upon him, stood the man who filled her thoughts. he stood perfectly still, without movement or gesture, gazing at her. she could see his face distinctly, silhouetted on the pearl-gray wall. it wore an expression of strained concern and of deep helplessness. the instant agitation and surprise blotted the puzzle of his presence there. she forgot that it was the dead of night, that she was in her nightgown. it flashed across her mind that some near and desperate trouble had befallen him. all the protective and maternal in her love welled up. she went quickly toward him. he did not move or stir, and then she realized that though his eyes seemed to look at her, it was with a passive tranced fixity. they saw nothing. he was asleep. it was the mind which was conscious, the action of the brain was at rest. the body, through the operation of some irreducible law of the subjective self, was moving in an automatic somnambulism. the intermittent memory that had begun to emerge in sleep, that had given him on waking the eerie impression of a dual identity, had led him, involuntarily and unerringly, to her. she halted, a deep compassion and a painful wonderment holding her, feeling with a thrill the power she possessed over him. then, like a cold wave, surged over her a numbing sense of his position. how had he entered? had he broken locks like a burglar? the situation was anomalous. what should she do? waked abruptly, the result might be disastrous. discovered, his presence there when all slumbered, suspected as he had been, would be ruinous. she must get him away, out of the house, and quickly. a breath of cool air swept past her, putting out the lamp--an outer door was open. at the same instant she heard steps beyond the curve of the hall, doctor brent's voice peremptory and inquiring. her nerves chilled; he blocked the sole avenue of retreat. no, there was one other, and only one--a single way to shield him. quiet and resourceful now, though her cheeks were hot, she took the hand of the unconscious man, drew him silent and unresisting into the friendly shadow of her room, closed the door noiselessly and bolted it. for a moment she stood motionless, her heart beating violently. had he been seen? or had the open door created an alarm? releasing his hand gently, she found her way softly to a stand, lighted a tiny night-taper, and threw a shawl about her. through its ground-glass the light cast a wan glimmer which showed the shadowy outlines of the room, its white rumpled bed, its scattered belongings eloquent of a woman's ownership, and the pallid countenance of the sleeping man. he had stopped still; a troubled frown was on his face, and his head was bent as if listening. a sudden confusion tingled through her veins, a sense of maidenly shame that she could be there beside him _en déshabille_, opposing the sweet reminder of their real relationship--was he not in fact her husband?--that lay ever beneath her thought to justify and explain. he must wake before he left that room. what would he think? she flushed scarlet in the semi-darkness; she could not tell him--that! not there and then! the blood forsook her heart as footsteps sounded outside the door. they paused, passed on, returned and died away. suddenly, in the tense silence of the room, the mantel-clock struck three, a deep chime, like the vibration of a far-off church bell. the tone was not loud--indeed the low roll of the thunder had been well-nigh as loud--but there was in the intrusive metallic cadence a peculiar suggestion to the dormant mind. as the sound of the church bell in the town had done so often, it penetrated the crust of sleep; it touched the inner ear of the conscious intelligence that stirred so painfully, throbbing keenly to sights and sounds and odors that to the wakeful mind left only a cloudy impression eddying to some unfamiliar center. harry started, a shudder ran through his frame, he swayed dizzily, his hand went to his forehead. in the instant of shocked awakening, jessica was at his side in an agony of apprehension, her arm thrown about him, her hand pressed across his lips, her own lips at his ear in an agonized warning: "hush, do not speak! it is i, jessica. make no noise." she felt her wrist caught in a grasp that made her wince. his whole body was trembling violently. "jessica!" he said in a painfully articulated whisper. "you? where am i?" "this is my room," she breathed. "you have been walking in your sleep. make no sound. we shall be heard." a low exclamation broke from his lips. he looked bewilderedly about him, his eyes returning to her face with a horrified realization. "i ... came here ... to your room?" the voice was scarcely audible. "it was i who brought you here. you were in the hall--you would have been found. the house is roused." he turned abruptly to the door, but she caught his arm. "what are you going to do? you will be seen!" "so much the better; it will be at my proper measure--as a prowler, a housebreaker, a disturber of honest sleep!" "no, no!" she protested in a panic. "you shall not; i will not have you taken for what you are not! i know--but they would not know! no one must see you leave this room! do you not think of me?" he caught his breath hard. "think of you!" he repeated huskily. "is there ever an hour when i do not think of you? is there a day when i would not die to serve you? yet in my very sleep--" he paused, gazing at her where she stood in the half-light, a misty, uncertain figure. she was curiously happy. the delicious and pangless sense of guilt, however--the guilt of the hidden, not the blameworthy thing--that was tingling through her was for him a shrinking and acute self-reproach. "here!" he said under his breath. "to have brought myself here, of all places, for you of all women to risk yourself for me! i only know that i was wandering for years and years in a shadowy desert, searching for something that would not be found--and then, suddenly i was here and you were speaking to me! you should have left me to be dragged away where i could trouble no one again." she was silent. "forgive me," he said, "if you can. i--i can never forgive myself. how can i best go?" for answer she moved to the window, slender and wraith-like. he followed silently. a million vague new impressions were clutching at him; the fragrance in the room was like a hypnotic incense veiling shadowy forms. lines started from the blank: and i swear, as i thought of her thus, in that hour, and how, after all, old things were best, that i smelt the smell of that jasmin-flower which she used to wear in her breast! as she parted the curtain, a second of bright lightning revealed the landscape, the dark hedges and clustered trees. it blackened, and she drew him back with a hushed word, pointing where a lantern was flashing through the shrubbery. "it is a watchman," she said. "he will be gone presently." looking at her, where she stood in the dim light, half turned away, one hand against her cheek, there welled through him a wave of that hopeless longing which her kiss had awakened in that epoch moment of the reverend henry sanderson. the clinging white gown, with the filmy lace at its throat, the taper's faint glow glimmering to a numbus in her loosened hair, the sweet intangible suggestions of the room--all these called to him potently, through the lines that raced in his brain. but o, the smell of that jasmin-flower! and o that music! and o the way that voice rang out from the donjon tower-- "god help me!" he whispered, the pent passion of his dreams rushing to utterance. "why did i ever see your face? i was reckless and careless then. i had damned the decent side of me that now is quivering alive! i have tried to blot your face from my memory. but it is useless. i shall always see it." a rumble of nearer thunder sounded and a tentative dash of rain struck the pane. she was shaken to her depths. she stood in a whirlwind of emotion. she seemed to feel his arms clasping her, his lips on hers, his adjuring words in her ears. the odor of the flowers wreathed them both. the beating of her heart seemed to fill all the silent room. on the lawn just outside the window, low voices were heard through the increasing rain. they passed, and after a moment he softly unlatched the window. "good-by," he said. she stretched out her hand. he touched it, then drew the window wide. as he stepped noiselessly down on to the springy turf, the lightning flashed again--a pale-green glow that seemed almost before her face. she drew back, and the same instant, through the thunder, the electric bell on the wall rang sharply. she threw on her dressing-gown, thrust her feet into slippers, and hastened from the room. the same flash that had startled jessica lighted brightly the physician and the watchman, who stood at the corner of the building, having finished their tour of inspection. it was the latter who had found the open door and who had aroused the doctor, insisting that he had seen a man in the hall. the other had pooh-poohed this, but now by the lightning both saw the figure emerge from the french window and disappear in the darkness. they ran back, the physician ahead. the window was not locked, and they stepped through it into an empty room. "to be sure!" said the doctor disgustedly. "he was here all the time--heard us searching the halls, and took the first unlocked door he found. miss holme, no doubt, is sitting up with mr. stires. not a word of this," he added as they walked along the hall. "unless she misses something, there is no need of frightening her." he barred the outer door behind the watchman and went on. as he reached david stires' room, the door opened and jessica came out. she spoke to him in a low, anxious voice. "i was coming for you," she said. "i am afraid he is not so well. i can not rouse him. will you come in and see what you can do?" the doctor entered, and a glance at his patient alarmed him. until dawn he sat with jessica watching. when the early sunlight was flooding the room, however, david stires opened his eyes and looked upon her quite naturally. "where is harry sanderson?" he asked. "i thought he was here." she looked at him with a forced smile. "you have been dreaming," she answered. he seemed to realize where he was. "i suppose so," he said with a sigh, "but it was very real. i thought he came in and spoke your name." she stroked his hand. "it was fancy, dear." if he but knew who had really been there that night! if she could only tell him all the happy truth! he lay silent a moment. then he said: "if it could only have been harry you married instead of hugh! for he loved you, jessica." she flushed as she said: "ah, that was fancy, too!" it was the first time since the day of her marriage that he had spoken hugh's name. chapter xxvi like a thief in the night dawn had come with an unleashed wind and the crash of thunder. the electric storm, which had muttered and menaced like a sabbath of witches till daylight, had broken at length and turned the world to a raving turmoil, pitilessly scarring the mountain and deluging the gulches with cloud-burst. in the cabin on the hillside harry had watched the rage of the elements with a dull sense of accord; it typified the wild range of feeling in which his soul had been harried. battle had been the keynote of a series of days and doings of which the tense awakening in jessica's chamber, with its supreme moment of passion and longing, had been a weird culmination. as he made his way down the mountain in the blank and heavy dark, correcting his path by the lightning, he had faced squarely the question that in that dim room had become an imminent demand. "_what if i love her!_ what right have i to love her, with a wretched name like mine? she has refinement, a measure of wealth, no doubt, and i am poor as poverty, dependent on the day's grubbing in the ditch for to-morrow's bacon and flour. yet that would not stand in the way! i am no venal rogue, angling for the loaves and fishes. whatever else she cursed me with, nature gave me a brain, and culture and experience have educated it. with hand or brain i can hew my own niche to stand in! must i put away the longing that drove me to her in sleep, with her dawning love that shielded me? and if, knowing all, she love me, must the past, that is so unreal to me, block my way to happiness? i am putting it deep underground, and its ghost shall not rise! time passes, reputations change. mine will change. and when i have squared my living here, the world is wide. what does it matter who she is, if she is the one woman for me? what does it matter what i have been, if i shall be that no longer?" so he had argued, but his argument ended always with the same stern and unanswerable conclusion: "to drag her down in order to lift myself! because she pities me--pity is akin to love!--shall i take advantage of her interest and innocence? shall i play upon divine compassion and sinister propinquity, like any mean adventurer who inveigles a romantic girl into marrying a rascal to reform him?" in the cabin, through the long hours till the dawn began to infiltrate the dark hollows of the wood he had lain wide-eyed, thinking. when day came he had cooked his breakfast and thereafter sat watching the havoc of the storm through the window. hours passed thus before the fury of the wind had spent itself, and with the diminution of the rain, a crouching mist had crept over the range from the west, from which smoky mountain jutted like a drenched emerald island. at length he rose, threw open the door and stood looking out upon the wind-whipped foliage and the drab desolation of the fog. then he threw on his mackinaw coat, picked up his gold-pan and climbed down the slope. beneath all other problems must lie the sordid problem of his daily food. he had uncovered a crevice in the bed-rock at the end of his trench the day before, and now he scraped a pailful of the soggy gravel it contained and carried it back to the cabin. a fresh onslaught of rain came just then, and setting the heaped-up pan on the doorstep, he reëntered the room. with a sigh he took off his damp coat and threw a log on the fire. he abstractedly watched it kindle, then filled and lit his pipe and turned to the book-shelf. he ran his hand absently along the row. where had been that wide, dim expanse of library walls that hovered like a mirage beyond his visual sight? he chose a volume he had been reading, and turned the pages. all at once his hand clenched. he gave a choked cry. he was staring at a canceled bank-draft bearing his own name--a draft across whose face was written, in the cramped hand resembling the signature, a word that seemed etched in livid characters of shame--_forgery!_ "pay to hugh stires"--"the sum of five thousand dollars"--he read the phrases in a hoarse, husky monotone, every vein beating fiercely, his body hot with the heat of a forge. there it was, a hideous chapter of it, the damnable truth from which he had shrunk! "i may be a thief!"--he had said that to himself long ago. his mind had revolted at the idea, yet the thought had clung. it had made him a coward. when the allegation had passed before the jeweler's shop, it had stung the deeper for his dread. he had been the beneficiary of that forgery. he alone could have perpetrated it. the popular suspicion was well grounded: he was a common criminal! did the town know? he snatched at the draft and read the date. more than a year ago, and it had been presented for payment in a distant city, the city near which he had been picked up beside the railroad track. the forged name was the same as his own. who was david stires? his father? had that city been his home once, and that infamous act the forerunner of his flight or exile? he looked at the paper again with painful intentness. it was canceled--therefore had been paid without question. yet the man it had robbed had stamped it with that venomous hall-mark. clearly the law had not stepped in--for here he was at liberty, owning his name. he had been let go, then, disowned, to carry his badge of crime here into the wilderness! and how had he lived since then? harry shuddered. what now? it was no longer a question only of his life and repute here at smoky mountain. the trail led infinitely further; it led to the greater world, into which he had fondly dreamed of going. the words jessica had spoken on the hillside sounded in his ears: "_whatever has been_ i have faith in you now." his face lightened. that assurance had swept the past utterly aside, had leaned only on the present. his present, at least, was clean! he drew a sudden breath and the color faded from his cheek; a baleful suggestion had insinuated itself with a harrowing pain. _was_ it clean? he had forced an entrance in the dead of night to tread dark halls like a thief--and he had laid that flattering unction to his soul! suppose he had not gone there innocent of purpose? what if, not alone the memory, but the lusts and vices of the former man were reasserting themselves in sleep? what if the new hugh stires, unknown to the waking consciousness, was carrying on the deeds of the old? what if the town was right? what if there was, indeed, good reason for suspecting him? he stumbled to a chair and sat down, his frame rigid. he thought of the robbed sluice in the gulch below, of his own unhappy adventure of the night. how could he tell what he had done--what he might do? minutes went by as he sat motionless, his mind catching strange kaleidoscopic pictures that fled past him into the void. at length he rose and went to the window. far down the hillside, a faint line through the mist spanned the gulch bottom. a groan burst from his lips: "that is the hydraulic flume," he said aloud. "gold has been stolen there in the past, again and again. some was stolen two nights ago. _how do i know but that i am the thief?_" was that what prendergast had meant by the "easier way"? a shiver ran over him. "how do i know!" he thought. "i can see myself--the evil side of me--when the dark had fallen, waking and active ... i see myself creeping down there, stealing from shadow to shadow, to scoop the gold from the riffles when the moon is under a cloud. i see men sitting from dark to daylight, with loaded rifles across their knees, watching. i see a flash of fire ... i hear a report. i see myself there by the sluice-boxes, dead, shot down in the act of a thief, making good the name men know me by!" the figure of jessica came before him, standing in her soft white gown, her hand against her cheek and the jasmin odors about her. the dream he had dreamed could not be--never, never, never! all that was left was surrender, ignominious flight to scenes barren of suggestion. to a place where he could work and save and repay! he looked at the slip of bank-paper in his hand. at that instant a shining point caught his eye. it came from the pan of gravel on the doorstep on which the rain had been beating. he thrust the draft into his pocket and seized a double handful of the gravel. he plunged it into a pail of water and held it to the light. it sparkled with coarse, yellow flakes of gold. he dropped the handful with a sharp exclamation, threw on his coat and rushed from the cabin. all day, alone on the fog-soaked hillside, harry toiled in the trench without food or rest. chapter xxvii into the golden sunset it was a fair, sweet evening, and the room where jessica sat beside david stires' bed, reading aloud to him, was flooded with the failing sunlight. the height was still in brightness, but the gulches below were wine-red and on their rims the spruces stood shadow-straight against the golden ivory of the southern sky. since the old man's seizure in the night he had been much worse and she had scarcely left his room. to-day, however, he had sat propped by pillows, able to read and chat, and the deep personal anxiety that had numbed her had yielded. she was reading now from a life of that poetess whose grave has made a lonely colorado mountain a place of pilgrimage. she read in a low voice, holding the page to the dimming light: "the spot she chose was a bare knoll, facing out across the curved chasm, the wide empty gulf on three sides, a plot hounded by a knot of noble trees that whispered softly together. here above the sky was beautifully blue, the searching fall wind that numbed the fingers in the draw of the gorge was gone, and the warm sunshine was mellow and pleasant. it was a spot to dream in, leaning upon the great facts of god that he teaches best to those who love his nature. a spot in which to be laid at last for the long sleep, when mortal dreams are over and work is done." "that is beautiful," he said. "i should choose a spot like that." he pointed down the long slope, where a red beam of the sun touched the gray face of the knob and turned it to a spot of crimson-lake. "that must be such a place." her cheeks flushed. she knew what he was thinking. he would not wish to lie in the far-away cemetery that looked down on the white house in the aspens, the theater of his son's downfall! the knob, she thought with a thrill, overlooked the place of hugh's regeneration. a knock came at the door. it was a nurse with letters for him from the mail, and while he opened them jessica laid aside the book and went slowly down the hall to the sun-parlor, where the doctor stood with the group gathered after the early supper, chatting of the newest "strike" on the mountain. "we'll be famous if we keep on," he was saying, as she looked out of the wide windows across the haze where the sunlight drifted down in dust of gold. "i've a mind to stake out a claim myself." "we pay you better," said one of the occupants grimly. "anyway, the whole of smoky mountain was staked in the excitement a year ago. there's no doubt about this find, i suppose?" "it's on exhibition at the bank," the doctor replied. "more than five thousand dollars, _cached_ in a crevice in the glacial age, as neat as a christmas stocking!" "wish it was _my_ stocking," grunted the other. "it would help pay my bill here." the man of medicine laughed and nodded to jessica where she stood, her cheeks reddened by the crimsoning light. she had scarcely listened to the chatter, or, if she did, paid little heed. all her thoughts were with the man she loved. watching the luminous purple shadows grow slowly over the landscape, she longed to run down to the knob, to sit where she had first spoken to him, perhaps by very excess of yearning to call him to her side. she had a keen sense of the compunction he must feel, and longed, as love must, to reassure him. the talk went on about her. "where is the lucky claim?" some one asked. "just below this ridge," the doctor replied. "it is called the 'little paymaster.'" the name caught her ear now. the little paymaster? that was the name on the tree--on hugh's claim! at that instant she thought she heard david stires calling. she turned and ran quickly up the long hall to his open door. the sight of his face at first startled her, for it was held captive of emotion; but it was an emotion of joy, not of pain. a letter fluttered in his grasp. he thrust it into her hands. "jessica!" he exclaimed. "hugh has paid it! he has sent the five thousand dollars, interest and principal, to the bank, to my account." for a moment she stood transfixed. the talk she had mechanically heard leaped into significance, and her mind ran back to the hour when she had left the draft at the cabin. she caught the old man's hand and knelt by his chair, laughing and crying at once. "i knew--oh, i knew!" she cried, and hid her face in the coverlet. "it is what i have prayed for," he said, after a moment, in a shaking voice. "i said i hoped i would never see his face again, but i was bitter then. he was my only son, after all, and he is your husband. i have thought it all over lying here." jessica lifted her eyes, shining with a great thankfulness. during these last few days the impulse to tell all that she had concealed had been almost irresistible; now the barrier had fallen. the secret she had repressed so long came forth in a rush of sentences that left him mute and amazed. "i should have told you before," she ended, "but i didn't know--i wasn't sure--" she broke down for very joy. he looked at her with eyes unnaturally bright. "tell me everything, jessica!" he said. "everything from the beginning!" she drew the shade wider before the open window, where he could look down across the two miles of darkening foliage to the far huddle of the town--a group of toy houses now hazily indistinct--and, seated beside him, his hand in hers, poured out the whole. she had never framed it into words; she had pondered each incident severally, apart, as it were, from its context. now, with the loss of memory and the pitiful struggle of recollection as a background, the narrative painted itself in vivid colors to whose pathos and meaning her every instinct was alive. her first view of hugh, the street fight and the revelation of the violin--the part she and prendergast had taken--the rescue of the child--the leaving of the draft in the cabin, and the strange sleep-walking that had so nearly found a dubious ending--she told all. she did not realize that she was revealing the depths of her own heart without reserve. if she omitted to tell of his evil reputation and the neighborhood's hatred, who could blame? she was a woman, and she loved them both. dusk came before the moving recital was finished. the rose of sunset grew over the trellised west, faded, and the gloom deepened to darkness, pricked by stars. the old man from the first had scarcely spoken. when she ended she could hardly see his face, and waited anxiously to hear what he might say. presently he broke the silence. "he was young and irresponsible, jessica," he said. "money always came so easily. he didn't realize what he was doing when he signed that draft. he has learned a lesson out in the world. it won't hurt his career in the end, for no one but you and i and one other knows it. thank god! if his memory comes back--" "oh, it will!" she breathed. "it must! that day on the knob he only needed the clue! when i tell him who i am, he will know me. he will remember it all. i am sure--sure! will you let me bring him to you?" she added softly. "yes," he said, pressing her hand, "to-morrow. i shall be stronger in the morning." she rose and lighted the lamp, shading it from his eyes. "do you remember the will, jessica?" he asked her presently. "the will i drew the day he came back? you never knew, but i signed it--the night of your wedding. harry sanderson was right, my dear, wasn't he? "i wish now i hadn't signed it, jessica," he added. "i must set it right--i must set it right!" he watched her with a smile on his face. "i will rest now," he said, and she adjusted the pillows and turned the lamp low. crossing the room, she stepped through the long window on to the porch, and stood leaning on the railing. from the dark hedges where the brown birds built came a drowsy twitter as from a nest of dreams. a long time she stood there, a thousand thoughts busy in her brain--of hugh, of the beckoning future. she thought of the day she had destroyed the model that her fingers longed to remold, now that the prodigal was indeed returned. the words of the biblical narrative flashed through her mind: _and he arose and came to his father. but when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him._ so hugh's father would meet him now! the dewed odors of the jasmin brought the memory of that stormy night when he had come to her in his sleep. she imagined she heard again his last word--his whispered "good-by" in the sound of the rain. she thought it a memory, but the word that flashed into her mind was carried to her from the shadow, where a man stood in the shrubbery watching her dim figure and her face white and beautiful in the light from a near-by window, with a passionate longing and rebellion. harry was seeing her, he told himself, for the last time. he had made up his mind to this on that stormy morning when he had found the lucky crevice. for days he had labored, spurred by a fierce haste to make requital. till the last ounce of the rich "pocket" had been washed, and the whole taken to the bank in the town, no one had known of the find. it had repaid the forgery and left him a handful of dollars over--enough to take him far away from the only thing that made life worth the effort. he had climbed to the ridge on the bare chance of seeing jessica--not of speaking to her. watching her, it required all his repression not to yield to the reckless desire that prompted him to go to her, look into her eyes, and tell her he loved her. he made a step forward, but stopped short, as she turned and vanished through the window. standing on the porch, a gradual feeling of apprehension had come to jessica--an impression of blankness and chill that affected her strangely. inside the room she stood still, frightened at the sudden sense of utter soundlessness. she caught up the lamp, and, turning the wick, approached the bed. she put out her hand and touched the wasted one on the coverlet. then a sobbing cry came from her lips. david stires was gone. a crowning joy had goldened his bitterness at the last moment, and he had gone away with his son's face in his heart and the smile of welcome on his lips. chapter xxviii the tenantless house dark was falling keen and cool, for frost was in the air, touching the fall foliage on the hills to crimson and amber, silvering the long curving road that skirted the river bluff, and etching delicate hoar tracery on the spidery framework of the long black railroad bridge that hung above "the hole." the warning light from a signal-post threw a crimson splash on the ground. its green pane cast a pallor on a bearded face turned out over the gloomy water. the man who had paused there had come from far, and his posture betokened weariness, but his features were sharp and eager. he turned and paced back along the track to the signal-post. "it was here," he said aloud. he stood a moment, his hands clenched. "the new life began here. here, then, is where the old life ended." from where he stood he could see blossoming the yellow lights of the little city, five miles away. he set his shoulders, whistled to the small dog that nosed near-by, and set off at a quick pace down the road. what had brought him there? he scarcely could have told. partly, perhaps, a painful curiosity, a flagellant longing to press the iron that had seared him to his soul. so, after a fortnight of drifting, the dark maelstrom of his thoughts had swept him to its dead center. this was the spot that held the key to the secret whose shame had sent him hither by night, like a jailbird revisiting the haunts that can know him no more. he came at length to a fork in the road; he mechanically took the right, and it led him soon to a paved road and to more cheerful thoroughfares. once in the streets, a bar to curious glances, he turned up his coat collar and settled the brim of his felt hat more closely over his eyes. he halted once before a shadowed door with a barred window set in its upper panel--the badge of a gambling-house. as he had walked, baffling hints of pictures, unfilled outlines like a painter's studies had been flitting before him, as faces flit noiselessly across the opaque ground of a camera-obscura. now, down the steps from that barred door, a filmy, faded, chesterfieldian figure seemed to be coming toward him with outstretched hand--one of the ghosts of his world of shadows. he walked on. he crossed an open square and presently came to the gate of a gothic chapel, set well back from the street. its great rose-window was alight, for on this evening was to be held a memorial service for the old man whose money had built the pile, who had died a fortnight before in a distant sanatorium. a burnished brass plate was set beside the gate, bearing the legend: "st. james chapel. reverend henry sanderson, rector." the gaze with which the man's eye traced the words was as mechanical as the movement with which his hand, in his pocket, closed on the little gold cross; for organ practice was beginning, and the air, throbbing to it, was peopled with confused images--but no realization of the past emerged. he turned at the sound of wheels, and the blur shocked itself apart to reveal a kindly face that looked at him for an instant framed in the window of a passing carriage. with the look a specter plucked at the flesh of the wayfarer with intangible fingers. he shrank closer against the palings. inside the carriage bishop ludlow settled back with a sigh. "only a face on the pavement," he said to his wife, "but it reminded me somehow of harry sanderson." "how strange it is!" she said--the bishop had no secrets from his wife--"never a word or a sign, and everything in his study just as he left it. what can you do, john? it is four months ago now, and the parish needs a rector." he did not reply for a moment. the question touched the trouble that was ever present in his mind. the whereabouts of harry sanderson had caused him many sleepless hours, and the look of frozen realization which had met his stern and horrified gaze that unforgetable night--a look like that of a tranced occultist waked in the demon-constrained commission of some rueful impiety--had haunted the good man's vigils. he had knowledge of the by-paths of the human soul, and the more he reflected the less the fact had fitted. the wild laugh of hugh's, as he had vanished into the darkness, had come to seem the derisive glee of the tempter rejoicing in his handiwork. recollection of harry's depression and the insomnia of which he had complained had deepened his conviction that some phase of mental illness had been responsible. in the end he had revolted against his first crass conclusion. when the announced vacation had lengthened into months, he had been still more deeply perplexed, for the welfare of the parish must be considered. "i know," he said at length. "i may have failed in my whole duty, but i haven't known how to tell david stires, especially since we heard of his illness. i had written to him--the whole story; the ink was not dry on the paper when the letter came from jessica telling us of his death." behind them, as they talked, the man on the pavement was walking on feverishly, the organ music pursuing him, the dog following with a reluctant whine. at last he came to a wide, dark lawn set thick with aspens clustering about a white house that loomed grayly in the farther shadow. he hesitated a moment, then walked slowly up the broad, weed-grown garden path toward its porch. in the half light the massive silver door-plate stood out clearly. he had known instinctively that that house had been a part of his life, and yet a tremor caught him as he read the name--stires. the intuition that had bent his steps from the street, the old stirring of dead memory, had brought him to his past at last. this house had been his home! he stood looking at it with trouble in his face. he seemed now to remember the wide colonnaded porch, the tall fluted columns, the green blinds. clearly it was unoccupied. he remembered the scent of jasmin flowers! he remembered-- he started. a man in his shirt-sleeves was standing by a half-open side door, regarding him narrowly. "thinking of buying?" the query was good-humoredly satiric. "or maybe just looking the old ranch over with a view to a shake-down!" the trespasser smiled grimly. it was not the first time he had seen that weather-beaten face. "you have given up surgery as a profession, i see," he said. the other came nearer, looked at him in a puzzled way, then laughed. "if it isn't the card-sharp we picked up on the railroad track!" he said, "dog and all! i thought you were far down the coast, where it's warmer. nothing much doing with you, eh?" "nothing much," answered the man he addressed. others might recognize him as the black sheep, but this nondescript watchman whom chance had set here could not. he knew him only as the dingy vagabond whose broken head he had bandaged in the box-car! "i'm in better luck," went on the man in shirt-sleeves. "i struck this about two months ago, as gardener first, and now i'm a kind of a sort of a watchman. they gave me a bunk in the summer-house there"--he jerked his thumb backward over his shoulder--"but i know a game worth two of that for these cold nights. i'll show you. i can put you up for the night," he added, "if you like." the wayfarer shook his head. "i must get away to-night, but i'm much obliged." "haven't done anything, have you?" asked his one-time companion curiously. "you didn't seem that sort." the bearded face turned away. "i'm not 'wanted' by the police, no. but i'm on the move, and the sooner i take the trail the better. i don't mind night travel." "you'd be better for a rest," said the watchman, "but you're the doctor. come in and we'll have a nip of something warm, anyhow." he led the way to the open door and beckoned the other inside, closing it carefully to. "it's a bully old hole," he observed, as he lit a brace of candles. "it wasn't any trick to file a key, and i sleep in the library now as snug as a bug in a rug." he held the light higher. "you look a sight better," he said. "more flesh on your bones, and the beard changes you some, too. that scar healed up fine on your forehead--it's nothing but a red line now." his guest followed him into a spacious hall, scarce conscious of what he did. a double door to the left was shut, but he nevertheless knew perfectly that the room it hid had a tall french window, letting on to a garden where camelias had once dropped like blood. the open door to the right led to the library. there the yellow light touched the dark wainscoting, the marble mantelpiece, dim paintings on the wall, and a great brass-bound korean desk in a corner. what black thing had once happened in that room? what face had once looked at him from that wheel-chair? it was an old face, gray and lined and passionate--his father, doubtless. he told himself this calmly, with an odd sense of apartness. the other's glance followed his pridefully. "it's a fine property," he said. "the owner's an invalid, i hear, with one leg in the grave. he's in some sanatorium and can't get much good of it. nice pictures, them," he added, sweeping a candle round. "that's a good-looker over there--must be the old man's daughter, i reckon. well, i'll go and get you a finger or two to keep the frost out of your lungs. it'll be cold as billy-be-dam to-night. make yourself at home." the door closed behind him. the man he left was trembling violently. he had scarcely repressed a cry. the portrait that hung above the mantelpiece was jessica's, in a house-dress of soft romney-blue and a single white rose caught in her hair. "the old man's daughter!"--the words seemed to echo and reëcho about the walls, voicing a new agony without a name. then jessica was his sister! the owner of the house, his father, an invalid in a sanatorium? it was a sanatorium on the ridge of smoky mountain where she had stayed, into which he had broken that stormy night! had his father been there then, yearning in pain and illness over that evil career of his in the town beneath? was relationship the secret of jessica's interest, her magnanimity, that he had dreamed was something more? a dizzy sickness fell upon him, and he clenched his hands till the nails struck purple crescents into the palms. as he stared dry-eyed at the picture in the candle-light, the misery slowly passed. he must _know_. who she was, what she was to him, he must learn beyond peradventure. he cast a swift glance around him; orderly rows of books stared from the shelves, the mahogany table held only a pile of old magazines. he strode to the desk, drew down its lid and tried the drawers. they opened readily and he rapidly turned over their litter of papers, written in the same crabbed hand that had etched the one damning word on the draft he had found in the cabin on smoky mountain. this antique desk, with its crude symbols and quaint brass-work, a gift to him once upon a time from harry sanderson, had been david stires' carry-all; he had been spending a last half-hour in sorting its contents when the bank-messenger, on that fateful day, had brought him the slip of paper that had told his son's disgrace. most of the papers the searcher saw at a glance were of no import, and they gave him no clue to what he sought. then, mysteriously guided by the subtle memory that seemed of late to haunt him, though he was but half conscious of its guidance, his nervous fingers suddenly found and pressed a spring--a panel fell down, and he drew out a folded parchment. another instant and he was bending over it with the candle, his fingers tracing familiar legal phrases of a will laid there long ago. he read with the blood shrinking from his heart: "_to my son hugh, in return for the care and sorrow he has caused me all the days of his life, for his dissolute career and his graceless desertion, i do give and bequeath the sum of one thousand dollars and the memory of his misspent youth. the residue of my estate, real and personal, i do give and bequeath to my ward, jessica holme_--" the blood swept back to his heart in a flood. ward, not daughter! he could still keep the one sweet thing left him. his love was justified. tears sprang to his eyes, and he laid the parchment back and closed the desk. he hastily brushed the drops away, as the rough figure of the watchman entered and set down two glasses and a bottle with a flourish. "there you are; that'll be worth five miles to you!" he poured noisily. "here's how!" he said. his guest drank, set down the glass and held out his hand. "good luck," he said. "you've got a good, warm berth here; maybe i shall find one, too, one of these days." the dog thrust a cold muzzle into his hand as he walked down the gravel path slowly, feeling the glow of the liquor gratefully, with the grudging release it brought from mental tension. he had not consciously asked himself whither now. in some subconscious corner of his brain this had been asked and answered. he was going to his father. not to seek to change the stern decree; not to annul those bitter phrases: _his dissolute career--the memory of his misspent youth!_ only to ask his forgiveness and to make what reparation was possible, then to go out once more to the world to fight out his battle. his way was clear before him now. fate had guided him, strangely and certainly, to knowledge. he was thankful for that. he had come a silent shadow; like a shadow he would go. he retraced his steps, and again stood on the square near where the rose-window of the gothic chapel cast a tinted luster on the clustering shrubbery. the audience-room was full now, a string of carriages waited at the curb, and as he stood on the opposite pavement the treble of the choir rose full and clear: "lead, kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom, lead thou me on; the night is dark, and i am far from home, lead thou me on! keep thou my feet! i do not care to see the distant scene; one step enough for me." he drew his hat-brim over his eyes, and mingled with the hurrying street. chapter xxix the call of love the bell was tapping in the steeple of the little catholic church on the edge of the town, and the mellow tone came clearly up the slope of the mountain where once more the one-time partner of prendergast stood on the threshold of the lonely cabin, sentinel over the mounds of yellow gravel that marked his toil. the returned wanderer had met with a distinct surprise in the town. as he passed through the streets more than one had nodded, or had spoken his name, and the recognition had sent a glow to his cheek and a lightness to his step. since the daring feat in the automobile, the tone of the gossip had changed. his name was no longer connected with the sluice robberies. the lucky find, too, constituted a material boom for smoky mountain and bettered the stock in its hydraulic enterprises, and this had been written on the credit side of the ledger. opinion, so all-powerful in a new community, had altered. devlin had abruptly ordered from his place one who had done no more than to repeat his own earlier gibes, and even michael halloran, the proprietor of the mountain valley house, had given countenance to the more charitable view championed by tom felder. all this he who had been the outcast could not guess, but he felt the change with satisfaction. as he gazed up the slope, all gloriously afire with the marvellous frost-hues of the autumn--dahlia crimsons, daffodil golds and maple tints like the flames of long-sought desires--toward the glass roof that sparkled on the ridge above, one comfort warmed his breast. if it had been the subtle stirring of blood kinship, the blind instinct of love, that had drawn him to that nocturnal house-breaking, not the lawless appetence of the natural criminal! whether his father was indeed there he must discover. till the sun was low he sat in the cabin thinking. at length he called the dog and fastened it in its accustomed place, and began slowly to climb the steep ascent. when he came to a certain vine-grown trail that met the main path, he turned aside. here lay the spot where he had first spoken with her, face to face. here she had told him there was nothing in his past which could not be buried and forgotten! as he parted the bushes and stepped into the narrow space beside the jutting ledge, he stopped short with an exclamation. the place was no longer a tangle of vines. a grave had been lately made there, and behind it, fresh-chiseled in the rock, was a statue: a figure seated, chin on hand, as if regarding the near-by mound. as in a dream he realized that its features were his own. awestruck, the living man drew near. it was jessica's conception of the prodigal son, as she had modelled it in aniston in her blindness, after hugh's early return to the house in the aspens. that david stires should have pointed out the distant knob as a spot in which he would choose to be buried had had a peculiar significance to her, and the wish had been observed. her sorrow for his death had been deepened by the thought that the end had come too suddenly for david stires to have reinstated his son. this sorrow had possessed one comfort--that he had known at the last and had forgiven hugh. of this she could assure him when he returned, for she could not really believe--so deep is the heart of a woman--that he would not return. in the days of vigil she had found relief in the rough, hard work of the mallet. none had intruded in that out-of-the-way spot, save that one day mrs. halloran, led by curiosity to see the grave of the rich man whose whim it had been to be buried on the mountain side, had found her at her work, and her jessica had pledged to silence. she was no fool, was mrs. halloran, and to learn the name of the dead man was to put two and two together. the guess the good woman evolved undershot the mark, but it was more than sufficient to summon all the romance that lurked beneath that prosaic exterior; nevertheless she shut her lips against temptation, and all her motherly heart overflowed to the girl who worked each day at that self-appointed task. only the afternoon before jessica had finished carving the words on the base of the statue on which the look of the startled man was now resting: _i will arise and go unto my father_. the gazer turned from the words, with quick question, to the mound. he came close, and in the fading light looked at the name on the low headstone. so he had come too late! _and the son said unto him, father, i have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son._ though for him there could have been no robe or ring, or fatted calf or merriment, yet he had longed for the dearer boon of confession and understanding. if he could only have learned the truth earlier! if he might only put back the hands of the clock! hours went by. the shadows dreamed themselves away and dark fell, cloudless and starry. the half-moon brightened upon him sitting moveless beside the stone figure. at length he rose to his feet, his limbs cramped and stiffened, and made his way back to the lonely cabin on the hillside. there he found fuel, kindled a blaze in the fireplace and cooked his frugal supper. the shock of surprise past, he realized his sorrow as a thing subjective and cerebral. the dead man had been his father; so he told himself, but with an emotion curiously destitute of primitive feeling. the very relationship was a portion of that past that he could never grasp; all that was of the present was jessica! he thought of the losing battle he had fought there once before, when tempest shrieked without--the battle which had ended in _débacle_ and defeat. he thought of the will he had seen, now sealed with the great seal of death. he was the shorn beggar, she the beneficiary. what duty she had owed his father was ended now. desolate she might be--in need of a hand to guide and guard--but she was beyond the reach of penury. this gave him a sense of satisfaction. was she there on the mountain at that moment? there came upon him again the passionate longing that had held him in that misty sanatorium room when the odor of the jasmin had wreathed them both--when she had protected and saved him! at last he took old despair's battered violin from the wall, and, seating himself in the open doorway, looking across the mysterious purple of the gulches to the skyline sown with pale stars, drew the bow softly across the strings. in the long-past days, when he had been the reverend henry sanderson, in the darker moods of his study, he had been used to seek the relief to which he now turned. never but once since then had he played with utter oblivion of self. now his struggle and longing crept into the music. the ghosts that haunted him clustered together in the obscurity of the night, and stood between his opening future and her. through manifold variations the music wandered, till at length there came from the hollowed wood an air that was an unconscious echo of a forgotten wedding-day--"o perfect love, all human thought transcending." after the fitful medley that had spoken, the placid cadence fell with a searching pathos that throbbed painfully on the empty silence of the mountain. empty indeed he thought it. but the light breeze that shook the pine-needles had borne the sound far to an ear that had grown tense with listening--to one on the ridge above to whom it had sounded the supreme call of youth and life. he did not feel her nearer presence as she stole breathless across the dark path, and stood there behind him with outstretched hands, her whole being merged in that mute appeal. the music died, the violin slipped from beneath his chin, the bow dropped and his head fell on his arms. then he felt a touch on his shoulder and heard the whisper: "hugh! hugh!" "jessica!" he cried, and sprang to his feet. in those three words all was asked and answered. it did not need the low cry with which she flung herself on her knees beside the rough-hewn steps, or the broken sentences with which he poured out the fear and hope that he had battled with. "i have watched every day and listened every night," she said. "i knew that you would come--that you _must_ come back!" "if i had never gone, jessica!" he exclaimed. "then i might have seen my father! but i didn't know--" she clasped her hands together. "you know now--you remember it all?" he shook his head. "i have been there"--he pointed to the hillside--"and i have guessed who it is that lies there. i know i sinned against him and against myself, and left him to die unforgiving. that is what the statue said to me--as he must have said: _i am no more worthy to be called thy son_." "ah," she cried, "he knew and he forgave you, hugh. his last thought was of your coming! that is why i carved the figure there." "you carved it?" he exclaimed. she bent her forehead to his hands, as they clasped her own. "the prodigal is yourself," she said. "i modelled it once before when you came back to him, in the time you have forgotten. but i destroyed it,"--the words were very low now--"on my wedding-day." his hands released hers, and, looking up, she saw, even in the moonlight, that with the last word his face had gone ghastly white. at the sight, timidity, maidenly reserve, fell, and all the woman in her rushed uppermost. she lifted her arms and clasped his face. "hugh," she cried, "can't you remember? don't you understand? think! i was blind, dear, blind--a white bandage was across my eyes, and you came to me in a shaded room! why did you come to me?" a spark seemed to dart through his brain, like the prickling discharge from a leyden jar. a spot of the mental blackness visualized, and for an instant sprang out in outlines of red. he smelled the odor of jasmin flowers. he saw himself standing, facing a figure with bandaged eyes. he saw the bandage torn off, felt that yielding body in his arms, heard a voice--her voice--crying, "hugh--hugh! my husband!" and felt those lips pressed to his own in the tense air of a darkened room. a cry broke from his lips: "yes, yes! i remember! jessica, my wife!" his arms went round her, and with a little sob she nestled close to him on the doorstep. the blank might close again about him now! he had had that instantaneous glimpse of the past, like lightning through a rifted pall, and in that glimpse was joy. for him there was now no more consciousless past or remorseful present. no forgery or exile, no prendergast, or hatred, or evil repute. for her, all that had embittered, all that stood for loss and grieving, was ended. the fire on the hearth behind them domed and sank, and far below the lights of the streets wavered unheeded. the shadowed silence of the cathedral pines closed them round. above in the calm sky the great constellations burned on and swung lower, and in that dim confessional she absolved him from all sin. chapter xxx in a forest of arden keen, morning sunlight, a sky clean as a hound's tooth, and an air cool and tinctured with the wine of perfect autumn! jessica breathed it deeply as her buoyant step carried her along the mountain trails, brave in the pageant of the passing year. her face reflected the rich color and her eyes were deep as the sky. only last night had been that sweet unfolding in which the past had been swept away for ever. to-day her heart was almost too full to bear, beating to thought of the man to whose arms the violin had called her. that had been the hour of confidence, of love's sacrament, the closure of all her distrust and agony. now she longed inexpressibly for the further assurance she knew would look from his eyes to hers; yet her joy was so poignant that it was near to pain, and withal was so enwound with maidenly consciousness that, knowing him near, she must have fled from him. she walked rapidly on, losing herself in the windings of blind wood-paths, revelling in the beauty of the silent, empty forest. the morning had found the man whose image filled her mental horizon no less a prey to conflicting emotions than herself. that hour on the mountain-side, under the stars, had left harry possessed of a mêlée of perplexing emotions. dreaming and waking, jessica's face hung before his eyes, her voice sounded in his ear. yet over his happiness more than once a chill had fallen, an odd shrinking, an unexplainable sense of flush, of fastidiousness, of mortification. this subtle conflict of feeling, not understood, had driven him, in sheer nervousness, to the peaceful healing of the solitudes. the future held no longer any doubt--it held only her. where was that future to be? back in the city to which his painful curiosity had so lately driven him? this lay no longer in his own choice; it was for her to decide now, jessica--his wife. he said the word softly, under his breath, to the sweet secret grasses, as something mysterious and sacred. how appealing, how womanly she was--how incommunicably dear, how-- he looked up transfixed, for she stood there before him, ankle-deep in a brown whirlwind of leaves from a frost-stung oak, her hand to her cheek in an adorable gesture that he knew, her lips parted and eager. she said no word, nor did he, but he came swiftly and caught her to him, and her face buried itself on his breast. as he looked down at her thus folded, the trouble, the sense of vexing complexity vanished, and the primitive demand reasserted its sway. presently he released her, and drew her gently to a seat on the sprawling oak roots. "i wanted so to find you," she said. "i have so many, many things to say." "it is all wonderfully strange and new!" he said. "it is as though i had rubbed aladdin's lamp, and suddenly had my heart's desire." "ah," she breathed, "am i that?" "more than that, and yet once i--jessica, jessica! when i woke this morning in the cabin down there, it seemed to me for a moment that only last night was real, and all the past an ugly dream. how could you have loved me? and how could i have thrown my pearl away?" "we are not to think of that," she protested, "never, never any more." "you are right," he rejoined cheerfully; "it is what is to come that we must think of." he paused an instant, then he said: "last night, when you told me of the white house in the aspens, i did not tell you that i had just come from there--from aniston." she made an exclamation of wonder. "tell me," she said. sitting with her hand in his, he told of that night's experiences, the fear that had held him as he gazed at her portrait in the library, the secret of the korean desk that had solaced his misery and sent him back to the father he was not to see. at mention of the will she threw out her hand with a passionate gesture. "the money is not mine!" she cried. "it is yours! he intended to change it--he told me so the day he died. oh, if you think i--" "no, no," he said gently. "there is no resentment, no false pride in my love, jessica. i am thinking of you--and of aniston. you would have me go back, would you not?" she looked up smiling and slowly shook her head. "you are a blind guesser," she said. "don't you think i know what is in your mind? not aniston, hugh. sometime, but not now--not yet. it is nearer than that!" his eyes flowed into hers. "you understand! yes, it is here. this is where i must finish my fight first. yesterday i would have left smoky mountain for ever, because you were here. now--" "i will help you," she said. "all the world besides counts nothing if only we are together! i could live in a cabin here on the mountain always, in a forest of arden, till i grow old, and want nothing but that--and you!" she paused, with a happy laugh, her eye turned away. [illustration] a log cabin, but a home glorified by her presence! in a dozen words she had sketched a sufficient paradise. as he did not answer, she faced him with crimsoning cheeks, then reading his look she suddenly threw her arms about his neck. "hugh," she cried, "we belong to each other now. there is no one else to consider, is there? i want to be to you what i haven't been--to bear things with you, and help you." he kissed her eyes and hair. "you _have_ helped, you _do_ help me, jessica!" he urged. "but i am jealous for your love. it must not be offended. the town of smoky mountain must not sneer--and it would sneer now." "let it!" she exclaimed resentfully. "as if i would care!" "but _i_ would care," he said softly. "i want to climb a little higher first." she was silent a moment, her fingers twisting the fallen leaves. "you don't want them to know that i am your wife?" "not yet--till i can see my way." she nodded and smiled and the cloud lifted from her face. "you must know best," she said. "this is what i shall do, then. i shall leave the sanatorium to-morrow. the people there are nothing to me, but the town of smoky mountain is yours, and i must be a part of it, too. i am going to the mountain valley house. mrs. halloran will take care of me." she sprang to her feet as she added: "i shall go to see her about it now." he knew the dear desire her determination masked--to do her part in softening prejudice, in clearing his way--and the thought of her great-heartedness brought a mist to his eyes. he rose and walked with her through the bracken to the road. they came out to the driveway just below the trail that led to the knob. the bank was high, and leaping first he held up his arms to her and lifted her lightly down. in the instant, as she lay in his arms, he bent and kissed her on the lips. neither noted two figures walking together that at that moment rounded the bend of the road a little way above. they were tom felder and doctor brent, the latter swinging a light suit-case, for he was on his way to the station of the valley railroad. he had chosen to walk that he might have a longer chat with his friend. both men saw the kiss and instinctively drew back, the lawyer with a sudden color on his face, the doctor with a look of blank astonishment. the latter, in one way, knew little about the town. beside felder and mrs. halloran, whose surly husband he had once doctored when the town's practitioner was away--thereby earning her admiration and gratitude--there were few with whom he had more than a nodding acquaintance. he had liked david stires, and jessica he genuinely admired, though he had thought her at times somewhat distant. he himself had introduced felder to her, on one of the latter's visits. he had not observed that the young lawyer's calls had grown more frequent, nor guessed that he had more than once loitered on the mountain trails hoping to meet her. the doctor noted now the telltale flush on his companion's face. "we have surprised a romance," he said, as the two unconscious figures disappeared down the curving stretch. "who is the man?" "he is the one we have been talking about." the other stared. "not your local jekyll and hyde, the sneak who lost his memory and found himself an honest man?" felder nodded. "his cabin is just below here, on the hillside." "good lord!" ejaculated the doctor. "what an infernal pity! what's his name?" "hugh stires." "stires?" the other repeated. "stires? how odd!" he stood a moment, tapping his suit-case with his stick. suddenly he took the lawyer's arm and led him into the side-path. "come," he said, "i want to show you something." he led the way quickly to the knob, where he stopped, as much astonished as his companion, for he had known nothing of the statue. they read the words chiselled on its base. "the prodigal son," said felder. "now look at the name on the headstone," said the physician. felder's glance lifted from the stone, to peer through the screening bushes to the cabin on the shelf below, and returned to the other's face with quick comprehension. "you think--" "who could doubt it? _i will arise and go unto my father._ the old man's whim to be buried here had a meaning, after all. the statue is miss holme's work--nobody in smoky mountain could do it--and i've seen her modelling in clay at the sanatorium. what we saw just now is the key to what might have been a pretty riddle if we had ever looked further than our noses. it's a case of a clever rascal and damnable propinquity. the ward has fallen in love with the black sheep!" they betook themselves down the mountain in silence, the doctor wondering how deep a hurt lay back of that instant's color on his friend's now imperturbable face, and more than disturbed on jessica's account. her care for the cross-grained, likable invalid had touched him. "a fine old man to own a worthless son," he said at length, musingly. "a gentleman of the old school. your amiable blackleg has education and good blood in him, too!" "i've wondered sometimes," said felder, "if the old hugh stires, that disreputable one that came here, wasn't the unreal one, and the hugh stires the town is beginning to like, the real one, brought back by the accident that took his memory. you medical men have cases of such double identity, haven't you?" "the books have," responded the other, "but they're like kellner's disease or ludwig's angina--nobody but the original discoverer ever sees 'em." as they parted at the station the doctor said: "we needn't take the town into our confidence, eh? some one will stumble on the statue sooner or later, but we won't help the thing along." he looked shrewdly in the other's face as they shook hands. "you know the old saying: there's as many good fish in the sea as ever were caught." the lawyer half laughed. "don't worry," he said. "if i had been in danger, the signal was hung out in plenty of time!" chapter xxxi the revelation of hallelujah jones hallelujah jones was in his element. with his wheezy melodeon, his gasoline flare and his wild earnestness, he crowded the main street of the little mining-town, making the engagement of the "san francisco amazons" at the clapboard "opera house" a losing venture. the effete civilization of wealthy bailiwicks did not draw forth his powers as did the open and unveneered debaucheries of less restricted settlements. against these he could inveigh with surety, at least, of an appreciative audience. he had not lacked for listeners here, for he was a new sensation. his battered music-box, with its huge painted text, was far and away more attractive than the thumping pianolas of the saloons or the brobdignagian gramophone of the dance-hall, and his old-fashioned songs were enthusiastically encored. when he lit his flare in the court-house square at dusk on the second evening, the office of the mountain valley house was emptied and the bar-rooms and gaming-tables well-nigh deserted of their patrons. jessica had seen the mustering crowd from the hotel entrance. mrs. halloran had welcomed her errand that day and given her her best room, a chamber overlooking the street. she had persuaded her visitor to spend the afternoon and insisted that she stay to supper, "just to see how she would like it for a steady diet." now, as jessica passed along toward the mountain road, the spectacle chained her feet on the outskirts of the gathering. she watched and listened with a preoccupied mind; she was thinking that on her way to the sanatorium she would cross to the cabin for a good-night word with the man upon whom her every thought centered. as it happened, however, harry was at that moment very near her. alone on the mountain, the perplexing conflict of feeling had again descended upon him. he had fought it, but it had prevailed, and at nightfall had driven him down to the town, where the street preacher now held forth. he stood alone, unnoted, a little distance away, near the court-house steps, where, by reason of the crowd, jessica could see neither him nor the dog which sniffed at the heels of the circle of bystanders as if to inquire casually of salvation. numbers were swelling now, and the street preacher, shaking back his long hair, drew a premonitory, wavering chord from his melodeon, and struck up a gospel song: "my days are gliding swiftly by, and i, a pilgrim stranger, would not detain them as they fly, these hours of toil and danger. for oh, we tread on jordan's strand, our friends are passing over, and just before the shining shore we may almost discover." the song ended, he mounted his camp-stool to propound his usual fiery text. the watcher by the steps was gazing with a strange, alert intentness. something in the scene--the spluttering, dripping flame, the music, the forensic earnestness of the pilgrim--held him enthralled. the dormant sense that in the recent weeks had again and again stirred at some elusive touch of memory, was throbbing. since last night, with its sudden lightning flash of the past that had faded again into blankness, he had been as sensitive as a photographic plate. hallelujah jones knew the melodramatic value of contrast. as his mood called, he passed abruptly from exhortation to song, from prayer to fulmination, and he embellished his harangue with anecdotes drawn from his lifelong campaign against the arch-enemy of souls. of what he had said the solitary observer had been quite unconscious. it was the _ensemble_--the repetition of something experienced somewhere before--that appealed to him. suddenly, however, a chance phrase pierced to his understanding. another moment and he was leaning forward, his eyes fixed, his breath straining at his breast. for each word of the speaker now was knocking a sledge-hammer blow upon the blank wall in his brain. hallelujah jones had launched into the recital of an incident which had become the _chef d'ouvre_ of his repertory--a story which, though the stern charge of a bishop had kept him silent as to name and locality, yet, possessing the vividness of an actual experience, had lost little in the telling. it was the tale of an evening when he had peered through the tilted window of a chapel, and seen its dissolute rector gambling on the table of the lord. back in the shadow the listener, breathless and staring, saw the scene unroll like the shifting slide of a stereopticon--the epitaph on his own dead self. nerve and muscle and brain tightened as if to withstand a shock, for the man who moved through the pictures was himself! he saw the cards and counters falling on the table, the entrance of the two intruding figures, heard hugh's wild laugh as he fled, and the grate of the key in the lock behind him as he stood in his study. he heard the rush of the wind past the motor-car, the rustle of dry corn in the hedges, and felt the mist beating on his bare head-- "palms of victory, crowns of glory! palms of victory i shall wear!" he did not know that it was the voice of the street preacher which was singing now. the words shrieked themselves through his brain. harry sanderson, not hugh stires! not an outcast! not criminal, thief and forger! the curtain was rent. the dead wall in his brain was down, and the real past swept over him in an ungovernable flood. hallelujah jones had furnished the clue to the maze. his story was the last great wave, which had crumbled, all at once, the cliff of oblivion that the normal process of the recovered mind had been stealthily undermining. the formula, lost so long in the mysterious labyrinth of the brain, had reëstablished itself, and the thousand shreds of recollection that he had misconstrued had fallen into their true place in the old pattern. harry sanderson at last knew his past and all of puzzlement and distress that it had held. shaking in every limb and feeling all along the court-house wall like a drunken man, he made his way to the further deserted street. a passer-by would have shrunk at sight of his face and his burning eyes. for these months, he, the reverend henry sanderson, disgraced, had suffered eclipse, had been sunk out of sight and touch and hearing like a stone in a pool. for these months--through an accidental facial resemblance and a fortuitous concurrence of circumstances--he had owned the name and ignominy of hugh stires. and jessica? deceived no less than he, dating her piteous error from that mistaken moment when she had torn the bandage from her eyes on her wedding-day. she had never seen the real hugh in smoky mountain. she must learn the truth. yet, how to tell her? how could he tell her _all_? at any hour yesterday, hard as the telling must have been, he could have told her. last night the hour passed. how could he tell her now? yet she was the real hugh's wife by law and right; he himself could not marry her! if god would but turn back the universe and give him yesterday! why not _be_ hugh stires? the wild idea came to him to throw away his own self for ever, never to tell her, never to return to aniston, to live on here or fly to some distant place, till years had made recognition impossible. he struck his forehead with his closed hand. he, a priest of god, to summon her to an illegal union? to live a serial story of hypocrisy, with the guilty shadow of the living hugh always between them, the sword of damocles always suspended above their heads, to cleave to the heart of his fool's paradise? the mad thought died. yet what justice of heaven was it that jessica, whose very soul had been broken on the wheel, should now, through no conscious fault, be led by his hand through a new inferno of suffering? his feet dragging as though from cold, he climbed the mountain road. as he walked he took from his pocket the little gold cross, and his fingers, numb with misery, tied it to his thong watch-guard. it had been only a bauble, a pocket-piece acquired he knew not when or how; now he knew it for the badge of his calling. he remembered now that, pressed a certain way, it would open, and engraved inside were his name and the date of his ordination. he might shut the cabin door, but he could not forbid the torturer that came with him across the threshold. he might throw himself upon his knees and bury his face in the rough skin of the couch, but he could not shut out words that blent in golden-lettered flashes across his throbbing eyeballs: _thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife_. so he crouched, a man under whose feet life had crashed, leaving him pinned beneath the wreck, to watch the fire that must creep nearer and nearer. chapter xxxii the white horse skin curiosity held jessica until the evangelist closed his melodeon preparatory to a descent upon the dance-hall. then, thinking of the growing dark with some trepidation--for the recent "strike" had brought its influx of undesirable characters to the town--she started toward the mountain. ahead of her a muffled puff-puff sounded, and the dark bulk of an automobile--the sheriff's, the only one the town of smoky mountain boasted--was moving slowly in the same direction, and she quickened her pace, glad of this quasi-company. it soon forged ahead, but she had passed the outskirts of the town then and was not afraid. a little way up the ascent a cumbrous shadow startled her. she saw in a moment that it was the automobile, halted at the side of the road. her footsteps made no sound and she was close upon it when she saw the three men it had carried standing near-by. she made to pass them, and had crossed half the intervening space, when some instinct sent her to the shade of the trees. they had stopped opposite the hydraulic concession, where a side path left the main road--it was the same path by which she and emmet prendergast had taken their unconscious burden on a night long ago--leading along the hillside, overlooking the snake-like flume, and forming a steeper short-cut to the cabin above. they were conversing in low tones, and as they talked they pointed, she thought toward it. jessica had never in her life been an eavesdropper, but her excited senses made her anxious. moreover, she was in a way committed, for she could not now emerge without being seen. as she waited, a man came from the path and joined the others. the sky had been overcast and gloomy, but the moon drew out just then and she saw that the new-comer, evidently a patrol, carried a rifle in the hollow of his arm. she also saw that one of the first three was the automobile's owner. for some minutes they conversed in undertones, whose very secrecy inflamed her imagination. it seemed to her that they made some reference to the flume. had there been another robbery of the sluice-boxes, and could they still suspect hugh? dread and indignation made her bold. when they turned into the path she followed, treading noiselessly, till she was close behind them. they had stopped again, and were looking intently at a shadowy gray something that moved in the bottom below. she heard the man who carried the rifle say, with a smothered laugh: "it's only barney mcginn's old white horse taking a drink out of the sluice-box. he often does that." then the sheriff's voice said: "mcginn's horse is in town to-night, with barney on her back. horse or no horse, i'm going to"--the rest was lost in the swift action with which he snatched the firearm from the first speaker, sighted, and fired. in the still night the concussion seemed to rock the ground, and roused a hundred echoes. it startled and shocked the listening girl, but not so much as the sound that followed it--a cry that had nothing animal-like, and that sent the men running down the slope toward an object that lay huddled by the sluice-box. in horrified curiosity jessica followed, slipping from shadow to shadow. she saw the sheriff kneel down and draw a collapsed and empty horse's skin from a figure whose thieving cunning it would never cloak again. "so it was you, after all, prendergast!" the sheriff said contemptuously. the white face stared up at them, venomous and writhing, turning about the circle as though searching for some one who was not there. "how did--you guess?" the sheriff, who had been making a swift examination, answered the panted question. "you have no time to think of that now," he said. a sinister look darted into the filming yellow eyes, and hatred and certainty rekindled them. prendergast struggled to a sitting posture, then fell back, convulsed. "hugh stires! he was the only--one who knew--how it was done. he's clever, but he can't get the best of prendergast!" a spasm distorted his features. "wait--wait!" he fumbled in his breast and his fingers brought forth a crumpled piece of paper. he thrust it into the sheriff's hands. "look! look!" he gasped. "the man they found murdered on the claim there"--he pointed wildly up the hillside--"doctor moreau. i found him--dying! stires--" strength was fast failing him. he tried again to speak, but only inarticulate sounds came from his throat. a blind terror had clutched the heart of the girl leaning from the shadow. "doctor moreau"--"murdered." why, he had been one of hugh's friends! why did this man couple hugh's name with that worst of crimes? what dreadful thing was he trying to tell? she hardly repressed a desire to scream aloud. "be careful what you say, prendergast," said the sheriff sternly. the wretched man gathered force for a last effort. his voice came in a croaking whisper: "it was stires killed him. moreau wrote it down--and i--kept the paper. tell hugh--we break--even!" that was all. his head fell back with a shiver, and emmet prendergast was gone on a longer journey than ever his revenge could warm him. chapter xxxiii the renegade while the man whom the town knew as hugh stires listened to the tale of the street preacher, another, unlike yet curiously like him in feature, had slowly climbed the hilly slope from the north by the sanatorium road. he walked with a jaunty swagger bred of too frequent applications to a flask in his pocket. since the evening of the momentous scene in the chapel with harry sanderson, hugh had had more and more recourse to that black comforter. it had grown to be his constant companion. when, late on the night of the game, some miles away, he had gloatingly counted the money in his pockets, he had found nearly a thousand dollars in double-eagles, and a single red counter--the last he had had to stake against harry's gold. he put the crimson disk into his pocket, "to remember the bishop by," he thought with a chuckle, but the fact that for each of the counters harry had won he had sworn to render a day of clean and decent living, he straightway forgot. for the other's position he had wasted no pity. harry would find it difficult to explain the matter to the bishop! well, if it "broke" him, served him right! what business had he to set himself so far above every one else? for some time thereafter hugh had seriously contemplated going abroad, for a wholesome fear had dogged him in his flight from smoky mountain. for weeks he had travelled by night, scanning the daily newspapers with a desperate anxiety, his ears keen for hue and cry. but with money in his pocket, courage returned, and in the end fear lulled. there had been no witness to that deed on the hillside. there might be suspicion, but no more! at length the old-time attraction of the race-course had absorbed him. he had followed the horses in "the circuit," winning and losing, consorting with the tipsters, growing heavier with generous living, and welcoming excitement and change. but the ghost of doctor moreau haunted him, and would not be exorcized. money, however, could not last always, and a persistent run of ill luck depleted his store. when poverty again was at his elbow a vagrant rumor had told him, with the usual exaggerations, of the rich "find" on the little paymaster claim on smoky mountain. too late he cursed the reasonless panic that had sent him into flight. had the ground been "jumped" by some one who now profited? nevertheless, it was still his own to claim; miners' law gave him a year, and he had left enough possessions in the cabin, he thought cunningly, to disprove abandonment. he dreaded a return, but want and cupidity at length overcame his fears. he had arrived at smoky mountain on this night to claim his own. as he walked unsteadily along, hugh drank more than once from the flask to deaden the superstitious dread of the place which was stealing over him. on the crest of the ridge he skirted the sanatorium grounds and at length gained the road that twisted down toward the lights of the town. in the dubious moonlight he mistook the narrow trail to the knob for the lower path to the cabin. as he turned into it, the report of a rifle came faintly from the gulch below. it seemed to his excited senses like the ghostly echo of a shot he had himself fired there on a night like this long before--a hollow echo from another world. he quickened his steps and stumbled all at once into the little clearing that held the new-made grave and jessica's statue. the sight terrified his intoxicated imagination. his hair rose. the name on the headstone was stires, and there was himself--no, a ghost of himself!--sitting near! he turned and broke into a run down the steep slope. in his fear--for he imagined the white figure was pursuing him--he tripped and fell, regained his feet, rushed across the level space, threw his weight against the cabin door, and burst into the room. a dog sprang up with a growl, and in the light of the fire that burned on the hearth, a man sitting at the rough-hewn table lifted a haggard face from his arms and each recognized the other. the ghost was gone now before firelight and human presence, and hugh, with a loud laugh of tipsy incredulity, stood staring at the man before him. "harry sanderson!" he cried. "by the great horn spoon!" his shifty eyes surveyed the other's figure--the corduroys, the high laced boots, the soft blue flannel shirt. "not exactly in purple and fine linen," he said--the impudent swagger of intoxication had slipped over him again, and his boisterous laugh broke with a hiccough. "i thought the gospel game was about played out that night in the chapel. and now you are willing to take a hint from the prodigal. how did you find my nest? and perhaps you can tell me who has been making himself so infernally at home here lately?" "_i_ have," said harry evenly. hugh's glance, that had been wavering about the neat interior, returned to harry, and knowledge and anger leaped into it. "so it was you, was it? you are the one who has been trying his hand as a claim-jumper!" he lurched toward the table and leaned upon it. "i've always heard that the devil took care of his own. the runaway rector stumbles on my manor, and with his usual luck--'satan's luck' we called it at college--steps in just in time to strike it rich!" he stretched his hand suddenly and caught a tiny object that glittered against harry's coat--the little gold cross, which the other had tied to his watch-guard. the thong snapped and hugh sent the pendant rattling across the doorway. "you were something of a howling swell as a parson," he said insolently, "but you don't need the jewelry now!" harry sanderson's eyes had not left hugh's face; he was thinking swiftly. the bolt from the blue had been so recent that this sudden apparition seemed a natural concomitant of the situation. only the problem was no longer imminent; it was upon him. jessica was not for him--he had accepted that. though the clock might not turn backward, this man must stand between them. yet his presence now in the predicament was intolerable. this drunken, criminal maligner had it in his power to precipitate the climax for her in a coarse and brutal _exposé_. hugh had no idea of the true tangle, else he had not been seen in the town. but if not to-night, then to-morrow! harry's heart turned cold within him. if he could eliminate hugh from the problem till he could see his way! "well," said hugh with a sneer, "what have you got to say?" harry rose slowly and pushed the door shut. "when we last met," he said, "what you most wanted was to leave the country." "i changed my mind," retorted hugh. "i've got a right to do that, i suppose. i've come back now to get what is mine, and i'll have it, too!" he rapped the table with his knuckles. hugh had no recollection now of past generosities. his selfish materialism saw only money that might be his. "i know all about the strike," he went on, "and there's no green in my eye!" "how much will you take for the property?" hugh laughed again jeeringly. "that's your game, is it? but i'm not such a numskull! whatever you could offer, it's worth more to me. you've found a good thing here, and you'd like to skin me as a butcher skins a sheep." in the warmer air of the cabin the liquor he had drunk was firing his brain, and an old suspicion leaped to his tongue. "i know you, satan sanderson," he sneered. "you were always the same precious hypocrite in the old days, pretending to be so almighty virtuous, while you looked out for number one. i saw through you then, too, when you were posing as my friend and trying your best all along to queer me with the old man! i knew it well enough. i knew what the reason was, too! you wanted jessica! you--" self-control left harry suddenly, as a ship's sail is whipped from its gaskets in a white squall. before the words could be uttered, his fingers were at hugh's throat. at that instant there was the sound of running feet outside, a hurried knock at the door and an agitated voice that chilled harry's blood to ice. his hands relaxed their hold; he dragged hugh to the door of the inner room, thrust him inside, shut and bolted it upon him. then he went and opened the outer door. chapter xxxiv the temptation jessica's eyes met harry's in a look he could not translate, save that it held both yearning and anguish. the accusation of prendergast had stunned her faculties. as in an evil dream, with the low breeze murmuring by and the fitful moon overhead, she had seen the sheriff rise to his feet and methodically put the fragment of paper into his pocket-book. a moment later she was running up the dark path, her thoughts a confusion in which only one coherent purpose stood distinct--to warn him. they would know no need to hasten. if the man she loved had reached the cabin, she would be before them. not that she believed him guilty; in his lost past there could be no stain so dark as that! she recalled the look of personal hatred she had once surprised on prendergast's face. he hated hugh, and dying, had left this black lie behind to do him a mischief. he was innocent, innocent! but would the charge not be believed? they would arrest him, drag him down to the town, to the brick jail on the court-house square. the community was prejudiced. innocent men had been convicted before of crimes they never committed. in those breathless minutes she did not reason further; she knew only that a vital danger threatened him, and that he must fly from it. the lighted pane had told her the occupant of the cabin had returned. she stood before the door, her hands clasped tightly, her eyes on harry's face, even in this crucial moment drinking in thirstily what she saw there; for in this crisis, hanging on the narrow verge of catastrophe, when he had need to summon all his store of poise and contained strength, his look melted over her in a mist of tenderness. "what has happened?" he asked. he did not offer to touch or to kiss her, but this she did not remember till afterward. in what words could she tell him? would he think she believed him guilty when she besought him to fly? she answered simply, directly, with only a deep appeal in her eyes: "men will be here soon--men from the town. i overheard them. i wanted to let you know!" she hesitated; it had grown all at once difficult to put into words. "coming here? why?" "to arrest a man who is accused of murder." if her eyes could have pierced the bolted door a few feet away! if she could have seen that listening face behind it, as her clear tones fell, grow instinct with recognition, amazement, and evil suspicion--a look that her last word swept into a sickly gray terror! if she could have heard the groan from the wretched man beyond! "whose murder?" "doctor moreau's." in all harry sanderson's life was to be never such a moment of revealment. he knew that she meant himself. the murderer of doctor moreau--hugh's one-time crony and loose associate, who had shared in the plunder of the forged draft, and had then abandoned his cat's-paw to discovery! the man hugh had promised to "pay off for it some time!" had moreau also made this his stamping-ground? a swift memory swept him of hugh's hang-dog look, his nervous dread when he had begged in the chapel study for money with which to leave the country. it did not need the smothered gasp from behind the bolted door to point the way to the swift conclusion harry's mind was racing to. a dull flush spread to his forehead. jessica waited with caught breath, searching his countenance. it was told now, but he must know that she had not credited it--that "for better, for worse," she must believe in him now. "i knew, oh, i knew!" she cried. "you need not tell me!" the hell of two passions that were struggling within him--a savage exultation and a submerging wave of pity for her utter ignorance, her blind faith, for the painful dénouement that was rushing upon her--died, and left him cold and still. "no," he said gravely, "i am not the man they want. it has all come back to me--the past that i had lost. such a crime has no part in it." at another time the abrupt news of this retrieval must have affected her strangely, for she had wondered much concerning the return of that memory that held alike their early love and his own tragedy and shame. now, however, a greater contingency absorbed her. he must go, and without delay. her lips were opened to speak when he closed the door behind him and stepped quickly down toward her. at all odds, he was thinking, she must not see the man in that inner room! if she remained he could not guess what shock might result. "jessica," he said, "you have tried to save me from danger to-night. i need a greater service of you now; it is to ask no questions, but to go at once. i can not explain why, but you must not stay here a moment." "oh," she cried bitterly, "you don't intend to leave! you choose to face it, and you want to spare me. if you really want to spare me, you will go! why, you would have no chance where they have hated you so. prendergast was killed robbing the sluice to-night, and he lied--lied--lied! he swore you did it, and they will believe it!" he put back her beseeching hands. how could he explain? only to get her away--to gain time--_to think_! "listen!" she went on wildly. "they will wait to carry him to the town. i can go and bring my horse here for you. there is time! you have only to send me word, and i will follow you to the end of the world! only say you will go!" he caught at the straw. the expedient might serve. "very well," he said; "bring him to the upper trail, and wait there for me." she gave a sob of relief at his acquiescence. "i will hurry, hurry!" she cried, and was gone, swift as a swallow-flight, into the darkness. as he reëntered the cabin, the calmness fell from harry sanderson as a mask drops, and the latent passion sprang in its place. he crossed the room and drew the bolt for the wretched man who, after one swift glance at his face, grovelled on his knees before him, sobered and shivering. "for god's sake, harry, you won't give me up?" hugh cried. "you can't mean to do that! why, we were in college together! i'd been drinking to-night, or i wouldn't have talked to you as i did. i'm sober enough now, harry! you can have the claim. i'll give it to you and all you've got out of it. only let me go before they come to take me!" harry drew his feet from the frantic hands that clasped them. "did you kill moreau?" he asked shortly. "it was an accident," moaned hugh. "i never intended to--i swear to heaven i didn't! he hounded me, and he tried to bleed me. i only meant to frighten him off! then--then--i was afraid, and i ran for it. that was when i came to you at aniston and--we played." hugh's breath came in gasps and drops of sweat stood on his forehead. a weird, crowding clamor was sweeping through harry's brain. when, at the sound of jessica's voice, he had thrust hugh into the inner room, it had been only to gain time, to push further back, if by but a moment, the shock which was inevitable. then, in the twinkling of an eye, fate had swept the board. hugh's worthless life was forfeit. he would stand no longer between him and jessica! the enginery of the law would be their savior. neither crime nor penalty was of his making. he owed hugh nothing--the very money he had taken from the ground, save a bare living, had gone to pay his thievery. he could surrender him to the law, then take jessica far away where the truth would come mercifully softened by distance and lightened by future happiness. it was not his to intervene, to cozen justice, to compound a felony and defeat a righteous providence! he owed mercy to jessica. he owed none to this cringing, lying thing before him, who now reminded him of that chapel game that had ruined the reverend henry sanderson! "when we played!" he echoed. "how have you settled your debt--the 'debt of honor' you once counted so highly? how have you lived since then? have you paid me those days of decent living you staked, and lost?" hugh looked past him with hollow, hunted gaze. there was no escape, no weapon to his hand, and those eyes were on him like unwavering sparks of iron. "but i will!" he exclaimed desperately. "if you'll only help me out of this, i'll live straight to my dying day! you don't know how i've suffered, harry, or you'd have some mercy on me now! i can never get away from it! that's why i was drunk to-day. night and day i see him--moreau, as i saw him lying here that night on the hillside. he haunts me! you don't know what it means to be always afraid, to wake up in the night with the feel of handcuffs on your wrists, to know that such a thing is behind you, following you, following you, never letting you rest, never forgetting!" a choking sob burst from his lips. "let me go, harry," he pleaded; "for my father's sake!" "your father is dead," said harry. "then for old-time's sake!" he tried to clasp harry's knees. "they may be here at any minute! i must have been seen as i crossed the mountain! i thought it would never come out, or i wouldn't have come! i'll go far enough away. i'll go to south america, and you will never see me alive again, neither you nor jessica! i knew her voice just now--i know she's here. i don't care how or why! you don't need to give me up to get her! i'll give her to you! for god's sake, harry, listen! jessica wouldn't want to see me hung! for _her_ sake!" harry caught his breath sharply. the thrust had gone deep; it had sheared through the specious arguments he had been weaving. the commandment that an hour before had etched itself in letters of fire upon his eyelids hung again before him. he had coveted his neighbor's wife. this man, felon as he was--pitiful hound to whom the news of his father's death brought no flicker of sorrow or remorse, who now offered to barter jessica for his own safety!--he himself, however unwittingly, had irreparably wronged. between them stood the accusing wraith of one immortal hour, when the heart of love had beat against his own. if he delivered hugh to the hangman, would it be for justice's sake? the scales fell from his eyes. for him, loving jessica, it could be only a dastard act. yet if he aided the real hugh to escape, he, the supposititious hugh who had played his rôle, must continue it. he must second the villainy, and in so doing play the cheaply tragic part. he must pose as an accused murderer before the town whose good opinion he had longed to gain--before jessica!--until hugh had had time to win safe away! he might do even more. the real hugh would stand small chance; even were the evidence not flawless, the old record would condemn him. but he himself had lightened that record. he had gained liking and sympathy; there might be a chance for him of acquittal. if this might only be! the truth then need never be known and hugh stires, to all belief having been put once in jeopardy, need fear no more. life would be before him again, to pay the days of righteous living he had played for in the chapel game, to reverse the record of his selfish and remorseless career. if the trial went against him--hugh would have had his chance, would be far away. he, harry sanderson, would not have betrayed him. a hundred people, if he chose to summon them, would establish his own identity. it would be cheating justice, making a mock of law, but he was in a position where human statute must yield to a higher rule of action. the law might punish, but he would have been true to his own soul. jessica would understand. the truth held pain and shame for her, but he would have tried to save her from a greater. and he would have cancelled his debt to hugh! it was the harry sanderson of st. james parish, of the scrupulous conscience--whose college career as satan sanderson had come to be a fiery sore in his breast--who now spoke: "get up!" he said. "have you any money?" hugh rose, trembling and ashen. "hardly ten dollars," he answered. harry considered hastily. he was almost penniless; nearly all his share of the strike had gone to repay the forged draft. "i have no ready cash," he said, "but the night we played in the chapel, i left a thousand dollars in my study safe. i have not been there since." he took pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote down some figures hastily. "here is the combination. you must try to get that money." "wait," he added, as hugh's hand was on the latch. he must risk nothing; he could make assurance doubly sure. "a half-mile from the foot of the mountain, where the road comes in from funeral hollow, wait for me. i will bring a horse there for you." hugh crushed the paper into his pocket and opened the door. "i'll wait," he said. he darted out, slipped around the corner of the cabin, and stealthily disappeared. harry sat down upon the doorstep. the strain had been great; in the reaction, he was faint, and a mist was before his eyes. the die was cast. hugh could easily escape; until he himself spoke, he would not even be hunted. he, harry sanderson, was the scapegoat, left to play his part. how long he sat there he did not know. he sprang up at a muffled sound. he had still a work to do before they came--for hugh! he saw in an instant, however, that it was jessica, leading her horse by the bridle. "i could not wait," she breathed. "you did not come, and i was afraid!" mounting, he leaned from the saddle and took both her hands in his--still he did not kiss her. "jessica, you believe i am innocent?" he asked anxiously. "yes--yes!" "will you believe what i am doing is for the best?" "always, always!" she whispered, her voice vibrating. "only go!" "whatever happens?" "whatever happens!" he released her hands and rode quickly up the grassy path. as she stood looking after him, a dog's whine came from the cabin. she ran and released the spaniel and took him up in her arms. as she did so a sparkle caught her eye. it came from the tiny gold cross lying where hugh had flung it, near the lighted doorway. she picked it up, looked at it a moment abstractedly and thrust it into her pocket--scarce consciously, for her heart was keeping time to the silenced hoof-beat that was bearing the man she loved from danger. where the way opened into the gloomy cut of funeral hollow, harry dismounted and went forward slowly afoot, leading the horse, till a figure stepped from a clump of bushes to meet him with an exclamation of relief. hugh had waited at the rendezvous in shivering apprehension and dismal suspicion of harry's intentions, and had not approached till he had convinced himself that the other came alone. he wrung harry's hand as he said: "if i get out of this, i'll do better the rest of my life, i will, upon my soul, harry!" "you may not be able to get into the chapel," said harry; "my rooms"--he felt his cheek burn as he spoke--"may be occupied. on the chance that you fail, take this." he took off the ruby ring, whose interlaced initials had once fortified him in his error of identity. "the stone is worth a good deal. it should be enough to take you anywhere." hugh nodded, slipped the ring on his finger, and rode quickly off. then harry turned and walked rapidly back toward the town. chapter xxxv felder takes a case the sheriff stopped his automobile before the dingy telegraph office. the street had been ringing that evening with more exciting events than it had known in a year. "he's off," he said disgustedly to the men who had curiously gathered. "he must have got wind of it somehow, and he had a horse ready. we traced the hoof-prints from the cabin as far as the hollow. i'm going to use the wire." "that's a lie!" rumbled an angry voice behind him, as devlin strode into the crowd. "hugh stires gave himself up fifteen minutes ago at the jail." "how do you know that?" demanded the sheriff, relieved but chagrined at his fool's-errand. "because i saw him do it," answered devlin surlily. "i was there." "well, it saves trouble for me. that'll tickle you, felder," the sheriff added satirically, turning toward the lawyer. "you're a sentimentalist, and he's been your special fancy. what do you think now, eh?" "i'll tell you what _i_ think," said devlin, his big hands working. "i think it's a damned lie of prendergast's!" "oh, ho!" exclaimed the sheriff amusedly. "you once danced to a different tune, devlin!" the blood was in the big, lowering face. "i did," he admitted. "i went up against him when the liquor was in me, and by the same token he wiped this street with me. he stood me fair and he whipped me, and i needed it, though i hated him well enough afterwards. an'--an'--" he gulped painfully. no one spoke. "it's many's the time since then i've wished the hand was shrivelled that heaved that rock at him in the road! the day when i saw my bit of a lass, holdin' to the horse's mane, ridin' to her death in the hollow--an'--when he brought her back--" he stopped, struggling with himself, tears rolling down his cheeks. "no murderer did that!" he burst out. "we gave him the back of the hand an' the sole of the foot, an' we kept to it, though he fought it down an' lived straight an' decent. he never did it! i don't care what they say! i'll see prendergast in hell before i'll believe it, or any dirty paper he saved to swear a man's life away." the listeners were silent. no one had ever heard such a speech from the huge owner of the dance-hall. the sheriff lighted a cigar before he said: "that's all right, devlin. we all understand your prejudices, but i'm afraid they haven't much weight with legal minds, like mr. felder's here, for instance." "excuse me," said felder. "i fear my prejudices are with devlin. good night," he added, moving up the street. "where are you bound?" asked the other casually. "to the jail," answered the lawyer, "to see a client--i hope." the sheriff emitted a low whistle. "_i_ hope there'll be enough sane men left to get a jury!" he said. chapter xxxvi the hand at the door at the sound of steps in the jail corridor and the harsh grating of the key in the lock, harry rose hastily from the iron cot whereon he had been sitting and took a step forward. "jessica!" he exclaimed. she came toward him, her breath hurried, her cheek pale. tom felder's face was at her shoulder. "i have a little matter to attend to in the office," he said, nodding to harry. "i shall wait for you there, miss holme." she thanked him with a grateful look, and as he vanished, harry took her hand and kissed it. he longed to take her in his arms. "i heard of it only at noon," she began, her voice uncertain. "i was afraid they would not let me see you, so i went to mr. felder. they were saying on the street that he had offered to defend you." "i had not been here an hour when he came," he said. "i know you have no money," she went on; "i know what you did with the gold you found. and i have begged him to let me pay for any other counsel he will name. i have not told him--what i am to you, but i have told him that i am far from poor, and that nothing counts beside your life. he says you have forbidden him to do this--forbidden him to allow any help from any one. hugh, hugh! why do you do this? the money should be yours, not mine, for it was your father's! it _is_ yours, for i am your wife!" he kissed her hand again without answering. "haven't i a right now to be at your side? mayn't i tell them?" he shook his head. "not yet, jessica." "i must obey you," she said with a wan smile, "yet i would share your shame as proudly as your glory! you are thinking me weak and despicable, perhaps, because i wanted you to go away. but women are not men, and i--i love you so, hugh!" "i think you are all that is brave and good," he protested. "i want you to believe," she went on, "that i knew you had done no murder. if an angel from heaven had come to declare it, i would not have believed it. i only want now to understand." "what do you not understand?" he asked gently. she half turned toward the door, as she said, in a lower key: "last night i was overwrought. i had no time to reason, or even to be glad that you had recovered your memory. i thought only of your escaping somewhere--where you would be safe, and where i could follow. but after you had gone, many things came back to me that seemed strange--something curious in your manner. you had not seemed wholly surprised when i told you you were accused. why did you shut the cabin door, and speak so low? was there any one else there when i came?" he averted his face, but he did not answer. she was treading on near ground. "my horse came back this afternoon," she continued. "he had been ridden hard in the night and his flanks were cut cruelly with a whip. you did not use him, but some one did." she waited a moment, still he made no reply. "i want to ask you," she said abruptly, "do you know who killed doctor moreau?" his blood chilled at the question. he looked down at her speechless. "you must let me speak," she said. "you won't answer that. then you do know who really did it. oh, i have thought so much since last night! for some reason you are shielding him. was it the man who was in the cabin--who rode my horse? if he is guilty, why do you help him off, and so make yourself partly guilty?" he looked down at her and put a finger on her lips. "do you remember what you told me last night--that you would believe what i did was for the best?" "but i thought then you were going away! how can i believe it now? why, they hang men who murder, and it is you who are accused! if you protect the real murderer, you will have to stand in his place. the whole town believes you are guilty--i see it in all their faces. they are sorry, many of them, for they don't hate you as they did, but they think you did it. even mr. felder, though i have told him what i suspect, and though he is working now to defend you!" "jessica," he urged, "you must trust me and have faith in me. i know it is hard, but i can't explain to you! i can't tell you--yet--why i do as i am doing, but you must believe that i am right." she was puzzled and confused. when she had put this and that together, guided by her intuition, the conclusion that he knew the guilty one had brought a huge relief. now this fell into disarray. she felt beneath his manner a kind of appeal, a deprecation, almost a hidden pity for her--as though the danger were hers, not his, and she the one caught in this catastrophe. she looked at him pale and distraught. "you speak as if you were sorry for me," she said, "and not for yourself. is it because you know you are not in real danger--that you know the truth must come out, only you can't tell it yourself, or tell me either? is that it?" a wave of feeling passed over harry, of hopeless longing. whichever way the issue turned there was anguish for her--for she loved him. if he were acquitted, she must learn that past love between them had been illicit, that present love was shame, and future love an impossibility. convicted, there must be added to this the bitter knowledge that her husband in very truth was a murderer, doomed to lurk in hiding so long as he might live. yet not to reassure her now was cruelty. "it is not that, jessica," he said gravely; "yet you must not fear for me--for my life. try to believe me when i say that some time you will understand and know that i did only what i must." "will that be soon?" she asked. "i think it may be soon," he answered. her face lighted. the puzzle and dread lifted. "oh, then," she said--"oh, then, i shall not be afraid. i can not share your thoughts, nor your secret, and i must rebel at that. you mustn't blame me--i wouldn't be a woman if i did not--but i love you more than all the world, and i shall believe that you know best. hugh," she added softly, "do you know that--you haven't kissed me?" before her upturned, pleading eyes and trembling lips, the iron of his purpose bent to the man in him, and he took her into his arms. chapter xxxvii the penitent thief a frosty gloom was over the city of aniston, moon and stars hidden by a cloudy sky, from which a light snow--the first of the season--was sifting down. the streets were asleep; only occasional belated pedestrians were to be seen in the chilly air. these saw a man, his face muffled from the snowflakes, pass hurriedly toward the fountained square, from whose steeple two o'clock was just striking. the wayfarer skirted the square, keeping in cover of the buildings as though avoiding chance observation, till he stood on the pavement of a gothic chapel fronting the open space. here he paused and glanced furtively about him. he could see the entrance to the minister's study, at which he had so often knocked and the great rose-window of the audience-room where he had once gamed with harry sanderson. this was the building he must enter like a thief. on the night of his flight from smoky mountain, hugh had ridden hard till dawn, abandoning the horse to find its way back as best it might. hidden in a snug retreat, he had slept through the next day, to recommence his journeying at nightfall. he had thus been obliged to make haste slowly and had lost much valuable time. for two days after his arrival, he had hung about outside the town in a fever of impatience; for though he had readily ascertained that the premises were unoccupied, the first night he had been frightened away by the too zealous scrutiny of a policeman, and on the next he had been unable to force the door. that morning he had secured a skeleton-key, and now the weather was propitious for his purpose. after a moment's reconnoitering, he scaled the frost-fretted iron palings and gained the shelter of the porch. he tried the key anxiously; to his relief it fitted. another minute and he stood in the study, the door locked behind him, his veins beating with excitement. he felt along the wall, drawing his hand back sharply as it encountered the electric switch. he struck a wax _fusée_ and by its feeble ray gazed about him. the room looked as it had always looked, with harry's books on the shelves, and his heavy walking-stick in the corner, and there against the wall stood the substantial iron safe that held his own ransom. crouching down before it, he took from his pocket the paper upon which was written the combination; ten to the right, five to the left, twice nineteen to the right-- the match scorched his fingers, and he lighted another and began to turn the knob. the lock bore both figures and letters in concentric rings, and he saw that the seven figures harry had written formed a word. hugh dropped the match with a smothered exclamation, for the word was jessica! so harry really had loved her in the old days! had he profited by that wedding-day expulsion to make love to her himself? yet on the night of the game with harry in the chapel the house in the aspens had been closed and dark. how had she come to be in smoky mountain? his father was dead--so harry had said. if so, the money had gone to her, no doubt. well, at any rate, she had never been anything to him and he was no dog-in-the-manger. what he needed now was the thousand dollars, and here it was. he swung the massive door wide and took out the canvas bag. with this and the ruby ring--it must easily be worth as much again--he could put the round world between himself and capture. he closed the safe, and with the bag of coin in his hand, groped his way to the door of the chapel. it was less dark there, for the snow was making a white night outside, and the stained glass cast a wan glimmer across the aisles. he could almost see himself and harry sanderson sitting in the candle-light at the communion table inside the altar-rail, almost hear the musical chink of the gold! his hand wandered to his pocket, where lay the one wax wafer he had kept as a pocket-piece. at that altar he had sworn to pay a day of clean living for each of the counters he had lost. he had not kept that oath, and now vengeance was near to overtaking him. he shuddered. he had turned over a new leaf this time in earnest, and he would make up for the broken vow! but meanwhile he greatly needed sleep, and to-night in the open that was out of the question. he could gain several good hours' rest where he was, and still get away before daybreak. he drew together the altar-cushions and lay down, the canvas bag beside him, but he was cold, and at length he rose and went into the vestry for a surplice. he wrapped this about him, and, lighting a cigarette, lay down again. he was very tired, but his limbs twitched from nervousness. he lighted one cigarette after another, but sleep was coy. he tried to woo it with nonsense rhymes, but the lines ran together. he tried the remedy of his restless, precocious childhood--the counting of innumerable sheep as they leaped the hurdle one by one; but now all of the sheep were black. there came before his eyes, uncalled, the portrait of his dead mother, that had always hung at home in the wainscoted library. in her memory his father had built this very chapel. he wondered again whether she had looked like the picture. a softer feeling came to him. she would be sorry if she could know his plight. perhaps if she had lived his life might have been different. slow tears stole down his cheeks--not now of affected sentimentalism, or of hysterical self-pity, but warmer drops from some deeper well that had not overflowed since he was a little boy. if he had the chance he would live from now on so that if she were alive she need not be ashamed! the promise he made himself at that moment was an honester one than all his selfish years had known, for it sprang not from dread, but from the better feeling that his maturity had trampled and denied. he felt a kind of peace--the first real peace he had known since his school-days--and with it drowsiness came at last. with the drops wet on his cheek, forgetfulness found him. in a few minutes he was sleeping heavily. the last half-consumed cigarette dropped from his relaxing fingers to the cushion, where it made a smoldering nest of fire. a tiny tongue of flame caught the edge of a wall-hanging, ran up to the dry oaken rafters and speedily ignited them. in fifteen minutes the interior of the chapel was a mass of flame, and hugh woke gasping and bewildered. with a cry of alarm he sprang to his feet, seized the bag of coin and ran to the door of the study. in his haste he stumbled against it, and the dead-lock snapped to. he was a prisoner now, for he had left the skeleton-key in the inside of the outer door. clutching his treasure, he ran to the main entrance; it was fast. he tried the smaller windows; iron bars were set across them. he made shift to wrap the surplice about his mouth, against the stifling smoke and fiery vapors. the bag dropped from his hand and the gold rolled about the floor. he stooped and clutched a handful of the coins and crammed them into his pocket. was he to die after all like this, caught like a rat in a trap? in his panic of terror he forgot all necessity of concealment; he longed for nothing so much as discovery by those whose cries he now heard filling the waking street. many voices were swelling the clamor there. bells were pealing a terror-tongued alarm, but those on the spot saw that the structure was doomed. hugh screamed desperately, but the roar of the flames overhead and the angry crackling of the woodwork drowned all else. the roof timbers were snapping, the muffling surplice was scorching, a thousand luminous points about him were bursting into fire in the sickening heat. he pounded with all his might upon the door panels, but in vain. who outside could have imagined that a human being was pent within that fiery furnace? uttering a hoarse cry, with the strength of despair, hugh wrenched a pew from the floor and made of it a ladder to reach the rose-window. mounting this, he beat frantically with his fist upon the painted glass. the crystal shivered beneath the blows, and clinging to the iron supports, his beard burnt to the skin, he set his face to the aperture and drew a gulping breath of the sweet, cold air. in his agony, with that fiery hell opening beneath him, he could see the massed people watching from the safety that was so near. "look! look!" the sudden cry went up, and a thrill of awe ran through the crowd. the glass hugh had shattered had formed the face of the penitent thief in the window-design, and his outstretched arms fitted those of the figure. it was as though by some ghastly miracle the painted features had suddenly sprung into life, the haggard eyes opened in appeal. the watchers gasped in amazement. the flame was upon him now. he was going to his last account--with no time to alter the record. but had not his sleeping vow been one of reformation? he tried to shriek this to the deaf heavens, but all the spellbound watchers heard was the cry: "lord, lord, remember--" and this articulate prayer from the crucified malefactor filled them with a superstitious horror. in the crowd more than one covered his face with his hands. all at once there came a shout of warning. the wall opened outward, tottered and fell. then it was that they saw the writhing figure, tangled in the twisted lead bars of the wrecked rose-window. shielding their faces from the unendurable heat, they reached and bore it to safety, laying it on the crisp, snowy grass, and tearing off the singed and smoking ministerial robes. judge conwell was one of these. in the flaring confusion he leaned over the figure--the gleam of the ruby ring on the finger caught his eye. he bent forward to look into the drawn and distorted face. "good god!" he said. "it's harry sanderson!" chapter xxxviii a day for the state in communities such as smoky mountain the law moves with fateful rapidity. harry had been formally arraigned the second morning after his self-surrender and had pleaded not guilty. the grand jury was in session--indeed, had about finished its labors--and there had been no reason for delay. all necessary witnesses for the state were on the ground, and felder for his part had no others to summon. so that when doctor brent, one keen forenoon, swung himself off a pullman at the station, returning from his ten days' absence, he found the town thrilling with the excitement of the first day of the trial. before he left the station, he had learned of prendergast's death and accusation and knew that tom felder had come to the prisoner's defense. doctor brent had taken no stock in the young lawyer's view of hugh stires. the incident that they had witnessed on the mountain road--it had troubled him during his trip--had been to him only another chapter in the hackneyed tragedy of romantic womanhood flattered by a rascal. he was inclined now to lay the championship as much to interest in jessica as in the man who had won her love. he walked thoughtfully to his friend's deserted office, and leaving his suit-case there, betook himself to the filled court-room, where smoky mountain had gathered to watch felder's fight for the life and liberty of the man who for days past had been the center of interest. the court had opened two hours before and half the jury had been selected. he found a seat with some difficulty, and thereafter his attention was given first to the bench where the prisoner sat, and second to a chair close to the railing beside mrs. halloran's, where a girl's face glimmered palely under a light veil. toward this chair the hundreds of eyes in the room that morning had often turned. since the day mrs. halloran had surprised jessica at work upon the rock statue, she had kept her counsel, but as the physician had conjectured, the monument had been stumbled upon and had drawn curious visitors. thus the name on the grave had become common property and the coincidence had been chattered of. that jessica had chiselled the statue was not doubted--she had bought the tools in town, and old paddy wise, the blacksmith, had sharpened them for her. the story prendergast had told in the general store, too, had not been forgotten, and the aid she had given the fever-stricken man had acquired a new significance in face of the knowledge that she had more than once been admitted to the jail with felder. no one in smoky mountain would have ventured to "pump" the lawyer, and the town had been too mindful of its manners to catechize her, but it had buzzed with theories. from the moment of the opening of the trial she had divided interest with the prisoner. the first appearance of the latter, between two deputies, had caused a murmur of surprise. in the weeks of wholesome toil and mountain air, the sallow, haggard look that harry had brought to the town had gradually faded; his step had grown more elastic, his cheek ruddier, his eye a clearer blue. the scar on his temple had become less noticeable. day by day, he had been growing back to the old look. the beard and mustache now were gone; the face they saw was smooth-shaven, calm, alien and absorbed. he had bowed slightly to the judge, shaken hands gravely with felder and sat down with a quick, flashing smile at the quivering face behind the veil. he had seemed of all there the one who had least personal concern in the deliberations that were forward. yet beneath that mask of calmness harry's every nerve was stretched, every sense restive. in the interviews he had had with his client, felder had been puzzled and nonplussed. to tell the truth, when he had first come to his defense it had been not with a conviction of his innocence, but with a belief in the present altered character that made the law's penalty seem excessive and supererogatory; in fine, that whatever he might have deserved when he did it--assuming that he did it--he did not deserve hanging now. but the man's manner had made him lean more and more upon an assumption of actual innocence. in the end, while discarding jessica's reasoning, he had accepted her conclusion. the man was certainly guiltless. since this time, he had felt his position keenly. it had been one thing to do the very best possible for a presumptively guilty man--to get him off against the evidence if he could; it was a vastly different thing to defend one whom he believed actually guiltless against damning circumstance. with the filling of the jury-box the court adjourned for an hour and doctor brent saw the two women's figures disappear with felder into a side room, while the prisoner was taken in charge by the deputies. the doctor lunched hastily at the mountain valley house, irritated out of his usual urbanity by the chatter of the crowded dining-room, realizing then how busy gossip had been with jessica's name. he walked back to the court-room moodily smoking. the afternoon session commenced with a concise opening by the district attorney; felder's reply was as brief, and the real business of the day began with the witnesses for the state. circumstantially speaking, the evidence was flawless. doctor moreau, while little known and less liked, had figured in the town as a promoter and an inventor of "slick" stock schemes. he had come there with hugh stires, from sacramento, where they had had a business partnership--of short duration. there had been bad blood between them there, as the latter had once admitted. the prisoner had preëmpted the claim on smoky mountain in an abortive "boom" which moreau had engineered, and over whose proceeds the pair, it was believed, had fallen out. he had then, to use the attorney's phrase, "swapped the devil for the witch," and had taken up with prendergast, who by the manner of his taking off had finally justified a jail record in another state. soon after this break hugh stires had vanished. on the day following his last appearance in the town, the body of moreau had been found on the little paymaster claim, shot by a cowardly bullet through the back--a fact which precluded the possibility that the deed had been done in self-defense. there was evidence that he had died a painful and lingering death. suspicion had naturally pointed to the vanished man, and this suspicion had grown until, after some months' absence, he had returned, alleging that he had lost his memory of the past, to resume his life in the cabin on the mountain and his partnership with the thief prendergast. the two had finally quarrelled and prendergast had taken up his abode in the town. subsequent to this, the latter had been heard to make dark insinuations, unnoted at the time but since grown significant, hinting at criminal knowledge of the prisoner. the close of this chapter had been prendergast's dismal end in the gulch, when he had produced the scrap of paper which was the crux of the case. he declared he had found moreau dying; that the latter had traced with his own hand the accusation which fastened the crime upon hugh stires. specimens of moreau's handwriting were not lacking and seemed to prove beyond question its authenticity. such were the links of the coil which wound, with each witness, closer and closer--none knew better how closely than harry sanderson himself. as witness succeeded witness, his heart sank. jessica's burden was not to be lightened; hugh must remain a cain, a dweller in the dark places of the earth. in the larger part, his own sacrifice was to fail! in his cross-examination felder had fought gamely to lighten the weight of the evidence: the prisoner's old associations with moreau had been amicable, else they would not have come to smoky mountain together; if he had been disliked and avoided, the circumstance was referable rather to his companionships than to his own actions; whatever the pervasive contempt, there had been nothing criminal on the books against him. the lawyer's questions touched the baleful whisper that had become allegation and indictment, a prejudged conviction of guilt. they made it clear that the current belief had been the fruit of antipathy and bias; that it had been no question of evidence; so far as that went, he, felder, might have done the deed, or prendergast, or any one there. but smoky mountain would have said, as it did say, "it was hugh stires!" he compelled the jury to recognize that but one bit of actual evidence had been offered--there had been no eye-witness, no telltale incident. all rested upon a single scrap of paper, a fragment of handwriting in no way difficult of imitation, and this in turn upon the allegation of a thief, struck down in an act of crime, whose word in an ordinary case of fact would not be worth a farthing. no motive had been alleged for the killing of moreau by the prisoner, but prendergast had had motive enough in his accusation. it had been open knowledge that he hated hugh stires, and his own character made it evident that he would not have scrupled to fasten a murder upon him. but as felder studied the twelve grave faces in the jury-box, who in the last analysis were all that counted, he shared his client's hopelessness. judgment and experience told him how futile were all theories in the face of that inarticulate but damning witness that prendergast had left behind him. so the afternoon dragged through, a day for the state. sunset came early at that season. dark fell and the electric bulbs made their mimic day, but no one left the room. the outcome seemed a foregone conclusion. the jurymen no longer gazed at the prisoner, and when they looked at one another, it was with grim understanding. as the last witness for the state stepped down and the prosecutor rested, the judge glanced at the clock. "there is a bare half-hour," he said tentatively. "perhaps the defense would prefer not to open testimony till to-morrow." felder had risen. he saw his opportunity--to bring out sharply a contrasting point in the prisoner's favor, the one circumstance, considered apart, pointing toward innocence rather than guilt--to leave this for the jury to take with them, to off-set by its effect the weight of the evidence that had been given. "i will proceed, if your honor pleases," he said, and amid a rustle of surprise and interest called jessica to the stand. as she went forward to the witness chair, she put back the shielding veil, and her face, pale as bramble-bloom under her red-bronze hair, made an appealing picture. a cluster of white carnations was pinned to her coat and as she passed harry she bent and laid one in his hand. the slight act, not lost upon the spectators, called forth a sibilant flutter of sympathy. for it wore no touch of designed effect; its impulse was as pure and unmistakable as its meaning. harry had started uncontrollably as she rose, for he had had no inkling of the lawyer's intention, and a flush darkened his cheek at the cool touch of the flower. but this faded to a settled pallor, as under felder's grave questioning she told in a voice as clear as a child's, yet with a woman's emotion struggling through it, the story of her disregarded warning. while she spoke pain and shame travelled through his every vein, for--though technically she had not brought herself into the perplexing purview of the law--she was laying bare the secret of her own heart, which now he would have covered at any cost. "that is all, your honor," said felder, when jessica had finished her story. "do you wish to cross-examine?" asked the judge perfunctorily. the prosecutor looked at her an instant. he saw the faintness in her eyes, the twitching of the gloved hand on the rail. "by no means," he said courteously, and turned to his papers. at the same moment, as jessica stepped into the open aisle, the ironic chance which so often relieves the strain of the tragic by a breath of the banal, treated the spellbound audience to a novel sensation. every electric light suddenly went out, and darkness swooped upon the town and the court-room. a second's carelessness at the power-house a half-mile away--the dropping of a bit of waste into a cog-wheel--and the larger mechanism that governed the issues of life and death was thrown into instant confusion. hubbub arose--people stood up in their places. the judge's gavel pounded viciously and his stentorian voice bellowed for order. "keep your seats, everybody!" he commanded. "mr. clerk, get some candles. this court is not yet adjourned!" to jessica the sudden blankness came with a nervous shock. since that first meeting in the jail she had pinned her faith on the reassurance that had been given her. she had fought down doubt and questioning and leaned hard upon her trust. but in her overwrought condition, as the end drew near with no solution of the enigma, this faith sometimes faltered. the mystery was so impenetrable, the peril so imminent! to-day, in the court-room, her subtle sense had told her that, belief and conviction aside, a pronounced feeling of sympathy existed for the man she loved. she had not needed mrs. halloran's comforting assurances on this score, for the atmosphere was surcharged with it. she had felt it when she laid the carnation in his hand, and even more unmistakably while she had given her testimony. she had realized the value of that one unvarnished fact, introduced so effectively--that he had had time to get away, and instead had chosen to surrender himself. yet even as she thrilled to the responsive current, jessica had not been deceived. she felt the pitiful impotence of mere sympathy against the apparent weight of evidence that had frightened her. surely, surely, if he was to save himself, the truth must come out speedily! but the end of it all was in sight and he had not spoken. to-day as she watched his face, the thought had come to her that perhaps his reassurance had been given only to comfort her and spare her anguish. the thought had come again and again to torture her; only by a great effort had she been able to give her testimony. as the pall of darkness fell upon the court-room, it brought a sense of premonition, as though the incident prefigured the gloomy end. she turned sick, and stumbled down the aisle, feeling that she must reach the outer air. a pushing handful opened the way to the corridor, and in a moment more she was in the starlit out-of-doors, fighting down her faintness, with the babble of talk behind her and the cool breeze on her cheek. chapter xxxix the unsummoned witness in the room jessica had left, the turmoil was simmering down; here and there a match was struck and showed a circle of brightness. the glimmer of one of them lit the countenance of a man who had brushed her sleeve as he entered. it was hallelujah jones. the evangelist had prolonged his stay at smoky mountain, for the town, thrilling to its drama of crime and judgment, had seemed a fruitful vineyard. he had no local interest in the trial of hugh stires, and had not attended its session; but he had been passing the place when the lights went out and in curiosity had crowded into the confusion, where now he looked about him with eager interest. a candle-flame fluttered now, like a golden butterfly, on the judge's desk, another on the table inside the bar. more grew along the walls until the room was bathed in tremulous yellow light. it touched the profile of the prisoner, turned now, for his look had followed jessica and was fixed questioningly on her empty seat. in the unseeing darkness harry had held the white carnation to his lips before he drew its stem through his lapel. the street preacher's jaw dropped in blank astonishment, for what he saw before him brought irresistibly back another scene that, months before, had bit into his mind. the judge's high desk turned instantly to a chapel altar, and the table back of the polished railing to a communion table. the minister that had looked across it in the candle-light had worn a white carnation in his buttonhole. his face-- hallelujah jones started forward with an exclamation. a thousand times his zealot imagination had pictured the recreant clergyman he had unmasked as an outcast, plunging toward the lake of brimstone. here it was at last in his hand, the end of the story! the worst of criminals, skulking beneath an alias! he sprang up the aisle. "wait! wait!" he cried. "i have evidence to give!" he pointed excitedly toward harry. "this man is not what you think! he is not--" forensic thunder loosed itself from the wrathful judge's desk, and crashed across the stupefied room. his gavel thumped upon the wood. "how dare you," he vociferated, "break in upon the deliberations of this court! i fine you twenty dollars for contempt!" felder had leaped to his feet, every sense on the _qui vive_. like a drowning man he grasped at the straw. what could this man know? he took a bill from his pocket and clapped it down on the clerk's desk. "i beg to purge him of contempt," he said, "and call him as a witness." the district attorney broke in: "your honor, i think i am within my rights in protesting against this unheard-of proceeding. the man is a vagrant of unknown character. his very action proclaims him mentally unbalanced. beyond all question he can know nothing of this case." "i have not my learned opponent's gift of clairvoyance," retorted felder tartly. "i repeat that i call this man as a witness." the judge pulled his whiskers and looked at the evangelist in severe annoyance. "take the stand," he said gruffly. hallelujah jones snatched the bible from the clerk's hands and kissed it. knowledge was burning his tongue. the jury were leaning forward in their seats. "have you ever seen the prisoner before?" asked felder. "yes." "when?" "when he was a minister of the gospel." felder stared. the judge frowned. the jury looked at one another and a laugh ran round the hushed room. the merriment kindled the evangelist's distempered passion. sudden anger flamed in him. he leaned forward and shook his hand vehemently at the table where harry sat, his face as colorless as the flower he wore. "that man's name," he blazed, "is not hugh stires! it is a cloak he has chosen to cover his shame! he is the reverend henry sanderson of aniston!" chapter xl fate's way harry's pulses had leaped with excitement when the street preacher's first exclamation startled the court-room; now they were beating as though they must burst. he was not to finish the losing struggle. the decision was to be taken from his hands. fate had interfered. this bigot who had once been the means of his undoing, was to be the _deus ex machina_. through the stir about him he heard the crisp voice of the district attorney: "i ask your honor's permission, before this extraordinary witness is examined further," he said caustically, "to read an item printed here which has a bearing upon the testimony." he held in his hand a newspaper which, earlier in the afternoon, with cynical disregard of felder's tactics, he had been casually perusing. "i object, of course," returned felder grimly. "objection overruled!" snapped the irritated judge. "read it, sir." holding the newspaper to a candle, the lawyer read in an even voice, prefacing his reading with the journal's name and date: "this city, which was aroused in the night by the burning of st. james chapel, will be greatly shocked to learn that its rector, the reverend henry sanderson, who has been for some months on a prolonged vacation, was in the building at the time, and now lies at the city hospital, suffering from injuries from which it is rumored there is grave doubt of his recovery." in the titter that rippled the court-room harry felt his heart bound and swell. under the succinct statement he clearly discerned the fact. he saw the pitfall into which hugh had fallen--the trap into which he himself had sent him on that fatal errand with the ruby ring on his finger. "grave doubt of his recovery!"--a surge of relief swept over him to his finger-tips. dead men can not be brought to bar--so jessica would escape shame. with hugh passed beyond human justice, he could declare himself. the bishop had guarded his secret, and saved the parish from an unwelcome scandal. he could explain--could tell him that illness and unbalance lay beneath that chapel game! he could take up his career! he would be free to go back--to be himself again--to be jessica's--if hugh died! the reading voice drummed in his ears: "the facts have not as yet been ascertained, but it seems clear that the popular young minister returned to town unexpectedly last night, and was asleep in his study when the fire started. his presence in the building was unguessed until too late, and it was by little short of a miracle that he was brought out alive. "as we go to press we learn that mr. sanderson's condition is much more hopeful than was at first reported." harry's heart contracted as if a giant hand had clutched it. his elation fell like a rotten tree girdled at the roots. if hugh _did not_ die! he chilled as though in a spray of liquid air. hugh's escape--the chance his conscience had given him, was cut off. he had not betrayed him when the way was open; how could he do so now when flight was barred? if to deliver him then to the hangman would have been cowardice, how much more cowardly now, when it was to save himself, and when the other was helpless? and the law demanded its victim! as a drowning man sees flit before him the panorama of his life, so in this clarifying instant these lurid pictures of the tangle of his past flashed across harry's mental vision. the judge reached for the newspaper the lawyer held, ran his eye over it, and brought his gavel down with an angry snort. "take him away," he said. "his testimony is ordered stricken from the records. the fine is remitted, mr. felder--we can't make you responsible for lunatics. bailiff, see that this man has no further chance to disturb these proceedings. the court stands adjourned." chapter xli felder walks with doctor brent felder had been among the last to leave the court-room. he was discomfited and angry. he had meant to make a telling point for the defense, and the unbalanced imagination of a strolling, bigot gospeller had undone him. his own precipitate and ill-considered action had uncovered an idiotic mare's-nest, to taint his appeal with bathos and open his cause with a farcical anti-climax. he glumly gathered his scattered papers, put with them the leaf of the newspaper from which the district attorney had read, and despatched the lot to his office by a messenger. at the door of the court-house doctor brent slipped an arm through his. "too bad, tom," he said sympathizingly. "i don't think you quite deserved it." felder paced a moment without speaking. "i need evidence," he said then, "--anything that may help. i made a mistake. you heard all the testimony?" the other nodded. "what did you think of it?" "what could any one think? i give all credit to your motive, tom, but it's a pity you're mixed up in it." "why?" "because, if there's anything in human evidence, he's a thoroughly worthless reprobate. he lay for moreau and murdered him in cold blood, and he ought to swing." "the casual view," said the lawyer gloomily. "just what i should have said myself--if this had happened a month ago." his friend looked at him with an amused expression. "i begin to think he must be a remarkable man!" he said. "is it possible he has really convinced you that he isn't guilty?" felder turned upon the doctor squarely. "yes," he returned bluntly. "he has. whatever i may have believed when i took this case, i have come to the conclusion--against all my professional instincts, mind you--that he never killed moreau. i believe he's as innocent as either you or i!" the physician looked puzzled. "you believe moreau's hand didn't write that accusation?" "i don't know." "do you think he lied?" "i don't know what to think. but i am convinced hugh stires isn't lying. there's a mystery in the thing that i can't get hold of." he caught the physician's half-smile. "oh, i know what you think," he said resentfully. "you think it is miss holme. i assure you i am defending hugh stires for his own sake!" "she played you a close second to-day," observed the doctor shrewdly. "that carnation--i never saw a thing better done." felder drew his arm away. "miss holme," he said almost stiffly, "is as far from acting--" "my dear fellow!" exclaimed the other. "don't snap me up. she's a gentlewoman, and everything that is lovely. if she were the reason, i should honor you for it. i'm very deeply sorry for her. for my part, i'm sure i wish you might get him off. she loves him, and doesn't care who sees it, and if he were as bad as the worst, a woman like that could make a man of him. but i know juries. in towns like this they take themselves pathetically in earnest. on the evidence so far, they'll convict fast enough." "i know it," said the lawyer despondently. "and yet he's innocent. i'd stake my life on it. it's worthless as evidence and i shan't introduce it, but he has as good as admitted to her that he knows who did it." "come, come! putting his neck into the noose for mere quixotic feeling? and who, pray, in this godforsaken town, should he be sacrificing himself for?" the doctor asked satirically. "that's the rub," said the lawyer. "nobody. yet i hang by my proposition." "well, he'll hang by something less tenuous, i'm afraid. but it won't be your fault. the crazy evangelist was only an incident. he merely served to jolt us back to the normal. by the way, did you hear him splutter after he got out?" "no." "you remember the story he told the other night of the minister who was caught gambling on his own communion table? well, hugh stires is not only the reverend henry something-or-other, but he is that man, too! the crack-brained old idiot would have told the tale all over again, only the crowd hustled him. "there he is now," he said suddenly, as a light sprang up and voices broke out on the opposite corner. "the gang is standing by. i see your friend barney mcginn," he added, with a grim enjoyment. "i doubt if there are many converts to-night." even as he spoke, there came a shout of laughter and warning. the spectators scattered in all directions, and a stream of water from a well-directed hose deluged the itinerant and his music-box. ten minutes later the street preacher, drenched and furious, was trundling his melodeon toward funeral hollow, on his way to the coast. chapter xlii the reckoning as harry stood again in the obscure half-darkness of his cell, it came to him that the present had a far-reaching significance--that it was but the handiwork and resultant of forces in his own past. he himself had brewed the bitter wormwood he must drink. jessica's quivering arraignment on that lurid wedding-day in the white house in the aspens--it had been engraven ever since on his buried memory!--rang in his mind: _you were strong and he was weak. you led and he followed. you were "satan sanderson," abbot of the saints, the set in which he learned gambling. you helped to make him what he has become!_ they had made variant choice, and that choice had left harry sanderson in training for the gaiters of a bishop, and hugh stires treading the paths of dalliance and the gambler. but he himself had set hugh's feet on the red path that had pointed him to the shameful terminus. he had gambled for hugh's future, forgetting that his past remained, a thing that must be covered. he had won hugh's counters, but his own right to be himself he had staked and lost long before that game on the communion table under the painted crucifixion. the words he had once said to hugh recurred to him with a kind of awe: "put myself in your place? i wish to god i could!" fate--or was it god?--had taken him at his word. he had been hurled like a stone from a catapult into hugh's place, to bear his knavery, to suffer his dishonor, and to redeem the baleful reputation he had made. he had been his brother's keeper and had failed in the trust; now the circle of retribution, noiseless and inexorable as the wheeling of that vast scorpion cluster in the sky, evened the score and brought him again to the test! and, in the supreme strait, was he, a poor poltroon, to step aside, to cry "enough," to yield ignobly? even if to put aside the temptation might bring him face to face with the final shameful penalty? this, then, was the meaning of the strange sequence of events through which he had been passing since the hour when he had awakened in the box-car! living, he was not to betray hugh; the great purpose behind all meant that he should go forward on the path he had chosen to the end! a step outside the cell, the turning of the key. the door opened, and jessica, pale and trembling, stood on the threshold. "i can not help it," she said, as she came toward him, "though you told me not to come. i have trusted all the while, and waited, and--and prayed. but to-day i was afraid." she paused, locking her hands before her, looking at him in an agony of entreaty. when she had fled from the court-room to the open air, she had walked straight away toward the mountain, struggling in the cool wind and motion against the feeling of physical sickness and anguish. but she had only partly regained her self-possession. returning, the thinning groups about the dim-lit door had made it clear that the session was over. in her painful confusion of mind she had acted on a peremptory impulse that drove her to the jail, where her face had quickly gained her entrance. "surely, surely," she went on, "the man you are protecting has had time enough! hasn't he? won't you tell them the truth now?" he knew not how to meet the piteous reproach and terror of that look. she had not heard the street preacher's declaration, he knew, but even if she had, it would have been to her only an echo of the old mooted likeness. he had given her comfort once--but this was no more to be. no matter what it meant to him, or to her! "jessica," he said steadily, "when you came to me here that first day, and i told you not to fear for me, i did not mean to deceive you. i thought then that it would all come right. but something has happened since then--something that makes a difference. i can not tell who was the murderer of moreau. i can not tell you or any one else, either now or at any time." she gazed at him startled. she had a sudden conception of some element hitherto unguessed in his make-up, something inveterate and adamant. could it be that he did not intend to tell at all? the very idea was monstrous! yet that clearly was his meaning. she looked at him with flashing eyes. "you mean you will not?" she exclaimed bitterly. "you are bent on sacrificing yourself, then! you are going to take this risk because you think it brave and noble, because somehow it fits your man's gospel! can't you see how wicked and selfish it is? you are thinking only of him, and of yourself, not of me!" "jessica, jessica!" he protested with a groan. but in the self-torture of her questionings she paid no heed. "don't you think i suffer? haven't i borne enough in the months since i married you, for you to want to save me this? do you owe me nothing, me whom you so wronged, whose--" she stopped suddenly at the look on his face of mortal pain, for she had struck harder than she knew. it pierced through the fierce resentment to her deepest heart, and all her love and pity gushed back upon her in a torrent. she threw herself on her knees by the bare cot, crying passionately: "oh, forgive me! forget what i said! i did not mean it. i have forgiven you a thousand times over. i never ceased to love you. i love you now, more than all the world." "it is true," he said, hoarse misery in his tone. "i have wronged you. if i could coin my blood drop by drop, to pay for the past, i could not set that right. if giving my life over and over again would save you pain, i would give it gladly. but what you ask now is the one thing i can not do. it would make me a pitiful coward. i did not kill moreau. that is all i can say to you or to those who try me." "your life!" she said with dry lips. "it will mean that. that counts so fearfully much to me--more than my own life a hundred times. yet there is something that counts more than all that to you!" his face was that of a man who holds his hand in the fire. "jessica," he said, "it is like this with me. when you found me here--the day i saw you on the balcony--i was a man whose soul had lost its compass and its bearings. my conscience was asleep. you woke it, and it is fiercely alive now. and now with my memory has come back a debt of my past that i never paid. whatever the outcome, for my soul's sake i must settle it now and wipe it from the score for ever. nothing counts--nothing can count--more than you! but i must sail by the needle; i must be truthful to the best that is in me." she rose slowly to her feet with a despairing gesture. "'_he saved others_,'" she quoted in a hard voice, "'_himself he could not save!_' i once heard a minister preach from that text at home; it was your friend, the reverend henry sanderson. i thought it a very spiritual sermon then--that was before i knew what his companionship had been to you!" in the exclamation was the old bitterness that had had its spring in that far-away evening at the white house in the aspens, when harry sanderson had lifted the curtain from his college career. in spite of david stires' predilection, since that day she had distrusted and disliked, at moments actively hated him. his mannerisms had seemed a pose and his pretensions hypocrisy. on her wedding-day, when she lashed him with the blame of hugh's ruin, this had become an ingrained prejudice, impregnable because rooted deeper than reason, in the heritage of her sex, the eternal proclivity, which saw harry sanderson, his motley covered with the sober domino of the church, standing self-righteously in surplice and stole, while hugh slid downward to disgrace. "if there were any justice in the universe," she added, "it should be he immolating himself now, not you!" his face was not toward her and she could not see it go deadly white. the sudden shift she had given the conversation had startled him. he turned to the tiny barred window that looked out across the court-yard square--where such a little time since he had found his lost self. "i think," he said, "that in my place, he would do the same." "you always admired him," she went on, the hard ring of misery in her tone. "you admire him yet. oh, men like him have such strange and wicked power! satan sanderson!--it was a fit name. what right has he to be rector of st. james, while you--" he put out a hand in flinching protest. "jessica! don't!" he begged. "why should i not say it?" she retorted, with quivering lips. "but for him you would never be here! he ruined your life and mine, and i hate and despise him for a selfish hypocrite!" that was what he himself had seemed to her in those old days! the edge of a flush touched his forehead as he said slowly, almost appealingly: "he was not a hypocrite, jessica. whatever he was it was not that. at college he did what he did too openly. that was his failing--not caring what others thought. he despised weakness in others; he thought it none of his affair. so others were influenced. but after he came to see things differently, from another standpoint--when he went into the ministry--he would have given the world to undo it." "that may have been the harry sanderson you knew," she said stonily. "the one i knew drove an imported motor-car and had a dozen fads that people were always imitating. you are still loyal to the old college worship. as men go, you count him still your friend!" "as men go," he echoed grimly, "the very closest!" "men's likings are strange," she said. "because he never had temptations like yours, and has never done what the law calls wrong, you think he is as noble as you--noble enough to shield a murderer to his own danger." "ah, no, jessica," he interposed gently. "i only said that in my place, he would do the same." "but _you_ are shielding a murderer," she insisted fiercely. "you will not admit it, but i know! there can be no justice or right in that! if harry sanderson is all you think him--if he stood here now and knew the whole--he would say it was wicked. not brave and noble but wicked and cruel!" he shook his head, and the sad shadow of a bitter smile touched his lips. "he would not say so," he said. a dry sob answered him. he turned and leaned his elbows on the narrow window-sill, every nerve aching, but powerless to comfort. he heard her step--the door closed sharply. then he faced into the empty cell, sat down on the cot and threw out his arms with a hopeless cry: "jessica, jessica!" chapter xliii the little gold cross jessica left the jail with despair in her heart. the hope on which she had fed these past days had failed her. what was there left for her to do? like a swift wind she went up the street to felder's office. a block beyond the court-house a crowd was enjoying the watery discomfiture of hallelujah jones, and shrinking from recognition even in the darkness--for the arc lights were still black--she crossed the roadway and ran on to the unpretentious building where the lawyer had his sanctum. she groped her way up the unlighted stair and tapped on the door. there was no answer. she pushed it open and entered the empty outer room, where a study lamp burned on the desk. a pile of legal looking papers had been set beside it and with them lay a torn page of a newspaper whose familiar caption gave her a stab of pain. perhaps the news of the trial had found its way across the ranges, to where the names of stires and moreau had been known. perhaps every one at aniston already knew of it, was reading about it, pitying her! she picked it up and scanned it hastily. there was no hint of the trial, but her eye caught the news which had played its rôle in the court-room, and she read it to the end. even in her own trouble she read it with a shiver. yet, awful as the fate which harry sanderson had so narrowly missed, it was not to be compared with that which awaited hugh, for, awful as it was, it held no shame! in a gust of feeling she slipped to her knees by the one sofa the room contained and prayed passionately. as she drew out her handkerchief to stanch the tears that came, something fell with a musical tinkle at her feet. it was the little cross she had found in front of the hillside cabin, that had lain forgotten in her pocket during the past anxious days. she picked it up now and held it tightly in her hand, as if the tangible symbol brought her closer to the infinite sympathy to which she turned in her misery. as she pressed it, the ring at the top turned and the cross parted in halves. words were engraved on the inside of the arms--a date and the name _henry sanderson_. the recurrence of the name jarred and surprised her. hugh had dropped it--an old keepsake of the friend who had been his _beau idéal_, his exemplar, and whose ancient influence was still dominant. he had clung loyally to the memento, blind in his constant liking, to the wrong that friend had done him. she looked at the date--it was may th. she shuddered, for that was the month and day on which doctor moreau had been killed--the point had been clearly established to-day by the prosecution. to the original owner of that cross, perhaps, the date that had come into hugh's life with such a sinister meaning, was a glad anniversary! suddenly she caught her hand to her cheek. a weird idea had rushed through her brain. the religious symbol had stood for harry sanderson and the chance coincidence of date had irresistibly pointed to the murder. to her excited senses the juxtaposition held a bizarre, uncanny suggestion. this cross--the very emblem of vicarious sacrifice!--suppose harry sanderson had never given it to hugh! suppose he had lost it on the hillside himself! she snatched up the paper again: "who has been for some months on a prolonged vacation"--the phrase stared sardonically at her. that might carry far back--she said it under her breath, fearfully--beyond the murder of doctor moreau! her face burned, and her breath came sharp and fast. why, when she brought her warning to the cabin, had hugh been so anxious to get her away, unless to prevent her sight of the man who was there--to whom he had taken her horse? who was there in smoky mountain whom he would protect at hazard of his own life? yet in this crisis, even, her appeal to his love had been fruitless. he had called harry sanderson his closest friend, had said that in his place harry would do the same. she remembered his cry: "what you ask is the one thing i can not do. it would make me a pitiful coward!" she had asked only that he tell the truth. to protect a vulgar murderer was not courageous. but what if they were bound by ties of old friendship and college _camaraderie_? men had their standards. jessica's veins were all afire. a rector-murderer? a double career? was it beyond possibility? at the sanatorium she had re-read _the mystery of edwin drood_; now she thought of john jasper, the choir-master, stealing away from the cathedral to the london opium den to plan the murder of his nephew. the mad thought gripped her imagination. harry sanderson had been wild and lawless in his university days, a gamester, a skeptic--the abbot of the saints! to her his pretensions had never seemed more than a graceful sham, the generalities of religion he spread for the delectation of fashionable st. james only "as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal." he had been a hard drinker in those days. what if the old desire had run on beneath the fair exterior, denied and repressed till it had burst control--till he had fled from those who knew him, to hugh, in whose loyalty he trusted, to give it rein in a debauch? say that this had happened, and that in the midst of it moreau, whom he had known in aniston, had come upon him. anticipating recognition, to cover his own shame and save his career, in drunken frenzy perhaps, he might have fired the shot on the hillside--that moreau, taken unawares, had thought was hugh's! it came to her like an impinging ray of light--the old curious likeness that had sometimes been made a jest of at the white house in the aspens. moreau and prendergast had believed it to be hugh! so had the town, for the body had been found on his ground! but on the night when the real murderer came again to the cabin--perhaps it was his coming that had brought back the lost memory!--hugh had known the truth. in the light of this supposition his strained manner then, his present determination not to speak, all stood plain. what had he meant by a debt of his past that he had never paid? he could owe no debt to harry sanderson. if he owed any debt, it was to his dead father, a thousand times more than the draft he had repaid. could he be thinking in his remorse that his father had cast him off--counting himself nothing, remembering only that harry sanderson had been david stires' favorite, and st. james, which must be smirched by the odium of its rector, the apple of his eye? jessica had snatched at a straw, because it was the only buoyant thing afloat in the dragging tide; now with a blind fatuousness she hugged it tighter to her bosom. the joints of her reasoning seemed to dovetail with fateful accuracy. she was swayed by instinct, and apparent fallacies were glozed by old mistrust and terror of the outcome which was driving her to any desperate expedient. beside hugh's salvation the whole universe counted as nothing. she was in the grip of that fierce passion of love's defense which feeds the romance of the world. one purpose possessed her: to confront harry sanderson. what matter though she missed the remainder of the trial? she could do nothing--her hands were tied. if the truth lay at aniston she would find it. she thought no further than this. once in harry sanderson's presence, what she should say or do she scarcely imagined. the horrifying question filled her thought to the exclusion of all that must follow its answer. it was surety and self-conviction she craved--only to read in his eyes the truth about the murder of moreau. she suddenly began to tremble. would the doctors let her see him? what excuse could she give? if he was the man who had been in hugh's cabin that night, he had heard her speak, had known she was there. he must not know beforehand of her coming, lest he have suspicion of her errand. bishop ludlow--he could gain her access to him. injured, dying perhaps, maybe he did not guess that hugh was in jeopardy for his crime. guilty and dying, if he knew this, he would surely tell the truth. but if he died before she could reach him? the paper was some days old; he might be dead already. she took heart, however, from the statement of his improved condition. she sprang to her feet and looked at her chatelaine watch. the east-bound express was overdue. there was no time to lose--minutes might count. she examined her purse--she had money enough with her. five minutes later she was at the station, a scribbled note was on its way to mrs. halloran, and before a swinging red lantern, the long incoming train was shuddering to a stop. chapter xliv the impostor in the long hospital the air was cool and filtered, drab figures passed with soft footfalls and voices were measured and hushed. but no sense of coolness or repose had come to the man whose racked body had been tenderly borne there in the snowy dawn which saw the blackened ruins of aniston's most perfect edifice. because of him tongues clacked on the street corner and bulletins were posted in newspaper windows; carriages of tasteful equipment halted at the hospital porte-cochère, messages flew back and forth, and the telephone in the outer office whirred busily at unseasonable hours; but from the clean screened room where he lay, all this was shut out. only the surgeons came and went, deftly refreshing the bandages which swathed one side of his face, where the disfiguring flame had smitten--the other side was untouched, save for a line across the brow, seemingly a thin, red mark of excoriation. hugh had sunk into unconsciousness with the awestruck exclamation ringing in his ears: "good god! it's harry sanderson!" he had drifted back to conscious knowledge with the same words racing in his brain. they implied that, so far as capture went, the old, curious resemblance would stand his friend till he betrayed himself, or till the existence of the real harry sanderson at smoky mountain did so for him. the delusion must hold till he could have himself moved to some place where his secret would be safer--till he could get away! this thought grew swiftly paramount; it overlapped the rigid agony of his burns that made the bed on which he lay a fiery furnace; it gave method to his every word and look. he took up the difficult part, and after the superficial anguish dulled, complained no more and successfully counterfeited cheerfulness and betterment. he said nothing of the curiously recurrent and sickening stab of pain, searching and deep-seated, that took his breath and left each time an increasing giddiness. whatever inner hurt this might betoken, he must hide it, the sooner to leave the hospital, where each hour brought nearer the inevitable disclosure. he thanked fortune now for the chapel game; few enough in aniston would care to see the unfrocked, disgraced rector of st. james! he did not know that the secret was bishop ludlow's own, until the hour when he opened his eyes, after a fitful sleep, upon the latter's face. the bishop was the first visitor and it was his first visit, for he had been in a distant city at the time of the fire. waiting the waking, he had been mystified at the change a few months had wrought in the countenance of the man whose disappearance had cost him so many sleepless hours. the months of indulgence and rich living--on the money he had won from harry--had taken away hugh's slightness, and his fuller cheeks were now of the contour of harry's own. but the bishop distinguished new lines in the face on the pillow, an expression unfamiliar and puzzling; the firmness and strength were gone, and in their place was a haunting something that gave him a flitting suggestion of the discarded that he could not shake off. waking, the unexpected sight of the bishop startled hugh; to the good man's pain he had turned his face away. "my dear boy," the bishop had said, "they tell me you are stronger and better. i thank god for it!" he spoke gently and with deep feeling. how could he tell to what extent he himself, in mistaken severity, had been responsible for that unaccustomed look? when hugh did not answer, the bishop misconstrued the silence. he leaned over the bed; the big cool hand touched the fevered one on the white coverlid, where the ruby ring glowed, a coal in snow. "harry," he said, "you have suffered--you are suffering now. but think of me only as your friend. i ask no questions. we are going to begin again where we left off." the words and tone had shown hugh the situation and given him his cue. he could put himself fairly in harry's place, and with the instinct of the actor he did so now, meeting the other's friendliness with a hesitant eagerness. "i would like to do that," he said, "--to begin again. but the chapel is gone." "never mind that," said the bishop cheerfully. "you are only to get well. we are going to rebuild soon, and we want your judgment on the plans. aniston is hanging on your condition, harry," he went on. "there's a small cartload of visiting-cards down-stairs for you. but i imagine you haven't begun to receive yet, eh?" "i--i've seen nobody." hugh spoke hurriedly and hoarsely. "tell the doctor to let no one come--no one but you. i--i'm not up to it!" "why, of course not," said the bishop quickly. "you need quiet, and the people can wait." the bishop chatted a while of the parish, hugh replying only when he must, and went away heartened. before he left hugh saw his way to hasten his own going. on the next visit the seed was dropped in the bishop's mind so cleverly that he thought the idea his own. that day he said to the surgeon in charge: "he is gaining so rapidly, i have been wondering if he couldn't be taken away where the climate will benefit him. will he be able to travel soon?" "i think so," answered the surgeon. "we suspected internal injury at first, but i imagine the worst he has to fear is the disfigurement. mountain or sea air would do him good," he added reflectively; "what he will need is tonic and building up." the bishop had revolved this in his mind. he knew a place on the coast, tucked away in the cypresses, which would be admirable for convalescence. he could arrange a special car and he himself could make the journey with him. he proposed this to the surgeon and with his approval put his plan in motion. in two days more hugh found his going fully settled. the idea admirably fitted his necessity. the spot the bishop had selected was quiet and retired, and more, was near the port at which he could most readily take ship for south america. only one reflection made him shiver: the route lay through the town of smoky mountain. yet who would dream of looking for a fugitive from the law in the secluded car that carried a sick man? the risk would be small enough, and it was the one way open! on the last afternoon before the departure, hugh asked for the clothes he had worn when he was brought to the hospital, found the gold-pieces he had snatched in the burning chapel and tied them in a handkerchief about his neck. they would suffice to buy his sea-passage. the one red counter he had kept--it was from henceforth to be a reminder of the good resolutions he had made so long ago--he slipped into a pocket of the clothes he was to wear away, a suit of loose, comfortable tweed. waiting restlessly for the hour of his going, hugh asked for the newspapers. since the first he had had them read to him each day, listening fearfully for the hue and cry. but to-day the surgeon put his request aside. "after you are there," he said, "if bishop ludlow will let you. not now. you are almost out of my clutches, and i must tyrannize while i can." a quick look passed from him to his assistant as he spoke, for the newspapers that afternoon had worn startling head-lines. the sordid affairs of a mining town across the ranges had little interest for aniston, but the names of stires and moreau on the clicking wire had waked it, thus late, to the sensation. the professional caution of the tinker of human bodies wished, however, that no excitement should be added to the unavoidable fatigue of his patient's departure. this fatigue was near to spelling defeat, after all, for the exertion brought again the dreadful, stabbing pain, and this time it carried hugh into a region where feeling ceased, consciousness passed, and from which he struggled back finally to find the surgeon bending anxiously over him. "i don't like that sinking spell," the latter confided to his assistant an hour later as they stood looking through the window after the receding carriage. "it was too pronounced. yet he has complained of no pain. he will be in good hands at any rate." he tapped the glass musingly with his forefinger. "it's curious," he said after a pause; "i always liked sanderson--in the pulpit. somehow he doesn't appeal to me at close range." the special car which the bishop had ready had been made a pleasant interior; fern-boxes were in the corners, a caged canary swung from a bracket, and a softly cushioned couch had been prepared for the sick man. a moment before the start, as it was being coupled to the rear of the resting train, while the bishop chatted with the conductor, a flustered messenger boy handed him a telegram. it read: i arrive aniston to-morrow five. confidential. must see you. urgent. jessica. the bishop read it in some perplexity. it was the first word he had received from her since her marriage, but, aware of hugh's forgery and disgrace, he had not wondered at this. since the news of david stires' death, he had looked for her return, for she was the old man's heir and mistress now of the white house in the aspens. but he realized that it would need all her courage to come back to this town whence she had fled with her trouble--to lay bare an unsuspected and shameful secret, to meet old friends, and answer questions that must be asked. the newspapers to-day pictured a still worse shame for her, in the position of the man who, in name still, was her husband--who had trod so swiftly the downward path from thievery to the worst of crimes. could jessica's coming have to do with that? he must see her, yet his departure could not now be delayed. he consulted with the conductor and the latter pored over his tablets. as a result, his answering message flashed along the wires to jessica's far-away train: sanderson injured. taking him to coast train forty-eight due twin peaks two to-morrow afternoon. and thus the fateful moment approached when the great appeal should be made. chapter xlv an appeal to cÆsar the evidence of the first day's trial of the case of the people against hugh stires was the all-engrossing topic that night in smoky mountain. in the "amen corner" of the mountain valley house it held sway. among the sedate group there gathered, there seemed but one belief: that the accused man was guilty--but one feeling: that of regret. gravity lay so heavily upon the atmosphere there that when mrs. halloran momentarily entered the discussion to declare fiercely that "if hugh stires was a murderer, then they were all thieves and she a cannibal" she aroused no smile. barney mcginn perhaps aptly expressed the consensus of opinion when he said: "i allow we all know he's guilty, but nobody believes it." late as smoky mountain sat up that night, however, it was on hand next morning, rank and file, when the court convened. all the previous evening, save for a short visit to the cell of his client, felder had remained shut in his office, thinking of the morrow. in his talk with harry he had not concealed his deep anxiety, but to his questions there was no new answer, and he had returned from the interview more nonplussed than ever. he had wondered that jessica, on this last night, did not come to his office, but had been rather relieved than otherwise that she did not. he had gone to bed heavy with discouragement and had waked in the morning with foreboding. as he shook hands with the prisoner in the packed court-room, felder felt a keen admiration that his sense of painful impotence could not overlay. he read in the composed face the same prescience that possessed him, but it held no fear or shadow of turning. he was facing the scaffold; facing it--if the woman he loved was right in her conclusions--in obedience to a set idea of self-martyrdom and with indomitable spirit. it was inconceivable that a sane man would do this for a sneaking assassin. it was either aberration or a relentless purpose so extraordinary that it lay far removed from the ordinary courses of reasoning. felder's own conviction had no bolstering of fact, no logical premise; indeed, as he had admitted to doctor brent, it was thoroughly unprofessional. even to cite the circumstances on which jessica based her belief that hugh knew the real murderer would weaken his case. the suggestion would seem a mere bungling expedient to inject the tantalizing fillip of mystery and unbelievable quixotic motive, and, lacking evidence to support it, would touch the whole fabric with the taint of the meretricious. the sense of painful responsibility and hopelessness oppressed him, for, so far as real evidence went, he had entered on this second day of the struggle without a tangible theory of defense. as he turned from greeting his client, felder noted with surprise that jessica was not in her place. not that he needed her further testimony, for he had drawn from her the day before all he intended to utilize, but her absence disturbed him, and instinctively he turned and looked across the sea of faces toward the door. harry's glance followed his, and a deeper pain beleaguered it as his eyes returned to the empty chair. he saw mrs. halloran whisper eagerly with the lawyer, who turned away with a puzzled look. in his bitterness the thought came to him that the testimony had sapped her conviction of his innocence--that his refusal to answer her entreaties had been the last straw to the load under which it had gone down--that she believed him indeed the murderer of moreau. to seem the cringing criminal, the pitiful liar and actor in her eyes! the thought stung him. her faith had meant so much! the ominous feeling weighed heavily on felder when he rose to continue the testimony for the prisoner, so rudely disturbed the evening before. in such a community pettifogging was of no avail. throwing expert dust in jurors' eyes would be worse than useless. in his opening words he made no attempt to conceal the weakness of the defense, evidentially considered. stripped of all husk, his was to be an appeal to cæsar. through a cloud of witnesses, concisely, consistently--yet with a winning tactfulness that disarmed the objections of the prosecution--he began to lead them through the series of events that had followed the arrival of the self-forgotten man. out of the mouths of their own neighbors--devlin, barney mcginn, mrs. halloran, who came down weeping--they were made to see, as in a cyclorama, the struggle for rehabilitation against hatred and suspicion, the courage that had dared for a child's life, the honesty of purpose that showed in self-surrender. the prisoner, he said, had recovered his memory before the accusation and asserted his absolute innocence. those who believed him guilty of the murder of doctor moreau must believe him also a vulgar liar and _poseur_. he left the inference clear: if the prisoner had fired that cowardly shot, he knew it now; if he lied now he had lied all along, and the later life he had lived at smoky mountain--eloquent of fair-dealing, straightforwardness of purpose, kindliness and courage--had been but hypocrisy, the bootless artifice of a shallow buffoon. it was an appeal sustained and moving, addressed to folk who, untrammelled by a complex and variform convention, felt simply and deeply the simplest and deepest passions of human kind. often, as the morning grew, felder's glance turned toward the empty chair near-by, and more than once, though his active thought never wavered from the serious business in hand, his subconscious mind wondered. mrs. halloran had told him of the note from jessica--it had said only that she would return at the earliest possible moment. the wonder in felder's mind was general throughout the court-room, for none who had listened to jessica's testimony--and the whole town had heard it--could doubt the strength of her love. the eyes that saw the empty chair were full of pity. only the knot of serious faces in the jury-box was seldom turned that way. the session was prolonged past the noon hour, and when felder rested his case it seemed that all that was possible had been said. he had done his utmost. he had drawn from the people of smoky mountain a dramatic story, and had filled in its outlines with color, force and feeling. and yet, as he closed, the lawyer felt a sick sense of failure. court adjourned for an hour, and in the interim felder remained in a little room in the building, whither doctor brent was to send him sandwiches and coffee from the hotel. "you made a fine effort, tom," the latter said, as they stood for a moment in the emptying court-room. "you're doing wonders with no case, and the town ought to send you to congress on the strength of it! i declare, some of your evidence made me feel as mean as a dog about the rascal, though i knew all the time he was as guilty as the devil." the lawyer shook his head. "i don't blame you, brent," he said, "for you don't know him as i do. i have seen much of him lately, been often with him, watched him under stress--for he doesn't deceive himself, he has no thought of acquittal! we none of us knew hugh stires. we put him down for a shallow, vulgar blackleg, without redeeming qualities. but the man we are trying is a gentleman, a refined and cultivated man of taste and feeling. i have learned his true character during these days." "well," said the other, "if you believe in him, so much the better. you'll make the better speech for it. tell me one thing--where was miss holme?" "i don't know." the doctor raised his eyebrows. "good-by," he said. "i'll send over the coffee and sandwiches," he added as he turned away. "she thinks he is guilty!" he said to himself as he walked up the street. "she thinks he is guilty, too!" chapter xlvi face to face to stand face to face with harry sanderson--that had been jessica's sole thought. the news that the bishop, with the man she suspected, was speeding toward her--to pass the very town wherein hugh stood for his life--seemed a prearrangement of eternal justice. when the telegram reached her, she had already gone by twin peaks. to proceed would be to pass the coming train. at a farther station, however, she was able to take a night train back, arriving again at twin peaks in the gray dawn of the next morning. at the dingy station hotel there she undressed and lay down, but her nerves were quivering and she could not close her eyes. toward noon she dressed and forced herself to breakfast, realizing the need of strength. she spent the rest of the time of waiting walking up and down in the crisp air, which steadied her nerves and gave her a measure of control. when the train for which she waited came in, the curtained car at its end, she did not wait for the bishop to find her on the platform, but stepped aboard and made her way slowly back. it started again as she threaded the last pullman, to find the bishop on its rear platform peering out anxiously at the receding station. he took both her hands and drew her into the empty drawing-room. he was startled at her pallor. "i know," he said pityingly. "i have heard." she winced. "does aniston know?" "yes," he answered. "yesterday's newspapers told it." she put her hand on his arm. "can you guess why i was coming home?" she asked. "it was to tell harry sanderson! i know of the fire," she went on quickly, "and of his injury. i can guess you want to spare him strain or excitement, but i must tell him!" "it is a matter of physical strength, jessica," he said. "he has been a sick man. forgive my saying it, child, but--what good could it do?" "believe, oh, you must believe," she pleaded, "that i do not ask this lightly, that i have a purpose that makes it necessary. it means so much--more than my life to me! why, i have waited here at twin peaks all through the night, till now, when this very day and hour they are trying him there at smoky mountain! you must let me tell him!" he reflected a moment. he thought he guessed what was in her mind. if there was any one who had ever had an influence over hugh for good, it was harry sanderson. he himself, he thought, had none. perhaps, remembering their old comradeship, she was longing now to have this influence exerted, to bring hugh to a better mind--thinking of his eternal welfare, of his making his peace with his maker. beneath his prosy churchmanship and somewhat elaborate piety, the bishop had a spirituality almost medieval in its simplicity. perhaps this was god's way. his eyes lighted. "very well," he said. "come," and led the way into the car. jessica followed, her hands clenched tightly. she saw the couch, the profile on its cushions turned toward the window where forest and stream slipped past--a face curiously like hugh's! yet it was different, lacking the other's strength, even its refinement. and this man had molded hugh! these vague thoughts lost themselves instantly in the momentous surmise that filled her imagination. the bishop put out his hand and touched the relaxed arm. the trepidation that darted into the bandaged face as it turned upon the girlish figure, the frosty fear that blanched the haggard countenance, spoke hugh's surprise and dread. it was she, and she knew the real harry sanderson was in smoky mountain. had she heard of the chapel fire, guessed the imposture, and come to denounce him, the guilty husband she had such reason to hate? the twitching limbs stiffened. "jessica!" he said in a hoarse whisper. for an instant a fierce sense of triumph flamed through her every nerve. but a cold doubt chilled it. her suspicion might be the veriest chimera. it seemed suddenly too wild for belief. she sat down abruptly and for a fleeting moment hid her face. the bishop touched the bowed, brown head. "harry," he said, "jessica is in great trouble. she has come with sad news. hugh, her husband, your old college mate, is in a terrible position. he is accused of murder. i kept the newspapers from you to-day because they told of it." she had caught the meaning of the pity in his tone--for her, not for hugh! "ah," she cried passionately, lifting her head, "but they did not tell it all! did they tell you that he is unjustly, wickedly accused by an enemy? that, though they may convict him, he is innocent--innocent?" the bishop looked at her in surprise. in spite of all the past--the shameful, conscienceless past and her own wrong--she loved and believed in her husband! hugh's hand lifted, wavered an instant before his brow. did she say he was innocent? "i don't--understand," he said hoarsely. jessica's wide eyes fastened on his as though to search his secret soul. "i will tell it all," she said, "then you will understand." the bishop drew a chair close, but her gaze did not waver from the face on the cushions--the face which she must read! as she told the broken tale the car was still, save for the labored, irregular breathing of the prostrate man, and the muffled roar that penetrated the walls, a multitudinous, elfin din. once the swinging canary broke forth into liquid warbling, as though in all the world were no throe of body or dolor of mind. in that telling jessica's mind traversed wastes of alternate certainty and doubt, as she hung upon the look of the man who listened--a look that merged slowly into a fearful understanding. hugh understood now! jessica had believed him to be her husband, and she believed so still. and harry did not intend to tell. he was safe ... safe! in the reaction from his fear, hugh felt sick and faint. the bishop had been listening in some anxiety, both for her and for his charge. there was a strained intensity in her manner now that betokened almost unbalance--so it seemed to him. the side-lights he had had of hugh's career led him to believe him incapable of such a self-sacrifice as her tale recited. a strange power there was in woman's love! "you see," she ended, "that is why i know he is innocent. _you_ can not"--her eyes held hugh's--"_you_ can not doubt it, can you?" hugh's tongue wet his parched lips. a tremor ran through him. he did not answer. jessica started to her feet. self-possession was falling from her; she was fighting to seize the vital knowledge that evaded her. she held out her hand--in the palm lay a small emblem of gold. "by this cross," she cried with desperate earnestness, "i ask you for the truth. it is his life or death--hugh's life or death! he did not kill doctor moreau. _who did?_" hugh had shrunk back on the couch, his face ghastly. "i know nothing--nothing!" he stammered. "do not ask me!" the bishop had risen in alarm; he thought her hysterical. "jessica! jessica!" he exclaimed. he threw his arm about her and led her from the couch. "you don't know what you are saying. you are beside yourself." he forced her into the drawing-room and made her sit down. she was tense and quivering. the cross fell from her hand and he stooped and picked it up. "try to calm yourself," he said, "to think of other things for a few moments. this little cross--i wonder how you come to have it? i gave it to sanderson last may to commemorate his ordination." he twisted it open. "see, here is the date, may twenty-eighth--that was the day i gave it to him." she gave a quick gasp and the last vestige of color faded from her cheek. she looked at him in a stricken way. "_last_ may!" she said faintly. harry sanderson had been in aniston, then, on the day doctor moreau had been murdered. her house of cards fell. she had been mistaken! she leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes. presently she felt a cold glass touch her lips. "here is some water," the bishop's voice said. "you are better, are you not? poor child! you have been through a terrible strain. i would give the world to help you if i could!" he left her, and she sat dully trying to think. the regular jar of the trucks had set itself to a rhythm--no hope, no hope, no hope! she knew now that there was none. when the bishop reëntered she did not turn her head. he sat beside her a while and she was aware again of his voice, speaking soothingly. at moments thereafter he was there, at others she knew that she was alone, but she was unconscious of the flight of time. she knew only that the day was fading. on the chilly whirling landscape she saw only a crowded room, a jury-box, a judge's bench, and hugh before it, listening to the sentence that would take him from her for ever. the bright sunlight was mercilessly, satanically cruel, and god a sneering monster turning a crank. into her conscious view grew distant snowy ranges, hills unrolling at their feet, a straggling town, a staring white court-house and a grim low building beside it. she rose stumblingly, the train quivering to the brakes, as the bishop entered. "this is smoky mountain," she said with numb lips. "that is the building where he is being tried. i am going there now." the bishop opened the door. "we stop here twenty minutes," he said. "i will walk a little way with you." chapter xlvii between the millstones hugh's haggard face peered after them through a rift in a window curtain. what could she have suspected? not the truth! and only that could betray him. presently the bishop would return, the train would start again, and this spot of terror would be behind him. what had he to do with harry sanderson? he bethought himself suddenly of the door--if some one should come in upon him! with a qualm of fear he stood up, staggered to it and turned the key in the lock. there was not the wonted buzz about the station; the place was silent, save for the throb of the halted engine, and the shadow of the train on the frosty platform quivered like a criminal. a block away he saw the court-house--knots of people were standing about its door, waiting for what? a fit of trembling seized him. all his years hugh had been a moral coward. life to him had been sweet for the grosser, material pleasures it held. he had cared for nobody, had held nothing sacred. when his sins had found him out, he had not repented; he had only cursed the accident of discovery. the sincerest feeling of regret he had known had been in the chapel when he had thought of his dead mother. since one dismal night on smoky mountain, dread, dogging and relentless, had been his hateful bedfellow. he had now only to keep silence, let harry sanderson pay the penalty, and he need dread no more. hugh stires, to the persuasion of the law, would be dead. as soon as might be he could disappear--as the rector of st. james had disappeared before. he might change his name and live at ease in some other quarter of the world, his alarm laid for ever. but a worse thing would haunt him, to scare his sleep. he would be doubly blood-guilty! in the awful moment while he clung to the iron bars of the collapsing rose-window, with the flames clutching at him, hugh had looked into hell, and shivered before the judgment: _the wages of sin is death_. in that fiery ordeal the cheapness and swagger, the ostentation and self-esteem had burned away, and his soul had stood naked as a winter wood. dying had not then been the austere terror. what came after--that had appalled him. yet harry sanderson was not afraid of the hereafter; he chose death calmly, knowing that he, hugh, was unfit to die! he thought of the little gold cross jessica had held before him. the last time he had seen it was during that memorable game when harry had set it on the table. in his pocket was a battered red disk--a reminder of the days that harry had won, which had never been rendered. he thought of the stabbing agony that had come and come again, to strike each time more deeply. the death that he had cheated in the chapel might be near him now. but whenever death should come, what should he say when he stood before his judge, with such a fearful double burden on his soul? he was horribly afraid! suppose he waited. harry might be convicted, sentenced, but he could save him at the last moment. when he was safe on his way to south america, he could write the bishop--beg him to go to smoky mountain and convince himself. but how soon would that be? it would be long, long--and justice was swift. and what if death should take him unawares beforehand? it would be too late then, too late for ever and ever! suppose he told the truth now and saved harry. he had never done a brave deed for the sake of truth or righteousness, or for the love of any human being, but he could do one now. for the one red counter that had been a symbol of a day of evil living, he could render a deed that would make requital for those unpaid days! he would not have played the coward's part. it would repair the wrong he had done jessica. he would have made expiation. forgiveness and pity, not reproaches and shame, would follow him. and it would balance, perhaps, the one dreadful count that stood against him. he thought of the scaffold and shivered. yet there was a more terrible thought: _it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god!_ he made his way again to the door and unlocked it. it was only to cross that space, to speak, and then the grim brick building--and the penalty. with a hoarse cry he slammed the door to and frantically locked it. the edge of the searching pain was upon him again. he stumbled back to the couch and fell across it face down, dragging the cushions in frantic haste over his head, to shut out the sick throbbing of the steam, that seemed shuddering at the fate his cowering soul dared not face. the groups outside of the court-house made way deferentially for jessica, but she was unconscious of it. some one asked a question on the steps, and she heard the answer: "the state has just finished, and the judge is charging." the narrow hall was filled, and though all who saw gave her instant place, the space beyond the inner door was crowded beyond the possibility of passage. she could see the judge's bench, with its sedate gray-bearded figure, the jury-box at the left, the moving restless faces about it, set like a living mosaic. only the table where the lawyers and the prisoner sat she could not see, or the empty chair where she had sat yesterday. what had hugh thought, she wondered dully, when he had not seen her there that day? had he thought that her trust had failed? she became aware suddenly that the figure at the high bench was speaking, had been speaking all along. she could not think clearly, and her brain struggled with the incisive matter-of-fact sentences. "with the prisoner's later career in smoky mountain they had nothing to do, nor had the law. the question it asked--the only question it asked--was, did he kill moreau? they might be loath to believe the same man capable of such contradictory acts--the courageous saving of a child from death, for example, and the shooting down of a fellow-mortal in cold blood--but it had been truly said that such contrasts were not impossible, nay, were even matters of common observation. prejudice and bias aside, and sympathy and liking aside, they constituted a tribunal of justice. this the state had a right to demand, and this they, the jury, had made solemn oath to give." the words had no meaning for her ears. "what did he say?" she whispered to herself piteously. in her abyss of torture she felt the tense expectancy stirring audibly in the room like a still breeze in forest leaves--saw the averted faces of the jury as they rose to file out. she caught but a glimpse of the prisoner, as the sheriff touched his arm and led the way quickly to the door through which he had been brought. it opened and closed upon them, and the tension of the packed room broke all at once in a great respiration of relief and a buzz of conversation. a voice spoke beside her. it was doctor brent. "come with me," he said. "felder asked me to watch for you. we can wait in the judge's room." chapter xlviii the verdict meanwhile in the narrow cell harry was alone with his bitterness. his judicial sense, keenly alive, from the very first had appreciated the woeful weakness, evidentially speaking, of his position. he had no illusions on this score. a little while--after such deliberation as was decent and seemly--and he would be a condemned criminal, waiting in the shadow of the hempen noose. in such localities justice was swift. there would be scant time between verdict and penalty--not enough, doubtless, for the problem to solve itself. for the only solution possible was hugh's dying in the hospital at aniston. so long as the other lived, he must play out the rôle. and if hugh did die, but died too late? what a satire on truth and justice! the same error which put the rope about his own neck would fold the real hugh in the odor of sanctity. he would lie in the little jail yard in a felon's grave, and hugh in the cemetery on the hill, beneath a marble monument erected by st. james parish to the reverend henry sanderson. he was in an _impasse_. in the dock, or in the cell with the death-watch sitting at its door, it was all one. he had elected the path, and if it led to the bleak edge of life, to the barren abyss of shame, he must tread it. his own life--he had come in his thinking to a point where that mattered least of all. harry sanderson, the vanished rector of st. james, mattered. and jessica! on the cot lay a slender blue-bound book--tennyson's _becket_. she had sent it to him, in a hamper of her favorites, some days before. he picked it up and held it in his hand, touching the limp leather gently. it was as soft as her cheek, and there was about the leaves a hint of that intangible perfume that his mind always associated with her-- ... the smell of the jasmin-flower that she used to wear in her breast! far more than his life, more than the name and fame of the reverend henry sanderson, she mattered! could he write it for her eye, the whole truth, so that sometime--afterward--the bishop might know, and the blot be erased from his career? impossible! with hugh buried in aniston and he in smoky mountain, who was there but would smile at such a tale? she might shout it to the world, and it would answer with derision. and what comfort would the truth be to her? could he say to her: "your husband lies dead under my tombstone, not innocent, but unregenerate and vile. i, who you think am your husband, am not and never was. you have come to my call--but i am nothing to you. you are the wife of the guilty murderer of moreau!" could he leave this behind him, and, passing from her life for ever, turn the memory of their love into an irremediable bitterness? no--no! better never to tell her! better to let her live her life, holding her faith and dream, treasuring her belief in his regeneration and innocence! he thought of the closing chapter in his life at aniston, when in that hour of his despair he had prayed by his study desk. the words he had then said aloud recurred to him: "if i am delivered, it must be by some way of thine own that i can not conceive, for i can not help myself." he was powerless to help himself still. he had given over his life into the keeping of a power in which his better manhood had trusted. if it exacted the final tribute for those ribald years of satan sanderson, the price would be paid! a step came in the corridor--a voice spoke his name. the summons had come. as he laid the blue book back on the cot, its closing words--the dying utterance of the martyred becket--flashed through his mind, the personal cry of his own soul: "into thy hands, o lord--into thy hands!" before the opening door the hum of voices in the court-room sank to stillness itself. the jury had taken their places; their looks were sober and downcast. the judge was in his seat, his hand combing his beard. harry faced him calmly. the door of a side room was partly open and a girl's white face looked in, but he did not see. "gentlemen of the jury, have you arrived at a verdict?" "we have." there was a confusion in the hall--abrupt voices and the sound of feet. the crowd stirred and the judge frowningly lifted his gavel. "what say you, guilty or not guilty?" the foreman did not answer. he was leaning forward, looking over the heads of the crowd. the judge stood up. people turned, and the room was suddenly a-rustle with surprised movement. the crowd at the back of the room parted, and up the center aisle, toward the judge's desk, staggered a figure--a man whose face, ghastly and convulsed, was partly swathed in bandages. at the door of the judge's room a girl stood transfixed and staring. the crowd gasped. they saw the familiar profile, a replica of the prisoner's--the mark that slanted across the brow--the eyes preternaturally bright and fevered. a pale-faced, breathless man in clerical dress pushed forward through the press, as the figure stopped ... thrust out his hands blindly. "not--guilty, your honor!" he said. a cry came from the prisoner at the bar. he leaped toward him as he fell and caught him in his arms. chapter xlix the crimson disk the group in the judge's room was hushed in awestruck silence. the door was shut, but through the panels, from the court-room, came the murmur of many wondering voices. by the sofa on which lay the man who had made expiation stood the bishop and harry sanderson. jessica knelt beside it, and the judge and those who stood with him in the background knew that the curtain was falling upon a strange and tangled drama of life and death. after the one long, sobbing cry of realization, throughout the excitement and confusion, jessica had been strangely calm. she read the swift certainty in doctor brent's face, and she felt a painful thankfulness. the last appeal would not be to man's justice, but to god's mercy! the memories of the old blind days and the knowledge that this man--not the one to whom she had given her love at smoky mountain, at whom she dared not look--had then been her lover, rolled about her in a stinging mist. but as she knelt by the sofa the hand that chafed the nerveless one was firm, and she wiped the cold lips deftly and tenderly. hugh's eyes were filming. that harrowing struggle of soul, that convulsive effort of the injured body, had demanded its price. the direful agony and its weakness had seized him--his stiffening fingers were slipping from the ledge of life, and he knew it. he heard the bishop's earnest voice speaking from the void: "_greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends!_" the words roused his fading senses, called them back to the outpost of feeling. "not because i--loved," he said. "it--was because--i--was afraid!" false as his habit of life had been, in that moment only the bare truth remained. with a last effort the dying man thrust his hand into his pocket, drew out a small, battered, red disk, and laid it in the other's hand. he smiled. "satan--" he whispered, as harry bent over him, and the flicker of light fell in his eyes, "do you--think it will--count--when i cash in?" but harry's answer hugh did not hear. he had passed out of the sound of mortal speech for ever. chapter l when dreams come true there came a day when the brown ravines of smoky mountain laughed in genial sunshine, when the tangled thickets, and the foliaged reaches, painted with the cardinal and bishop's-purple of late autumn, flushed and stirred to the touch of their golden lover, and the silver water gushing through the flumes sang to a quicker melody. there was no wind; everywhere, save for the breathing life of the forest, was dreamy beauty and waiting peace. in the soft stillness harry stood on the doorstep of the hillside cabin--for the last time. below him in the gulch the light glanced and sparkled from the running flume, and beyond glimmered the long street of the town where the dead past of satan sanderson had been buried for ever and the old remorseful pain of conscience had found its surcease. in that last lack-luster year before the rector of the old st. james had been snuffed out in the wild motor-ride, he had come to doubt the ultimate prescience and purpose. how small and futile now seemed those doubts in face of the new conception he had apprehended, in the tacit acceptance of a watchful will and plan not his own. here had been the theater of his pain and his temptation. sitting on that very spot, with the wise stars overhead, he had drawn from old despair's violin the strain that had brought him jessica, her hand in his, her head upon his breast! in the far distance, a tender haze softening their outline, stood the violet silhouette of the enduring ranges, and far beyond them lay aniston, where waited his newer life, his newer, better work--and the hope that was the april of his dreams. since that tragic day in the court-room he had seen jessica once only--in the hour when the bishop's solemn "dust to dust" had been spoken above the man who had been her husband. one thought had comforted him--the town of smoky mountain had never known, need never know, the secret of her wifehood. and aniston was far away. about the coming of hugh injured and dying to his rescue, would be thrown a glamour of knight-errantry that would bespeak charity of judgment. when jessica went back to the white house in the aspens she would meet only tenderness and sympathy. and that was well. he shut the door of his cabin and, whistling to his dog, climbed the steep path, where the wrinkled creeper flung its new splash of scarlet, and along the trail to the knob, under the needled song of the redwoods. there in the dappled shade stood jessica's rock-statue, and now it looked upon two mounds. the prodigal had returned at last, father and son rested side by side, and that, too, was well. he went slowly through the brown hollows to the winding mountain road, crossed it, and entered the denser forest. he wanted to see once more the dear spot where he and jessica had met--that deep, sweet day before the rude awakening. he walked on in a reverie; his thoughts were very far away. he stopped suddenly--there before him was the little knoll where she had stood waiting, on the threshold of his palace of enchantment, that one roseate morning. and she was there to-day--not standing with parted lips and eager eyes under the twittering trees, but lying face down on the moss, her red bronze hair shaming the gold of the fallen leaves. there was a gesture in the outstretched arms that caught at his heart. he stepped forward, and at the sound she looked up startled. he saw the creeping color that mounted to her brow, the proud yet passionate hunger of her eyes. he dropped on his knees and took her hands and kissed them: "my dear love that is!" he whispered. "my dearer wife that is to be!" google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=gyagaaaaqaaj (oxford university) the last call. the last call. a romance. by richard dowling, author of "the mystery of killard," "the weird sisters," "sweet inisfail," etc. _in three volumes_. vol. i. london: tinsley brothers, , catherine st., strand. . [_all rights reserved_.] charles dickens and evans crystal palace press. the last call. * * * * * part i. the last call. chapter i. the sun was low behind a bank of leaden cloud which stood like a wall upon the western horizon. in front of a horse-shoe cove lay a placid bay, and to the westward, but invisible from the cove, the plains of the atlantic. it was low water, and summer. the air of the cove was soft with exhalations from the weed-clad rocks stretching in green and brown furrows from the ridge of blue shingle in the cove to the violet levels of the sea. on the ridge of shingle lay a young man, whose eyes rested on the sea. he was of the middle height and figure. twenty-seven or twenty-eight seemed to be his age. he had a neat, compact forehead, dark gray eyes, ruddy, full cheeks, a prominent nose, full lips, and a square chin. the face looked honest, good-humoured, manly. the moustaches were brown; the brown hair curled under the hat. the young man wore a gray tweed suit and a straw hat. he lay resting on his elbow. in the line of his sight far out in the bay a small dot moved almost imperceptibly. the lounger knew this dot was a boat: distance prevented his seeing it contained a man and a woman. dominique lavirotte, the man in the boat, was of the middle height and figure, twenty-four years of age, looking like a greek, but french by descent and birth. the eyes and skin were dark, the beard and moustaches black. the men of rathclare, a town ten miles off, declared he was the handsomest man they had ever seen, and yet felt their candour ill-requited when their sweethearts and wives concurred. with dominique lavirotte in the boat was ellen creagh. she was not a native of rathclare, but of glengowra, the small seaside and fishing town situate on glengowra bay, over which the boat was now lazily gliding in the cool blue light of the afternoon. ellen creagh was tall and slender, above the average height of women, and very fair. she had light golden-brown hair, bright lustrous blue eyes, and lips of delicate red. the upper lip was short. even in repose her face always suggested a smile. one of the great charms of the head was the fluent ease with which it moved. the greatest charm of the face was the sweet susceptibility it had to smile. it seemed, when unmoved, to wait in placid faith, the advent of pleasant things. during its moments of quiet there was no suggestion of doubt or anxiety in it. to it the world was fair and pleasant--and the face was pleasant and wonderfully fair. pleasant people are less degraded by affectation than solemn people. your solemn man is generally a swindler of some kind, and nearly always selfish and insincere. ellen creagh looked the embodiment of good-humoured candour, and the ideal of health and beauty. she was as blithe and wholesome as the end of may; she was a northern hebe, a goddess of youth and joy. the name of the young man lying on the shingles was eugene o'donnell. he lived in the important seaport of rathclare, where his father was the richest and most respected merchant and shipowner. there had james o'donnell been established in business for many years, and they now said he was not worth less than a quarter of a million sterling. mrs. o'donnell was a hale, brisk, bright-minded woman of fifty-seven, being three years her husband's junior. the pair had but one child, eugene, and to him in due time all the old man's money was to go. the o'donnells were wealthy and popular. the father had a slow, methodical way, which did not win upon strangers, but among those who knew him no one was more highly respected. without any trace of extravagance, james o'donnell was liberal with his money. he was a good husband, a good father, and a good employer. he had only one source of permanent uneasiness--his son eugene was not married, and showed no inclination towards marriage. the old man held that every young man who could support a wife should take one. he himself had married young, had prospered amazingly, and never for a moment regretted his marriage. he was prepared to give his son a share in his business, and a thousand a year out of the interest of his savings, if the young man would only settle. but although eugene o'donnell was as good-humoured and good-hearted a young fellow as the town of rathclare, or the next town to it, could show, and although there was not in the whole town one girl who would be likely to refuse him, and although there were plenty of handsome girls in rathclare, eugene o'donnell remained obdurate. it was lamentable, but what could anyone do? the young man would not make love, the father would not insist upon his marrying whether he loved or no, and there being at rathclare little faith in leap-year, no widow or maiden of the town was bold enough to ask him to wed her. while the young man lying on the shingle was idly watching the boat, the young man in the boat was by no means idle. the sculls he was pulling occupied none of his attention. he swung himself mechanically backward and forward. his whole mind was fixed on the face and form of the girl sitting in the stern. "and so, you really must go back to dublin?" he said ruefully. "yes," she answered with a smile. "i must really go back to dublin within a fortnight." "and leave all here behind," he said tenderly. "all!" she exclaimed, looking around sadly. "there is not much to leave besides the sea, which i always loved, and my mother, whom i always loved also." "there is nothing else in the place, i suppose, miss creagh, you love, but the sea and your mother?" "no," she answered, "nothing. i have no relative living but my mother, and she and the sea are my oldest friends." "but have you no new friend or friends?" she shook her head, and leaning over the side of the boat, drew her fingers slowly through the water. "the vernons," she said, "are good to me, and i like the girls very much. but i am only their servant--a mere governess." "a mere queen!" he said. "i have known you but a short time. that has been the happiest time of my life. _i_ at least can never forget it. may you?" suddenly a slight change came over her. she lost a little of her gaiety, and gathered herself together with a shadow of reserve. "i do not think, mr.. lavirotte, i shall soon forget the many pleasant hours we have spent together and the great kindness you have shown to me." "and you do not think you will forget _me?_" "how can i remember your kindness and forget you?" she asked gravely. "yes, yes," he said eagerly, "but you know what i mean, and are avoiding my meaning. perhaps i have been too hasty. shall i sing you a song?" "yes, please, if you will row towards home." then he sang: "the bright stars fade, the morn is breaking, the dew-drops pearl each flower and leaf, when i of thee my leave am taking, with bliss too brief. how sinks my heart with fond alarms, the tear is hiding in mine eye, for time doth chase me from thine arms: good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." the boat was now well inshore. "lavirotte! lavirotte's voice, by all the gods!" cried eugene o'donnell, raising himself into a sitting posture. "doing the polite--doing the lover, for all i know. why has he stopped there? he will begin again in a moment." "when you go, ellen, will you give me leave to bid you adieu in these words?" "mr. lavirotte," she said, in doubt and pain, "i am exceedingly sorry that----" "it is enough," he said. "say no more. i am a ruined man." "he will not finish it," said o'donnell. "he is ungallant. i will finish it for him. "the sun is up, the lark is soaring, loud swells the song of chanticleer; the leveret bounds o'er earth's soft flooring: yet i am here. for since night's gems from heaven did fade, and morn to floral lips must hie, i could not leave thee though i said, good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." the girl raised her head and listened for a moment, and then bent her head in some confusion. there was to her a sense of surprise in feeling that this song had, bearing its present associations, been completed by an unknown voice. lavirotte noticed the look of disquietude on the girl's face, and said lightly and bitterly: "you need not be uneasy, miss creagh. i know the man who finished my song for me, when there was no use in my going on with it. he and i are rival tenors. i will introduce you to him when we get ashore. we are the closest friends. he is the best of good fellows, and reputed--ah, i envy him--to be a woman-hater." at length the boat glided slowly through the green channel that led from the plain of the violet bay to the ridge of blue shingle. lavirotte handed the girl out as soon as they reached the beach, and, as he did so, said: "you have no objection to know my friend?" she was anxious to conciliate him in any way she might. "no," she whispered. "what a lovely voice he has." "better than mine?" he asked abruptly and harshly. "i--i," she hesitated, "am but a poor judge." "which means," he said bitterly, "that you are a good judge, and decide against me." by this time they were close to where o'donnell was. he was standing, and looking out to sea. "comrade," said lavirotte, touching him on the shoulder, "i am delighted to see you. i am in sore need of a _friend_. miss creagh has admired your singing very much. mr. o'donnell--miss creagh." "am i dreaming," thought o'donnell, "or is this beauty real?" chapter ii. there was around dominique lavirotte an air of mystery which kept the good simple folk of glengowra at bay. although, theoretically, frenchmen have always been popular in ireland, this applies rather to the mass than to the individual. there was nothing repulsive about dominique lavirotte. on the contrary, he had attractive manners, and although he spoke english with a broken accent, he spoke it fluently and faultlessly. he was agreeable in company, well-read, and possessed a shallow encyclop[ae]dic knowledge, by means of which he was enabled to give great brilliancy and point to his conversation. yet at certain moments he was taciturn, and if one attempted to break in upon his reserve he turned swiftly and snarled even at his best friend. according to his own account, he was descended from louis anne lavirotte, medical doctor, born at nolay, in the diocese of autun, somewhere about a hundred years ago, who was a most skilful physician, and one well versed in the english language. this dead doctor of a hundred years ago had devoted much of his attention while on earth to more or less obscure forms of mental disease, and had written a treatise on hydrophobia. dominique was very proud of this learned ancestor, and paid his relative of the last century the compliment of devoting some of his own time to the consideration of abnormal mental developments. indeed, some of those who knew him best said that there was a twist in his own mind, and that under extreme provocation, mental or physical, the brain would give way. lavirotte and o'donnell were as close friends as it is possible for men to be; and, notwithstanding the ten miles which separated their homes, they saw much of one another. each was young and enthusiastic, each sang tenor, and sang uncommonly well. in the town of rathclare, no young man was more popular than eugene o'donnell, and the people there thought it a thousand pities that he should select as his favourite friend a man who was not only not a resident of rathclare, but a foreigner, with mysterious ways and an uncertain temper. o'donnell laughed off all their expostulations and warnings, and said that in so far as his friend was a stranger and afflicted with a bad temper, there was all the more reason why someone should do him any little kindness he could. but the people of rathclare shook their heads gravely at the young man's temerity, and prophesied that no good would come to o'donnell of this connection. they did not like this foreigner, with his strange ways and mysterious retirements into himself. they were free and open-hearted themselves, and they liked free and open-hearted souls like o'donnell. they did not like swarthy skins; and now and then in the newspapers they read that men with swarthy skins drew knives and struck their dearest friends; that foreigners were treacherous, and not to be trusted with the lives, into the homes, or with the honour of law-abiding folk. they knew, it being a seaport, that foreigners spoke a gibberish which they affected to understand, and which was in reality no better than the language of satan. once a greek, an infamous greek, had been hanged in their town for an intolerable crime of cruelty committed on board ship; and somehow, ever since then, all foreigners, particularly swarthy foreigners, seemed in their eyes peculiarly prone to atrocious cruelties. what a luxury it must have been for this swarthy man of uncertain temper to meet and speak with ellen creagh, who was the very embodiment of all that is fair in the rich, warm sense of fairness in the north; and free in the sense of all that is open and joyous, and full of abounding confidence, in the north! during the fortnight in which he had been admitted to what he considered the infinite privilege of her society, he had fallen helplessly, hopelessly, madly in love. he had drunk in the subtle poison of her beauty with an avidity almost intolerable to himself. all the poetry and passion of his nature had gone forth ceaselessly towards that girl, as only the poetry and passion of southern blood can go forth. the violence of his feelings had astonished even himself. these feelings had grown all the more intense by the fierce repression in which he had kept them. for until that day in the boat he had never seemed to take more than a passing, polite interest in ellen. even then, in his dark and self-restrained nature, he had given no indication of the struggle within. the frenzy of his worship found no expression, and he took his dismissal with as much apparent indifference as though he had put the question to her merely out of regard to the wishes of others. yet when he said the words, "i am a ruined man," he meant the words, or rather he meant that he was determined to take an active part in his own destruction. "if i die," he thought, "what is death to me? the sun is dead, the moon is dead, the stars are dead, earth is dead, and perdition will be a release from this valley of phantoms. when life is not worth living, why should one live? i will not live. i have no cause against her, but i have cause against myself, for i am a failure." he had determined to make away with himself; he had made up his mind that he would not survive this terrible disappointment; he would go home that night and take some painless and swift poison, and so pass out of this vain world to the unknown beyond; he would not declare his intention to anyone, least of all to o'donnell, whose voice he recognised in the second stanza of the song; he knew where he could get the poison--from a friendly apothecary. they would hold an inquest on him, no doubt, and discover that he had done himself to death. her name might even get mixed up in the affair, but he could not help that. he meant to do her no harm; he simply could not and would not endure. when that meeting took place on the beach, whereat he introduced ellen to o'donnell, he had noticed the latter's start of amazed admiration. "what," thought lavirotte, "is he hit too; he, the invincible! he, the adamantine man, who has hitherto withstood all the charms of her lovely sex? it would be curious to watch this. will he too make love, and fail--succeed? ah." when this thought first occurred to lavirotte he paused in a dim, dazed way. of all men living he wished best to o'donnell, now that he might regard himself as dead. "if i am to die and she is to love, would it not be best that she should love him?" and while he was thinking thus, and as he was mentioning his friend's name to her, he saw her, too, start and seem for a moment confused. he could easily understand why it was o'donnell had started. such beauty as hers appeared potent enough to infuse the belvidere apollo with action. but why should she start? woman is not overwhelmed by the beauty of man, as man is by the beauty of woman. here it was that the demon of jealousy first entered the soul of dominique lavirotte; here it was he first inhaled the mephitic breath of jealousy, destined to poison all his life and to embitter the last moment of his existence. as the three turned away and left the blue shingle for the yellow road, the sun fell behind them, and almost imperceptibly the gray dusk of twilight gathered in the east. overhead the blue of day was becoming fainter and fainter, making way for the intenser blue of night. neither of the men seemed disposed to speak. the heart of each was full of new emotion--one of love, the other of jealousy; one of the first rapturous buoyancy of dearest hope, the other of degrading cark. nothing but the most ordinary commonplaces were uttered that night; and after the leave-taking each went a different way--she to the modest lodging where she spent her brief holiday with her mother; lavirotte to his quiet room, and o'donnell back to rathclare by the latest train leaving the village that night. when the last-mentioned got home, he astonished his father and mother by walking into the room where they were sitting, and saying abruptly: "sir, you have often advised me to marry, and i have put the matter off. are you still of your former mind?" "god bless my soul!" cried the father in astonishment. "god bless my soul, eugene, what's the matter?" he could get no further than this with surprise, and the question he asked was put merely as a matter of form, and not from any desire to ascertain the condition of his son's mind. but the mother was quicker--took in the whole situation at once, plunged at the heart of things, and asked breathlessly: "eugene, who is she?" he coloured slightly and drew back. his father was too slow, and his mother too quick for him. he preferred his mother's mode of treating the matter. the word "she" brought back to his enchanted eyes the vision he had seen on the beach. he said to himself: "my mother has no right to be so quick. for all i know to the contrary, she may be engaged to lavirotte." then aloud he said: "mother, i assure you, there is no 'she.' i never said two civil words to any girl in all my life." "eugene," she said, dropping into her lap the woollen stocking she was knitting for him, "no young man ever yet thought of marriage until thinking of some girl had put the thought into his head." he felt in a way flattered and fluttered. it was pleasant even for a moment to fancy that his mother, although she knew nothing of miss creagh, had suggested the notion he might marry her. he laughed and shook his head, and laughing and shaking his head became him. his mother looked at him half sadly, and thought: "no girl in all the world could refuse my boy--my handsome boy, my noble boy. and now one of them is going to take him away from me, who reared him, and have known him every hour since he was born." "eugene," said the father deliberately, "do i understand that you wish me to give you my opinions on marriage?" the young man burst into a loud laugh. he had got far beyond the theoretic aspect of the affair now, and his father's opinion would have made very little impression indeed when compared with the impression ellen creagh had left upon his heart. after this the three talked upon the subject of eugene's possible marriage, he telling them no more about the adventure on the beach than that the notion of marriage had been put into his mind by the sight of a most estimable young lady, in every way suited to him, but of whom he had only the slightest knowledge up to this. that night, when ellen creagh found herself in her own room, no thoughts of love were in her head. a feeling of pity for the fair young man she had met was uppermost in her head. it was not sentimental pity, but pity of a much more substantial and worldly kind. she had a letter to write, and sat down to write it. it began, "my dear ruth," and continued to narrate certain trivial matters connected with seaweed and shells. then it went on to say: "i have seen young mr. o'donnell, son of your father's great friend, here. i was quite startled when i heard the name. i was introduced to him by a friend who had told me of him before." when she had finished her letter, she addressed it to miss vernon, fitzwilliam square, dublin. she added a postscript, saying: "i hope you will soon get out of dublin. you must be weary of it this lovely weather. i shall write again in a few days." then she stood awhile at the table, musing over the events in the boat. "he could not have been serious," she thought. "i daresay if i had looked at his face i should have seen him smiling. anyway, he took it very quietly." that night dominique lavirotte slept little. "though he were my friend over and over again," he cried passionately, "he shall not. no! not if i were to----" here he covered his face with his hands. "what a horrible thought! i can see his white face now in the moonlight. why is it white? why is it moonlight? oh, god! was beauty ever such as hers?" chapter iii. it was in the full height of summer, and by the bland sea, and while gathering a bouquet of wild flowers for a girl clad in white, and sitting on a mound hard by, that eugene o'donnell had for the first time the courage to tell himself he was in love. a minute before and he had stood in great fear of this said love--it had seemed silly, childish, unworthy of a full-grown man in the perfect possession of all his faculties. and now, all at once, even while his back was towards her, and he was not under the glamour of her eye, the magic of her touch, the mysterious fascinations of her motions, when, apparently, nothing was going on in the bare daylight but the tranquil ripple of the waves on the shore below, this fear left him, and all at once he confessed to himself his love, and began to glory in it. once the flood-gate was broken down his nature knew no pause, saw no obstacle, appreciated no difficulty. turning round hastily, with the flowers in his hand and a laugh upon his lips, such a laugh as he had never laughed before, for now the whole nature of the man was stirred, he cried: "what a fool i have been, ellen." it was the first time he had called her by her name, and yet it seemed old and familiar to him. "what a fool i have been," he said, "to bother about these flowers." she blushed, and looked up timidly, and looked down bashfully, and smiled, and moved as though to rise, and then sat still. she was not familiar with her name upon his lips. "eugene," to her mind, seemed familiar, for from one reason or another, perhaps the love of brevity, she so called him when she thought of him. but to hear him call her ellen was as though her secret had been penetrated, and the fact that she called him eugene laid bare. "what a fool i have been to gather these idle flowers," he repeated. "they are but the symbols of what i could say so much better in words. may i speak?" she grew red, and then deadly pale, and seemed about to faint. her lips opened, but no sound came. "whether you give me leave or not," he said, "i must. ellen," he went on, "i think there is at this moment but one thing i believe impossible, and it is that i could ever go away from you. i never was in love before, and i don't exactly know the regular thing to say, but i'll tell you how i feel. if you were to get up off that mound now and walk away, supposing back to glengowra or to the world's end, i'd follow you. and i'd never cease to follow you, even beyond the world's end, until you turned back and put your hand in mine. that's better than these flowers," he said, tossing the bouquet from him. "it's straighter, anyway, ellen. will you give me your hand, dear?" he called her "dear," and after a little while her hand was raised slightly from where it lay, and he took it, and she let it bide with him. so the stupid flowers lay--nowhere; and two pure hearts, sweet with god's goodliest graces, were opened to the understanding of one another. then came moonlight nights to make the rich completion of the full day. he sang to her among the rocks, with the cool fresh sea washing beneath their unwearied feet. she sat clasped to him, and glad to be so clasped; and he sat strong beside her, and conscious of his strength. there was no worshipping on his part, no bowing down before a golden image. he took her to his heart in the beauty of her wholesome girlhood, as one takes a melody or a flower, without question and without any exaggeration of dearness beyond the exaggeration compelled by all beautiful things. these moonlit nights amid the rocks were the dearest things which had been, up to that, with him. there was no impediment in the course of his true love; his father was affluent; he had explained the whole matter at home; he had brought his sweetheart home, and there had she been approved of. her mother saw no reason why the handsome, good-natured, good-humoured, well-off young man should not marry her beautiful daughter; and the daughter, on her part, saw all the reasons between heaven and earth, and several others which had no existence in heaven or earth or the region between, why she should marry him. it was their custom in these moonlight nights to stroll down to that cove where their first meeting had taken place, and where the glamour of her beauty had first fallen upon him. here, of nights, were privacy, the moon and the sea, and the perfections lent to the moon and the sea by the cliffs and the rocks and the sounds of the sea (that are subtler than any voice); and now and then the sounds of the land, which take away the aerial perspective of the sea and bring to the soothed eye visions of homesteads and fallows, of sleeping woods and gentle useful beasts, of pious folk at rest by night and pious folk at rest for ever; and, over all, the limitless quiet of night. here on several occasions they sat for hours, from the late sunset, through the late dusk, into the dark. and once or twice, when he bade her good-bye at her mother's gate, he stole back again to the cove which had been the theatre of the magic drama in which he was acting. he now lived in the village, and often sat at the cove until the blue dawn blotted out the bluer night, and the seagulls awoke, and the sails of the fishing-boats out in the bay were trimmed for home. all this time, though he knew it not, a shadow dogged him, an evil shadow, a morally misshapen shadow, a pitiless dark shadow, that hid here and there where it could, behind wall, or tree, or rock, and ever glared unwholesomely. the shadow of a swarthy man, of a man that showed his teeth in the moonlight and fumbled something in his pocket; a sinister stealthy shadow, that boded good to no one, lurked, and dodged, and followed in the footsteps of the lovers like the evil genius of their career. when all had been settled between the lovers, ellen had written to mrs. vernon and obtained release from her duties in that household. a month had now gone by since that meeting on the shingle, and it was arranged that in another month the wedding was to take place. the course of true love was running as smooth as the planets in their orbits. the happiest man and woman in ireland were eugene o'donnell and ellen creagh. as the days went by that cove grew dearer to his heart; and even now, when the moon was making moonlight for lovers somewhere else, he, eugene o'donnell, could not keep away from it, nor could he sleep. one night he left her at her mother's gate and walked slowly down the road to the cove. it was dark for a summer night. yet still there was light enough to see a large object, say the figure of a man, fifty yards off. he knew the ground as a farmer knows his farm. following the declivity of the road he soon arrived at the broken ground. here was a high rock on the right, high enough to conceal a man; and here, behind this rock, was hidden a man with gleaming teeth, and in his right hand a gleaming blade. as o'donnell drew near the rock the man sprang forth, seized the other by the throat with the left hand, and, whirling up his right, whispered: "you shall never marry her." "lavirotte! lavirotte! my god, lavirotte, are you mad?" "yes, and you are dead." the hand holding the knife descended swiftly. chapter iv. instinctively o'donnell shot his left hand upward and seized the descending wrist. but the force in lavirotte's arm was too great to be overcome. the blow was diverted; but the long, keen blade tipped the shoulder, tore through the cloth of the coat, and buried itself in the flesh, just above the shoulder-blade. "heavens and earth, man! what's the matter?" cried o'donnell, rendered almost powerless, more by astonishment than pain. "death!" cried the infuriated man--"your death!--that's what's the matter." and, withdrawing the knife, lie raised his arm once more aloft. o'donnell now plainly saw that he was indeed dealing with a madman, or, at least, with a man who seriously intended taking his life. still retaining his hold on the right wrist, he seized lavirotte by the throat and shook him violently. the pain in his shoulder was nothing. it was no more than if he had been touched by a piece of iron just uncomfortably hot. yet he felt confused and queer in his head, as though he had received the blow on his head, rather than on his shoulder. lavirotte now seized o'donnell by the throat, and for a while, with the two hands raised in the air--the one holding the knife, the other the wrist of the hand that held it--the two men struggled fiercely. it was a matter of life and death. o'donnell had now lost all care for the cause of the attack, and was simply engaged in a brute attempt to defend his life against a brute attack. both men were mad. both men had now lost everything but the instinct of victory. all the faculties of each were concentrated upon the muscles each used--upon the advantages each gained--upon the chances each afforded. each now meant to kill, and to kill speedily--to kill with all the force, all the power, all the devices of his body. one was armed and whole; the other was unarmed and hurt. both were sensible that this conflict could not last many minutes. the two twisted and writhed and struggled abroad on the open way. now they swayed this way, now that. now, as though one were about to fall; now, as though the other. now one strove to throw the other by the aid of mere weight and muscle; now the other sought to win by the force of strangulation. meanwhile, above the heads of both rose the two upstretched arms--one hand clasped around a wrist, one hand holding a bloody knife. the two men's faces were livid. they breathed only now and then, and with terrible difficulty. their eyes were dilated and protruding, the nostrils wide set and quivering. for some time, he knew not how long--he never knew how long the fight lasted--o'donnell had felt something warm trickling down his back. he was bleeding freely. he was half suffocated. he felt he must succumb. for an instant everything was dark. suddenly he saw once more; his vision, his senses were restored, but only to reveal to him the fact that his powers were failing swiftly. the two men rocked and swayed in the broad roadway leading towards the cove. neither knew nor cared which way he went, so long as he might cling to the other. at the moment when o'donnell's faculties returned, after that instant's unconsciousness, the two men were struggling a few feet from the rock behind which lavirotte had hidden. "now," thought o'donnell swiftly, "for one last effort; if i fail he will kill me." suddenly relaxing his knees, he stooped so as to bring his head on a level with the shoulder of his antagonist; then, loosing his hold of lavirotte's throat, he seized him by the ankle, and, putting all his strength into his right arm and back, he sought to lift and throw the other. but his strength was gone; his head was dizzy; his eyes grew dim. finally, all was dark once more. he lurched heavily forward, striking his antagonist in the chest with his head. lavirotte stumbled and fell backwards. o'donnell struggled for a moment to regain his upright position, but his strength was spent; he was unconscious, and subsided in the middle of the road. now was lavirotte's opportunity. o'donnell could not have resisted a child. the most cowardly cut-throat that ever lifted steel need have no fear of him. the darkness increased as the night went on. by this time it had grown so great that it was impossible to see an arm's length. the sky, for all the light it gave, might as well have been the solid earth. no sound stirred the profound silence save the mellow washing of the waves upon the shore. it was sultry and suffocating. now and then the air panted, beating this way and that in little hot gusts that brought no freshness and left no coolness behind. although the murmuring of the sea filled the night with a low plaintive music, the silence seemed to deepen as the minutes went by. at length a form began to stir. for a while the man did not seem to know where he was, or the circumstances which had led to his condition. it was only by feeling around him he was able to know he was in the open air. he felt the road, the stones, the sunbaked clay of the road. then he listened intently awhile, and by his hearing confirmed the notion that he was in the open air. that was the murmur of the sea. these little puffs of wind that beat against his face showed he was not between walls. ah! now something of it came back. there had been a struggle of some kind, a fight with someone. what was it exactly? this was the road to the cove. of course it was. the sea lay beyond there somewhere. to the right, to the left, no matter where, the sea was somewhere near. it would be good to get down to the sea and lie down in its cool waters, for he was aching and burning. what a fearful thirst! his tongue was parched, baked dry as the baked clay on which he sat. he had been hurt, how or why he could not recollect. there had been a fight. that was all right. but why he had fought or with whom, these were the mysteries. oh! why did they not bring him some water? he was dying of thirst, and no one would come. he didn't remember going to bed. he never felt so sleepy in all his life before. it was a kind of deathly sleep, a sleep with no mercy in it, a sleep that promised no ease, no repose, no alleviation of the torturing uncertainties. such a bed, too; it was as hard as iron. what did they mean by giving so sleepy a man such a bed? what nonsense it was for his mother to sing a lullaby. he was a grown man, and needed no such inducement to sleep. oh, this terrible, tyrannical sleep that brought no ease, no repose. how strange that the cathedral organ should be booming away in the dark! if service was going on, why not have lights? lights! was it magic? no sooner did he think of them than the whole cathedral blazed out for one brief moment, and then fell back into darkness again. it was marvellous, incredible; and the cathedral seemed so vast, vaster than the reason could believe, although the eye had seen it. and, then, there was the music once again. why did the organist play only when the lights were out? that was the swell organ. it was the loudest organ he had ever heard. what seemed most incredible of all was the organ was big enough to fill the church, and did fill it, until it made the windows, the pillars, ay, the very ground itself tremble. ground! ay, surely it was the ground. how extraordinary that he should be lying on the ground! what was this so delicious and cool? cool and refreshing after that horrible dream of fighting with someone, and then waking on a road. and yet there was something in that dream, for this was a road. he sat up. it was very extraordinary. it was the most extraordinary thing that had ever happened to him in his life. was he alive, in the old familiar sense of that word? of course he was, for this was a road, and he knew it was a road, and---- lightning--thunder--rain. what was that he had seen beside him? the rain was refreshing. it was cooling his head, collecting his thoughts. what was that he had seen beside him? more lightning--thunder--rain. what was that beside him? lavirotte--dead. chapter v. lavirotte dead! absurd. now he remembered how it had been. lavirotte had sprung upon him out of the shadow of that rock, and seized him and sought to kill him, because lavirotte was mad with jealousy, or with southern blood, or with something else or other, no matter what--mad anyway. and there was that burning sensation in his shoulder, and the fever in his blood, and that--ugh!--clammy feeling down his back, but lavirotte dead? no; the very notion was preposterous. now he remembered the struggle. another flash. another roar of thunder. another deluge of rain. he looked wonderfully like death in that blue light. and yet in that struggle he (o'donnell) did not remember having struck the other. it was a common tussle, an irregular wrestle, with the supreme interest of a knife added by lavirotte. that was all. yet he lay there motionless, and it must have been a considerable time since he fell. with great difficulty and a sense of oppression, o'donnell rose partly, and crawled towards the prostrate man. "dominique," he whispered, "dominique, what is the matter? rouse up." there was no response. the form of the frenchman lay there motionless, inert, nerveless. o'donnell raised an arm; it fell back again into the mud of the road, unsustained by any trace of vitality. "what can it be?" thought o'donnell, straightening himself, as another flash of lightning revealed the pallid face of lavirotte. he waited for the thunder to pass, and then, putting his hands around his mouth, shouted with all the strength that was left in him: "help! help! help!" the storm had not been unnoticed in the village, and many were awake. james crotty, boatman, had been roused by the first peal of thunder, had filled a pipe, undone the door of his cottage, and come out to see how the night went. his boat was moored in the cove, but as there was no wind his mind was easy about her. his wife and little ones were safe asleep in the cottage, and his mind was easy about them. at the best of times he was a light sleeper and a great smoker, and took a boatman's interest in the weather, fair or foul, but had a particular interest in the great conflicts of nature. while he was standing in the doorway he was within a few hundred yards of the two men below near the cove. his cottage was about half-way down the road, and it was quite possible to hear an ordinary speaking voice from where the men now were. when o'donnell's loud cry for help rang out in the stillness, crotty started, and then listened intently. no other sound followed. there was no mistaking the nature of that cry. he had heard the word as distinctly as though it were spoken in the dark room behind him. "it can't be any of the men," he said, meaning the fishermen of the place. "it is too early for any of the boats to be back, and too late for them to be going out. what can have brought anyone down there at this hour? i'd better go and see, anyway." he went down the little garden in front of his cottage, and gained the road. he turned to the left. then he went on slowly, cautiously, keeping to the middle of the road. "who's there?" he called out. "what's the matter?" "here," cried o'donnell faintly, "this way. help." the rain had now ceased, and the silence was intense. far out there in the darkness was the soft washing of the wavelets on the shore. no other sound burdened the night. guided by o'donnell's voice, crotty now walked on with decision. "what's the matter?" he called out again. "who is it?" o'donnell's voice answered from the darkness. "it is i, o'donnell." "oh, mr. o'donnell, is it you? what's the matter?" "i'm hurt, badly i think, and here is mr. lavirotte insensible. i know how i got my hurt." crotty was now close to the speaker. "that makes no difference; but i don't know how mr. lavirotte was hurt." "maybe 'twas a fight," said crotty, in a tone of interest. a fight is always an interesting thing, but a fight here and on such a night as this was something which crotty did not feel himself justified in treating with anything but the greatest respect. "never mind what has been," said o'donnell feebly. "the thing is to get him to the village and call a doctor. i can't be of much help. i am quite weak. come now, crotty, look sharp. knock them up at maher's, tell them to put a horse in, and be back here in no time, and let there be a doctor at hand by the time we get back. run now. don't lose a minute." "and leave you here by yourself, hurt? aren't you strong enough to walk as far as maher's, or my place even?" "no. be off. every second you wait is killing us." crotty started at the top of his speed, and in less than half-an-hour returned with a car from maher's hotel. he had brought a lantern, and he and the driver carried lavirotte to the car, and sat him up on it. then crotty got up and held the insensible man. o'donnell got up on the other side, and thus they drove to the hotel. here the doctor was awaiting them. "what's this, o'donnell?" he said. he knew the two men thoroughly. "you two have been quarrelling. what is the meaning of this? blood on both! nasty scalp wound. don't think the bone is broken. clear case of concussion. what did you hit him with?" "nothing," said o'donnell. "is it dangerous?" "dangerous! i should think it is dangerous. dangerous enough to mean manslaughter, it may be." "good heavens!" cried o'donnell, faintly. "i assure you i never struck him." "all right. stick to that. it never does to make admissions. what's the matter with you? blood and mud all over. cut off his coat. here, give me the scissors. no bleeding except here. ugly cut." "is it much?" said o'donnell, very weak now. "yes, it's a good hit." "will it do for me?" "i don't think so, if you have luck. he has a much better chance of going than you. what _did_ you hit him with, o'donnell? it was a terrible blow. something blunt--a stone, or something of that kind. it's a downright shame that two young fellows like you, of good education, and so on, should fall to hacking and battering one another in this brutal way, and at midnight, too. it's more like assassination than fighting. a woman in the matter, eh?" "for heaven's sake, hush, o'malley." "all right. i'm not a magistrate. my business is with the bruises, not with the row, or the cause of the row; but i'm sure it's a woman. men don't go ripping one another open for anything else nowadays." "i swear to you, o'malley, as far as i am concerned, there was no row, and that i did not strike him." "who else was with you?--although i'm not in the least curious. that was a tremendous blow. i can't make it out. if he had stabbed you first, i don't think you could have struck that blow. i can't make it out. i can't do any more for you now. you mustn't lie on it, you know." "o'malley," said o'donnell, "i want you to do me a great favour." "oh, my dear fellow, you needn't be afraid that i'm going to swear an information. it's nothing to me if two fellows go hacking and slashing at one another. i shouldn't like to see either of you killed outright for the finest woman in creation." "do stop, o'malley, like a good fellow. i'll tell you what you must do for me. i want you to break the matter to her to-morrow morning the first thing." suddenly the manner of the glib doctor changed. "my dear fellow, i have been very impertinent, very thoughtless, very rude, and as soon as you are quite well you shall punch my head, and welcome. i had clean forgotten that you are going to be married. when you do punch my head, i hope it won't be quite so terribly as poor lavirotte's. i'll do anything in the world i can for you. what am i to say? she's at her mother's, i suppose." "yes; she's at her mother's. the fact is, i don't exactly know what to say. i can't tell her the truth." "and you want me to tell her a lie, eh?" "no, no; i would not be so rude as to ask you to do anything of the kind. the fact of the matter is, i can tell and trust you----" "stop, o'donnell, don't. don't tell me anything you want to keep quiet. if you told me now 'twould be known in china at breakfast-time. i'm dying to know all about it, but, as your friend, i recommend you not to tell me a word of it. what shall i tell her?" "that i have been a little hurt." "lie no. . you are a good deal hurt." "that i shall soon be all right." "lie no. . for a man who wouldn't be so rude as to ask me to tell a lie, you are getting on marvellously." "and that you do not know how i got the hurt." "truth this time, by jove, for a change. and most unpleasant truth, too, for i really am most curious to know." "then you shall know." "no; as your friend i decline to listen. there, i promised to do the best for you. i'll lie as much as ever i choose, and confound your politeness for not asking me. there, now, you mustn't speak any more. you must keep as quiet as possible." and after a few words more of instruction the busy, talkative little doctor left o'donnell. lavirotte had been put in another room. o'malley went to him, and again examined his condition, and then left the hotel. when o'donnell was alone, he thought to himself: "i suppose if lavirotte recovers, we may be able to hush the matter up. but if he dies--great heavens, what a thought!--there will be a trial, and how will it go with me? i can prove nothing. i know nothing of how he came by this hurt. it will seem to anyone that we fought. it may seem that i was the aggressor. that i attacked him foully, and killed him ruthlessly while he was trying to defend his life. this is a terrible thought. it will drive me mad. why, they may bring in a verdict of murder! they may hang me. innocent men have been hanged before. hang me on the very day that i was to have been married. what can i do for you, nellie? what better can i do for you, nellie, than die here?" chapter vi. the next morning after the encounter on the road, all nature seemed refreshed, rehabilitated. the grass sparkled green with rain, the trees glittered in the sun, the air was pure and cool and sweet. not a cloud darkened the sky. the whole world seemed full of joy and lusty health. one felt that something had occurred, some burden had been withdrawn from the earth, some portentous influence had retired. early bathers were hurrying towards the strand before dr. o'malley was stirring. when he awoke, the events of the previous night at once flashed into his mind. "here's a nice pickle," he thought. "mysterious event--two men half-killed--both deserve to be killed, no doubt--eminent medical man called in--eminent medical man treats with the utmost skill--no confidence beyond confidence in his professional ability reposed in medical man--medical man entrusted with a mission--mission to console beauty--infernal nuisance!--infernal nuisance, tom o'malley! i suppose there's nothing for it but to keep your word, and do half-an-hour's clever lying to this miracle." between seven and eight o'clock the post was delivered in glengowra. "i'll wait till i see if there are any letters," said o'malley to himself. "my appointment as surgeon-general to the forces may at this moment be the property of her majesty's postmaster-general. i suppose if they do offer i must accept. oh, dear! why didn't i think of making love to this paragon? poor girl! it's no laughing matter for her this morning." the post brought no letter for dr. o'malley, and as soon as the carrier had gone by, o'malley put on his hat and set out for the house where mrs. creagh lived. the postman was still in the street, and o'malley gradually overtook him. at the rate the two men walked, allowing for time lost by the postman in delivering letters, the doctor would arrive at mrs. creagh's half-an-hour before the other. he found all stirring at the widow's place. he had some doubt as to whether he should tell the mother first; but, on second consideration, he decided that miss creagh was entitled to the earliest news. he knocked at the door and was shown in. "when nellie entered the room she was dressed in white, the same dress she had worn that day he threw away the flowers and used words instead. of all the things looking fresh to the doctor's eyes that morning she seemed freshest. the bloom of perfect health was on her cheek, the light of perfect health was in her eye. she wore no ornament but her engaged ring and a rose in her hair. "it's a pity," thought the little doctor, "that such a glorious creature as that should ever be troubled or grow old. what are kings and princes and all the powers and vanities of the world--what are all your roman triumphs--compared to such amazing perfection?" "a very early call," he said, "but i was up and i thought i'd look in. it would be impertinence to ask you how you are. i had a little business this way, and, as i said, i thought i'd look in." the girl smiled. her face remained unclouded. "i know a call at this hour is not convenient or considerate, but i had a little thing to say to you." "something to say to me?" she said, with a look of gentle surprise. what could he have to say to her so early? she smiled faintly as though to encourage him; for now it struck her suddenly that what he had to say was not pleasant. "the fact is, a little accident has occurred. i am a doctor, and know what i am saying. it is the merest scratch. you must not be alarmed. there now, sit still." she had risen. all the bloom had now left her cheeks. a little still lingered at her lips. "you may tell me, dr. o'malley. i know he is not dead. i can see that by your face. where is he?" "sit down. my dear young lady, you are going too fast. dead! why he's nearly as well as ever, and will be better than ever in a short time." "tell me all," she said. "may i go to him?" "i haven't seen him this morning yet. better wait till after breakfast." "where is he?" "at maher's." "dr. o'malley, tell me exactly what has happened." something strained and rigid in her voice warned him that he must be quick if he meant to be merciful. "there was a stupid quarrel of some kind," he said, "and he got a slight wound--i assure you not in the least dangerous." "with whom was the quarrel?" "with mr. lavirotte." "mr. lavirotte--mr. lavirotte! did mr. lavirotte _stab_ eugene?" "yes, a mere nothing, though, a pin-hole. you will be angry with me for causing you any uneasiness when you know how slight it is." "why did lavirotte stab eugene?" "because there was some foolish quarrel; i really don't know what. it's ridiculous to call the thing a stab; it's a mere scratch." "is lavirotte hurt?" "yes; he is more hurt than o'donnell. but putting the two hurts together, i assure you they're hardly worth talking of." the straightforward calmness of this girl was terrifying him. he was becoming fidgety, and not well able to gauge the value of the words he used. "you know the cause of the quarrel?" "upon my honour i do not." "you know the cause of the quarrel. we need not mention it now. you see how calm i am. you must tell me the truth. are you sure _neither_ of these men will die?" "i--i----" "mind, _sure?_" "i am as sure as man can be o'donnell will not die." "but lavirotte will?" "lavirotte may. it is impossible to say. i left him unconscious. he is unconscious still." "i will not wait till after breakfast. i will go now. stay a moment--i must tell mother, and get my hat; i will not keep you long." as the girl left the room, the postman turned into that street. as she came into the room again, with her hat and gloves on, the postman walked up the little garden and handed in a letter. it bore the dublin postmark, and was addressed to "miss creagh." her mother, who was in the hall, took the letter into the room where the doctor and the girl were standing. "a letter for you, nellie," the mother said. "will you keep it until you come back? it's from ruth, i think." "i'll take it with me," said the girl, and put the letter in her pocket. "ruth," she said, in the same calm, unmoved voice, "is one of my pupils in dublin. now, dr. o'malley, if you are ready, let us go." "she will not let me go with her," said the mother, in a tone of concern. "i am better alone, mother," said the girl, and she turned and moved out of the room. o'malley followed her, and in a few minutes, which were passed in silence, they were at the hotel. o'malley went upstairs to the room where o'donnell lay. "all going on well?" he said briskly to the patient. he went through the ordinary formalities. "yes," he said, "all going on well. very little fever. we shall have you all right in time for your wedding. you can go away then and pick up strength, amuse yourself for a month or two." "have you seen her?" asked o'donnell. "how did she take it?" "yes, i've seen her. she took it like an angel, like a heroine. i gave her leave to come and see you later." "when do you think she'll be here?" asked the invalid. "oh, at some reasonable time. young ladies don't visit at eight o'clock in the morning. you'll promise to keep yourself quiet when she does come?" "very quiet. did she get a great shock?" "not so much a shock as a turn. will you promise to be very quiet if i let her come soon? the fact is, o'donnell, she will be here in a few minutes. there, of course, you guessed it; she is here already; she came with me. now i'll go down, and she may come up and see you, but you must not talk too much." while the brisk little doctor was preparing o'donnell for the visit of nellie, the latter took out her letter and began to read it. suddenly her face, which had been pallid ever since she heard the bad news, flushed, and she uttered an exclamation of dismay. "such news," she cried, "and on this morning!" the letter ran as follows: "my dear nellie, i told you i would write you if there was any news. there is news, and very bad news, i am sorry to say. papa came home in the middle of the day quite unexpectedly, and told mamma that all was over and we were ruined. i don't think it's known in town yet, but mother told me everyone would know it to-morrow. this is dreadful. mamma and papa are awfully cut up. i write you this news at once, because, of course, dear, you are greatly interested in mr. o'donnell, and his father is in some way mixed up with papa. i hope it will not hurt your _friend_." then followed an account of some family matters, and the signature, "ruth vernon." "i must not say a word of this to eugene now," she thought. "he told me his father was very largely mixed up with mr. vernon. of course i could not tell eugene. i feared there was something wrong there, but i was bound in honour, and by my promise to ruth, not to speak of it to anybody living. when i met him first on the beach, and lavirotte introduced us, i was greatly struck by the coincidence that i should meet him, knowing as i did, that he might suffer greatly if anything happened to mr. vernon." in a few minutes o'malley came down and said she might go up. "he is getting on well," he said cheerfully, "and there's nothing in the world to fear." that day went over quietly at glengowra. early in the afternoon lavirotte recovered consciousness. the police had got scent of the affair, and were making inquiries. in the afternoon news reached the village that the great banking-house of vernon and son had failed for an enormous sum. it was kept from o'donnell, but lavirotte heard it. "i must telegraph to london," he said. "someone must write the telegram for me." the body of the message ran as follows: "vernon and son bankrupt. see about your money at once. am ill, and cannot go over." when the telegram reached london it was delivered to a young woman of twenty years of age, who grew pale and flushed, and flushed and pale again, upon reading it. "what?" she cried, "dominique ill. my darling suffering and i not near him. i will leave to-night for glengowra. stop! i must get money somewhere first. i have none, not a penny--the attorney told me he would have my money to-day. these people are pressing me for the rent. they are hateful creatures. i will go to the solicitor at once. i can pay what i owe then, and go over by to-night's mail." she put on her things. the landlady was waiting in the hall. the landlady would feel obliged if miss harrington would give her the rent now, before going out. she really must insist on being paid now. she could not afford to give six weeks' credit, and she had had an application for the rooms. there were six guineas for the rooms and ten guineas for meat and drink, sixteen in all. would miss harrington pay or leave, please? miss harrington would pay upon her return from her solicitor. oh, that old story about the solicitor! people could not go on believing this old tale for ever. if miss harrington did not bring the money with her, she need not come back that day. whatever she had upstairs would not pay half the bill, and indeed miss harrington ought not to go out with her watch and chain and leave struggling people so pressed for money. the tears were now falling fast from the young girl's eyes. she was alone, friendless, in london. she had not a coin in her possession. she took off her watch and chain and laid them silently upon the hall table. she made a great effort at self-control, and said, pointing to the third finger of her left hand: "i have nothing else of value but this. shall i leave it also? it was given to me by one very dear to me." "it would help," said the landlady, "and i have my husband and children to think of." then she took off the ring--his ring--the ring he had given her to wear until he gave her a simpler one with a holier meaning. she put the ring down on the table beside the watch and chain. then her heart hardened against this woman, and no more tears came, and bowing slightly she said good-bye and left the place, meaning never to return. she went to her solicitor's. he was away. would his managing clerk do? yes, anyone who could give her information about her affairs. the managing clerk had bad news--it was terrible news indeed. they had not been able to get the money from vernon and son. vernon and son were bankrupts according to to-day's reports, and all her money was gone. would there be none of it coming to her? no. owing to the way in which the money was lent there was no chance of getting any back. then she left the office, homeless, friendless, penniless. she had not even a shilling to telegraph to him--her dominique. whither should she go? where should she turn? to the river. chapter vii. dora harrington found herself in the strand, in the full light of a summer's day, homeless, friendless, penniless. her last chance was gone. vernon and son, who held all the money she owned in the world, had failed, and failed in such a way as to leave no prospect of her ever getting a penny out of the five thousand pounds confided to them. she was an orphan, and had spent much of her life out of these kingdoms. she knew nothing of business. mr. kempston, her solicitor, had been appointed her guardian, with full discretionary powers as to the disposal of her property. she and he had not agreed too well, for she had wished to marry lavirotte, and he had opposed her desires. she had wished to get control of her property, and had been denied, and the relations between her guardian and herself had of late been most straitened. only for his good-humour in the matter there would have been an open rupture. he had politely, but firmly, refused to agree to either of her suggestions. she had impulsively, warmly protested against what she called his interference in her affairs. two years ago she had first met lavirotte. she was then a young girl of eighteen. she met him at a concert of amateurs in london. he made love to her, and she fell in love with him. he proposed, and she had accepted. then he explained his position. he was not rich enough to marry. she told him she had a little money--she thought about five thousand pounds. he laughed, and said that might be enough for one, but was no good for two, adding, bitterly, that he did not know how he could possibly advance himself in the world. he was then the only photographer in the small town or village of glengowra, and the chance of his getting into any better way of making money did not seem likely to him. "you sing very well," she said. "you have a good voice, and you know music. have you never thought of music as a profession?" he had never thought of music as a profession until then. he was only twenty-two at the time. he knew very well he could not afford to go to italy or even to the conservatoire. he had no money laid by, nor was there any likelihood of his having money to lay by. then she suggested that he should borrow some of her. to this he would not listen. if he were not able to attain a competency himself, he would never put it in the power of fools to say that he had climbed into a profession aided by anyone, least of all by his future wife. after much talk and expostulation on her side, he was induced to agree to accept the loan of a few hundred pounds. then it was that she went to her solicitor and guardian, told him she had made up her mind with regard to her future, and that the man of her choice was a frenchman, by name lavirotte, and by profession a photographer in the town of glengowra, in ireland. the solicitor was considerably surprised, and said he should not be able to come to any decision for a few days. mr. kempston was a bachelor, and had no means of taking care of his ward beyond the ordinary appliances of his profession. he could not invite her to his bachelor home, and her income was not sufficiently large to warrant him in appointing a lady companion or chaperon of any kind; all he could do in her interest was to find her moderately comfortable lodgings, and see that she regularly received the dividends on her shares in the banking concern of vernon and son. mr. kempston was the sole surviving executor and trustee to her father's will, and in the exercise of his discretion he had invested her five thousand pounds in shares of vernon and son, unlimited. she knew nothing whatever of business, and mr. kempston's managing clerk, in alluding to her money as lent to the bankrupt firm, was simply using popular language, and attorning to the ignorance of business inherent in the female mind. he knew very well that she, being a shareholder, had not only lost all the money she owned, but was liable to the very last shred of her possessions for any further demands which might be made upon her with regard to this failure. he had felt himself fully justified in telling her she had lost all her fortune, that she was, in fact, a pauper; but he had not felt himself called upon to explain that later on she would appear in the light of a defaulter. dora harrington, now an outcast from home, and fortune, and friends, found herself in the great city of london absolutely without resources of any kind. her money was gone, she knew. her guardian and she were no more than business correspondents. her lover's position in glengowra forbade the hope he might ever be able to marry her, and she had within herself no art or knowledge by which she could hope to earn a living. what was now to be done? where should she eat that evening? where should she sleep that night? nowhere! where was nowhere? the river. and yet to be only twenty years of age, and beautiful, as she had been told, and still driven to the river by the mere fact of a few pounds this way or that, seemed terribly hard to one who knew she had done no harm. if he were but near her! but he was poor and hurt, and it would only help his pain if he knew that she had been cruelly hurt by fortune. and yet, how could she live? where could she go? whither should she turn? the world of life seemed closed against her, and only the portals of death seemed fit for her escape. to be so young, to love and be loved, and yet to have no avenue before one but that leading to the ghastly tomb, appeared hard indeed. it is true that of late her dominique had seemed less eager in his haste to write to her, less fervent in his expressions, less tender in his regard. but this may have been owing to his sense of inability to face the future with her maintenance added to the charges upon his slender means. there was no prospect of his advancing himself to any substantial result. he had written her, saying he had devoted much of his time lately to the cultivation of his voice and the art of music. that, in fact, he was now leading tenor in the choir of the church. but he was careful to explain to her that this meant no financial advancement, and that in fact it was to him the source of some small losses of time and money. besides, there was no one in glengowra who knew much of music save the two organists, and the knowledge of even these was not of much use to anyone who had to think purely of voice culture as opposed to instrumentalism. in the present there seemed no germ of hope. the future was a blank, or worse than a blank. and to-day, now, this hour, was an intolerable burden which could not be endured. and yet how was she to remove it? how was she to get from under this crushing sense of ruin? it was plain to her that the ardour of his affection was cooling, not owing to any indifference on his part to herself, but owing to the fact that he recognised, even with the prospect of her five thousand pounds a year hence, the impossibility of their union. now that five thousand pounds had vanished wholly, and the possibility of their marriage had been reduced to an almost certain negative. what should she do? what was there to be done? the answer to this question did not admit of any delay. between this moment and the moment of absolute want was but an hour, two hours, three hours, a condition which must arise absolutely by sunset. she could do nothing. it was possible to walk about the streets, no doubt, until death overtook her; but why should she wait for death. if death were coming, why should she not go and meet him half-way? still it was hard to die. to die now in the full summer, when one was young and full of health, although bankrupt in hope, when the sun was bright, and the air was clear, and great london at its most beautiful. to die now without even the chance of communicating with him, dominique? he, too, was ill, dying perhaps. yes, he was dying. his affection towards her seemed waning. he had no worldly prospect, and her little fortune was wholly gone. if death would only come in some pleasant shape she would greet it gladly; but the notion of wooing death was cold and repugnant. the waters of the river were chill, and full of noises and foul contagion. people had not willed themselves into life; why should they not be allowed to will themselves out of it? for hours she walked along the crowded streets of london. moment by moment faintness and the sense of dereliction grew upon her. the active troubles of the morning had passed away, and were now succeeded by a dull numbing sense of hopelessness. she had no longer the energy to protest against her fate. she moved through the crowded ways without hope, without fear, without anticipation, without retrospection. she had the dull, dead sense of being an impertinence in life, nothing more. she wished that life were done with her. life was now a tyrannical taskmaster, who obliged her to walk on endlessly, with no goal in view; who compelled her to pass among this infinite multitude, debarred of all sympathy with them, of all participation in their joys. at length the sun fell, and minute by minute the busy streets grew stiller. the great human tide of london was ebbing to the cool and leafy suburbs. she found herself in a neighbourhood which she had never before trodden. she had passed st. paul's, going east, and then turned down some dark, deserted way, until she found the air growing cooler and the place stiller. "i must be near the thames," she thought. "fate is directing my steps. the future is a blank. let the present be death." she was now beginning to feel faint from physical exhaustion. she had sought that solitary way because she found she could no longer walk steadily. she had eaten nothing that day. it was now close to midnight. this place seemed so sequestered, so far away from the feet of men, that she felt she might lie down and sleep until the uprousing of the great city. but she thought: "if i sleep here, i shall wake here, and what good will that be to me? if i sleep in the river, i shall wake--elsewhere." she found herself under a square tower. she leaned against the wall, irresolute or faint. she moaned, but uttered no word. in a few moments she placed her hand against the wall and pushed herself from it, as though repelling a final entreaty. then she staggered down the street and into a narrow laneway that led to the river. chapter viii. it was midnight, and as silent as the grave. the quality of the silence was peculiar; for although no sound stirred the air close at hand, there was, beyond the limits at which the ear could detect individual sounds, from minute to minute a tone of deep murmur, which would have been like the noises of a distant sea but that it was pulseless. overhead hung an impenetrable cloud of darkness. there was no moon, no star, no light from the north. looking right overhead, one saw nothing, absolutely nothing. the eyes of the living were, when turned towards the sky, as useless as the eyes of the dead. but casting the eyes down, one could see roofs, and towers, and spires, and domes, dim and ghastly in the veiled underlight, glowing upward from the streets of a vast city. no wind stirred. the broad river, with its radial gleams of light shooting towards the lamps, moved no more than an inland lake into which no stream whispers, from which no stream hurries forth. it was high water. looking down from the giddy height, no moving forms could be seen, a policeman had passed under a little while ago, and none would pass again for a little while more, except some thief on his way to plunder the living, or some poor, troubled, outcast brother on his way to the river to join the silent confraternity of the dead. the leads were slippery with dew and green slime; the battlements were clammy and cold. to look straight down one should raise himself slightly on the parapet of the embrasure. then he saw a perpendicular chasm, two hundred feet deep on his side, a hundred feet deep on the side opposite. on the four sides of the leads were four such chasms, and in all of them lay the dark heavy gloom of that summer night, save where once in each cleft there burned a fiery point--the gas-lamp--to scare the unlawful and light the harmless through the silent ways--part of the mighty city-labyrinth lying below. on the leads it was impossible to see anything. from parapet to parapet, from battlement to battlement, from embrasure to embrasure was to the eye a purposeless void. it was impossible to guide the movements except by the sense of touch; for although when one gazed downward on the roofs below, the chequered glow hanging above the street gave the eye purpose, when one drew back from the parapet all was dark, the dull reflection of the city's light did not reach upward far enough to illume the open space within the four walls. yet there was life and motion on those leads, in that darkness set in the solitude. a heavy, slow tread could be heard now and then, and now and then groans, and now and then words of protest and anger, bitter reproach, tremulous entreaty, fierce invective, and passionate lamentation. the voice was high and quavering like that of a woman overwrought, or a man overwrought or broken down by sorrows or by years. then these sounds would cease, the footsteps, the groans, the words, and the silence of a blind cave in which no water dripped, and which harboured only the whispering and confounded echoes of a far-off stream, fell upon the place and filled out the measure of its isolation. the slow measured tread of the policeman broke in once more upon the listening ear, gained, reached its height, and was lost in the still ocean of darkness. "i am accursed. nothing favours me. all is against me. no wind! no rain! wind and rain are my only friends. they are the only things which can now be of service to me, and for a week there has been neither." the querulous, complaining voice was hushed. the shuffling feet moved rapidly across the leads. then all was still once more. stop! what is that? in the street below an echo to the wail above? no words can be heard, yet the purport of the voice is unmistakable. the listener catches the import of those tones. he has heard similar sounds before. "it is a woman," he says. "men never whine here, and at this hour, going that way! in a quarter of an hour it will be all over with her. a quarter of an hour! how long have i been here, slaving and toiling day and night, carrying away bit by bit what lies between me and affluence, and to think that in a quarter of an hour, from one bell of the clock of st. paul's to the next, i might find an end to all my hopes, and fears, and labours, and lie at peace, as far as this world is. hark! why does she pause beneath? she cannot suspect, no one can suspect why i am here. all the dreary months of terror and sweat that i have spent here never drew from me one word, one sign which could give a clue." the figure of a woman in the street below could be seen dimly on the other side of the way. she leaned against the wall, irresolute or faint. she moaned, but uttered no word. in a few moments she placed her hand against the wall and pushed herself from it as though repelling a final entreaty. then she staggered down the street and into a narrow laneway that led to the river. "she is gone," said the voice in the darkness. "she is taking all her troubles with her to the greasy thames. why should not i, too, take all my troubles thither and end my care? a quarter past! before the half-hour strikes, i and my secret, my great secret, might be gone for ever. has she a secret, or is it only the poor want of bread and shelter, or is it unkindness, a hope destroyed, love outraged, affection slighted? why should i inquire?" from the narrow lane into which she had struck, a moan reached the listener's ears. "she is in no great haste. this is not the despair of sudden ruin to life or hopes. her misfortunes have crawled gradually upon her, with palsied feet and blows that maddened because they never ceased--not brave blows that drive one furious and to swift despair. _i_ am the victim of this slow despair. why should i drag out wearily, toilfully, in terrors that i make myself, the end of my old life?" again the woman groaned. "curse her! can she not go? who minds a woman more or less in the world? the world is overstocked with them. no one is here to pity her. why should she pity herself? it would be a mercy to her to take her and lead her to the brink and push her in. why, it would shorten all her pains. curse her, there she groans again. no rain, no wind to help me, and only these groans for a goad to my despair. i will not hear them any longer. my own troubles are more than i can bear. stay! that is a lucky thought. i'll go down and tell her that the police are here, coming for her, and that she has not a moment to spare." again the woman's voice was heard. "forty years ago i could not take that voice so coldly, for all women were then to me the sisters of one; my sweetheart then, my wife, the mother of my children, now the tenant of the neglected grave miles and miles and miles away out there. now all the children dwell in houses such as hers, and with her and them went out the life of me. i never cared to see the younger brood, for when my wife died it seemed to me that all who loved me, or whom i loved, came to me but to die, and so i steeled my heart against the new brood and slunk into myself, shut myself out from them and all the world, and took to lonely ways and solitude until i came to this." for a while no sound reached the ear. at last there was a sob, not a woman's voice this time, but a man's. "i hardened my heart against them, and the world seemed to have hardened its heart against me. i am lonely and alone. there is no wind. there is no rain. there has been no wind or rain for weeks. for weeks i have been ready for either, and either will not come. twice a day the river gains its full height, asking me to go with it out of my loneliness and my toil. heaven will not send rain or wind to me. heaven took my wife and happiness. heaven sent the river to me. i have often thought of going. i cannot leave this place and live. i cannot stay in this place and live. hark! i hear the first rippling of the river as it turns its footsteps towards the sea. what sound is that? she! five minutes by the clock and all will be over with her. what? striking half-past? idiot that i am! why should i burden myself with the despairs of another hour? i shall await the five minutes. for i should not care to be--disturbed. i should not care to hear or see--anything of her. i am alone. i would go alone. i am in no humour for company. i am too big with my own griefs to care for those of others. i have feasted on sorrow until i have grown enormous, colossal, distended beyond human shape. let my great secret die with me. let me die alone. i am a giant in the land of woes. i am giant despair. she has closed the door behind her ere this. it is time for me to knock. i have no farewells to take. that is lucky. not one heart in all london will beat one beat more or one beat less when i am gone." the feet trod the leads more vigorously than before. then a step was heard descending the ladder. chapter ix. st. prisca's tower stands alone in porter street, hard by the thames, on the middlesex side, and between blackfriars bridge and the tower of london. it is all that now remains, all that remained on that night, of st. prisca's church. city improvements had swept away the main portion of the building, and on that silent summer night, when that man descended from the leads of the tower, this square structure rose up, a mighty isolated shaft, two hundred feet above the pavement of the street and the three small alleys which skirted its other sides. in a short time after the voice ceased finally on the roof, the figure of a man--lionel crawford--emerged from the gloomy darkness of the tower door, and stood in the light of the lamp. lionel crawford was a man of sixty-five years of age, bent in the shoulders, and a little feeble in the legs. his walk was shuffling and uncertain, but still he seemed capable of great physical effort, if he chose to exert himself. his face was dark, and of a leathery colour. his eyes were dark, almost black, and protruded a little. his mouth was large, the lips full and heavy, the teeth still white and sound. the forehead was broad and high, and strongly marked with wrinkles, perpendicular and horizontal, dividing the forehead into four parts. two smooth, wide, arch-shaped spaces stood up over the brows, and above them, slightly retreating, two smooth convex expanses. his hands were large, ill-made, knotty. in the lamp-light he took off the soft felt hat he was wearing and disclosed a head bald to the apex, but having still around its lower edges and behind a thick covering of curly black hair. he was dressed in clothes which had been those of a gentleman at one time, but were now nothing more than the meanest device for covering the body and keeping it warm. when lionel crawford had stood in the light of the lamp for a short time he drew himself up to his full height, inflated his lungs, and looked around defiantly. to judge by his face, defiance was an attitude familiar to his mind. but here was no one to see it, only the callous walls, the imperturbable night. from the top of the tower he had marked the way taken by the woman. it was a continuation of the narrow alley into which the door of the tower opened. it led directly to the river, and in order to reach it from where he stood it was necessary to cross porter street. once more the measured tread of the policeman was heard approaching. lionel crawford drew himself back into the deep doorway of the tower, and waited until the footsteps had passed the end of the alley and died away in the distance. then he issued forth, turned to his left out of the doorway, crossed porter street with a brisk step, and plunged into the narrow way the woman had taken. before he had gone ten yards the place became as dark as a vault; it was impossible to see a yard ahead, and only that he knew the place well, he could not have proceeded without feeling his way. no ordinary man in an ordinary state of mind would, at such an hour, venture into that narrow, dark, forbidding way. but lionel crawford was an exceptional man, in an abnormal state of mind. from the time he left the top of the tower until he obliterated himself in the darkness, his mind had been in a dull lethargic state. he fully intended putting an end to his existence that night. that was his only thought. he should walk down to the end of that narrow lane. at the end of that narrow lane was a wharf, and from the edge of this wharf to the surface of the water he had only a few feet to fall. then all would be as good as over, for he could not swim, and it was not likely--the chance was one to a thousand--there would be anyone there to attempt a rescue. notwithstanding his familiarity with the place, he abated his pace a little and walked more with his old shuffling gait than when he had the light to guide him. all at once he stumbled and fell. "what is this!" he cried, as he tried to rise. his feet were entangled in something soft, which yielded this way and that, and for a while hindered him from rising. at last he rose, and leaning against the wall for breath, rubbed the sweat from his forehead. his faculties were numbed, and for a few moments he scarcely knew where he was or whither he had been going. the first thing he clearly recalled was that he had entered winter lane. then he realised the fact that in the dark he had tripped over something now lying at his feet. "but," he thought, "what can be here? what can be lying here at such an hour? i was down here to-day and the place was clear. now i remember i had intended going to the river. i had calculated on no one being at hand to prevent me. fool that i was! how could i have forgotten the watchman of the wharf. i dared not throw into the river the stones i get up with so much labour, lest he might hear me and hand me over to the police." he now was standing over what had tripped him. he stooped down and felt carefully, slowly, around him. his hand touched a face--a smooth, beardless face--the hat of a woman. what was this? a woman lying prostrate here, and at such an hour. he seized the form by the shoulders, and shook it. "what are you doing here?" he said. "wake up. what are you doing here?" there was a slight motion in the form of the woman. she made an effort to rise. he helped her. "what do you mean, woman," he said angrily, "by going to sleep in such a place at such a time, and tripping up an old man who is on his way to--his friend?" the woman answered in a feeble voice: "i don't remember exactly how it was. i did not go to sleep. i think i must have fainted." "but this is no place for you to be, woman, at this hour of night." "i did not mean to stop here," she said. "i meant to go to--the river." "_you_ meant to go to the river--to my friend, the river? so did _i_. you faint and trip me up. that may be an omen of good luck to both of us. come, although there is neither rain nor wind i feel in better humour now. are you hungry?" "i have no friend--no money." "are you young?" "twenty years of age." "too young to think of death. come with me. it cannot have been a mere accident that brought us two together. come with me, my child. i am old enough to be your grandfather. stop!" he cried, suddenly. "what is that? did you notice anything?" "no," answered the woman feebly. "do you know it _rains?_" he said. the tone of despondency at once left his voice, and was succeeded by one of exultation. "i told you," he said, "we did not meet for nothing. i have been praying and cursing for rain. i meet you, and here the rain is. twenty," he said, "and tired of life! nay, nay; that will not do. you have a sweetheart? i was young myself once." "yes." "and he is false?" "no, no. he is ill and poor." "i am alone, old, childless, friendless. you have stopped me on my way to the river, and brought the rain. one day, at any hour, i may be rich. if i live to win my gold, i shall share with you and your lad. it would be a piteous thing that a sweetheart of twenty should die. come with me; cheer up and come with me." he drew her arm through his and led her in the direction of the tower. "sweetheart," he said, "it makes one young again to think of saving love. i cannot see your face or figure; but all are sweethearts at twenty. what is his name?" "he is french," said she. "french! what is his name?" "dominique lavirotte." "dominique lavirotte!" chapter x. when lavirotte returned to consciousness, the day after the encounter on the road, he seemed to have but a hazy notion of what had occurred, and yet to have known that caution was necessary. he found one of the women of the house seated in the room. he asked her had he been hurt, and how he had been hurt. she said: "i don't exactly know. mr. o'donnell and you came here together. he is hurt, too." "much?" "his shoulder is cut, i believe. they tell me he is not very bad. maybe you know something about it?" "my head is hurt," he said, "and i cannot remember well. there is no danger he will die, is there?" "the doctor says no, but that he'll want good caring." then for a long time lavirotte was silent. "what does eugene say about it?" he asked at length. "does he know how he was hurt or how i was hurt?" "they did not tell me. i do not know." "will you take my compliments to mr. o'donnell, and ask him if he remembers what happened?" "i don't think i'd get much for my trouble if i did. the police have been here already trying to find out about the matter, and mr. o'donnell refused to tell them anything." "refused to tell them anything! dear eugene! dearest eugene. most loyal of friends! i always loved him." then there was another long interval of silence. "who is with my dear friend eugene?" "i don't know who is with him now. his father and mother were here early in the day. they have bad news i am told. some great man in dublin is closed." "some great man in dublin. did you hear his name?" "no; but they say it will be very bad for old mr. o'donnell." "will you ask mr. maher to come this way?" when the landlord entered, he said: "who is the great man that has failed in dublin?" "mr. vernon." "ah, mr. vernon. so i guessed. this will be bad for the poor o'donnells." "there are other things bad for the poor o'donnells as well," said the landlord, bitterly. "i am sincerely sorry for my dear friends. you know, mr. maher, they are the dearest friends i have on earth." "ah!" cried the other sarcastically. "i must telegraph to london. someone must write the telegram for me." "i will," said the landlord, grudgingly. "you are always so kind," said the invalid; "always so kind! you irish are, i believe, the kindest-hearted race in all the world." "and sometimes we get nice pay for our pains." then the telegram to dora harrington was written. "have mr. and mrs. o'donnell left, or are they with their son yet?" "mr. o'donnell is gone back to rathclare. mrs. o'donnell is with mr. eugene. it's a sorrowful business." "and nobody else?" "eh?" "and there is nobody else with mr. eugene o'donnell?" "i say it's a sorrowful business." "dreadful. i am profoundly sorry." "eh?" "a sorrowful business, i say, about the failure of the bank." "eh?" "my dear maher, you are growing deaf. you ought to see to this matter at once. dr. o'malley is a very clever man. you ought to mention the matter to him." "that'll do, now. you're bad, and i don't want to say anything to you. but my ears are wide enough to hear what they say." "who are _they_ that _say_, and what do _they say?_" "_they say_ that you stabbed mr. eugene o'donnell, one of the pleasantest gentlemen that ever put a foot in glengowra." "but he himself denies it." "he doesn't." "when the police came he would not tell them anything." "more fool he! but there, there--i won't say any more. this is against dr. o'malley's orders. he said you were not to be allowed to speak, or excite yourself. you may say what you like now, mr. lavirotte; i'll say no more. i'll obey dr. o'malley." "one more question and i have done. is there anyone but mrs. o'donnell with eugene?" "yes, miss creagh." "thanks; i am very much obliged to you. i will trouble you no more now." when the servant returned to the room, he said to her: "what a kind man your master is. notwithstanding his belief that i made an attack upon mr. eugene o'donnell, he was good enough to write a telegram for me, and to tell me some of the town gossip. i hear that miss creagh is in the sick room. i want you to do me a great favour, if you please. take my compliments to miss creagh, and say i would feel greatly obliged if she would favour me with a few moments' conversation." the attendant drew herself up. "it's not likely," she said, "miss creagh would come near you. when i was coming up, mr. maher told me you were not to talk or excite yourself." "do as i tell you, woman," he said sharply, "or i will get up out of this bed and dash myself out of the window, and you will be the cause of my death, and have to answer for it." the servant was cowed. she rose timidly and left the room. almost immediately the door reopened, and ellen creagh entered, followed by the servant. her pallor was now gone, and although her cheeks and lips had not the depth of bloom usually on them, she looked nearly her own self. she smiled faintly as she approached the bed on which lavirotte lay. "you wish to speak to me, and i have come." "yes," he said, "i wish to speak to you. may it be with you alone?" he looked at the servant in the doorway. she motioned the servant to withdraw, and then came close to the bed. "miss creagh," he said, "they tell me he will get better. they tell me he has given no account of what took place last night to--the police. has he told you what occurred?" "he has," she said; "to me, and to me only. he said to his mother that the secret was one concerning three only." "he and i being two, and you the third?" "yes," she said. "what do you wish me to do?" "first of all to forgive me, if you can." "i forgive you freely. he says you must have been mad." "i was," he said, "stark, raving mad. i was not responsible for what i did. i am in the most grievous despair about the matter." "he is sorry he injured you; but it was in self-defence." "_he_ injure me! not he. what put that into his mind? _i_ injured him. i will not pain you by telling you what i did. it was not i did it; it was a maniac, a demon. you must tell him quickly he did not injure me. in self-defence, in trying to guard himself against an accursed madman, he sought to throw me. we both fell close to a rock at the end of the cove road, and my head struck the rock. you will tell him this, will you not, miss creagh? it will relieve his mind. it will relieve the mind of my dear friend, my dearest eugene." "he will be glad to hear he did not do it, but sorry to know you are so much hurt. he does not blame you at all. he says his great anxiety to be up is that he may come to you and shake your hand." the tears stood in lavirotte's eyes. "god bless my boy," he cried. "god bless my boy, eugene. i am not worthy to know him. i am not worthy to know you. i am not worthy to live. i am not fit to die. i am an outcast from earth, from heaven, and from hell." "just before i left him to come and see you"--the young girl's colour heightened slightly--"i took his hand to say good-bye to him, even for this little time," she smiled. "i took his hand in mine; in this hand," holding out her right. "he said to me, 'you will tell lavirotte i am sorry i cannot shake his hand.'" she stretched out her right hand to his right hand lying on the counterpane. "if i take your hand now, it will be the nearest thing to touching his." "yes," said lavirotte eagerly, "it will be touching a hand that is dearer to him than his own." he took the warm white hand in his, and raised it to his lips reverentially. "now, the favour i have to ask of you is this: it far exceeds in magnitude the one i first thought of asking you." "what is it?" she said, briskly. "i am sure i shall be able to grant it." "you will ask him to let me be his best man at your wedding." again the young girl coloured. "i will, if you wish it, and i am sure he will consent." "will you ask him, for then i shall have something to say to you?" she left the room and returned in a few minutes. "nothing will give him greater pleasure. he is delighted at the notion. he would have asked you only----" here she paused. "i understand," he said. "only for what occurred once between you and me. i am told there is bad news, the worst news, of vernon and son to-day. do you believe in fate?" "i do not believe in fate." "i do," he said, "implicitly. i believe it was fated that you and i should never be more than friends, and that you and he should be everything to one another. and now fate appears to me in a new aspect. there is a chance--a very slender one, i admit--nay, a wonderful, foolish chance that i may one day come into some money, not in the ordinary way of succession, but by a romantic event. i will be perfectly frank with you. i will make a confession to you which i have made to no one else here. it will damage me more in your opinion than it could in the opinion of anyone else living. when i said those words to you that day in the boat, i was engaged to be married to someone now in london." the girl started. "you--you were not serious that day, you know. you only meant to pay me a compliment." "no, no," the wounded man cried quickly. "i meant ten thousand times more than i said. but there--let us drop that subject for ever. i am only too glad to think of it no more. i offered you my hand when it was not mine to give, and when you promised to give yours to another i tried to kill him. no man could have been baser or more unworthy than i. and yet there is a use in my baseness, for has it not given him an opportunity of forgiving me--fine-hearted gentleman as he is--and you of showing me that you are the noblest as well as the most beautiful woman alive?" "you are too hard upon yourself, and too generous to--us," the girl said, colouring. "i must not stay if you will talk in this fashion." "yes, stay by all means," he said, "for i have not done speaking yet. i will say no more on that topic. i have another secret to tell you. it will take some time. it is not unpleasant. it is, in fact, connected with the only property i own, and the possible consequence of my owning it. it is situated in london. it is only the tower of an old church--st. prisca's, in porter street, by the thames. i own that tower. it was built many hundred years ago. the rest of the church has been pulled down----" "here is dr. o'malley," said the girl. "miss creagh," cried the doctor in astonishment. "you here!" chapter xi. mr. william vernon was a venerable, benevolent-looking man of seventy years of age. his hair was white, his figure slightly stooped, his manner gentle, kindly, plausible. until the crash came, everyone believed he was the most prosperous man in the city of dublin. he had three fine private houses--one in dublin, a seaside residence at bray, and a castle in monaghan. his income was believed to be somewhere between twenty and forty thousand a year, and it was believed that he lived well within it. his savings were said to be enormous, and the general conviction was that he could retire in splendour on his money, invested at home and abroad. now all was confusion and dismay among those connected with him in business. so great was the excitement, two policemen had to be told off to guard the door of the bank. men and women, too, who were depositors or shareholders, refused to believe the news, and came down to the bank to see with their own eyes confirmation of the report. there, sure enough, were the massive oak, iron-studded doors closed in their faces, never again to be opened. as the hours rolled on, the depth and breadth of the calamity increased steadily. people who were supposed to have had nothing whatever to do with the bank divulged, in the excitement of the moment, the secret that they were shareholders or depositors. the credit of the whole city was shaken. who could be safe when the great house of vernon and son had collapsed? before nightfall three other large houses had suspended payment. they had gone down into the vortex. then it began to be realised that not only had the shareholders lost all their money invested in shares, but that every man who, as principal or trustee, held even one of these shares, was liable to the last shilling he had in the world. it had over and over again been suggested by outside shareholders that the business should be formed into a limited company. william vernon always shook his head at this, and said that if you limit the responsibility you limit the enterprise, and so reduce the profits. they were paying twelve per cent. on capital--did they want to cut down the earnings to eight? he assured them it would cripple the whole concern seriously, and he, for one, would retire from any responsibility if such a course were urged upon him. it had been suggested to him, in advocacy of this scheme, that limiting the company would enormously diminish the risk of the shareholders in case disaster should overtake the bank. he had replied to this with a shrug of his shoulders, a smile of half pity, half amusement, and said: "if you have any fear, why not sell out? if you have any confidence in my word of honour, you need have no occasion for fear." mr. william vernon had the reputation of unblemished honour. he was, moreover, an exceedingly pious man, belonging to one of the most rigid forms of dissent. no one questioned his word; no one sold out; and now all were ruined. mr. vernon had married late in life. mrs. vernon was twenty-five years his junior. his elder daughter, ruth, was now fifteen years of age; his younger, miriam, twelve. he had but these two children. mrs. vernon was a large, florid, comely woman, who, twenty years ago, when she was married, had been considered a beauty. she was now no longer beautiful. she was a well-favoured matron of forty-five, with an exaggerated notion of the importance of her husband, her children, and herself. he was courteous, insinuating, with a dash of infallibility. she was dignified, not to say haughty, with a great notion of the high position she occupied in the social world. she was not harsh or cantankerous with servants, but she never for one moment allowed them to think they were anything but servants--that is to say, beings of an immeasurably inferior order. during the time miss creagh had been in mrs. vernon's house as resident governess to her two daughters, the mistress had shown the governess respect in the form of conscious condescension. she had never for a moment allowed anyone to slight nellie, and even she herself had never slighted her. but, then, she never was by any means genial or cordial, or anything but rigidly polite; and rigid politeness is the perfection of rudeness. nellie had not, however, been unhappy in that house. she had conceived a great respect for mr. vernon, and had grown to love the two children. ruth was her favourite. the elder girl was flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, fair and pink, with a tendency to sentimental poetry and enthusiasm, and with a most excellent heart. miriam, on the other hand, was a brunette, brown-haired, brown-eyed, vivacious, invincibly loquacious, with a thorough contempt for everything that was not material to comfort, and with a heart which beat so fast for its own excitements, that it rarely had time to concern itself with anything else. mr. vernon had that summer postponed their going to their house at bray a month beyond the usual time. the crash had not come upon him unexpectedly. he and a few others knew for some time that it could not be avoided, but it might be put off. he was loath to leave dublin; and as his family never went to bray without him, he thought it better they should not go now, as if they did it might cause talk. bray is but half-an-hour or so from dublin; but he did not like to sleep so far away from the bank, for now important telegrams were coming at all hours of the day and night, and the delay of an hour might hasten the disaster. the immediate cause of the ruin was the failure of a trader in belfast, who owed the bank considerable sums of money, and had been encouraged by mr. vernon to play a risky business on the chance of making large profits. in fact, the relation between the belfast and dublin houses would not bear the light of day, and the large profits which, it was said, enabled the belfast house to pay a fancy price for money, had all been taken out of the capital lent by the bank. the belfast house had, some years ago, an extraordinary stroke of luck. it legitimately doubled its income in a year. it depended almost wholly on its export trade. it sent most of its goods to india and the colonies. during the good year it could not manufacture as quickly as it could sell. then it borrowed in order to increase its manufacturing powers. it built and set up new machinery. it exported more than it had orders for and stored abroad. this went on for some years, the output being in excess of the demands of the prosperous year, the sales less than before the prosperous year. the result of this could be seen--bankruptcy. nothing else was talked of in dublin all that day, all that night, in the clubs, in the hotels, between the acts at the theatre, in the private houses, in the tramcars, in the streets. no class seemed to be unaffected by the gigantic catastrophe. widows and orphans were ruined, trustees rendered penniless. commercial fabrics which had cost generations to build up, were now tottering to the fall. all this dreadful day mr. vernon sat in his study, a large back room on the first floor of his fitzwilliam square house. he now fully realised his own position. he had directly ruined hundreds, and indirectly, through them, thousands. for years the bank had practically been in a bankrupt state. for years the fact had been kept secret by means of false balance-sheets. for years the pious, bland william vernon had been the author of a gigantic fraud. what was coming now to him? an indictment? imprisonment? were a common prison and common prison diet coming to him in his seventieth year? all this time that he had been issuing false balance-sheets he had lived in splendour. he had kept his three houses, his horses, his domestic servants, his gardeners, his grooms, his coachmen. he had given dinners which were the talk, the admiration, the envy of dublin. his wines were the finest. he had a french cook; he had footmen of the shapeliest forms and politest manners. was he about to have, instead of his three stately houses--the city jail? instead of his dining-room--a prison cell? instead of his courteous footman--a gruff turnkey? instead of cliquot--gruel? instead of respect, honour, reverence--contumely, scorn, and curses? the present was bad enough. the future looked much worse. he did not allow himself to waste any of his energies in grieving for those who had lost through him. he said to himself: "they speculated and lost. they only lost money. i have lost all the money i once had, all the reputation, and now in my old age it is not unlikely i may lose my liberty. i have done the best i could. had i reduced my establishment, suspicion would have been aroused at once, and the blow would have come much sooner. if i had earlier exposed the position of the bank, ruin would have come then just as now. if after the first loss in belfast i sanctioned wild, mad speculation, it was in the desperate hope of recovering what had already been sunken. what i did, i did for the best. o'donnell will, of course, be the heaviest sufferer, but he has had his twelve per cent. for many years. i dare say he will not be able to save a penny out of his whole fortune. neither shall i out of mine." just as he came to the end of these self-justification reflections, these comfortable sophisms, mrs. vernon entered the room, dressed for going out. "going out, jane?" he cried all in astonishment. "yes," she said. "the house is so dull, i thought i'd take the brougham and call upon the lawlors." "take the _brougham_," he cried, "and call upon the lawlors! don't you know the lawlors are shareholders in the bank, and that they, too, are ruined?" "but," said mrs. vernon, drawing herself up, "the lawlors were old friends of mine. i knew them before you did. we were children together. they will be glad to see me, although you have been unfortunate in business." "glad to see you! woman, they would thrust you out of doors with curses. when people are ruined they do not pay much heed to friendship, nor are they over nice in the way they express their anger. as to the brougham," he said, "i have been stupid not to tell you, but i cannot think of everything. we could never with decency use the brougham, or anything of the sort, again." he threw himself back in his chair and laughed harshly for a few seconds. "i see nothing to laugh at in this disgrace and worry," said his wife, who thought herself the most injured person of all. "i am sure i am very sorry for you, william, when i consider the respectable position, the eminent position you held. i am sure you cannot say i was extravagant, or that i brought up the children extravagantly. you told me yesterday that my five thousand pounds are secured by the marriage settlement. why should i lose my old friends any more than the money my father gave me when we were married?" "because," he said, laughing harshly again, "you married what the world will agree to call a fraudulent scoundrel. when i laughed a moment ago at the thought of the brougham, the idea which occurred to me was--it is rather painful. shall i tell you?" "yes, you had better tell me, i suppose. _everything_ is painful now." "well," he said, "i thought that the next member of the family likely to drive would be myself, and the next vehicle in which i was likely to drive would be a black maria." "black maria, william," she said. "i do not understand you." "black maria, my dear," he explained, "is slang for a prison van. what is the matter, jane? you seem weak. help, outside there, mrs. vernon has fainted." the door opened. a footman entered. "if you please, sir, the brougham is at the door." the old man started and looked up, became suddenly pallid. "what did you say, james?" "i said, sir, that the brougham was at the door." "ha! ha! ha! as i live, james, i thought you said the black maria. fetch mrs. vernon's maid instantly. the mistress has fainted." chapter xii. when, on the night after the failure of vernon and son, lionel crawford heard from dora harrington the name of dominique lavirotte, and repeated it after her, he was filled with amazement. "this is the most extraordinary thing," he said, "that ever happened to me in all my life. dominique lavirotte," he repeated for the second time. "i am amazed!" "do you know him?" the girl asked. "well! why, he owns the place i am taking you to. it isn't much of a place. it is only the tower of an old church. they are always talking of buying it from him and taking it down. but you see it isn't big enough to give room for building a warehouse or store on the ground it occupies, and it is impossible to take in any other building with it. but come, sweetheart," he said; "when did you eat last?" "i--i had some breakfast." "but breakfast is a long way since. you are young, and must be hungry. here is the door of the tower." he took out a large key, and having turned the lock, thrust the door into the darkness. "now," he said, leading her in, "be very careful; there is a hole here. stand where you are until i find the lantern and matches." he groped about, and in a few seconds had lighted the candle in the lantern. then he took the young girl by the hand, and said: "this way." by the light of the lantern she could see that they were walking on two planks, which together were not more than eighteen inches wide. beyond the planks was a hole, the depth of which she could not guess. "don't be afraid," he said. "keep close to the wall and you are all right." the girl shuddered. she, who a few minutes ago was on her way to the river, now shrank from the notion of death. had she not met someone who knew her lover, someone who knew dominique, her darling dominique? this was to get a new lease of life, a new interest in worldly things, a fresh-filled cup from the fountain of hope. she clung closely to the wall, and followed the old man through the gloom. they reached a corner, and here found a ladder. "up this ladder," he said; adding, "what shall i call you? what is your name?" "dora," she said. "dora harrington." "then, dora, my dear child," he said, "keep close to the wall on this ladder, too, for there is no hand-rail, as you see." they mounted the ladder. it ran along two sides of the tower. then they found themselves on the first loft. the head of the ladder was unprotected by any rail. two other lofts they reached in a similar manner, she clinging closely to the wall. "this is my sitting-room," he said, with a laugh. "it is not very wide or long, but it is lofty, airy, and, although there is not much furniture, and the little i have is the worse of the wear, it will have a great interest for you, for it belongs to him, mr. lavirotte. sit down here, now, on this couch. the spring is not so good as it once was. you will have a cup of tea and some nice bread-and-butter. that little table over there is my kitchen. see," he said, "we do not take long to light the fire, and we shall have boiling water in a few minutes. boiling water," he said, "and the prospect of a nice cup of tea is better for you, sweetheart, than the cold thames. the prospect of--of--ugh! let us forget that unpleasant folly of ours." he had kindled the lamp in a small oil-stove, and set the kettle on the stove. "and now," he said, "while the water is boiling you shall tell me as much as you please about yourself." she was very tired, and for the present the mere rest was food and drink to her. it was pleasant to sit there, half-tranced with fatigue, to sit upon this couch which belonged to him, in the presence of someone who knew him, and with the prospect of succour from a friendly hand. the furniture in the loft was not, indeed, handsome. it never had been. when lavirotte lived in london he had furnished a couple of rooms, and upon leaving them found that he could get little or nothing for the furniture. so he carted it away to st. prisca's tower in porter street, and there it was when, at the request of lionel crawford, he let the tower to him. in the loft where dora harrington now found herself there were three ordinary chairs, one arm-chair, a couch, and two tables, besides the "kitchen." the walls were rough, unplastered brick. the roof of the loft was unceiled. under the table was a small piece of carpet. "my own room," said the old man, "is above this, and this shall be yours for to-night, and as long as you wish after, until you get a better one, or until he comes for you." "how can i thank you for your kindness? may i ask your name?" "lionel crawford," said the old man. "i live in the room above this, because my business requires me to be near the roof by night." "your business requires you," she said, "to be near the roof by night." by this time he had made the tea, and she had drunk a little, and begun to be refreshed. "can it be you are an astronomer?" "no, no," he said. "i am no astronomer, and yet all the matters of weather interest me greatly. the rain to-night may be worth a fortune to me." "you are a farmer, perhaps," she said. "or no, that cannot be; but you own land?" "not a rood. although i say i am much interested in the weather, i am neither interested in growing anything, nor in meteorology beyond the winds and the rains. by day i get as far away from the sun as i can, as close to the rich centre of the earth as i may. by night i aspire, i seek the highest point i can reach, and there i worship the clouds and the winds that they may befriend me." the old man was now sitting in the easy-chair, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on vacancy. he had a weird, possessed expression. he seemed to be looking at things far off, and yet clearly within the power of his vision. he seemed like one in a dream, and yet his words were as consequential and coherent as the reasoning in euclid. his might have been the head of an alchemist, or of some other man who dwelt with unascertained potentialities, with mystic symbols and orders and rites, with things transcending the ken of vulgar flesh, with subtleties of matter known to few, rare drugs, rich spices, the virtues of gems, the portents of earth and air, the mystic language of the stars, the music of the spheres. "and when it is winter," asked the girl, "you wish, i suppose, for sunshine and calms?" "no," he said. "never. always for rain and wind; wind and rain. wind in the daytime, and rain by night, winter and summer; all the year round." "and may i ask you," said the girl, timidly, "what you are?" "when i met you this evening," he said, in the same tone as he had employed since he became abstracted, "i was giant despair." "and now," she said, "what are you?" "the rain and you have come," he said. "i am now the humble disciple of hope." "and, sir, may i ask, have you no friends, no relatives?" "none that i know of," he said. "all my children are, i think, dead. my wife is dead. my best friends are the dead." "but surely, sir," she said, "there is among the living someone in whom you take an interest?" "no; no one. i am a client of the dead. if any good ever comes to me in life it will be out of the buried past. i doubt if good will ever come. i am too old and spent. i was too old and spent when i began my labours here. for years i had my great secret hidden in my breast. i nursed it, i fed it, i dreamed over it. for years i lived in this neighbourhood hoping some day or other to gain admission to this tower. i could not find out who owned it. it pays no rates or taxes. it is not registered in any name that i could ever find out. i had begun to think i should never get any nearer the goal, when one day as i was without the walls i saw a young man come up, thrust a key into the lock of the great door, and try in vain to move the rusty bolt. i watched him with consuming eagerness----" "this was some time ago?" "years, two or three years. i drew up to the young man and said: 'i fear, sir, it is a tougher job than you bargained for.' i offered to get him a locksmith, and in less than an hour we got in. the young man told me he had come from abroad----" "what was the young man's name?" asked the girl. "dominique lavirotte," said the old man, in the voice of a seer busy with things remote. "my dominique," she whispered; "my darling dominique." the old man went on without heeding the interruption. he had forgotten the connection between the girl and the man. "the stranger told me," said old crawford, "that although he had lived some time in england, he had now been for years abroad. this was all the property he had in the world, and he had never seen it before. he understood it was absolutely valueless, and he had merely come to see it now out of curiosity. 'for,' he said, 'is it not strange that in the city of london, where the rent of land is six shillings a square foot, i should own some for which i cannot get a penny the square yard? i wish i could get someone to buy it,' he said. "'you must not think of selling it,' said i. 'i have been waiting here years in the hope of meeting you.' "'why?' he cried in astonishment. 'do you want to buy?' "'no,' i said. 'may i speak to you a while in private?' the locksmith was standing by. then i took this handsome young man aside, and having made him swear he would not reveal the matter to anyone----" "what?" cried the girl, leaning forward eagerly. "that is _my_ secret," said the old man. chapter xiii. foe a while dora harrington and lionel crawford were silent, he still with the look of an enraptured visionary on his face, she perplexed, wondering, disturbed. what could this secret be which he, the man to whom she was engaged, never told her? one thing appeared plain to her, it was not a secret in which dominique was directly concerned. it was the old man's secret, communicated by him to her lover. yet it was not pleasant to think that dominique, who seemed so candid, so outspoken, so open, should have something which he had concealed from her. the notion of a secret was cold and dire. he had one: he might have many, as he had never even told her that he owned this queer tower, standing all alone in those dark, forbidding ways by the river. of late dominique had not written to her as often or as affectionately as of old. true, he was not in good spirits about his worldly prospects. she had told him over and over again, when he asked her, that she would marry him on anything or nothing. who or what was this old man, that he should be mixed up with dominique's affairs long ago; that he should have stood between her and the thames to-night? was it possible this old man would tell her nothing more? he had excited in her curiosity, vague fears. would he do nothing to allay either? thus to be saved from the fate she intended for herself that night, to find in her protector a friend of his, and then to be confronted with a mystery in which dominique had a part, were, surely, enough things to make this night ever memorable. "mr. crawford," said the girl, "i can never forget the service and the kindness you have done me. will you not do me an additional favour by telling me something of this secret which affects him?" the girl had finished the tea and eaten some bread by this time. "take off your hat," he said. "lean back and rest yourself, and i will tell you something more. "ten years ago i was as lonely a man as i am now. all my family had drifted away from me. most of them were dead. some of them had married, i know not whom. my studies always occupied me, and after the death of my wife, whom i tenderly loved, i went deeper than ever into my books. "most of my children left me when they were young, and went abroad. i had six children in all. from time to time one left me until all were gone, and ten years ago i had no more clue to the whereabouts of any than i have to-day, except that i knew some were in the grave. "i was then better off than i am now; but i have still enough to live on, and to buy a book now and then. my books are all above. all my interest lies in one direction, all my books treat of the same subject--the history of the past, the history of the men and women and places of old times. my interest in the present closed with the death of my wife. but, somehow or other, since the time of which i speak, ten years ago, i think i have grown less exclusively devoted to my favourite pursuit than i was at the time of the dispersion of my family. "i do not often speak to anyone except to those of whom i want to buy; but i cannot help thinking there is a link between you and me, for are you not betrothed to him who owns this tower, and has not this tower for ten years been the chief object of my attention, of my solicitude? was it not to him i first told the secret which i had carried with me eight years? is he not now the only person who knows my secret, and when the time comes for divulging that secret to a few, are not you to be the first to hear it? "well, ten years ago i was, as i have said, as much alone in the world as now. i had always a notion that something was to be discovered in connection with this porter street. here and there in my books there were vague hints, misty statements, that in this street had taken place something of the greatest importance, something which might in the greatest degree excite the interest of an archaeologist. but you see, the street is long, a mile long, i dare say, and to search every inch of a street a mile long would be altogether out of the question. "at that time i was living close by. there were certain old book-shops, between longacre and the strand, which i visited almost daily. here, one evening, i picked up a battered old volume for a few pence. it was dated . it turned out to be of no great interest; but on bringing it home, i was struck by two facts--first, that the book, although battered, was complete; and, second, it contained some memoranda in manuscript, one bearing these startling words: 'a great fire has broken out, and is spreading towards us. there is not a minute to be lost. what can be removed is to be removed to kensington. _what cannot be removed is to be left where it now is_.' "this memorandum was dated: 'daybreak, rd september, .' "it was, of course, in the spelling of the period. underneath this memorandum appeared the words and figures: 'speght's chaucer, page , lines to .' "i have told you already that i had something like a hint of what i wished to find out. i am not free to tell you why the first of these memoranda interested me profoundly, and shone before me like a revelation. i seemed to be on the point of a great discovery, a discovery of the utmost importance to me, a discovery which had fascinated my imagination for years. "i am free to tell you why the second memorandum filled me with despair. it was essential that the book referred to in memorandum number two should be found. the clue in my possession was absolutely of no value without a copy of chaucer. before giving way to despair, i had looked over the passage in the reference. i had read over twenty lines above and below without being able to find the slightest hint to a clue. it was evident from this fact that the text of the poet threw no light on the subject, and that the intention of the man who had written the memorandum was that reference should be made, not only to the particular edition specified, but to an individual copy of that edition. "my despair was all the greater because i seemed to be half-way towards success. i could not rest indoors. i wandered forth into the streets without any definite object in view. to the average student of history, the discovery of this volume containing a reference to the great fire, written at the very moment it was raging, would have been inestimable; but to one who was in quest of a particular object, and had come within a measurable distance of it, without being able to touch it, this book was a curse. "before i knew where i was i found myself standing in front of the identical shop where i had bought the volume. i went listlessly over all the other books exposed for sale in front of the window. i saw nothing corresponding to the object of my search. "then suddenly a thought struck me. the book i had bought was valueless. a copy of this particular edition of chaucer would fetch money. i went inside, and asked the man if he had any other books belonging to the lot among which the one i had purchased was. "he told me he had several; that he bought the lot in an old, tumble-down house in wych street, where the books had lain for ever so long, and that they were reputed to be salvage from the great fire. "imagine my excitement, my delight, when i found a copy of speght's edition, and upon opening the volume, and referring to the passage indicated, i discovered writing on the margin. this writing was briefer than that in the former volume. it was simply: 'st. prisca's tower. see mentor on hawking, .' this was the book i had bought a short time previously. the chain was now complete. the area of inquiry was absolutely limited to the ground upon which this tower now stands. in the great fire of charles's reign the church and tower of st. prisca had been attacked by the flames, and the church had been completely destroyed. the lower portion of the tower, however, was found by wren to be sufficiently good for the purposes of rebuilding, and so, about ten feet above the ground of these walls belong to the old tower. later on the modern church was pulled down; but for some reason, i cannot find out, the tower has never been interfered with since. "these books had evidently been carried away from the region of the fire to the fields where kensington now stands; and then, when the fire was subdued, carried back to wych street, where they had remained until the bookseller who sold them to me had bought them about ten years ago." here the old man finished his narrative, which had been delivered in a monotonous tone. his eyes were fixed, staring intently before him, and he seemed to be wholly oblivious of the fact that dora was listening to him. he was not, however, unmindful of her presence; for no sooner had he concluded, than he looked at her directly and said: "i have told you all i can; all i may. dominique lavirotte and i are the only persons who know the rest, and you know more than anyone else in the world except him and me. you must be tired now. i never told this story before, and, in all likelihood, i never shall again." it was now close to two o'clock in the morning. to the opening words of the old man dora had given little attention. in fact the events of that night, until she had begun to feel refreshed by the rest and tea, had left a very weak impression on her mind, and she would have found it hard to say whether the occurrences had been real or figments of her brain. as the story advanced, she had felt a more lively interest in it, and towards the end she found that she was listening with awakened curiosity. the old man said: "i will bring you down a rug, and then you must try and get a little sleep. i shall have to work a couple of hours yet in this welcome rain." he brought the rug and spread it over her, and then emerged once more upon the roof. chapter xiv. when crawford reached the roof it was still dark. the intense darkness of a few hours ago had passed away, and it was possible on the roof to see dimly the figure of the old man, the parapet, and the lead. towards each of the four corners of the lead the roof sloped gently, and in each corner was a shoot leading to a pipe. in each of the four corners, but so placed as not to obstruct the shoot wholly, and yet to impinge upon it, lay a heap of something. to each of those heaps the old man went in succession, moving the heaps so as to make them impinge a little more upon the gutter. when this was done he put down his spade, resting it against the parapet, and leaned out of one of the embrasures. all was still as death below. the darkest hour is the hour before the dawn; the most silent hour is the hour before the reawakening. it was raining heavily now. the old man did not heed the rain. his eyes were turned vacantly towards the east. he was watching for the dawn, not with eyes busily occupied on the dim outline of the huge stores and warehouses before him. his gaze was directed to the east simply because he knew that in the east the sun would rise, and that as the light grew broad, and the top of the tower was overpeered by lofty buildings on higher ground, he must, soon after daylight, intermit his work on the roof if he would keep his secret. when the gray had moved up in the east, the old man went his rounds once more, spade in hand. the rain still continued. when he had finished, he paused and leaned once more at the embrasure he had formerly occupied. "i always," he thought, "take care to keep the clay heaps about the same size. rain is very good, no doubt. it works off more than wind, except the wind is very high. the worst of the rain is that when the clay gets soaked through and cakes, i have to take it down to dry the minute the weather gets fine, and bring up more sieved earth, for the wind would have no effect on the hardened clay. at first i thought of putting all i excavated on the lofts; but i found them so old, and weak and shaky, that i durst not trust them beyond a little each. there, i have put all the large stones too big to carry out and leave quietly here and there. there are tons and tons of stones upon the lofts, and i am afraid the floors will bear very little more. it would never do to overload the lofts and have the labour of my two years all undone. the rain has stopped. it will help me no more. heaven send the wind. here is the day." it was now bright enough to see that the roof of the tower was covered all over with a coating of thin mud, washed into streaks here and there by the rain. in each corner lay a heap of clay. there were a basket and a large pail also on the roof. the old man now began to work energetically. he filled the pail with the mud, and in four journeys down to the first loft, succeeded in removing all that had been on the roof. then he carried up four large baskets of finely-sifted clay, and put one basket in each corner near the shoots, so that those who had seen the roof of the tower from afar off the previous day would notice very little, if any, difference, even with the aid of a glass; for the nearest building that overlooked the tower was a mile distant. it was now broad daylight, and as the old man stood, his work completed, all round him rose the muffled murmurs of awaking day. he was wet through, but he did not care for this. he was used to it. the rain and the wind were his great friends, and he hailed their advent with delight. it was plain what his object was. by day he worked in the base of the tower, at which the ground stood now twelve feet higher than at the time of the great fire, and twelve feet below this was the foundation of the tower. for two years lionel crawford had slaved in the daylight digging down towards the foundation. he had a pickaxe and shovel and sieve. when he had dug up some earth and rubbish, he sifted this on a piece of old carpet and carried the sittings up to the top loft, there to dry and become friable for the purpose of being got rid of on the roof. everything that would not go through the sieve, he carried out with him, and dropped here and there as occasion offered, and the larger stones, which he never put on the sieve at all, he carried up to the lofts. when he had wind instead of rain he stood on the tower in the dark, and when all was quiet, threw away the sifted earth to leeward, handful by handful. so that although he might thus in a night get rid of several hundred pounds weight of earth, no trace whatever of it appeared below the tower. when he was not helped by rain or wind he could not dispose of more than fifty or sixty pounds weight a night, without drawing attention to his operations. this quantity he got rid of by throwing handful after handful out of the embrasure all round the tower. when he found himself on the loft where he slept he took off his wet clothes, hung them up, and then lay down and slept. it was late in the forenoon when he awoke. he dressed himself and went down to what may be called the sitting-room. here he found dora awake. "if it would amuse you, child," he said, "you may light the fire and make the tea. it may be a novelty to you, and it will surely be a novelty to me if you do." dora arose with alacrity and busied herself about the simple preparations for breakfast. "it is a long time," said he, "since i had anyone--man, woman, or child--at a meal with me. sometimes i go out and have my dinner or supper or breakfast in the poor eating-houses around here; but that is not often. i have learned to shift for myself as well as robinson crusoe did in his time." when the breakfast was ready, dora said: "i am sure you will forgive me, but the excitement and confusion of last night have made me forget your name. yet i remember that when you mentioned it, it seemed familiar to me." "lionel crawford, my dear; lionel crawford is my name." "crawford," she said, musingly resting her chin upon her hand. "i do not know how i could have forgotten that name, for crawford was my mother's name before her marriage. it is not a very uncommon name in england, is it?" "not very," he said. "there are several families of the name in london alone." they were now sitting at breakfast. no contrast could be much stronger than that between the young, soft, gentle, beautiful girl and the leather-hued, gnarled-browed old man. the bright sunlight fell through two long, narrow windows high up in the thick walls of the tower. it tinged the white hand of the young girl lying listlessly on the table. it lit up from behind the rich curve of her cheek. it touched with gleaming, grave bronze the outline of her dark hair. the old man sat at the other side of the small table, looking with abstracted eyes at the partly illumined head of the young girl opposite. "ay," said the old man, "crawford is not an uncommon name. there were several of us brothers when i was young. i was the only one that married, and i believe all my children are dead by this time. their mother was sickly. she was everything to me while she was alive. no, crawford is not an uncommon name." "we used not to consider it a common name in canada," the girl said. the sunlight was gradually encroaching upon the mass of dark hair. "ah," he said, still with the abstracted air, "you were in canada. one of my daughters when she was young, a child of fourteen or fifteen, went to the united states." "how strange," said dora, shifting her position, and bringing all her head under the influence of the summer sunlight. "no," he said, "not very strange. a great lot of people from these parts go to the united states, and, as i tell you, crawford is not an uncommon name." "what i meant," said the girl, with a somewhat puzzled look on her face, "was that it is strange your daughter, whose name was crawford, should have gone to the united states when young. my mother went to the united states when young. she married there and then moved up to canada." "and you tell me your name is harrington, dora harrington? my girl's name was dora, too, and i heard she married a man named harrington. what was your mother's christian name?" "dora was her name," said the girl, rising. "what do you think, sir, of all this?" the girl was now standing, so that from crown to heel the full sunlight shone upon her. "it is extremely strange," said he, still in his absent-minded way, "for i heard that my daughter moved up after her marriage." suddenly the old man's eyes fixed themselves upon the illuminated figure of the girl. "i had not a good look at you before, child, and my eyes are dim with overmuch study. yes! as heaven hears me, there is a look of my dead wife about you, child. did they ever tell you you were like your mother? do you remember your mother?" "i remember her very little, sir. i was very young when she died. they told me i was not like her." "ay, ay. that is all in favour of my hopes, my child, for dora was not like my wife, and you are. marvellously like! i seem to feel the coil of forty years falling away from me." his eyes once more took the abstracted, faraway look of the lions. "forty years ago," he said, "i was young and blithe, strong-limbed, and not repulsive as i am now. i wooed my dora then, not in smoky london, but amid the green fields, and when the primroses were fresh with the early spring weather, and all the air was sweet with moist dews and fresh songs of birds. the leaves were all unsheathed, and each pulse of the wind brought a new perfume of the season. my dora!" "and you think me like her?" said the girl. "oh, if it should be, sir!" suddenly the old man lost his abstracted look. he rose and stretched out his arms towards her, looking keenly at her the while. "you are she," he cried. "you are my dora, my dead darling's grand-daughter. for her own daughter, whose child you are, was like me, all said." "oh, sir," cried the girl, "it is too much happiness for me to believe this true." "i want some happiness now, my child," said he, "and no happiness greater than this could come to me, for i am tired of loneliness. come to me, dora." the illuminated figure of the girl moved, passed out of the sunlight into the gloom of the room--into the gloom of the old man's arms. chapter xv. the police of glengowra were very inquisitive about the affair of that night. the town was exceedingly quiet, as a rule, and the fact that two well-dressed men had been engaged at midnight in a deadly encounter was unique and fascinating to the police mind. there was no doubt in the town or village, for it was indifferently called either, that the two men had fought, and that jealousy was at the bottom of the encounter. but both o'donnell and lavirotte held impregnable silence on the matter. neither would make any statement. lavirotte said they might ask o'donnell, and o'donnell said they might ask lavirotte; and it was known that no matter what may have occurred the previous night, the friendship of the men was now re-established. this last fact was gall and wormwood to the police. it was sheerly the loss to them of a golden opportunity. to think that the biggest crime which had been committed for years in the town should not be made the subject of a magisterial inquiry, was heartbreaking. what was the good of having crimes and policemen cheek by jowl, if they were not to come into contact? a policeman lounged all day about the door of maher's hotel, affecting to take an interest in the cars and carts passing by, and in the warm baths opposite, and to be supremely unconscious of the existence of maher's. nothing came of this. supposing each man should say his hurt was the result of an accident, there would be no evidence to prove the contrary, and the police would only get into trouble and be laughed at if they stirred in the affair. a fussy and blusterous justice of the peace made it his business to call at the hotel, see maher, and impress upon him the absolute necessity of doing something. dr. o'malley absolutely forbade any "justices of the peace, policemen, or such carrion," entering either of the sick rooms. he said to the magistrate: "don't you bother about this affair. i promise you, on the word of a man of honour, to let you know if either of the men is in danger of death, so that a deposition may be taken; and i promise you my word, as a man of the world, that if anyone goes poking his nose into this affair, one or both of these young men will have something unpleasant to say to that nose when they get about." this speech made the worthy magistrate extremely wroth. he stamped and fumed for a while, and muttered something about puppies, and left the hotel in dudgeon. still later in the day the sub-inspector of the district, who was a friend of o'malley's, and happened, by a miracle in which few will believe, to be a man of gentlemanly instincts and manners--called at o'malley's house, spoke of the weather, the regatta, the price of beasts at the last horse fair, the desirability of building a pier for the fishing-boats in the cove, the hideous inconveniences of not being able to get ice in glengowra in such roasting weather, the interesting case at the last quarter sessions, and finally, he said: "by-the-way, o'malley, if you do know anything about what occurred last night on the cove road, and if you can do so without any breach of good faith, tell me what you know?" "i don't know all about it," said o'malley, briskly; "and what i do know i am bound to keep to myself. the part of the case about which i am game to speak is the medical aspect of it, and of that i am free to tell you there is no cause to fear either of the men will die. now, that is all you want to know, because you're a good sort of fellow; you're not more than a thousand years old yourself. boys will be boys. have a cigar." thus the young sub-inspector left o'malley's house scarcely any wiser than he came. in the phrase, "boys will be boys," o'malley had conveyed to him an unmistakable impression that the theory of the fight was the correct one, and at the same time he recognised the skilful way in which o'malley avoided any breach of confidence. directly opposite maher's hotel were the warm baths, and a little to the right of these a shop, famous in the history of glengowra, and called by the pretentious name of the confectionery hall. this title was ludicrously out of proportion with the appearance of the place. the "hall," that is, the place open to the general public, was not more than twelve by fifteen feet. here were displayed on a counter, presided over by a thin-featured maiden lady of long ago ascertained years, cakes of various kinds and sorts and ages, sweetmeats of universal dustiness and stickiness, ginger-beer, lemonade, and bottled guinness and bass. sherry might, too, be obtained here in genteel quantities out of a cut-glass decanter, but the inhabitants of glengowra had a national antipathy to the spirit known as sherry and when they wanted anything stronger than bass or guinness, they asked for whisky. now, the great feature of the confectionery hall, as opposed in principle to a mere public-house, was that whisky could not be obtained at the counter. if a man wanted that form of mundane consolation, he was obliged to enter an inner penetralia, where not only could he have the "wine of the country," but an easy-chair to sit in and tobacco for his perturbed mind. towards the close of the evening of the day following the occurrence on the cove road, two young men were seated in this cave of nicotine discussing the event of the day, nay, of the year. both were out from rathclare for the cool evening by the sea, and in order to enjoy the most perfect coolness of the sea, they had retired to this back room, which was heavier to the senses and less open to the air than the stuffiest back slum of rathclare. both had of course heard the great glengowra news, and the great dublin news of the day. it happened that one of these young men was in the employment of the state--to wit, the post office, and the other in that of a public company--to wit, the railway. "i can't make it out," said the railway, "how it is that lavirotte should have fought o'donnell about nellie creagh, because a fellow told me that a good while ago--a couple of years, i think--when lavirotte was over in london, he had made it all right with some other girl there." "i don't like lavirotte, and i never did," said the post office; "but this i am sure of--that he had some great friend in london, and that his friend was not a man. of course i don't wish this mentioned, and i tell you it in confidence. i remember his coming over here. we make up the bags from glengowra at rathclare, and when he came here first, and i met him and knew his writing, i saw a letter from him to a miss somebody (i will not tell you her name) in london, and this letter went two or three times a week." "who was she?" inquired the others, inquisitively. "i won't tell. i have already told you more than i should. you must not mention the matter to anyone. i know you so long, old fellow, i am sure i may rely on you." "well," said the other, "i don't want to seem prying. in all likelihood i shall never see lavirotte or o'donnell again. i am off next week." "i am very sorry to lose you; but you're sure to come back to see the old ground shortly." "i don't think i shall," said the other, carelessly. "it costs a lot for the mere travelling, and you know none of my people live here about. anyway, when i get to london, supposing i am curious, which i am not, i can find out all about it; for i know an artist there who told me all about lavirotte and the girl." "how on earth did you find anything out about one man in such a big place as london?" "my dear fellow, london is at once the biggest and the smallest place in the world. you have never been there?" "no, never." "well, you see, most of the nationalities and arts and professions live in districts, chiefly inhabited by themselves; and when they do not, they have clubs and other places of resort where they meet. so that, in the case of lavirotte, who was then thinking of being a figure-painter, but hadn't got the talent, there was nothing unlikely in his meeting other men of similar ambition, and so it was he came across there the artist i know, who happened to have a studio in the house i lodged in." "i have often looked at the map of london and wondered how it was anyone ever found out where anyone else lived, even when he had the address. but i cannot understand how two friends can fall across one another accidentally in such a tremendously large place." "you have never been in dublin even, i believe?" said the railway. "no, never," said the other. "well, then, all i can tell you is, that if you walk from the college of surgeons in stephen's green to the post office in sackville street three times a day, you will meet any stranger who may happen to be in the city." for a little while both men were silent. then the post office said: "well, as there is but a week between you and finding out all about this girl and lavirotte, i may as well tell you, in strict confidence, that her name is miss harrington. i forget her address. she changed it often, but it did not seem a swell address to me. at first he wrote to her two or three times a week; but of late his letters have not gone nearly so often, although some one in london, i suppose this miss harrington, wrote him twice a week regularly. within the past two months i don't think he has written to her at all." while this conversation was going on in the back parlour of the confectionery hall, the policeman, who had during the day devoted most of his attention to the vehicles passing in front of maher's hotel and to the warm baths opposite, was relieved, and came over to the "hall" for a small bottle of guinness. it so happened that he had overheard, through the glass-door from the shop to the parlour, most of the conversation which had passed between the two friends. he heard the two friends rise to leave. before the handle of the door turned he was out of the shop. in a few minutes he was back in the police-station. "well, any news?" said the sergeant, gloomily. "i have heard something that may be useful," said the constable; and he detailed the conversation. "and we have found something which may be useful," said the sergeant. "after a long search among the stones we came upon the knife lavirotte stabbed o'donnell with. here it is, with lavirotte's name and o'donnell's blood upon it. it will go hard with us if we can't get lavirotte seven years on this alone." chapter xvi. in the vast pile of buildings owned by james o'donnell in rathclare, by day several hundred men were employed, by night several score; for the steam mills were kept going day and night, and got no rest from year's end to year's end, save from twelve o'clock on saturday night to six o'clock on monday morning. in the portion of the buildings devoted to milling operations most of the night-men were employed. in fact, so far as active employment was concerned, no men were engaged anywhere else in the place. there were, however, three watchmen for the other portions of the building. one of these was outside in the yard fronting the river, another was on the ground-floor of the granaries, and it was the duty of the third to wander about the upper lofts and corridors. of late these men had been cautioned to observe greater vigilance. it was well known in rathclare that the strong-room of james o'donnell always contained a large sum of money, and sometimes a very large sum. the man whose duty it was to examine the lofts passed along the corridor leading to the private office. all was right, so far. he always made it a habit to pause and listen at the door of the private room; for if an attempt was to be made upon the safe it should be from this place. the man went on in a leisurely way, ascended the next ladder he met, strolled along the lofts, ascended another ladder, sat down on a pile of empty sacks, and lit his pipe. smoking was not, of course, allowed, but then there was no one to see him. when he had finished his pipe he ascended to the top loft and walked all round from one end of the building to the other, pausing now and then to listen at the head of a ladder or at a trap-door, or to look out of a window into the deserted street below. this took a long time, for there was no need of haste. it was an understood thing among the watchmen that each should speak to the other two about once an hour. thus it would be known each hour that all was well throughout the building. the watchman now began to descend. he went down more rapidly than he came up. it was quite dark, and the silence was unbroken save by the noise of the machinery and the swirl of the river as it swept past the wharf and quays and ships below, and whispered among the chains and ropes. the three men generally met in fine weather such as this on the wharf. it was pleasant to the two men, whose business lay indoors, to breathe for a few moments the cool air by the river. from the wharf no portion of the offices could be seen. they looked into the great quadrangle round which the granaries were built. when the three men had stood and interchanged a few words they separated, each of the two going in his own direction, the third man remaining on the wharf. the man whose duty lay on the upper floors passed into the large quadrangle, round which the granaries stood. at first he noticed nothing remarkable; but when his eyes fell on the windows of james o'donnell's office he started visibly, and uttered an exclamation of surprise under his breath. the windows were full of light! what should he do? what could this mean? he had, of course, heard of the misfortunes which had fallen upon his master's house that day, but he made no connection between that fact and this extraordinary appearance. the warning against possible burglars was uppermost in his mind. although he was nearly sure no one was then in that office for an honest purpose, still he resolved to proceed with the greatest caution, and give no unnecessary alarm. he went out on the wharf and told the other man what he had seen. they both agreed that it would now be useless to try and overtake their other comrade, and that it would be best for the two of them to go to the office at once and see how matters stood there. when they got indoors they took off their boots and proceeded cautiously to the foot of the stairs leading to the offices. each carried a stout stick in his hand, and each man was physically qualified to take care of himself in a scuffle. they agreed it wouldn't do to get some more of the hands from the mill and proceed to the office as though they were sure of finding burglars there; for how could they tell that it was not the manager, or their employer himself, who had been obliged to come back owing to some urgent business? they crept cautiously up the stairs and found themselves in the corridor, upon which the office door opened. here all was dark and silent. here they were confronted by a difficulty they had not anticipated. if it should be that the manager or the proprietor had come back at this unseasonable hour, the proper thing would be, of course, to knock at the door and ask if all were right. but supposing there were burglars inside, knocking at the door would be simply to put them on their guard, and enable them to take up a defensive or offensive position before the others could enter: what was to be done? as if by a common instinct, the two men retired to the further end of the passage to hold a brief council. there was no means of escaping from that room except by this passage or the window. that window was not barred, and nothing could be easier than to get from it by a ladder or a rope. the first thing, therefore, to be ascertained was--did a ladder or a rope lead from that window to the ground of the quadrangle? it was then agreed between the two that one of them should go down and examine the window from the outside, while the other waited in the passage here and watched, the door until his fellow came back. one of the men descended to the ground-floor, got out into the quadrangle, and looked at the window, and the ground near the window. it was a dark night, and one could not see small objects distinctly. the man was not content with the evidence of his eyes alone. he stole over under the window, and placing his hand against the wall, walked forward and backward, ascertaining by touch that neither ladder nor rope connected the window with the yard. when he was satisfied on this point, he stole back to his companion and communicated the fact to him. so far all was well. they had not now to think of any means of exit but the one before them. still it was not easy to know what to do. now it occurred to them for the first time that it was not at all consistent with the belief burglars were at work that the gas should be fully ablaze. although there never had been an attempt to rob the mill on a large scale, or by violence, and the watchmen had no personal experience of burglars yet, it was their business to know something about how that predatory tribe carry on their operations. it was not likely such men would attempt to force the door of a strong-room, made on the very best principles, with the light turned fully up. a dark lantern and silent matches were more the manner of the midnight thief than the great openness and defiance of gas. it must surely be someone connected with the business. it was well they had not made a fuss about the matter, and now it would be well that they should delay no longer to prove their diligence by showing they had observed the unusual fact of the gas being burning. yes, there could be no longer any doubt their manager or employer was behind that door. there would be something absurd in the fact of two fine strapping fellows like them going up to that door in their vamps. it would show they had suspected someone was there who had no right to be there, and this might give offence. it would be best for them to put on their boots before knocking; besides, if they knocked as they were now, whoever was inside might think they had been prying. when they reached the open air they put on their boots quickly. then it occurred to them that, as they were now quite certain it was someone belonging to the business who was in the office, it would never do for two of them to appear at the door simultaneously. the duty of one man was to be on the wharf, and of the other to be on the lofts or in the passages, and if they had no suspicion wrong was going forward, why should the wharfman desert his post? they, therefore, agreed that the loftman alone should go back and prove his vigilance by knocking and saying that he had observed the light. the two parted. the loftman, starting with his usual measured tread, crossed the quadrangle, entered the dark passages, ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door. two minutes after he rushed out upon the wharf, exclaiming in an undertone: "do you know who's there?" "no. who?" "no one. come back with me and see if i am right. i can't believe my eyes. there isn't a soul there as far as i can see, in the office or in the passages." the two men went back to the passage, entered the private office, found the gas at full cock, and the place empty! chapter xvii. mr. o'donnell, towards the close of that unlucky day, found himself once more in his comfortable home at rathclare. within twenty-four hours, the life of his only son, the hope of his age, had been placed in danger; and all the earnings of a long and laborious life had been scattered to the winds by one tremendous blast of ill-fortune. he was not a communicative or demonstrative man. he took his pleasures soberly, gravely, and with little exterior show of delight. outside his business, which was large and engrossing, he cared for little save his wife, and son, and home. he had few wants, and a limited mind; but, like all men with few wants and a limited mind, he must have what he wanted, or life would not be worth living. he did not sigh or burst into exclamations when the bad news reached him. he was reading a newspaper at the time. he put down his newspaper, and asked his managing man, who brought him the news, to repeat his words. then, merely saying, "that is very bad news," he took down an account-book, and, having looked at how his affairs stood with the bank which had failed, put up the book in the safe, walked out of his office, and took the train to glengowra, where his son lay hurt, and where his wife was already in attendance on the injured man. now, he was back once more in his home alone. his wife was to stay that night at maher's hotel. in the present condition of his business affairs he did not feel himself justified in absenting himself from head-quarters. up to this he had very rarely been separated from his wife, even for a day. he seldom left his native town for more than a few hours, except when he went away for a week or so and took her with him. he sat in the deserted dining-room all alone. he always carried in his coat-pocket a small memorandum-book, in which he had jotted down the net results of all his business transactions, so that at any moment, and in any place, he could see pretty well how he stood. he seated himself in a large easy-chair, and having pulled down the gasalier, took out this book, and sat silently consulting the pages for a long while. by this time he had received full information from dublin. he knew now the case of vernon and son was absolutely hopeless. he was going over his book, not in the hope of finding out anything cheerful about his own affairs, but just merely to convince himself through his sight of what he was already convinced through his reason. when he had reached the end of the written pages, and had made a few figures with his pencil and arrived at a total, he tore out the page on which he had made this last calculation, and then carefully and delicately tore the page into little bits. he put down his pocket-book on the table at his elbow, and then sat for a long time arranging and re-arranging the fragments of the paper into various figures on the table at his side. when it was about eleven o'clock, a servant came and asked him if he wanted anything. no, he wanted nothing. they might all go to bed. when the servant had retired, he re-began his work with the fragments of paper. at twelve o'clock he seemed to have made up his mind that there was no good in trying any longer to arrange the pieces in a satisfactory way. he pushed all the bits together, swept them into his hand, and placed them on a tray, on which were some glasses, which he had not used. he took up the pocket-book again, and quietly tore out all the blank leaves. "these may be of use to someone else," he said. "they can never be of any use to me." he placed the blank leaves on the table, far in from the edge. "the books at the office will show how my affairs stand. this can interest no one. it was only on account of the money i considered myself worth, over and above my liabilities. i'll burn it;" and then forgetting that it was summer time, and that there was no fire, he threw the book into the grate, and rose. he felt in his pocket, and found that he had his keys. then he went into the hall, put on his hat, and left the house. he took his way to his principal place of business--the vast storehouse, wharf, and steam mill all combined. he opened a small postern in the main gate, trod a dark flagged passage, and reached the foot of a flight of stairs that led to the chief offices. this he ascended, and having reached his private room, lit the gas. for a while he stood in the middle of the room, looking vacantly round him. the office was luxuriously furnished; and in the wall opposite to the table at which mr. o'donnell usually sat, and facing him, was the door of the strong-room. he could hear the murmur of the water as it went by, if the engines had stopped. but the engines were going on at full speed, making money now--making money now for whom? that morning these twenty sets of stones had been whirling round, and at every rotation of each stone he, james o'donnell, was the richer. these stones were going round still, making money still; but for whom now? it was a dismal thing to stand there realising the fact that the fruits of his forty years' hard work, sagacity, enterprise, thrift had all been squandered by someone else--had all been squandered by this vernon, in whom he had reposed implicit confidence; who was so pious, so sleek, so plausible, and yet had led him on into this horrible position. he sat down in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the door of the strong-room. he had destroyed his pocket-book; his interest in his own private affairs was at an end. from what he had heard there was no chance of his saving a sixpence out of his large fortune. some other man would work the mill no doubt, for it would be a valuable asset in the affairs of vernon and son. it was hard to think of this fine mill, for which he had made the trade, and which he had built up from the foundation, passing away from him, now that he was too old to begin life again. in that strong-room opposite him there were the books. they were all in perfect order. _they_ had never been made the slaves of a false balance-sheet. they were the fair records of blameless transactions. every line in them could be verified. every shilling of expense could be accounted for. soon, very soon, he knew not exactly when, strangers would come and examine these books, and go through all the vouchers, but they should find nothing in that strong-room of his except flawless records of honest trade--and---- the vacant look left his eyes. all at once an intense, eager light burned in them. he grasped the back of the chair, and rose stealthily, as though to avoid the attention of someone acting as sentinel over him, and who was half asleep. he stole noiselessly in the bright gaslight across the room. with elaborate caution he took the keys out of his pocket and fitted one to the lock. with a dull, heavy sound the bolts fell back. he drew himself a foot away, as though he expected that door to be pushed open, and something to issue forth and seize him and do him deadly hurt. he paused, breathing heavily. the door did not stir. he stretched forth his arm and drew the door towards him. it yielded slowly and swung out into the bright, handsomely furnished office, until it stood at right angles to the wall. again he paused, and peered into the dark cavity before him. he seized the outer edge of the door and steadied himself by it, leaned against it slightly so that it swayed slowly to and fro a little. his face was now flushed and covered with sweat. his hands clutched the door feverishly, frantically. his knees trembled so that he seemed in danger of sinking to the floor. "it would be a fit ending to my life. my life is of no further use to me or to those i love, or to the business i have made, nor even would it be any use to those whom i shall not be able to pay. for although no one could work the business as well as i, if things had not come to this pass, i am too old now to work for others where i have so long worked for myself." he let go the door and stood unsupported for a while. "if they should find in the strong-room of james o'donnell nothing but the unimpeachable records of his honest life, and his bones!" he seemed to gather strength from the thought. he drew himself up to his full height. the look of intense excitement gradually faded from his face. the tension of his hands relaxed, and he looked around with something like majesty in his gaze. he was a lion at bay, but indifferent. he walked up and down the room two or three times calmly, deliberately, as if he were disturbed by a thought greater than the hourly commonplaces of a busy day. he ran the matter carefully over in his mind. when in thinking of this deed first, and saying to himself his creditors would find nothing in that place but books, papers, and--he had paused at the word revolver. it was occasionally necessary for some of his clerks to carry large sums of cash a distance from rathclare, and when doing so the messenger always took with him his revolver. the lock by which the strong-door was finally secured could be turned only from the outside, but there was a strong latch of three large bolts which caught and kept the door closed when it was slammed. there were two keys to this door, but he had made it a rule never to entrust the second to anyone in his employment. when unable to be at his office at ten o'clock in the morning, or at closing time in the evening, he had always given the key he now carried with him to his manager, and had it left at his house the same night. the second key he had hidden behind some books in a bookcase which he always kept locked. but the three bolts which kept the door fast during the working hours of the day could be shot back from the outside by means of a key, a duplicate of which the manager had. in the strong-room that night there was a sum in cash of more than two thousand pounds. if he went into that strong-room and used that revolver, the sound would, in all likelihood, reach the ears of no one in the place, and nothing would be discovered for several days, as no one would suspect the main bolts were not shot, since he had been seen to lock the safe that day, and no one else could unlock it. he made up his mind that, come what might, he would end his life where his fortune had begun, and where now his ruin was complete. and still he could not think of bidding adieu for ever to the scene of his life-long labours without one more look at the books which had been so honestly kept, and which he had hoped to hand down unblemished to his son eugene. he took up a lamp which lay on one of the side tables, lit it, stepped into the strong-room, and drew the door sharply after him. there was a loud bang. the three bolts shot into their places. he was now in the strong-room with the records of his honest life, a revolver, his power of retreat cut off, and the determination not to survive the night of ruin. he had forgotten to put out the gas in his office. chapter xviii. the strong-room was about ten feet by fifteen, and no more than eight feet high. there were presses in it for the books, and an iron safe in which the cash and securities were kept. this safe, standing on tressels in a corner, was the one used by the house before the business expanded to its present dimensions. upon it the old man set his lamp, and putting two deed-boxes one on the other, he placed them near the safe for a seat. then he opened the safe, and taking out some of the securities it contained, placed them beside him. he adjusted his spectacles, and turned over the deeds and shares somewhat listlessly. the documents here represented a vast sum of money. here were deeds on which he held mortgages, title-deeds, stocks, and shares. he did not undo the tapes. he knew them all by sight, when and how he had acquired them. this was the result of one speculation, that of another. in his will this and this were left for life to his wife, and afterwards to his son and his son's children. this and this and this were to go absolutely to his son. he went on thus through all the documents in the safe. there was no hurry. it was still many hours to daylight. if all were over with him before people were stirring, all would be well. he had cut off his retreat. he could not now get out of that room even if he wished it. he felt glad that he had come in here. this was a kind of antechamber to the other world. there was no going back now, and if he could derive any consolation from the contemplation of the past by the light of these records, he might do so without injuring anyone. ay, these were for eugene. what would be his boy's fate? no doubt he would recover from the hurt, for he was young and hearty. but then how would he get a living? all his life he had been used to good things, and looking forward to a career of remarkable prosperity. now he was a beggar, an outcast from fortune. these properties and moneys had been intended for him. now they would go to the greedy creditors of vernon and son. it was too bad that just at the very moment his boy had made up his mind to marry, everything should be swept away from them. for some years the only anxiety he had felt was that his boy should marry some good amiable girl, and settle down in rathclare, so that he (the father) might feel that the successor to his business was at hand in case anything should happen to himself. he had not wished for money with the wife of his son. he had not wished for any social advancement. he was not a man who believed in family or society advancement. he wished his son to be an honest and prosperous trader in his native town, and when that sweet girl had been to their home a few times, he began to regard her as already his daughter. he had intended making her a wedding-present independent of what he was to do for eugene. here was what he had intended for her. these were the title-deeds of rose cottage, glengowra, which would do the young people for their summer home. it was a famous cottage for flowers, and there was grass for a cow, and there was a paddock, and a little lawn, and a large garden. just the thing altogether for a young couple in the summer time. let him look at what the property consisted of. he read over slowly the recital of all the things that went with rose cottage, the measurements of the land, and so on, as though he were about to buy, and it was necessary to be careful. then he folded up the paper softly, and tied it with the tape, and set it by him on the ground. he was not an imaginative man, but the few images which had visited him seemed all the more brilliant, because of their rareness. and one of the visions which had come to him lately, and which pleased him more than any other he had known for years, was that of eugene and nellie living in this rose cottage, and he and his wife coming out in the cool evening and having tea with them in the little arbour overlooking the sea. it would be strange and delightful, now that the vigour of his youth and the strength of his manhood had passed away for ever, to be the guest of his own son; to hear his son say, "welcome, father," and to see this tall, fair girl, who had such bright and pleasant ways, tending to his good-hearted, kindly old wife, mary. to see her placing the chair of honour for her, and making much of her, would be a thing to live for and enjoy. and then, later, there would be children who would call him grandfather, and, with their fresh young voices and gallant spirits, take away the feeling of toil and the weariness of years. what would mary do? mary, whom he had married long ago; and yet, now that he had come to the end of his life, it seemed but yesterday. he could see every event of their marriage-day more clearly than he could see what had happened yesterday; for his eyes had grown dim since then, and the magic charm of memory is that it forgets so well what it does not wish to retain. bah! it would never do to think of those times, and of his old mary left alone and poor upon the world. it would take the resolution out of him to think of her. it would rob him of his manhood to picture her destitute in the face of unsympathetic men. no. it would rob him of the last remains of vigour to fancy her standing alone and deserted, without a home or a meal. he had come into that room for the purpose of closing his life with his business career. eugene was young and full of spirits, and had many friends, and would soon get something to do, and be able to give his mother a little, and to marry. he must not take a gloomy view of the future for those he was leaving behind. if he wanted to keep up his resolution he must think of the future he was losing in this great crash. it was of eugene and eugene's wife he must think. the fact that he could be of no further use to his son, or his wife, or his son's wife, was the thought to keep him to his resolution. if things had gone otherwise with him he could have made those young lives so happy as far as worldly gear was concerned. what further use was he on earth? let him leave all at once. why should he confront this trouble and disgrace--trouble unearned, disgrace unmerited? he took up the documents from the floor and replaced them all carefully in the safe. it was in this safe the money was kept. he pulled out the drawer containing it. a week ago he would have thought this a comparatively small sum. now it seemed very large indeed. if it had been only so managed that this two thousand pounds could have been honestly saved from the wreck, it would have been sufficient to provide, in an humble way--but there! let the thought go. nothing could be saved--not a shilling. he closed the drawer, and then drew out the one next to it. this contained the revolver. the light of the lamp so fell that when the drawer was fully out only the barrel of the weapon was in the light. the old man stood looking at that glittering barrel. it was as though that barrel was a deadly snake slowly issuing from the darkness, and he was powerless to move, to avoid it. once more all his strength forsook him. his face flushed, his limbs trembled; he clasped his hands convulsively. he drew back a pace and almost fell against the opposite side. he put his hand before his eyes and groaned. "has it come to this with me," he said, "in my old age? can it be possible, i, who never did a dishonest act, must fly from life because of the dishonesty of another?" he put his hand up to his neck and tore his shirt open. he dropped his hands, threw up his head and looked around him. "great god! what is this?" the lamp was burning blue. his head was giddy. he was suffocating! chapter xix. suffocating? yes; there could be no doubt about it! up to this, james o'donnell had forgotten that the strong-room was almost air-tight, and that the air required by him and the lamp was about what should have been exhausted since he entered the room. for years he had been familiar with the great safe, and it had never before occurred to him that to shut any man up in it for a lengthened period would be almost certainly death. was he to die of suffocation, and under the circumstances of his present position? already his thoughts were becoming obscured. there was the revolver gleaming at him from the drawer. but his thoughts had taken a circuitous route; and although he knew that a short time ago the revolver had formed the main portion of an important design, he now could not connect it clearly or coherently with that intention. he was altogether occupied with the thought of suffocation, and but partially able to concern his mind with any other idea. how would it be if he died here, and of the death that threatened him? how would it be? he could not answer. he did not know. he felt a tightness across his forehead, an oppression upon his chest. the tightness and the oppression were little more than uncomfortable. he had scarcely a pain. in fact, he felt a pleasant languor out of which it would be a decided inconvenience to raise himself. then for a moment it came forcibly home to him that he was dying, and would die before succour of any kind could reach him. the motives which had led him to come there at such an hour, and which induced him to shut himself up and cut off all retreat, were now obscure. by a great effort he could dimly perceive that something was wrong with his business concerns. what was that? a noise without! a noise at the other side of the heavy iron door. who or what could make a noise outside there in the private office at such an hour? it was within the duty of no one to be in his private office at this hour. no one could now be there for any honest purpose. the propinquity of the material sounds enabled them to appeal to his reason more forcibly than the murmur of the mill or the river, or the tumultuous, distracting echoes of disaster beating through his brain. all at once the sounds, his physical and financial position, converged and were focussed upon a single relic of memory. long ago, in some book he had read of a famous cave called "the cave of dogs," somewhere in the south of europe, where, when men and dogs entered together, the dogs were suffocated by the exhalation lying close to the ground, while the men, because of their greater stature, moved on unharmed. he knew at this brief moment of active memory the same substance which now threatened his life proved fatal to these dogs. if he now raised himself higher in his suffocating chamber, was there any likelihood of prolonging his life by seeking air as high up as possible in the room? it is true he had no great desire to prolong his life. he had by this time forgotten he had had any desire to destroy it. yes, he would see if any virtue of life lay in the air above his head. he mounted upon the deed-boxes and thrust his head up. now he had pains and a tingling sensation, but the dimness and dulness of the intellect gradually diminished. the noise was repeated without. what could it be? his mind had by this time become comparatively clear. he now knew he had come to that place for the purpose of destroying his life, with the intention of obliterating the world from his perception simultaneously with the destruction of his fortune. but what were those noises which again broke in upon his ear? now he remembered. there was a considerable sum of money in cash in the strong-room. some thieves had got scent of this fact, and were now in the outer place with designs upon the gold and notes lying in the safe? if these wretches broke in when he was dead and carried off the money, and his dead body was found later there (his head was so stupid, that he could not see exactly what the inference would be), would it not seem in some way or other that he had applied the two thousand pounds to his own purposes--given them to his wife or son, say--and then destroyed himself? although he felt relieved from the suffocation he had endured in the lower air, he knew now that this relief could not last long, and that the air he now breathed would soon become as tainted as that which he had lately left. what should he do? to die in the midst of his commercial troubles--to die, leaving behind him an unblemished reputation, and to die the seeming thief of a paltry two thousand pounds, were widely different things. and yet he did not appear to have much room for choice, for should he continue as he now was and make no sign, he would, beyond doubt, die of suffocation; and if he made any sign and these men had the means to break in, and did break in before assistance came, they would no doubt sacrifice his life rather than forego their design of plunder. he paused for a moment in thought. then, holding his breath, he stepped down, took the revolver out of the safe, and got up on the deed-boxes once more. "i shall sell my life dearly," he said to himself, "if they force that door." standing bolt upright on the deed-boxes, he fixed his eyes steadily on the only means of ingress to that room. "it is not likely," he thought, "there are more than two or three of these ruffians, and i have six shots here. but how long will this air last? how long is it possible for a man to live on the eighteen inches more air i have gained since i mounted these boxes? for a man and--a lamp? i don't want the lamp. i have seen here all i desire to see. if they break in i will have no difficulty in seeing them, for my eyes will be accustomed to impenetrable darkness, while they must carry a light of some kind, which will enable me to make them out. i and the lamp. it is as though there was food in a ship for a certain time for two people. if the one dies the other will have the double share. if the lamp or i die now the survivor will have the double share. in this case the choice is easily made." he filled his lungs and blew down the chimney of the lamp. the darkness of the strong-room was now so intense that it was absolutely impossible to see any object, however large or however near. for all the purposes of sight the space enclosed by the four walls was an absolute void. the old man, of course, knew he was standing on two deed-cases in the strong-room of his business place; that he held a revolver in his hand; that there were burglars without and money within, and that he was threatened with suffocation. the question now was, whether they would succeed in bursting open that door before the rising tide of poisonous gas reached his nostrils. the lamp being now extinguished, and there being some ventilation to the safe, the deadly gas, which would be sufficient to destroy life, was rising at a greatly diminished rate. a little of the heavy carbonic acid succeeded in exuding through the lower portion of the slight spaces between the door, threshold, and jambs; a little of the pure exterior air infiltrated through the upper portion of the slight spaces between the door, lintel, and jambs. james o'donnell had no means of knowing at what rate the deadly gas was now rising, or whether it had ceased to rise at all, or whether it was declining. it was not impossible, nay, it was not improbable, that the deadly vapour might rise no higher than it had stood when he put out the lamp. it would not do for him to make the least noise, for the gas might still be rising, and in case he made a noise the burglars might be scared away for a time, only to return when he had succumbed to the deadly vapour, break open the room, and so blast his character for ever. it was now necessary for him to stand bolt upright in that ebon darkness, with his eyes fixed on what he knew to be the position occupied by the door. then, as soon as anyone opened that door, it would be his duty to fire, and to fire with as deadly an effect as possible, for he was an old man, no longer strong or active, and could not hope to succeed against even one man who would undertake such an enterprise, and the chances were there would be more than one in this. he had no means of computing time. in the disordered condition of his mind it was impossible to tell how the minutes went by. now for some minutes the sounds in the outer room had ceased. any moment they might be renewed. there would, of course, be a sound of hammering, although the sound would be very dull. he had once seen a burglar's hammer. it was made of lead, the face of it being covered with leather soaked in oil. the wedges used were always of wood. but no matter how muffled the blow, or how little noise the progress of the wedge made, the sound could not escape his ear. he took out his watch and listened to it. he counted the ticks, but found they conveyed no idea of time. the very sound of the watch confused his senses, and threw him into new perplexities. holding the watch to his ear, and the revolver in his right hand down by his side, he stood motionless for what seemed to him a very long time. it was strange, but still he heard no sounds of hammering. could it be that the first effect of the poisonous gas upon him had been to disturb his senses, and that the noises he fancied he heard had been the offspring of imagination? ah! they were beginning at last. he caught the sound of their first attempts. he knew it would take a considerable time to break in that door, and mentally he groaned at the notion of delay in his present perilous condition. suddenly he started as though he had been shot. the door swung open rapidly on its hinges. the full light of the office sprang with dazzling effect into the darkness where he stood. he was paralysed. "seize him!" cried a voice from without. then all at once, and before he had time to raise the arm in which he held the weapon, he was in the clutches of two men, who dragged him out ruthlessly into the glare of the office, and then started back from him. "it is the master himself!" james o'donnell staggered for a moment, dazed by the gaslight and the perception that the men who held him were no burglars, but the watchmen of the place, and that behind the door, as it now stood fully open with the day-key in it, was the manager of all his business, corcoran. when the watchmen made up their minds what to do they sent for mr. corcoran. he brought the key with him; and then all three, having taken off their boots, stole into the private office, and finding no clue there, the manager, with little hope of discovering anything, put his day-key into the lock, turned the bolt swiftly, and, to his astonishment, pulled open the door. his astonishment rose to perfect amazement when he found a man inside, and when that man turned out to be no less a person than james o'donnell. end of vol. i. * * * * * * * * * * charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=liagaaaaqaaj (oxford university) . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. the last call. the last call. a romance. by richard dowling, author of "the mystery of killard," "the weird sisters," "sweet inisfail," etc. _in three volumes_. vol. ii. london: tinsley brothers, , catherine st., strand. . [_all rights reserved_.] charles dickens and evans crystal palace press. the last call. * * * * * part i.--_continued_. the last call. chapter xx. when dora harrington released herself from old crawford's arms, he led her to a chair, and said: "i have no longer the shadow of a doubt that you are the daughter of my dora. it was, indeed, a lucky chance which made me in my despair last night turn my steps towards the river. and now," he added, "the next thing is to get some nice comfortable place for you. this old rookery would never suit. let us go and try if we cannot find a suitable, homely place, somewhere outside the city." "i told you, sir," said the girl timidly, "that when yesterday i found out all my money was lost in the bank, i had not a shilling to send a message to him." "to lavirotte?" "yes, sir." the old man took out a leather bag and handed it to her, saying: "this will be enough for the present. when it is all gone let me know." "but, sir," said the girl, holding the bag in her hand without opening it, "i do not want all this. a shilling will be sufficient for the present, if you will only let me go to the nearest telegraph office." "nonsense, child," he said. "you cannot be without money in london. there is more where that came from. if you wish to go immediately to the telegraph office, you may as well start now. i will meet you in an hour at ludgate circus." the young girl descended the ladders through the gloom of the tower, and opening the deep sunken door, emerged into the broad morning sunlight. she went to the telegraph office and wrote out the following message: "cannot say how sorry you are not well. could not telegraph yesterday. would go over, but have no money." when she had written out this message, she untied the string of the bag and poured the contents into her hand. she had expected to find a few shillings. she started with surprise. "gold! all gold!" she counted. "twelve pounds!" then for a moment she stood in thought, tore up the telegram she had written, and walked quickly back to the tower. here a difficulty presented itself. how was she to summon the old man from the top or from the pit? if he was above, the feeble sound of her hand beating against that door would never be heard, even at night. but now in the day, owing to the roar of traffic around, she could not make herself heard if he was in the pit beneath. what was she to do? this was the only door. under the circumstances she did not care to ask the aid of any passer-by, lest it might anger the old man. notwithstanding her conviction that the effort would be fruitless, she did knock at the massive door with her hand. there came no response. for a quarter of an hour she stood and knocked unavailingly. then she turned to go, and hastened to ludgate circus. she had taken no heed of time, and when she got to the circus she was horrified to find herself twenty minutes behind the time appointed. she glanced hastily round, but could not see the old man. then she carefully examined with her eye each of the four sections that make up the circus. she found no one she knew. the hurrying crowd and throng of vehicles 'confused her senses and her mind. the old man had not indicated to her the section in which he would meet her, and to her eyes, unaccustomed as they were to the ceaseless turmoil of traffic in the city, it seemed almost impossible to find anyone in that place. she waited half-an-hour vainly. then she began to despair. whither should she turn? that tower in porter street now seemed as inaccessible to her as the centre of the great pyramid. this dereliction of to-day was harder to bear than that of yesterday; for since her desperate resolve the previous night she had found a friend--nay, more, a close relative--who was also the friend of the man she loved, and who was willing and able to help her. had she not with her the proof of this willingness and this ability? then, as she betook herself once more in the direction of st. prisca's tower, she remembered he had said the money he gave her that morning would do for the present. she was therefore, of course, at liberty to employ the money as she chose. it was hers to use, for a grandfather had of course a perfect right to give his grand-daughter money, and the granddaughter had a perfect right to accept it. once more she found herself in the doorway of the tower. she stood a while looking up and down the busy way, when all at once, to her great joy, she saw the old man approaching. "my dear child, where have you been? i have been greatly frightened about you." she then explained to him what had occurred--how she had not noticed the time slipping by, and how, when she found herself in ludgate circus, she was twenty minutes too late. "well, there's no harm done so far," said crawford. "you sent your telegram, and now we shall go and look for a lodging." "no," she said, "i did not send it. i wrote it out and then tore it up. did you know, sir, that all the money in this bag is gold?" "yes," he said, "i keep my change loose always. did you expect to find notes?" "oh no, sir; but i thought as you were good enough to give this money you might perhaps allow me to do with it what i would most like. that is the reason i tore up my telegram." "certainly," he said. "you may do with it exactly what you please." "well then," said the girl, "will you consent to my going to ireland this evening?" the old man started for a moment. "i suppose you mean," he said, "to glengowra, to see lavirotte." she coloured, and said: "yes. if you do not object. he is ill, you know." "it is a long way for a young girl to go alone; too long i fear." "i am used to travelling," pleaded the girl, "i do not mind travelling in the least. i have travelled a great deal alone." "give me a little time to think," said the old man. "i cannot decide at the moment. this is no place to stand any longer. let us sit down somewhere. come with me." crawford led the way to a quiet room, where he ordered some light refreshment, and where they could speak without effort or restraint. they talked the matter over a little. at last he made up his mind. "i have resolved," he said, "that you should not go alone so long a journey." the girl looked disappointed; her eyes filled with tears. "oh!" she cried, "i wish you would give me leave." "nevertheless," said the old man, not heeding the interruption, "you shall go to ireland this evening. i will go with you." they were alone. she took his dark, wrinkled hand in hers and kissed it, and cried, "thank you, grandfather," and burst into tears. it was the first time the old man had been called grandfather, and the name seemed to re-awaken in his breast echoes of his old tenderness. he placed his other hand on her head, and drew her head down on his shoulder, saying softly: "weep, if it is good for your heart, my child. these are healing tears. you are, as far as i know, the one human being saved to me out of the shipwreck of my life. i will go with you to-night. he will recover speedily, you may be sure, and i will afterwards do all i can for you and him." then the detail of their journey was arranged. she was to get what things she required in lieu of those left with her landlady. he had some preparations to make too. that evening they both set out for dublin on their way to glengowra. chapter xxi. the gold and silver plate and the jewels of the great lord tuscar were the wonder and admiration of europe. sovereigns envied him for their possession. they had not been the result of one generation. the tuscars had for a couple of centuries been generals, admirals, statesmen, lawyers. they had, in fact, occupied every favourable position for earning high rewards and for wholesale plundering. they had plundered with a will. and now, in addition to fine estates in three english counties and a large slice out of "settled" ulster, and one of the finest houses in london, lord tuscar had the largest collection of plate and jewels owned by any nobleman in the three kingdoms. no one had ever attempted even to estimate the value of his treasures. his house was situated close to the river, at no great distance from st. prisca's church. those were times of troubles and dangers. great houses had been ruined and great houses made in an incredibly short space of time. men who had been at the zenith of power and riches yesterday were penniless exiles to-day, and the men who had subsisted upon the charity of foreign courts and foreign nobles a week ago, were now environed with all the circumstance and pomp of power and all the splendour of wealth. now, one of the most remarkable things in connection with the great tuscar treasure was, that for some years no one had seen more of it than the meaner exigencies of a great house required. some said the great lord had pawned it. at this most people laughed; for was it not known that, gorgeous as was the state and luxury with which he surrounded himself, his income exceeded his expenses? others said that although the time was over when monarchs playfully adopted the treasures of their nobles, the great earl had misgivings, and although one of the most favoured courtiers of the merry monarch, he had a morbid dread that his majesty might unjustly covet those precious stores. then there was an idea that as the tuscars had been enthusiastic royalists, and as the present earl was notoriously timid, he had, in dread of a second commonwealth, sent his plate and gems over seas. however the matter stood, there could be no doubt that the treasure was not now at tuscar house; and, moreover, it was alleged that only his lordship and one confidential person could tell the whereabouts of the hoard. it was towards the end of summer, and night. most of london had retired to rest. a strong wind was blowing from the east. the city was ill-lighted where it was lighted at all, and the streets dangerous after dark; so that most people who were honest and had anything to lose kept indoors. it was not a fashionable part of the city, but it was not unprosperous. as the night went on the wind increased, until about ten o'clock. then it blew fiercely. all at once in front of the shop of one, farryner, baker to the king, was raised a cry: "fire!" that was the beginning of it. in an incredibly short time, aided by the wind, farryner's house was burned out; but, before it was finally reduced to ashes, most of pudding lane was in flames. many of the houses were of wood, and offered no protest whatever against the development of the conflagration. an hour from the outbreak of the flames it was known farryner was burned out. two hours later it was known that london was in flames. now it could be seen that this was no incidental fire, to be dismissed finally at the end of the nine-days' wonder. this was a fire that would be remembered for years. three hours after midnight it was obvious that, if the wind continued in its present quarter for any great length of time, the fire would become a matter which history could never ignore. by this time a large portion of the population in the neighbourhood afflicted were afoot. now the fire leaped from street to street, as though with the agility of trained experience. now, when new material came in its way, it shot upward in spires of flame. later, these spires, bending under the pressure of the wind, made radiant viaducts for the fire across the darkened streets. and when they had done their deadly work, and the buildings opposite crackled and glowed, these huge beams of molten gold contracted as the source upon which they had fed failed them, and finally they made one wild, aspiring rush upwards when the roof fell, and the four walls of each house formed the crater of an iridescent volcano, which belched forth one huge mass of co-mingled smoke, and flame, and sparks, and flakes, and wands of fire. about this time the vast house owned by the great lord tuscar was threatened, touched, and fired. he, his suite and retinue, escaped by the river; and in a brief time, before the daylight yet broadened in the east, already red with the flames, tuscar house was beyond hope. now terror had fully seized the people. no efforts were made to save the buildings. those who could escape with their lives, and a few of the most portable of their worldly goods, were considered lucky. men and women might be seen hurrying through the streets frantically, moving west, carrying such of their possessions as could be borne a great distance. for now they had come to the conclusion that it was impossible to set a limit to the flames, and that the whole of london in a westerly direction might succumb. there had been a long, hot, dry season, and the houses burned bravely. they seemed but to need a touch from the fiery wind flying by to kindle them. despair reigned supreme. men and women went shrieking through the streets. the roar of the conflagration shook the air. the crash of falling houses made the solid ground tremble. people would not leave their homes until the flames had touched the walls, until the last ray of hope was obscured. then such as were not encumbered with children or goods flew through the streets, shrieking like demented beings. one of those most alarmed by the magnitude of the calamity and the terrors of that night was the great earl of tuscar. when he entered his barge to row up the river his feet trembled, and he could scarcely keep himself upright. he was elderly, and had been in failing health for some time. before they arrived at the stairs at westminster he complained of feeling faint; and when at last the barge ran alongside, they had to carry the great earl out, for he was dead. as the attendants were bearing the body of the great earl from his barge, a solitary man stood on the leads of the tower belonging to st. prisca's church, watching the progress of the flames. evidently he was very anxious, for his head and eyes moved continually from right to left. as each spot, which, a moment before had been black, sprang into flame, he shifted his feet restlessly like one feeling he ought to be gone, and yet daring to hope there was no need for flight. "if anything is to be saved," he said, "there is no time to lose." again he ran his eye over the increasing area of the fire. "the walls of the tower may stand," he thought. "they are much thicker than is common. but the church itself must go if the wind does not abate. the earl has already left, of course. the fire did not spare his stout walls, nor respect his greatness. he and i alone know where his treasure is hid. he will, of course, take measures to secure it after the fire. it could be nowhere safer than it is at present. no one suspects it is in the vault. people who saw the chests come believed they contained only the rescued archives of an abbey destroyed by cromwell. but let me see. supposing anything should have happened to him; supposing he was overtaken by the flames; suppose, from some cause or other, he should not be able to communicate the secret to anyone, how then could this treasure be discovered? how could it be so arranged that the secret might fall into no other hands than those entitled to know it, for may not i too perish in this terrible disaster?" he turned around, and leaving the embrasure in which he had stood, descended quickly to the room below. here a light was burning, and it could be seen that he who had watched the fire from the roof was a clergyman. "how is it to be done?" he thought, and pondered some seconds. at last he lifted a small box, and, going to some bookshelves, took out a few volumes. in two of these volumes he wrote something. "it will not do," he thought, "to make this matter so plain that anyone may understand it. if the earl is alive, by noon he will surely take some steps with regard to his treasure. if he is not alive, and i too have perished, it will be necessary some record should be left behind." he placed a copy of chaucer, in which he had written something, in the bottom of the box, then a few indifferent books, and then "mentor on hawking," in which he had written something also; then a few more indifferent books, and finally a piece of paper bearing these words: "search diligently if you would know what john henry plantagenet james, eighth earl, knew, if he be dead." on the outside of the box he fastened a piece of parchment on which he wrote: "a box of books. take this at once to the earl of tuscar, who will reward the bearer." then he locked the box, and, putting it on his shoulder, descended the ladders of st. prisca's tower. as he did so he said to himself: "i have not been too soon. the air here is already hot. i can smell the fire close by." as he was about half-way down, a sudden light in one of the openings attracted his attention. he started, and cried: "the flames have already struck the church." ere he reached the next loft it was but too plain the tower was already in flames. "my retreat cut off!" he exclaimed in despair. he looked down into the next loft. the floor and the foot of the ladder were alight, and exit was impossible. if there was any hope for him it must be upon the roof. he hastened thither. during the time he had been occupied with the books and writing, and in descending and ascending, the fire had made rapid, terrible progress. it had touched the church of st. prisca, and the smoke was already coming up the opening in the roof. it was quite plain now to the man on the leads that he was doomed. there were people in the streets below, but they were as helpless as he. "i must die," he said. "nothing can save me. there is but one chance for my preserving the secret." he approached an embrasure on the western side, and dropped the box into the street below. the box shot downward and was shattered into atoms. some paltry pilferer, a few minutes later, snatched up the books and put them into his bag. the label on the box and the manuscript-slip inside were never seen afterwards. the books were carried to kensington, whither a good deal of the salvage of the fire was brought; and the clergyman, who had tried to save the earl's secret, fell a victim to the great fire of london on the rd of september, . chapter xxii. it was evening when lionel crawford and his grand-daughter arrived at glengowra. much of the excitement had by this time disappeared, and a tone of gentle disgust was to be observed among the inhabitants of that little town. was it not provoking, townfolk thought, that such a splendid opportunity for invective and commiseration should be wholly wasted? who could throw stones at lavirotte if young o'donnell did not? who could pity young o'donnell if he consented to receive the friendly overtures of lavirotte. the whole thing was an abominable conspiracy against comfortable living in glengowra. there was something to be grateful for, no doubt, in the first blush of that event at the cove, but it had led to nothing worthy of its parts; and a circumstance which had gone up the very largest of rockets, seemed destined to come down the most insignificant of sticks. when lionel crawford and dora harrington arrived in glengowra and went to maher's hotel, a new fillip was given to public curiosity. it was known by the speech of the grandfather and his grand-daughter that they were not of irish bringing up. there was, of course, no reason why they should be in any way connected with the great event of that week. yet, still it had been noised abroad that lavirotte had telegraphed to a miss harrington in london, and here now had arrived an old man and a young girl with unfamiliar accents. the shrewd people of glengowra made a connection between these facts, and came, in about ten minutes, to the conclusion that the young girl was miss harrington. in the back room of the confectionery hall, a man who had come out by the same train with the newly-arrived pair brought all news and surmises concerning them; and here, out of gratitude for small mercies, the company were for a time solaced by the fact that no one could offer a rational explanation of who the old man was. when crawford and dora were safely inside maher's hotel, the old man asked to be shown to a private sitting-room. "for," said he to dora, "i have been so long accustomed to the solitude of st. prisca's tower, that i cannot endure the company or curious gaze of strangers." he had no means of knowing up to this that lavirotte's illness was not a natural one, or that he and his grand-daughter were the subjects of peculiar interest to the good folk of glengowra. he rang the bell, and when the waiter came, said: "i should very much like to see the landlord, if you think he would oblige me by coming here." in a few minutes the proprietor entered the room. the old man lost no time in stating his case. he said: "we have come a long journey, and are tired. we are both deeply interested in a gentleman who is now lying ill here, mr. lavirotte, and are most anxious to know his present condition." the landlord looked from one to the other in some perplexity. "may i ask," said he, "the nature of the interest you take in mr. lavirotte?" the old man smiled, and said: "an irishman's answer." "an irishman's answer," said maher, "is often kindly meant." he glanced significantly, first at the old man, and then at the young girl. "perhaps you know," said crawford, "that mr. lavirotte telegraphed to a lady in london, in whose affairs he is interested?" "i wrote out the message myself." he paused a moment. "have i the honour of seeing miss harrington?" "this is miss harrington." "and you are, sir----?" he paused here. "her grandfather." "may i ask you, sir," said maher, "to step out with me for a moment?" "oh, sir, he is worse," cried the girl, looking appealingly at the old man. maher turned quickly upon her, saying: "i pledge you my word of honour, miss harrington, that, on the contrary, mr. lavirotte is much better; and that he has continued to improve ever since i telegraphed to you." "then," said the girl, "his illness must have been sudden." "rather sudden. if you, sir," he continued, turning to the grandfather, "will accompany me just down to the strand, i should feel greatly obliged. miss harrington will, if you approve of it, remain in this room until we come back, with my most emphatic assurance that mr. lavirotte is out of danger and getting on very well." maher did not wish the girl to meet even a chambermaid, lest the whole of the story might reach her at the one time, and give her a most painful and unnecessary shock. the substance of the conversation between the two clerks at the back of the confectionery hall had by this time become public property; and, of course, the hotel proprietor was one of the first men to hear all news. jaded as the old man was, he rose with alacrity, and accompanied maher. as soon as they were in the open air crawford turned on his companion, and said: "i am sure, sir, your intention is kindly. there is kindliness in your manner and face; but i hope you are not, through some benevolent motive, deceiving that child we have left behind." "i--deceiving her!" cried the landlord. "_i_ am not deceiving her." "i do not understand," said the old man, "what you mean by laying such emphasis on the word _i_." "i mean, sir, that although i am not deceiving her now (lavirotte is really getting better), someone else may be deceiving her." "you perplex and disturb me," said the old man. "i have no clue whatever to your meaning. pray, if you would be kind, be plain." "i take it for granted, sir, that you know mr. lavirotte." "i know mr. lavirotte, but not very well." for a moment or two the landlord was silent. his position was one of great delicacy and difficulty. he now held a profound hatred for lavirotte, and the look of that gentle, confiding young girl had touched him keenly. he pitied her. "i hope, sir," he said, "if i am bold enough to ask you a few questions, you will be so kind as not to fancy it is through curiosity." "i will do anything," said the old man, "if you will only go on." "there is a rumour here, which may be true or false, that mr. lavirotte met miss harrington in london, and that they were good friends there." "i see what you are driving at. they are engaged to be married." "precisely. you have not for some months past heard much of mr. lavirotte, have you?" "absolutely nothing, except your telegram. has he been ill all that time?" "no. he was not taken ill until a few hours before i sent that message to london." "what is the nature of his illness?" "he received an injury in a mysterious way, in a quarrel with another man, and neither he nor the other man will say anything about the quarrel, or the cause of it. but, of course, as in all cases of this kind, there is a general notion of what it was about. people say that jealousy led to it." "jealousy of miss harrington? i did not understand there was any likelihood of his being jealous of her." "nor is he, as far as rumour goes. the facts are that he attacked a young man in this place, and, after stabbing the young man, was rendered insensible himself, no one knows how." "stabbing!" exclaimed the old man with horror. "are you sure of that!" "there is no evidence he did. there is no doubt he did." "i am old," said mr. crawford, "and have lived a long time out of the ways of the world. i am slow, and do not understand. out of pity to my infirmities, be simple with me. i know something very unpleasant is coming. let me hear it at once." the two men had now reached the roadway that ran inside the storm wall. "it will rest you, sir, if we stand here and lean upon the wall. i will tell you everything i know in a few words. "the prettiest girl in this neighbourhood is a miss creagh. she is now in my house. one of the finest young fellows within twenty miles is mr. eugene o'donnell. he is now lying in my house. he is the man lavirotte stabbed. they were bosom friends. the story goes that about two months ago lavirotte made love to miss creagh and was rejected. a little later o'donnell made love, and was accepted. the wedding was to be in about a month, and to prevent it lavirotte tried to murder young o'donnell." "good god!" said the old man, "what a dreadful story, and what a scoundrel he must be! it is the most horrible thing that ever came near me in all my life." "it is very bad, sir, indeed. you will now, sir, understand why i wished to speak to you alone. shall we go back? i left orders that no one was to enter the private room, so that you can act now as you think best, and be quite certain that the young lady knows nothing of this most miserable affair. it is only right you should know that young o'donnell is also doing very well, and no fears are felt about his recovery." in perfect silence the two men walked back to the hotel. chapter xxiii. lionel crawford did not go straight to the room where dora was. he turned into the coffee-room, and there stood a while pondering. though he was a visionary, a dreamer, a philosopher, he had, before he became immersed in his present studies and pursuits, been, comparatively speaking, a man of the world. for although he had never mingled much in society, he had a tolerable knowledge of what people said and did. what would people say of such conduct as lavirotte's? they would call it abominable. what would people say of lavirotte? they would call him a scoundrel. here was a dilemma. if this strange, this unknown girl, were not to marry lavirotte but the other man, there seemed on the face of it to be no reason why he might not still marry dora. it was quite certain his grand-daughter had no hint that lavirotte's affections had strayed from her. this liking for miss creagh might have been only the errant fancy of an hour--of a day--of a week. it might turn out that the landlord had exaggerated the position of miss creagh in the matter, and that the encounter had been the result of heated blood, arising from some other cause. if things had only run on smoothly, without this wretched interruption of the fight, how satisfactory all would be. here was lavirotte, the owner of the tower, and he, the seeker for the treasure, already bound together in a kind of business contract. and here, then, as a second bond of union between the two, had come dora. his grand-daughter was to be the other's wife if things had not been disturbed. if lavirotte and he had shared the treasure equally between them, and then these two young people were married, the whole of the enormous fortune hidden under st. prisca's tower would, when he died, be theirs. it would be a thousand pities that such a match should be broken off. the most ordinary prudence pointed at the absurdity of such a step. it would be his duty to his grand-daughter, lavirotte, and himself, to take care that no such misfortune might befall. the agreement which existed between him and lavirotte had never been reduced to writing. neither of them had desired that it should. he knew that such an agreement would not be binding in law. if the finding and retaining of all the treasure was contrary to the law, no instrument embodying the disposal of all the property between him and lavirotte would hold for one moment. it would be a cruel shame if, after all his years of inquiry and anxiety, when he was working on the mere traditional rumour that a great hoard was concealed somewhere in the city, the labour of that time and the labour of his later years in the tower should all go for nothing, or next to nothing. lavirotte had been sceptical as to the existence of the treasure; had given him to understand he would not sink a penny in the speculation. if any difficulty arose between him and the owner of the tower now, that door might remain shut for a hundred years, until they were all dead, until the clue to the secret had been destroyed for ever. by some means or other this catastrophe must be avoided. it was too hideous even to think of. he must prevent it at any cost. how was he to prevent it? it was plainly his first business to see lavirotte and ascertain all he could from him. no doubt the frenchman would be more communicative to him than to others in whom he had no interest whatever. of course lavirotte would not recognise in him the grandfather of dora, but they had been acquainted some time and were partners in his secret, in his great undertaking. no doubt by this time the girl was becoming impatient for news of some kind. he would go to her first and reassure her, and then seek an interview with lavirotte. when he entered the room where dora was, she came to him eagerly and caught his hand and said: "have you seen him--is he better? what did he say?" "i have not seen dominique yet," said the old man, using the other's christian name for the first time. "oh, you are good to call him dominique. you have something to tell me." "i have nothing very new to tell you. it is quite true he is progressing most favourably, and there is no cause for alarm. this place is full of strangers, and the landlord thinks you will be most comfortable if you remain in this room a little longer until i see dominique." "you will not be long. i am so impatient to know all--to see him if i may." "i will make all the haste i can," and with these words the old man left the room. when lionel crawford entered the injured man's room the latter was prepared to see him, as word had been sent up before that crawford was coming. "it was exceedingly kind of you to come, mr. crawford," said the wounded man; "but, in the name of all that is mysterious, how did you find out i was hurt, or are you here merely by some extraordinary coincidence?" "let us not waste time now," said the old man, "with idle matters. i am in a hurry. by a mere accident, which i will explain to you later, i found out you were ill. i lost no time in coming, as, for several reasons, i was anxious to see you." "i suppose," said lavirotte, "you heard something of what has occurred since you came to this place?" "i will be candid with you," said crawford, "and tell you all i heard." when he had finished, he said: "is it true in substance?" the prostrate man admitted it was true in substance, and went on to explain: "i will tell you a little more about it than you seem to have heard, and what i am going to tell you will lessen me a good deal in your regard, for it will show you that the wind is constant compared to me. it is true i was engaged to someone in london. it is true that while i was engaged i fell in love with miss creagh. she would not have me. she accepted my dearest friend, eugene o'donnell, and in a moment of absolute madness i tried to take his life. he has forgiven me. we are friends again, and now i have only one great fear. it is that what has occurred may come to the ears of the girl i am engaged to in london, and so prejudice me in her opinion. for, you see, when i proposed to her she had a fortune of five thousand pounds, and now she has lost all that fortune in the terrible crash of vernon and son. if she heard of all this, it might make her think--in fact, it would look like it--that i made love to her when she had a fortune, and gave her up as soon as i found it swept away." "so that," said the other anxiously, "if you were up and about once more, and were free to travel, you would go to london, and, if you were in a position to do so, marry miss harrington." "that," said lavirotte eagerly, "is the only thing i could do which would atone to her in any way for my vile fickleness. it would, at the same time, prove to my dear friend, o'donnell, that i had not only abandoned all my pretensions to miss creagh, but that by marrying and going to london i had put a final barrier between myself and her, and gone into voluntary exile as a punishment for my crime. but, you see, as to marrying at present, that is completely out of the question. i was too poor before this affair, and now the whole town will turn against me, and i shall be obliged to leave the place. there will be no getting a crust for me here now." "but," said the old man, enthusiastically, "we must be very near our great fortune now. i work day and night, night and day. by day in the pit, by night on the top of the tower. i cannot be far off now. another six months and i surely must reach the chests in which the great treasure is hidden." his voice had fallen to a whisper, and the intense excitement with which he contemplated his final triumph had caused the sweat to break out upon his forehead. he grasped the counterpane convulsively. he could scarcely breathe. this was the first time for years he had spoken of the matter. it was the second time in all his life. "you shall be rich," he said. "and i shall be rich. i have tried over and over again to estimate what may be the value of that hoard, and the more i think of it the greater, i am persuaded, it must be. at first i thought two hundred thousand pounds might be the outside limit. but the more i read the more it grew, until at last i have come to the conclusion that it must be somewhere between a million and a million and a half." the excitement of the old man was intense. his eyes were fixed, his attitude and manner that of one fascinated by some glorious vision. the splendour of the image he had conjured up drew him wholly away from the present time and his surroundings. he had forgotten lavirotte, his own long journey, dora, everything but the one colossal figure of wealth triumphant gleaming before his mental vision. the wounded man shook his head sadly and slowly on his pillow. "if i am to wait, mr. crawford," said he, dreamily, "until we reach the goal at which you aim, i greatly fear i must starve. this illness will exhaust all the money i have. popular opinion will drive me from this town. i see nothing before me but ruin." the words seemed to recall the old man to the immediate circumstances of his position, but he did not clearly recover all he had said to lavirotte before. "all my money is not yet gone. does no means suggest itself to you of putting a little capital to some advantage? i don't think you can hope for much from your present occupation. without any danger to our great project i could, i think, find a few hundred pounds if they would be of any permanent use to you." "a little while ago," said lavirotte, in a melancholy tone, "i thought if i could get a few hundred pounds i should be able to put it to very profitable use. i have a voice, if this accident has not taken it away, and all my friends said that if i could devote a couple of years exclusively to its cultivation, i might succeed as a singer." "you are not yet too old," said the other, with interest. "take the money and try the experiment." "but i can have no excuse for taking from you money which i may never be able to repay." "you want no excuse," said lionel crawford, catching the injured man's hand. "why should i not help the future husband of my grandchild?" "your grandchild!" cried lavirotte, in astonishment. "who is she?" "dora harrington." chapter xxiv. this announcement of lionel crawford head an electrical effect upon dominique lavirotte. notwithstanding dr. o'malley's strict orders to the contrary, the frenchman sat bolt upright in the bed, looking ghastly in his bandages, and stared at the old man. "_you_, dora's grandfather!" he cried. his eyes starting in their sockets, and bloodless lips remaining open when he had spoken. "_you_, dora's grandfather! you are telling me a hideous lie. for what purpose are you telling me this hideous lie?" "hush!" cried the old man, alarmed lest lavirotte in his excitement should make allusion in similarly loud tones to his great secret. "you must not excite yourself. someone may hear you, and then how should we be?" lavirotte stared still, but uttered no word. the power of speech was taken from him by the nature of the statement made by the other man. had this dark-visaged ogre come here to worm the history of his perfidy to dora from him, in order to be avenged on him out of a confession from his own mouth? was this man about to add to his mental tortures a storm of intolerable abuse, or, taking advantage of his helpless state, finish the work which the night of that encounter had left undone? "you seem to misunderstand my intention altogether. i assure you all i have said and have to say is for your good, for our good, for the good of our great object." like all other men who have ever been possessed by the idea of discovering hidden treasure, all pursuits and considerations seemed of comparatively little moment compared with the thought which possessed him. like all other such men, he dreaded more than anything else the chance that his secret might become known to anyone not absolutely essential to success. lavirotte fell back, relieved and exhausted. there was no mistaking the wild earnestness of this strange-eyed enthusiast. "go on," he said faintly. "there can be nothing simpler or, i think, better, than i suggest," continued lionel crawford. "i cannot say, i do not know, how long yet it may take me to get down to where the plate and jewels lie buried. it may be a year, it may be more or less, six months at least, and not farther off than a year-and-a-half. you are, unfortunately, sceptical of the existence of any such treasure. i am as sure it is there as though i myself had buried it." "why not then use the money you speak of in employing men to dig for it under your superintendence?" asked lavirotte, peevishly. "do not talk so loud." lavirotte had, because of his weakness, spoken almost in a whisper. "do not talk such nonsense. employ men to dig, and have the whole thing town-talk in twenty-four hours! let a lot of mere day labourers within the magic spell, within touch of the thing i have brooded over and kept secretly apart from all the rest of the world for years and years! what profanation! i would rather forego all hope of ever enjoying final triumph than let the shrine of my dreams be defiled by unsympathetic hands!" the old man was once again back in dreamland, and unconscious that the present had any real existence, save that it was the roadway to the future. "but if there is any likelihood of long delay in--in finding this treasure" (lavirotte believed his visitor would come on the chests of precious articles belonging to the great lord tuscar on the same day that someone else found the philosopher's stone), "you will want all the money you have, and cannot afford to give it to me for the purpose of spending it on a speculation which may be as likely to succeed as----," he was about to say "your own," but substituted, "the search for the north pole. it seems to me that there is no earthly use in my even thinking of such a thing. i am beaten by fate, and the best thing i can do is to give in." this speech instantly recalled the old man to the subject in hand and the immediate surroundings of the case. apart from his ruling passion--the hidden gold and stones--he was simple, almost childlike. but anything which touched his darling project roused up in him a fiery spirit of intelligence no one under ordinary circumstances could anticipate. "no, no!" cried he. "you must not even think of giving in. you must make up your mind to succeed. you must succeed, not only for your own sake, but for the sake of dora as well." a faint smile came over lavirotte's face. "tell me more. tell me more. you give me hope. you make me aspire." the peevishness was fading out of lavirotte's manner and face. "it may be possible for me to redeem my character and my credit yet." "of course it is quite possible, quite easy for you to do so. there is not the least difficulty about the matter. is it a bargain?" after a little more talk it was arranged that lavirotte should take the money as an advance on his share of the great tuscar hoard. "and now," said lavirotte, "dear mr. crawford, don't you think that in this matter of making love to one girl while i was engaged to another, i deserved the very severest instead of the most merciful treatment at your hands?" "well," said the old man, "that's all past and gone now, and we all grow wiser as we grow older. it will, i suppose, be some days before you are up and about again. the landlord of this place has been very wise, and by his aid i have been able to keep all knowledge of the circumstances of your case from dora. there is no need why she should hear anything about it now, and as you are on the way to recovery, and we need not be anxious about your health, i fancy the best thing we can do is to get her away as quickly as possible from this. what do you think?" "i don't know," said lavirotte, gloomily. "you see, if she does not hear the truth now it will be like practising another deceit upon her. i shall have to act a part, and not a very creditable one." crawford became uneasy. he knew too little of dora to be able to judge how she would receive the whole story, and it seemed now to him a matter of the first importance that he should lose no possible hold of lavirotte. "you see," said he, "she will be shocked to learn that you have been hurt in an encounter, and are not ill in a natural way as she supposes. then you will have to explain almost everything, and it might be better that portion of the explanation should be postponed." lavirotte moved restlessly. "it is very difficult," he said. "i own it is very difficult. one hardly can know what to do. i want to spare her, of course, if i can; and i want to put myself right with her if i can." "then," said the old man, with a sudden gleam of intelligence in his eyes, "let mercy for her prevail. you see you have been in fault. suffer your own explanation to lie over for the present in order to spare her feelings. later on you can put yourself right with her." lavirotte sighed, and then asked, languidly: "what do you propose?" "that i should take her back with me to london at once, telling her that you are not allowed to see her in your present state of health; but that immediately on your recovery you will follow us to london, and that, in the meantime, i will take care of her." "perhaps, after all," said the injured man, "that is the best plan." now that the prospect of an immediate meeting between him and dora grew dim, he lost interest in the conversation, and the excitement of anticipation being withdrawn, the weakness of his condition asserted itself. after some more talk, it was finally agreed between the two men that lionel crawford's suggestion should be carried out. then it became the duty of the latter to inform dora of this decision. he found the girl in a state of the greatest excitement and anxiety. "oh!" she cried, "i thought you would never come. may i not see him now?" the old man took her by the hands and led her back to the seat she had risen from on his entrance. "my dear child," he said, "there is not the least cause for your anxiety about dominique's health. he is progressing most favourably. but it would be exceedingly unwise that he should see you now." "but you said i might see him. you promised i might see him!" "since i told you so i have been with him and learned more of his case. although he is most anxious to see you, he is persuaded that doing so would be injurious now. he will be all right in a few days. we have talked the whole matter over. i intend assisting him to a much better position than he now holds. i am authorised by him to make all preparations for your marriage." the young girl coloured, partly by surprise and partly by bashfulness. lionel crawford saw that these words had made an impression favourable to his views. "if we want to get him well and make him happy soon," he continued, "he and i agree that the best thing to be done is that you and i should instantly set out for london." "but it is very hard to have to go without seeing him," said the girl, confused by the new and unexpected turn affairs had taken, and elated by the assurance that the difficulties of her lover's worldly position were at an end, and that when next they met it would be to part no more. the old man saw that he had carried his point. he rose briskly, and said: "the sooner we are off the better. there is no use in our staying here an hour. being so near him when you may not see him would only add to your uncomfortableness. i will go and see at once how and when we are to get back. wait for me here." as he reached the bar, he found two young men there. one was in the employment of the railway at rathclare, the other in the post-office of that town. their backs were towards him, and they did not hear him entering the room. "maher told me," said the railway, "that an old man and a young girl have come to see lavirotte. that's the girl, no doubt, he made love to in london. maher wouldn't tell me their names; but i'll find out all about them when i get to london." "you may not find it so easy, my young man," thought lionel crawford. "i have kept a secret for years." chapter xxv. it was a sore disappointment to the town of glengowra when it found that its two interesting visitors had left, and left suddenly; having had, as far as current accounts went, no communication whatever with anyone in the place but the landlord of the hotel and lavirotte, neither of whom would give any information as to the strangers or their business. it was not, of course, until the next day that it became generally known two strangers had arrived and gone away. kempston, the fussy little magistrate, said it was a shame, a part of a scandalous plot to defeat justice, and that someone or other ought to be punished all the more severely on this account. the police became more gloomy and suspicious, and silent, and the general townsfolk, visitors included, felt that they had been robbed of an exciting item in the programme of crime. dr. o'malley was no exception to the general protest, but he took a rather different view of it. "i am told," he said to lavirotte, "that two highly mysterious and attractive strangers arrived last night. an old man, attractive, because venerable, and all that. a young girl, a seraph, a sylph, a miracle of beauty, attractive because of her loveliness. the old man has an interview with maher. the old man has an interview with you. the two slope. let us say, for argument sake, 'confound the old man, but what about the nightingale, the bride of abydos, the seraph?' here am i, dr. thomas o'malley, one of the lights of my profession, and a man who may at any time be called into consultation at the bedside of royalty, and yet i am not permitted to be fascinated. you know, lavirotte, i am not in the least curious, but who was this goddess, and why was i not permitted to see her?" lavirotte raised his hand and let it fall on the counterpane with a gesture of deprecation. "even i was not permitted to see her, o'malley." "but all those who did see her say she was adorable, divine. you arch hypocrite, you know all about her, and will not speak. at this moment there may be a telegram awaiting me at home, announcing that i have been created a baronet. how, in heaven's name, am i to get on without a lady o'malley? and once i am a baronet, a man of my appearance, parts, and position would be so assailed by ambitious and designing spinsters, that i should be compelled, in sheer self-defence, and in order to prevent myself committing bigamy, to turn my back upon the whole brood. what spite have you, lavirotte, against this dark-eyed wonder, that you would not give her a chance of becoming lady o'malley?" lavirotte affected to be languid, and said: "i really cannot give you any information, and you said i was not to talk much." "i'll take very good care you do not talk much while _i_ am present. _i_ never let anyone talk too much in my presence." "look here, o'malley," said the invalid, "i really must ask you to let me alone on this subject. i'm not equal to it just at present." "i know, my dear fellow. i won't worry you. i'm the least curious man in the world. as your medical adviser, i would recommend you, with a view to relieving your mind, to tell me all about this matter. but, as your friend, i would advise you to tell me nothing at all of it, unless you wish it all over the town in an hour." the busy little doctor left and proceeded to the room of the other patient. here he found mrs. creagh with o'donnell. she had insisted upon dividing the work of nursing with her daughter, and made the girl go home and lie down for some hours. under the circumstances of mr. o'donnell's business difficulties, his wife did not dare to leave him. she had paid a flying visit the morning after the encounter, and gone back to rathclare the following day. after the position in which her husband had been found that night, she did not dare to leave him for an hour. like a brave woman she faced all the world for his sake, and although no one blamed him for the ruin which had overtaken him, the pair were pitied universally, and pity is harder to bear than blame. the doctor found his second patient doing remarkably well; in fact, much better than could be expected. of course, mrs. and miss creagh had been cautioned, with all the others who might visit the sick room, to say nothing of the vernon disaster. "let me see," said the cheery little man; "let me see. i think you said your wedding was fixed for a month after the accident. well, if you don't want to be all right until a month, i'll have to give you some powerful medicine to keep you back. it's amazing, ma'am," he said, turning to mrs. creagh, who sat smiling pleasantly at the bedside. she was a plump, fair, good-looking woman, between fifty and sixty, with a genial, round face, and a gracious, cordial manner, which are better in a sick room than all the medicines in the pharmacop[oe]ia. "it is amazing, ma'am, how these young men will get well in spite of us doctors. we can generally manage to polish off the old people in a handsome, becoming, and professional way; but these young people are dead against us--or alive against us, what's worse. whenever, mrs. creagh, you hear of a doctor dying of a broken heart, it is _always_--mind, i say _always_--because of the stubbornness of the young people. ordinary men die of broken hearts because of love, or business, or something of that kind; but when a patient defies prussic acid, nux vomica, or aqua pura, it is all up with one of our profession." "by-the-way, o'malley," said o'donnell, "have you got a couple of hours to spare to-day?" "my dear fellow, pending the arrival of the official documents appointing me surgeon-in-ordinary to the queen, i can spare you a couple of hours." "then i'd be very much obliged to you," said o'donnell, "if you'd run into rathclare and see the old people. i am very anxious about them. i know the governor always has his hands full of business, and that my mother does not wish to be away from him, but i cannot help wondering why neither of them has come out. i am greatly afraid there must be something the matter with the governor. of course mrs. creagh or nellie writes twice a day, and we hear once a day; but i can't make out how neither of them has come here." "i'm sure your father is in excellent health," said o'malley; "but if it will relieve your mind in the slightest degree, i shall go in by the next train and come out with news." o'malley went straight to the railway station and took the first train leaving glengowra for rathclare. he of course knew, or guessed, why it was neither father nor mother came to visit the son; but under the circumstances it was best to humour eugene and see mr. and mrs. o'donnell. he found the old couple in the small library behind the dining-room. the window of this looked into the garden in the rear, and so was shielded from prying eyes. "dr. o'malley," cried the woman, rising to her feet, "have they been writing me lies? is he worse?" the old man was sitting at the table, on which lay a few open ledgers. in his hand he held a quill pen, with which he was making, tremorously, figures on a large sheet of ruled paper. at his wife's words he dropped the pen on the paper and looked up. then, hearing the noise of the pen fall, he looked down again, and cried: "confound it, i have blotted the sheet." at that moment the traditions of a lifetime of business were all upon him. he stood in the centre of the ruins of his beloved city, laid low by earthquake; the fiery heat of all his years of commercial toil were focussed on him then. he was making out _his bankrupt sheet_. the doctor replied instantly, taking no notice of what the old man had said: "on the contrary, mrs. o'donnell, i am come to tell you, thinking you would be glad to hear it by word of mouth from me, that your son is getting on infinitely better than i had ever dared to hope. you may make your mind quite easy that he will be up and about sooner than we thought at the best." the woman threw herself into a chair and burst into tears. "mary," said the husband, looking at her in perplexity as he sopped up the ink with a piece of blotting-paper, "i was so busy i did not hear. what did he say?" "he said that all is well at glengowra," said the woman, through her sobs. "he means, mary," said the old man, "that eugene is dead." she dried her eyes, ceased her sobs, and looked up. "no, james, no. he said eugene is better--getting on as well as can be expected, and that he will soon be up and about once more." the father put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and said in a feeble, tremulous voice: "it would be better if my boy was dead." mrs. o'donnell made a gesture of silence and caution to the doctor. then she rose and beckoned the latter to follow her out of the room. when they were in the hall she said: "the shock, the business shock, has been too much for his brain, i fear. ever since that awful night they found him in the strong-room with the revolver i am in dread if i leave him for even a minute. i must go now. god bless you for coming. good-bye. be good to my boy." that evening, when o'malley called to see lavirotte, he told him the scene he had witnessed that day in the library at o'donnell's. all at once the frenchman became strangely excited. he sat up in the bed, and cried out: "i have it, o'malley; i have it. i have done a great wrong to those people, but i think i see my way to setting it right again." "lie down, you maniac," said the doctor, pushing him softly back. "do you want to burst your bandages, or bring on fever? what do you mean?" "mean!" cried the other. "i mean to sell my last shirt rather than that eugene's father should come to ruin." "keep quiet," said the doctor. "keep quiet, or you will surely bring on delirium." "i have the means of doing it," cried lavirotte, fiercely, "and i will do it." by this time o'malley was bathing the injured man's head copiously. "if he gets delirium," thought the doctor, "it's all up with him." "i see the money," cried lavirotte, excitedly shaking his arms in the air. "half a million if it's a penny! that will clear james o'donnell, the noble, honourable james o'donnell, the father of my best, my dearest friend eugene. come here, eugene, and take it, every sovereign, every sou. it is all yours. take it, my boy; clear the old man, marry nellie, and god bless you and her, and then the devil may have me if he will only have the goodness to wait so long." "delirium," said the doctor, "has set in, and he will die." chapter xxvi. it was late that evening when o'malley left lavirotte. the doctor gave instructions that if the delirium increased he was to be called. in the case of the frenchman, two things puzzled the energetic little doctor. although unquestionably the patient was raving mad, his pulse was normal, and his skin moist. when the nurse came up to the sick room, she could find no sign whatever of delirium. lavirotte seemed as calm and collected as any judge on the bench. he asked was the doctor gone, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, said to the nurse: "bring me a pencil and some paper. i want to write a couple of short notes." "are you not afraid it would be too much for you, sir?" remonstrated the nurse. "no, no," said the other, decisively. "there is something on my mind, and i cannot sleep unless i get rid of it, so the sooner you get me what i want the better." the woman left the room, and in a few moments returned with what he required. then, on the back of a book, he wrote the two following notes: "my dear mr. crawford, "since i saw you last i have thought of a matter which makes it of vital consequence we should not lose an hour in realising your great hope. i therefore beg of you to do all you can in furtherance of the scheme. let me hear from you by return of post. the moment i am able to move i shall follow you to london. "give my dearest love to dora; say i am very sorry they would not let me see her when she was so near to me, and that to-morrow i will write her as long a letter as my strength will allow. "yours, most devotedly, "dominique lavirotte." the second was to this effect: "dear mr. o'donnell, "i am too weak to write you a long letter. i hope you will take the will for the deed. i cannot tell you how sorry i am for all that has lately occurred, and how deeply i sympathise with you in the business troubles which, because of no fault of your own, have come upon you. "you know, of course, that eugene and i are the greatest friends on earth. from news which i received to-day, and which i had little expectation of ever hearing, i have reason, good reason, to hope that within a very short time i am likely to come into possession of an enormous fortune--a fortune so large that it will make me one of the richest men in the kingdom. you are a man of business. to be precise, i expect about half a million. need i tell you what my first, my greatest pleasure, will be in this? it will be to place the whole of it absolutely at the disposal of my best friend's father, so that he may be led carefully out of the present storm into the calm waters of prosperous trade, in which his honour and his industry have already made his name a household word in ireland. "this note has run out much longer than i expected. good-night, my dear mr. o'donnell. god bless you. "dominique lavirotte." when he had finished his two letters he enclosed them in envelopes, directing the latter first. then suddenly he thought of what at first sight seemed an insuperable difficulty. how was he to address crawford's letter? if he wrote on the envelope, "st. prisca's tower, porter street," there was little doubt that in due time the letter would be returned to him through the dead-letter office. yet st. prisca's tower was the only address he knew for crawford in london. how stupid it was of him not to have asked for an address. at the time, he had thought dora or the old man should write to him first. since they had left, this idea had occurred to him, and now he felt himself hopeless of communicating it to crawford for the present. no postman would in his senses think of knocking at the massive door of that solitary tower, and if a postman, touched with lunacy, did knock with his knuckles, he would never receive a reply. he was fairly beaten. in this matter every hour was of value, of the highest value; and here he was paralysed by an unpardonable stupidity of his own. "will you ask mr. maher," he said to the nurse, "if he would be good enough to step this way? i want a word with him." when the landlord entered, lavirotte said: "mr. crawford, who was here last night, left for london without giving me his address. can you think of any means by which i might be able to find it out at once? the matter is of very great importance." the landlord looked with a keen glance at the sallow face and bandaged head of the prone foreigner. before crawford left, he had made a confidant of maher to the extent that all would yet be well between lavirotte and his grand-daughter, and he had bound maher, as an honourable man, to silence. he had, moreover, tried to persuade maher that lavirotte might not be quite so black as circumstances represented him. still the other could not help regarding lavirotte with a feeling the reverse of cordial. there could, however, be no harm, he thought, in helping lavirotte in this matter. he said: "mr. crawford came first-class." "yes." "from euston?" "from euston." "then telegraph to euston, address mr. crawford, first-class passenger irish mail, euston." the difficulty was solved, and in a few minutes lavirotte had forwarded the telegram, asking to what address he should send a letter to him in london. at the same time he posted his letter to mr. o'donnell. there was little or no chance of his receiving a reply that night, as the glengowra office would, in all likelihood, be shut before it could be forwarded there. next morning the answer came: "address letter to the cygnet hotel, porter street, e.c." lavirotte's letter to mr. o'donnell was delivered the morning after it was written. he put it aside as the work of a man not responsible for his actions; and yet, since it contained the first suggestion that it was possible his business might be saved, he felt a slight tenderness towards it, as a man, whose powers are altogether small, out of proportion to his ambition, feels a tenderness towards the one person who believes in his strength. immediately after it became generally known that vernon and son had stopped payment, mr. o'donnell had asked a few of his best friends to come and advise him as to his position. he explained to them that as far as the business in rathclare was concerned, he was perfectly solvent and capable of carrying it on, but that, as he understood the affairs of vernon and son were in a desperate and disgraceful way, and as the company was unlimited, he should be certainly ruined by the "calls." he would, he told them, be quite content to lose all the money he had invested in vernon and son, if he might only keep on the rathclare business as it was going; but that, of course, he was liable to the creditors of the bank up to the very last penny he had, and the chances were a thousand to one that, when vernon and son were completely wound up, he would find himself as poor as the poorest man in the parish. then he asked what they would recommend him to do with respect to the business. they tried to persuade him that things were sure to turn out much better than he anticipated, and they advised him to keep the business running exactly as it now was. he had adopted their advice, but his heart was no longer in his work, and he wandered about the place which he had reared from the foundation to the roof, and he looked at the trade which he had created, with a faltering step and a lack-lustre eye. the evening of the day he got lavirotte's letter was that following dr. o'malley's call. mrs. o'donnell had, in the few days between eugene's hurt and this, tried to induce the father to go out to glengowra and see their son. but he had declined, saying: "it would do neither him nor me any good. i can be of no use whatever to him now, after all my big promises to him. the boy's prospects are ruined, and, of course, for the girl's sake, that marriage must be broken off." this evening the mother felt more than ever anxious to see her son, and she made a strong appeal to the old man to take the train and run down to glengowra for an hour. "no," he said, wearily. "let me be, let me be. the very sight of the boy would be a reproach to me. he must see i was a fool to venture all my money, all my credit, with vernon and son." "don't say that, james. you know he is the best and kindest son that ever lived. besides, don't you see, as i told you before, it has all been kept from him?" "then it will be all the worse to hear him talk about his marriage and his prospects. i could not stand it, mary. i should go mad. i should let it all out to him, and kill him. my poor boy!" "well," said the mother, "come down to glengowra, and don't see him at all. he need not know you are there. come with me--just for company." the poor woman was torn between devotion to her husband and affection for her son. she durst not leave the old man alone at home, and her heart was breaking to see her only son, her only child, the infinity of her maternity. at this suggestion of his wife's, that he might go to glengowra without seeing his son, the old man looked up. "wait a moment," he said, and lifted a paper-weight off some letters of the morning. he took up lavirotte's and read it over carefully once more, then thrust it into his pocket, and said: "very well, mary. come along." he uttered these words more brightly and briskly than any he had spoken since the great crash had come upon him. when the old couple arrived at glengowra, they went straight to the hotel. the mother ascended to her son's room. the father sent his card up to lavirotte. he was requested to walk upstairs. when he entered the room lavirotte asked the woman to retire. "mr. lavirotte, i got your letter this morning, and i am extremely obliged to you for your kind words and for your offer of such enormous help. i most sincerely hope you may get your fortune; for, from all i have heard from eugene, no one in the world could deserve better. i have come especially to thank you for your kind offer; but, of course, mr. lavirotte, you know i could never accept it. i am a doomed man." "you shall, you must accept it," cried the prostrate man, energetically. "i should care no more for all the money in the world than for a handful of pebbles on the beach below. with the money in my possession, should i see my friends wanting it? besides, the sum i am to come into will be so great that even largely as you have suffered through that bank, i shall be able to spare you what you want to make good the breach, and still leave myself in absolute affluence." the manner of the frenchman was one of utter self-possession, and it confounded mr. o'donnell to find one so apparently sane talking such trash. "may i ask you," said the old man, "if it is a fair question, from what source you expect to acquire this fortune?" "i am under an oath of secrecy in the matter, and cannot tell you. but since i have been hurt, the person who is working the affair for me, or rather on our joint behalf, has paid me a visit, and assured me there is not the least prospect of failure or miscarriage, and that at the end of six, and certainly in less than eighteen months from this, i should be in possession of my share, not less than half a million sterling." the figures six and eighteen months appealed to certain possible exigencies in the mind of mr. o'donnell, and carried his mind away from the main prospect of the consideration to the details. "i suppose," he thought, "they will make the first 'calls' light, so as to get all they can out of the poorer shareholders. then they will go on increasing the sums of the 'calls' as the poorer ones drop off, and this they cannot do under a certain time. of course, i can pay the 'calls' up to a certain point, but when they reach the end of the poorer shareholders, and have to fall back on the five or six men of large means, i shall certainly be ruined. but i do not think they can reach the point at which i should be left absolutely penniless before eighteen months." lavirotte and mr. o'donnell talked on for half-an-hour in the same strain. the frenchman was careful to adhere strictly to his vow to crawford, and yet to say such things to the merchant as in the end convinced him there was at least something in the statements made by his son's friend. at last he looked at his watch, and saw there was no time to lose if they would catch the last train to rathclare. after a cordial parting with the frenchman he went down, and found his wife waiting for him. by this time both were radiant. one had firm faith in the recovery of her son, the other full assurance of the salvation of his position. chapter xxvii. mr. o'donnell got home that evening in remarkably good-humour. lavirotte had explained to him that his own hope of coming into this money had been absolutely nothing until the visit from the man who was working with him. so that here were two men who knew all about a certain chance, believing thoroughly in it. why should not he, a third, who knew absolutely nothing about the matter, accept their judgment? what a splendid thing it would be if, after all, the firm which he had created did succeed in weathering the storm! he had said nothing to his wife about the matter on his way to the station, in the train to glengowra, or from the glengowra station to his own home. he thought he would preserve the good news--by this time it had taken the substantial form of news in his mind--until they were quietly seated in his little library, where many of the projects leading to his fortune had been devised. when at last he reached that haven, he found the writing-table littered with the ledgers he had left upon it, and between the leaves of one of these ledgers was the completed rough balance-sheet he had made out. mrs. o'donnell was astonished to find her husband in such good-humour. she could in no way understand it, for he had not even seen their boy or noticed the progress towards recovery he was making. "the run has done you good, james," she said. "i told you it would. why, it has been as much to you as good news." "i should think it has," he said; "in fact, mary, i have heard the very best news while i was in glengowra. i have every reason to hope we may be able to save the business, anyway." "thank god!" cried the woman devoutly. there was a tone of incredulity in her voice. it was not easy to imagine that, after all the hideous certainties of ruin they had been facing for days, there was any prospect these certainties would melt away before doubts that might be shaped into hopes. they were now both seated in their accustomed easy-chairs. the old man caught the arms of his firmly, as though he now saw no reason why it should come under the hammer and pass away for ever from him. "yes," he said; and then he told her all that had passed between him and lavirotte, enjoining her to strict secrecy. then the wife lifted up her voice in praise of lavirotte, and thanksgiving for their great deliverance, and bargained with her husband for one thing--namely, that she should be allowed to tell the good news to nellie. "for," said the mother, "she heard the bad news, and bore it like a true-hearted woman! of course if she was only to think of him, she must have been very sorry to hear it, but when we remember it affected herself too, it must have been harder still to bear. eugene never heard the bad news. it is only now fair she should hear what lavirotte promises." it was there and then settled that the hopes aroused that evening should be made known to ellen creagh. next day mrs. o'donnell found herself under no necessity of keeping close to her husband, for he was not only not depressed and hopeless, but active, cheerful, and full of projects for the future. so she went early to glengowra, and, having taken the girl aside, told her all. nellie clasped her hands in mute stupefaction, and when she did speak at last, could say only: "mr. lavirotte! mr. lavirotte! has he really promised to do this, and do you think the thing is in his power? i never felt more bewildered in all my life." yes, it was enough to make one think one was dreaming. this lavirotte had asked her to marry him. he had said her refusal would ruin him. o'donnell had asked her to marry him, and she had consented. then this lavirotte had sought o'donnell's life. in the struggle both had been badly hurt. o'donnell had forgiven lavirotte. upon this came the absolute ruin of o'donnell's father, and the consequent ruin of his son also. by this commercial catastrophe the possibility of his marrying her was indefinitely postponed, and at the very moment when it might be supposed a man in lavirotte's position, and of his excitable temperament, would nourish hope anew of succeeding where he had failed before with her, he offered to rescue the father from ruin, and reinstate the whole family in affluence! "it is incredible," she said, after a long pause. "i cannot believe it possible." "but it is true," said eugene's mother. "believe me, my dear, it is true. my husband, after all his years and years in business, is not likely to make a mistake or be misled in such matters." "it may be true," said the girl, "but i cannot believe it." all things were now going on well with everybody. the old merchant was no longer in dread of bankruptcy. lionel crawford had got an additional hold on lavirotte. the two wounded men were progressing rapidly towards perfect health. lavirotte had forsworn his fickleness, and declared himself devoted to dora. the two men who had met in a struggle for life had shaken hands by proxy, and sworn friendship anew; and nellie and dora passed the happy days in the full assurance of the devotion of their lovers, and the speedy approach of their marriages. the time went quickly by. dr. o'malley called regularly at the hotel, and regularly reported favourably of the patients. now lavirotte wrote a few lines every day to dora, and she every day a long letter to him. and every day came nellie to sit a while with eugene, and hear his voice, and go away with strengthening consciousness that daily he grew more like his own self. once more lionel crawford was happy at his old work, excavating at the base of the old tower with increased vigour, and getting rid of the fruits of his toil with greater despatch. nothing, indeed, but good seemed to have come of that dark night's work. it is true that the police were still a little bitter over their disappointment, and that the townsfolk observed a more reserved attitude towards those connected with that affair. but if those chiefly concerned in the matter were content, the police and the people might be dismal and disagreeable if they pleased. in the town of rathclare, besides mr. and mrs. o'donnell, there was another person greatly pleased with the turn things had taken. this was mr. john cassidy, a gentleman of slight build, pale, small, impertinent, pretty face, the nose of which turned up slightly. he had an exquisitely fair moustache, an exquisitely fair imperial, and the most exquisitely made clothes a man on a hundred pounds a year could afford to wear in a provincial town in ireland. he had what he believed to be a very pretty english accent, although he never had been out of ireland. he wore a delicate yellow watch-chain purely as an ornament, for its use had no existence. he wore an eye-glass for ornament also. he had never been seen to smoke a pipe, and never much more than the tenth part of a cigar at a time. he was always scrupulously neat and consciously pretty, and spoke of the whole female sex as "poor things," as though it grieved him to the soul he could not make every woman alive absolutely happy by marrying her. he really wasn't a scamp, and had no offensive accomplishments or acquirements. he had a ravenous curiosity, particularly in love affairs. how it came to be that a man who devoted so much of his time to the courtship of others, should have himself the time to break and cast away all female hearts he encountered, no one could tell. it was the great prerogative of his genius to be able to do so. the chief source of his present amiable condition of mind was that he found himself about to start in a few days for london, and that, by way of an introduction to that vast place, he carried with him the clue to a mysterious love affair in which he was not a principal, and which he had sworn to follow up. he had sworn to his friend of the post office that he would discover what girl lavirotte was sweet on in london before he had made love to nellie creagh, and his efforts in such a case hitherto had seldom failed. he had no heart and no tact, but instead of these a wonderful power of going straight at the mark, and in a case of this kind demanding of a woman point-blank: "is it a fact that mr. lavirotte, while engaged to you, asked miss creagh to marry him? i'm interested in all subjects of this kind." mr. john cassidy had up to this been employed in the head office of the railway at rathclare, and was now about to separate himself from his dear friend, a clerk in the post office, and go to london, where something better had offered, and where he should have, he hoped, for the sake of womankind, a larger female audience to hearken to his attractions, and where, moreover, he should have a very handsome mystery of his own particular pattern to solve. chapter xxviii. the gloom of irreparable ruin had fallen on the house of vernon. the deeper its business affairs became investigated the more ghastly appeared the inevitable finish. at first people were doubtful as to whether the result of the failure would be this or that or the other, in connection with mr. vernon's social position. now it seemed there was no longer any room for speculation. bankruptcy of the worst kind would be the end. all at once a still more startling rumour got abroad. at first people whispered it only in quiet places, and only to confidential friends. then gradually a murmur arose. finally, within a month of the failure of the bank, and before yet the accounts had been fully investigated, people had been heard to say openly that william vernon ought to be made the object of a criminal prosecution and put in the dock. the panic of fear which had kept people's mouths shut, upon this suggestion, disappeared at once; and where there had been, a few hours before, but hints and faint whispers, and timid words of acquiescence, there was now a loud, clear, articulate demand for the impeachment of william vernon. there was, on the day of the bank's failure, scarcely less talk of that disaster than there was now of the passionate desire that this fraudulent speculator should suffer at the hands of the law. an evening paper hinted that steps of the kind ought to be taken at once. next morning, mr. william vernon was not to be found. he had left dublin--ireland--for some place unknown abroad--mexico it was supposed. a few days after the flight of vernon, the accountants, in whose hands the bank affairs had been placed, made a report, and upon this report was based the first call. it was not a heavy one. it ruined only a few people, and drove only one man mad. james o'donnell met this call promptly and cheerfully. it did not strain him in the least. he had put most of his savings into vernon's bank, but then he was a man of large prudence, and held a considerable reserve of ready money. indeed, after he had paid the first call he had still at command what people in moderate circumstances would consider a very large sum. when he got the acknowledgment from dublin, he showed it to his wife with a buoyant laugh, and said: "you see, mary, i am not yet quite a bankrupt. up to this i have met every engagement, this included, and, please god, i shall be able to meet all." although it had been hoped that there would have been no delay to the marriage of eugene and nellie, a variety of circumstances made it desirable that a postponement of about a month should take place. in the present posture of affairs it would have been impossible for mr. o'donnell to settle money on his son; or, indeed, to give him anything worth speaking of, beyond the salary he drew in connection with the firm. when eugene had recovered sufficient strength to bear the shock, he had been told of the misfortune which had overtaken his father in business. when he heard it he made little of it. he thought little of everything except his approaching marriage. it was nellie who broke the news to him. she had been timid, fearful, as she approached the subject. she had prepared the way by saying that all those people who were dear to him were in good health and spirits, but that a certain unpleasant thing had occurred--a very unpleasant thing--a terribly unpleasant thing of a purely business nature; in fact, his father had lost a vast sum of money--all his savings. the young man looked grave, and said he was very sorry for the poor old man; but that--as long as the business held they should be more than comfortable, and that he was sure nellie did not want riches such as would be his if this misfortune had not arisen. what exactly had happened? she told him all. he was serious, and said it was too bad--too hard on the governor, who was the best of men. in an interview later with his father, the latter told him that for the present he was not in a position to make any settlement whatever, but that if his son was contented to marry on his present salary, there would be no opposition. the son said he would be more than contented; that he had no extravagant habits or expensive tastes, and that he and nellie could manage very well on the five hundred pounds a year his father allowed him. the old man said he had felt quite sure his son would be satisfied; but what would nellie say, in the face of former promises he, the father, had made? the young man laughed a strong, joyous, wholesome laugh, and told his father that nellie would marry him on a pound a week. "for you know, sir," he said, "she is not used to luxuries. she does not want them, and she is the most sensible, as she is the best, girl in the world." then eugene's father told his son of what lavirotte had promised. "i am not surprised, father, to hear he has offered to help us. i always told you he was true as steel." at the word steel he winced, but recovered himself instantly. "people here don't like him, because they can't understand his quick southern ways. but the longer you know him the better you like him, and the more you'll trust him." when eugene spoke to nellie on the subject of his father's conversation with him, she confirmed his anticipations, and said: "you know, eugene, that five hundred pounds a year is a great deal more than a girl like me could ever reasonably have hoped for. why, it's a small fortune to one who has been a poor governess, and who never knew what it was to have even one hundred pounds a year." he took her in his arms and kissed her, and called her his own true, loyal darling, his best of girls, his wisest sweetheart, his only sweetheart. "and if the worst comes to the worst, nellie, even supposing that the lavirotte affair never turns up, you know i am young and once more strong, and if we had to go to america, love, i could hoe a field, or split rails, or conduct a car, or heave on a winch, or get a crust for the two of us somehow; and if the two of us mean, above all things, to be together, what are all other things to us compared to our being together?" she was of the same opinion, and so it was settled that at the end of the month to which the marriage had been postponed, it should take place as quietly as possible, but otherwise as though no trouble had overtaken the house of o'donnell. by this time lavirotte was established in london. lionel crawford had taken lodgings for dora in charterhouse square, and lavirotte lived in one of the streets leading from the strand towards the river. john cassidy was now regularly installed in his london situation, and had taken a genteel lodging in bloomsbury. his fellow clerks did not, as a rule, live so near the great centre of london. they had rooms in peckham, islington, kennington, and such ungenteel neighbourhoods. but no man with any pretensions to be handsome, a gentleman, and a lady-killer, could condescend to associate his name with such haunts of rabble london as peckham, islington, and kennington. up to this he had not been able to devote much time to what he was pleased to call "the lavirotte mystery." a variety of other matters claimed his most careful attention. on his arrival in london, he found that his coats, and collars, and ties, and socks, although the very best that his money would allow him to get in rathclare, were not at all the right things for a man of his antecedents in the matter of the fair sex. his clothes were, it is true, equal if not superior to those worn by the mere common, ordinary clerks with whom he was bound to associate, and whose coarse and ungenteel ways he was for a portion of the day obliged to endure. but then the clothes, which in rathclare had been those of a man of distinguished fashion, were, to his chagrin, in london no more than those proper to a mere common clerk. this was a terrible revelation to a sensitive soul. of course it could be remedied in the future; but how terribly the fact reflected upon the past, and fancy the figure he should have made in rathclare if he, when there, had only known as much as he did now. imagine how ladies would have stared and admired if he had but appeared in a costume such as he was now hastening to assume. dainty shoes, clocked socks, trousers that fitted the limb as the daintiest of gloves fit the hands of the daintiest of duchesses, coat and waistcoat which could only be put on before meals and when the lungs were empty, collars and scarfs designed by royal academicians and tenderly executed by tradespeople who might, if they would, have written sartorial epics; such were the splendours now preparing for his exquisite person. apart from the cares born of his tailor and outfitter, certain other little matters had to be arranged about his room. a japanese letter-rack had to be purchased and hung up for the reception of his prospective love-letters. open work, china dishes of elegant hues, although of cheap manufacture, had to be obtained and set forth for the reception of rose-leaves, photographs, and cards. the portraits of celebrated beauties had to be hung up, so that, should an acquaintance drop into his room, he might have an opportunity of showing his visitor the counterpart of his dearest friends. his fellow-clerks were coarse enough to consider him a humbug. his superiors at the office did not know whether he was an ass or not; but the clerks and the superiors agreed that he had two priceless virtues--he could tot all day long without making an error, and there was not a spot of extraneous ink on any folio of his books. by this time lavirotte was thoroughly restored to health. daily he paid a visit to dora. the course of their true love was running with idyllic smoothness. no suitor could be more tender, enthusiastic, constant-minded than he. dora's life was one long daydream. her former solitary life in london now seemed to her like a dreary unreality, forced upon her imagination merely that her present life might stand out in glory against so gray and sad a background. since lavirotte left london of old, the place had grown dull and dismal around her. now the whole city was bright and joyous once again. instead of being a vast chasm filled with unfamiliar things and unfriendly forms, and dark with her inner solitude, the buildings now were full of vital beauty, and the people of courteous friendliness. although she looked forward with pleasant anticipations to the time when she would not be even temporarily separated from dominique, she could not persuade herself that the future would be more happy than the present. she seemed to want nothing now beyond just a little more of his society. meanwhile lavirotte had availed himself of lionel crawford's offer and taken the money, and was getting lessons. but, in addition to these, he was now busy in another way. the idea of the treasure mastered him as completely as it had the old man. he seemed to take but a second-rate interest in his own affairs, and every hour he could spare from the lessons and dora was devoted to helping crawford in his work at st. prisca's tower. he had said to crawford: "there is no knowing when these poor o'donnells will want the money. you said we should have it in six to eighteen months. we must have it sooner, much sooner, as soon as ever we possibly can." and so he bent himself to the work as he did to any other work he took in hand--wholly, passionately, fiercely. the old man said he would kill himself. he swore he did not care so long as he might succeed. now that he had entered fully into the scheme of crawford, and was actively helping him, he, too, felt the wild pleasure of the search; the inexorable determination of not sharing the secret with anyone. no; it was their secret, and they two, unassisted by anyone who might betray them, should alone reach the golden goal. so absorbed was he in the work at the tower that he could think of little else, and felt rather put out when one morning he received a letter from eugene o'donnell, saying that he and nellie were to be married on wednesday next week, and asking him to come over a day or two beforehand, as became a best man. about this time mr. john cassidy found himself arrayed according to his taste, with his room in order for the reception of anyone he might care to ask in, and with his hands free to follow up the lavirotte mystery. chapter xxix. nothing could have been quieter than the marriage at rathclare. there was no display of any kind, no wedding-breakfast, no rejoicings. the men employed by mr. o'donnell had proposed subscribing and giving the bride a present, until they were told that anything of the kind would be inopportune. the presents which private friends sent were, out of respect to the few people who called, set forth in the dining-room. but, upon the whole, neither before nor after the marriage, was there anything connected with it which could give the people of rathclare the least pretence for uncharitableness. the bride and bridegroom drove away from the house early in the afternoon, with the intention of spending a short time on the continent, and then returning to rathclare. when they had gone, not more than half-a-dozen guests remained at o'donnell's. among these was lavirotte, who had promised to stay with the old folk that night. there was a very quiet dinner, and before one o'clock the old man and lavirotte found themselves alone in the dining-room. "i have been waiting for this opportunity, sir," said the frenchman, "when we should be quiet and alone, with no chance of interruption, in order that i might speak to you about the matter which is nearest my heart." the old man looked at lavirotte gratefully, and said: "you are alluding to the property you spoke to me of?" "yes," said lavirotte. "i am still in no position to talk freely of the matter; but this much i can tell you, that since i saw you last i have made it my business to ascertain as closely as possible our chances of success." "and they are?" said o'donnell, leaning forward and looking at his guest eagerly. "excellent, most excellent. nothing could be better. ever since i left glengowra i have devoted all my time to their furtherance, and i have come to the conclusion that, although i cannot now say with certainty the exact amount, no more than a few months need pass before you shall be in command of any sum of money you may require." "thank god!" cried the old man, throwing himself back in his chair, clasping his hands, and looking upwards. "you do not know what a blessed relief your words are to me; for no longer ago than this morning i had news from dublin to the effect that there is to be another and an immediate call, and that this will be at least double the former one." "how soon is this likely to come upon you? how soon shall you want the money for this call?" "within a few weeks. what distresses me most of all is other news which accompanies what i have already told you, to the effect that although the first demand had been very freely met, the general impression, the conviction, was that the second demand would be met by very few indeed in full, and that all of those who met it in part, and many of those who met it in full, would be absolutely ruined." "i do not exactly know the full meaning of what you tell me," said lavirotte. "will you explain?" "nothing is simpler. let us say a man held one one-hundred pound share. when the bank stopped, having lost all its capital and a vast quantity of the money lent to it and deposited in it, this man's hundred pounds was then not only gone, but the rest of his fortune also (the bank being unlimited) if the whole of his fortune was necessary to pay the last penny to the lenders and depositors." "that's very hard," said lavirotte. "very hard--cruel. now, the first call, let us say of fifty pounds, means that the man who held the one-hundred pound share is called upon to pay fifty pounds towards indemnifying the depositors and lenders." "so that if the man pays the fifty he loses a hundred and fifty?" "exactly. now, if the second call is double the first, he will, when he has paid that----" "he will have lost two hundred and fifty pounds on his original hundred pound speculation." "quite so. you see that. let us say nine out of ten can pay the fifty pounds, but not more than six out of ten can pay the hundred. now, my correspondent in dublin gives me to understand that nothing like six out of ten will be able to meet the second call, and that, in fact, the solvent shareholders after the second call will be only rich men; so that there will be no need for proceeding further gradually, and, in all likelihood, the third call will be for a very large sum indeed per share, two hundred and fifty, five hundred, or a thousand pounds perhaps." "mr. o'donnell, you will not consider me impertinent if i ask you, in strict confidence, whether you think you will be able to pay this second call?" "yes, i think i shall be able to pay the second call, but as far as i can see it will drain me to the utmost. my credit is now, of course, gone, and i am obliged to pay cash, so that after paying the hundred pound call i shall have barely sufficient capital to keep the business going. the business consists, of course, of the good-will, the plant, the stock, and the debts. all this put together would not go nearly meeting a third call of any such magnitude as i have spoken of." "and the result of that would be to you?" "that i should be a bankrupt and a pauper." "well," said lavirotte, going over and taking the old man by the hand, "meet the second at all hazards." he drew himself up then to his full height, raised his right hand to heaven, saying: "and i swear to you, mr. o'donnell, that i will answer for the third." the merchant rose from his chair and took his hand. "there is no use in attempting to thank a man for a service such as you promise. i will not try to say anything; i could not if i would." "be seated, sir, i beg you, be seated. think no more of the matter. rely on me. leave the rest to me. and now that we have settled the matter" (both men had sat down) "i wish you to answer me a question which affects a friend of mine, and is connected with vernon's bank. my friend is a minor. her affairs were in the hands of trustees. her trustees--or, i believe, trustee, more accurately--invested the money in vernon's bank, shares i presume. now, my friend has heard nothing from the bank about these calls. how is that?" "she has nothing to do with the matter. she has lost all her money." "yes; but what about the calls?" "the trustee has to pay those." "out of his own pocket?" "yes, out of his own pocket." "supposing him to be an honest man, and that he did everything for the best?" "supposing him to be an honest man, and that he did everything for the best." "what an infamous injustice! what an infamous injustice to a well-meaning, honest man!" "an infamous injustice you may say, supposing the man to be honest. he gets your friend's money on trust to invest. here is a highly respectable banking firm which will pay him, according to the market value of its shares, six or seven per cent. he is anxious his ward should have the most interest he can safely get for her money. he invests, and is ruined." lavirotte started to his feet, threw his arms above his head wildly, and, walking up and down the room, excitedly cried: "by heavens, mr. o'donnell, he shall not be ruined, i will see that he shall not be ruined. he did me a bad turn once, or rather he refused to do me a good one when he could; but i shall protect him against this execrable injustice, this infamous law." mr. o'donnell did not feel himself justified in asking any questions, and there was no further conversation of any interest that night. next morning lavirotte set off for london, arrived in due time, called upon dora first, and related to her all the interesting particulars of the marriage. she had but a reflected interest in the bride and bridegroom, and, therefore, the subject was soon exhausted. before this he had, of course, told her of the large fortune into which he hoped to come soon. they had, upon one or two occasions, talked over the loss of her money; but he had always tossed the matter to the winds as of no consequence when confronted with the mighty results he was expecting. now he had a matter of another kind to speak about. he asked her pointedly, elaborately, how upon the whole kempston had behaved towards her. she said that no one could have been more kind and considerate, and that the only occasion upon which she had any reason to complain of him, was when he refused to let lavirotte have the money or her to marry him. then lavirotte informed her that not only was her money swallowed up in the vernon whirlpool, but that kempston, her trustee, would inevitably be ruined owing to his connection with her and it. the girl was horrified. then lavirotte told her that he had sworn this man should not be ruined, and that he meant to keep his oath. she clung to him and kissed him, and praised him with all the dearest words of her heart, for his noble, his sublime generosity, and after some time he left her to see crawford. he found the old man more busy, more energetic, more enthusiastic, more hopeful than ever. lavirotte told him that since he had seen him last additional reason had arisen for haste. he did not go into detail. he merely said that business called him hence for a few hours; but that on his return he would throw into the work twice the energy he had previously displayed. "then," said the old man, "you are digging at once to find a treasure and a grave." "but in what a glorious cause!" cried lavirotte, in an excited voice. "the cause of honour, of justice, of reparation. when i have secured my dear friends from the disaster which now threatens them, and when i have paid back the prudent parsimony of this attorney a thousandfold, why should i not die! i shall never do a better thing in all my life, and when a man has done his best he ought to go, lest, peradventure, he live to do his worst, and die in doing it." "and dora?" the look of exaltation faded from the face of lavirotte. "and dora, my darling dora! my own sweet, trusting girl!" he cried, tenderly. "i do not understand myself; i am two beings; i have two natures. to myself i would be merciless to gain this final glory of assuaging the wrong i have done my friends, and in act forgiving the injury this man kempston has done to me. but dora! dora! then something else comes in, my other self, my weaker self, my better self, perhaps. any weakness is better than the tyranny of glory, than the lust of applause." he was silent for a while. the old man had listened to him without a word. "now, i must go and see that attorney, and show him that i am not the interested adventurer he took me for, and that if a little time ago i was willing to borrow a few paltry pounds, which in a year or two should in any case be my own, i am now willing to throw down thousands for him who never did me personally a service, simply because he was kind and good to the woman whom i love." lavirotte left the tower. chapter xxx. after the marriage and the going back of lavirotte to london, all things went on regularly in their old course. before the return of the bride and bridegroom from their continental tour, mr. o'donnell paid the second call. he had done so with extreme difficulty. it had taken every penny he could lay his hand upon; and, indeed, the way in which he was obliged to draw in money from those who owed it to him threatened to be of serious injury to his business. still he fought on bravely. the heart of the old man was stirred within him. his dogged nature was aroused to activity such as it had never known, even in his younger days. james o'donnell was at bay, and he would show the world what james o'donnell could do when his case seemed desperate. day and night he worked. his energy appeared inextinguishable. his resources seemed to increase with the demands upon them. his vision was clear, his judgment infallible, his instincts true, his premonitions verified. rathclare stood still and watched this miracle of new-born strength in the old man. people knew well enough that he had called in his last farthing, and that now, outside the four walls of his business place, he had not a hundred pounds in the world, beyond the book debts, which to claim hastily would be finally to destroy the business. when his son came back from abroad, he was more amazed than anyone else. the slow, plodding manner of late years had completely disappeared from his father, and instead he encountered the indomitable energy, the insatiable thirst for activity, and a judgment clearer and sounder than he had ever found in any other man. the newly-married couple took a small house in glengowra. every day eugene went in to business, and every day returned to glengowra in time for dinner. while eugene was away his father had written to him, saying he had paid the second call, and that, with the help of lavirotte, he would be able to pay the third, which would, he assumed, be the last. in dublin the opinion was that the third call would certainly be the last. the determination was to wind the whole thing up with the greatest possible despatch, and hide its infamy away for ever. it was possible for accountants, who had charge of the affair, to go over the share book, and place opposite every name, which had hitherto proved solvent, a very close approximation of the resources at the disposal of each; and it gradually oozed out that there would be no use in having a call of anything less than five hundred pounds, for if they had two hundred and fifty now, and another two hundred and fifty later on, they would simply have the same names recurring, since the men who could meet the two hundred and fifty could meet the five. in rathclare, at last, people began to believe that someone must have promised to sustain o'donnell at the final moment, for all agreed that unless the old man had lost his reason, there could be now no doubt he was certain to tide over the affair. he had made arrangements one, two, three years in advance. he was in treaty for purchasing adjoining buildings with a view to incorporating them in his vast store. he had ordered new lighters to be laid down for him in the dockyard. up to this he had always refused the mayoralty of the town, although he had for many years been a member of the corporation. now he allowed himself to be put forward as a candidate for next year. no bankrupt could be mayor. from first to last he had never once sought any communication with the vernons. now he seemed to think his old friend not so great a criminal as at one time he appeared. although he could not entirely forgive him, he spoke less harshly of him than of old, and was heard even to say once: "poor devil, how do we know how he was dragged into it?" meanwhile, lionel crawford and dominique lavirotte wrought with the energy of desperate men in the basement of st. prisca's tower. by day they dug and delved, lavirotte, being younger, carrying the fruit of their labour to the top of the tower. the slow and cautious mode of procedure adopted by the old man was too tedious for the fiery-hearted frenchman. "i'll risk the lofts," cried lavirotte, "if i were to perish beneath them. you may stick to your old plan if you like, but it is too slow for me. it would kill me. it would drive me mad, when i think of my friends over there, when i think of the approaching ruin which we may avert." mr. kempston was a bachelor, easy-going and somewhat indolent, when the first news reached him that vernon and son had closed their doors. hour after hour, and day after day, brought him nothing but a tedious aggravation of the worst reports, and gradually it dawned upon him that now, when he was no longer young, he was a ruined man. harrington, the father of dora, and he had been friends in youth. hence his trusteeship to the will. hence his guardianship of dora. he had always been a man of excellent business capacity; but outside his business he was inclined to be lazy, self-indulgent, extravagant. when younger, he was greatly devoted to what is called fun. now he liked rich living, good company, good clubs, and, if the truth might be told, a great deal more rather high whist than was good for his pocket. he paid the first "call" of the vernon bank with a groan. "when i have paid the second," he said, "i shall still have my profession--that is," he said bitterly, "if they don't make a bankrupt of me." then lavirotte came with his amazing promise of indemnity, and his still more amazing forgiveness. the elderly attorney groaned, smiled, shook his head, swore, thanked lavirotte profusely, said he'd take the help if it came, grasped lavirotte by the hand, swore again, gave lavirotte an excellent luncheon at his club, shook hands and said good-bye to lavirotte, and then swore mutely the whole way from his club back to his office. when the time for paying the second instalment arrived, he paid it without a murmur, and then swore no more. he had nothing to swear by. day by day lionel crawford and dominique lavirotte tore at the earth and clay and stones at the base of st. prisca's tower. day by day they grew nearer and nearer to the goal. crawford had told lavirotte what that goal would be like. he knew every stone of that tower from his old readings. they were to keep now to the centre, as near as possible, driving the pick down as far as ever they could. "if it meets anything hard," said the old man, "strike again with the pick a few inches all round, and if it meets anything hard all round, that's it--that's the conical roof of the vault. in that vault the chests have now lain buried more than two hundred years." at last, the accountants who had charge of the affairs of vernon and son issued the last call. it was for five hundred pounds per share. eugene wrote to lavirotte, and asked him, for god's sake, to be quick. lavirotte scarcely ate or slept. for days now he did not go near dora, even. he was wasted, haggard, thin. he had long ago given up living at his rooms off the strand. he and lionel crawford spent all their time now in the tower. once in two or three days he went to his lodgings to see if there were letters. the morning he went and found eugene's there he felt faint, and he had no sooner sat down in a chair than the fact that he had at last worn out all his energies came upon him. if death threatened him there he could not have arisen. for two nights he had not slept, and he had eaten little for the two days. the lofts had already shown unmistakable signs of impatience at the weight they bore. any moment they might come crushing down upon the two workers, burying crawford and himself and the stupendous treasure for ever, since outside that tower no living being knew what they sought. the sight of eugene's letter, and the sense that not only were his labours not completed, but that they must be redoubled, overcame him. he called for wine. they brought him some. he drank a little, and felt stronger. he thought if he drank a little more he might be able to get back to the tower before his drowsiness overcame him. he drank a little more wine, and, before he found himself sufficiently invigorated to move, he fell asleep in the chair. he did not awake for some hours. then he felt refreshed and stronger. "it was a shame for me," he said, "to fall asleep, but the sleep has done me good. now to work once more." he drove to within a hundred yards of st. prisca's tower, and there alighted. he walked up to the massive oak door, opened it with his key, and entered the tower. the darkness was cimmerian. he could see absolutely nothing. "crawford must be aloft." he looked down. his eye detected something unusual below. in the middle of the impenetrable gloom there was what seemed to him a phosphorescent glow, covering about two square feet of the bottom of the pit. the lantern by which they worked was not to be seen. what could this glow of light be? the lantern, when below, looked like a distinct yellow patch surrounded by circles of light, decreasing in brightness as they receded from the lantern. but the light below was perfectly equal. it was not more intense at the centre than at the edges, and, contrary to the case of the lantern, there was no dark patch in the centre. lavirotte descended the ladder in uneasy amazement, and approached the glowing space. it was not until within a few feet of it he discovered what it was. a hole! at the bottom, twelve feet below, an uneven floor. through the hole dangled a rope. on the floor below, the lantern by which crawford and he worked. close to the lamp, the prostrate form of a man. lavirotte seized the rope and descended. this was the vault in which they had hidden the treasure, unmistakably. he stooped and raised the lantern, casting the light slowly all round him, so that when he had finished his inspection nothing that was in that vault could be unknown to him. then he knelt down beside the prostrate form of the man, and turned the face upward. lionel crawford! there was no other way of getting out of that vault but by climbing up that rope. he tried to climb that rope and failed. his strength was gone. he sat down on the floor of the vault, and covered his face with his hands. with the exception of himself, the lantern, and the corpse of lionel crawford, the vault was empty! part ii. chapter i. for a while lavirotte sat on the floor of that vault, immovable. he was confounded, stunned. he found himself confronted by three terrible facts. there was no treasure here. here was the dead body of lionel crawford. here was he himself entombed. when he closed the door of the tower, he locked it on the inside, and put the key in his pocket. how was anyone to find out he was here? lionel crawford had told him that during all the months and months he had lived in that place no one, to his knowledge, had ever rapped at the door. was it likely anyone would rap now? and, if anyone did, what use would the rapping be? from the top of the vault to the threshold of the door was at least twenty feet; and he was twelve feet below the top of the vault. and all day long, around and about the base of st. prisca's tower the heavy traffic of one of the great waterside streets groaned and screeched and murmured, continually pierced by the shouts and oaths of men, until such a dull, dead, loud tumult reared itself against the walls of the tower that no single human voice could by any possibility be, in the daytime, heard without from where he now sat. by night things would not improve. if he happened to be on a level with the door leading from the tower into the lane, he could, no doubt, hear the footfall of the infrequent policeman. but here, thirty feet down, and with the concave shield of the vault between him and the doorway, and the massive door between him and the lane, it would be insanity to expect he could hear so slight a sound. there, it is true, dangled the rope through the hole. he could read the last chapter in the life of lionel crawford by the aid of that rope. would someone else, years, ay perhaps a century hence, be able to read the last chapter of his life by the aid of what would then remain of that rope? he saw how it had been with the dead old man. during his (lavirotte's) absence, crawford's pickaxe had struck upon the roof of the vault. crawford then felt that the labours of his life were at an end. while he (lavirotte) was sleeping, the old man must have worked like a giant. they had found the floor above the vault a few days ago. now, here was hard against the steel pick the very stone that kept the treasure from the old man's eyes. he could see crawford stoop in the dim light of the lantern, lean over his pick, grovel under his shovel, panting, praying, sweating, until a large space of the stonework of the roof had been cleared. then he could see the ardent, eager, tremulous haste of the old man as, bit by bit, he picked out the mortar from between the stones, until at last he had freed one stone, and succeeded in getting it out of the bed in which it had lain for centuries. to enlarge the orifice was a matter of no great labour or time. he simply put his arm through the hole, and swung a sledgehammer against the roof-stones until he had loosed them. then he removed them one by one, making the opening big enough to allow him to descend. when all was ready for going down he went up to one of the lofts and fetched a rope, tied one end of this rope to the foot of the ladder that dipped into the pit, or to several of the larger stones, or to the handles of one of the baskets filled with earth--to something which would more than counterpoise his weight. then, taking the lantern with him, and the hopes of years and the certainty of success, he had lowered himself into that blind void, in the full belief that within a minute from the time he began the descent he would be in possession of one of the largest treasures ever discovered by man on earth. he had slid down that rope. he had in all likelihood done as he (lavirotte) had done--swung the lantern hither and thither, round and round, until he had found out that the vault was empty, the treasure had been carried away, or had never been deposited there at all. then the shock had, no doubt, been too much for the overwrought nature, and the broken spirit of lionel crawford had fled. there was no reason to suppose that any vapours of the place had killed him, for while he died the light in the lantern lived. man has taken the wolf and made a servant of him. man has taken the fox and made a servant of him. he has called the two when fused, the dog. man has taken the heat of the sun and the blaze of the volcano, and has called the two when fused, fire. they are both his especial slaves. they are both his especial prerogatives. the dog is his creature. fire is his creature. neither exists without him. either will die where he cannot live. the light of the lantern had outlived crawford, which showed that he had not died of any exhaled or infiltrated poisonous gas. shock or exhaustion had killed the old man. what was to kill him, lavirotte? hunger? he shuddered and looked around. how horrible the thought of dying of hunger; there, within thirty feet of one of the great ways that, from early to late, was crammed and choked with all kinds of simple or rich or rare or exquisite food, endlessly moving westward for the sustentation of the great city. to die of hunger there, when the freight of one huge van now lumbering by would preserve a whole regiment from starving for a week, would give him enough food for years. to die of hunger there within five hundred yards of five thousand people, not the humblest of whom would refuse to share with him his crust, if that humblest of the upper earth but knew how dire his extremity. to die of hunger there, with money in his pocket, when, within a stone's throw of the door of that tower, there were ten places whose only business was to supply food, not to those who were absolutely hungry in the sense of their approaching death through hunger, but to those who were hungry in the ordinary trivial routine of the day. it seemed horrible. he took down his hands from before his eyes, and looked with horror around him. to be alone without any chance of delivery and in danger of death is bad, seemingly almost the worst condition in which a man could find himself; but to be alone, beyond succour, threatened by death, and in the presence of the already dead, is ten thousand times more appalling. in the former case we know to a certainty, we are assured beyond doubt that we shall die, but the realisation of death is unfixed and' shadowy. we have, ever since we can remember, known we should die. we have seen death, touched death, kissed the dear dead, seen the dead put finally away in the cold envicinage of earth. but few have sat looking at the dead, waiting for death. here to lavirotte death was approaching. there to lavirotte was an exemplar of the dead. as that was, he should be. the whole blue vault of heaven should vanish. the whole sweet plains and dales and hills of earth should be to him no more. no more to him than to _that_ lying there now before him. hope and love and joy and friendship, and the sweet commune with the great body of sympathetic man, where experience had first developed, expectancy had first arisen, and vague and splendid imaginings had had their hint and form, should all, all evanesce. here, upon what was to have been the completion of their joint great work, was to be no reward, but their joint death. of old he had smiled at crawford's enthusiastic belief in this buried treasure. then he had come to share crawford's beliefs and hopes. now he had come to share crawford's despair and grave. out of that vault there was no chance he should ever go alive. the friends whom he had striven to serve would believe him to have been a foolish braggart or a vicious liar. the girl whom he was to wed would know no more of his fate than though a whirlwind had plucked him up and cast him, unseen by man, into the middle of the sea. there would be no record of him when all was over, until, perhaps, a century hence reference would be made somewhere to his bones. it was hotter here than above-ground, much hotter. to die of hunger was, he had always heard, one of the most painful of deaths. yet here was he caged in by all adversity, destined to end his life for want of such things as no man above-ground need die for lack of, since, when all man's individual enterprise was marred or put away, the state stepped forth and said he shall not die for need of mere bread. it was much hotter here than in the cool broad streets, fenced with places where one could get wholesome food, and get that wholesome food--cheap. the sky was above those streets. he had seen the sky as he drove along the strand and fleet street to-day. the sky was blue, and to wave one's arms upwards towards it was to feel refreshed and cool. cool--cool--cool. it was getting hotter. as he had come along the strand that evening he had thought he would stop the cab at one of those many, many shops that hedged the way, and get a drink of something deliciously cool and bitter to take away the thirst which that wine had put upon him. but then he was so eager to reach the tower, he had forborne. now he was sorry. he had had only two glasses of that wine, and two such small glasses were very little good to quench thirst when one was thirsty. how much better it would have been for him to have taken a whole pint of milk, or cold, clear, sparkling water. if he had had either of these---- the place was getting hotter and hotter. he looked at the candle in the lantern. it was burning low. in an hour he should be in the dark. what a pity he had not bought a lemon for a penny. how strange seemed the difference between a penny here and a penny in the strand or fleet street a little while ago. he had gold and silver in his pocket, and although he thought to himself as he drove along, "why should i give a penny for a lemon, when i know as soon as i get to the tower i shall be able to have as much water as i desire for nothing?" now he was in the tower, and he knew that on one of the lofts above was water more than any man could drink in many days, and yet he would have given all the silver he had in his pocket for one pint. the heat seemed to increase. he stood up. his limbs were scarcely strong enough to support him. his strength had left him wholly. he looked up at the opening over his head. he clutched the rope. he pushed his arms up as far as they would reach, then raised his feet from the ground. the hands would not support the body. the rope slipped through them. he fell awkwardly upon the hard floor of the vault. a subtle dust rose from the floor. it filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth. he rose into a kneeling posture. he pressed his eyelids down with his fingers. he blew the dust from his nose. he thrust out his dry parched tongue, and sought to clear it of the dust with the back of his hand. but his hand, too, was dusty, dry. oh, if he might have but one wineglassful of the water in the loft above! just one wineglassful to clear his mouth of the hideous dryness, and the still more hideous dust of two hundred years. just so much water as would suffice to lave the parched portions of his mouth, and carry away the foul savour. he had heard that to die of hunger was painful. he had heard that to die of thirst was madness. was he to die of thirst? chapter ii. thirst! it was an awful death, one of the worst that could befall man. he had read of it, heard of it both aboard ship and on the solid land. he had read how in china they kept malefactors seven or eight days without food or drink, until at last, having become already mad, they died. but in china or the broad plains of the pacific, to die of thirst was intelligible, tolerable. in china, a man must have done something more or less criminal, according to the notions of the people there; and at sea, one, when first launched without water, might live for a while upon the hope of a sail. but here was he now, absolutely innocent from a criminal point of view, doomed, beyond the hope of any sail, to final extinction by one of the cruellest of deaths. the candle in the lantern would not burn much longer. it would hold out for an hour or so, let him say. he had read that men can live seven or eight days without sleep, seven or eight days without food, seven or eight days without water. if in a warm climate a man had water alone, he might live for thirty days without food. but, supposing he had neither water nor food, there was little or no chance of his surviving the ninth day. what to him, in his present position, was the value of nine days, nine weeks, nine months; nine years? it was more than probable that since the great fire, more than two hundred years ago, no one had ever stood in the vault where he sat now. what likelihood was there that for two hundred years to come his peace would be disturbed by anybody, once his death-struggle was over? as he sat there he could see the clothes of the dead man tremble, owing to the vibration of the air caused by the enormous traffic going on overhead. but all the strong life above-ground was now as remote from him, as little allied to help he might expect, as the faintest cloud darkening in the east. yes, darkening in the east, for now he knew by the sounds around him--the sounds whose volume thinned while its pitch increased--that evening was coming on, and that soon upon the evening would come the night. when it was dead of night, and there was no longer any chance of feeling the touch of man through the vibration of the din, what should he do? nothing. whatever might come or go he could do nothing. he was powerless to climb that rope. the excitement which had sustained him at fever pitch for many days was now gone finally. he could no longer hope, not only to save his friends from financial ruin and realise a handsome fortune, but he could no longer hope to do more than drag on the most miserable of existences hour by hour, under conditions the meanest pauper would refuse to accept. here was he doomed to death, as surely as the condemned man in the condemned cell is doomed to death. in a certain number of days, in a certain number of hours, he must die, as inevitably as the sun must rise and set upon the broad, fair world above him. he had hoped greatly, and laboured greatly, and lost all--all--all. he put his hand in his pocket and felt his knife. would it not be best to die while he had the companionship of the light, the companionship of the spectacle of the dead? to all intents and purposes he was as dead as though he had been blown from the muzzle of a gun. morally, there could be no harm in his anticipating by a few hours, a few days of dreary pain, the fate which was inevitably before him. morally, he did not shrink from the knife. but in him was strong the brute instinct, the love of life for life's sake, for the infinite potentialities of hope that lie hidden in the last ragged remnant of existence. it would, perhaps, be better after all to wait until the lantern burnt out, and he was alone with silence and the dead. then he should possibly go mad, and it was incredible that the insane could suffer so acutely as he was suffering now. supposing, then, some fine delirium seized him, and he fancied himself to be pluto, and that this realm of darkness was his natural element, his habitual haunt; that hunger and thirst were the inevitable accessories of his gloomy rule, and that the dignity of his position was heightened by the fare which charon had just ferried across the styx, and now lay there before him! here the lantern went out. fool! fool! madman! what had he been thinking about? two things, only two, had been left to him--life and light. now the latter had been taken away from him for ever. for ever! what an awful phrase! here was he, who had no more than touched manhood, thrust downward by a malignant chance into a vile dark dungeon to die. here was he, who ought to be in the full plenitude of his youthful strength, unable to master the brief space hanging there in the darkness above him, between the invisible floor and the imperceptible roof. if in the heat and hurry of that morning, he had been asked to clamber up a rope three times the length of that now hanging above his head, he could have done so with perfect ease. but since he had left the tower that morning the shears of fate had been busy with his hair, and it was now almost as difficult for him to stand unsupported as it would then have been for him to put his back against the wall and shake down the solid foundations of the tower. and yet, what a paltry thing it was to die because he lacked the brute force to urge, himself upwards twelve feet along that rope. it seemed incredible that one so exquisitely formed, so superbly endowed with intelligence and the mastery of all forces that exert themselves on earth, should here lie prone, helpless, before a difficulty which half the brute creation would have regarded as no difficulty at all. it was all over with him. when it was all over with him how would it be with others who had depended upon him? he had promised mr. o'donnell a vast sum of money to meet the demands of the bank. now he could not even lay his body before that troubled man in assurance that he had done his best. he had promised to protect kempston from ruin. now he was powerless even to go and explain to kempston the reason of his failure. to go! all the bitterness of his present situation was wrought up in that one phrase--to go! he could now go nowhere until he went forth for ever. then the thought of dora came upon him. dora, the sweetest, the simplest, the truest, the most confiding sweetheart man ever had. he did not pity her for losing him. he pitied her for losing the lover rather than the man. he knew that all her soul was centred in him, that she waited eagerly for his coming, and grieved when he left; that she lived in one only hope--namely, that some day, and soon, she should leave the solitude of her present ways and come and be with him for ever, to soothe him with her gentle ministerings and cheer him with her anxious hopes. he thought of how she would leave her hand trustingly in his, lean her head trustingly on his bosom, take all he said to her as revealed truth, and, in token of gratitude for his love, hold up her sweet lips for his kisses. he thought of how he in the fickle wavering of his nature had been carried away from her beauty, which was the beauty, the dark beauty of his own folk purified and chastened by a less ardent sun, to the rich, ripe, northern beauty of sunnier hue, although remoter from the sun. he thought how for a while he had swerved from dora to nellie, and now he could not understand it, for the glamour was withdrawn, and he saw the unapparelled hearts of both. in nellie, he saw nothing now but the beauty, the unapproachable beauty which could never be more to him than the irresponsive beauty of a marble statue. in dora, he now saw beauty that was thoroughly informed with love, and that radiated towards him with all the responsive faculties of inexhaustive sympathy. her slightest word or gesture, was measured for his regard. her least syllable was designed to move his lightest mood to pleasant consonance. her smiles were those which came upon her face merely to show him that all the smiles and joyousness of her nature came forth but to greet and welcome him, and show him that all the smiles and joyousness of her nature were his wholly. what a contrast was here! the sunlight of success, the sunlight of love, the sunlight of heaven, shut out by one foul, crass adventure! the sunlight of life, of young life, of life before it had drunk under the meridian sun, extinguished for ever! "dominique lavirotte," he thought, "pray to the merciful god that you may go mad--speedily." chapter iii. of late lavirotte's visits to dora had been so infrequent and irregular that she did not know when to expect him, or when to be surprised that he did not come. three or four days often passed now without her seeing him. she knew he was busy, exceedingly busy, at st. prisca's tower, but busy with what she could not tell. for the past few weeks he had always seemed to her exhausted and taciturn. there was no falling off in his tenderness towards her. he seemed to love her more passionately than ever. but his visits were short, and he said little. it was three days before lavirotte got o'donnell's last letter that he visited dora. on going back from her to the tower he had thrown himself more blindly, more enthusiastically into the work of excavation than ever. in this final effort he had exhausted all his physical resources, with the result that when o'donnell's letter came his strength was completely wasted, and he was as helpless as a little child. when he had seen dora last he said he would come again soon--as soon as the important business upon which he was engaged would allow him. but he named no hour, no day. three days passed and she did not see him or hear from him. that was not unusual. a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh day might go by without arousing anything stronger than longing and disappointment in her heart. since she had come back from ireland she had never passed the threshold of that solitary tower in porter street. he had never asked her to come, nor had her grandfather. dominique had told her that matter of the first moment rested upon his uninterrupted attendance at the tower. he had taken her no further into his confidence. it would, he had said, be time enough to tell her all when all was known, and the hopes which moved him had been realised. beyond dora there was nobody else in london who had any distinct knowledge of where lavirotte and the old man lived. it is true, of course, that they had to get food, but this crawford always procured and brought into the tower, so that the likelihood was not a soul who supplied them with the necessaries of life had any distinct memory as to where they lived. and even if the people knew where they lived, there was no reason in the world why they should be uneasy because a certain old man who had for some time back bought milk, or bread, or meat of them ceased to come any more. it might be he had left the place. it might be he had taken his custom somewhere else. it might be he was dead in the ordinary and familiar ways of death, which require no extraordinary comment and exact no extraordinary cares. among the four millions of people who live within the mighty circle called london, it was unlikely one would take the trouble to inquire what had become of crawford and lavirotte. dora naturally would; but her grandfather had visited her in charterhouse square only two or three times since they had come back from ireland. she had no reason to expect a visit from him for one week, two weeks, three weeks. nor had she any reason to feel uneasy if dominique did not come to charterhouse square for several days. meanwhile, what was to become of him, lavirotte? while the candle yet burned he had made out that there was only one door into this vault, and that in the direction of what had formerly been the body of the church. crawford had told him that the ordinary entrance to that vault had been from the crypt of the church, but that with the destruction of the church the crypt had been destroyed, and now a solid bank of masonry and earth, thirty or forty feet thick, forming the lane at the back, lay between the vault and the cellars of the stores beyond. so long as the candle had lasted he did not seem to have severed his last connection with the earth above; but with the absolute darkness following the failure of the light, all the realities of the tomb, without the merciful absence of suffering, had come upon him. he was buried, and yet free to move. he could walk about, and yet the great tower standing over him was little better than a large headstone on his grave. he had committed no crime, and yet was condemned to die--to die the slowest and most painful of all deaths--by want of water. he had read about the black hole of calcutta. this place was about the size of that terrible dungeon. but how much better it would have been to die there a hundred years ago, surrounded by fellow-men--to die there quickly, in the distance of time between evening and day, instead of dragging out here, hour by hour, minute by minute, the terrible solitude of doom foreclosed. it had been a very hot summer, and now the autumn was at hand. the leaves had taken their earliest shade of yellow, and when the wind blew strongly the sicklier leaves fell. for months in london a fierce sun and a dry air had parched all they touched. nails in woodwork exposed to the sun had worked loose in their holds. it was the beginning of september, and people, thinking of a calamity which occurred more than two hundred years ago, said it was a mercy london was no longer built of wood; since if it was, and the fire should then break out with a strong wind behind it--as at the time of the great fire--what was now called the great fire would cease to be so named, and be referred to as the little fire compared with the gigantic proportions which a burning wooden london of to-day would afford. crawford and lavirotte had, owing to the dryness of the season, been able to get rid of the excavated earth by exposing it to the heat on the roof of the tower, and then casting it, handful by handful, through the embrasures. although no food ever was sent by tradespeople in the vicinity to the tower, it was generally known by the men who worked there that two men visited the tower. but why they lived there, or what their occupation was, no one knew. they had been seen to come in and go out. that was all. when lavirotte made up his mind that their means of making away with what they dug was out of proportion with his desire of getting downward, he had resolved to trust the lofts to a greater weight than had hitherto been put upon them; and finding loft number one but slightly cumbered with the larger stones crawford could not dispose of, he had determined to make it the chief depository of the excavated earth. over and over again crawford had told him the lofts were old, the beams rotten. he had ignored the warning, saying if they were to win at all they must win quickly, and that he would risk everything but delay. as the weight of earth upon the first loft increased, it gradually sank in the middle. lavirotte, cautioned by this, tried to find out the absolute condition of the beams, and to his great joy discovered, after carefully probing them, while slung under them in a loop of line, that they were comparatively sound. but the hotter the weather became, and the greater the burden upon the floor above grew, the more the joists bent downward. he did not care. he was certain the joists would not break. they showed no sign of chipping or splitting, and, in perfect fearlessness, he went on piling up the clay, taking, of course, the ordinary precaution to keep the weight as close as possible to the wall. gradually, however, owing to the inclination towards the centre, the clay slid slightly inward, and, as it dried in the hot air of august, the inner surface of the clay fell inward. before leaving the tower, the morning he got o'donnell's letter, lavirotte looked anxiously at the floor of the first loft. it was now concave above, convex below. but although he looked long and anxiously, he could see no sign of any of the joists giving way. "they will bend like yew," he said. "they will never break." he had omitted one calculation, that when they had bent to a certain degree, they would be withdrawn to a certain extent from their holdfasts in the wall, and when they were withdrawn from their holdfasts beyond a certain extent, they would slip out. on the morning of the day after lavirotte was entombed in the vault beneath st. prisca's tower, the joists of loft number one had been so far withdrawn from their supports in the wall that the loft was in equilibrio, and ten pounds more pressure on the floor would drag the whole loft down with all its burden into the hole beneath. chapter iv. there was no hope. what hope could there be for him, lavirotte, buried thirty feet below a roaring thoroughfare of london, with no possible means of communication with the upper world, a feebleness so great that it did not allow him to do more than stand, and twelve clear feet in the perpendicular between him and deliverance? under such circumstances how could anyone hope? what could anyone do? nothing. lie down and die. there was space enough to die, and air enough to make dying tedious. that was the worst of it. it was bad enough to die at any time; but to die when young, of no fault of one's own, and when dying happened to be tedious, was almost beyond endurance. and yet what could one do but endure? nothing. no action was possible. he could not without violence accelerate his death. by no power at his disposal could he retard it. it was dismal to die here, alone, unknown. it was chilling to think that the whole great, bustling world abroad would go on while, from mere hunger, or, still worse, thirst, he was panting out the last faint breaths of life in this hideous darkness here. there was no help for it. second by second, man lives through his life, is conscious of living; and when the proper time comes, hour by hour he is conscious that, owing to some failure in his internal economy, he is dying. but here was he, lavirotte, in the full consciousness of the possession of youth and of health, save in so far as health had been exhausted by trying labours and wasting fasts, about to die because there was no pitcher of water from which he might slake his thirst, no crust which could allay the pangs of hunger. suppose he had been upon the upper, gracious earth, without any of the money now in his pocket. suppose he had nothing but his youth and youthful elasticity of spirits, even feeble as he now was, he might pick up a living somewhere. he had education and good manners. he might not be able to earn two hundred pounds a year, but he could make a shilling, eighteenpence a day somehow, and on eighteenpence a day a man could live. on eighteenpence a day no man could have splendours or luxuries, but he might have water free from the fountain he had just passed in front of that church in fleet street, and water was a great deal. water was half life, more than half life--water was all life when one was thirsty, as he was now. then, for eighteenpence a day he might have food, not luxurious or exquisite food; but in his wanderings through london he had seen places where suppers were set forth at threepence--large bowls of boiled eels swimming in appetising gravy, with, to each bowl, a huge junk of milky white bread. he had, when his pocket was comparatively full of money, often seen the wearied artisan or factory "hand" eating with relish eel-soup and bread. he had stood looking in at the windows, and, being full-fed himself, congratulated himself upon the comfort, the luxury, these poor people enjoyed in their savoury evening repast. he had watched them go in tired and dreary, worn out with the mean commonplaces of hard work and insufficient wages. he had watched them sit down in a listless, careless way, as though they cared not whether the next hour brought them death or not. then, gradually, as the savour of the place penetrated them, and as the eager but delayed appetite became satisfied, he had seen a kind of attenuated conviviality arise between these poor folk, until, at the end, when they had finished their meal, they came forth congratulating themselves upon the cheapness, wholesomeness, and satisfying power of the food they had enjoyed. now, supposing in a shop he had a basin of this eel-soup, not merely soup, but soup with luscious, succulent flesh of the rich fish swimming about in that delicious liquor, and in his hand a piece of bread larger than one fist, but not quite so large as two, what should he do? first of all he would take the spoon--nay, not the spoon, the bowl itself, and quench his thirst and recruit his failing energies with a long draught out of that humble, yellow bowl. he would drink nearly all the liquid up, for he was parched and dry. abroad would be the sound of traffic and of human voices, stronger than the sound of traffic now beating against his ears. then, when he had slaked his thirst he would eat some of the bread--no, the bread was too dry. it would make him thirsty again. he would eat some of the fish, and sop the soft white bread in what remained of the soothing liquor. and when he had finished, he, too, would come forth with a contented mind, and supposing any trace of thirst remained, and he had no money to spend in fantastic ways of allaying thirst, he would go to some public drinking-fountain where there was an unlimited supply of water, and out of the clean white metal cups drink and drink and drink until this horrible dryness of mouth and throat had been finally removed, and he felt cheered and invigorated, and fit to face any difficulty or odds that might be against him. threepence, and he might enjoy what then seemed to him an unparalleled luxury! but supposing he were free and penniless, there was nothing to prevent him walking to the first drinking-fountain that offered and quenching his thirst, drowning his thirst in its free waters. he could have one, two, three, any number of cups of water, and, while drinking, he could touch his fellow-man, see the blue sky above him, and feel upon his cheek the wind made by passing men and vehicles. now was he here, young and full of notions of life, with no malady of ordinary growth upon him, merely the victim of an extraordinary accident, destined to die in darkness of thirst, of hunger, of despair. there was no hope for him. dora knew he spent most of his day in that tower. she did not know why. she would never think of seeking him there. and if she did seek him, if she came and knocked, she would get no reply. she would have no reason to assume more than that he did not hear, being there, or was absent from the place. if she called at his lodgings she would be told all they knew of him, and all they knew of him would not help her forward towards his present condition. he had no means of measuring time. his watch had ceased to beat, he could not tell how long ago. he held it up against his ear. it was silent. this silence seemed to him typical of the final silence which already surrounded lionel crawford, and which was now gathering around himself. through this silence now came a sound, it was the sound of something falling. something very small falling sharply, as it were, against the dull murmur of the traffic around him. he paused and listened. then he sprang to his feet, aroused by a tremendous crash which deafened his ears, shook him as though a great gale blew, and filled his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils with some thick air or dust, he knew not which, that for a moment threatened to suffocate him. the loft above had fallen. chapter v. before this tremendous noise and confusion had arisen, lavirotte had no means of ascertaining how time went. he was conscious of certain pauses and beats in the great noise of traffic above his head. the pauses and beats, he assumed, of traffic in the artery of time. but he knew nothing certain. he had kept no record whatever. he was conscious that there had been periods of activity and quiescence, just as he was conscious there had been periods of activity and quiescence in his youth, when he was a child. but, as in the remote past, he had lost all knowledge or record of the numbers of the period. his reason told him he could not have been a fortnight entombed. his memory told him nothing. abroad in the busy street and lanes close to st. prisca's tower, the fall of the lowest loft made a prodigious commotion. first of all, there was the roar of noise accompanying the fall of the floor, and of the tons upon tons of stones and clay lying on the loft. then out through the narrow windows of the tower sprang shafts of dust, forced furiously outward by the enormous pressure upon the air within. for a moment the tumultuous traffic of porter street was stopped, and men who would scarcely have minded the downfall of the warehouse out of which they were loading their vans or carts, stood in silent amazement at the inexplicable, tremendous subsidence which had occurred in the tower. those men who were familiar with the place were all the more amazed, because they believed there had been no possibility of the old tower uttering such a terrible note as that which had proceeded from it. they believed that the lofts of the tower were merely decayed wood. it was well known that the bells had been long ago removed, and as there had been in that tower, so far as the frequenters of porter street knew, nothing which could with profit be stolen, the interest in that tower to them had been less than in the monument. to people of this class the monument was something like the rainbow or the milky way. it had no effect on life, no influence upon wages, and, consequently, was altogether unworthy of consideration. rain and hail and snow influenced wages in so far as they impeded work, but not the monument, not st. prisca's tower, not the rainbow, not the milky way, controlled work, and therefore each, while it might be a matter for dreamy speculation under the influence of tobacco, was absolutely indifferent to the workmen frequenting porter street. few, except workmen, or those intimately connected with workmen, frequented porter street. you might walk there a whole day long with the assurance you would never meet a brougham or a hansom, a beau or a lady. it was as much out of the line of the fashionable world as kamtchatka. in nova zembla, in patagonia, in japan, in florida, you may meet an english nobleman, an english lady, but in the history of porter street it is not recorded that any member of the elegant world wandered there for a hundred years. the first effect of the tremendous crash, caused by the falling of the loft, was to paralyse activity for a short time. the next thing was to create discussion as to the possible source and cause of the crash. the third was to induce speculation as to the fate of anyone who might have been in the tower at the time of the catastrophe. then slowly, very slowly, those around the place began to realise the fact that someone--a man--more than one man--two men it was thought, of late--one man of old--two men of late--an old man some time ago--a young man latterly, had taken up their residence in that tower. this might account for something of the extraordinary in what had taken place. it might have been that owing to something or other done by these men, this enormous explosion--for so it seemed at first--had occurred. they may have had some object in blowing down the tower, or in some other violent onslaught against its integrity. if this were so, in all likelihood they were both now far beyond the range of any danger which could reach them from the tower. after a while, when speculation had become somewhat methodical and less vague, people began to remember that there was nothing particularly dangerous-looking about either of the men who had taken up their residence in the tower, and that in all probability neither of them had been actuated by any criminal designs. there for a while public opinion stood still, and men began to wonder what was the fate of their fellow-men, whose lives had for some time back been associated in their minds with the existence of the tower. slowly, gradually, the people who were familiar with porter street came to think that possibly the two men, whose appearance had been connected in their minds with that place for some time, had been imperilled or destroyed in the fall of the lofts. for to the outside public it had seemed that nothing less than the fall of the lofts could have produced so great a noise as they had heard. they had not taken into account that the beams of dust which shot across the street and lanes had reached no higher than the first loft, and they had not taken care to conclude that since no dust exuded through the higher windows, the likelihood was that the higher lofts were untouched. but after the first sense of arrest and confusion which came upon those within the scope of the sound, there arose the humane idea of rendering succour to the living, if the place contained anyone alive, or tendering services to the dead, supposing both had perished. then it was anxiously asked, was anything known as to whether either or both men were in the tower. it was well known that the old man now seldom came forth, that the young man brought in the provisions necessary for the two, and that even he was seldom for any long time absent from st. prisca's. moment by moment people began to recollect that the old man had not been seen out of the tower for many days, and that the young man had been seen to leave the tower and return. in such a crowded thoroughfare it was almost impossible that the door of the tower could be opened without exciting observation. it was also nearly impossible that any close observation could have been made. it is quite common for a busy man who lives close to a church clock that strikes the hours and the quarters, to hear and yet not heed the striking of the clock; so that you may ask him, after the striking, what has occurred with regard to the hour, and he may have been perfectly unconscious at the time the clock struck that he was observing the sound, and yet when asked he may be able to tell perfectly the time. so it was with these busy folk in porter street. they had never regarded those two men with any interest whatever beyond the interest one feels for a friendly but unknown dog, or for a man who is not likely ever in the course of life to have more than a passing interest for the observer. nevertheless, these busy folk who worked hour by hour, day by day, and the sum of whose life was made up in the sum of their work, and the mere material comforts and pleasures which the result of their work brought them, had insensibly drunk in the fact that two men had entered that tower, that neither of these men had come forth, and that now the likelihood was the lives of either or both of these men had been swallowed up in the catastrophe which had occurred. with men of the class who worked in porter street, thought is a very rarely exercised faculty. they have to carry huge weights, heave winches, stow goods, pack and manage vast bales, in the conduct of which the eye for space and the muscle for motion is all that is called into play. everything else is designed by the foreman, and each man has no more to do with every separate piece of goods than dispose of it as his strength will allow in the position the foreman indicates. hence men of this class are exceedingly slow to invent, and exceedingly quick to act. when the loft fell, all the men within hearing of the crash immediately ceased to work, and stood stupidly looking on as though they expected some miraculous manifestation. they did not remain inactive because of any disinclination to help, if help were needed, but they had not realised the fact that it was possible their great strength might be of avail to anyone suffering. all at once a woman cried: "my god, the men are buried!" and before the words were well out of her mouth, the crowd seemed to grasp the central idea that underneath the encumbrance of these lofts had been buried two men, who were formed in every way like themselves, and who, although not of their class, were nevertheless entitled to all that could be done for them. chapter vi. how were the entombed men to be delivered? various ways suggested themselves in the heat of the moment. it was plain to all that the first thing to be done was to force the door. this was no trivial matter. how it was to be forced was the consideration. there were those among the crowd who had seen the door open, and noticed the huge bolt of the lock which shot into an iron holdfast let into the solid stonework of the tower. they knew that the old man had never omitted to lock the door on the inside when he came in, and that the young man had been no less careful. there was a general belief that something secret, and, upon the whole, uncommendable, was going on in that tower, and the desire to rescue the two imprisoned men was largely augmented by curiosity. the laneway from which the door opened was seldom crowded. there was usually a brisk traffic up and down it; but in that part of the city the narrow laneways that feed the great thoroughfares are seldom blocked, although the main thoroughfares themselves may be impassable. a man in the crowd cried out: "someone get a pole or a beam, and we'll soon have them out." then several men rushed off in various directions. by this time the traffic in the laneways and in porter street itself was interrupted. the workmen ran out of the stores and wharfs, the waggoners and carters deserted their horses, and even the bargemen from the river had come up on hearing that some terrible accident had befallen st. prisca's tower. in a few minutes three men were seen advancing, carrying a heavy beam of wood. other men ran to help them. a dozen willing arms had now seized the beam, and a hundred men were anxious to lend their aid if opportunity offered. a way was cleared for the men with the beam. the people separated on both sides. the men turned out of porter street and ran up into the lane. the men engaged in carrying the baulk were too intent upon getting it to its destination as quick as possible to observe one fatal defect. one onlooker shouted out: "too long. too long." then the men carrying it swept up, way was made for them, and they tried to bring the beam into position for use as a battering-ram against the door. then the onlooker's words were confirmed by experience, and it was seen that it would be utterly impossible to use the baulk effectually as a ram, for, owing to the narrowness of the lane, it was impossible to get it at right angles to the door, and striking the door with it at an acute angle would not be likely to produce the desired effect. however, it was better to try this which was at hand, than to do nothing at all. in the meantime some better means might be devised of bursting open the door. once, twice, thrice, half-a-dozen times the men thrust the beam obliquely against the massive woodwork. it merely glanced off the thick stubborn oak, and more than two-thirds of its power was expended upon the solid and immovable stonework of the doorway. other pieces of timber were brought, but all proved too long to be of any effective use. the shortest, it is true, could be brought into a horizontal position against the door, but it allowed of no play, and therefore was incapable of receiving the necessary impetus. then the crowd began to clamour for sledges. a great, brown-bearded man, tall, lank, and rounded in the shoulders, broke away from the crowd crying: "i'll soon get it open; i'll soon break it in." this man was celebrated in porter street for his enormous strength. no sooner had he undertaken to burst in the door than all other efforts were suspended, in the full faith that he would make good his words. in a few moments he returned, bearing in each hand a square half-hundredweight. he hastened up to the door and said: "someone must hold me." but how are they to hold him? "i want," he said, "to put my back against the door, lift these up this way" (he raised the half-hundreds above his head as though they were no heavier than boxing-gloves), "then i'll bring them down against the door; but if it bursts open i don't want to fall in, for there's a pit inside." the difficulty now was how to hold him, and at the same time give him free play with the weights, and avoid any possibility of the weights in the downward swoop touching anyone who might aid him. some time was lost in trying to arrange so that he might be held, prevented from falling inward, and, at the same time, not impeded. at last he cried: "let me alone; i can manage it myself. stand back. don't be afraid of me." then they cleared a semicircle round him. he put his back to the door, raised his arms aloft, directly over his head, bowed himself backward, so that his head and heels alone touched the door, and his back was bowed forward as a bent bow is against the string. then, setting his teeth and putting all the energy of his body into the muscles of his arms and shoulders, he swung the two weights downward with prodigious force, loosed them from his hold when they came level with his legs, sprang forward, and turned swiftly round with a look of expectant success. the crowd cheered. the two half-hundredweights had crushed through the lower portion of the door as though it were so much cardboard. the lock remained unshaken. the blows had been delivered too low down, and, while the wood had given way, the iron had remained firm. then, while the people were standing admiring the result of his great strength, a man cried out: "here's a crowbar, bill. you can finish it with that." bill caught the crowbar in his hand, whirled it over his head as though it were but a walking-cane, leaped back from the door as far as the narrowness of the lane would allow him; then, holding the crowbar lightly in his hand, as a soldier holds his gun at the charge, he dashed forward and flung the crowbar with its blunt edge against the place where the lock held fast. the lock had been loosened on the door by the previous assault, and now, with a tearing screech, the bolts drew out of the tough wood, and the door swung back on its hinges. when bill had succeeded, and seen that he had succeeded, he turned round, surveyed the crowd steadily for a few moments, and then said: "that's my share of it. you do the rest." then, as one who had no further concern with the matter, he strode off, the people making way for him as he went. two or three men approached the door and looked in. below was a wild jumble of planks and beams and stones and earth, all mixed up, higgledy-piggledy, in the wildest confusion. it was impossible to make out anything clearly at first, owing to the dense dust that floated in the air. the men who had thrust in their heads withdrew them after a short time, partly suffocated and partly blinded by the fumes that arose out of the pit beneath. "ask is there anyone there," suggested one of the crowd. a head was thrust in through the open doorway, and a stentorian voice cried out: "anyone there!" to this a feeble voice replied from what seemed to be the bowels of the earth: "yes. help. water, for god's sake." "all right," shouted the man above. "we'll get you out safe enough. keep up your heart. are the two of you below?" "yes," answered the feeble voice; "but he is dead. quick, for god's sake, or i shall die. this dust is killing me." "keep up," shouted the man, "and we'll do the best. we'll get you out in a jiffy. there's a hundred of us here. how much of the place has fallen?" "i don't know," answered the voice below, growing fainter. "i think only the first floor. i can talk no more. i am dying." and then came some sounds, inarticulate and faint, the meaning of which the man above could not gather. a ladder was got and thrust down into the pit, and in a short time a score of willing hands were at work. the joists had drawn gradually out of the wall, and the eastern end being first freed, that side fell downward, shooting most of the stones and earth up into the pit at the eastern side. the floor doubled up in two from the north and south, almost like the leaves of a book, and in the fold of this a large quantity of clay and stones had remained. this folded part fell almost directly on the hole made by lionel crawford in the roof of the vault. the weight of the stones and the impetus they had gained in their fall was sufficient to cause them to smash through the doubled-up flooring, and some of them fell through the hole, carrying with them a portion of the roof of the vault. by this falling mass lavirotte had been struck and hurt, and under some of the flooring, earth, and stones he now lay partly covered, prostrate upon the ground of the vault. owing to the fact that most of the heavy stones and the great bulk of the earth had been shot to the eastern side of the tower, comparatively little entered the vault, and so lavirotte escaped instant death. the men working at his release found out after a short time, partly by his moaning and partly by looking through the hole in the fallen floor, that lavirotte was in the vault, and not immediately under the fallen floor. in less than an hour he was rescued. he was all begrimed with dirt and clay, insensible, battered, bleeding, almost pulseless. he was immediately placed in a cab and taken to an hospital. on his way he recovered consciousness and begged for water, which was given him. upon examination it was discovered that his injuries were not of much moment, and that exhaustion had more to do with his prostrate condition than the hurts he had received. for a long time he lay quiet, expressing no wish. at length he asked what had become of the body of his companion, and was told that it had been removed from the tower. he was asked if he had any friends with whom he desired to communicate, and he said no. now that lionel crawford was dead, there was no one in london whom he could call a friend. he did not wish that dora should hear anything of the result of that awful day, when her grandfather lost his life, and he all hope of the vast fortune upon which he had been building for some time. they told him that he would be able to leave the hospital in a few days. a few days would be quite time enough to tell her all the bad news. indeed, the longer she was kept in ignorance of it the better. to the inquiries of those around him, he had refused to give any reply beyond the facts that st. prisca's tower was his property; that he and the dead man, lionel crawford, had for some time back lived in the tower; and that, for reasons which he declined to state, they had both been engaged in excavating. john cassidy usually left his office at about four o'clock in the evening. as he was walking in the direction of his home on the afternoon lavirotte was rescued from the tower, his eye was arrested by a line in the bills of _the evening record_--"mysterious affair in porter street." as a rule, john cassidy did not buy newspapers. they did not interest him. his theory was that one could learn enough of public affairs from the conversation of others. but a mysterious affair always did interest him, and in this case he bought _the evening record_, and read in it a brief paragraph of what occurred in the tower, giving the names of the two men concerned. mystery on mystery! here was this man lavirotte mixed up in two inexplicable affairs in a space of a few months. on the previous occasion lavirotte had been found insensible, near a wounded man. now he was found insensible, near a dead man. in the paragraph there was no suggestion that any suspected foul play; and yet to him, cassidy, it seemed impossible that lavirotte was not in some way accountable for the death of the man found with him that day. cassidy was burning with anxiety to tell someone of lavirotte's former predicament. it would give him such an air of importance if he could add material facts to those already known in connection with this matter. there was no use in his going back to the office, for all his fellow-clerks had left. it was impossible for him to go home to his room burdened with this news. he therefore resolved to turn into the cleopatra restaurant in the strand, in the hope he might there find someone to whom he might communicate the startling addition to the news in the evening paper. it so fell out that he succeeded beyond his wishes. he found a group of men standing at the bar, and among these one named grafton, an artist whom he had known for some time, and through whom he hoped to find himself on the track of the lavirotte mystery, as he knew grafton was acquainted with lavirotte. "i say, grafton," said he, "that's a deuce of a mysterious thing that happened to-day in porter street. you know, of course, this is the lavirotte you told me you knew. he's back in london again, after being mixed up in a most extraordinary affair in my part of the world." then he related, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the group of men standing round, all he knew concerning the affair at glengowra. when he had finished, one of the bystanders, whom he did not know, said: "you would have no objection to my making use of what you say?" "in the press?" said cassidy, colouring with delight and importance. "yes," said the other. "i am connected with _the evening record_, and if you authorise me to do so, i should be greatly pleased to add just a line to our account of the affair. all i would ask or say: 'we understand that m. lavirotte, who was found insensible, was some little time ago mixed up with another mysterious affair in glengowra, in the south of ireland.'" cassidy gave a willing consent, and the addition suggested appeared in the special edition of _the evening record_. it was in the special edition of _the evening record_ that dora harrington saw her grandfather was dead, that lavirotte was injured, and that he had been mixed up in a mysterious affair in glengowra. chapter vii. the shock nearly overwhelmed dora. the double blow was too much for her, and when the landlady came into the room a short time afterwards she found the girl insensible on the floor. when she returned to consciousness she could not believe she had read the paper aright. she took it up again and went carefully over the passage with aching eyes. the solid ground seemed to be melting away under her feet, and all the material things around her were visionary, unreal, far away. the landlady at length made her talk, and with talk came tears, and with tears relief. she pointed out the paragraph to the woman, and told her she must go at once to the hospital and see about the whole affair. it was too horrible, she said, to think that her grandfather should be killed and her lover nearly killed in this enterprise, whatever it was, they were engaged upon. the woman was of a kindly and compassionate nature, and offered to accompany the girl. this offer dora gladly accepted, and the two set out. they ascertained at the hospital that lavirotte was going on favourably, but that they could not see him until next day. they went and saw the body of the old man at the mortuary, and, finding out that nothing could be done, returned to charterhouse square, greatly depressed and saddened; for the kindly woman shared the girl's grief, and felt for her desolate condition. next day, when dora called at the hospital she was admitted. she found lavirotte haggard, and worn, and wild-looking, but far less seriously injured than the newspaper report had led her to expect. it was not a place for a demonstrative meeting, and she had been cautioned not to excite the injured man. after the first words of the meeting she asked him all the particulars of what had occurred at the tower. he told her as briefly as he could. then for the first time she learned that her grandfather and her lover had been seeking for a treasure in that lonely place in porter street. he told her how the old man had been firmly persuaded a vast hoard had been hidden beneath the tower before the great fire, and had remained there ever since. while he, lavirotte, was away at his lodgings, looking for letters, the old man had found the top of the vault, had pierced the vault, and descended into it. then, no doubt, the shock of finding the work of years useless had been too great for him, and he had succumbed. he related how he, being then in a very weak condition from wearing anxiety and the want of food and rest, had returned to the tower, descended into the vault, and found himself unable to reascend. then later on came the crash, his own insensibility, and finally the rescue the afternoon before. in grief and pity she listened to him, and when he had finished she could think of nothing to say but that she hoped he would soon get strong again, and that she would do anything she could for him, and come to see him as often as they would let her. then he went on to explain how this terrible disappointment at not finding the treasure would not only leave him almost penniless, but would prevent him doing the service he had intended for o'donnell and kempston. he told her he had not replied to the letter he found from eugene at his lodgings, because he hoped that in a day or two he might be able to communicate the glorious news that the period of their affluence was at hand. now all this was changed. the whole aspect of his career was altered, and the first thing she would have to do for him was to telegraph to eugene, saying that all hope of succour was now at an end. it would be a cruel, a terrible, perhaps literally a fatal blow to the elder o'donnell, but that could not now be helped. he dictated to her the telegram, and she wrote it down. he also dictated a note she was to write to mr. kempston. then he said: "they tell me i shall not be long here; but how it is to be with me when i get about again i cannot say. misfortune seems to have marked me out as one upon whom she was to try all her arts." she said tenderly, advancing her hand to his: "don't say that, dominique." "forgive me, dora, darling. i was not thinking of you. i was speaking of only the business aspect of things. we shall be as poor as ever now." "but we were never rich, and yet we were--fond of each other, and very happy." "ay, darling, very fond of each other, and very happy, and will be always," he added, pressing the hand he had in his. "i was thinking only of you in the matter. when i had this dream of wealth upon me, i used to picture to myself what we should do when we became rich; how you should have all that art and luxury could produce." "i have never wished for wealth or luxury, dominique," she whispered. "i know i shall be as happy as i ever hoped to be, more happy than i ever deserved, with you. let us think no more of that treasure. it has brought no good to us up to this. why should we allow it to cause us sorrow now?" "ay, ay," he said. "we must make the best of it now. bad will be the best of it, but it might have been worse. you know i have a little money, and with it i shall be able to continue at the singing until i am good enough for the boards. then i shall be able to earn enough for us both, dora." "very little will be enough," she whispered, again pressing his hand. he returned the pressure, and said: "thank you, darling. they will not let you stay much longer now. i am sorry i am not able to be up; but i suppose they will do everything necessary about your grandfather. i want you to go to my landlord. he has some money of mine. tell him to arrange all about the funeral. you tell me there is no man in the house where you lodge, and the few men i know in london, i know scarcely sufficiently well to ask a favour of them. stop," he said; "there is grafton. i might ask him. he was very friendly to me when i was in london before. i remember where he lived. go to him and tell him all, and give him the money. that will be better." he gave her grafton's address, and after a little while she took her leave. she sought the artist and found him at home. he had two rooms in charlotte street--one a bedroom; the other served as studio and sitting-room. when dora called, he was not alone. having renewed his acquaintance with cassidy, he had invited the dandy to his place. cassidy and he were now having coffee. grafton hurried cassidy into the bedroom, which was separated from the sitting-room by folding doors. dora was shown up, and explained the circumstances of the case. grafton said he would be delighted to do anything he could for lavirotte and miss harrington. unfortunately there was a difficulty in the way. it was utterly impossible for him to leave his studio that afternoon or night, as he was at work on a block which would take him till five o'clock in the morning to finish, and he had just that moment received a telegram from the illustrated paper on which he worked, ordering him north to the scene of a great colliery accident the first thing in the morning. he was deeply grieved. he would try if he could possibly do anything. stop! a friend of his was in the house. he would go and ask him if he could manage to do what was required. he went out by the door leading to the landing, and from that landing through another door into the bedroom where cassidy was. cassidy flushed with surprise and pleasure when he saw a chance of his getting mixed up with the lavirotte affair. he told grafton he would ask them to give him a holiday to-morrow, and between this afternoon and to-morrow there would be plenty of time to arrange everything about lionel crawford, as, no doubt, the inquest was held that day. then grafton brought cassidy in and introduced him to dora, and said that he would act in every way as though he were grafton himself. dora expressed her great gratitude. "you know," cassidy said, "i shall go and see mr. lavirotte as soon as possible, and i have no doubt he will be glad to see me, for i come from the neighbourhood in which he lived, and know glengowra thoroughly." here the overwhelming desire to rise in importance in the eyes of dora, pleasantly or otherwise, mastered him, and he said: "perhaps you have seen the special edition of _the evening record?_" she said yes; that she had there first seen an account of the terrible affair. "it was i," said he, bowing and smiling, "who gave the information respecting the mysterious occurrence at glengowra, of which you, doubtless, know." by this time he was, of course, aware he was talking to the girl to whom lavirotte had made love when formerly in london. "i do not know anything about it," she whispered faintly. "i am exceedingly obliged to both of you." she said good-bye and went. when she was gone, cassidy said: "strange she doesn't know anything about the glengowra affair. i don't think it right she should be kept in ignorance of it. however, grafton, you haven't a minute to lose now. i'll be off down east and see what's to be done. i assure you nothing could give me greater pleasure than to act for you in this affair." chapter viii. when eugene o'donnell got the telegram he fell into despair. he durst not go to his father or his mother. up to this his father had been in the very best spirits, fully anticipating deliverance at the hands of lavirotte. now what was to become of them? ruin of the most complete kind stared them in the face. they would not have the least chance of saving anything from the wreck of their fortune, for james o'donnell was a man of scrupulous honesty, and would not lend himself to the least kind of fraud. when everything was sold up they would not be able to pay more than a small portion of the last call, and eugene knew his father too well to think he would conceal a single penny, or accept a favour at the hands of the bank. eugene did not know what to do. the telegram came to him when he was alone. he read it three times, put it in his pocket, and went out to try if a walk in the air would help him. insensibly his steps turned towards the station, where, a little later on in the afternoon, he would, in the ordinary course, find himself on the way to glengowra. when he got to the railway station he looked at his watch, and saw that there was just time for him to run out to glengowra and get back again before his ordinary time for leaving the office. he determined to run out and tell it first of all to nellie, upon whom he had learned to depend. she was greatly surprised to see him so early, ran to him with a smile, and, throwing her arms round him, said: "i cannot tell you why, but i was half expecting to see you earlier than usual. you have brought good news, i dare say, from lavirotte?" he shook his head, and said: "no; poor lavirotte has met with an accident." "met with an accident!" cried nellie, in surprise. "is it serious, and will he be able to do what he promised for your father?" "well, you see," said her husband, "this accident is likely to knock him up for some time, i suppose, and every hour is precious to us." the husband and wife were now in the little drawing-room overlooking the sea. he had sat down on a chair, dispiritedly. she stood opposite him, with eager, inquiring eyes. "so that you are afraid," said she, "that, after all, his promise may come to nothing." "yes," said eugene, "i am afraid it may come to nothing." she sank on a chair beside him, and cried: "good heavens, eugene, what is to become of us all?" "i don't know, nellie," he said gloomily, "i have not dared to tell the governor yet. i must tell him to-night, you know. he must at once decide upon what we shall do." "do you believe lavirotte met with an accident?" "certainly i believe. what object could he have in telling a lie?" "to screen his failure, if not worse." "what could be _worse_ at present than his failure?" "supposing he had deliberately deceived all through." "what earthly object could lavirotte have in deceiving us?" "well, he would tell neither you nor your father where he expected this money from. i don't like lavirotte. i don't trust him. i wish we never had anything to do with him. i think it was an unfortunate day you first met him." "look here, now, nellie. i believe lavirotte was perfectly sincere in this matter, as i believe he was sincere in his love of you, or in his desire to destroy me when under the influence of what must have been insanity. anyway, this is not the time to discuss his merits. we must think of what we ourselves have to do in this matter. how am i to break it to my father? after all he has gone through, i fear it will kill him or drive him mad. he has the fullest faith in lavirotte's turning up with the money in time. as i told you before, he has made arrangements for the future in the full faith that the help will be forthcoming." "i don't know how you are to do it, eugene. as you say, there is very little time, if he must know this evening. would you like me to go in and see your mother, or do you think i should only be in the way?" "i don't know, i'm sure. but i think, after all, it will be best if i open the subject to him." so it was decided that eugene should go back to rathclare, and make known to his father the bad news contained in the telegram. his visit to glengowra had no effect. it left a strong impression on nellie's mind, that in addition to lavirotte being, under great excitement, a dangerous lunatic, he was capable at ordinary times of deliberately and cruelly lying, if the statements he made were not the result of delusion. when eugene found his father, the latter was in the best of spirits. "well, my son," he cried cheerily, "any news from london? has our friend, our good friend, got the money? time is running very short now, and since we are going to pay the call, we may as well do the thing decently and be up to time." "do you think, sir, there is no chance of getting a later date for payment?" the father shook his head. "no, there is no chance," he said. "those who can pay must pay up at once. i am not myself uneasy about lavirotte, but i wish we had some news. it will be comfortable to hear the mill going when this awful banking affair is pleasantly settled; but i own the sound of the mill does not seem good for my ears just now. this, of course, will be all right in a few days. why do you ask if there is any chance of getting time, boy?" "because, sir, it has occurred to me that possibly we may want it." "but lavirotte knows the circumstances of the case; and with such vast expectations as he has, there can be no difficulty whatever in getting in the form of an advance any sum of money we may require." "that depends on the security he has to offer. do you know, sir, what is the nature of the security he has to offer?" "no, he would not tell me. he said he was under an obligation, and could communicate the matter to no one." "well, sir, may it not be that the property which he expects to come into will not realise quite as much as he anticipated? suppose it fell a little short of what you want, what should you do?" "borrow money on this place, of course," said the merchant, waving his hand over his head. "but in case, i mean, that what lavirotte could give you and what you could borrow on this place would not together make sufficient, what would you do?" "upon my word, eugene, you are in a very uncomfortable humour to-day. what earthly use is there in calculating upon chances or solving difficulties that will never arise? but i may answer you. i should of course sell the place. i should sell every stick of the place, every wheel, every ounce of stuff in it, my house, horses, plate, furniture, in fact everything that i have." by this time the face of the old man had lost its gay aspect. he had turned pale. his eyes were no longer sprightly, but fixed with a strange glitter, not turned directly towards his son--in fact, avoiding his son's gaze. it was as though he suspected--he more than suspected, he assumed--eugene had some bad news to give him, and that he would wait there patiently for the bad news to come without aiding his son's story by the display of curiosity. "but, sir, i have some reason to fear lavirotte will not be able to do all he said. i am disposed to think, on good grounds, that he will not have all the money we want in time." the son now avoided the father's face. they were sitting at opposite sides of the large office table. the son's eyes were turned towards the window looking into the quadrangle. the father's eyes were fixed vacantly upon the door of the strong-room behind his son, and to his right. "in that case," said the elder man, "i should mortgage." "i am very much disinclined to go on," said the young man, frowning heavily, "but i have no alternative. lavirotte will not be able to give you all you want, and i do not think you will be able to pay all." "then i shall sell. i shall sell every stick i have in the world." the old man's eyes became more fixed than ever; they never wandered from that door. his face became more pallid. with both hands he grasped the elbows of his chair. he sat well in the chair, leaning slightly forward, as though he expected someone who would try and pull him out of it. his son looked hastily at him for a moment, then turned his eyes away as hastily, and said slowly: "you must know, sir--you must by this time have guessed that i have had bad news from london, from lavirotte. you must try and bear up, sir, for all our sakes. it will be a bitter blow after the hope we have lived in for months." james o'donnell seemed to abandon the position he had taken up with regard to eugene's news. it would be folly any longer to affect ignorance that something terrible was coming, or to court delay. "what is the news from lavirotte?" he asked. "lavirotte is himself injured by some accident, and he has no longer any hope of realising the money he expected." "no longer any hope," repeated the old man. "no longer any hope, sir. we are not to rely on him for the least aid. what do you purpose doing, sir?" "i must think over the matter for a while, eugene." he looked calmly at his watch. "you have only just time to catch the train, and i would rather be alone at present." "if you would let me stay, sir, i would much rather remain with you. i can drive home later." "no, eugene; you may go now. i would rather be alone." the old man seemed quite calm and collected; in fact, so calm and collected, that eugene resolved not to go to glengowra by the train, but to run up to his father's house and to tell his mother what had occurred. when james o'donnell found himself alone, he got up slowly out of his chair, crossed the floor, opened the door of the strong-room, whispering to himself: "no longer any hope." he went into the gloomy chamber, and going to the safe, opened it and took something from it. when he returned to the office, he held the revolver in his hand and whispered to himself: "no longer any hope." he looked at his watch. it was just closing time. having placed the revolver on the table, he sat down in his chair, whispering in the same quiet voice, "i will wait till they are all gone," and repeated for the third time: "no longer any hope." at seven o'clock eugene returned to the private office, for which he had a key. to his astonishment he found his father's chair vacant and the strong-room door open. he went into the strong-room and examined it. the door of the safe was open. the drawer was pulled out. eugene turned sick. he leant against the wall and moaned out: "oh! what has the poor old man done!" then he pushed in the drawer, the door of the safe, the door of the strong-room, and having locked the door of the private office, hastened downstairs. he could find no trace of his father. he set half-a-dozen men to search the town quietly. up to next morning he failed to find any clue to james o'donnell. end of vol. ii. * * * * * * * * * * charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press. google books (oxford university) transcriber's notes: . page scan source: google books http://books.google.com/books?id=pyagaaaaqaaj (oxford university) the last call. the last call. a romance. by richard dowling, author of "the mystery of killard," "the weird sisters," "sweet inisfail," etc. _in three volumes_. vol. iii. london: tinsley brothers, , catherine st., strand. . [_all rights reserved_.] charles dickens and evans crystal palace press. the last call. * * * * * part ii.--_continued_. the last call. chapter ix. at half-past six a train left rathclare for dublin. the evenings were now cold and short. it was getting near winter, the end of autumn. as the train was about to start from the platform, a man with the collar of a large boat-cloak turned up about his ears, and a soft felt hat pressed low over his brows, stepped into an unoccupied first-class compartment, and took his seat. he did not speak to the guard who checked his ticket, nor had the guard any opportunity of seeing his face, as the man in the cloak kept his face carefully averted. he sat muffled up in the corner without moving, hour after hour, as the train sped on through the darkness. every time the speed slackened and they drew near a station at which they were to stop, he shook himself slightly, straightened his hat down over his eyes, and pushed up the collar of his cloak. all the way from rathclare to dublin fortune favoured him, if he desired to be alone. for, although they stopped several times, and came to a junction where he had to change, he succeeded in making his journey in solitude. on three occasions the door of the compartment in which he sat had been opened, and a passenger was about to step in. on each occasion that passenger drew back, repelled by the motionless, dark figure, and by a sense of solitude surrounding that figure. not one of the three passengers knew what it was which gave the air of this solitude, and yet each had felt that around that motionless figure were gloom and loneliness which startled and repelled. yet the reason was very simple. between that muffled form and the surrounding world there was no link, no band of union, however slight. there was an absolute figure, set in the absolute vacuity of the compartment. beside, above, or beneath that figure was no article such as is usually seen by a traveller. no baggage of any kind; no stick; no umbrella; no newspaper; no rug; no book; no bag. nothing but the bare figure and the bare compartment. under that hat and cloak a form of terror or of danger might lie hidden, and it would not be pleasant to sit there, when practically beyond human aid, speculating on what that hat and that cloak hid. it would be still less pleasant if suddenly that cloak and that hat revealed what they hid, and it was found to be a figure of menace or of danger. at the kingsbridge terminus, dublin, the solitary man got into a cab, and said briefly to the driver: "westland row station." when he arrived there he learned he was a couple of hours too soon for the holyhead mail. he paid the cabman, and went to a hotel close by, where travellers may wait up for the mail, and have food and drink while they wait. here he ordered some light refreshment, and getting into a corner of the large coffee-room, and turning his back to the room, he ate and drank without removing his cloak or hat. when it was announced that it was time to be stirring for the mail, the cloaked man rose, walked rapidly to the station, and took a first-class single ticket to euston. when he got on board the boat he secured a berth, lay down, and did not move until the passengers were summoned for landing. late in the forenoon he got into the train at holyhead. here he was not so fortunate as he had been in his irish journey. he had to share a compartment with three others. still he remained muffled up, silent, motionless. hour after hour went by, and he never moved, beyond occasionally adjusting the collar of his cloak or his soft felt hat. on his arrival in london he seemed undecided for a while as to what he should do, for he walked up and down the platform at euston until all the other passengers had left. he spoke to no one. he did not answer any of the porters who asked him if he wanted a cab, and, finally, he left the terminus on foot, and, taking a southerly direction, walked straight on for half-an-hour. it was now quite dark, and had been dark for some time. he did not look to the right or the left, but kept straight on through a line of dingy third-class streets. then, coming out on a busy thoroughfare, he took a hansom and gave the address of a quiet hotel in the city. when he arrived at his destination he said he needed no refreshment, and desired to be shown at once to a bedroom. had the gentleman no luggage? no luggage. the man seemed to hesitate. at this the traveller held out a handful of gold, saying: "take some of this; i shall be here a few days." the man still seemed to waver. "be good enough to keep five pounds for me until i want them, and let me have a bed at once." he was then shown to a room. he bolted and locked the door on the inside, and no more was heard of him till morning. then he rang his bell, and asked if he could have breakfast in a private room. he was told he could. he ordered his breakfast, and came down at the time he was told it would be ready for him. he remained in all that day, and passed the time in reading newspapers of the current day and of a few days back. when it was night he went out, drove to a street off the strand, and asked at a house there if mr. dominique lavirotte was in. mr. lavirotte was not in. he was still in the hospital, and would not be home until the third day from that. the traveller, still wearing the cloak and hat, drove back to his hotel, and spent the remaining three days indoors reading the newspapers. in the meantime, the inquest on the body of lionel crawford had taken place. the jury had returned an open verdict, and the mortal remains of lionel crawford had been committed to earth under the management of mr. john cassidy. lavirotte had been brought from the hospital to where the inquest was held, and told his story. the medical evidence was that there was no sign of violence before death on the body. the cuts and bruises discovered were consistent with lavirotte's story--that is to say, they might have been inflicted after death by the falling stones and wood. but the police were not quite satisfied. they had ascertained from the police at glengowra the particulars of the case in which lavirotte had played a part some months ago. they shook their heads, deplored the fact that the medical evidence was in accord with lavirotte's story, and had grave suspicions that what the medical evidence called syncope might have been the result of a drug and not of mere unaided nature. in fact, the police inclined to the belief there had been foul play. at about seven o'clock on the evening of the fourth, day after the traveller called first at lavirotte's lodgings he once more drove there, and without sending up a name asked if he might see mr. dominique lavirotte. word came down that the gentleman was to be shown up. when he was shown into the room, where lavirotte sat alone in an easy-chair, he threw aside his hat and cloak and said: "dominique lavirotte, you are suspected of murdering lionel crawford, as you are suspected of having attempted to murder my son. as i came along this street, and while i was delayed at the door, i saw two men idling about--i took them for detectives." "for god's sake, what do you mean, mr. o'donnell?" "that the police are watching you; that in all likelihood you will swing for the murder of that old man in that lonely tower; and that you deserve to swing for your attempt to murder my son, and your deliberate trifling with me in my cruel necessity." "i never trifled with you, mr. o'donnell," cried lavirotte feebly. "you lie, sir!" cried the old man, suddenly flushing up, drawing his right hand from his back pocket and placing the muzzle of a revolver within three feet of lavirotte's breast. chapter x. for a while neither james o'donnell nor dominique lavirotte moved. at last the old man said: "whether i shoot you or not is a matter of perfect indifference to me. there would be no pity, no shame in doing so. i look on myself as a dead man, and i am not only dead in my own eyes, but also dishonoured. i do not say you were the cause of my dishonour, but you are a criminal with regard to my son, and an unprincipled liar with regard to myself. i do not know why i am talking to you. the sight of your dead body would be better for me than those shaking limbs and that craven face. shall i put you out of your pain? shall i fire?" "for god's sake, mr. o'donnell, put down that dreadful thing, and let us talk like men." "you a man!" cried the old man, in a low, scoffing voice. "who, in the darkness of the night, sprang upon an unarmed man, who had never done you any harm, and sought to stab him to death without giving him one chance for his life! you, who not only did this, but did this to your greatest friend, call yourself a man! you are a low, mean, cowardly hound, and shooting is too good for you!" a queer look came into lavirotte's eyes. "if you put down that revolver," he said more collectedly, and with a ghastly smile, "i will tell you how all that thing happened. how is it that, although, as you say--to my shame i confess it--i made a murderous assault upon my dear good friend eugene----" "if you wish to live a few minutes longer," said james o'donnell, "you had better give up that horrible, lying slang of dear good friend eugene. i am in no humour to dry the crocodile's tears of an arch-blasphemous hypocrite like you." lavirotte seemed gaining courage. with a wave of his hand he put aside the old man's violent interruption and proceeded: "how is it that, after an occurrence such as you describe, eugene forgave me?" "because he is too noble and good a fellow for a cowardly wretch like you to know." lavirotte now smiled a smile of self-assurance and ease. "mr. o'donnell," he said, making a motion towards a chair, "have the goodness to sit down. this house is not all my own. i rent only two rooms, this one and the one behind. i do not think it would be fair of you to disturb the quiet of this house with anything so rude as a pistol-shot, or to shock the susceptibilities of my good friends here with anything so revolting as a murder. but if you will drop that revolver i'll tell you something about that affair with your son you never heard before, and which, perhaps, even to your blind and bigoted mind, may put a new aspect on the matter." the old man dropped his arm in mute amazement at this attack. he had come there with the intention of shooting lavirotte, after reproaching him violently for the injuries he had inflicted and the hopes he had betrayed. and now, here was lavirotte coolly turning on him, abusing him instead of sitting mutely under his reproaches, and smiling with as much assurance as though he were the person with the grievance who was about to extend mercy. "it would be," said lavirotte, "more convenient and comfortable if you sat down. i am scarcely strong enough to stand. you say you are a dead man. i am a man only very slightly alive." "i will never, sir," said the old man, "sit down in the presence of a scoundrel such as you, again." "i was never very intimate with you, mr. o'donnell----" "never, thank heaven, sir." "because i always had a natural aversion from fools." "fool, sir! fool! do you mean to say i am a fool?" "yes, a pitiable fool. who but a pitiable fool would entrust the savings of a lifetime to a sanctimonious old swindler like vernon? i never yet met a man who made a parade of his religion that was not as great a villain as his courage would allow. but i am getting away from the point. i was saying a little while ago does it not seem strange to you that eugene should forgive me utterly after i had attempted to murder him?" "i said no, sir. the boy was always distinguished by his generosity." "does it not seem strange to you that i, being eugene's great friend, should have made a murderous attack upon him without any cause known to you?" "no, sir; it does not seem strange. it would seem strange to me if you had acted according to any ordinary principle of honour or honesty." "but why, in the name of reason, should i attack eugene, my dearest and best friend?" "because he was your dearest and best friend, and it satisfied the demands of your vile nature that you should sacrifice the man who was your most intimate friend." "no; that was not the reason. that is what a shallow-pated fool might think. something of greater moment than the virtues or vices i possess was the cause of it." "ay, some foolish quarrel between two young men. perhaps you were both heated in argument; perhaps you had both been too free with liquor. but, however you put it, or however high the anger of you both may have gone, only a coward and scoundrel would take a man unawares and attempt to stab him. young men may have their quarrels; but in these countries, sir, young men do not in their quarrels use the knife!" the old man was still standing a few feet distant from the chair in which lavirotte sat. his left hand was clenched behind his back. his right hung down by his side, holding the revolver. "there was no quarrel of any kind. we had not even been together that night. i waited for him. i lay in hiding for him, and as he was passing by i sprang at him and tried to kill him without a word of warning." "infamous monster," cried the old man, shaking with rage. "do you mean to tell his father this?" james o'donnell's hand tightened on the revolver, and without raising his wrist he threw the muzzle slightly upward. "keep your hand still, sir. keep your hand still. you came here to shoot me because i had failed to keep a promise which i had every reason to hope i could keep. you came here to shoot me, because, through no fault of mine, but through your own stupid wrong-headedness, you, in the decline of life, found yourself commercially a ruined man. you have had a long and prosperous career. i have had nothing but struggles and difficulties and disappointments all my life, short as it is. suppose for a moment that eugene, without knowing it, ruined all my life, all my future." "i can suppose nothing so absolutely absurd." "then, sir, your want of imagination in this thing only confirms my former opinion of you--you are a fool. keep your hand quiet. it might be a satisfaction for you to murder me when you came in first, and when your faith in my wickedness was without a flaw. but it will not do now, and you would have no more comfort in shooting me at this moment than you would in facing all the widows and orphans made by that bank, that rotten concern which you in your infatuation believed to be sound, which paid you heavy dividends for your money and your consent to be stupid, and which in the end reduced thousands of simple, thrifty folk to penury. sir, will you put that pistol down on the table and take a chair?" this was even a still more unexpected attack than the former one. mr. o'donnell's mind was thrown into some confusion by finding that he was not only opposed in the field where he had made sure of success, but that his flanks were turned while he had been announcing victory to himself. never in the whole course of his life had anyone before seriously questioned even his judgment, not to say the foundations of his honesty. and here was the very man for whom he entertained the greatest contempt and loathing, calmly assuming a superior tone and impugning the honesty of one who had hitherto been regarded as impeccable. in a dazed, stupid way he put the revolver on the table and took the chair, as he had been asked. "now, sir, it is time you knew all. your son is now happily married to a woman i once madly loved. remember, i am not using the word 'madly' in any figurative or poetic sense; i am talking the commonest and most ordinary prose. i loved her madly, notwithstanding the fact that i was engaged to be married to another woman. and without knowing that he did it, and to tell the truth, after i had been rejected by her, he made love to her and succeeded. then it was that something rose within me, which you have to-night called by a variety of names, which others would call hate, jealousy, revenge, but perhaps which might be called insanity more truly than anything else. i am sure i must have been mad at the time. i remember nothing of it but a hurry in my head, a tumult in my blood, a wild desire to do something that i knew was not right, and yet which i knew i must do. then i remember no more until i awoke healed of the fever of madness and hurt in the encounter with eugene." he rose from his chair heavily as he spoke, crossed to the table where the revolver lay, took up the weapon, and said: "a capital revolver--a splendid revolver, sir--a six-chamber one. according to our own showing neither of us has much to live for; and according to your showing the hangman would be the only person seriously injured if i committed suicide. if you are disposed to have half of this i promise to take the other half, and then we shall both be quits." "are you mad again?" "not yet; but i feel it coming on." chapter xi. "personally," continued lavirotte, "i have no desire to shoot you. you are at perfect liberty to live. but as you were so sure a little while ago that you were a dead man, and i was one also, it doesn't make much difference who pulls the trigger. yet i think, before we take our final leave of the world, it would be just as well we had a quiet little chat." "you don't mean to say," cried james o'donnell, "that you would murder me in cold blood?" "how can i murder you in cold blood, or in heat, since you say you are already dead? when a man is dead to the law, as in the case of a man sentenced to death, no one ever thinks of calling the hangman's office that of a murderer. viewing your case from my point, i cannot see that death would be any grievous harm to you. by your stupid folly you have ruined yourself, your family, and been accessory to the ruin of hundreds. you are old, and have no reason to hope for any great prolongation of life. outside your own business you never have been remarkable for any quality which could now bring you bread. candidly, mr. o'donnell, i don't see any reason why you shouldn't die, and why i shouldn't shoot you." the old man was paralysed with horror, and did not speak. in the fury of his disappointment and despair it was easy for him to think he would come to london and kill lavirotte and then himself, but since he had entered that room, and lavirotte had spoken, a change had come over the whole aspect of affairs. he was no longer quite sure that he would be justified, morally or humanly, in killing lavirotte. he was no longer quite sure that he had any grievance at all against lavirotte. an hour before he was quite sure. he felt fortified by ten thousand reasons in the opinion that he was called upon to kill the man who had attempted to kill his son, and who had led him himself into a fool's paradise. now the notion of death was hateful to him. although every penny of his fortune might be lost in the gulf of vernon and son, and although his mill and other places of business would inevitably be sold, he might be appointed manager of the business; for no doubt it would be carried on by someone, and no one could be so fitted to manage it as he who had created it. the thought of his wife and his son came strongly back upon him, now that he found himself face to face with an armed man who had owned he was subject to fits of insanity, an armed madman towards whom he had, a few moments ago, used the strongest language. he now felt, for the first time, that what he had contemplated towards lavirotte would have been a crime, and serious doubts began to arise in his mind as to whether his own life was in reality ended. the first shock caused by the news eugene gave him had now passed away, and he was able to see with clearer vision what had been, what was, and what might be. at last he mustered courage enough to say: "whatever may have occurred before, mr. lavirotte, supposing you were justified in your attack upon my son, and in the promise you made to me of material help in my great difficulty, there could not be the shadow of a justification for your taking my life." "i don't seek for justification," said lavirotte. "you have no reason to suppose i desire justification. a while ago you used the vilest language towards me. it may suit me to take ample revenge for such language, when i may do so with safety." "safety!" cried the old man; "safety! how can you talk of safety? you told me a few minutes ago that there were other people in the house. if you fired they would hear the shot----" "shot," said lavirotte, with a sinister smile, "there are six here;" tapping the revolver, which he held in his right, with the forefinger of his left hand. "shots!" repeated the old man with a shudder. "good god! you don't mean to say you could shoot a man with that smile on your face!" "that is a question quite apart from the matter we are discussing," said lavirotte, smiling still more. "yes, they would hear the shots." "then there are the men i saw outside watching the place. they also would hear, and knowing that you and i were not friends----" "how should they know we are not friends? we have been friends up to this. your secret designs upon my life have not been, i assume, communicated to anyone." "yes, but they would come then and find me wounded, perhaps dead. they would find you here. they would know that you have had some unaccountable connection with the assault upon my son, were found in the vault with the dead body of that man crawford, and are now found here with another injured man, and with a revolver in your hand. all this would be strong enough, i am sure, to convince people that i had been the victim of foul play." "up to a certain point, sir, i quite agree with you; and if the facts were to be exactly as you have described them, i have no doubt whatever that an intelligent jury would string me up. but there is a slight difference between what you fancy would occur and what seems to me likely to happen. i will describe to you briefly what, to my mind, would occur. i would hold this revolver thus and pull twice, sending one bullet through the head to insure instant insensibility, sending a second through the cavity of the chest to secure ultimate death. then i would take this revolver and put it in your hand." lavirotte held the weapon in his right hand, and pointed at james o'donnell's head. with his left hand he touched the barrel as he spoke. "for god's sake put that thing down!" lavirotte laughed. "you have not yet been so long under the magic ordeal of its glance as i was a little while ago. within a minute some persons would be in this room. they would find me in a state of terrible excitement. they would find me calling for help at the door and at the window. they would find me a man absolutely distracted. they would find you either sitting in that chair dead or dying, or lying on the floor. they would find this revolver--your own revolver--in your hand, or close by, where you let it fall after committing suicide." "suicide!" "they would hear from me how you received news that i could not help you, although i had hoped to be able to do so; that you came over here to learn from me personally if there were not some chance of my being able to aid you, and that upon my telling you there was not, you, to my grief and horror, put an end to yourself. you see, sir," said lavirotte, lowering the revolver and throwing himself back in his chair, "your story could not be heard. mine would be the only one forthcoming, and on each of the six sides of the cube of my story is the hall-mark of truth." "but surely, mr. lavirotte," said the merchant, "anything i may have said or done would not be a sufficient excuse for your committing so terrible a crime as making away with an old man who had never done you any serious injury. i may have said violent, unjustifiable things; i own i have. but i said them in heat and in ignorance. you can understand that i spoke under tremendous excitement, and in the belief that you had, without provocation, assailed my son, and that you had, for no reason known to me, promised me aid in my great trial and forsaken me in the moment of peril." "then, sir, am i to assume that you hold me at my word, and that you believe when i attacked your son i was suffering under extreme excitement and not responsible for my actions?" "i believe what you say." "and that when i promised to help you out of the money i made certain i was about to receive, i was sincere?" "that," said the old man, with some hesitancy, "is a question i am not yet qualified to answer." "will you, sir, say that you are now as open to believe i was in good faith when i promised to help you as you were to believe i had committed an unprovoked assault upon your son when you came in here?" "i see no reason why i should not say so." "then, sir, we may take it that we have arrived at the end of what might have been a fatal talk. let us put an end to any further chances of fatality thus." he cocked the revolver, placed the butt of the weapon on the floor, held the barrel in his left hand, and placing the heel of his right foot on the hammer, he tore it out from its place, and flung the weapon on the table, saying: "now, sir, a child may play with it in safety." the old man rose up in supreme relief, and said: "i have often thought hard things of you. i shall never think them again. when i came in i believed i had matters all my own way, and that i should shoot you like a dog. i had the merciless intention of shooting you as you were. you then got the upper hand of me and had me at your mercy. i cannot now but believe all you have told me. will you shake hands?" "very gladly indeed," said lavirotte, with the tears in his eyes. "this is one of the happiest moments of my life. now it is only fair i should tell you upon what i grounded my hopes of being able to help you." lavirotte told james o'donnell the whole history of the treasure and st. prisca's tower. when it was over, the old man said: "why, in the name of goodness, did you not get twenty men to dig instead of risking both your lives in such a silly way?" "we did not wish that anyone beyond ourselves should know. we did not want to share our good luck with the crown." "there was no need to share your luck with the crown. the law of treasure trove has lately been altered." "good heavens!" cried lavirotte. "to think it is so, and that poor old crawford should have lived all his life and died the death he did, without knowing this!" chapter xii. the crash at last came on the firm of o'donnell. the business was sold; but the creditors would not be as severe on the old man as he would be on himself. they refused to leave him absolutely penniless; and when the whole affair was wound up he found he had a sum of money which, if carefully invested, would secure the declining years of his wife and himself against absolute want. eugene was offered the managership of the old business, but would not take it, saying, with words of gratitude for the offer, that he would rather seek his fortune in another field, and that rathclare would always in his mind be haunted by the ghost of their more prosperous years. he told his personal friends that while he was abroad on his honeymoon he had had his voice tried, and competent judges told him that, with study, he could make a living by it. he had always a desire to go on the stage. he was not too old to begin now. he intended selling up all his immediate personal belongings, and on the proceeds of the sale he calculated that he and his wife could, with great thrift, manage to live until he was able to earn money by singing. three months after the last call, james o'donnell and his wife had given up their large house in rathclare, and taken a modest cottage in glengowra, where they purposed passing the remainder of their days, and eugene o'donnell and his wife were settled in lodgings in london. by this time, all that had hitherto been concealed by lavirotte was revealed. he had anticipated cassidy's story by himself telling dora of the infatuation he had once experienced for nellie creagh; and having explained to her that this condition of mind or heart had immediately preceded the onslaught he made on o'donnell, she adopted his view, namely, that the whole thing was the outcome of an abnormal mental condition likely to arise once in the lifetime of the average man. he explained to her that upon certain occasions the sanest and greatest of men had behaved like idiots or poltroons, and that the very desperation of his circumstances at the time had left him to drift into a flirtation, which had never gone beyond a dozen civil words on one particular occasion. she believed all he said; and once she got over the first shock of the affair, banished it for ever from her mind, as though it had no longer any more existence than the moonlight of last month. lavirotte and o'donnell were now as inseparable as ever. they attended the same lessons together, and dora waited for lavirotte with nellie at eugene's lodgings, where the two unmarried lovers now met, when they met indoors. lavirotte had still some of the money lionel crawford gave him, and when the affairs of the dead man were investigated it was found that he had some money left. this naturally became dora's. eugene's reverse of fortune arose at a time when his father believed matters would still come right, and that there would be no risk in his son's marrying. but the reverse of fortune, or rather the disappointment of expectations, had come upon lavirotte before he was married, and while there was yet time to prevent a headlong plunge of their two lives into an uncertain future. he had put the whole matter cogently to dora. he had told her that both he and eugene were advised by the best judges to study music in italy for about two years before appearing on the stage. to ensure success this was essential. would it not then be wiser that they should wait as they now were, until he came back from italy fully qualified to take his place in the front rank of tenors? everyone said his voice was excellent. everyone said it required training. he proposed to go to italy with the o'donnells, and he suggested that she should stay where she was, in the lodgings she now occupied, until his return. eugene approved of this he said. nellie thought it hard on her, dora. dora smiled faintly, and sighed and said: "no doubt the men knew best. they were sure to be wiser over the affair than she." he said they were both very young still, and could afford to wait in order to be sure of success. when he was gone she wept to think that her life seemed destined to be one of delays in love. after all had been settled between her and dominique, he had been compelled to leave her, to leave london, and to live hundreds of miles away. the sea, and weary leagues of miles, had separated them long; and often in those early days of dereliction she had imagined that the space was bridgeless, and that he would never stand by her side again, take her hand in his, call her his own. then he had come to london, and that tyranny of search for the treasure had come between them and parted them again. before she knew, in that london period, what absorbed dominique's time, she had taken it for granted that it was something upon which there was little or no need to fear the risks. now, this separation between her and dominique, which would necessitate his going to italy, seemed of greater import than any which had occurred before. ireland was a portion of these kingdoms in which people spoke the same language as she did. she had the average knowledge of school-girl french, and could speak to him, after a fashion, in his own tongue. now he was to go among people of whom she knew little, and be subject to conditions with which she was wholly unfamiliar. what could be harder on a girl than that she should love as she loved, and be so constantly, so completely denied? it seemed to her that, notwithstanding his professions of unmixed devotion, there was always something which occupied more of his attention than thoughts of her. this was a cruel reflection for her, who could think of nothing but him all day, all night. he was the sun, the moon, of her existence. how could he, if she were to take his words literally, love her as she loved him, when he could say he loved her above all other things on earth, and yet could neglect her for the ordinary pursuits of material advancement? she did not understand such matters. she heard that love in woman was an essence, in man an accident. this she believed now. but why could not the accident of his love be complete, even for a while? why could not his regard for her be so all-absorbing as to make everything else seem small; her love for him dwarfed all other things when brought into comparison with it? but there was now no use in thinking, no use in even mental protest. he, being a man, was naturally wiser than she, being a woman, and there could be no doubt this going of his to italy was approved of by all other men, who were also wiser than she. it was in sorrowful mood she parted from him. the slenderness of their means, and the great distance between london and milan, made it unlikely he should return more than once or twice during the two years or so. he, however, promised faithfully to come back at the end of the first year, if not before, and on this understanding they parted; he, eugene o'donnell, and nellie getting into the train at charing cross, with brave words and encouraging gestures; she weeping a little there and then, and much after. they had arranged between them that each was to write to the other once a week. he was much better than this, for during the first two or three months he wrote her always twice, and sometimes thrice a week. then his letters dropped to once a week, and after that to once a fortnight. he playfully explained to her that as during the earlier portion of their separation he had exceeded his promise, he was persuaded she would now allow him a little latitude out of consideration of that. to this she answered in a cheerful letter that she was quite willing to adopt his suggestion. she wept in writing her cheerful letter, and cried in posting it. "if he wrote me twenty times a week," she cried, "when he first went away, i want to hear forty times a week from him now." as time went on, the letters from dominique to her decreased in frequency. a whole month passed without a line. then six weeks. then two months, and by the end of the first year he had not written to her for three whole months, although during that time she had never failed to write to him every week. at the end of the first year, eugene o'donnell said to his wife one day: "i don't think the godfather of our boy"--they had now a little son, a few months old--"is quite as attentive as he should be to dora, and i greatly fear he has got entangled, in some other affair. you know luigia?" "what!" cried mrs. o'donnell, in astonishment. "you don't mean that handsome flower-girl?" "yes," said eugene, "that handsome flower-girl to whom we took such a liking." for a moment mrs. o'donnell looked perplexed. "it would hurt me to the heart," she said, "to think that poor dora should have any further reason to suspect him. i do not like him, you know. how can it be that he who made love to dora, who is dark, should care for this handsome italian girl, who is fair-skinned and light-haired?" "the unusualness, partly," said eugene, "and partly, nellie, that she----" he paused, and did not finish the sentence. "that she what?" said the young wife, with a perplexed look upon her face. "that she resembles you." "good heavens, eugene! what a horrible thought! i shall never be able to look with patience at lavirotte again. who is this coming here?" "i don't know; i will go and see." after a few moments, eugene returned. "a telegram," he said, "with bad news, nellie." "my mother? your father? your mother? who is it?" she cried. "i know someone is dead." "yes," he said quietly, "but none of those." "then, in god's name, who?" "dora." she had come out of the sunlight, which pierced the windows of that tower, and had fallen swiftly beneath the shadow of the old man's arms. chapter xiii. the news of dora's death was a great shock to the o'donnells. the girl's landlady had telegraphed to them in order that they might break it to lavirotte. of late, o'donnell had begun to think that lavirotte was not treating dora very well, and nellie was distinctly of opinion that his conduct towards the poor girl was very far from what it ought to be. neither knew exactly to what extent his neglect had gone. he spoke little of dora of late. they knew she wrote to him regularly every week, and in palliation of the tone which he took when speaking of her, o'donnell said: "smooth water runs deep. he may be fonder of her than ever. it may be only his way of trying her constancy." at this mrs. o'donnell would become very wroth, and cry out: "trying her constancy indeed! that is an odd way for you who know everything about him to put it. whether is it he or she is more likely to be inconstant?" if lavirotte had had any notice that dora was ill, he had kept it to himself. the telegram was very brief. it simply stated that the girl died after a few days' illness, and that they were to break the news to lavirotte. in the face of her sad end, both their hearts softened towards the frenchman. whatever may have been his past, even if he had been a little careless of her, and had carried on an undignified flirtation with the flower-girl, luigia, it never occurred to either of them he had the faintest notion of finally abandoning dora. now there was but one thing to be thought of, and that was how they could best break the sad news. they sent for him, and it was agreed before he came that o'donnell should speak to him alone. "something wrong?" said lavirotte, on entering the room where he found eugene. "i wanted to see you particularly," said the other. "are you prepared for any unpleasant news?" lavirotte started and coloured, and looked uneasily about the room. "has anyone come from london? i swear to you, eugene, there is nothing in that luigia affair. i know i shouldn't have started even a flirtation. i am sure you did not tell dora. she has come to milan, and is with your wife? am i not right?" "no, dominique. no, my dear dominique. i wish she were." "then, the girl is dead?" cried lavirotte. "my dora is dead! tell me so at once, and put me out of pain, eugene!" "i had a telegram, dominique." "yes, yes. i know. you need say no more," said the frenchman, as he threw himself on a chair. "i am accursed! poor girl! poor child!" he covered his face with his hands and sobbed. eugene put his hand softly on the shoulder of his friend as a token of his sympathy, and then stole quietly out through the window into the little garden behind the house. he thought he would leave lavirotte alone in the first burst of his grief. in a few minutes o'donnell came back to the room and found it empty. he consulted for a short time with his wife, and they came to the conclusion that it was better not to follow lavirotte, but to leave him in solitude and grief. the afternoon passed away, and it was late in the evening before they decided that eugene should look him up at his lodgings. here again the irishman drew a blank. the signor had left that day for his country, for england, and would be away for example, a day for every finger--one, two, three, four, five. the signor had not said why he was going. he had taken nothing whatever with him but his purse, out of which he had given her, the landlady, before the signor went away, this gold piece, which was over and above the money due to her. he seemed in great grief and spoke to himself, not in italian, and it seemed to her, who now spoke english somewhat, not in english. it may have been french. it seemed as though he cursed and threatened, for he ground his teeth and shook his fists, thus, and thus, and again in this manner, the last greatly terrifying her, the landlady. and she left the room, fearing he might, without reason, take vengeance on her, who had done nothing. for he seemed as one distraught, as one mad, who might easily strike one who had done no harm. ah! was it so? his sweetheart dead! in that far-away country! then, perhaps, when he recovered from this he would marry luigia, who had the most wonderful hair in the world, and was so fair, as to seem as though she had come from the place where his, signor o'donnell's, wife had come from. luigia was a good girl, and not like others, and if the signor did marry her, she would make him a good wife; for having been poor she would know the value of his money. but the poor signor who had gone away that day was in no humour to think of marriage now. only of death and the grave. did signor o'donnell know of the sweetheart of the other? yes. and she was also fair, like the signora and luigia? no; dark. ah, how strange. how incomprehensible. here in this country they were nearly all dark, and when a fair woman came among them, no dark woman had a chance against her. but if what people said was true, there were the dark and the fair in the place from which the signora came, and a man could choose, after his liking, the dark or the fair. yet the poor signor, who had lost his sweetheart, had chosen, in his own country, a dark woman for a sweetheart, and here, for a sweetheart, a fair woman. he was fickle in love. had signor o'donnell noticed that luigia had a strong resemblance to the signora? luigia was a good girl. god keep her from harm. eugene came back and told nellie that lavirotte had suddenly left for london, without, as far as he knew, saying a word to anyone. according to what his landlady had said, lavirotte must have gone straight home, and gone from his lodgings to the railway station. what an odd fellow he was, not to say a word, not to take a portmanteau or even hand-bag with him, but dash off across europe just as they had seen him last. "you know, nellie," said eugene, putting his arm round his wife's waist, "i often told you i thought there was a screw loose in lavirotte, and every day that goes over confirms me more and more in this belief. it is a curious fact that some great-great-grandfather or other had a mania for mania, and wrote a book about something or other connected with the mind. of late lavirotte has said a lot to me about the injudiciousness of trusting to a voice for a living. he has told me, what is quite true, that until a voice has been tested on the stage and in front of an audience, no one can tell what it is going to be. it is just like an unacted play. it may be worth five pounds a week, or it may be worth five hundred. then he has said to me that he thinks his natural bent was towards medicine, and only that he had given up so much time now to the cultivation of his voice, he would certainly, if he had the money, become a doctor. "eugene," said nellie, "you have told me something of this before. all this talk about the impossibility of deciding the value of a voice until it is tested in front of an audience, seems to me to have a good deal to do with the fact that people, both here and in england, say your voice is better than his. whatever may be on the surface of his talk about his voice, i am sure at the bottom of it there is jealousy of yours." "nonsense, nellie!" cried eugene, good-naturedly. "you know what you are saying is absurd. such jealousy as you speak of is a lost art. as uncle toby said to the fly, lavirotte might say to me: 'go, go, poor devil! get thee gone--why should i hurt thee? this world is surely wide enough to hold both thee and me.' how could two men of second or third-rate voices, such as we have, even clash. there are hundreds of towns which want third-class tenors, and once we have taken to the boards there is no more likelihood of our meeting and clashing than of two twenty-fifth-rate comets meeting in space." "he is jealous by nature, eugene; and he is jealous of you." "if he is jealous of me, darling, it must be in regard to you." he pressed her to him, and kissed her forehead as he spoke. "you may put it what way you will, eugene, but you are a truer friend to him than he is to you." "god bless my soul!" cried her husband, "how _can_ you say so? did he not nearly lose his life in trying to get that treasure, with a view to saving our house?" "i suppose _i_ must believe that he believed he would get that money, and so be able to do you a service, but i do not know anything harder to credit." "why, he not only nearly lost his life, but he certainly injured his health in some way in that unfortunate undertaking at st. prisca's tower. the day he got the letter from me about the money for the last call, he fell asleep or fainted in a chair at his lodgings, and he tells me that ever since, his chest now and then feels strange." "according to what your father told us afterwards, it is very wonderful that neither of these men should have known anything about the law. for my part, eugene, i believe poor old mr. crawford was a sincere, half-witted man, and that lavirotte seemed to adopt the delusion of the old man in order that he might pose as your patron or benefactor, to balance the injury he had done you that dreadful night at the cove." "nonsense!" cried her husband. "men do not carry farces so far as to injure their health permanently." "if you were to talk till morning," said she, decisively, "you could not convince me he is not jealous." "of my voice?" "i don't say of that only." "of you?" "i don't say that either." "in the name of heaven, then, what is he jealous of? of baby?" laughed the husband. "do you think he is jealous of our having little mark?" at that moment the door opened, and a young italian girl entered, carrying the baby. "you needn't be so absurd, eugene," said the young mother, fondly taking her infant from the girl. "and yet," she added, kissing the child, "anyone might well be jealous of us about you, darling." "nellie, dear, you have capped the climax of absurdity." chapter xiv. before leaving milan, lavirotte had telegraphed to london, saying he would be over for the funeral. when he got to london he drove straight to charterhouse square. the landlady thought he looked wild, and two or three other sympathetic people who lived in the house said he ought to be looked after. but his words were sane, and he made only one request, which, under the circumstances, was reasonable--namely, that he might be allowed some time in the room alone with her. he went into that silent room where the dead girl lay, and closed the door softly behind him. it was broad daylight, and although charterhouse square is, at the busiest time of the day, comparatively quiet for a place in the city, he could hear the great muffled rumble of traffic that overhung the whole place, like a cloud that lay around on all sides, like a soft cushion against which silence beat. he drew down the lid and looked at the dead, the lovely dead. so like, and so absolutely unlike. all was here, and yet nothing. here was a mask, the pallid mask of his dearest love, his sweetest girl. here was the sleeping form round which his arms had often clung lovingly, tenderly, hopefully, with joyous anticipation of long years full of happiness, spent by them together. now all the charm was gone; all the sacredness had departed. there was nothing more worthy of his regard in these still, silent features, than in the wooden box which was to be the mute and viewless partner of their decay. here was the hair with which he had so often played, the unwrinkled brow which he had so often, with supererogatory fingers, smoothed. the eyes were closed; there was no longer any light in them. the light had gone out for ever. there was here a cessation of light, such as had occurred in that vault when the lantern failed. in those veiled eyes lay the darkness of the tomb, as in that vault, veiled from the light of heaven, had lain the darkness of the nether deep. the lips were closed and bloodless and placid. those were the lips that he had loved to kiss, that he had hoped to think were his for ever. the sculptor would have seen little change, the painter much, the poet more, the lover all. nothing was that had been. what had happened to the trustful spirit, quiet laughter, the quick irritability to smiles, the joyous movements of approach, when he was there, the sweet confidence, the gentle voice, the hand that came forth, anxious to be clasped, the yielding form? all, all the qualities, which had in time to him stood as divine expression of a beautiful decree, had passed into nothingness, had left no more behind than the wind leaves on the rock. all that was sweet and pure, guileless and joyous, vital and fresh, had gone away for ever, and left nothing. why should he call this dora? it could not hear him. it could not answer him. he might as well throw up his arms and plead his piteous grief into the vacant air. dora was dead, and this thing here was no more than the mask of dora. only the mask of dora, and yet a mask which he could not preserve. to-morrow they would take this coffin away and put it somewhere or other, he knew not, he cared not where. there would be a ceremony, at which people would look solemn, out of a general sense of fitness, rather than because of individual grief. they would lower that coffin down nine feet or so into the solid earth, and cover it up, and then come away. and the men whose business it was to attend to the material portions of the burial would stop at the first public-house and have a drink, after they had buried his dora. buried his dora! no, they could not. they could never bury her. they might bury this thing here--this phantom--this mask--this statue. they might put this away for ever, and in the inviolate darkness of the tomb it might crumble away and be no more to the future than a few old bones of an unknown woman. but for him they could never bury dora. they could never bury his darling dora! what! could it be that these pallid lips now lying smooth and close together had moulded his name, had whispered into his ear, had taken his kisses as the rich guerdon offered there for admission to the citadel of her heart, as the supreme offer of a subdued nature at the final barrier of an opulent town? those the lips, those the material lips, those the substantial lips which his lips had touched, and which, with such excellent flattery to his love, allowed themselves to be touched by his, not shrinking from his, not even seeming to shrink from his, but even slowly and modestly advancing to his with the whole head, the whole neck, the whole form---- were they now going to bury these lips, this head, this neck, this form? darling, where are you? i am here. is there any place but here, where you may be? you have left something behind you as you went away. they have put it in a coffin. it is no good to me. why did it not go with you? why am i here? where am i? who am i that am here? i am not he that loved you once any more than this here is what i once loved. i shall wait until i go away before i love again. and when i have gone away as you have gone away i will love only you. and here upon the lips that are not yours, but which are the likest yours i ever saw, i swear this oath. so help me, god. when he left that room, when he had taken farewell of his dead sweetheart, he left the house, saying no more words than were absolutely necessary to the occasion. the funeral was to be the next morning. he said he would be there in time, but gave no other indication of his future actions. out of charterhouse square, he struck in a southerly direction until he reached porter street. into this he turned, and, walking rapidly, did not pause until he came to st. prisca's tower, the new door of which he opened. he entered the tower. little had as yet been done to the interior since last he saw it. above him yawned the vacant space which had formerly been cut in two by the fallen loft. that loft, in its fall, had carried with it the ladder which had run round the walls, and it was no longer possible to gain the second loft by the old means. but an ordinary slater's ladder had been used by crawford and him of old, to descend into the pit, and this would be long enough, if placed upon a projecting mass of masonry on a level with the street, to reach the second loft. he had brought a candle with him, had lit it, and stuck it against the wall. the light from this was, however, feeble. it reached but a short distance into the pit below; but a short distance into the vault above. how was he to drag up this heavy ladder from its position against the wall, into which it had been thrust by the falling loft? he caught the sides of the ladder, and with all his force sought to move it. in vain. it would not stir. he tried again and again. it resisted him implacably. then he descended it, finding in so doing that a few of the rungs had been knocked out of it by the falling loft. when he got down he stood on some of the wreckage, caught a rung close to his feet with both his hands, and threw the whole force of his body into one fierce, upward strain. the ladder still remained immovable. he let go the rung, drew himself up, and leaned against the ladder, panting hard. "my strength is gone," he said. "my strength is buried in this accursed hole. may the place be for ever accursed! i must get help." he mounted the ladder, opened the door of the tower, and accosted two men who were leaning against the opposite wall. they were willing to help, and followed him into the tower. one of them caught hold of the ladder, and shook it easily in its place, drawing it upward a foot or so. "i could have done that once," thought lavirotte. "i shall be able to do anything like that no more." under lavirotte's instructions, the two porters placed the ladder in the position he desired. he paid them and they left. then he ascended the ladder, and, following the upward way of the remaining stairs, reached what had been formerly his room. he felt greatly fatigued. the long journey from milan, the anxiety of mind, the vigil by the side of the dead dora, had all, no doubt, he thought, been too much for him. he looked around. the humble furniture of the place was all covered thick with dust. with a brush he removed the accumulation of months from the couch, and lay down. yes, he was very tired, and there was that dull, dead pain in his side--in his chest, here. he wondered what it could be. in the old days he must have strained himself when working in this place. and yet he did not remember any particular strain. this pain might really be nothing more than the result of the overwork he endured here more than a year ago. this was the first time he had rested since he had last spoken to o'donnell. it was very pleasant to rest here, secure from the sound and bustle of this tumultuous city. but dora was resting even more quietly than he. there was no comparison between the blessed quiet of her beautiful young face and the harassed quiet he now endured. oh, god! what a pain! what was that? for a moment he thought it might be death. chapter xv. the pain in lavirotte's chest did not last long, but when it had passed away he felt weak and dispirited. a while ago he had thought how good it was to be here, remote from the bustle and noise of the town below. now he felt oppressed by the thought that he was feeble, had suffered from some acute and paralysing pain, and was practically out of the reach of human aid. this tower seemed indeed fated to take a prominent if not a final part in his career. he had, more than a year ago, narrowly escaped death in the vault beneath. was he now threatened with death in this loft above? for he felt spent and broken, and as though the effort of getting down once more would be more than he ever would accomplish. it was plain to him something serious was the matter with him. three or four times before this he had felt the same pain, followed by the same prostration of body and depression of mind. he had never consulted anyone about it. if it was serious, let it kill him. if it was not serious, why should he care? why should he care about anything now? dora was dead and his life was in ashes. true, he had not been as faithful to dora as he might have been, but then who was perfect? and he had meant to marry dora; and he would have married dora only that dora had died. he was too weary to take off his clothes. it was better for him to lie thus than to run the risk of again experiencing that terrible pain. the lassitude now was tolerable, and gradually the despondency was lifting. he would sleep, and upon waking should be refreshed. when it was day, no doubt he would wake, or a little after day. there was no great hurry. they were not going to bury dora until noon; and he had come a long way, was overwrought, ill, and might indulge himself in a long, peaceful rest. it was the beginning of autumn, and he did not need, while sleeping, much, if any more covering. there was a rug on a chair hard by. he would just take off his boots, draw that rug over him, and go to sleep. lavirotte rose carefully from the couch, took off his boots, stretched out his arm, and seized the rug, shook the dust out of it, and drawing it up under his chin, sank back again upon the couch and was soon asleep. for a while he slept so soundly, so softly, one might have supposed he was dead. he did not move a muscle, and his breathing was so quiet it could not be heard by anyone standing near. the hours went by, and still he slept calmly, dreamlessly. towards dawn he turned slightly on his left side, and then, as though by magic, the vacant spaces of unconscious sleep became filled with images, at first confused and incoherent, with no more rational dependence upon one another than the inarticulate sounds produced by a deaf mute and organised arbitrary speech. first he was conscious of great peril, which threatened him, he knew not from where. it was an old enemy, someone he had once wronged, someone who had promised him forgiveness, and now withdrew that promise. was it a man or a nation, or some great law of nature, or some element of the supernatural that he had once outraged and that now threatened him, that now assailed him with fears, choked full of horror? choked--choked--choked full of horrors. no, not choked full of horrors. full of choking horrors. full of deprivation of breath. full of rigidity of lung. full of the smell of stifling brass and unutterable pains of sulphureous obstruction. this was better. this was an open prairie, and he, weary-limbed and sodden with fatigue, having accomplished innumerable miles of travel, had innumerable miles of travel still to accomplish through the rank, tall, tangled grass that pressed against his steps, up to his knees, and held back his feet as a shallow rapid might hold back the feet of one standing in it. overhead the sky was blue and pitiless; without a cloud, without the faintest promise of rain, which would refresh and cheer him. the grass at his feet was too bright for wholesomeness and hurt his eyes, as the sun above his head was too bright for wholesomeness and hurt his head, his neck, his back, seemed to parch and dry up the very essence of his spirits. it would be better if he could lie down; for, although the grass was too green with light, it was softer than this toil forward, and it would soothe the fiery heat of his muscles to stretch in delicious ease, even under that fierce sun. but he was powerless to do his will. he was powerless even to bend his back; he was powerless to bend to one side or the other. in no way could he alter the strain on the muscles of his legs. they burned him as though they were of red-hot steel; and yet onward and onward he must go, supported and projected by them. it was not now leagues that threatened him ahead, but infinity. for eternity he was destined to plod on over this fiercely hot, breathless plain, with the current of those tangled grasses always against his feet, on his head the furious heat of the sun, and in the muscles of his legs the fire of hell. hell! ah, yes! now he knew all. this was his punishment for what he had done. but what had he done? there was the bitterness of this great punishment. he did not know. but it was something so terrible that the angels above durst not breathe it lest they might pollute heaven, nor the demons in hell utter even its name, lest the plutonian fires might be raised to rages such as the damned had never known. what was this after all? a change in the aspect of affairs which a while ago had seemed immutable, eternal. no longer was the plain a solitude, yet still no human figure but his own was in view. yet he heard a sound behind him, and, turning, saw, a tall, lean, hungry-looking dog behind him. any companionship seemed better than the solitude of the green plain, the empty sky, and the pitiless sun. the dog was coming after him faster than he was walking. the dog would overtake him in time. no doubt the brute felt the loneliness as he did, and yearned for companionship of any kind. what was this? all at once the resistance to the progress of his feet seemed to have broken down. all at once the fiery agony had left his muscles. all at once the hurtful brightness of the green had deserted the grass. all at once the mad fervour had been withdrawn from the rays of the sun, and in its place had come a jocund, sprightly warmth, which surrounded the body like a soothing vapour, and drew upwards from the grasses healing balms. the solitude of the prairie was broken by the presence of the dog. the impediment in his progress had been laid. the fever had departed from his body, and he felt refreshed, invigorated. now he cared not how far he had to journey forward. he had the companionship of the dog, the vigour of youth, a soft and level way, and the freshness of an early summer morning around him. out of a life of hideous and useless labour he had been lifted into a life of vernal joyousness. he did not care now whether the toil of his march should finish with the day. in so far as he was, he was absolutely happy, and when the dog overtook him, and he could speak to and fondle it, he should desire no more. he looked over his shoulder. the dog was still a long way in the rear, but seemed to be overhauling him foot by foot. he called to the brute. it did not bark or look up. it seemed to take no notice of his voice, but kept on slowly, now diverging a little to one side, now to the other, but mainly keeping in a right line with him. what was there about this dog which seemed, now that it was closer, disconcerting? the brute came forward, hanging its head low, and as he swayed out of the right line of approach he snapped as though flies were attacking him, although no flies were on the plain. then there was something wrong about his eyes and mouth. although lavirotte called him he did not look up, and the jaws of his mouth were not closed, and the teeth of his mouth were visible, and in the angles of the jaws there was foam. the brute was now within fifty yards of him, and just at the moment when lavirotte's uneasiness at the unusual appearance of the dog had gained its height, something strange happened to the ground upon which lavirotte was walking. it grew soft, spongy, lutulent. his feet, which a few moments before had been full of springy vigour, were now clogged with the heavy mud into which, as he went onward, he at every step sank more and more, until at last he found he could make no further progress and was held immovably fixed. moment by moment he sank deeper. the mud now reached his knees, his hips, his waist, his ribs. only his head and shoulders rose above this devouring quicksand. then, as he believed all was lost, and when the mud had reached his arm-pits, the dog overtook him, and moving slowly, stood in front of him. with a wild shriek lavirotte thrust forth his arms and seized the huge ears of the bloodhound, crying: "he is mad! the dog is mad! i know it. we have always known this kind of thing, we lavirottes." the dog snapped at both his arms. with superhuman efforts, lavirotte avoided the fangs. all at once, with a wild growl and incredible strength, the bloodhound thrust his head forward and drove his long yellow fangs into lavirotte's chin. the eyes of the man and the eyes of the beast were now fixed on one another, and the eyes of the man saw that the eyes of the beast were those of eugene o'donnell. with a scream lavirotte started to his feet--awake. this was the morning of dora's funeral. chapter xvi. when lavirotte got to charterhouse square there was little time to lose. already the hearse and two mourning coaches were there. to himself he seemed not more than half awake. he went about the place like a man in a dream. he saw certain things occur, and he knew they were incidental to a funeral, but he made no connection between them and dora, between them and his own heart. he was a shadow attending the obsequies of a wraith. he was now connected with nothing material, and nothing connected with matter was now going forth. there was in his mind a formula which he adopted from others--namely, dora harrington was about to be buried, but this had no relation to his past, his present, or his future. the events of all that day were to him, afterwards, no more than a half-forgotten dream. he was conscious of having felt weary, tired, worn out. he was conscious of being in a kind of vicarious way, on his own behalf, present at a gloomy ceremonial. he was conscious that sadness was the leading characteristic of that ceremonial, and he was conscious of little else. when all was over he remembered getting back to the tower, clambering up with difficulty, mounting into the loft which had been his sleeping room, taking off his clothes (the first time for days), and lying down in an unmade bed. he remembered the sense of peace and quiet which had come over him in that bed, and the gradual approach of sleep, until at last all was blank. and then he remembered nothing until he saw the early light of the next day. he lay a long time looking at the light as it slowly descended on the wall. his mind became a sluggish whirlpool of memory. he could now see clearly all the events which had marked recent years. it may be said his life had not begun until he had met dora harrington in london; and from that point downward, to the hurry and whirl and abysm of to-day, he saw everything clearly, sharply. "i meant to be faithful to her," he thought. "i swore it, and i meant it, my dear, dead dora. what first made me miss a letter to you? let me see. ah, yes! i remember. i was to have written from glengowra on saturday, and on friday eugene o'donnell asked me to go for a long walk with him next day. we went inland, towards the mountains, and in the mountains we lost ourselves and did not get home until midnight, when it was too late to keep my promise to you, my darling. "that was the first letter i ever missed. ah, how many have i missed since? "then what happened? she who is now o'donnell's wife came between me and dora. her beauty carried me away. i was infatuated, fascinated, mad, and i forgot my dear girl for an empty dream; an idle, empty dream that no sane man would have heeded for a moment. then came eugene; and she who could not love me could love him, and i felt that i had lost both. this made me worse. i lost all command of reason, and tried to kill him. "then came that time at glengowra when we were both lying hurt, and the old man, her grandfather, came and induced me to take an interest in that phantom treasure; and all at once it occurred to me that if this treasure were found, i could be of the greatest service to the o'donnells, whom i had so deeply injured. "i came to london, to this very place, with the sole object of getting money to relieve the o'donnells. all was now right with dora. we were on as affectionate terms as ever we had been. but as time went on, and the days between the o'donnells and ruin became fewer, i gradually became more deeply absorbed in the work here, i gradually visited dora less frequently. i almost deserted her, for a second time, and although no estrangement ever arose between her and me, i felt guilty towards her. but i was carried away headlong by my passionate desire to rescue the o'donnells. "often as i worked, i knew i was overstraining my constitution; and when the supreme moment arrived, the urgent letter from eugene, and the absolute necessity for immediate success or failure, i broke down in my lodgings and returned here, only to find that i had been wasting my time and risking my life in a wild-goose chase. "then came the climax, and the narrow escape from sudden death. "all this seems strangely mixed up with the o'donnells--all my misfortune! then i go away; i go south with the o'donnells. i go south to study for the career which would enable me to marry dora, and i go south with the o'donnells. it appears i was fated never to be free from their presence, from their influence, once i met them, and that the presence and the influence were to have disastrous effects on my life. "i am awhile in milan when i meet luigia, who is light-haired, and red-cheeked, and blue-eyed, and tall and slender and lithe, like the other, who is now his wife. and first, out of a mere surprise, and a desire to know how far this likeness went, i took an interest in the child; an interest, a perfectly innocent interest, i swear to heaven. "i found her like the other in many ways--in gait, in carriage, in the bright liveliness of her expression, in the clear simplicity of her nature, in the straightforward unsuspiciousness of her regard. "at first i had merely stopped and spoken to the girl, and bought the flowers she had to sell. then i began a little chat now and then, until at last we met alone. but still there was nothing but a kind of bohemian friendship between us. i never said any words of love to her beyond the endearing words of her country, which have no meaning of love. still, in some way, the memory of that old infatuation i had for her who is now his wife came back upon me, and dulled the thought of dora; until at last, i do not know how, owing to some queer twist or turn of the brain, i seemed to think dora would not miss my letters, and that it was only a kind of puerile foolishness to write. and so my letters dropped. and so my girl, my dora, my darling, died. "here again is the inextricable thread, held by the o'donnells, bound up in my fate. there must be something in it. all this cannot be for nothing. i think it would be wisest for me to sever this connection with the o'donnells for ever. so far it has brought no good to either side. "for a long time i have been thinking of giving up all idea of singing in public, and turning to medicine. medicine is a fascinating study, and i'm sure i have a speciality that way. it runs in my blood; i was born with it. my celebrated ancestor, louis anne lavirotte, born at nolay, in the diocese of autun, founded what i may call our house, in so far as it has been distinguished by familiarity with great cerebral questions. it is true that none of his immediate relatives has proved as great as he, but still several have devoted themselves to medicine, and several have made a mark in mental pathology. his 'observations on symptoms of hydrophobia, following the mania,' may not be the greatest work of the kind, but it deserves a prominent place on the shelves of anyone investigating this mysterious form of disease, which has baffled man from the earliest records down to now. "i think i am myself peculiarly qualified to take up inquiry into particular forms of mental callousness or intensity, for i have what i believe to be a peculiar faculty of thrusting forth a portion of my mind into certain and limited psychological regions, into which i can find no one able to follow me. "i have often thought that in these moments of uncontrollable, mental crassness, i am suffering from merely an undue prolongation of a portion of my mind into unfamiliar regions, where it is surrounded by isolated and combined images, invisible to others, and to me at normal times, and then and there illumined by lights and affected by considerations which have no place in my own normal state, or in the regard of others. "the question of the difference between mind and mind, between the sane and the insane, the man with a fad and the man with a delusion, the man with a hallucination and the idiot, admits of such subtleties of thought and delicacies of definition, that i know of nothing more fascinating to the psychologist. "the study of the sane mind is in itself an unexplored continent, of which only the coast line is known. but when we reach the region of insanity, we are on the confines of an unexplored universe, from which, as yet, no light has reached us but nebulous blurs of doubt. "ay, upon the whole, i think it would be better to abandon all thought of the glitter and glory of the stage, which is but the glitter and glory compassable within four walls built by human hands. whereas, the glories of research in mental pathology are as infinite as the flight of thought itself, as incompassable as the fields of reason. "i'll do it. i am yet young enough, and now there is no hurry; no hurry, for she is dead. i have my life now before me. it is, after all, a paltry thing for a man to devote all the years of his manhood to posturing on a stage, and uttering notes which, once uttered, will be lost for ever. the voice of the poet is immortal. the voice of the singer dies with the breath that leaves him. the fame of one is momently recreated; the fame of the other momently dies for eternity. what man of ambition would pause to choose between the two? i will not. i will not abandon the substance for the shadow, the actual for the dream. my resolve is taken, and i will abide by it, come what may." lavirotte rose and went out. he had no fixed purpose as to what he should do with himself that day. he had no address in london. he had said nothing to o'donnell about leaving. when he found himself in the busy streets he felt lonely, desolate, derelict. there was not now even the dead to visit and despair over. no one in the world now had any interest in him. he was as much alone as any man ever on desert island. no point of contact connected him with the world around him, with the world abroad. he had told his landlady at milan that he was coming to london. that was all. no one else knew from him whither he had fled. she would not think of him. and yet it would be a ray in the dark vault of his solitude if one soul should think of him, and address him by name, followed by the most commonplace of words. it would be like touching the hand of a friend if his milanese landlady had written him a letter. he turned his steps towards the post office. he entered the place for strangers' letters. he advanced towards the counter. then, with a sardonic smile, he remembered that his milanese landlady was illiterate. never mind. she might have got someone to write for her. he asked if there were any letters for him. he was handed one. ah, she had. no, this was from o'donnell. chapter xvii. "my dear lavirotte, "i cannot tell you how deeply grieved we both were to hear the occasion of your flight from milan. your landlady, maria, told me the sad news. i was, indeed, greatly shocked and grieved to hear it. we can easily understand how it was, in the first terrible moment of your affliction, you should not care to come near even us. but i cannot help wishing that by some accident or another it had so chanced i left milan by the train that took you away, though i might not be allowed to intrude upon you in the journey. "my dear lavirotte, i know as well as anyone that under occasions of this kind words of consolation are generally outrages. my whole object in writing this letter is simply to say how sorry i am that i am not with you, and how sorry we both are for the cause which took you away. "i am _sure_ the best thing you can do, under the circumstances, is to come back here as quickly as ever you can. do not lose a moment. i am altogether thinking of you, and not of the desire either of us has to see you. to show you i am in earnest in this, if you tell me you will come, i will promise never to go near you until you give me leave. it is the commonest of commonplaces, but it is one of the truest, that hard work is the best way of occupying time, when time is bitter or heavy. my dear lavirotte, come back and plunge headlong into work. we will not trouble you. when you wish to see us you know where to find us. i will not now say any more, except what you well know already, that our hearts are, and always will be, with you. "yours as ever, "eugene o'donnell." when lavirotte finished reading this letter he fell into a long reverie. with head depressed and slow steps, he passed down cheapside, newgate street, and over the viaduct. a couple of hours ago it seemed to him his mind was made up beyond the possibility of change. and now he was not thinking of change. he was not thinking at all, but allowing to drift slowly across his imagination a long panorama of that future which he had resolved to abandon. he saw once more the life at milan, the life he had been leading, the life eugene would continue to lead for a while longer. he saw the moment when eugene would finally take leave of that city and come northward, perfected in his art. he saw eugene's arrival in london, with such good words for heralds as made him sought after in his profession. he saw obsequious managers with eugene, flattering him, coaxing him, pressing him to accept splendid engagements. he saw the admiring faces at the private trial of eugene's voice. he saw the smiles of delight, the hands that applauded. he saw the flush of triumph upon eugene's face, eugene's bows of acknowledgment. and behind all, he saw nellie. he saw her radiant, transfigured, divine, sitting apart, isolated from all by the exquisite delicacy of her beauty, the exquisite delicacy of her love, the exquisite delicacy of her spirit. he saw the glance that shot from eugene's faithful eyes to hers. he saw that in that room, that hall, the only thought between these two people was the thought of their love, the high and holy love of perfect faith, in which there is no more room for desire in the heart, in which the two spirits are not one in essence, but one in form, wherein neither exists apart, and each is complementary to the other. he saw these two married lovers had no need for words. they were with each other. that was enough. each of them knew what this meant, how much it meant, down to the utmost limit of their joint happiness. ah, what happiness was this! what joy, what unutterable rapture! to love thus wholly and without guile and without thought, without even consciousness of loving. what could be more! what could be more than this rich completion of spirit! what were all the gross, material ambitions of the world compared to such love as this! this was not the love of line and colour, the love of form and voice, the love of youth and sprightliness, the love of device or trick. time would be powerless against this. the line and colour, the form and voice had been to this but the prelude to the imperial theme. these two spirits were now commingling to the perfect tones of the most glorious anthem, chanted by the angels for the accord of man on earth. he saw the crowded theatre, the blaze of light, the circles of wealth, and youth, and beauty, and fashion, of title and distinction, hushed for the great moment. he heard the orchestra pick up a thread of silver melody. he listened as the orchestra seemed, in carelessness, to lose that hint of melody. he heard that hint again, from a single string, and then to a note of sonorous undertone, he saw the great tenor step forth. he heard that voice begin farther away than the most delicate breathing of the instruments below, like a murmur coming from mid-air, under the stars. the sound descended, broadening and mellowing as it came, until it touched the earth in notes of resonant manhood, and then burst forth, complaining loud. complaining of love denied, of true love lost for ever. he heard the song go on to the melodious climax of its final woe, and then he heard a mighty crash like the sound of an avalanche shot from a giddy, frozen cliff down a precipitous way to the valley below. he looked, he saw men on their feet cheering and clapping their hands, and women waving their handkerchiefs. women flung their bouquets, their bracelets, their rings upon the stage--these women drunk on a human voice. he heard the "bravos," the "encores," cried by thousands of throats, by those people who were at once the slaves and tyrants of eugene. then, again, he heard the orchestra pick up that silver thread of melody---- he threw up his head. where was this? had he got so far? and how had he wandered here? ah! lincoln's inn fields! the college of surgeons! surgery, pain, disease, death! what a contrast to that great vision he had just seen! good god, what a contrast! he turned hastily out of lincoln's inn fields. he could not endure the dingy, decayed look of that rusty old square. he had once been told that the area of this square corresponded with the area of the base of the great pyramid. surgeons and embalmers, the great pyramid and mummies, lincoln's inn fields and ghouls! these were ghastly subjects. he had never noticed before how stark and bleak and cold, how skeleton-like the houses in lincoln's inn fields were. it was a horrible place at this time of year, when the leaves were dropping, when the leaves already down had begun to rot. the youth and manhood of the year were gone. it was in the sere, the yellow leaf. no wholesomeness or joy could now be hoped for until the spring was rife once more. the earth had ceased to aspire to heaven, and all the glorious and beautiful efflorescence of earth towards the sun was falling back once more to the dun clay from which, by the aid of silver rains and violet and ruby dews, the sun of spring had stolen such verdant marvels. the dun clay, the dun earth, surgeons and mummies, pyramids and ghouls; ah, there was no cheerfulness, no wholesomeness in any of them! think of an english river with willows and swans, and the light of summer, and the blue sky, and the delicate, slender, upward-pointing reflections in the water, and the music of the bees, and the inextricably-mingled odour of innumerable flowers, and the songs of birds, surprising the mellow shades of inner woods. and then the beauty of woman, and the strength and glory of youth in man, and the triumph and glory of song in man, and then the voice of song that made the birds seem but the lifting of one leaf amid the tuneful murmurs of a mighty wood, and the voice of woman answering to love in the accents of the song---- surgeons and mummies, pyramids and ghouls. god made none of these for man. but all the others had the touch of his great handicraft, the imperial fashion of his august design, the tones of sound and colour, half hidden from the heedless, but revealed in their exquisite perfection to the poetic sense. surgeons and mummies, pyramids and ghouls. bah! overhead, what a gloomy sky! the sun was now shining on all the squares and streets of milan! chapter xviii. it was hard for lavirotte, after his life of aspiration after musical distinction, his devotion to the art, his study of it, his year at milan, to drop all this and take up a subject which, although it had, now and then, occurred to his mind as one likely to enthral him, had so little in consonance with that which he was about to lay down. it was hard for him, at one cast of the die, to turn his face away from all the bright, luxuriant pageantry that waits upon the gifted and cultivated human voice, and give his thoughts to bones, and the immediate clothing of bones; to disorders of the human frame, and the immediate occasion of these disorders; to the coarse familiarity of the dissecting-room, and the function of inquiry which must be attuned to callous sentiment. in the art of the singer, when the rudiments of his art are his, perception, sympathy, sentiment, exaltation of emotional ideas, are the basis upon which his success must rest. in the art of the doctor, rigid, frigid examination, and mathematical deductions must lead to the only results which he desires. lavirotte was torn anew with the conflict which years ago had raged within him. his resolution of that morning, although it then seemed firm as the solid earth on which he stood, now waved and swayed as though it were no more than an instable ship upon an unstable sea. eugene's letter had brought back to him vividly all his dreams of the past, and in that vision of eugene's future he had done little more than reproduce the dreams in which he had himself indulged as to his own career. his heart, as far as love was concerned, lay in the tomb, and to judge by his present frame of mind, there was no likelihood the sight of woman would ever again move him as it had when dora was the guiding star of his existence. yet he knew that with time the acuteness of his present suffering would pass away. he felt at that moment it would be cruel that his woe should leave him. but his reason told him it would. he knew that as years went by these love troubles of man's early life grew less and less until they seemed insignificant, paltry, ludicrous. but in this, the very height of his affliction, the notion his sorrow might die was an additional cause of torture to him. he knew that in his present state of mind the future was sure to display a gloomy and forbidding aspect. he knew that people, in the presence of great personal grief, were usually indifferent to any considerations but those of their grief. he knew that when a man loses all his fortune, it is no great additional blow to that man to hear that a horse of his is killed. he was quite prepared that the whirligig of time would, to some extent, set him right in the main affairs of life. but now he was in no humour to discount his present situation. his woe seemed to soothe him. it was the only consolation he had. still he could not banish from his mind the influence of that glorified vision. he could not get out of his mind the fact that some day, soon, the voice of eugene o'donnell would burst upon english ears and take them captive. to be a great tenor was one of the most glorious privileges given to man during his lifetime. the general, the statesman, the painter, had all during their lifetime periods of great triumph. there was no period when, like the statesman, he was out of power; when, like the general, his sword was sheathed in the days of peace; or when, like the painter, he was busy at his easel at the work which, when completed, would bring him applause. every time a popular tenor sang, the public testified to the utmost their enjoyment and appreciation. the tenor was not bound to any land. he needed no majority, no army, no colour-box. he was the only man who could make a fortune with absolutely no stock-in-trade except what nature and art had given him. he was equally effective by the tiber or the neva, in buda-pesth or chicago. climates or tongues had no power of limiting him. english, italian, french, german, it did not matter what his nationality, or what his language, he appealed to all hearts, to all peoples. in the face of this universality of tenors in power, what a limited hole-and-corner thing the art of medicine seemed. it was all locked up in crooked words, in dreary books. its terminology was supplied by the inarticulated bones of dead languages. the greatest glory it afforded was an article in a learned magazine, a reference to one's labour by some distinguished fellow-worker. how had he ever come to think of this as a career? it was no livelier than living in a vault, spending one's life in a charnel-house. bah! he would get away from this gloomy climate, and this still more gloomy idea of medicine. he would change his mind again. a man had a perfect right to change his mind. he would go south once more, to the land of colour and song, and devote himself anew to the glorious art he had long ago selected. he would be a singer--a tenor, a glorious tenor, an unrivalled tenor. he would be a head and shoulders taller than any of the pigmy tenors now on the boards. he would be town talk, world talk. he would be a second and a greater mario. everything was in his favour. he had a fine voice, fine manner, good stage presence, and he felt sure he could act. he would be greater than eugene. he had more go and dash about him than eugene, and there was not much to choose between their voices. some people said eugene's voice was more sympathetic and tender than his, and that he never could approach the irishman in _cantabile_ singing. but, after all, who cared much about _cantabile_ singing? what people liked most was to hear the whole organ, the full chest; and in the higher register of the chest he could walk away from eugene. he would not deny to himself that the quality of eugene's voice was superior. it might be eugene would never fail to melt his audience, but he, lavirotte, could rouse them, and in martial music would make eugene seem a tame and somewhat faded hero. what was this? here was o'donnell once more occupying all his thoughts, absorbing all his attention! it was only that morning he had fully considered his relation with the o'donnells, and traced their hand in every misfortune which had befallen him of late. taken in this regard, it seemed as though eugene was going to dominate the future. one of his reasons for thinking of taking up mental pathology as a career, was in order that he might escape from the circle in which eugene moved. if he had really adopted that gloomy art as a profession, and if, when he was finally committed to it and could not think of going back to singing, eugene made a great reputation on the boards, how should he feel? there was no doubt whatever he should feel extraordinarily jealous. there is no doubt whatever he could not endure to see eugene's triumphs. he could not go near the theatre, he could not read the reports in the newspaper, he could not hear with patience those praises of eugene. it would have been a fatal mistake for him to take to medicine and give up his present profession. it would have embittered all his life and made him feel an undying enmity towards eugene. yes, it would be much better for him to go on and qualify himself for opera, and spend the remainder of his life in friendly rivalry with eugene, rather than breed hatred of his friend by abandoning his beloved career. where was he now! ay, this was covent garden. this was to be the scene of his future triumphs. he and eugene were to be the leading tenors. they were to sing alternately, and public favour was to be slightly on the side of him, lavirotte. just slightly in his favour. enough to gratify him without hurting eugene. he would not like to hurt eugene. he would let no man hurt him. but he himself had little desire to play second fiddle. on the lyric stage he should be first, and eugene second. he did not want more money than his friend. they should each have a hundred a night, say, and he a little more popularity, a little more fame. he would not stop in this dingy, murky climate any longer. he would start at once for italy. he would be in milan before the end of the week. he would embrace his old friend eugene, take up his old studies, and fall once more into his old ways. lavirotte hailed a cab and drove back to porter street. he had little or no preparations to make for his departure, and that evening he was on the way to italy. he lost no time in calling on his friends. he found eugene and nellie at home. he shook hands cordially with both, and said: "of course, eugene, the minute i got back i came to see you and your wife." "and the boy?" said mrs. o'donnell with a smile, as the door opened and the child was carried into the room by its little italian nurse. "and the boy," said lavirotte, echoing her words, and touching the plump cheek of the child with the forefinger of his right hand. chapter xix. it was decided in less than a year from the death of dora harrington, that the _scala_ had done all it could for lavirotte. eugene o'donnell was to tarry still a month or so, and lavirotte decided not to leave milan until his friend was ready to go. during these twelve months lavirotte had been studiously quiet. he had given all his attention to his business, and if there ever had been any weakness on his part towards luigia, the death of dora and his visit to london seemed to have put an end to it. daily he had seen the o'donnells. daily he had shaken the hands of eugene and nellie. daily he had seen their boy, and danced him in his arms, or played with him, or sung to him. he had said privately to eugene: "once upon a time, when i was mad, i was in love with your wife. now i think i am in love with your boy. you know i am the last living member of my race. i am still a young man, it is true, but i shall never marry. my heart is in the grave with dora. still i cannot help feeling that i should like to leave behind me someone with my name. it was never a great name, as you know; yet once upon a time a lavirotte did something, and if the blood were continued, it might do something again. but all is over now, and my race is at an end. all is over, and there will be no more of mine." to such speeches as these, o'donnell had replied jestingly, saying: "you will be a widower twice before you die. mind, i shall be godfather to your eldest boy." lavirotte would simply shake his head sadly, and say: "ay, you shall be godfather, if ever there is need of one." then he would shake his head again, and sigh, and change the subject of conversation, as though it were distasteful to him. so the time slipped away, until at last it was decided that eugene should leave. neither he nor lavirotte had by this time much money left, and each felt the necessity of procuring immediate employment. when they reached london they took lodgings in percy street, fitzroy square. it was pleasant to be back once more within the sound of the familiar tongue. italy, with its blue skies and melodious language, was a thing "to dream of, not to see." not as in the weird poem, a thing of terror, but a thing of joy in memory, rather than of joy in experience. for, frenchman though lavirotte was by descent and birth, he was now more familiar with the northern idiom, and all his thoughts were framed in that tongue. both to him and o'donnell it was a relief to cease translating. when they were at milan, no matter how familiar the idea which presented itself, it had to be shifted from the accustomed words into other words. now each could listen at leisure, and drink in meanings without effort, and communicate ideas with, as it were, the primitive effort of the mere tongue. here was luxurious ease compared to toilful effort. here was a privilege greater than all the consciousness of having overcome an unaccustomed dialect. to think as freely as one who thinks in dreams, and utter one's thoughts as unsuspiciously as the rudest peasant who has never contemplated the possibility of error in his speech, was a new luxury, an unexpected, a seemingly undeserved boon, presented every morning at waking, and not withdrawn when the curtains of the night were closed. it was pleasant to get back once more to the familiar living, the familiar cooking, even the familiar dulness of the atmosphere. the evenings were already getting short, and more than one fog had visited london that season. but although eugene and lavirotte found themselves once more in london, fully equipped for the ocean in which each meant to launch himself, to neither did it seem there was any immediate chance of employment; and, in fact, all arrangements had been made for the remainder of that season. each found it necessary to practise the strictest economy. lavirotte had still something left, and only that eugene's father was able to spare, out of the little which remained to him from the wreck of his fortune, something for his son, eugene, his wife and child might have known what absolute hunger was. eugene had two rooms, and lavirotte one. they did not live in the same house, but they met daily, lavirotte coming to eugene's place, and spending an hour or so in the evening with his friend. "i shall not be able to hold out," said lavirotte on one occasion, "more than a couple or three months, if something doesn't turn up." "i should not have been able to hold out so long," said eugene, "only that my father was able to lend me a hand." "it's weary work, waiting," said lavirotte. "but still, i do not despair." "not only do i not despair," said eugene, "but i mean to succeed. neither of us is a fool, and there are worse men, at our business, making a living in london. why should we starve?" these were gallant words, but facts were hard upon the two. lavirotte was the first to meet with a piece of luck. it was not much. in some remote kind of way, through cassidy's agency, he was asked to sing at a concert in islington, and got a guinea for the night. when the expenses of gloves and a cab were taken out of this guinea, very little remained as remuneration to the singer. but still it was better to do something than nothing, and lavirotte was a few shillings less poor by the transaction. although he had not even yet abandoned hope of getting a hundred pounds a night, he no longer thought it likely he would reach such an el dorado soon. he would have been very glad to take ten pounds a night; ay, to take ten pounds a week. he would have been glad to take a pound a night. eugene had told him that he, eugene, would be glad to sing for nothing if he could only get an "appearance." each assured the other that he was worth half-a-dozen of those in the ruck of singers. each told the other, with perfect candour, he estimated his friend's value at not a penny less than fifty pounds a week. and yet each would there and then have been glad to sign an agreement at five pounds a week. mr. john cassidy had no longer any great interest in either of the pair. there was no longer anything to be found out about them. cassidy was not, in grain, unprincipled or immoral. he did not love mischief for mischief sake. he was simply a feeble, crawling thing. he could not help crawling. but he felt very much pleased at being able to befriend lavirotte. he owed no grudge to either man. in fact, he felt a certain kind of gratitude to lavirotte for having once supplied him with a matter in which he took a deep interest. he was still employed at the railway; and the concert, in which lavirotte sang, was one got up with a view to supplying means of presenting a testimonial to a superannuated servant of the company. there was, of course, no chance of a similar engagement coming lavirotte's way. eugene was present that night, and heard his friend sing. in all likelihood there never yet was a tenor absolutely free from jealousy, and eugene felt he would like to be in lavirotte's shoes, and he was certain he could have done at least as well as his friend. nay, if the truth must be told, he was certain he could do better. lavirotte, on his side, was haunted by an uneasy feeling of the same kind. his success was undoubted; but he knew very well that it was acquired by what eugene would call noise. he got as much applause as the heart of man could desire. he got two "encores." he was congratulated by the secretary and treasurer to the fund, and at the supper which followed the concert, he sang the "bay of biscay" with tremendous power and effect. eugene was at that supper also, and in response to the chairman's invitation, an invitation suggested by lavirotte, he sang. eugene sang "my pretty jane;" and then, partly because eugene's tender rendering of the ballad came upon those present as a surprise, and partly because lavirotte's public performance had prepared them, and partly because lavirotte's singing was so ill-proportioned to the room in which the supper was given that it hurt, almost, they did not encore lavirotte, and they did encore eugene. and then eugene, with great discretion and modesty, sang no new song, but repeated the last stanza of "my pretty jane," and sang it gentler than he had at first, singing as though it were a thing of no matter, no effort, as though he could not keep the melody back, but must, in good-humoured ease, let it float from him as a man lets pleasant talk float from him when he is in a careless mood. then, when eugene was done there was no tumult of applause. there was just only a murmur, which showed that men's hearts, and not their admiration, were stirred. two men who were not near him came and shook hands with him silently. no one had shaken hands with lavirotte. that night, eugene o'donnell told his wife that his song at that supper had been more successful than lavirotte's. that night, lavirotte told his heart the same story. chapter xx. although the immediate result of lavirotte's first engagement in london was so modest, still he had gained a start, and that, in his profession, was a great deal. o'donnell was not impatient. his position was grave, even serious. but still he did not give way. like lavirotte, he had now abandoned all extravagant pretensions, and would have been very glad to take the most modest salary. neither he nor lavirotte would even yet accept any subsidiary part. either would have gladly gone to the provinces for six guineas a week, but neither would take second part. lavirotte was offered the leadership of the tenors in a chorus. this he flatly refused, and with heat. he came to eugene and told him what he had been offered, and eugene agreed with him in thinking there was more affront than flattery in the offer. "let them," cried eugene, indignantly, "keep their five guineas a week. i'd rather see you, dominique, back at the old work again than degrade yourself by accepting such a position." from time to time eugene received small sums from glengowra. lavirotte had no such resources, and one day he came in to eugene and said: "i am paying eight shillings a week for my room, and there's st. prisca's tower idle all this time. i am not, you know, as rich as rothschild, and what is the good of throwing away money! i'm going to live in the tower again." "for heaven's sake, don't do anything of the kind!" said eugene. "why not?" asked lavirotte. "because the place is haunted," said o'donnell, with a shudder. "you are not such a fool," said lavirotte, "as to believe anything so superstitious." "i don't mean what i say literally, but poor mr. crawford lost his life there. you were very near losing your life there, and upon the sad occasion of your last visit to london you put up there. to say the least of it, that tower must have a very gloomy aspect in your mind." "gloom or no gloom," said lavirotte bitterly, "eight shillings a week are eight shillings a week. besides," he added, changing his tone and adopting a lighter manner, "i know they don't care for my caterwauling in the house i'm living in now, and st. prisca's tower is a splendid place for practising in. you might shout your voice away there, and not a soul would hear you. eugene, you must come and practise with me there. i haven't got a piano, that's true, and the way up is a very rough-and-ready one. but anyway you'll know you're welcome, and we can puzzle along with a fork." he took the fork out of his waistcoat pocket, struck it, sang the note, and then took the octave above. "true, isn't it, eugene?" he cried, laughingly. "as the tone of the steel itself," cried eugene. "let us try the garden bit in unison. here's 'faust.'" "damn 'faust'!" said lavirotte. "come on, i'll set you going: "the bright stars fade, the morn is breaking, the dew-drops pearl each bud and leaf, when i of thee my leave am taking, with bliss too brief." "no," said eugene. "not that. i remember----" "and do you think i forget?" chapter xxi. this was the first note of discord which had been struck between the two since the memorable night of the encounter near the cove. it was struck deliberately by lavirotte; o'donnell could not guess why. "i will not sing," said eugene. "what is the matter with you, dominique? you seem to be in rather a brimstone humour to-day." "ah," said lavirotte, shaking his head grimly, "the treacle period has passed." "nonsense," said eugene, "a young man like you! you ought to be ashamed of yourself. a young man like you ought to be ashamed to give way to such gloomy fancies. look at me. i have not got even one chance yet, and i have a wife and child depending on me." "ay," said lavirotte, "a wife and a child! and i have no wife, no child. i have earned a guinea, it is true, and you have earned nothing, since we came to london. it doesn't make much difference whether i ever earn another sovereign or not. what have i to live for? what do a hundred days mean to me? in a hundred days, even if i go and live at the tower, i shall be penniless." "and i," said o'donnell, "long before a hundred days, shall be a pauper with my wife and child looking to me in vain for food. what would you do, dominique, if you found yourself without money, and a wife and child asking you for bread?" "cut my throat." "what? and leave them to starve?" "well, cut their throats, and hang for them." "men who talk about cutting their throats never do it." "i own i don't think it's worth doing in my case. when a man has no other way of making a stir in the world, he may get his name prominently before the public by committing a great crime against his neighbour, or a folly against himself. eugene, i candidly own to you i am no hero. i am, in fact, a bit of a coward, as you may know; for, once upon a time, i did an unpardonably cowardly thing by you." "hush, man!" cried eugene, "have we not agreed to banish that subject for ever?" "to banish it from our talk, ay. to banish it from our minds, never." "i swear to you i never think of it, and it is ungenerous of you to assume i ever think of it. let us get away from these subjects, which are even more gloomy than st. prisca's tower. life is too short, and the destroying influences of time too great, for such criminal amusements as you are giving way to, dominique. as sure as you go back to that hideous tower you will fall into a melancholy. my dear old friend, i can't afford to have you ill----" "my dear old friend, you must afford to have me die." "upon my word, dominique, you are intolerable. i will have no more of your nonsense. when a man is in such infamous humour as you are now, there is nothing so good for him as the sight of youth and beauty." eugene arose, opened the door, and called, "nellie, bring the boy. here is dominique in the blues." in a minute in came the young mother, carrying the boy in her arms. "dominique in the blues!" she cried, laughing and shaking her rich hair about her shoulders. "do you hear that?" she said to her child. "uncle dominique in a bad temper, mark. what do you think of that?" she said, as she handed the blue-eyed, curly-haired, sturdy child to the frenchman. "it is a bad example for a godfather to give his godson. what! in the blues, dominique! must i go back and tidy my hair? eugene, how could you be so inconsiderate? you forget that when a mother is engaged in minding a great big child like mark, she can't be as tidy as she would wish to be." the boy went freely to lavirotte, and put his arms round him and clung to him, and called him "dom," and told him his mother was very naughty since she would not give him sweeties. "eugene," said lavirotte, suddenly, "i once knew a man who had a child about the age of this boy in my arms, and he was playing with the child in a perfectly friendly way, as i am now playing with your boy, and owing, mind you, to mere awkwardness, he let the child's back--just here, the small of his back--somewhat rudely touch the edge of a table, and the child lost the use of his lower limbs, and in time, a hunch appeared upon his back. amiable as you are, eugene, i wonder what you would say to me if, by accident, i hurt your boy so?" "dominique," cried the mother, hastily snatching her child from his arms, "what do you mean? there is something queer about you. your eyes are too quiet for your words." lavirotte laughed. "my eyes are too quiet for my words," he said "there is a good deal in that, and my mind may be too quiet for my eyes or--the other way." again he laughed. "i cannot make you out to-day," said eugene. "nor can i," said mrs. o'donnell. "mark, what is the matter with godfather?" the child had but one thought. his godfather was ill. he stretched out his hands to go to him. lavirotte shook his head sadly, and said: "you are safer where you are." within a week lavirotte once more took up his residence in st. prisca's tower. for some days eugene thought that the change had been absolutely beneficial to his friend. lavirotte's spirits seemed more equable; he made no further allusion to the gloomy subjects which had, for some time previous, haunted him. he told eugene that he had no notion how much more comfortable it was to practise alone, and in the tower, than in the old percy street lodgings. "in the first place," he said, "there is one of the lofts with nothing on it, and you can hear much better in an empty room all that is undesirable. i do four to six hours a day. come and visit me in my new diggings. you must come. of course, it's out of the way. no one but carters and fish-salesmen ever trouble porter street. but all so much the better. you might shout loud enough to stop a clock, and not a soul would hear. come, you will come; you must come." "i can't, go very well," said eugene. "nellie is out, and has left me in charge of the boy." "let us take mark with us," said lavirotte. "we can get an omnibus at the end of the street. it will amuse the child. mark, wouldn't you like to come in an omnibus?" "yes," cried the boy. "there you are, eugene. just leave a line or word with the landlady, and let us take the boy with us. he will be no trouble, and it is sure to amuse him. an hour's practice with me will do you no harm, and you have never yet been in my tower." eugene was persuaded, and went. the inside of st. prisca's was in exactly the same condition as when lavirotte had last lived there. in order to get from the ground floor to the second loft it was still necessary to ascend by means of the slater's ladder. "i know the place better than you," said lavirotte. "i'll carry the child and lead the way." when he was about to step from the ladder to the floor of the second loft, he said, with a strange laugh: "it's upwards of thirty feet from this to the top of the vault below. an awkward fall that would be. it would be worse for mark than even striking his back against the edge of a table. eh, eugene?" "in heaven's name, dominique, what's the matter with you? this place must have an unwholesome influence on you." "doubtless it has," laughed lavirotte, "but we're up safe at last, mark." "yes, uncle dom," said the child. and that was his first experience of st. prisca's tower. chapter xxii. about this time lavirotte made the acquaintance of edward fraser, a composer of music. fraser took a great liking to the volatile frenchman. he had him at his house frequently, and introduced him to many professional musicians. "you know," said he to lavirotte, "i'd be delighted to do anything i could for you; but the fact is, all engagements are made, and beyond a few concerts i don't think i can help you much. you see, you want leading business, and that's not easy to be got, at the best of times. i don't exactly know what i'm going to do with my opera yet. but if i decide to produce it this season, i'll certainly give you the refusal of the tenor part." this was a great hope for lavirotte. he hastened with it to eugene. eugene shook his hand, and congratulated him upon even a remote chance of such good luck. "it's a long way off, you know, even if it ever comes to anything. i wish to goodness, eugene, you had something of the kind to look forward to." "i wish to goodness i had," said the other. "but one must learn to wait patiently. i suppose i shall get a turn sometime." "i wish there was room for two of us in the new opera," said lavirotte dubiously. "you see, eugene, as fraser said, it's not easy to pick up leading business, and of course, nothing else would suit you." o'donnell shook his head and laughed. "beggars can't be choosers," he said gaily. "we wanted a hundred a night, you know, before we started from milan; and now i'd be glad to go on at a pound a night. i would not then have thought of taking anything less than the first part. i would not now care to be tempted very much with an offer of a second part, supposing the part was any good. what is the second part in the new opera like?" "from what i heard of it," said lavirotte, "it's the very thing for you, if you would take it--in fact, they are two excellent parts. i heard two very taking solos and a lot of the concerted parts. if you would entertain the notion, i'd speak to fraser and introduce you. "to tell you the truth, dominique, i'd be glad to get anything to do now. it's disgraceful that a fellow of my years should be taking money out of my father's very narrow means. "i'd be glad to earn four or five pounds a week anyway now. i suppose fraser would give as much as that." "i'm sure he would," said lavirotte. "more, i think. i have a notion he'd give his leading man ten pounds a week, and his second, six." "well, if you could get me six, dominique, i'd be delighted to take it." "i'll go back to him at once," said the frenchman. "i won't lose a moment, eugene. come, put on your hat. we may as well go together. chances like this don't grow on the hedge bushes. between you and me, i think fraser would hurry his share of the work if he were satisfied of being able to get good voices at this awkward time of the year. he tells me he knows where to get an excellent soprano, but that until he met me he was in despair about a tenor. a good contralto is, of course, not to be hoped for, and a sufficiently good baritone and bass will turn up, as a matter of course." by this time the two friends were in the street, hurrying off towards fraser's house. they found the composer at home. "this is my friend o'donnell, fraser. you have often heard me speak of him. we were rival tenors in glengowra and rathclare. we were fellow-students at the _scala_, and now we're going to be rival tenors in your opera, 'the maid of athens.'" fraser laughed good-humouredly, and said: "all right. if, mr. o'donnell, you sing as well as our friend lavirotte, we shall be very lucky in our tenors." "he sings better," said lavirotte, with a slight darkening of the face. "there is one thing i cannot rival him in, certainly," said o'donnell, "and that is generosity. i have no desire to compete with my dear friend as a tenor. he said there was a second part in your opera which i might suit. i haven't an engagement of any kind, and i am most anxious to get something to do. i'd rather lead the chorus than do nothing." "oh," said fraser, "if you sing anything like as well as lavirotte, you must not think of leading a chorus." "sing him something, eugene, and then he'll be able to tell whether you sing better than i or not." "i won't sing if you put it that way, dominique," said o'donnell, colouring slightly. "you know very well i do not want to go into rivalry with you." "there is no rivalry at all, mr. o'donnell. lavirotte is in one of his perverse moods. if i produce my opera this season, he shall have the refusal of the leading part. i have no one in my mind as the second tenor. now, if you'll sing me something, please, i shall be able to tell you whether i think the music would suit you." "what would you like," asked eugene, standing up to the piano. fraser was sitting in front of it, running his fingers over the keys. "whatever you think best. whatever suits you best." "what shall i sing, dominique?" "oh, a ballad," said lavirotte. "shall i start you?" "ay, give him a lead," said fraser. "the bright stars fade, the morn is breaking!" "damn it, lavirotte, are you mad or possessed by devils!" fraser had begun the accompaniment. he turned round in astonishment. "what on earth is the matter?" he said. "it's a good song, mr. o'donnell." lavirotte was laughing slyly, stealthily, behind his hand. o'donnell looked furiously at lavirotte. he was thoroughly roused. he pointed at lavirotte, and said: "he knows i do not sing that song. he knows it puts me out to speak of that song." the composer looked in amazement from one to the other. "perhaps," he said, "you will sing something else, mr. o'donnell? if you had a breakdown on it once i don't think it kind of lavirotte to remind you of it." "i never had a breakdown on it, mr. fraser," said eugene, taking his eyes off lavirotte, and fixing them on the composer. then he spoke with enormous distinctness, "but, mr. fraser, whenever i hear that song it pains me cruelly. it pains me as though you thrust a knife into me." lavirotte ceased to laugh. his hand fell from before his face. he turned ashy pale. "eugene!" he cried, "you hit below the belt." "no, sir, i did not," said eugene, indignantly. "you hit me unawares." "gentlemen," said fraser, "i am sure i am sorry any unpleasantness has arisen." "i beg your pardon, mr. fraser," said o'donnell, "i forgot myself for a moment. i forgot where i was. try to forgive me if you can, and to show you i have dismissed the thing from my mind, dominique, will you forget and forgive?" he held out his hand to the frenchman. lavirotte took the hand slowly, pressed it between both his, kissed it, and said: "eugene, i was wrong, you were right. that blow was delivered unawares, as another blow you remember." "that's right!" cried fraser heartily. "that's right, men! sit down, o'donnell, you're not fit to sing for a while. stop, i'll play you the overture to 'the maid of athens.' i have arranged it for the piano.... well, what do you think of it?" he cried when he had finished. "i fancy i can hear some of the melodies on the street organs, and to get my stuff on the street organs is the height of my ambition. that is fame. that is glory. now, o'donnell, what will you sing?" "'my pretty jane,'" said lavirotte. "sing 'my pretty jane,' eugene." "all right," said eugene. and fraser played the introduction. when o'donnell had ceased to sing, fraser turned round, caught him enthusiastically by the hand, and said: "positively lovely, my dear fellow! the quality is perfection. have you much of it? enough for the grand?" "i'm afraid not," said o'donnell, shaking his head. "i could manage in a small house very well. i haven't as much, you know, as dominique here." "but the quality, my dear fellow, the quality is exquisite. it's a bit of guiglini." o'donnell coloured with pleasure. lavirotte said: "you never sang that song better, eugene." "it couldn't be sung better. sims reeves himself might be proud of such an art. tenors are hard enough to get, but to get a tenor with brains and a heart is about the rarest thing in the world. you have brains, and a heart, o'donnell, and of course i needn't say that i'd rather have a song delivered as you sang now than the biggest shout of a forty-six-inch chested italian _robusto_." lavirotte put his hand quickly up to his left breast. again he turned ashy white. he seemed to gasp for breath. "are you not well, dominique?" cried eugene, placing his hand on him. "ah!" sighed lavirotte, "it's gone. for an instant the pain was great, and i thought i should suffocate. it is gone now. let us think no more of it. you are in splendid voice to-day, eugene. it was stupid of me to get ill just at that moment when i should have been applauding your success. fraser, i told you he could sing." "sing! i should think he can. try something else, o'donnell; something a little stronger." "very well," said o'donnell, "i'll give you one of the melodies, 'the bard's legacy.'" lavirotte shuddered. "i don't know it," said fraser. "hum it for me." then o'donnell began. "when in death i shall calm recline, oh, hear my heart to its mistress dear." "don't sing it, eugene," said lavirotte. "it's a gloomy beast of a song. when a fellow has just recovered from suffocation, it's not a good way to cheer him to shake shrouds before his eyes. sing 'la donna e mobile.'" o'donnell lifted his eyes slowly, and stared in a puzzled way at lavirotte. "are you ill still," he said, "or are you peculiarly dull to-day?" for the third time lavirotte's face paled. "this time, i swear to you, eugene, i am only dull. 'pon my soul, i am only dull." chapter xxiii. "mr. o'donnell," said fraser, "i hope you will not forget us now that you have once come. my wife is out, but i am sure she will be delighted to meet mrs. o'donnell. remember, you are to bring your wife with you, too, when you come next time." these were the composer's last words as he stood at the hall door, bidding good-bye to lavirotte and eugene. when mrs. fraser returned, he said to her in his enthusiastic way: "my dear harriet, you have missed a treat. lavirotte's friend, o'donnell, has been here. he has got a lovely voice, and sings exquisitely. he came to know if i would give him the second tenor part. i promised before i heard him sing, and now, by gad, harriet, i'm in a deuce of a mess." "why? you say he has a good voice, and sings well." "yes, yes. but, you see, i have promised the leading part to lavirotte. now lavirotte's voice is not to be compared with o'donnell's, and, by gad, i don't know how to get out of the fix." "if," said mrs. fraser, "this new man is better for the part, why not give him the part?" "but you see, they are bosom friends. they have been friends for years, been at the _scala_ together, and so on. why, while they were here there was very near being a scene between them. in fact there was a scene, in which lavirotte did something that enraged o'donnell, and o'donnell said something that made lavirotte grovel. i don't know what it was about, of course, but it looked very ugly while it lasted. i should not be at all surprised if lavirotte is a bit jealous of o'donnell's voice. i'm sure i don't know what to do. it would be a pity to throw away a voice like o'donnell's in the second part; and how am i to get rid of lavirotte?" "then you are resolved to produce the opera soon?" "oh, yes, if i can put o'donnell in the leading part. you see, i was only half satisfied with lavirotte. he is so hard, unsympathetic, metallic. i don't know how to manage it at all. you see, harriet, i want to make a success with this 'maid of athens.' i am sure if o'donnell sang it would be a success." "but can he not make a success in the second part?" "no, no," cried fraser, excitedly "that would be impossible. besides, the public would not stand it. they would guy the thing if they found the better man in the inferior part. oh, what a misfortune i ever promised lavirotte!" "surely there is some way or other out of it," said mrs. fraser. "i can't see it, harriet. i am in despair. it is the best chance there has been in london for years. at least i think so. of course you can never tell really until you have tested the thing practically in the theatre, with the lights up and your audience in front. but i'm game to put down the last penny i have in the world, and my reputation, that o'donnell could do the trick." "i cannot believe, edward," said mrs. fraser hopefully, "that there is not some way of managing the matter. could not mr. lavirotte understudy the leading part?" "eh? say that again, little woman," said the composer, sitting down to the piano and improvising a fantasia. he always quieted his mind in this way. "there may be something in what you say, harriet. an understudy! but would lavirotte consent? you know we couldn't ask him to sing in any other but the leading part, once it was offered to him. and then, to take a practical view of it, even if he would consent to understudy, he would be eating his head off the whole time. the management wouldn't get the least value for their money. in any case, i don't think lavirotte would consent. you know, those new men are always dying to get an 'appearance,' and i'm sure lavirotte would rather take a situation down a coal mine than cool his heels in the wings, while o'donnell had the boards." "well, but if you say there is a great chance of o'donnell making a success of the opera, it would be a thousand pities you lost that chance because of any hasty promise you made to lavirotte." "i don't think lavirotte has a particularly sweet temper; and, to tell you the truth, there is something in the man's eye which i do not like--something which makes me distrust him. i asked him to-day to give o'donnell a lead, and he started 'good-bye, sweetheart,' and, by gad, i thought for a minute that o'donnell would throttle him." "it seems to me," said the little woman, "that you are somewhat unfortunate in having come across this pair. a moment ago you appeared to think there was something dangerous about lavirotte, and now you say that o'donnell looked as if he wanted to do something dreadful to the other." "throttle him, my dear. throttle him was the word i used. a capital word, but not a woman's word, i own." "but surely it would be no harm for you to try if lavirotte would consent to understudy, if you are certain that the difference between the two men is so great. aren't they both very anxious to get engagements? and don't both want to earn money?" "yes, but everyone wants to earn money, and i have no doubt that lavirotte would rather take two guineas a week and sing the part than ten for walking about. stop," cried the composer. "something might be done with that." "pray, what is _that?_ i have not the gift of second sight." the composer rose from the piano, approached his wife, put his arm round her, kissed her, and said: "you're not half as stupid as you look, harriet. you sometimes get hold of a capital idea. but you require the great male intellect"--tapping his forehead--"to shape it for you. lavirotte, when he was here, nearly fainted. i have heard him complain before of certain attacks of this kind which he is subject to. you see, it would never do to have a man in such a position as first tenor, if that man were liable to faint. why, the very excitement of a first night sometimes knocks over strong men who have had years of experience. i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll throw myself on lavirotte's generosity, and say that what i saw here to-day has so disquieted me that, etc. you understand. i'll put it as nicely as i can. it isn't very easy to put such a thing nicely, but i shall do my best." here the matter dropped between husband and wife. that evening fraser wrote a note to lavirotte, asking him to call next day. in the gentlest and most considerate way, fraser explained to lavirotte that a first night of a new piece was most trying on the singers, and that to ensure success, it was essential all taking prominent parts in it should be, as near as possible, in perfect health. "i noticed here yesterday," said the composer, "that you almost fainted under the excitement of something which occurred between you and o'donnell. i think, too, i heard you say before you have now and then been seized with physical weakness. we have not spoken of business terms in connection with the opera. of course you know i am not finding the money. but i shall make all the engagements. now, if you like i'll give you your engagement at once, ten pounds a week for the run, on one condition." "what is that?" cried lavirotte eagerly. "that you allow some other man to create the part and sing until you have become so accustomed to it that there will be no fear of your suffering from this little ailment, whatever it is." lavirotte's lips got suddenly dry. he drew them backward over his teeth, and breathed a few hard breaths. "you mean," said he, in a low voice, "to let o'donnell create the part?" "i have said nothing to him about it, as yet, nor should i say anything to him without first speaking to you. i gave you my word you were to create the part if the opera was produced. after seeing what occurred yesterday, and knowing the great excitement of a first night, i would rather have the opera in that drawer than risk it if there were the least chance of a breakdown." "and you think," said lavirotte, "that i could consent to take the money, when my health did not allow me to earn it?" "now, my dear lavirotte, you must not be offended where no offence is meant. the first night is what i dread. you shall understudy the part, or, rather, the part shall be yours, and o'donnell, the understudy, run on at the last moment. stop, i have it. i shall engage you to create the part. i shall engage o'donnell if he will consent to understudy the part. we shall go on rehearsing on these lines, and if, three days before the first night, a first-class medical man says you are fit to go on, you shall go on. this need not be embodied in the agreement. we can keep our words, as men of honour, and we can keep this arrangement secret. even o'donnell shall not know; and his salary shall be six guineas a week, whether he sings or not. come, you can't ask me to do more than that. o'donnell has a wife and child to keep." "damn his wife and child," thought lavirotte. fraser was firm, and although it took an hour to get lavirotte to consent, he at length consented. and there and then the agreement was drawn up and signed. "now," thought fraser, "it's neck or nothing with me. i am sure it would be dangerous to let him go on the first night, and if i can only secure o'donnell, 'the maid of athens' will be the foundation of my fortune." when lavirotte got back to the tower, he threw himself, in a rage, on his bed. "this thing may kill me," he said, "but i'll sing the part as sure as heaven is above and hell beneath. damn o'donnell, his wife, and child." chapter xxiv. edward fraser was not the man to let grass grow under his feet. he set about the production with the utmost vigilance and despatch. the first thing he did was to call on o'donnell. he was introduced to mrs. o'donnell. he found her simply divine, he said, the greatest beauty in london, by gad. and, as to the boy (he himself was childless) he afterwards declared to his wife, that it was the handsomest, the most engaging, the most endearing little fellow in europe. as soon as he was free to talk about business he said: "o'donnell, i have firmly made up my mind to produce 'the maid of athens' with the least possible delay. before i had seen you i had, of course, arranged with lavirotte. will you understudy lavirotte's part at six guineas a week? of course, if there is a chance of your singing it, you shall go on, and i could not think of putting you second. but you know what our climate is like, and that a fellow may get a cold any minute." "you know," said eugene, colouring with pleasure, "i want an engagement, and i am not in a position to refuse one if i could possibly take it. but dominique and i have been such great friends all our lives, i could not think of taking any position which might seem to undermine his." "but, you see, that is the very thing i offer you--a position which will not seem to undermine his. so long as he is singing, of course you will not sing. but if he gets a cold, or anything of that kind, you take his place and keep it warm for him until he is quite well again. what can be more friendly than that?" "men are always jealous of those who understudy them, for they think that the understudies are always wishing for some accident to the men who are singing the parts. have you spoken of the matter to dominique?" "oh, yes! i have arranged it all with him. he agrees to what i suggest. i am sorry i cannot offer you as good terms as he is getting; but we could not afford more than six to one in such a position as yours. lavirotte's agreement is all drawn up and signed on the understanding that if i can secure you i will do so." after some more talk, eugene agreed to accept fraser's offer, and the composer went home greatly delighted with the day's work and the new acquaintance he had made. "harriet," he said when he got home, "i have fallen in love with mrs. o'donnell, and you must fall in love with her too. she is simply perfect. you must worship the boy. i know, if you saw him, you would never let him out of your arms." mrs. fraser simply shook her head, and sighed to think she had no boy of her own. the preparations for the production of the new opera were hastened, the oberon theatre secured, the rest of the company engaged, and the opera put in rehearsal. everyone who was privileged to hear the music agreed that the opera ought to be a great success, and most of the people thought that lavirotte would make a hit in his part. fraser was to conduct the opera himself, and he took the minutest care that nothing should be left undone to court success. about a month before the day fixed for the first appearance, o'donnell came to fraser's private room at the theatre, and said: "i want to ask you a question about my own business." "fire away, my dear fellow!" cried the hearty composer. "anything you like." "i am, as you know, fraser, at present in lodgings with my wife and child. we were thinking of taking a small house, and what i want you to tell me is, do you think i would be justified in doing so? do you think my engagement with you will be worth anything like six pounds a week for a considerable portion of the year?" "my dear o'donnell, i'm very glad you spoke to me upon the subject. take a small house, by all means; get what furniture is just necessary. i'll be guarantee for it. and, i'll tell you what i'm game to do this minute: i'll undertake, if you like, in writing, that you shall not average less than six pounds a week for the next twelve months, under existing circumstances, i cannot, at present, offer you more money than is in your agreement, but you can have the engagement, if you like, about the twelve months." o'donnell was delighted. "you really don't say so, my dear fraser!" "i do," he said. "you need not speak of this matter to anyone. i mean to stick to you. you are sure to make a mark. you are sure to make money. and, look here, i say, you know it isn't my money that's going into this speculation, and i have a little money of my own. never be hard up for a fiver. we like your wife, your boy, and yourself; and by gad, sir, we mean that you shall be a success." o'donnell went home in the highest spirits. that very day he and his wife set out house-hunting, and within a week they were settled in a little semi-detached house in cecil street, hoxton. among the furniture there was, of course, a piano, and o'donnell felt unexpectedly relieved to be able, as he expressed it, to shout and hammer the keys against the detached wall of his own house, where there was no fear of disturbing lodgers or neighbours. here, with his wife and child, and the old and faithful nurse who had looked after him when he was a child, he felt as though life was opening afresh to him, and as if there was more sunshine in the air than ever he had noticed before. "the first thing we have to do, nellie, is to get the frasers and dominique here to dinner, on the earliest day possible. of course i should never have known fraser but for dominique; and, indeed, half my good luck at the oberon, or more than half, is due to lavirotte." so it was arranged that on the first saturday after the o'donnells were settled in their home, the frasers and lavirotte should dine with them. the dinner passed off in the pleasantest manner. mark dined at the table, and lavirotte insisted on attending to the boy and giving him all the delicacies he could filch, to the great jealousy of mrs. fraser, who had taken an extraordinary liking to the mother and child. lavirotte seemed in better spirits and health than of late. he was quite cheerful, quite amusing. he made pretty compliments to the women, said good-humoured, whimsical, blunt things to the men, and when dinner was over and the men were alone, he threw himself into a chair and declared he had not enjoyed any little dinner so much, for a century. "you know, eugene, i was best man at your marriage, and godfather to your boy, and i really think i have forgotten my duty towards him. i never gave him a knife and fork, or even a mug. it was beastly neglectful of me. i feel in the best of spirits to-day. wasn't i in good voice at the rehearsal?" "capital!" said both men. "nothing could have been better." "you'll bring down the house, lavirotte," cried eugene. "i shall do my very best," said lavirotte. "i think my health has greatly improved within the past fortnight or so. i have not felt that old sensation of faintness, and going up and down the stairs to my eyrie does not distress me as it used. by jove, eugene, i feel as well as before that terrible time in the tower. no, i won't have any more. i'll go and look after my boy." lavirotte left the room. fraser shifted uneasily in his chair. "are you perfect in the part?" he said to eugene. "i think so," said the latter. "because," said fraser, "although lavirotte seems in better health than he was some time ago, no one knows what may happen." lavirotte did not go straight to the small drawing-room where the two women were seated. he went out to the little kitchen, and said to old bridget, the servant: "is the boy in bed?" "yes, he is, sir, and asleep," said the old woman. "let me go up and look at him before i join the ladies." "certainly, sir. i'll show you the room." she led the way upstairs. the boy was sleeping in a cot, his rosy cheek resting on his pink arm, his yellow hair hanging all about his head. there was another bed in the room. "that is yours, no doubt," said lavirotte, pointing to the second bed. "yes," she said, "i sleep here to mind him in the night; but he's no trouble." "and this window looks into what?" "the side passage." the old woman had turned up the paraffin lamp, and was holding it over the sleeping child. "you have no gas in the house?" "no; the master does not like gas." "you ought to be very careful with that lamp. many a sad thing happens owing to the use of paraffin lamps, where children are." he stooped over the sleeping child, kissed the boy's cheek, and then descended to the little drawing-room where the two wives sat. chapter xxv. from the day of that dinner forward, lavirotte seemed anxious to make up for what he then spoke of as the neglect of his little godson. one day he came and brought the mug with the boy's name and the date of his birth on it. another day he brought a spoon, a knife and fork. "you know, dominique," said eugene, "this is too much. we are not rich enough to take such presents." "ah!" said lavirotte. "you mean also that i am not rich enough to make them. but you see i was not quite at the end of my resources when this engagement turned up, and i shall be in receipt of what i must consider a handsome salary in a couple of weeks." "by jove, yes," said eugene. "i do not object to your being guilty of this extravagance if it does not inconvenience you at the moment. i know you will be comparatively well off. i am delighted you are in such good health." at this lavirotte looked strangely at his friend. "yes," he said, "i am all right now. but will it last? has fraser said anything to you about it?" "he has said to me, simply, what we all know--that a tenor, and particularly a tenor in this climate, is liable to be knocked up at any minute. beyond that he said nothing, i think, and all you have to do is to be careful of yourself, and see that you don't take cold. if you keep in only your present form, you are bound to make a great hit." "well, eugene, at least you are encouraging. my notion is, fraser thinks i shall never sing the part. but i will, if i died for it. my heart is set on it, and i would rather die than not go on." "nonsense!" said eugene. "you're talking in an exaggerated way. you will sing, and sing admirably. the audience will rise to you as one man, and next morning the newspapers won't know where to get words of praise for your performance." again a queer look came into lavirotte's eye. "i think, eugene, you are a very simple man." "i see no need for anything but simplicity in this matter. you know, dominique, i shall be greatly delighted to be understudy when the opera is started. of course, i'd rather have anything to do than look on, but there's no help for that." "no," said lavirotte, with an uncomfortable laugh, "there's no help for it unless fate steps in." "oh, confound it, dominique! give up your 'ifs.' i'm tired of them. here are nellie and the boy. let us drop shop." lavirotte rose quickly, went to mrs. o'donnell, took her hand and shook it tenderly. then, having lifted the boy in his arms, he kissed him and pressed him to his breast, and carried him about the room' saying: "you will grow to be a fine generous fellow, mark, like your father; and you will always be as good and gentle as your mother, although you never can be as beautiful. mark, dear, kiss your godfather, who has no wife, no son of his own. you'll always be fond of dominique, won't you, boy?" "of course he will," said eugene, taking the boy out of lavirotte's arms and fondling him tenderly. ever since the boy had come to eugene until now, there had always hung over the father's mind a certain cloud of gloom. for while he said to himself that nellie had come to him in the full light of her reason, and with the knowledge that his house had suffered great commercial disaster, between her coming and the birth of the boy greater disaster still had fallen upon them--ruin in fact--and when the boy was born he seemed to be the despairing leader of a forlorn hope. he had often looked at that boy, and wondered whether or not he should be able to find bread for him. the love he had for nellie was of a different character. it was more robust and less intimate. supposing his supplies failed absolutely, he could tell her there was no bread, and she would understand. but the little fellow could not understand. he would think that bread came, like the daylight, to all living things alike. he would simply know that he was hungry, and that heretofore when he was hungry he got food. and being hungry again, he would ask for food, and expect it. and if he (the father) had to tell him there was no food, had to try to quiet him with mere words and caresses, how should he, eugene, feel? and then, although the little fellow might be quieted for a while, he could not be for long, and he would cry piteously for food. and there would be none to give him. the boy would gradually weaken from hour to hour, until he ceased to cry, until he had no strength to cry. gradually the weakness would increase. his face would become pallid. his rounded pink limbs wasted. his breath short and faint. he would lie exactly as placed, without power to move his body, without power to move his limbs. the little eyes would remain half open. the little fingers could no longer close around the finger of father or mother. the pale lips, parted, would no longer have strength to close at the familiar kiss. then would come a moment when the eyes would open, the little nose become pinched, the little face haggard, and---- it was too horrible to think of. god in his mercy had spared him that sight, and given him instead a comfortable, if small, home, sufficient simple food, and the assurance of the continuance of all these. now, more than ever, eugene's heart went forth to his wife and child. they were no longer threatened by want. they should now lack nothing needful for comfort. the little fellow was sturdy and able to walk, and it was the father's delight to go out with nellie and him, and walk along the streets of shops and see his wife buy the things needful for their small household, and some cheap luxury or toy for their child. it was to him a sensation of great delight that he might spend a few pence, ay, even a few shillings, without mortgaging the future heavily. he seemed suddenly to have shaken off a whole inheritance of care. he laughed frequently, and made light-hearted jokes. he sang to nellie and his boy for mere amusement, and he made humorously extravagant promises of what he should do for both when the full tide of his good fortune set in. "dominique and i," said he, "shall draw a line on the map, from london to constantinople, and we will toss as to who shall go east and who west, and thus we shall take the capitals of europe by storm. whichever goes east the first year, goes west the second. this will be fair, and thus we shall never clash. and you shall see all the capitals of europe, nellie, and the boy shall be poisoned with every possible sweetmeat that europe can devise. and i shall get awfully vain of my success, and wear the most extraordinary clothes tailors can invent. and like napoleon crossing the alps, in the peepshows, i shall always ride a white horse. and when i go into a new town all the people shall come out and do me homage, and we'll put up at the best hotels. and they will never ask me to pay a bill. i shall simply sing a song in the morning, and kiss my hand and go. a fine life ours will be. and there you are now, mark. there's a first-class chance for your getting a bath bun with the legal allowance of clinker in it." almost every evening now, lavirotte came. he said one evening: "i am thinking of taking a house in this neighbourhood, and i like yours very well." "you will be a richer man than i am," said eugene. "if you follow my advice you won't take a house in this street. they are all wretchedly built. look here," he said. "none of the doors fit. few of the latches shoot into the jambs or hasps." "that must be a great nuisance," said lavirotte. "and how about the locks and bolts?" "most of the locks and bolts are all right. but i am often uneasy when there is no one in the kitchen, and the bolts are not shot; for the spring-lock there enters the hasp so slightly that a good push would send the door in." "that is a pity," said lavirotte. "but, i suppose, you are not afraid of burglars here." "burglars! not i! it would not be worth the while of any burglar to make a set on a house such as this. but a petty thief, a hearth-stone boy, or a degraded old clothes-man might make a raid, and carry off a few shillings' worth." "quite true," said lavirotte. "but i think the danger is slight. by-the-way, eugene, i shall know the day after to-morrow something of the greatest importance, but which i may not now reveal. something in connection with the first night at the oberon. you will be there, of course, mrs. o'donnell?" "certainly. i am most anxious to witness your _début_." "i suppose you won't take mark?' "oh, dear, no!" she said. "mark is always in bed at six o'clock." "that's right," he said. "all children should be in bed early." chapter xxvi. the morning of the second day after that visit of lavirotte to o'donnell, he was in a state of great excitement. that was the day his fate was to be sealed, as far as the medical certificate went. fraser and he had arranged that he should consult one of the most eminent west end physicians. he had been taking the greatest possible care of himself for some time. this morning he felt better than ever. he was determined that nothing should impair his chance of success. he rose early and had a light breakfast, which was the only meal he ever took in the tower. then he descended the tower slowly, and walked gently along porter street. it was still early; much too early to call on a great west end doctor. when he got to the end of porter street he hailed a hansom, and told the man to drive to hyde park. when he got there it was about ten o'clock. the day was fine for that time of year, and he thought a walk up and down in the fresh, clear air of the park would brace him, and make him more fit for the examination he had to undergo. "i must get my mind quiet," he thought. "i must pretend to myself this is a matter of no moment. i must not even let my mind dwell upon what my business is to-day. if i pass the examination i shall have three days for the excitement to wear off. and, no matter what the result of the examination is, i mean to sing the part. it is all very well for fraser to say i might suffer from stage fright, but no stage fright could be equal to the anxiety i should now be suffering if i gave way to it. if i can control myself now, i could control myself then. and see, i am as calm now as the idlest man that passes me by. "it would not be fair, it would be villainously unfair, for fraser not to let me sing the part after promising it to me. o'donnell was promised the second part before the trial of his voice. i know the first part perfectly, every note of it, and now it would be snatching the chance of fame from me to make me stand aside because of a wretched medical certificate." at last it was time to go; and, almost as though he had passed from the park to the great doctor's waiting-room in a dream, he found himself there, without any clear notion of any circumstances or thoughts by the way. he was fortunate this morning, and found the great man disengaged at the very moment he had appointed. the doctor was an old, good-natured, flabby, gouty-looking man. he was cheerful in his manner, and received lavirotte as though he knew instinctively there was nothing the matter with him beyond a little hypochondriasis. in a perfectly calm and collected manner lavirotte explained his case, and told the old physician of the business in which he was engaged, and the fact that his fitness would be put to the test three days hence. "i know," said the doctor, "i know. your profession is one which at the outset makes great demand on the nerves." then he asked him some questions about these slight seizures, and proceeded to his examination. he spent at least half-an-hour over the case, during which time lavirotte's pulse did not vary. then the old physician sat back in his chair, and looked at his visitor, still with a pleasant expression of countenance. "of course," he said, "men of your profession are naturally very anxious to fulfil all their engagements, and it is the source of great pecuniary loss to them when they fail to do so. but you know," he added, smiling pleasantly, "we must often think of something besides money. come, now," he said, "i am not able to give you a complete opinion of your case to-day. what would the pecuniary loss to you be, supposing you did not sing?" "nothing," said lavirotte. "i am paid whether i sing or do not sing. am i not to sing?" "i won't say that to-day. tell the manager. let me see, this is thursday--i would like to have till saturday morning before finally deciding." "then," said lavirotte, perfectly unmoved, "you think there is some likelihood of my not being able to sing?" "now, now, now," said the doctor, cheerfully. "have i not told you i would like to wait till saturday before forming an opinion?" "but my agreement is that i shall have a certificate from you three days before saturday. that is to-day." "let me see what can be done," said the old man, stroking his face. "i will give you a letter to the manager saying i would not like to decide finally until saturday. but that if this delay would break your engagement, i shall give you the certificate to-day. you can drive to the theatre, and if you do not return here within two hours, i shall assume that all is well, and that i shall see you on saturday." to this lavirotte consented, in the same unmoved way that had characterised him during the whole interview. he took the note and drove to the oberon. he sought fraser and handed him the letter. at first the composer looked disconcerted. "you see, lavirotte," he said, "there is some doubt." "give me the benefit of that doubt till saturday. that can do no harm. eugene is ready to take my part if the decision is against me." "very good," said fraser, reluctantly. "let us wait till saturday." all that day and all friday lavirotte preserved an imperturbable calm. all that day and all friday fraser was in a state of feverish anxiety. "it must be a touch-and-go affair with him," he thought, "if the doctors cannot say yes at once. the least error on the part of the doctor might lead to a terrible disaster, and i have risked my reputation on this opera. if he fainted on the stage, or behind, there might be a dreadful hitch. one thing i'm determined on, that o'donnell shall be dressed and made up for the part, and in the theatre half-an-hour before the curtain goes up." there was a full-dress rehearsal on friday, in which lavirotte went through his part with a calmness and certainty he had never displayed before. of all the performers, he betrayed the least hesitancy. he took every note with perfect ease. even fraser was surprised, and o'donnell congratulated him warmly when the rehearsal was over. lavirotte left the theatre soon, and went straight to st. prisca's tower. "did not dominique sing excellently today?" said o'donnell to fraser. "yes, he did," said fraser, constrainedly. "but you know, o'donnell, there is no trusting the future; and remember i tell you, in the most impressive way i can, that i may have to call upon you at the last moment to go on and sing the part. i am aware you know it perfectly, but i shall want to see you at the theatre not later than eleven o'clock on saturday. and again half-an-hour before the curtain goes up you must be ready in every respect to go on. mind, in every respect." when o'donnell got home that evening, he told nellie he thought there was something strange in lavirotte's manner, and that fraser seemed unnaturally anxious about the other's health. he then told her that lavirotte had gone through the part admirably that day, and that everyone noticed an improvement in his style. even fraser himself had to admit this. "i am to be at the theatre not later than eleven to-morrow, and all ready to go on half-an-hour before the curtain rises. that is, i must be dressed and made up at half-past seven. so that you will come into town with me when i am going in the morning, and wait about somewhere. i will be with you part of the time, of course, and we will be home together after the opera. we can get whatever we want in some restaurant." "and what about the boy?" "oh, as we arranged," said eugene, "he is to remain here. i'm sure bridget will take care of him, and put him to bed at the usual time. as you know, nellie, i should be very sorry that lavirotte's health prevented him; but still, suppose at the last moment he did not sing, would it not be a glorious thing if i got a chance and succeeded?" chapter xxvii. next morning, lavirotte was stirring betimes. he followed the same plan as on the thursday, getting quietly to the park and there lounging about for a while, until it was time to call at the doctor's. then, with a slow step and imperturbed face, he strode along, got to the house of the great man at the precise time agreed, and was instantly admitted to the study, where the doctor sat. "ah!" said the physician, rising. "my letter was effective. that is a good omen, let us hope." to-day there was no need for explanation. nor did it seem the great man had need to make so extended an examination. in a very short time he put down the stethoscope, rubbed his hands encouragingly, and said: "you told me the other day, when you were here, you would not lose any money by not singing to-night, and that you would, under your agreement, be entitled to draw your salary as though you had sung. now, you see, you are a young man, and i am an old one, and if i were in your shoes, instead of exciting myself at a stuffy theatre, i'd go to some nice quiet place, say some seaside place, and spend a while there." "i know," said lavirotte, rising quietly. "i understand what you mean." the doctor rose also, and putting his hand on the young man's shoulder, said: "now, you mustn't be too hasty. i am accustomed to say what i want to say." "and you do not find yourself in a position to give me the certificate i require." "i would most certainly recommend you not to put any undue strain upon yourself just now. come to me in a fortnight, suppose. we will then see what the rest has done you." "thank you," said lavirotte. "i am a ruined man." "nonsense!" said the doctor. "talk of being a ruined man, when you can say you will lose nothing!" "but you think there is something very bad the matter with me?" "i think any unusual excitement would be exceedingly injurious to you, and perhaps dangerous." lavirotte bowed and withdrew. he drove to the oberon, and went directly to fraser. "it is as i feared," he said calmly, deliberately, coldly. "he will not allow me to sing. i am very sorry for my own sake. from what he told me, i do not think i have long to live. fraser, you have done your best to be a good friend to me. it would be folly that a man in my condition should go on, when you have a better man in splendid health as a substitute. i won't come near the theatre to-night, but i'll look you up to-morrow. o'donnell will sing the part better than i could. i suppose, fraser, you don't mind keeping the thing open for me for a fortnight?" fraser was moved. at the first moment he was rejoiced to find that o'donnell was to sing the part. then he suddenly reflected that this must be a terrible blow to lavirotte, and that, moreover, these faintings must indicate something very serious. it was indeed hard that a young man, in the flower of his youth, should be stopped at the very threshold of his career by an affection which might incapacitate him from ever following that career. he assured lavirotte in the most cordial and emphatic manner that he was sincerely sorry; and upon hearing what the doctor had recommended with regard to the seaside, he insisted upon lavirotte taking a cheque for two weeks' salary, and then bade him begone, without a moment's notice, to some place calculated to improve his health. "is o'donnell here?" asked lavirotte. "i'd like to see him before i go." fraser sent for eugene. "you are to sing my part, old fellow," said lavirotte, when the other entered. "the doctor says i must not. i know you will do it better than i. i will not come near the theatre to-night. this is the important news i thought i should have to tell you. i must now say good-bye. you are all too busy for me to stop." o'donnell was quite overwhelmed. he took lavirotte's right hand in his, put his left on the shoulder of the other, and looked at him fixedly. "you're not ill; you're not really ill, my dear dominique! i can't believe it, and you will sing the part." lavirotte shook his head quietly. "ask fraser. he will tell you. he has suspected all along i might not be able for the part." "but you are able for it, better able for it than i am," said eugene, generously. "no, eugene," said lavirotte quietly. "my health, it appears, is not equal to the excitement, and your voice is more suited to the music. i am going away to the seaside, somewhere. i don't know or care where--to glengowra perhaps. i'm sorry i ever left glengowra. if i go there i shall call upon your father and mother, and tell them of the success you are sure to make to-night. give my love to your wife, eugene, and kiss your boy for me." "will you not come and see nellie?" said eugene, the tears standing in his eyes. "she is in town, and we can find her in a few minutes." "no, no, eugene. i cannot. i had better go away straight to my eyrie. good-bye, eugene. kiss the boy for me when you go home. you told me you would not bring him in to-day. the only thing i would like to see before setting out is your wife's face when you have sung in the trio and the solo, at the end of the second act. god bless you, my dear boy. thank you, a thousand times, fraser," and he was gone. the two men in the manager's room looked at one another strangely when they were alone. "did you ever think," said fraser, "that lavirotte was a little mad?" "he's sometimes queer," said eugene, guardedly. "now, o'donnell," said the other briskly, "you'll have to do the very best you can in the part." "i am sincerely sorry for the occasion of my taking it, but of course i will do my best." lavirotte went straight to the bank on which the cheque was drawn, got his money, and betook himself to his lonely chamber in the tower. o'donnell went straight to where he had left his wife, and told her the turn which events had taken. "what can be the matter with him?" asked nellie, her first thought being for the man whose health was threatened. "i don't know. he did not say," answered eugene, "and i did not care to ask. it must be something serious. and now i must run away, nellie, and you may not hope to see me again until the evening. i shall be very busy until then. go and amuse yourself somewhere, darling. come about half-past six to the theatre, stage door. i must be off now." time sped so quickly at the theatre that day, that eugene o'donnell could scarcely believe an hour had passed from the time he had seen his wife, until it was time for him to begin to dress. he had told his wife to come to him at half-past six. the curtain would not go up for an hour-and-a-half after this. at the time she arrived at the theatre he was engaged, and she had to wait for him. the doors were already open. as soon as the lights were turned up, she had been shown into a box, as everything was in confusion behind. here she sat, with the curtains drawn, expecting him every moment. suddenly he burst into the box, in the costume of a greek brigand. although she had seen him in the dress--he had put it on at home to amuse her and their boy--she did not at first recognise him, and started and rose in a fright. at last she cried out in a suppressed voice: "eugene, i did not know you. how splendid you look." "how can i tell her?" he said. "what!" she said. "what is the matter? has anything happened to lavirotte?" "no," he said, "but our house--nellie, bear up--has met a misfortune." "be quick." "and is in flames." "great god! and our boy, our child!" "is safe, no doubt." "who brought the news?" "lavirotte; come, we must go at once." "you are not certain about our boy? oh, eugene, you are not sure of the worst?" "no; i pledge you my word, i am not." "and when we find him safe with the nurse, who would die for him, will you be able to get back here in time?" "no; even if i could, i durst not try to sing to-night, after this." "and who is to sing the part?" "dominique." "dominique!" "dominique lavirotte." chapter xxviii. o'donnell and his wife drove furiously to hoxton. neither spoke the whole way. each was mute with terror, hope, and fear, all beating wildly about in their minds. when they reached cecil street there was no longer any doubt of the truth of lavirotte's story. the house was all in a blaze. a double line of police kept back the crowd, and several engines were busily at work. the cab drew up just outside the line of police. o'donnell told his wife to sit where she was. he had snatched up an overcoat and hat on his way from the theatre, and in the cab removed as much of the make-up as possible from his face, so that there was little or nothing unusual in his appearance. he was about to rush through the line of police when one of them caught him. o'donnell shook off the hand, and said: "it is my house. is my boy safe?" "beg pardon, sir. there's the inspector," said the policeman. o'donnell went up to the inspector, and cried excitedly: "this is my house. can you tell me if my boy is safe?" the inspector turned round and looked steadily at o'donnell for a second or two. "are you sure the boy was in the house?" "yes, quite sure; and an old servant. bridget is her name." "oh," said the inspector, looking at o'donnell again, "i think you may make your mind easy. we did not know there was anyone in the house. we heard it was mr. o'donnell's house." "my name is o'donnell, and my boy and servant were in the house when we left. the boy is between two and three years old." "you are quite sure the boy and woman were there at the time the fire broke out?" "when did it break out?" asked o'donnell. "at about half-past six; between that and seven." "oh, yes," said o'donnell. "they are sure to have been both there at that time. the boy always went to bed at six, and the servant never stirred out. she did not know a soul in the neighbourhood." "then, sir, i think you may make your mind quite easy. it is almost certain that upon the first alarm of fire she fled with the child from the house." "but where can she have fled to? i tell you she had no friends in the neighbourhood. we are only newly come here." "perhaps she might have known where you were." "oh, yes, she knew where i was. she knew i was to be at the oberon theatre tonight, and that my wife was to be with me. i was to have sung there to-night, but had to let a friend take my part when i got this news. do you really think, inspector, the boy is safe?" "well, you see, the chances are a thousand to one the servant is safe, because it isn't likely she was asleep at such an hour, and just after putting the child to bed; and 'twould be quite easy for any grown-up person to get out of a small house like that." "do you know where the fire broke out?" "in that room there, looking into the side passage." "why, that's where the boy and the servant slept." "then, sir, that makes me all the surer they are both safe, for the chances are that by some accident she set fire to the room and then ran away with the child." "i thank god," cried o'donnell fervently. "i will run and tell my wife; she is in a cab near." o'donnell ran back to the hansom. "good news!" he cried, "good news! the inspector tells me the boy and bridget are safe." mrs. o'donnell merely clasped her hands. she did not speak. her hands fell in her lap. her head dropped back. she had fainted. "policeman," cried o'donnell, "where is the nearest hotel?" the policeman told him. o'donnell jumped into the cab and drove to it. restoratives were applied, and in a short time she recovered consciousness. the people at the hotel had heard of the fire, and were willing to lend all the assistance in their power. a room was prepared for mrs. o'donnell, and when he had seen that everything was done for her comfort, eugene left her, promising to return soon. "you will bring him to me the moment you find him?" said the poor mother feebly. "i should be quite well if mark were here. i do not want you to leave me, but you must go and find our boy. if he and bridget are not at the theatre, you are sure to find him in some neighbour's house. anyone would take them in!" o'donnell assured his wife he would not lose a moment in bringing the boy, kissed her tenderly, and left her. as he returned to the fire, he thought: "i need not lose time going to the theatre. lavirotte and fraser know i am here and am likely to stay here, and they will be sure to send someone with news of the boy and nurse if they should turn up at the theatre." when he got back to the fire, he sought the inspector and asked him if any message had come from the oberon. the inspector replied in the negative. then o'donnell told him he was sure a messenger would come if bridget and the boy got there. then he asked the inspector: "wasn't it likely if bridget ran to any of the neighbours they would take her and the boy in?" "of course, they would be only too glad of the chance," said the inspector. "is there nothing can be done?" said o'donnell. "can i do nothing?" the inspector waved his hand towards the fire: "that's all in the hands of the firemen now. they had given up trying to save any of the furniture before you arrived. since you left me i have been making inquiries, and i find that before anyone entered the house the room over the passage was burnt out, and that nothing is known up to this of the child or the servant. i got a description of both the nurse and the boy from your next-door neighbour, and sent it to the office. word will be sent round from there, and the moment they have any news they are to forward it to me." "what had i better do, then?" said o'donnell, who was in a state of feverish restlessness. "if you will take my advice," said the inspector, "you will go back to mrs. o'donnell, and stay with her. we shall certainly have the first news, and i will send it on to you." "i can't," he said; "i can't go back until i have the boy with me. i told her i would go to her the moment i found him, and if i went without him she would get a great shock, for her first impression would be that i had bad news about him, and i should be unable to get that idea out of her mind for a long time, if at all, before he was brought to us. i cannot, i will not go back without him," said o'donnell, frantically. he now for the first time realised the fact that his boy might be lost to them for ever. "it will kill his mother," he added, "if anything happens to our child." then he put his hand before his eyes, and turned away from the inspector. the inspector turned away from him, issued some unnecessary orders in a loud voice, and walked off. o'donnell could not leave the spot. if good news were to come, that would be the first place it would reach. if it was his cruel fate that he should have to learn bad news, it should be extracted from the ashes of that blazing fire. no, he could not leave this spot. he could not return to his wife; and to go inquiring of neighbour after neighbour if he had seen mark, would be triple pain upon pain, disappointment upon disappointment, suspense unhappily resolved on suspense unhappily renewed. by this time it was growing late. the fire had spent its fury. there was no danger of its spreading, and the roof of the doomed house was expected every moment to fall in. o'donnell paced up and down restlessly inside the lines of police where the firemen were busy. now and then he spoke a few words to the inspector. now and then the inspector spoke a few cheering words to him. still no message came from the theatre. still no message came from the police-station. another hour dragged its weary length along; and still no message, no news, no tidings of any kind. gradually the inspector had seemed to lose hopefulness. he had begun to admit to eugene it was strange they heard nothing of the woman or the boy. he looked at his watch. "half-past eleven," he said. "i am surprised. and yet, i cannot but believe they have both escaped." suddenly there was a movement in the crowd outside the line of police. a sergeant came to the inspector, who was standing with o'donnell, and told him that a woman representing herself as the child's nurse was in the crowd. the inspector and o'donnell hastened to the spot where she stood. o'donnell was not able to speak. he saw she had not the boy with her. "when did you leave the house?" said the inspector. "at about half-past six." "you took the boy with you?" "no, sir. i left him in the house." "my god!" cried o'donnell. "then there is no hope?" this question, addressed to the inspector by o'donnell, was not answered. the policeman turned away, and, addressing one of the sergeants, said: "the crowd must stand farther back." o'donnell seized the railing of the house opposite his burning home, and said quietly to himself: "our little boy! our little mark is dead! we shall never see him again, never!" then he placed both his arms on the railings, and leaned his head on his arms, and the inspector led the woman away, and the sergeant kept the crowd farther back, and the people who had been looking at the fire through the windows facing where he leant, went away from their windows, drew down the blinds, and lowered the gas. they knew o'donnell by sight. they had watched what had passed, and they guessed that the father had been overwhelmed by the certainty of his child's death. chapter xxix. meanwhile the inspector had taken the nurse aside, and said to her: "this is a dreadful thing, that a man's house and his child should be burned." the woman was weeping and wailing bitterly. "i was deceived!" she said. "i was cruelly deceived. i don't know why they deceived me. i don't know why that woman deceived me. my beautiful boy! my beautiful child! it will kill his mother, and his father will never look at me again." "i don't ask you to tell me," said the inspector, "anything you don't like. don't tell me anything that's against yourself. if you get into any trouble over this matter i might find it my duty to tell all you told me. but if you like i will listen to anything you have to say." "i'll tell you all i know about the matter, and you may do what you like with me. you couldn't do anything to me i don't deserve. i should never have left the house. i would never have left the house only for the lie that was told me." "well, i will listen to what you have to say now, if you wish," said the inspector. the following is the story told by bridget, the nurse: "my master and mistress left the house early to-day, between ten and eleven o'clock. they said they would not be back till after the play was over. they left me everything the boy and myself should want, and told me i was to get his dinner and my own at the usual time, and his supper between five and six, and that i was to put him to bed at six, as usual. i am an old servant in the o'donnell family. i brought up mr. eugene himself, and they knew they could trust me. "i did everything they told me. i had nothing else to do all day but look after the boy, and get his dinner and my own, and his supper and my tea. i got his dinner and my own between one and two, and then he was with me about the house when i was tidying up, until it was time to get his supper and my tea, between five and six. "i hadn't much to do. there was no knock at the front door, and only a few at the side door, and no one was in the house from the time the master and mistress left, until that ragged boy called in the evening. "i had given the child his supper and put him to bed a little while, and was taking my tea in the kitchen, when there was a single knock at the side door. "i was just done my tea, so i let the knock wait for a minute or so, while i was finishing. then i got up and opened the side door, and i saw standing there, in the passage, a dirty, ragged boy, of about fourteen or fifteen years of age. "i did not like the look of him at all, and i asked him what he wanted. he said he wanted mr. o'donnell's house. "i told him this was it, and asked him what he wanted at mr. o'donnell's house. "he said he wanted to see mr. o'donnell's nurse, he had a message for her. "i said i was mr. o'donnell's nurse, and asked him what his business with me was. "he said he had a private message for me, that he was to give to nobody else. "i could make nothing of him. i didn't expect a message from anyone. he looked a bad boy, a common street boy that had no good bringing up. i did not ask him across the threshold. i said to him: 'well, if you have any message for mr. o'donnell's nurse, give it to me. there is no one near to hear.' "'are you the nurse?' said the boy,--after my telling him twice i was. "'yes,' said i, 'i am mr. o'donnell's nurse.' "'then,' said he, 'a woman told me to come and fetch you.' "'what woman, and where does she want me to go to?' i asked. "'oh, she's a most respectable woman; and she said she'd tell you her business when she saw you, and that she would not tell it to anyone but yourself.' "i thought all this very queer. he wouldn't tell anyone but me what his message was, and when i came to hear what it was, there was nothing in it he mightn't tell anyone. for what harm could there be in my going to see a woman, or in his asking me to go to see her? then i thought to myself, i won't stir a step with this bad-looking boy, and i said: 'tell the woman that sent you i don't know her. if she knew me she'd have told you her name, and why couldn't she have come herself?' "'i don't know any of these things. she certainly did tell me one thing that i forgot, and it was that if you came and heard what she had to say, it would do a whole lot of good to your master and mistress.' "when he said this i began to think: 'maybe 'tis some secret about the bank my old master lost all his money in, and no matter how ragged or dirty the boy may be, it is not my place to throw away any chance there may be of my master or his son getting back some of their money.' "so i said to the boy: 'wait here till i get my bonnet and shawl,' and with that i went upstairs to the room in which the child lay. he was wide awake. he would always go to sleep by himself, but never in the dark. so when i came down to my tea i left the lamp alight on the table. "i told the child i was going out, and if he'd be a good boy and promise not to get out of bed or go near the lamp, i'd turn it up higher. he promised not to stir. i took my shawl and bonnet, and came down. "when i got to the kitchen the ragged boy was sitting on one of the chairs, although i had told him to stay where he was. "i turned down the kitchen lamp, took the key out of the door, and pulled the door after me. the door shuts with a spring-latch, and there was no occasion to lock it. "the woman's messenger brought me along some streets i was never in before, until he came to a cross-road where there was a great deal of light and a lot of public-houses. "he pointed out one, and said it was there the woman was. i said i wouldn't go in, that i did not go into public-houses, and he said: 'well, wait a minute, and i'll tell her you're here.' "he ran in, and in a moment came out with a woman as dirty and as ill-looking as himself, and she said: 'why, bridget, won't you come in and have a glass?' "i said: 'no, i won't; i never go into such places.' i did not know her voice or her looks. and i didn't like her voice or her looks, and i wanted to have nothing to do with her. but when i heard her call me bridget as if she knew me all her life, and when i thought of the master and the mistress and their money that was lost, i felt i must anyway listen to what she had to say. i saw her give the boy some money. then he ran away. "then she asked me if i'd walk down a bit of the street with her, and i said i would, but that she must be quick in saying all she had to say to me. "by this time we had got out of the broad road and were in a kind of lane, with walls, and trees growing over the walls on each side. "she said she heard i was in a good situation, and that my old master had been very kind to me and had given me many presents. and with that we came under a lamp, and she said: 'i know you're in a hurry back. what i have to say to you won't take a minute, and i'll show you a short cut home. but while we're near the light, would you mind telling me the time?' "i took out my watch, which was one of the presents the old master had given me, and looked at it. there were two lanes crossing here. when i looked at my watch it was a quarter past seven. i got a great start to think i was out so long. i told her the hour, and said: 'show me the short cut, and tell me what you have to say at once.' "'that's the short cut,' said she, pointing straight on, and before i knew what was happening, she made a snatch at my watch, and ran down the cross lane as fast as she could. "the chain did not break. she was a younger and lighter woman than i am, and i knew i could not overtake her if i tried, and before i could think of anything, i lost sight of her in the darkness. "when i got back, which wasn't for more than an hour, i saw the house was on fire, and remembering all about the lamp and the child, i thought he must have turned it over, and set fire to the place. i hadn't the courage to stay, knowing what i had done. so i went away as fast as i could, and stopped away until now." when the nurse had ceased speaking, the inspector said nothing beyond: "the whole thing seems to have been a clumsy dodge to steal your watch." this explanation did not fully satisfy the inspector's mind, and he resolved to put the woman's story aside until he had more opportunity of thinking over it. o'donnell was once more pacing up and down. the flames were almost subdued. it was now past midnight, and the crowd, which had collected to see the fire, had gradually melted away. o'donnell, seeing that the inspector had turned from the nurse, approached him, and said: "there can no longer be the faintest hope. there can no longer be an excuse for hope. do you not think so?" "in all cases of the kind," said the inspector, softly and sadly, "it is impossible to be sure until we have positive evidence. the nurse has told me her story, and if it is true, i am afraid we must be prepared for the worst." "then my boy is dead!" cried o'donnell, in anguish. "for i am sure old bridget would not tell a lie to save her life. my boy! my little boy! this will kill his mother! my only fear is that it will not kill me." at that moment a man stepped quickly through the line of policemen, which was no longer very strictly kept. he put his hand on o'donnell's shoulder and said softly: "i recognised your voice, eugene. i heard what you said." "fraser, this is awful!" "it is a dreadful blow, my dear fellow, a dreadful blow! i went home. i have been greatly excited since, and in my excitement, i am ashamed to say i forgot you for a moment, and told the man to drive me home. my wife was not at the theatre; and, until she said something to me about you, i did not realise the fact that you might have worse news than the burning down of your house." "ay, i have the worst that we could have expected from the news lavirotte brought." "has anyone been here from the theatre?" "no. i have seen no one i knew since i left." "then you have not heard what has happened?" "no." "in the second act lavirotte fell insensible on the stage, and we had to drop the curtain and stop the piece." "good heavens! what a night of disasters! how is he?" "he recovered in a short time, and in spite of all we could do, and all the doctor could say to the contrary, insisted on being driven to porter street. he would allow no one of the company but jephson to go with him. as you say, it was a night of disasters; but, my dear eugene, yours is far the worst." "mr. fraser," said a new voice, "do you know anything of o'donnell?" "yes, jephson. he is here." "where?" said jephson. "here," repeated fraser, putting his hand on o'donnell. "i did not recognise you. i suppose you have told him what has happened, fraser?" "yes," said o'donnell. "how is lavirotte?" "dying," answered jephson. "he cannot last till daylight, and he says he cannot die without seeing you. can you come with me to him?" o'donnell moved over to the inspector, and asked: "when can we be quite certain of the worst?" "not until after daylight," answered the inspector. "then i will go with you, jephson. he is the dearest friend i have in the world, and i will not see my wife again until the evidence is complete." chapter xxx. when jephson and o'donnell were in the cab, the latter said: "dying! dying! dominique dying! and mark dead! my little mark dead! good god, what a night! today, jephson, this morning when i set out for the theatre there was no thought of grief in my mind, no forethought of misfortune. and now, here are misfortunes so thick upon us, that one cannot see them altogether. i suppose fraser is ruined? i thought of that at the time i was speaking to him. but it seemed to me it would be no kindness to mention the matter to him just then." "i don't think, o'donnell, to-night's misfortunes at the theatre will seriously hurt fraser. of course, under the circumstances of you and lavirotte being disqualified, the opera must be postponed for some time, until you, at all events, have recovered to-night's shock sufficiently to sing the part." "i shall never sing the part," said o'donnell, "that cost me my little child." then the two men were silent for a long time, until they reached porter street. here jephson said: "it is as well you should be prepared for a great change in lavirotte. you will hardly know him. i never saw such a change come over a man in a few hours. at the theatre he went through what he did of the part with the greatest dash and go. he never sang better; he never acted better at any rehearsal. the whole thing was going capitally. we were in the highest spirits. the audience were enthusiastic. everyone was called after the first act. if lavirotte had only got through that heavy scene in the second act, i do not believe he would have broken down. but it was too much for him. when he came back to consciousness he behaved like a lunatic. when he was told that the audience had to be dismissed he tore his hair, and swore and stamped like a man possessed. he would not go to any place but that hideous old tower of his. he would not let anyone go with him but me, not even the doctor, who said he was in an exceedingly dangerous condition. "when we got to the tower, he had to rest twenty times in getting to the horrible place where he sleeps. and when at last we reached the loft, he fainted again; and when he came quickly back to consciousness he would not let me put him to bed, but threw himself in his stage dress on the couch, and seemed to concentrate all his attention on listening. he was very quiet now, but still i think his reason is gone, for although there was not a sound, he kept leaning up on his elbow now and then, asking me: 'did you hear the boy's voice? did you hear him call?' "he meant, you see, the call-boy's voice. i tried to soothe him, and told him that we were no longer at the theatre, and not to worry himself with thinking of the call-boy's voice. at this he smiled, but said nothing. he did this five or six times. then, when after a long time he asked me to go for you, i reminded him that you were in great trouble, that your house was on fire, and that the last we knew of you was what he himself told us, of the possible loss or danger of your boy. "then again he asked me: 'did you hear the boy call?' and i said: 'no. you will not hear the boy call again to-night.' at this he not only smiled, but laughed, and said: 'you will go for eugene at once. he will not think me mad. he is my dearest friend.'" "my poor, poor dominique!" cried eugene. "he was godfather to my little boy that's gone." "i was afraid to leave him alone, but there was something in his manner i could not resist. this is the tower. i have taken the key with me. there is a lantern alight inside. get in. mind yourself there. wait till i lock the door on the inside. let me go first. there. can you see the rungs? stop, you will never be able to get up the ladder in that overcoat. take it off, and put it down on those boards." "but i, too, have my stage dress on." "never mind. so has he. take off the overcoat. there, that is better. this is the loft. lavirotte, are you awake?" "yes, more wakeful than i have been for many a day. god bless you, eugene, for coming. i have not much time now. i am waiting for the call. eugene, do you hear the boy call?" "no, no, dominique, my dear friend. keep yourself quiet, and you will hear the boy call when you have had a few days' rest, when you come back from the sea." eugene, in his stage costume, crossed the floor, and bending over his old friend, who lay pallid on the couch, in his stage costume, sat by his side and took dominique's hand in his. "i am not going to the sea, eugene. i am going to the ocean. bear with me a little while." jephson drew back, and stood beside the ladder which led to the loft above. "bear with me, eugene. i have a confession to make. do not interrupt me. excitement gives me pain now. you have come to me in the deepest depth of your own affliction to say a kind word to me in my last moments. you have lost your boy." "all hope is not yet gone." "you have lost your boy, and you have come to touch the hand of dominique, while yet it can be conscious of that touch. you have come to close my eyes for ever." "my dear, dear dominique!" "do not interrupt me. i have a confession to make. i have been jealous of you all my life, ever since i knew you. i need not tell you all that you already know. i have plotted against you with devilish cunning, cunning too deep and despicable for you ever to suspect. i could not bear that you should sing the part. i swore you never should. i took care you should not sing the part. let me tell you what happened after i left the theatre. i came here. i then looked calm. but i was mad. i had money in my pocket, and i bribed a wretch even almost as vile as myself to decoy the nurse of your child away from your house. "i was close by when this was done. a few minutes after, your house was discovered in flames. i brought you word at the theatre that your house was burning, and nothing was known of your boy." "oh god! oh god! dominique! and while the woman was away the child overturned the lamp, and he is dead!" "yes, eugene, i do not wonder at your starting away from me. but hear me out. hear me to the end. the boy did not overturn the lamp.... _i_ overturned the lamp." "_you!_ _you!_ which of us is mad? if i am sane, why should i not strangle you as you lie?" eugene was now at the other side of the table, leaning on it, and looking stupidly at the prostrate man. "because, eugene, i asked you to hear me out, and the last wish of a dying man is sacred." "dying _man!_ dying monster! dying murderer! where is my child?" for an instant lavirotte's hand moved under the couch on which he lay. he suddenly raised it. there was a flash, a loud report, that seemed to shake the walls of the tower. jephson sprang from where he stood. o'donnell never moved. the pistol fell from lavirotte's hand to the ground. he rose quickly from the couch, and, drawing himself up to his full height, stood on the other side of the table, facing eugene. o'donnell, too, drew himself up to his full height, and stared across the table at the other. lavirotte raised his right hand on high, and, pointing with his finger aloft, said: "did you hear the boy call?" jephson, who still stood close to the foot of the ladder, whispered in a thick voice: "don't touch him. he is only mad." lavirotte still stood, drawn up to his full height, in his stage costume, with his right hand thrust upward, and his forefinger pointing aloft. there was a silence which no mind could measure, and then a sound that made the cold sweat break out on jephson and o'donnell. "did you hear the boy call?" whispered lavirotte. suddenly the right arm relaxed and fell to lavirotte's side. his eyes left o'donnell's face, and were fixed on a corner of the tower to the left. "did you hear the boy call?" he repeated. "i would not let you sing that song the other day, eugene, but you have heard the boy call, and i must answer." almost imperceptibly he began lifting his left arm towards the left corner of the tower, where his eyes were fixed, and through which the ladder passed into the floor above. "i must answer this call. i must sing. i did not murder your boy. i stole him, that i might have the first call to-night. you heard the last call. i must answer the last call." then in a voice which had never been firmer or truer, he sang the first line and a half of the "bard's legacy:" "when in death i shall calm recline, oh, bear my heart----" he placed his right hand upon his left breast, still keeping his left hand rigid. "i can sing no more. look." turning their eyes in the direction he indicated, they saw descending from the loft above the figure of a small child, in white. "the bank is broken," said lavirotte, "but the treasure has been found here. take him back to her, eugene. close my eyes. this is all i can do towards answering the last call." before he fell, eugene caught him in his arms, laid him gently on the couch, and closed the eyes. the end. * * * * * * * * * * charles dickens and evans, crystal palace press.